at six, and I have, er, other commitments for the evening.”
“So you’re there now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Very well.” He sounded resigned to whatever the interview might bring.
After she’d put the phone down, Carole contemplated ringing Jude’s mobile. But no, she didn’t want to interrupt her neighbour’s meeting with the elusive Joe Bartos.
Besides, once again Carole felt that charge of doing something on her own. She’d find the truth and present it to Jude, neatly gift-wrapped. She’d show she was no slouch in this investigation business.
? Death under the Dryer ?
Thirty-Five
“Did boy say anything?” asked Jiri Bartos. “Yesterday you drive long time with him. Did he say anything about Krystina?”
“He said that he loved her.”
The old man snorted dismissively. “What boys of that age know about love?”
“I think they probably know quite a lot. They find it all very confusing, but they do know the strength of their own feelings.”
“Love often dangerous. Many murders committed for love.”
Wally Grenston, who had been silently topping up Jiri Bartos’s glass throughout their conversation, moved forward again with the Becherovka bottle poised. The old man waved it away. “No. Slivovitz.”
Wally nodded, returned to the drinks cupboard and produced a bottle of the famous Jelinek Plum Brandy. He poured some into a new glass, and handed it across.
“Not cold?”
“I’m sorry. It very rarely gets drunk.”
“Huh. Wife not like?”
Wally didn’t argue. He had long since reconciled himself to his henpecked image. With a nervous look around the room, he was no doubt anticipating trouble ahead, from his wife. It was surprising how much of a fug one man’s chain-smoking could produce. And Mim’s obsessively produced tea lay untouched. Wally Grenston might be in for a difficult evening.
And yet there was something about him that was relaxed, as if sitting drinking in a haze of smoke felt natural to him. It probably echoed previous evenings that Wally had sat with Joseph and other compatriots. Jude had the feeling that, if she wasn’t there, the two men would be speaking Czech.
Jiri Bartos once again focused his bright blue eyes on her. “Tell me more about boy. What he say he do night Krystina died?”
Jude replied accurately, but not completely. She recounted the timing of Nathan’s arrival at and departure from the salon, but she didn’t detail his unsuccessful love-making with Kyra.
“Huh. And boy not see anyone else around salon?”
“No. He thought he heard someone coming through the back gate at one point, but he didn’t see anyone.”
“Who could that be?”
“Well, putting on one side the explanation that it could just have been a burglar who was trying to break in… there might be an argument for thinking that the visitor was someone who could get into the salon by the back door…in other words someone who had keys.” Jiri Bartos did not challenge her logic. “So that would mean Connie Rutherford herself or the other stylist Theo or – ”
“Not Connie. She not go out that evening.”
“How do you know?”
“I tell you, my garden back on to hers. When hot in evening, I sit on balcony with drink, can see her house. Summer no curtains drawn. That evening I see her all evening.”
“What was she doing?”
He shrugged. “She move round house from room to room. Like she nervous. I don’t know. But she not go out.”
“Are you sure she didn’t? Even later? Midnight? One o’clock? Hadn’t you gone to bed by then?”
“No. I go to bed much later. Sometimes not at all. No point in going to bed if you do not sleep. I did not see Connie leave all night.”
“Well, that’s good, thank you. I’m glad she’s off the hook. I’d hate to think of her being in any way involved in what happened to your daughter. But the one other person who we now know did have keys to the back door of the salon is her ex-husband, Martin Rutherford. Do you know who I mean?”
“I know him, I tell you. I live in house long time. I saw him back when they two still married.”
“Well, Martin’s got an alibi for the night Kyra died. He was at a conference in Brighton and – ”
“He not at conference in Brighton.”
“What?” asked Jude, thunderstruck. “How do you know?”
“I see him.”
“You saw him that night? At the salon?”
“No, not at salon. I in my house all night. Eleven o’clock maybe I see him in Connie’s house.”
“Really?”
“He come through back garden. Way into house people not see. Only I see. He go to back door. Connie let him in.”
“And then what happened?”
“I not know. They close curtains.”
Jude took a triumphant sip of her sticky Becherovka, and felt the cough medicine taste burn in her throat. This was a result. The night Kyra Bartos died, Martin Rutherford had actually been in Fethering.
? Death under the Dryer ?
Thirty-Six
The Worthing branch of Martin & Martina was still busy when Carole arrived. All the stylists seemed to be occupied, and it looked unlikely that they could all be finished by the six o’clock closing time. There was no sign of either of the proprietors, but the girl at the desk said she was expected and directed her to the staircase that led up to Martin’s office.
The two-room suite had been designed by the same person who had done the salon downstairs. The Martin & Martina logo was very much in evidence, and all the furniture featured black glass and brushed aluminium.
Martin, who must have been alerted to Carole’s arrival by the receptionist, was standing in the outer office, waiting for her. He shook her hand, the model of urbanity, but she could feel the tension in his body. “Please come through.”
She did as she was told, leaving the door between the two offices open. Although the presence of all the stylists and customers downstairs gave her some security, she still wanted to have an escape route.
Martin Rutherford gestured her to a chair and sat down behind the black glass top of his desk. As ever, he looked what he was, the successful entrepreneur, hair subtly darkened, teeth expensively straightened.
“So, what can I do for you, Carole? I’m sorry I can’t be long. As I say, I have somewhere to go this evening.”
“With your wife?”
“No, Martina is going to Prague to see her mother, who’s very sick. She gets the 21:05 flight from Heathrow. I have to be away by six.”
“What I have to say won’t take very long.”
