The old man looked sly. 'Ways and means,' he muttered. But he saw something in Cooper's eyes that caused him to reflect. 'There was talk in the village when Gerald topped himself,' he said. 'Word got about he'd written a letter which his brother managed to suppress. Suicide'-he shook his head-'wasn't the done thing in those days. William hushed it up for the sake of the family. I heard the stories at the time and suggested Joanna look for the letter. Stood to reason what would be in it. Gerald was a sentimental half-wit bound to've mentioned his bastard. Couldn't've resisted it.'
'And perhaps you reached an accommodation with Mrs. Lascelles as well. You'd testify in court to her real paternity if she kept you in clover for the rest of your life. Something like that?'
Gillespie gave a dry chuckle. 'She was a great deal more amenable than her mother.'
'Then why did you bother to go on negotiating with Mrs. Gillespie?'
'Didn't rate Joanna's chances much, not against Mathilda.'
Cooper nodded. 'So you killed your wife to improve the odds.'
The dry chuckle rasped out again. 'Wondered when you'd pull that one out of the hat. Didn't need to. If she didn't kill herself, then rather think my step-daughter did it for me. She was mightly put out to discover that her mother played the tart with her great-uncle.'
Abruptly, like some guilty secret he'd decided to unburden, he fished a full bottle of whisky from where it was nicked down behind the sofa cushions, unscrewed the cap and held it to his mouth. 'Want some?' he asked vaguely after a moment, waving the bottle in Cooper's direction before placing it between his lips again and half-draining it in huge mouthfuls.
The Sergeant, whose experience of drunks was considerable after years of plucking them out of the gutter in sodden heaps, watched in amazement. Gillespie's tolerance levels were extraordinary. In two minutes he had consumed enough neat spirit to put most men on their backs, and the only effect it seemed to have on him was to reduce the tremors in his hands.
'We're having difficulty establishing a motive for your wife's murder,' Cooper said slowly. 'But it seems to me yours is rather stronger than most.'
'Bah!' Gillespie snorted, his eyes bright now with alcoholic affability. 'She was worth more to me alive. I told you, she was talking fifty thousand the day before she died.'
'But you didn't keep your side of the bargain, Mr. Gillespie. That meant your wife was free to reveal why you had to abscond to Hong Kong.'
'Water under the bridge,' came his monotonous refrain. 'Water under the bloody bridge. No one'd be interested in my little peccadillo now, but there's a hell of a lot'd be interested in hers. The daughter, for a start.' He raised the bottle to his mouth again, and the shutters went down.
Cooper couldn't remember when anyone or anything had disgusted him quite so much. He stood up, buttoning depression about himself with his coat. If he could wash his hands of this terrible family, he would, for he could find no saving graces in any of them. What's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh, and their corruption was as rank as the stench in that room. If he regretted anything in his life it was being on shift the day Mathilda's body was found. But for that, he might have remained what he had always believed he was-a truly tolerant man.
Unnoticed by Gillespie, he retrieved the empty bottle from the floor with his fingertips and took it with him.
Jack studied the address that Sarah had patiently cajoled out of Ruth. 'You say it's a squat, so how do I get him outside alone?'
She was rinsing some cups under the cold water tap. 'I'm having second thoughts. What happens if you end up in traction for the next six months?'
'It couldn't possibly be worse than what I'm suffering already,' he murmured, pulling out a chair and sitting on it. 'There's something wrong with the spareroom bed. It's giving me a stiff neck. When are you going to boot Ruth out and let me back where I belong?'
'When you've apologized.'
'Ah, well,' he said regretfully, 'a stiff neck it is then.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'It's only an apology, you bastard. It won't kill you. Stiff-necked says it all, if you ask me.'
He gave an evil grin. 'It's not the only thing that's stiff. You don't know what you're missing, my girl.'
She glared at him. 'That's easily cured.' With a swift movement she upended a cupful of freezing water into his lap. 'It's a pity Sally Bennedict didn't do the same.'
He surged to his feet, knocking the chair backwards. 'Jesus, woman,' he roared, 'will you stop trying to turn me into a eunuch!' He gripped her round the waist and lifted her bodily into the air. 'You're lucky we've got Ruth in the house,' he growled, twisting her sideways and holding her head under the running tap, 'otherwise I might be tempted to show you how ineffectual cold water is on a deprived libido.'
'You're drowning me,' she spluttered.
'Serves you right.' He set her on her feet again and turned off the tap.
'You asked for passion,' she said, dripping water over the quarry tiles. 'Don't you like it now that you've got it?'
He tossed her a towel. 'Hell, yes,' he said with a grin. 'The last thing I wanted was a wife who understood. I will not be patronized, woman.'
She shook her head in fury, splattering the kitchen with droplets. 'If one more person calls me patronizing,' she said, 'I will do them some damage. I am
'Well, you know what they say about paradise, old thing. It's heaven until the horned viper pops his head out from under the fig leaf and spots the moist warm burrow under the bushes. After that all hell breaks loose.'
