“I know.”
“We put the milk in our own fridge the first evening. Then during the night I found myself wondering if perhaps she was ill upstairs and hadn’t been able to get to the door. How dreadful if we did nothing to help. So I asked Winston to take a look, and he came out looking as pale as a sheet and told me to ring the police and tell them Britt was dead. We didn’t get any more sleep that night.”
“Nor did I. How long had she been living here?”
“Quite some time. Three years, at least. She was an excellent tenant. Very reliable with the rent. We were quite fond of her.” Put like that, it said as much about the Billingtons as Britt Strand.
“She had her own key?”
“Oh, yes. To the front door and a separate one for her flat. As you know, the access was through our part of the house and if she was ever late she would creep upstairs like a mouse.”
“I must have asked you this before. Did anyone else possess a key to the house?”
“Apart from ourselves and Britt? No.”
“Did she have visitors?”
“From time to time. That large woman who took the photographs for her came sometimes.”
“Any men? I’m sure we’ve been over this, Mrs. Billington, but my memory is hazy.”
“She gave us no cause for complaint. I don’t recollect anyone staying the night. I’m not old-fashioned about morals, but as a landlord you always have a dread of a partner moving in when the place is let to a single person.”
Diamond explained that he wasn’t asking just about overnight visitors.
“Oh, there were callers from time to time. I’d have been surprised if there weren’t. She was an extremely good-looking girl.”
“Try and remember them, particularly any toward the end of her life.”
Four years on, this taxed Mrs. Billington to the limit. She managed to dredge up a memory of a caller Diamond took to be Marcus Martin, the horseman. He had called two or three times. And she was positive-because she had been asked it before-that John Mountjoy had never called while she was there.
“Was she ever sent flowers?”
A frown. “I can’t remember any arriving.”
“Did she like roses specially?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I see you have rose bushes in the garden.”
She reddened and slipped out of her old lady role to deliver a rebuke. “Obviously you’re no gardener. You wouldn’t find a dozen roses in bud in my garden or any other in October. The ones found in the room obviously came from a florist.”
He asked whether Britt had ever discussed her journalistic work and got the answer he expected: she had not.
Diamond, better than most, always knew when he had outstayed his welcome. Suddenly he was getting the message that Violet Billington wanted him out as quickly as possible and not just for the sake of the new tenant upstairs. The question about the roses had unsettled her. This made him all the more interested in prolonging the interview.
“You must have got to know a certain amount about Miss Strand’s relationships with men.”
“Nothing.” Curt and uncompromising.
“Come now, Mrs. Billington,” he coaxed her. “No one is going to accuse you of prying into her life. She was your tenant for three years. In that time you’re bound to have seen the comings and goings and I’d have thought you’re bound to have speculated about her love life. It’s only human.”
“I’ve told you everything you have any right to know.”
“We’re not exchanging gossip,” he pressed her. “This is someone who was murdered.”
“I’ve nothing else to say on the matter. It’s over. You took the man before the courts and he was found guilty.”
Not, simply, Mountjoy murdered her. More like a refined way of saying you clobbered him and it’s your arse in a sling, mate. What did she know?
“Should I speak to your husband? Maybe he’ll feel easier talking to me.”
“You’ll get nothing out of Winston.”
She gave too much away this time. Implicit in the force of the remark was her conviction that Winston knew something and hadn’t confided in her, in spite of her best efforts.
“He’s out at work, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Does he come home for lunch by any chance?”
“No.”
“So what time do you expect him home today?”
“I can’t say. It varies.” Her mouth pursed and those pale eyes glared in defiance.
Diamond was plumbing the depths of his memory to get a mental impression of the man. Winston Billington’s testimony at the trial had been confined to describing how he had found the body. He had never been considered as a possible suspect because the holiday in Tenerife had given him an alibi. He’d appeared younger than his wife, perhaps under fifty, a slight, dapper figure in a striped suit. “What’s his job, then? I take it he has a job?”
“Sales rep.”
“Selling what?”
“Greeting cards.”
“For a local firm?”
“No.”
“So where are they based-in London?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s the area rep?”
“Yes.”
“Visits the shops, does he, trying to interest them in the new designs? Have you got any samples around the house?”
She turned away and started busying herself with dishes. “He doesn’t keep them here. We wouldn’t have room.”
“What does he have-an office?”
“Something like that. A place where the cards are stored.”
“But you don’t have any you can show me?”
She glared. “I already made that clear, I thought.”
His curiosity was mounting. “What sort of cards are they, Mrs. Billington?”
“What do you mean, what sort? Greeting cards.”
“The sort I might choose for my wife?”
“I’ve no idea.” But she had gone a shade more pink.
“Let’s give you an idea then. Her preference is for country scenes, or animals. Not over-sentimental. A basket of Persian kittens would be too sappy for my Stephanie. She wouldn’t mind a horse looking over a gate.”
“I said I have no idea because I don’t see the blessed cards,” she told him, overriding her blushes with acrimony. “If you’ve finished, I do have things to attend to. I don’t wish to discuss my husband’s business.”
“You’re right,” said Diamond generously. “I’d better go to the fountainhead. When can I be sure of finding him at home?”
Her entire body tensed. She said, “I thought the reason you called was to warn us about Mountjoy. Winston knows he escaped. I don’t see why you have to bother us anymore. We suffered enough at the time of the murder.”
“I’m still going to speak to him.”
“He’s got nothing to say.”
“What time do you suggest?”
“After eight, if you must.”
