‘I might have, but he never said anything.’
‘He’s had his fill overseas. You’re the icing on the cake, and he’s tired, and it’s been a long trip. He lets it pass, but he’s suspicious.’
‘Could he have found out, Christine?’ Gwen asked.
‘I might have had a phone number on a piece of paper, another phone in my handbag.’
‘Your husband has to be told about Colin Young. He needs to convince us that he’s not involved in murder,’ Wendy said.
‘Does he have to know?’ Christine said, her voice almost a whisper.
‘Either you tell him, or we do.’
‘I must, but not on my own. What will happen to my marriage, to me?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that we must pursue this investigation. Where is your husband now?’
‘At home. He arrived last night.’
‘Candlelit dinner, the lingerie, the early night?’
‘He was tired.’
‘Did you try?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m certain he killed Colin.’
‘And when did you come to this conclusion?’ Gwen asked. She was not looking at her sister with love.
‘Who else would have wanted him dead?’ Christine said.
‘That’s not good enough. Colin Young brought out strong emotions in people. We’re going to give them all the third degree, including you before this is finished. I hope for your sake that your conscience is clear and that you are innocent,’ Wendy said.
‘I will be with my sister,’ Gwen said.
‘We are going to Christine’s home now. Will you be coming?’
‘Yes. Christine cannot talk to him alone.’
Chapter 22
Amelia Bentham, freshly returned from a photo shoot overseas, did not mind the visit from Isaac Cook to her house in Pembridge Mews. She was not so keen on him being accompanied by his detective inspector.
Wendy, who had formed a friendship of sorts with the Bentham family, was otherwise occupied with Christine Mason and her sister, and now, Christine’s husband.
‘Miss Bentham,’ Isaac said as the three sat in the main room of the mews house, ‘there are still unanswered questions.’
‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Amelia replied. Isaac could see that she was an attractive woman, a little on the skinny side for him, but then all top models were. And for someone who had just spent three days in the Caribbean, her skin was still pasty white.
‘We know that you’ve spent time with Sergeant Gladstone and that she’s been up to your family home, met your family. Wendy’s been thorough, but now we’re in the wrap-up stage. It’s the time to re-interview all those who might know something more, to re-examine the original statements, to look for the minutiae, the unimportant detail that was not picked up, or which the witness deemed of little relevance or just plain forgot.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Larry said, although he wasn’t sure if that was entirely correct.
‘You were friendly with Barry and Matilda Montgomery?’ Isaac said. He was sitting directly across from Amelia, Larry was off to one side. The decision to interview her in her house rather than at Challis Street Police Station was to keep her calm and relaxed, to gently entice whatever they could from her.
‘Matilda was a friend; as much of a friend as she could be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘We’re going over old ground here. Your sergeant knows all this. She must have written a report for you,’ Amelia said.
‘She has, but humour us. As I said, the minutiae often get missed.’
‘There was a barrier with her. Sure, she’d tell you about her family, her life, growing up, but it was only if you asked, and then her replies were short. None of the memories, the anecdotes that a child carries into adulthood.’
‘Did you press the point with her?’
‘No. Why should I? She was a friend, someone to spend time with, someone I trusted and respected. There’s no need for me to know of her past, no need for her to know of mine.’
‘According to Sergeant Gladstone, you had a happy childhood, loving parents.’
‘I was fortunate. I took Matilda to meet them once when we were in London, a good restaurant in Knightsbridge. They had met her before, but this time it didn’t go well.’
‘We didn’t know about this before,’ Larry said.
‘It didn’t seem important,’ Amelia said.
‘We’ll be the judge of that.’
‘Very well. It was a Thursday night, eight in the evening. Matilda and I grabbed a taxi and headed over to the restaurant. She wore a dress, I was wearing jeans and a white blouse. We’re a casual family, the Benthams, when I’m not modelling, or my parents aren’t flaunting their title.’
‘Wendy said they didn’t do that,’ Isaac said.
‘Never if they could, but sometimes there’s a charity function that they need to attend. My parents do what they can to help the less fortunate. Not that it’s as much as they’d like, but every little bit helps.’
‘Let’s come back to the restaurant,’ Larry said. ‘What happened?’
‘We were into the second course, and my mother asks Matilda about her childhood, starts talking about how I had a pony when I was six, and then a horse, and the places I’d been and how much they loved me.’
‘And?’
‘The more my mother spoke, well-meaning you understand, the more morose Matilda became. It was as if a wall was descending. My mother’s a one glass of wine person, but because the atmosphere was so congenial, she was onto her second, and she was talking more than she should have, not reading the signals.’
‘How did Matilda respond?’
‘That’s it, she didn’t. She made an excuse about not feeling well, thanked my parents and left the restaurant. It was surreal, her leaving like that. I hadn’t warned my parents beforehand that Matilda had a dark side, but with my mother,
