Pauline Rowson - In for the Kill

‘Do you have a telephone?’ Now I really had surprised her.

‘A mobile, why?’

‘Give me the number.’

She did without question and again I marvelled at her complete lack of curiosity. It was only when I was on the car ferry heading across the Solent that I rumbled. She had been with someone, a boyfriend perhaps, judging by the dishevelled appearance, the reluctance to invite me in, and the hastily dragged on clothes. I hadn’t seen or heard anyone but I was convinced she hadn’t been alone. I was surprised to find it peeved me a little.

I grabbed a sandwich and coffee on the ferry.

Eating it was a bit uncomfortable and I drew some peculiar looks from the other passengers who studiously avoided me. That suited me fine.

They probably had me down for a thug. Still that was their problem not mine. I called Miles, who confirmed that Crowder was from the Specialist Investigations Unit of the Hampshire Constabulary. There had been no call from Jennifer Clipton. I didn’t tell him about Rowde, or Westnam, or that I was on my way to see Brookes’ widow. I was taking a bit of a gamble but it was time I talked to her. I just hoped she was still at the address Joe had given me.

She was. As she opened the door to me two hours later, her shocked expression at my bruised face turned to wariness and she closed the door slightly. I could see that she didn’t recognise me.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for Roger Brookes,’ I began pleasantly.

‘He’s not here.’ She frowned, puzzlement accompanying wariness. She hadn’t changed much from her appearances in court alongside her husband. Still very slim, narrow-hipped and long-legged, bottle blonde straight shoulder-length hair, lines around her blue eyes and tight, slightly hard mouth.

‘When will he be back?’ I asked in all innocence of his recent demise.

‘He won’t, he’s… he passed away two years ago.’

I feigned horror and shock. It must have worked because her expression softened. I said,

‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know. Are you his wife?’

She nodded.

‘Please forgive me. I do hope I haven’t upset you. I had no idea that Roger had died,’ I lied, hoping that I looked distraught. Maybe if I came through this I could turn to acting, I thought wryly, as she certainly seemed convinced.

‘Were you a friend of his? I don’t think I recall you although you do look vaguely familiar.’

‘I expect it’s hard to recognise me through all the bruises. I had a car accident a couple of days ago. Nothing too serious but enough to make me look like this. I’ve just come from the States and I forgot I was driving on the wrong side of the road. My name’s Bob Morley. I used to work with Roger.’

‘Would you like to come in, Mr Morley?’

‘I’m not disturbing you?’ I stepped inside a wide hall with a highly polished floor and an oak staircase leading up to a galleried landing.

‘No, it’s nice to have the company. Come through to the kitchen. Would you like a drink?’

‘Thanks – and it’s Bob. This really is very kind of you. What a lovely house, Roger always was very ambitious.’

She tossed me a smile over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee or perhaps –’

‘Tea thanks.’

‘How did you know Roger?’

‘We worked together years ago at Seatons, the travel company. Then I went to the States and Roger started his own company. I believe he was very successful.’ I knew Brookes’ background and that of the other three victims by heart. ‘How did he die?’

She turned away to make the tea but also to avoid looking at me. ‘Suicide.’

When she turned back I could see the anguish on her face. I felt a little sorry for her. But I hardened my heart. I had a job to do and whatever it took I would do it.

I said. ‘Maybe I had better go if this is too painful for you.’ Of course it worked.

‘No, please. It helps to talk, or so they tell me.’

‘What happened? Was the business in trouble?’

‘On the contrary, we were doing extremely well, better than ever. Roger got depressed and couldn’t get out of it, midlife crisis, I suppose.

Who knows?’ She handed me my tea. She knew all right. I could tell. ‘Help yourself to sugar.’

I declined. I remained silent hoping that she would fill the void. She did.

‘I suppose it had something to do with the fraud.’

‘Fraud!’

‘Oh, not by Roger. He was conned by a very clever man, who got one million pounds out of us and two other businessmen before the police discovered what he was up to. We were OK

financially, even though we never got the money back, and I thought Roger was over it, but it must have preyed on his mind.’

‘But why did Roger give away one million pounds? Was he being blackmailed?’ I asked as innocently as I could. I got a reaction all right and it told me the truth. Her eyes narrowed and her body language stiffened, she lowered her head and took a sip of her tea, avoiding my glance.

‘Of course not,’ she replied tetchily. ‘It was a charitable donation, only there was no charity.’

‘That was clumsy and rude of me. I didn’t mean to imply there was anything shady or wrong in Roger’s business or private life, I just know how these things work. A deal gets done that is OK

but not strictly legit, some past aggrieved employee gets hold of it and before you know it you’re covering your tracks and someone’s got you by the balls.’

She gave a strained smile.

‘The police caught this man though?’ I asked.

She put down her cup. ‘Yes. James Andover was the name he used. His real name was Alexander Albury. He went to prison but he wouldn’t say where the money was.’ She began fiddling with a gold bracelet, then she looked at her watch. I could tell she was regretting letting me in.

‘And did Albury say why he had picked on Roger?’

‘Because he was wealthy, I suppose.’

‘So are lots of people but they aren’t targeted.

There must be a connection, so did the police find one?’

Now she was looking at me a little suspiciously.

‘ No. Besides what does it matter? It’s over now, Albury is in prison and Roger’s dead.’

I nodded and sipped my tea. ‘I wonder if he’ll do it again when he comes out of prison? Pick on some other unsuspecting victim that is. I hope he doesn’t come back to you,’ I mused.

She looked alarmed. ‘But surely that won’t happen. He’ll have learnt his lesson.’

‘People rarely learn, and the police can’t be everywhere. If he’s that clever then maybe next time he won’t get caught.’

She rose abruptly and said, ‘I’m really sorry, Bob, but I didn’t realise how late it was. I’ve got to go out.’

‘It’s me who should be apologising for taking up so much of your time and for upsetting you.’

She ushered me out of the door quicker than a kitchen salesman. I had stirred up something and now all I had to do was sit back and see which way she ran.

It was to a house outside Tetbury, about a half hour’s drive away. I was prevented from driving up to the front door because the house was set back from the road, squatting very nicely in its own ground and reached by a sweeping gravel driveway.

I left the car in a country lane that bordered the northern side of the new golden-stone manor house and walked the two hundred yards or so around the corner to the east-facing entrance.

After gazing right and left like some furtive detective in an old black and white movie I slipped up the driveway and ran across the damp grass until I skirted the back of the house, praying that whoever owned it didn’t also own large dogs, or any dogs come to that, which would alert the occupants. But everything remained silent.