Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

“You hadn’t seen him for a while?”

“Not since the restraining order.”

The detectives exchanged glances. “Do I take it from that that your husband was violent, Mrs. Lester?”

I hesitated. It was beginning to dawn on me what a black picture I was painting. But nothing I was telling them wasn’t true.

“Not violent,” I said. “Though he could be abusive. One night he kicked the door in and — well, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Indeed. So did he say why he was calling?”

“To collect some things. I, er, told him I’d taken them to the charity shop.”

“How did he react to that?”

I gave a sarcastic laugh. “Not well. He told me I ought to start packing.”

“I’m sorry?”

I explained about the agreement and Derek’s threat of a court case to force a sale. “That’s why I went for another walk, Inspector. I don’t usually have two long walks in a day, but his visit upset me. It’s the best thing I know to calm me down.”

“Except this time you found a body.”

I nodded. “Quite a coincidence, really, considering who it was.”

“Indeed,” he said again.

“I don’t suppose your husband mentioned if he’d seen Edward Chant?” Thorpe suddenly asked.

“Edward?” So that was his name. “No, he didn’t.”

“Very well, Mrs. Lester, I think that’s all for now.” Conlan climbed to his feet. “Many thanks for your help.”

“Are you treating it as suicide?” I asked, as I showed them out.

“Why d’you ask that?”

“I noticed the empty whisky bottle. And I know what state he was in after Donna left.”

Conlan smiled. “I dare say we’ll know on Monday after the postmortem. Oh, one last thing... Assuming your husband’s still in the area, any idea where he might be staying?”

“None,” I said. “Although... It’s just a hunch, but you could try the Sandybanks Motel.”

“Old stomping ground?”

“Something like that,” I said, and closed the door.

That evening I was on tenterhooks. There was nothing on television to distract me, not even an old rerun of Morse, though I doubt I’d have been able to concentrate even if there had been. I was too concerned with how things were progressing. Had the crime team found the credit card? Had the police found my husband? Might they even now be giving him the third degree?

I hoped so. Let him sweat for a bit, as they say. I knew it wouldn’t be for long, he was bound to have an alibi, Donna would vouch for him if no one else. Besides, for all I knew he was in London the night before, popping up all over the place on CCTV, though it might take awhile to trawl through the footage.

I listened to the late-night local news but it told me nothing I didn’t know, only that a man’s body had been found in the dunes, cause of death unknown. They gave the same account next morning, and it wasn’t until lunchtime that they revealed his name. Edward Chant, I discovered, had been thirty-six and a surveyor for the local council.

I half expected the police to get in touch again, or even Derek, and jumped every time the telephone rang. But the only calls were from reporters wanting to ask about the body, and eventually I took the phone off the hook and settled in front of the TV.

Last thing before bed I took out the rubbish, thanking my lucky stars it would be collected next day. Somewhere amongst it was the other half of the credit card, and I would feel a whole lot happier when it had been carted away.

First thing on Monday I called my solicitor to tell him about Derek’s threat. But he already knew. A letter had arrived that morning from the new firm in London.

“Can he really force a sale?” I asked.

“They’re a high-powered bunch,” John Wardle conceded. “Reckon he might have to sell to pay their fees.” He laughed at his own joke, though I didn’t find it funny. “Anyway, leave it with me. We won’t give up without a fight.”

Give up? I was beginning to see what Derek meant about local solicitors.

“Incidentally,” he added, “I had a visit from the police. They were asking about your agreement. You do know it was Mrs. Chant’s husband who was found in the dunes?”

“I should do,” I said. “I found the body.”

“Really? Oh dear, oh dear. You don’t think there’s anything suspicious, do you?”

“Probably just routine,” I said, and put down the phone.

I waited until after lunch to take Alice for her walk (up on the cliff, well away from the dunes), and hadn’t long been back when the detectives returned.

“You were right about the Sandybanks Motel,” Inspector Conlan said, when we were seated around the table. “Your husband and Mrs. Chant booked in Friday evening.”

“They did?” So they hadn’t been in London.

“We’ve also found Edward Chant’s car. It was in the motel car park.”

That made me sit up. “He must have known they were coming,” I said. “I suppose he went there to plead with Donna to come back. I take it she refused?”

Conlan nodded.

“Well, at least it explains why he chose the dunes.”

“To take his own life, you mean?” He pursed his lips. “That’s assuming it was suicide. Frankly I’m not convinced.”

“But the postmortem...”

“Confirmed the victim had a lot of alcohol in his bloodstream. But also benzodiazepine — that’s antidepressant to you and me. Taken together, enough to make him pass out.”

“Sounds like he wanted to make sure,” I said, but he made no comment.

“Did you know the Chant house was still in joint names?” Constable Thorpe asked suddenly.

I shook my head. “Though it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Or that his wife was still his sole beneficiary?”

“He was obviously still hoping to get her back.”

“And what if I told you Edward Chant had recently inherited close on a million pounds?”

I almost choked. “A million? When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

I spun round to Conlan. “Did his wife know?”

“Oh, she knew all right!” He glanced towards the window as a refuse truck pulled up outside. “Chant would have been on the phone the minute he heard, dangling it like a carrot. Trouble is, I think Donna wanted to have her cake and eat it. His money, your husband.”

“I’m not sure what you mean...?”

“I mean, Mrs. Lester, that we’re treating the death as suspicious. And your husband is helping us with our enquiries.”

Something cold ran down my spine. The implications were obvious. Donna stood to inherit, she and Derek arrive on the scene, Chant winds up dead — the perfect motive. And inadvertently I had provided the evidence to make it stick. But surely I couldn’t be married to a murderer?

Suddenly I remembered Derek’s face when he’d come to the house. The unexplained anger, the shadows under his eyes...

My shock must have shown because next minute Conlan was sending Thorpe to fetch a glass of water. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Lester,” I heard him say.

“But it must have been suicide,” I said. “My husband couldn’t carry a body that far into the dunes.”

“He could if he had help.” Conlan shot another look at the window as the truck began to guzzle the contents of my wheely-bin.

“Have you spoken to him?” I asked quickly.

He nodded. “He claims they came down to collect some things, from here and from Chant’s place, and Chant turned up later at the motel, half drunk, begging her to come back. When she refused he stormed out, and that was the last they saw of him.”

“So what makes you think he’s lying?”

He gave an odd little smile. “The money, Mrs. Lester. Donna Chant doesn’t seem the sort of woman to turn her back on a million quid. No, if you ask me, collecting stuff was just a cover. I think Donna led Chant to believe she was here on her own and was considering a reconciliation, and arranged to meet him later at the motel. Your husband stays out of the way, they get all cosy, and somewhere along the line she spikes his drink. When he’s unconscious... well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest.”