glance at Petula who was lighting up another cigarette and took no notice.
‘Sure,’ Godfrey said. ‘Shall we go into my study?’
Leaving Roberts to be entertained by Petula, Randall was led out of the conservatory into a large hallway and then through an archway into a dark room at the back of the house. The windows had grills over them, he noticed, and wondered why. Was Godfrey worried about intruders? There was a huge desk in the centre of the room with a computer and other paraphernalia scattered over the top.
‘Sanctum,’ Godfrey said ‘I don’t let Pet or Graciela in here. This is
‘I can guess what you want to ask me,’ Vince said. ‘And the answer is yes. I haven’t exactly been a good little boy throughout our marriage but there’s never ever been anyone serious. Pet knows that. She’s the only one for me but when these women make a play for you.’ He gave a cynical grimace. ‘Women like money,’ he said, sharing the information with Randall. ‘Especially the young gorgeous-looking ones. They think they only have to stick with you for a couple of years and if they get fed up with you they can scarper and take a couple of million with them without having you hanging round their greedy little necks. Not bloody likely, inspector.’ He examined his fingernails closely. ‘I can honestly say, Pet’s the one for me. And she knows it.’ His face clouded. ‘She does like to get her own way though. That’s the only thing I can say against her. If she sets her heart on something, that’s it.’
Alex nodded. The words seemed logical and sounded honest and Petula Godfrey had appeared like that to him. A realist. But at one point when Vince Godfrey had been speaking there had passed over his face a look of intense pain. At some point in his life, for all his bravado, some woman had hurt this man.
There was a moment’s silence between the two men. Randall was watching Godfrey’s face, searching, waiting for some other clue. But the man’s face was wooden now.
He broke the silence.
‘Was there anything else, inspector?’
‘No, Mr Godfrey. That’s fine.’
‘You know. I’ve been thinking. The tank. It
Alex nodded. ‘OK,’ he said carefully. ‘Thanks very much. We’ll be going now.’
The relief in the man’s face was tangible but Alex reflected as they made their way back to the conservatory, that Vince was the sort of man who was probably always nervous around the police. A man like that who had made this amount of money was practically never completely above board. There was almost certainly a guilty secret lurking somewhere beneath the jaunty manner but it might have nothing to do with the case at all.
Just as they reached the doorway to the conservatory Vince Godfrey turned to face Alex. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This is rather upsetting for my wife.’ He hesitated. ‘Go easy on her.’
Alex Randall didn’t reply.
Gethin Roberts looked relieved to see them return. He gave Randall a wry smile.
‘One more question,’ Alex said, ‘before we go. Does the name Poppy mean anything to you?’
Both Godfreys looked completely blank.
‘OK then,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all. Thank you both very much for your cooperation.’ He shook hands with each in turn. ‘If I have any more questions I shall telephone.’
He had the impression that Vince Godfrey would have liked to say something more but nothing was said and they climbed back into the car ready for the journey back to the hotel. The sun had, at last, come out and to the winter-weary pair it felt almost warm.
Alex rolled down the car window and took a deep breath in. ‘What say we stop at one of these lovely roadside inns and have some lunch?’
Gethin Roberts felt his spirits soar.
Martha was even in a temper deciding what to wear. She didn’t want to play mediator between her friend’s widower and his sugar babe. She felt middle-aged and rejected outfit after outfit. In the end she elected for jeans, high-heeled boots and a turquoise top, over which she knotted a tight-fitting turquoise cardigan. She dumbed down her make-up, brushed back her hair hard, almost seeing Vernon Grubb, her macho hairdresser, wincing as she did so. He was always telling her off for not treating her hair with the respect to which it was due. Sometimes she thought he should have opted for professional rugby where he could have taken his aggression out on the opposing side rather than women in their middle years whom he bullied mercilessly about their hair.
They met at Richmond’s, a newly opened bistro in the town. Neutral ground. Martha was surprised at Simon’s choice. He was more likely to eat in one of the many ancient restaurants or coffee houses which sprinkled this medieval town than here. It was ultra modern, spanking white with echoing marble floors and a long counter where you queued for food. It was too bright white, not the sort of place Simon would ever have chosen for himself. Then as she sat down and looked around her she felt pity. It was peopled with earnest and self-conscious teenagers. Simon would feel like a fish out of water. She picked up a menu. Nouvelle cuisine, no more than twenty calories a portion. Lots of rocket and basil. She waited for an anxious twenty minutes worrying that she had come to the wrong place. She was on the verge of ringing his mobile phone when he arrived. And again this was unlike Simon. He was a stickler for time. Never late.
He spotted her straight away and waved. His clothes too were different. A leather jacket, chinos, an open- necked yellow shirt. Not the sober-suited man she knew. In fact she realized that she didn’t know this man. On his arm clung a girl. Martha couldn’t have called her anything else. She was not a woman but a girl with long straight blonde hair and a fringe, which she had to distractingly blink out of her large cornflower blue eyes every few minutes. She was slim to the point of emaciation and looked vulnerable in tight jeans, high-heeled boots, an anorak with a brown fur collar, little make-up and beautifully manicured long nails.
‘Sorry we’re late.’ Simon bent and kissed her cheek. ‘We couldn’t find anywhere to park and had to hoof it through the town. Not easy with Chrissi’s heels.’
‘Martha,’ he said unnecessarily and with a flourish, ‘this is Chrissi.’
Chrissi smiled, her eyes holding an expression of mute appeal. Shocked, Martha realized the girl desperately wanted her to like her, approve of her. Why? What on earth did she matter? She was merely a friend of Simon’s dead wife and here to mediate between Simon’s daughters and this ‘child’.
But there was no doubt about it, Christabel did want Martha to like her.
So her pity swung from Simon, who was trying to pretend he was thirty years younger than he was, to a girl who must know that all his friends, family and acquaintances and in particular his two very bright, very energetic and very opinionated daughters, would disapprove of this relationship.
Martha held out her hand. ‘Hello, Christabel,’ she said. ‘Do most people call you that or do they call you Chrissi?’
The girl nodded. ‘Either.’ She sat down. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said in a breathless whisper. Then with a loving look at Simon she added unnecessarily, ‘From Simon.’
‘Always a bit worrying,’ Martha said brightly. ‘Shall we get some food?
‘You two choose,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll go and get it.’
Great, she thought. Give us a chance to get to know each other. And what if I don’t want to?
Chrissi watched Simon practically all the time he queued and bought the food. Martha limited her questions to ones she could comfortably address to a profile. Where had they met? At work – she was his (cliche, cliche) secretary. She lived with her mother and brother. (She didn’t mention the father). They ‘really, really’ liked Simon. Wasn’t he handsome?
Errm.
He didn’t look his age, did he?
Errm.
Simon returned.
As she’d suspected, even with the nouvelle cuisine that was on offer Chrissi didn’t eat real food, merely played with bits around her plate, nibbling prettily as a rabbit on her rocket. And she let Simon lead the conversation.
‘How’s Sam doing?’ he asked heartily.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘At least he’s off the injury list and back playing. He might – just might – be coming home and
