‘Only if he had been keeping a watch on Christine for some time,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve checked his movements on the day of the murder. He’s still a low bet for this.’
‘He phoned Gwen Hislop, got angry with her, started threatening,’ Wendy said.
‘Not good enough. He wouldn’t have appreciated us dragging him into the local police station, giving him the third degree when we went up there yesterday. He kept his cool with us, but Gwen, she’s an easy mark. Unless you’ve got anything better, he was just venting his spleen, voicing his anger.’
‘Stanley Montgomery’s a methodical man. He doesn’t leave anything to chance. And Terry Hislop’s anger is impulsive. Judging by his business, he’s not methodical, not much of anything really.’
‘Amelia Bentham?’
‘An alibi for the day of the murder.’
‘Solid?’
‘Solid enough,’ Wendy said.
‘Which brings us back to who?’
‘Tony Mason, he’s the only person with a possible motive that we’ve not spoken to.’
‘Sorry, Wendy. He’s got to be interviewed,’ Isaac said.
***
Three women sat down in the front room of Gwen Hislop’s house. There had been an attempt at making the place homelier: some flowers in a vase, rearranging the furniture.
Wendy could never ascribe to herself the title of home decorator, yet her house was loved, and she had a family who visited regularly, the grandchildren always bringing a crayon painting for her or a handicraft they had made at school. On her mantelpiece, the framed photos of her two sons when they were young, the buckets and spades on the beach, building sandcastles, her and her husband reclining on deckchairs. And then, over the years, photos of the sons’ marriages, the grandchildren soon after birth. But in Gwen Hislop’s house, there was not one photo, no sign of anyone else but herself. Wendy thought that it was a sad house, a house that had not known love for many years.
‘Sergeant Gladstone, Wendy,’ Gwen said. ‘Shouldn’t we be meeting at the police station?’
‘I need to talk to you two. I need you both to know what we must do.’
Gwen had prepared snacks for the three of them, as well as a pot of tea, three cups. Nothing was said while the women ate and drank. The air was heavy in the room, the atmosphere reflecting the fear etched on Christine’s face, the importance on Wendy’s about what she had to say.
‘What is it?’ Gwen said, breaking the silence.
‘Christine,’ Wendy said, looking over at the woman, ‘we have interviewed all those with a reason to have wanted to harm Colin Young, or as we know him now, Barry Montgomery.’
‘You’re evading what you want to say,’ Gwen said.
‘We must bring in Christine’s husband. He needs to be interviewed.’
‘But you said you’d protect me,’ Christine said. Her face showed panic. Archibald Marshall was threatening her, although he wouldn’t get far, as Wendy wouldn’t allow that, but Tony Mason was another issue.
‘I always told you that I could only do my best.’
‘It was always going to happen,’ Gwen acknowledged.
‘But Tony? You promised,’ Christine said. She was shaking. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do.’
‘Let’s be honest here, amongst us three,’ Wendy said. ‘Colin Young wasn’t the first man you had had an affair with, was he?’
‘Yes, no…’
‘We’re trying to help you here.’
‘No. He wasn’t the first,’ Christine admitted. She had already told Wendy on a previous occasion that was the case. Wendy had not wanted to remind her of her earlier admission.
‘You were always a slut,’ Gwen said. Wendy wasn’t sure if she was being critical of her sister, or saying it for effect, light-hearted teasing.
‘But Tony?’
‘Did your husband ever find out about the other men?’ Wendy asked. She knew she was treading lightly, trying to protect a woman who might still be a murderer.
‘I never gave him reason to believe there were other men.’
‘How?’
‘You know how. You don’t need me to elaborate, do you?’
‘Sergeant Gladstone doesn’t,’ Gwen said.
‘You continued to sleep with your husband, or did you overdo your affections? The candlelit dinner, the soft music, the lingerie, the early night? Any of that when there was another man,’ Wendy asked.
‘I may have.’
‘And your husband said nothing?’
‘Never.’
‘Let’s assume the man’s a complete moron, not that I believe he is. Did your husband receive the same special attention when you were with Colin Young?’
‘We’re not as young as we were.’
‘And he still didn’t figure it out. Christine, you’re a sensual woman, and you’re not that old. Your husband’s busy with work, he comes home late at night, or he’s away for a few weeks, and there you are, cold, passionless.’
‘I wasn’t cold. I did my duty.’
‘Your duty? The man would know you were up to something. He probably knew about the others, but as you said, he’s entertaining clients, laying on women for them, taking one or two for himself. You knew when he was, and do you think he didn’t sense the change in you?’
‘He never said anything.’
‘You’re there giving him the works. He lies back and thinks of England or something like that. He’s got a good thing going, he knows that. He weighs up the options. He can have you eager and willing, as well as other women overseas, whores out of Ukraine, the women that frequent the bars in Dubai and throughout the Middle East. He’s got it made, so he makes a decision, but by your own admission, Colin Young comes along.
