‘I can see that. So what?’ She didn’t ask how I had got them.
‘Your wardrobe is full of designer clothes, shoes and handbags.’
‘So? I like smart things. What’s wrong with that?’
‘They’re very expensive,’ I said.
‘I’m an expensive girl,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Where did you get them?’ I asked.
‘That’s none of your bloody business,’ she said, growing in confidence.
‘I think it is,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because assistant trainers don’t usually make enough to buy upwards of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of clothes,’ I said. ‘Not unless they’re selling information about the horses they look after or are up to other acts of no good.’
She slowly uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way. ‘They were given to me by a rich admirer,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you mean George Lochs.’
That shook her. She quickly sat forward in the chair, but then recovered her composure and leaned back again.
‘Who’s he?’ she asked.
‘Come on, Juliet, that won’t do! You know perfectly well who George Lochs is. He gave you all that stuff in your wardrobe.’
‘Now what makes you think that?’ she said.
‘I called the Jimmy Choo boutique in Sloane Street this morning and I asked if they kept a record of everyone who buys their shoes. The manager said they did, but he wouldn’t tell me who was on the list.’
Juliet smiled slightly. But she had relaxed too soon.
‘So I called their boutique in New Bond Street and said that I was phoning on behalf of Miss Juliet Burns who was abroad and had lost a buckle off a shoe and wanted to have a replacement sent out to her. They told me that they had no record of a Miss Juliet Burns having bought any shoes from them.’
I walked round behind the chair and bent down close to Juliet’s ear.
‘I told them that maybe that was because I had bought them for her myself. And who was I, they had asked. George Lochs, I’d said. Well, of course, Mr Lochs, they said, how nice to hear from you again. Now, which pair was it? So I described the turquoise pair you can see in the photographs and they knew it straight away.’
I didn’t tell her that I had also called Gucci and Armani, saying I was George Lochs. They, too, had all been so pleased to hear from me again.
‘So what if George did buy them for me,’ Juliet said. ‘There’s no crime in that.’
‘Were they payment for services?’ I said.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Was he buying sex?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, offended. ‘What do you think I am, a prostitute?’
No. I thought she might be a murderer but I didn’t say so. Not yet.
I changed direction.
‘Don’t you think someone did a great job at cleaning up this room?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Juliet said.
‘This is where Bill Burton died. Look,’ I pointed, ‘you can still see the stain where his brains splattered on the wall.’
I caught sight of Chris’s horrified face. I nearly laughed. He’d had no idea.
‘How could I forget,’ said Juliet, far less troubled.
‘Did you know I found a second bullet?’ I asked.
‘I read it in the paper,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway.’
‘I’m talking about the fact that Bill Burton was murdered and you know more about it than you’re telling.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m not saying another thing until I see a lawyer.’
‘A lawyer?’ I said. ‘Why do you need a lawyer? You’re not under arrest and I’m not the police.’
‘Am I free to go then?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Any time you like.’
‘Right.’ She stood up. ‘I will.’
‘But then I’ll have to tell the police about the DNA evidence.’
‘What DNA evidence?’ she snapped.
‘Your DNA evidence.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ she said.
‘Can you be sure?’ I asked. ‘Sit down, Juliet, I’m not finished yet.’
She slowly descended back into the chair.
‘Take a look at this.’ I handed her the photograph of her hairbrush.
‘How did you get these photographs?’
‘I visited your house,’ I said, ‘while you were at work.’
‘Is that legal?’ she asked.
‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘Have a close look and tell me what you see.’
‘A hairbrush,’ she said.
‘Not just any hairbrush, it’s your hairbrush,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’
She looked again at the picture. ‘No.’
‘Some hairs?’ I asked.
‘Everyone has hairs in their hairbrush.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not Juliet Burns’s hairs. Did you know that you can obtain a DNA profile from a single hair follicle?’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Well, you can.’
I again went round behind her so that both our faces would be in the video recording.
‘And,’ I said, ‘I bet you don’t know that it was also possible to get your DNA from the saliva you used to lick the envelope of the “get well” card you left for me last Thursday.’
It was a bombshell. She jumped up. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. She looked for a place to run and went over again to the door and wrestled with the knob. Another good thing about old houses is that they are well built. The door didn’t budge a fraction as she threw herself against it.
She looked at the windows as a route of escape.
‘Don’t even think about it, Juliet,’ I said.
She didn’t appear to be listening, so I shouted at her. ‘If you run away I’ll hand the whole lot over to the police.’
Her gaze swung round to my face. ‘And if I don’t?’ she said. Her brain was still ticking under all the external panic.
‘Then we’ll see,’ I said. ‘But I make no promises.’
‘I didn’t shoot your girlfriend,’ she said, still standing by the door.
I could see Chris desperately wanting to say something. I shook my head fractionally to stop him.
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘Marina was shot by a man. But you do know who it was, don’t you, Juliet?’
There was no reply.
‘Come and sit down again.’ I went over and took her arm, and led her back to the chair. ‘That’s better,’ I said as she sat down.
I sat down on a stool facing her, but not in the way of the camera.
‘And the same man murdered Huw Walker, didn’t he?’ I said.
She sat very still, looking at me. She said nothing.
‘And also Bill Burton?’
Again no response.
