The Chief Inspector's Daughter (30 page)

Tait had decided on a soft approach. Obviously the girl's parents had dealt with her tactlessly after her discovery of the murder; that was why she had run, and why she had stayed away for so long. She wouldn't want to be badgered or questioned, or told that her father was looking for her. He'd have to treat her gently, and gain her trust.

‘Hallo, Alison – amusing here, isn't it? Like Breughel come to life.'

She took a step backwards, ‘What are you doing here?' she demanded, alarmed. ‘Are you on duty?'

He grinned reassuringly. ‘Even detectives are human, you know. We do have days off occasionally. Are you enjoying yourself?'

She looked strained and unhappy and worried to death, poor kid. Whatever she was doing, there was precious little enjoyment in it. Tait found himself feeling protective towards her. It was not a sensation he was accustomed to.

‘Is – is my father here?' she asked anxiously.

He laughed. ‘Oh, come on – you can't see your father getting any pleasure out of going all medieval, now can you?'

Clearly she couldn't. Her suspicious frown relaxed a little. ‘I was afraid he might be trying to find me,' she admitted. ‘I know he wanted to question me about … Have you discovered who did it, Martin?'

‘We're pretty close,' he said confidently. ‘But don't worry about being questioned. Your father did want to ask you a few questions about Jasmine, but he went to see Anne Downing, her previous secretary, instead.'

‘Oh.' Alison thought about her. ‘Poor Anne – she knew Jasmine so much better than I did. She must have been terribly upset by the news.'

‘She'd had a bad week. Apparently she'd just broken off her engagement.'

‘Oh no!' Alison was genuinely distressed. ‘Poor girl … she was to have been married today. I wonder why—'

‘She didn't fancy marrying a pig-farmer, I believe. Incidentally, Alison, have you seen Gilbert Smith?'

He dropped the question casually, but it shook Alison as much as an accusation of complicity.

‘No!' she asserted. Her cheeks reddened with the lie, but she held her back straight and tried to brazen it out. Only her eyes shifted, darting a glance along the line of the stalls in the direction Smith had gone.

‘I just wondered,' said Tait mildly. ‘It's his kind of place isn't it? Well, I was in search of something to eat when I saw you. I'll push off and leave you to enjoy yourself. You're not on your own, are you?'

‘No – no, I've come with some friends.'

Tait gave her a friendly smile. ‘Good. I'll see you again.' He walked away, not hurrying, but immediately dodged back round the side of the next stall. Alison stood where he had left her, poised again to run but biting the knuckle of her thumb with indecision. She had lied about Smith, obviously. She must have a pretty good idea where he was. There was just a chance, Tait thought, that she might be wondering whether or not she ought to warn the man that at least one detective was at the fair. It would certainly be worth following her, before he told her father that she was found. If the old man came charging along in paternal panic, the opportunity to trap Smith would be lost.

And then he saw that there would be no need to follow her. Smith was approaching her, coming downhill between the stalls, weaving his way among the crowds with something flat held up carefully, level with his shoulder, so that it didn't get squashed. Tait pulled his radio from his hip pocket and gave some brisk instructions. Then he stepped out of the shelter of the stall, into the lane.

Alison had just seen Gilbert Smith. She took two steps backwards away from him, turned as if to run, and then saw Tait.

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Gil!' she shouted. ‘Gil – I'm sorry! Run!'

But Tait was already moving, fast. Smith had heard the shouts and stopped; now, seeing Tait heading straight for him, he dropped his pizza and tried to go back the way he had come.

He hadn't a chance. He wasn't used to running. Tait, pushing spectators aside like rugby opponents, got him with a flying tackle.

Chief Inspector Quantrill, gasping as much with relief as with the exertion of getting there, put his arms round his daughter.

‘It's all right, sweetheart,' he said, using an endearment he hadn't ventured to use since she was eight years old. ‘It's all right, we've got him. You needn't worry any more. Come on, I'll take you home.'

‘But I've told you. I've told you four or five times already.'

‘We're in no hurry. We're not going anywhere, and neither are you. So tell us again: when did you last see Jasmine Woods?'

Gilbert Smith, looking white and sick, was sitting slumped at a table in an interview room at Breckham Market police station. He gave a long, shuddering sigh.

‘On Sunday morning,' he repeated tonelessly. ‘I got up late – I don't know what time – and then I went up to Jasmine's for coffee.'

‘Had she invited you?'

‘No. She didn't give me invitations, I just dropped in. We were good friends.'

‘Close friends?'

‘No. It was an easy, casual relationship. She always had a pot of coffee on the go, and whenever I called she told me to help myself.'

‘And what did you talk about, on Sunday morning?'

‘We didn't. Her head was full of her book – she'd been working, and she always found it difficult to switch off. She told me that the Elliotts were coming in for drinks, and she got ready for them while I drank coffee in the kitchen. She asked me to stay, but I didn't want to. I said hallo to them when they came, then I finished my coffee and went. That was the last time I saw her.'

‘Did you ask her for money?'

‘No! I told you – she paid me to do her garden, and I lived rent free on her property. I didn't need money. And if I had, I certainly wouldn't have asked her for it. She was good to me, and I wouldn't have done anything to upset our relationship.'

‘And how did you spend the rest of the day?'

He sighed again, and began a recital. ‘I worked in the garden, then I went to my flat and made something to eat. Then it was dark, and I spent the evening reading and listening to tapes and drinking. I didn't go out and I didn't see anybody and I didn't hear anything. I smoked some hash, and later on I took some dexies as well. I got stoned. The next thing I knew, somebody was hammering on my door. I didn't do anything about it at first, but then I went to see who it was. I don't know the time, but it was daylight so it must have been Monday. Alison was at the door, saying something about Jasmine being dead. She was incoherent, and I wasn't feeling too good, so it took me a long time to think what to do. But then I went up to the house, and through the front door and into the sitting-room, and found Jasmine. She'd obviously been murdered.'

Quantrill and Tait sat watching him, saying nothing. Smith swallowed, and wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It was horrible,' he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘horrible …'

After a few moments he added, toneless again, ‘And there they were, you see. Two of her netsuke, lying in a pool of her blood. Whoever killed her must have dropped them in his hurry to get away. And I couldn't just leave them there, lying in her blood. I mean, they were no good to poor Jasmine. I wasn't doing any harm to her by taking them. They were such beautiful things, I had to have them. I don't think Jasmine would have minded. But I knew that the fuzz wouldn't understand. I got her blood on my hands and clothes when I picked the netsuke up, and I cut my own finger on some of the broken glass. If you saw the blood on me, you might even think that I'd killed her. So I went back to my flat and washed and changed and packed my gear. With Jasmine dead I'd have had to leave anyway, so there was no point in hanging about. But I could hear Alison crying, and I couldn't desert her. So when I was ready I went back to the house and dialled 999 from the office. Then I left. That's all, except that I can show you where I hid the netsuke. One of my friends in Yarchester told me that the fuzz were after me, and on Tuesday he took me to stay with some people in the country until the heat was off. I buried the netsuke in the university park before I left.'

‘And what do you know about the murder?' Quantrill asked.

‘Nothing at all. I swear it, nothing at all!'

‘But on your own admission you were stoned on Sunday night. You smoked cannabis, you drank, you took amphetamines. You got yourself into such a state that you didn't know which day of the week it was, or whether it was night or morning. You said you took some dexies, and the next thing you knew someone was hammering on your door.
The next thing you knew
… that was something like twelve hours later!'

‘And you coveted her netsuke,' said Tait. ‘All right, perhaps you didn't need the money. Perhaps you didn't want them because of their value. But on your own admission, you coveted them for their beauty. I think you went up to her house on Sunday evening, not necessarily to steal them but perhaps to look at them. That would be the best time to look at them, wouldn't it, when you were drugged to reality and your perceptions were at their height? But if you were in that condition, I doubt if Jasmine would have wanted you in her house. You had to use violence on her—'

‘And once you started,' said Quantrill, ‘you couldn't stop, could you? You went on beating her on the head until the bottle broke—'

Smith's arms curled protectively over his own head, as though warding off physical blows. ‘I didn't,' he grieved, ‘I didn't.'

There was a knock on the door and the station sergeant beckoned Quantrill out into the corridor. The Chief Inspector scowled and went.

‘Your daughter's in the front office, sir. She says she wants to speak to you urgently about Smith.'

Quantrill followed him. Alison was standing in the entrance hall looking pale and resolute. Her father wanted to take her to his office, but she refused.

‘Are you trying to charge Gilbert with Jasmine's murder?' she demanded. ‘Because if so, you've got the wrong man. Gilbert stole some of her netsuke when he went up to the house on Monday morning, I know that, he told me. It was a horrible thing to do, but it doesn't make him a murderer. He's really very gentle. He liked Jasmine, he wouldn't have done anything to harm her.'

The Chief Inspector suppressed a sigh. Alison had had a very rough week, poor girl. He knew that he had to go very gently with her; all the same, he couldn't have her interfering with a murder case, and particularly not in the front office.

He put an arm round her shoulder and turned her towards the door. ‘Well, I'm glad to hear your opinion. And I'm sure you're right to some extent – druggies aren't by nature violent people. But drugs do frightening things. They can bring out aggressions that are usually buried too deep for anyone to suspect, least of all the user.'

Alison pulled away from his arm. ‘I can't argue about that. I don't want to argue about it. But I'm sure that Gilbert didn't do the murder because I think I know the man who did.'

Her father stared at her. ‘Who?' he demanded. ‘And where's your evidence? Look, we can't talk here – come to my office.'

She shook her head. ‘I haven't really got any evidence. It's just intuition, I suppose. Oh, but there is something I've remembered about Jasmine's sitting-room, something that makes me sure I've got the right man. Only – the thing is, I don't want to talk to you about it. I'm sorry Dad, but I think I'd find it easier to talk to Martin Tait.'

‘To me? I didn't think I'd be
persona grata
with your daughter, after the way I conned her this afternoon at Oxlip.'

Quantrill tried not to look as hurt as he felt. ‘Don't ask me how her mind works, just find out what she knows. But she doesn't want to see you here, she wants to keep it informal. So take her out into the town, Martin, and buy her a cup of tea or something. And be kind to her, or I'll pin your ears to the notice-board.'

Alison refused the offer of tea. They walked in silence, several feet apart, across the main road and down into the town. They went down Market Street, along White Hart Street, past the Rights of Man and so to the narrow river Dodman. It was a feature of the town centre, with a paved walk on one side opening on to a pedestrian shopping precinct, and gardens on the other. There were seats on the paved walk, looking out over the river towards flower-beds yellow and white with spring.

It was quiet by the river. The shops had just closed, after the busyness of Easter Saturday, and the precinct had an exhausted, wind-blown, littered look. It was too cool for sitting about. Nearly everyone had gone home to tea. People would return later, when the pubs and the Chinese takeaway opened and the dog owners emerged for their evening walks, but for the moment Alison and Tait had the area to themselves.

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her velvet jacket. ‘This is going to be a bit difficult to explain,' she said, keeping her voice distant. ‘I can't tell Dad because he's emotionally involved with me. He'd be all upset. Anyway, his generation is so prejudiced. That's one reason why I thought it would be easier to talk to you, because we're the same generation.'

She turned to him, her cheeks flaring. ‘That doesn't mean that I've forgiven you for the way you set me up this afternoon,' she said vigorously. ‘I think it was despicable. Oh, I know, you're a detective and this is a murder investigation and so your job comes before everything. I know all about that, I've heard about it all my life. But I won't stand for being
used
– particularly when you're not even after the right man.'

She walked on. ‘The point is, though, that I think I can talk to you. It's always easiest to talk to someone you're not emotionally involved with, and that's certainly true of us. We don't need ever to see each other again after today. So I don't mind telling you why I'm sure you've got the wrong man, because you can think what you like, it won't worry me in the least.'