“I’m told that he’d recently become disillusioned with you, that he was minded to take his money out of this business as a token of his disappointment. You really should tell me about it in case I go away with the wrong idea. And you not having much of an alibi. My news editor would like that story a lot.”
Ros stared hard at Lindsay. “Well, well,” she muttered bitterly. “So much for lesbian solidarity. You’re not the pushover I took you for, are you? Fancy me thinking that anyone who tagged along on Cordelia’s coat-tails could be toothless. All right. Since you obviously know enough to make a bloody nuisance of yourself, I’d better tell you the rest.
“Ten days ago I had a phone call from my father. He informed me that he was instructing his bankers to recover the twenty thousand he’d loaned me. He refused to say why, or even to say anything else. So I rang my mother to see if she knew what the hell was going on. And she wouldn’t say either.
“So I jumped on the bike and bombed down to the old homestead where I squeezed out of Mamma what it was all about. To cut a long story short, it was all down to my perfectly bloody little brother. You know he’s got this business in computer software? Well, he had to start it on a shoestring, against my father’s advice. Father wanted different things for Simon, and that was the end of the story as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t even listen when one of Simon’s teachers came to see him and told us that Simon was the best computer programmer he’d ever encountered. Apparently, he was hacking into other people’s systems by the time he was in the third form. Anyway, Simon got off the ground somehow and he’s at the stage now where it’s make or break, expand or fold, and he needs an injection of cash. God knows where he got the money to get this far, but he was determined that the next chunk of capital should come from Father, on the basis that he’d lent me money for the business, and it was only right that he should do the same for Simon.
“Dad refused absolutely. He said I’d proved myself, which Simon still had to do before he could come chasing around for hard-earned handouts. Mum said they were going at it hammer and tongs, then Simon blew a fuse and said something along the lines of how appalling it was that Father was prepared to finance a pair of lesbians running a restaurant for queers, and he wouldn’t finance his only son in a legitimate business. Mum says there was a ghastly silence, then Simon walked out. Father apparently wouldn’t say a thing, just went off in the car. She thinks he came up here to see for himself. And the next day-bombshell.”
“I thought it must have been something like that,” Lindsay said. “So I suppose that put you right in the cart.”
“Until the death of my father, that’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? Not quite that easy, I’m afraid. You see, we’ve been doing better than we projected. It knocked some of our personal plans on the head, like new furniture for the flat, but we’ve simply transferred to a bank loan. We can just afford the extra interest. Any money from my father’s will, unless he’s cut me out of that too, will be an absolute godsend, there’s no getting away from that. But we could have managed without it. I had no need to kill him. Now, you’ve got what you came for. Is there anything else before I get you the bill?”
“Just one thing. Any idea why your father was carrying a gun?”
“Carrying a gun? I knew nothing about that. No one said anything to me about a gun!”
“The police are trying to keep it fairly quiet. A point two two revolver.”
“I can’t begin to think why he had his gun with him. He used to be a member of a small-arms shooting club at Middle Walberley. But he hadn’t been for… oh God, it must be eight years. He gave it up because he didn’t have time enough for practising, and he could never bear to do anything unless he did it to perfection. I didn’t even know he’d kept his gun. I can’t believe he had enemies-I mean, not the sort you’d have to arm yourself against. Wow, that really is weird.” For the first time, she looked upset. “Somebody must have really got to him. That’s horrible.” She swallowed the remains of her brandy and got to her feet. “I’ll get Meg to bring your bill.” She vanished through the swing door at the back of the restaurant followed by Meg, whose eyes had never left them during the interview.
Lindsay rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Deborah reached out and took her hand. Before they could speak, Meg re-emerged from the kitchen and strode over to them. By now, they were the centre of attention for the few diners remaining. “Have this meal on me,” Meg said angrily. “Just so long as you don’t come back here again. Now go. I mean it, Lindsay. Just get out!”
11
The head office of Mallard and Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers and Valuers, was at the far end of the main street in Fordham. The retail developers who have turned every British high street into undistinguished and indistinguishable shopping malls had not yet penetrated that far down the street, and the double-fronted office looked old-fashioned enough to appeal to the most conservative in the district. Lindsay, dressed to match the office in her new outfit, studied the properties in the window with curiosity. She noticed several houses in the vicinity of Brownlow Common were up for sale. But their prices didn’t seem to be significantly lower than comparable houses in other areas. She pushed open the door, and as she entered, a sleek young woman in a fashionably sharp suit rose and came over to the high wooden counter.
“Can I help you?” she enquired.
“I’m due to see Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay explained. “My name’s Lindsay Gordon.”
“Oh yes, he’s expecting you. Do come through.” The woman raised a flap in the counter and showed Lindsay through into Mallard’s own office. He got up as Lindsay was ushered in and genially indicated a chair. Mallard was a short, chubby man in his fifties, almost completely bald. He wore large, gold-rimmed spectacles and tufts of grey hair stuck out above his ears, making him look like a rather cherubic owl. He smiled winningly at Lindsay. “Now, young lady,” he said cheerfully, “you’re a reporter, I think you said?”
“That’s right. But I’m not just looking for stories. I believe Carlton Stanhope rang to pass on Superintendent Rigano’s request?”
“He did indeed.” He smiled. “Always delighted to help an attractive young lady like yourself. Mr. Stanhope tells me you’ve been able to give the police some assistance concerning dear Rupert’s death? A dreadful tragedy, quite, quite dreadful.”
Lindsay decided she did not care for this bouncing chauvinist piglet. But his seeming garrulity might be something she could turn to her advantage. She smiled at him. “Absolutely. I have been able to come up with some quite useful information so far. And of course, not all of it is passed directly to the police. I mean, a lot emerges in these affairs that has no bearing on the main issue. It would be a pity to cloud matters with irrelevant information, wouldn’t it? So if people are open with me, I can often get to the bottom of things that would otherwise cause a lot of wasted police time. If you see what I mean?” She let the question hang in the air.
“So you want to find out how well I knew Rupert, who his friends were, if he made enemies through RABD, that sort of thing? That’s what Mr. Stanhope said,” Mallard replied hastily.
“Not exactly,” Lindsay replied. “Though I would like to look through the RABD records. I think Mr. Stanhope arranged that with you?”
Mallard nodded vigorously. “They’re all upstairs in a little office I put at the disposal of the organisation. You can take as long as you want, you’ll have the place to yourself. We’ve got nothing to hide, you know, though obviously we don’t want our future plans made public. That would put an end to our strategies against those… those harpies down there,” he said, geniality slipping as he referred to the peace women.
“I rather thought there were one or two matters you’d prefer to keep to yourself, Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay remarked idly.
“No, no we’re not at all secretive. We’re perfectly open, no conspiracies here.”
An odd thing to say, Lindsay thought. “No conspiracies, perhaps, but one or two disagreements.”
“Disagreements?” He looked apprehensive.
“Paul Warminster?”
“Oh, that,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable. “Yes, that was a little unfortunate. But then, it only supports
