Authors: Aline Templeton
He
had managed to sound sincere, but Vezey was unimpressed. His eyes were cold and hard.
‘
Mrs McEvoy, unfortunately, is not in any condition to tell anyone anything. She is suffering, as far as we can tell, from the psychological condition known as dual personality, and at the moment the second personality – the one who wrote the poison pen letters and started the fires – is in the ascendant. We have no means of knowing whether or not her original personality will ever return.’
They
had kept this information restricted, and Vezey used it now to deliberate effect.
There
was no mistaking the shock, and then the agony, which Bolton experienced. The colour drained from his face and he whispered, ‘Are you saying Lizzie –
Lizzie
– is – mad?’
It
was Moon who replied. ‘It’s not a very useful term, Mr Bolton. She was severely traumatized as a child, and she has clearly had to struggle with this fractured personality for a long time. She is certainly not – normal.’
Mercilessly
Vezey pressed on. ‘You mentioned the word “protective”, Mr Bolton. Mrs McEvoy, as a result of your – attentions, shall we call them, was left with these scratches on her face which, as you acknowledged, she would have to explain to her husband. He was difficult and as you have also hinted, probably violent.
‘
So did you, perhaps, feel that the only way you could safeguard her was by making sure he didn’t survive till the morning, when he would see those marks, and she would have to take the consequences? Could you not bear to think that she, towards whom you felt so gallantly “protective”, was going to suffer physical violence because of you?’
Patrick
Bolton was ashen now. Robert watched, with clinical interest, as a bead of sweat formed on his upper lip. In a nervous movement his tongue shot out and licked it away.
‘
That’s – that’s nonsense. You’re simply inventing a situation that didn’t exist.’
‘
And have I also invented a body? Piers McEvoy was lying dead in a pool of blood in his games room – but then, I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’
The
human instinct for self-preservation is very strong. Before their eyes, Bolton began to pull himself together again.
‘
Yes, I’m afraid you do have to tell me, actually.’ He spoke savagely, and his expression had hardened. ‘I know nothing about that, nothing. And I would have to say that if you have established, clearly to your own satisfaction, that Lizzie McEvoy is – is disturbed, and has been responsible for fires and attempted murder, it’s more than a little perverse to go looking for someone else to blame for the death of a husband who’s bullied her for years.’
He
had been unable to say her name without a telling hesitation, but self-interest had triumphed. If he had been in a troika pursued by wolves and his companion was already dead, he would have been similarly undeterred by sentiment.
Vezey
surveyed him with contempt. ‘Nice try, Mr Bolton. But for reasons which I won’t go into, we are satisfied that it was not, in fact, Mrs McEvoy who killed him.
‘
Let’s not beat about the bush. I think it was you.’
The
muscles in Bolton’s jaw were standing out and he countered Vezey’s accusatory stare with flinty, narrowed eyes.
‘
You
think
that, do you? I assume that means you haven’t a shred of evidence. If you did, we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we? You’d have dragged me off to one of your dungeons and clapped me in irons.
‘
In any case, my answer to you is that no, I didn’t kill Piers McEvoy. So you’ll have a hell of a job to find evidence that proves I did.’
It
was a shrewd response. Vezey got to his feet, and Robert Moon followed suit. He smiled, and once again Robert was reminded of the shark.
‘
Oh, but we will, Mr Bolton. That I can promise you.’ Bolton did not get up, but he turned his head to watch them go to the door.
With
his hand on the handle, Vezey turned. ‘Oh, just one more thing. You were in the army, weren’t you? In the SAS, to be precise? Trained to kill swiftly and effectively, isn’t that right?’
The
wolves were closing on the troika once more, and fear flared in the man’s eyes.
‘
You needn’t say anything, Mr Bolton,’ Vezey said over his shoulder as he went out. ‘We know you were. And by the way, don’t go off and try to do something clever. There’s a chap out there who seems to have developed a real attachment to you.’
***
Stretton Noble had never been so busy on a Sunday afternoon. The pub had done a roaring trade, but had kept to its usual two o’clock closing time, and up and down the main street were groups of disconsolate reporters and photographers, their shoulders hunched against what had now become a sleety drizzle.
They
had the murder house staked out, of course, and had taken turns to phone in their copy (‘The champagne-swilling class in toffs’ village Stretton Noble was in shock this morning...’) from the call box near the church.
Opinion
was divided as to the other areas that would repay press attention. A couple of the more enterprising hacks went to the Golf Club and bribed a waitress – who had no recollection of ever having seen Piers McEvoy but who knew a sucker when she saw one – to tell them he was ever such a nice man and everyone was ever so sorry.
Bertie
Bignall was a sharper operator altogether, which was why his scandal sheet paid him the sort of money that brain surgeons can only dream of. He had chatted up one of the barmaids at lunch time, and elicited the name of Minnie Groak as the biggest gossip in the place.
Taking
care that none of his fellow-members of the Fourth Estate was watching, he made his way to Minnie’s door, noting with satisfaction when she opened it her greedy eyes and slack mouth.
‘
Miss Groak?’ he said ingratiatingly. ‘I’ve been told that you’re the person I have to ask if I want to get the low-down on this place. I hear there’s nothing you don’t know about what they get up to around here.’
He
winked conspiratorially. ‘Now, how about you and me having a cosy little chat? I can make it well worth your time.’
He
took out a wad of notes. Experience had taught him that nothing loosened the tongue faster than the sight of the notes on offer being riffled seductively.
He
was astonished, therefore, when Minnie, with a gasp of shock and a terror-stricken look around, said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure. I can’t think who can have been telling you such wicked lies, and I certainly wouldn’t demean myself by gossiping to trash like you.’
She
slammed the door in his face, leaving him with much the same emotions as the drunk in the gutter when the pig beside him got up and walked away.
***
‘The trouble is,’ Vezey said grimly to Robert Moon as they went back to the car, ‘that he’s right. It’s just a theory. We haven’t a scrap of solid evidence to tie him in.
‘
And he’s obviously been careful. Presumably we were meant to assume that the maniac lighting the fires was responsible, and he wouldn’t be able to believe his luck when he heard about the fire last night.’
‘
He certainly had no idea about her. That was a bombshell.’
‘
Didn’t take him long to make use of it, though, did it? Cold-blooded bastard!’
‘
Pragmatist, certainly. But look, surely you could make out a strong case against him?’
Vezey
grimaced as he started the car and drove off, escaping a posse of reporters who, spotting him, came running up.
‘
Yes, of course. And perhaps they would issue a search warrant on that basis. Perhaps. But when it’s a case of taking apart the house of an upright citizen in the speculative hope that forensic will come up with something, they tend to be a bit stroppy.
‘
I need something, just some link, however tiny. I haven’t the least doubt that once the forensic boys get into his wardrobe they’ll find something – they always can – but it’s a question of getting them the chance.’
He
braked suddenly, then swung the car back into a road end to turn round.
‘
Let’s go to the McEvoys’ house,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind, Robert? Just one last look to see if anything suggests itself. Then I really will knock off, I promise you.’
They
had to shoulder their way through the press, slavering like hyenas at the gate.
‘
Why don’t you just arrest them for obstruction?’ Robert, disgruntled, reached the haven of the garden adjusting the coat that had almost been pulled from his back and smoothing his ruffled hair.
‘
I wish!’ Vezey led the way round the blackened shell of the front and side to the back of the house. Robert looked at it curiously as he passed, though there was little to see. The body had been removed, and now with darkness coming on they were sealing up the rooms with improvised shutters and leaving the site for the day.
There
were still people working inside the undamaged part of the house, though the kitchen was empty.
Robert
felt, just as Rod Vezey had, the eeriness of this pretty domestic room, with its bright pottery plates and gleaming copper pots and everything in its usual place. The recessed lights in the ceiling were on, and with the soft terracotta wash on the walls gave the room a warm intimacy. There was a large, business-like electric cooker and below an arched recess, backed by white and terracotta Italian tiles, a dark green gas-fired Aga.
Robert
eyed it with interest. ‘It’s fascinating, you know, the fashion for these things. It performs precisely the function of the piano in a Victorian parlour; it doesn’t matter whether you use it or not, but it makes a statement about the sort of person you want people to think you are.’
Vezey
grunted. He was pacing around the room, fixing with a fierce stare the tidy surfaces and the primly-closed cupboards, as if they held secrets he could force them to disclose. He was looking very tired again; he had put his last reserves of nervous energy into the interview with Patrick Bolton.
‘C
an we touch things?’ Robert was looking about him with bright-eyed curiosity.
‘
Sure.’ Vezey yawned, and gestured to the greasy evidence of the silvery powder. ‘They’ve checked this for latents. We’ll get Bolton’s prints for comparison, of course, but finding them in a friend’s house wouldn’t prove a thing.
‘B
ut surely there has to be something...’ He opened a drawer, then slammed it shut dispiritedly. Robert was engaged in systematically opening and closing cupboards.
‘
Come on,’ Vezey said wearily. ‘You’re the psychologist. What did he do? Talk me through it.’
Robert
considered. ‘All right. Lizzie tells him to go after Suzanne, and he agrees. We know that, because he thought she could confirm it before we told him she couldn’t confirm anything. I would guess she must have been upset, anxious to get him out of the house; from the tone of his voice when he talked about it, he was reluctant to leave her to face the music alone.
‘
He feels protective and responsible; guilty as well, no doubt. So what does he do? He’s a soldier – a highly-trained man of action – and it wouldn’t take him long to come up with the idea of neutralizing the threat.’
Vezey
was listening intently. And all he would need to do was see to it that he unlocked a door before he left – the back door, probably – so that he could get back in to wait for McEvoy. He could have gone back home, hung about for a bit – ’
Robert
shook his head. ‘No. He couldn’t have known Suzanne wouldn’t be there. So perhaps he just hid out here – but then the car would give him away. No, he must have had to move it, then come back and hide out somewhere to wait for McEvoy coming home.’
‘
An easy target, because he knew he was fairly drunk. Right! He would wait around till the lights went off in the sitting room and Lizzie went upstairs – she, of course, mustn’t be involved – then he lets himself in, puts on the gloves and – well, all that’s speculation. It’s only at this point we get to the evidence. We still have the problem of bridging the gap between the two.’
Robert,
who had been examining one of the skewers, dropped it with a crash.
‘B
ut where did he get the gloves from? He didn’t go home – ’
He
turned to the sink. There was the washing-up liquid, the scourer tucked into the wide mouth of a green pottery frog. There was the dishcloth, wrung out and laid to dry. And lying folded behind the drying-rack, an innocent pair of pink rubber gloves.
‘
“The little things,” ’ Robert murmured as Vezey fetched the men who were still working next door.
They
produced long tweezers, a plastic sheet, a large fluffy fibreglass brush and a jar of the ubiquitous powder. The sheet was spread out, the gloves laid on top, and delicately, one of the men began stroking the powder across them while they all crowded round to watch. Painstakingly, he dusted one side of each glove, then with the tweezers turned it over and repeated the performance. Then he straightened up.