‘Angry, very angry. Confused, I suppose. When you’re young, you see everything as black and white, not shades of grey.’
‘And now?’
‘I would have liked to be a father, but it doesn’t seem so important now.’
‘Christine through no fault of her own had cheated you out of your one chance. Is that a hatred that could lead to violence?’
‘Sergeant, what are you implying? That I travelled to London, and then killed Christine’s lover?’
‘I need to know your level of anguish. As we feel our mortality, the slowing down, the aches and pains, the waning libido, we all reflect on our past; it’s only natural. You have no legacy to pass on to future generations. Does that worry you?’
‘Yes, if you must know. But the idea that I would kill someone important to her makes no sense. I’m not a violent man, not vengeful, and my libido’s still active. Shooting blanks hasn’t helped, but it hasn’t harmed me either.’
‘An alibi?’
‘Whatever you want. I’ve not been to London in five years, and that was only for a couple of days.’
‘Where did you stay?’
‘Somewhere central. I can’t remember the name.’
‘Five stars?’
‘It wasn’t that good. Somewhere that looked great on the internet with its views of London, but didn’t have any, not unless you climbed on the roof.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hislop. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. You were a person of interest. I had to come and meet with you.’
‘If you see either of them, please give them my best wishes.’
‘I will. I like Christine, although Gwen is not so easy to read.’
‘They’ve not changed, and yes, Christine’s a good person. Did she kill the man?’
‘That information is confidential. However, I hope she did not.’
‘But she may have?’
‘As I said, our enquiries are ongoing. I don’t want her to be guilty, but whoever is the murderer, I will do my duty,’ Wendy said as she thanked Hislop for his time. She thought she had wasted the day coming north, but the investigation into Terry Hislop was not closed yet.
***
Bridget spent time in the office going through the information that Nick Domett of Gents for Hire had supplied. Wendy’s description of the man, charming and entertaining on the phone, disappointing in the flesh, had tempered the women’s joking about him and his saucy repartee.
Larry was working with Bridget and following up on the details supplied by Domett. No surprises yet, apart from the fact that the murdered man had swung both ways, and that his clientele had included both men and women. Larry was no fool, and he’d been out on the street and into the underbelly of society. He knew of people’s perversions, their needs, their weaknesses.
The first person he met up with, a chartered accountant in the city, a tired-looking man who carried his sixty-six years poorly, did not appreciate having a police inspector in his outer office, his personal assistant curious as to what was going on.
‘Mr Cranwell is a great boss. I’ve been here eight years, and I’ve never seen the police here before,’ the middle-aged woman said. She was an efficient woman, Larry decided. Probably lived on her own, her only company an old cat that looked just like her, minus the accoutrements, of course. But Larry realised that evaluations of people based on appearances could sometimes be wrong. Bridget dressed sensibly in the office and was as efficient as the PA, yet she had had lovers and flings, and he and Isaac always suspected that Bridget’s and Wendy’s trips to the sun occasionally involved more than the sun, siesta, and a tan, although in Bridget’s case it was more a burn than tan.
‘Inspector, what can I do for you?’ Eustace Cranwell said as he opened his door. His hand outstretched, he grabbed Larry’s firmly and shook it vigorously. Defence mechanism, Larry thought. A show for the PA who pretended to be looking at a computer screen, but her eyeballs were angled up. Police training and experience had taught Larry to look for the unseen. No sign of intimacy between the accountant and the woman, but then the man had been using the services of a male prostitute.
Larry walked into the man’s office. It was scrupulously clean, a desk in the far corner, close to the window. On one side of the room, a large bookcase, full of mementoes, family photos, and financial books, none of which would have meant much to Larry.
With the door closed, Cranwell’s manner changed, no longer the smiling welcome. ‘I was disturbed by your phone call, Inspector Hill,’ he said as he leaned back on his chair, attempting to look at ease, failing miserably. The man’s right hand had a slight tremor: the early sign of illness, or just nerves. Larry decided on close inspection that the redness in Cranwell’s face, the sweating, indicated it was nerves. The man had been sprung, and he didn’t like it.
‘We’re investigating the murder of a man you knew as Colin Young.’
‘Inspector, surely you must be mistaken. I don’t know of any such man.’
‘Fine. Here or at Challis Street. It makes no difference to me, but I assume you have a reputation to protect.’
‘I’m well respected, a happily married man, three children, all of them making successes of their lives. A scandal would destroy them, me.’
‘I’m not the moral police. If you want to indulge in whatever with another consenting male, that’s down to your conscience, not mine. We need to solve a crime, and you are only one on our list. Tell me openly and in your own time where and when, and what you knew of the man, and then I’ll be on my way. Probably you’ll never hear from another police officer or me again. Lie, and it’ll be the third degree.
