Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

“She drives a Porsche and he has a Mercedes.”

“And people like me paid for them.”

“Oh, and her name isn’t really Serena. It’s plain Ann.”

“What’s wrong with Ann?” he demanded. “I once had a girl-friend called Ann. The last word in sophistication. Stilettos and hot pants. Don’t suppose you know what hot pants are.”

“Were,” murmured Julie.

“Well, we can’t arrest her for changing her name.” Diamond wrenched his thoughts back from his steamy past.

“Who’s your money on, Julie? Do you still think Glenn Noble had a mistress?”

“Yes — and Trish believes it, too.”

“So who’s the killer — an angry husband?”

“Or boyfriend.”

He didn’t mention Jack Merlin’s bombshell — that Trish might, after all, have struck the fatal blow. “Any idea who? Basil Porterfield?”

She said, “I’ll have a better idea when I meet him.”

“You can spot a skirt-chaser at fifty paces, can you?”

“If you don’t mind me saying,” Julie commented, “that’s a rather outdated expression.”

“Un-hip?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he went on, unabashed, “I have to agree with you that it was some visitor to the house.”

“But who?”

He spread his hands. “Could be anyone. Could be the Bishop of Bath and Wells for all we know.”

“The Porterfields were friends, close friends,” Julie pointed out. “How many of your women friends would you hoist on your back for a photo?”

“All at once?”

She said on a note of exasperation, “Mr Diamond, sir , I’m trying to make a serious point. We know that Glenn was often out until the small hours. If we could confirm that he was sleeping with Serena...”

“Hold on, Julie. That’s a large assumption, isn’t it? Trish Noble doesn’t seem to think he needed to go elsewhere for sex.”

“She had her suspicions, believe me. You have to understand a woman’s thinking. She may have said the opposite, but he was getting home so late that something was obviously going on. She’s too proud or too puritanical to admit it to you and me.”

“He could have been up to something entirely different.”

“Such as?”

“A poker school. He wouldn’t tell her if he was playing cards into the small hours. God and gambling don’t mix.”

Julie wasn’t impressed by that suggestion. “She said he was tired when he got in.”

“Well, it was late.”

“Too tired for anything.”

After a pause, he said, “Was that what she meant? This God-fearing woman who keeps a Bible by her bed?”

“That doesn’t mean she’s under-sexed.”

“Fair point,” said Diamond after a moment’s reflection. “There’s more bonking in the Bible than there is in Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins together. So she interprets his reduced libido as evidence of infidelity? It’s speculation, Julie, whether it’s her speculation or yours.”

She was resolute. “Maybe it is, but if she’s right, Serena Porterfield is in real danger — if she isn’t already murdered. We can’t ignore the possibility, speculation or not.”

The Porterfields’ mock-Tudor mansion was on the slopes of Bathampton Down, with all of the city as a gleaming backdrop of pale cream stone and blue slate roofs. The house stood among lawns as well trimmed as the greens of the Bath Golf Club nearby. A gardener was on a ladder pruning the Albertine rose that covered much of one side of the house. A white Mercedes was on the drive. The chances of anyone from here being involved in a stabbing in a small terraced house in Twerton seemed remote.

Basil Porterfield opened the front door before they knocked. There was no question that he was the man in the Minehead photo — a sturdy, smiling, sandy-haired embodiment of confidence, even after Diamond told him they were police officers.

“Perhaps you heard that Glenn Noble is dead, sir?”

“Saw it in the paper. Devastating.” Porterfield didn’t look devastated, but out of respect he shook his head. “It’s a long time since I saw Glenn.”

“But you were friends?”

“He was the sort you couldn’t help liking. Look, why don’t you come in?”

The welcome was unstinting. In a room big enough for the golf club AGM, they were shown to leather armchairs and offered sherry.

Diamond glanced at the teak wall units laden with pottery and art books. “This is a far cry from Bear Flat.”

“We worked hard to move up in the world,” said Porterfield evenly.

“You’re in the motor trade, I understand.”

“Curiously enough, we prospered in the recession. I don’t sell new cars, I sell parts, and people were doing up their old vehicles rather than replacing them. The business really took off. We have outlets in France and Spain now.”

“You visit these countries?”

“Regularly.”

“And your business is based in Bath?”

“You must have passed it often enough, down the hill on the Warminster Road.”

“Glenn Noble — was he a business contact?”

“Purely social. Through my wife, actually. She took a school project to the printers he worked for. Serena teaches art, print-making, that sort of thing. You can see her influence all around you.”

“Is Mrs Porterfield at home today?”

“No. She’s, em, out of the country.”

Julie’s eyes sought Diamond’s and held them for a moment.

He remarked to Porterfield, “She must be devastated, too.”

“She doesn’t know anything about it.”

Diamond played a wild card. “You said you haven’t seen the Nobles for a long time. Perhaps your wife saw them more recently.”

Porterfield asked smoothly, “Why do you say that?”

Julie, equally smoothly, invented an answer. “Someone answering your wife’s description was seen recently in the company of Glenn Noble.”

“Is that so? Funny she didn’t mention it.” He was unfazed.

“Just for the record,” said Diamond, “would you mind telling me where you were on Monday afternoon between three and five?”

“Monday between three and five.” Porterfield frowned, as if he hadn’t remotely considered that he might be asked. “I would have been at the office. I’m sure my staff will confirm that, if you care to ask them.”

“And your wife?”

“She’s in France, like I said, on a school trip.” He smiled. “She left last week. Last Friday.”

“Where did you say she teaches?”

Cavendish College was a girls’ public school on Lyncombe Hill. The Head informed Diamond that Mrs Porterfield was indeed on a sixth form trip to the south of France. She frequently led school parties to places of artistic interest in Europe. She was a loyal, talented teacher, and an asset to the school.

Diamond used a mobile phone to get this information. He and Julie were parked in North Road, with a good view of the Porterfield residence.

“Are you relieved?” he asked Julie. “Serena survives, apparently.”

“I still say he murdered Glenn Noble.”

“And I say you’re right.”

Her eyes widened. “Am I?”

“But he had the decency to do it while his wife was away. We’ll arrest her when she returns.”

“Whatever for?”

“Hold on a little and I’ll show you, if my theory is right. Serena’s talent may be an asset to the school, but it’s a bigger asset to Basil Porterfield. What time is it?”

“Ten past six.”

“After our visit he’s not stopping here much longer.”

Twenty minutes, as it turned out. The Mercedes glided into North Road and down the hill with Julie and Diamond in discreet pursuit. Porterfield turned right at the junction with the busy Warminster Road. Three-quarters of a mile on, he slowed and pulled in to the forecourt of a building with Porterfield Car Spares in large letters across the front.