‘She kept her eye on the main chance, that’s what I mean. Her boss was jealous and she wouldn’t play the fool. Mind you, I wasn’t kidded. I know an act when I see one. There were times when he wasn’t about and then she wasn’t quite so starchy — only she never let it get anywhere, if you see what I mean. She’d got a wonderful talent for knowing where to draw a line.’
‘She was what you’d call a tease?’
Rosie giggled again, but the question didn’t embarrass her. At twenty-four or — five she had the assurance of a much older woman.
‘I wouldn’t know that, would I? But I wouldn’t put it past her. Some women get a kick out of that, and she was the right type. But she liked the rest too, don’t you forget it. One woman can’t keep that from another.’
‘Who did she encourage?’
‘She wasn’t too particular.’
‘Was there anyone especial?’
‘If there was she was clever about it. She let old Colonel Morris kiss her. Then she put some of the kids into a trance. And one or two married men who ought to have known better, though it’s a fact that their wives are mostly old bitches.’
‘But your impression is that none of them got very far?’
‘They didn’t get a chance, what with her boss always hanging around.’
‘What about Tuesday? He wasn’t around then.’
‘They’d had a row, I think, and she wasn’t in the mood. In any case most of them had gone to Hamby. There were only two of the old couples playing bridge in the lounge.’
‘So she spent the evening alone?’
‘She was alone at dinner.’
‘What about after that?’
‘I went off duty. It was the last time I saw her.’
In the doorway Maurice had appeared carrying a tray of dirty glasses. He set it down on the mahogany sideboard and began to pile on one or two more. His languorous eyes rested an instant on Rosie’s trim back.
‘Tell me — was she really so outstanding, or was it just her manner?’
‘It was a bit of both if you ask me, but she’d got the goods in the first place.’
‘Did she talk a lot, and laugh?’
‘Not her. She was always serious.’
‘Was she off hand to other women?’
‘She could afford to be nice to them. She’d got them all whacked.’
‘And how about you — weren’t you jealous?’
Her giggle was accompanied by a slight gesture of the hips.
‘I get along. I wasn’t worried. Some gentlemen prefer blondes.’
In the glass at the back of the sideboard Maurice was now studying her profile. He had abandoned his stacked tray and was apparently counting the serviettes.
Gently stirred at last, to Dyson’s great relief. He wandered out on to the verandah and stood gazing down at the afternoon sea. Below the lawn there were two hard courts for the use of the guests, and in spite of the temperature they were occupied by sweating youngsters in shorts and singlets. In the shade of the oak trees sat their elders, sleeping or knitting. From the other side of the marram hills could be heard the faint cries of children.
‘I’ve used the reading room for interrogation.’
Gently shrugged his multi-coloured shoulders.
‘I daresay that the manager…’
‘Let’s take a stroll along the beach, shall we?’
It was no use, Gently would have his way. He kept bulldozing aside all Dyson’s hints and veiled suggestions. He had dressed like a holidaymaker and now it seemed he was going to behave like one. With Dutt trailing behind they crossed the lawn at a leisurely saunter.
‘How does one get down to the beach?’
A few of the lotus-eaters in the deckchairs looked up as they passed. They knew Dyson, of course, but they knew nothing of Gently. Superintendent Stock had carefully delayed the news that the Yard was being called in.
‘Down there, past the tennis courts.’
The way led through a dusty shrubbery. At the bottom there was a gate with a spring giving access to the back of the marrams. Everything one touched was burning to the hand, and the ground struck hot through the soles of shoes. The marram grass, pale and rustling, looked as though it had been dried in a botanical press.
‘You can see what it’s like for footprints.’
Gently nodded, plodding through the scalding sand. Still that silent face was haunting him, charging every step with its presence. Hadn’t she come this way, perhaps, not much more than thirty-six hours ago? When the sand, now hot, was already cold, and the dew falling chill on the sere of the marram?
He had propped the photograph against his mirror and kept his eyes on it while he was dressing. After reading Dyson’s report he had been certain that the face would tell him something. Several things might have happened. It depended upon the type of woman. Once you had settled that, then you could begin to see your way.
Only the face had told him nothing of those things he wanted to know. The obvious thing was unimportant. Even Dyson could hardly have missed it.
‘There’s Mixer over there now.’
They had got to the top of the hills. Below them, a steep slide, lay the silvery-fawn beach, the tiniest of combers sending white washes along its margin. The sea looked heavy and drunken with sun. Its dark acres were mottled with purple and green patches. At the tideline the children paddled and screamed, their dumpy bodies showing through their sagging swimsuits. Higher up sat the parents, some of them beneath sunshades.
‘He’s watching us, you bet.’
Could it even have been that passion…?
‘You see? He’s getting up.’
Or the body, would that tell him?
He turned impatiently in the direction which Dyson was indicating. One hadn’t had to ask the county man where his suspicions lay. Alfred Joseph Mixer — he was the candidate! The ‘company promoter’ with his cash and cockney accent: who, in all probability, had outsmarted Dyson.
‘He’s expecting us to tackle him.’
Gently was only confirming impressions. In his twenty years with the Central Office he had met a lot of Mixers, and this one seemed to follow the general pattern. A biggish man of about forty with something of a stomach. Thinned hair, a large nose, and small, hard eyes. He had been sitting under a sunshade and was wearing shiny black bathing trunks. Now he was standing up apprehensively, twisting his sunglasses as he watched the three policemen.
‘Don’t you think perhaps?’
‘What makes you so sure he did it?’
‘The evidence… well… one forms an impression.’
‘He’s done time for embezzlement.’
‘There — I was certain!’
‘At the same time, there’s nothing about violence on his record.’
Gently dug in his heels and went skidding down through the loose sand. At the moment he hadn’t got time for Mixer. A little higher up the beach he could see the boats and the fishermen, and above them, on the hill, somebody painting at an easel. Two days ago hadn’t she looked on this same scene?
At this point the shore was very slightly convex, but one could see at least a mile of beach in either direction. At quarter-mile intervals pillboxes had been built, a few of which remained poised drunkenly above the beach. On the nearest one of these some youths were performing acrobatics.
‘What sort of fish do they catch?’
In the shallows a child with tucked-up skirt was pushing a shrimp net and looking the picture of earnestness.
