Peter Lovesey - The House Sitter

“Anna Walpurgis.” Georgina repeated the name, and there was a discernible note of awe. The idea of such a celebrity coming to stay in one’s house had definite attraction. “She wouldn’t give parties?”

“Good Lord, no. She’s keeping a low profile.”

“Is she under guard?”

“Not any more. It’s a step towards a normal life. I can keep an eye on her, make sure she’s able to cope.”

“Let me think about this.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am. It’s a big decision, letting a stranger have the run of your home, but I’ve never heard a word of scandal about the lady. And I dare say Sultan would approve.” With a display of care, he replaced the photo on her desk.

At ten thirty, Ingeborg reported to Diamond that Ken Bellman was ready for interview.

“Did he give any problems?”

“He came like a lamb.”

“Say anything?”

“Just nodded and said, ‘All right.’”

“Resigned to it, maybe. Has DCI Mallin arrived from Bognor yet?”

“Down in the canteen, guv, tucking into a fried breakfast.”

“Wise woman.” He went down to join her.

While Hen had a smoke, and Diamond a doughnut and coffee, they agreed on a strategy. Hen would ask the first questions, with Diamond chipping in when the moment was right. With so much experience between them, they didn’t need the nice-cop-nasty-cop approach. They’d know how to pitch it.

Bellman had a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He slopped some on his jeans as his interrogators came in.

“Careful,” Hen said. “You could ruin your prospects that way.”

“It’s OK.” He didn’t smile. He looked nervous. Sweatmarks showed around the armpits of his blue tanktop shirt. He placed the coffee well to one side.

“Finish your drink, love,” Hen said.

“I’m fine.” Yet he couldn’t hide a ripple of tension across his cheek. The description they’d had from Olga Smith was spot on. Latin looks, definitely. Strong features. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, dark, curly hair that looked as if it never needed combing.

Hen and Diamond took their seats. Hen, unashamedly friendly, thanked him for coming in and apologised for the formality of asking his name and stating for the tape that he had been invited to attend of his own free will to assist with the enquiry into the death of Dr Emma Tysoe.

He blinked twice at the name.

“So may I call you Ken?” Hen asked after she’d identified herself and Diamond.

“Whatever you want.”

“You live locally, I gather. Do you work in Bath?”

“Batheaston. I’m an IT consultant.”

“Forgive my ignorance. What’s that exactly?”

“I’m with a firm called Knowhow & Fix. Kind of troubleshooters really. If a firm has a computer problem we do our best to sort it.”

“So people are always pleased to see you?”

“Usually.”

“Is it nine to five?”

“Not really. It can be any time. When they want help, they want help.”

“So you turn out in the evening sometimes?”

“I have done.”

“And-through the wonders of modern telecommunications -can you sometimes fix a problem from home?”

“Some of the work can be done on my own PC, yes.”

“Ken, this is beginning to sound like a job interview,” Hen said with a smile, “but I’m getting a picture of how you spend your time. I suppose you need a car in this job.”

“That’s essential.”

“What do you drive?”

“A BMW.”

“Nice.”

“It’s quite old, actually, but it belongs to me.”

“Reliable?”

“I think so.”

“How long have you owned it?”

“Five or six years. I bought it secondhand.”

“Before you came to Bath?”

“Yes.”

“When did you come here?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“And where were you before that?”

“The job? SW1.”

“London?”

“Right. But I was living in Putney.”

“What sort of work? Similar?”

“Not quite the same. I was a techie-technical support programmer.”

“You’ve been doing this sort of work for some time, then?”

“Since university.”

“Where was that?”

“Liverpool.”

“Computer science, I suppose?”

“Pretty close. Electronic engineering. I picked up my computer skills later, when I was doing my MSc. In the end IT proved more marketable than pure electronics.”

Hen nodded. “Seems to come into every job, doesn’t it? Changing the subject, Ken, how long have you known Emma Tysoe?”

His hands felt for the arms of the chair and gripped them. “About ten years.”

“As long as that?”

“I met her when we were students at Liverpool. She read psychology there. We went out a few times. I liked her.”

“And it developed into something?”

He shook his head. “Not at the time. We were friendly, and that was all. After she left to continue her studies in the south, we lost touch. It was pure chance that brought us together again. I didn’t know she was living in Bath until I met her one day in the library a few months ago. There was a lot to talk about, so we went for a drink together, caught up on old times, and what we’d each done since then. It blossomed into something stronger. Well, we weren’t living together, but we got serious, if you know what I mean.”

“You slept with her?”

“Right.”

“And it lasted some time?” Hen asked with the implicit suggestion that the friendship came to an end.

“Some weeks.”

“Can you be more specific?”

He frowned. “I didn’t keep count, if that’s what you mean. Six or seven weeks, probably.”

“Was it a loving relationship?”

“I thought I loved her, yes.”

“You thought ?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Love is more about feelings than thoughts, isn’t it?” Hen asked.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m a scientist. I analyse things, including my feelings. My estimation was that I loved Emma. It’s not easy, assessing your own emotions, trying to understand how genuine they are.”

“I’d say if you had to assess them, it’s questionable whether you really were in love,” Hen said.

“And I say if you can’t be honest with yourself how can you be honest with the person you’re sleeping with?”

It was a neat riposte. Hen tried to make use of it. “Was she honest with you?”

“I believe she was.”

“Did love come into it?”

“On her side? I don’t know what was in her mind. She said she enjoyed being with me. We had Liverpool in common, our student life. Lots of good memories.”

“No more than that?”

“It was enough to be going on with.”

“So is it fair to say, Ken, that you were keener than she was?”

He frowned a little. “Is that a trick question?”

“Why should it be?” Hen said.

“Let’s face it. Emma was murdered. If I come across as the guy who pestered her for sex, it doesn’t look good for me, does it? We were good friends, we slept together a few times because we wanted to.”

“I’m not trying to trick you, ducky. We just want to get the picture right. Did she have other friends? Did you go round in a group?”

“There were only the two of us. She wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed being in company.”

“I expect she had friends at work-in the university.”

“If she had, she didn’t talk about them.”

“So you and she spent the time in each other’s company- doing what?”

He shrugged. “What people do. Pubs, the cinema, a meal out sometimes.”

“And at the end of an evening, would you go back to her flat in Great Pulteney Street?”

“A few times. Or else she’d come to my place.”