“Sure. Geoff Tingley. He’s good.”
“And he knows about typewriting, too?”
“Of course.”
Banks led Manson back into the workshop and over to the 250
old Remington. The suicide note was now lying beside it. Also on the desk was a business letter Seth had recently written and not posted. “Dear Mr Spelling,” it read, “I am most grateful for your compliments on the quality of my work, and would certainly have no objection to your spreading the word in the Wharfedale area. Whilst I always endeavour to meet both deadlines and quality standards, I am sure you realize that, this being a one-man operation, I must therefore limit the amount of work I take on.” It went on to imply that Mr Spelling should seek out only the best jobs for Seth and not bother him with stacks of minor repairs and commissions for matchbox-holders or lamp stands.
“Can you get Mr Tingley to compare these two and let us know if they were typed by the same person?”
“Sure.” Manson looked at the letters side by side. “At a pinch I’d say they weren’t. Those old manual typewriters have all kinds of eccentricities, it’s true, but so do typists. Look at those ‘e’s, for a start.”
Banks looked. The ‘e’s in Seth’s business letter had imprinted more heavily than those in his suicide note.
“Still,” Manson went on, “better get an expert opinion. I don’t suppose his state of mind could be called normal, if he killed himself.” He placed each sheet of paper in an envelope. “I’ll see Geoff gets these first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Vic.” Banks led the way outside again.
Burgess stood with his hands still in his pockets in the doorway beside Peter Darby, who was showing him the polaroids he’d taken before getting down to the real work. He raised his eyebrows as Banks and Manson joined him. “Finished?”
“Just about,” Banks said.
“Time for a chat with the inmates, then.” Burgess nodded towards the house.
“Let’s take it easy with them,” Banks said. “They’ve had a hell of a shock.”
“One of them might not have had, if Cotton was murdered. But don’t worry, I won’t eat them.”
In the front room, Zoe, Rick, Paul and the children sat drinking tea with the doctor, a young female GP from
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Relton. A fire blazed in the hearth and candles threw shadows on the whitewashed walls. Music played quietly in the background. Banks thought he recognized Bach’s Third Brandenburg Concerto.
“Mara’s under sedation,” Rick said. “You can’t talk to her.”
“That’s right,” the doctor agreed, picking up her bag and reaching for her coat.
“I just thought I’d wait and let you know. She took it very badly, so I’ve given her a sedative and put her to bed. I’ll be back in the morning to check.”
Banks nodded, and the doctor left.
“How about some tea?” Burgess said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “It’s real brass-monkey weather out there.”
Rick scowled at him, but Zoe brought two cups and poured the steaming liquid.
Burgess smiled down at her. “Three lumps and a splash of milk, love, please.”
“What happened?” Zoe asked, stirring in the sugar. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“That’s for you to tell us, isn’t it?” Burgess said. He really was being quite polite, Banks noticed. “All we know is that Seth Cotton is dead and it looks like suicide. Has he been depressed lately?” He took a sip of tea and spluttered. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s Red Zinger,” Zoe said. “No caffeine. You shouldn’t really have milk and sugar with it.”
“You’re telling me.” Burgess pushed the tea aside. “Well, was he?
“He was upset when Paul was in jail,” Zoe answered. “But he cheered up this morning. He seemed so happy today.”
“And he never said anything about ending it all?”
“Never.” Zoe shook her head.
“I gather you had some kind of meeting this afternoon,” Banks said. “Who was here?”
Rick eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.
“Just Dennis Osmond, Tim and Abha, that’s all,” Zoe answered.
“What time were they here?”
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“They arrived about half-two and left around five.”
“Were you all present?”
Zoe shook her head. “Seth stayed for a few minutes then went to … to work.”
“And I went for a walk,” Paul said defiantly. “I needed some fresh air after being cooped up in your bloody jail
