Barry Maitland - The Malcontenta

‘Had you any way of knowing what the two of them had been doing on the Sunday?’

Bromley shook his head. ‘I wasn’t here on the Sunday at all.’

‘So their claim that they hadn’t seen Petrou on that day could have been false.’

‘Yes, but they …’ he hesitated.

‘What?’

‘Oh,’ Bromley sighed. ‘They just seemed convincing. They told me about this party that Petrou had organized for them in the gym on the Friday night, and they swore blind that they hadn’t seen him since. In fact de Loynes said he’d arranged to see Petrou again on the Sunday evening and he’d been annoyed because he never showed up.’

‘What kind of party was it on the Friday?’

‘Don’t ask, squire. / didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Petrou got a couple of lads in from Edenham, or something.’

Brock sat back in the thickly padded chair and considered Bromley in silence. There was a kind of underlying swagger to the man’s manner, an impudent gleam that he couldn’t keep out of his eye, that tended to make you distrust him, even if he was only giving the time of day.

‘Look,’ Bromley said, feeling a need to fill the silence, ‘the amounts were chicken shit, let’s face it — I mean, compared to what you’d call real money these days. It was just a bit on the side, that’s all, an appreciation for services rendered.’

Brock lowered his eyes and didn’t respond, increasing the tension.

‘It wasn’t as if I invented him, for God’s sake. One day, there he was. He already had it pretty well worked out. He made it clear that he had people looking after him. It was noticeable how Beamish-Newell let him have his way, and he more or less told me that he had you lot on side. I just lent a hand to make it all happen as unobtrusively as possible.’

‘What do you mean, that he had us lot on side?’ Brock asked.

‘Well, Mr Long. He was Mr Long’s favourite, right from the start.’

Brock nodded. ‘This Mortimer, was he here when Rose was killed too?’

Bromley shook his head. ‘No, he hasn’t been back since Petrou copped it. Frightened him off, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘But de Loynes was here on both occasions. And you’re absolutely certain, Ben, that he is the only one of your Friends who was? I want you to think for a moment before you answer. I don’t want there to be any mistake about this.’

Bromley nodded, then seemed to take in the implication of the question.

‘Oh, but look, bloody hellfire. He didn’t have anything to do with it!’

‘How do you know?’

‘Rose died sometime between two and three that afternoon, right?’

Brock nodded.

‘Well, de Loynes was with me in this room throughout that time. I told that to your bloke who took my statement. De Loynes is investing in this time-share set-up in the south of Spain, and I was helping him with the paperwork that afternoon. You blokes should talk to each other, for God’s sake!’ There was an edge of panic in Bromley’s voice.

Brock gave a little smile and got abruptly to his feet. ‘All right, Ben. Now, I want you to stay here and make yourself a fresh cup of coffee and I’ll be right back.’

Brock returned fifteen minutes later, accompanied by Kathy.

‘Hello, Ben,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Got any new jokes for us?’

He regarded her sourly over the rim of his cup. ‘Why does it take six premenstrual women to change one light bulb?’ he said grumpily.

‘Heard it,’ Kathy smiled. ‘Put your cup down now, Ben. We want you to come down to Division with us. We’d like you to make a new statement. OK?’

‘You realize this is the middle of the effing night. Doesn’t the United Nations have rules about this sort of thing?’

But he did as they said, going outside with them into the cold night and settling himself in the back seat of their car.

After a few miles he said to Kathy, who was driving, ‘Where the hell are you going? This isn’t the way to Crowbridge.’

Brock turned and spoke over his shoulder.

‘We’re just going to pick somebody else up on the way, Ben. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

It took another twenty minutes along empty country lanes before they reached a crossroads by a deserted village green. Brock consulted the map on his lap and pointed forward. Soon they came to a row of oaks, and behind them the dark outline of a large house. The headlights picked up two white gateposts marking the entrance, and Kathy turned the car up the drive.

It took Bernard Long an age to answer the doorbell. Eventually the porch light came on and the oak front door opened a crack.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice was muffled and indistinct. Kathy answered, it’s DS Kolla, sir, with DCI Brock. We’d like a word.’

‘Brock?’ The door opened more fully and the Deputy Chief Constable stared out at them. He was wearing a scuffed pair of leather slippers, and the collar of his dressing gown was half turned in at the neck. It wasn’t the white monogrammed outfit he’d had at Stanhope, but an old tartan item that was coming close to being recycled in the dog’s basket.

‘What the devil?’ He coughed, his throat gummed up with sleep. He adjusted a pair of gold half-rimmed glasses on the beak of his nose and stared at them each in turn in the pool of light cast by the reproduction coach lantern hanging overhead, then past them to the car.

Kathy spoke. ‘We’d like you to get dressed and come with us to Division, if you don’t mind.’

‘What time — ?’

The question was interrupted by a woman calling from inside the house. ‘Who is it, Bernard?’ The voice managed to sound both imperious and frail.

He turned and called back, it’s police officers, Dorothy. Go back to sleep, darling.’

‘Don’t be long.’

He turned back to them. ‘You’d better come in.’ They followed him into a study off the panelled hall, distracted by the way he shuffled because his slippers were too loose. It was only when they were seated in the light that Kathy noticed the tremor in his hand.

‘Who was that in the car?’ he asked, looking at Brock.

Kathy replied. ‘Mr Bromley from Stanhope Clinic, sir. He’s also accompanying us to Division to make a statement. We’ve just come from the clinic. Dr and Mrs Beamish-Newell have been helping us with our inquiries into the murders of Alex Petrou and Rose Duggan.’ She watched the worry lines which had formed around the angles of his face stretch into a taut, pale mask.

Long stared across the room for a moment, then seemed to rally himself. He took a sharp breath and straightened his back. ‘I see.’ He turned to face Brock, and said, ‘You’re not saying anything, David?’

Brock shrugged, without taking his eyes off him. ‘This is a County matter, Bernard. I shall be giving Sergeant Kolla a statement myself in due course.’

Long nodded. ‘I’d better get dressed. Give me ten minutes.’

They sat in silence for a while until Kathy said, ‘In the temple this evening, Laura asked the same thing — for me to give her ten minutes.’

Brock looked at her sharply, and then a muffled crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet.

The thick carpet pile absorbed the sound of their running feet. At the top landing Kathy hesitated, uncertain which door to try. The one in front of her opened abruptly and they were faced by a grey-haired woman, surprisingly large for the reedy tone of her voice. ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘Where did that noise come from?’ Kathy demanded.

‘The bathroom …’ Her head turned towards a door at the far end of a short corridor.

Locked. It gave on the third heave of Brock’s shoulder. He stood back, nursing his upper arm with an oath, and Kathy went in.