A Killing Karma Page 11

  They both refused the tea. This seemed to put her out a little as if she had wanted to play hostess to policemen as an antidote to the frills that surrounded her every day. However, put out or not at their refusal of her offer, she remained polite.

  Amanda Meredith's voice had a breathless, little girl, quality as her words tumbled out, which Casey found irritating. He thought grown women should behave and speak like adults, not pseudo-adolescents; but perhaps his own parents' refusal to leave their Sixties’ youth behind went a long way to explaining his irritation. Like Moon, Amanda Meredith retained the hairstyle of her girlhood and a blue Alice band held back the curly, naturally blonde locks which looked as if they and their owner spent every spare minute at the hairdresser's — when, that was, she wasn't riding the disdainful stallion. She was altogether a pampered-looking piece, the Alice band giving her a childish look that would hold an appeal for some men.

  As with the Olivers, in the Merediths' case, too, opposites had attracted, Casey noted as Roger Meredith entered the room to his wife's twitter of welcome. Meredith was tall and rugged with a business-like air. From the look of his nose and damaged ears, he had been a rugby player in his youth.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Roger Meredith, far from coy and gushing like his wife, now asked, 'I understand from your sergeant that you wanted to question my wife and myself about the death of Gus Oliver. Tragic business,’ he put in en passant, though from his manner as he sat and sank into the depths of one of the frilly armchairs, he didn't seem terribly cut up about Oliver's death. 'I knew him, of course — we both did, though it was a casual acquaintance only. We belong to the same rugby club and we'd occasionally see him there.’

  Casey wondered if Roger Meredith was aware that his wife's acquaintance with Gus Oliver was rather more than casual. That was, if their supposition had been correct. She had been cagey both when she had telephoned the incident room to identify Oliver and when Catt had called to question her, so was clearly capable of acting the adult when she chose. If so, Meredith was hiding any suspicion well. But Casey sensed a tension in him that he felt wasn't simply to do with receiving a visit from the police. It would be interesting to learn if he was able to produce an alibi that was an improvement on the one already supplied.

  ‘Has my wife offered you a drink?’

  Casey confirmed that she had and again declined any refreshments.

  ‘I’m sure we'll be able to clear this matter up,’ Meredith announced firmly.

  Casey was sitting on one of the flouncy settees and Catt had chosen an armchair further back from the intimate circle, all the better to view the expressions of their interviewees while keeping a discreet distance.

  ‘My wife tells me you're asking all Gus Oliver's friends and acquaintances if they're able to supply any information. I will, of course, be glad to help in any way I can. I understand the times you're interested in are from around nine to midnight on the Friday and from six-ish to around seven thirty on Monday?’

  Casey nodded.

  ‘Well now, let me see .. .' Meredith frowned in thought. 'I left home at half past six on the Friday for a rugby committee meeting.’

  ‘And what time did this meeting end?’

  ‘Eight thirty or thereabouts.’

  ‘And did you come straight home afterwards?’

  ‘No. I stayed on for a couple of drinks. Normally I'd still be there at eleven o'clock, but there were things I wanted to do in my office here at the house, so I didn't linger long. I was at home in my office upstairs from just before nine, wasn't I darling?’ he asked his wife.

  Amanda Meredith nodded, quick to back up what her husband said.

  Did these ‘things' that Meredith said he had been doing include catching his wife in flagrante delicto? Casey wondered. Was Roger Meredith aware that his wife had been having an affair with Oliver? Or was he the innocent caught in the middle? And if he had come home unexpectedly early and caught his wife and her lover in bed together, what would he do? Had a red mist descended, resulting in Oliver's death? It was certainly a believable scenario. He could have recognized Oliver's car and, if he already had reasons for suspicion, could have armed himself with a sharp knife before ascending to the bedroom. But if that had happened, Oliver's blood would be everywhere and he doubted that Meredith would be so foolish as to commit such a messy murder. Certainly not in a place from where the mess couldn't be easily cleaned up.

  But, he remonstrated silently with himself, he was rushing ahead of the facts. ‘And you, Mrs Meredith?’ he asked. 'I understand from my sergeant that you were at home between the relevant times on both occasions?’

  ‘Yes, that's so,’ she replied in her breathy voice. She curled one of her blonde locks around her fingers as she continued. ‘Occasionally, I accompany my husband to the rugby club, for lunches, dinners and so on. Committee meetings aren't my style, but I sometimes attend and stay in the bar till the meeting's finished.’

  Flirting with any available male, Casey surmised as he caught her giving him the once-over. She was flirting with him under her husband's nose in spite of being a murder suspect. Her shapely legs were crossed provocatively and her white dress had ridden up to give a glimpse of thigh.

  Catt, at least, seemed to enjoy the view, but Casey found this deliberate attempt to distract them less than appealing. Was it something she did automatically when males were present? Or was it a display she had put on especially for them in order to deflect them from their purpose?

  ‘And what about Monday?’ he asked Meredith. The early morning on Monday?’ This was when Cedric Abernethy's evidence indicated that Oliver’ body had been dumped in the alley.

  ‘We were both in bed, Chief Inspector,’ Meredith responded firmly. He glanced at his wife as he added, ‘Sleeping the sleep of the self-righteous.’

  At the moment, Casey wasn't in a position to contradict either of their statements. But he obtained the name and location of the rugby club and the names and addresses of the other committee members before he and Catt took their leave.

  Catt had arranged for them to see Sarah and Carl Garrett next. They lived clear across town. It seemed that Oliver had liked the members of his harem to live as far apart as discretion demanded but still convenient to visit.

  The Garretts lived in a spacious loft apartment overlooking the river. In its way, it must be as pricey as the detached home of the Merediths, providing, as several prominent signs in the entrance hall proclaimed, a gym and swimming pool in the basement as well as a resident porter. The porter would have to be questioned.

  The Garretts’ second-floor apartment was starkly modern, with sleek, black leather settees and satiny pale blond wood flooring. They had a selection of expensive electrical gadgets, including a huge plasma television.

  Sarah Garrett was another dainty, natural blonde. It seemed that Oliver didn't believe in ringing the changes in his lovers, though at least Mrs Garrett wasn't a gushing woman and spoke in normal, adult tones. In fact, she seemed rather distant and reluctant to say much at all.

  ‘My wife tells me you're investigating the death of a certain Gus Oliver, Chief Inspector,’ Carl Garrett said once they were all seated. He, like Roger Meredith, was another athletic looking specimen. ‘But for the life of me, I can't see what you think we can tell you. We didn't know the man.’

  ‘You may not, sir,’ Casey replied, ‘but I believe your wife was acquainted with him.’

  ‘Sarah?’ Garrett turned interrogative grey eyes on his wife. ‘Is it true? Did you know this man?’

  ‘Only casually.’ A defensive note had entered her voice, which, to judge from Garrett's narrowed eyes, he had spotted. ‘He belonged to the same tennis club that I joined earlier in the year. I only knew him socially and even so I barely knew him. We'd only exchanged civilities, no more.’

  Turning his interrogative gaze from his wife, Garrett directed it back to Casey and said, ‘That being the case, Chief Inspector, I can't imagine why you should think we know anything abou
t his death.’

  Casey parried. ‘Of course I don't think that. Not at the moment, anyway. But if you do, doubtless we'll discover that in due course.’ It was clear that Garrett wanted to get rid of them and to question his wife more closely. Well, that could wait; Casey was sure Sarah Garrett would be glad of the delay to give her time to come up with some believable answers.

  Sarah Garrett was staring at him with pleading eyes, her distant air quite gone. Casey had no intention of betraying the secret of her affair with Oliver; if either one of the pair had murdered him and they succeeded in proving it, the truth of her relationship with the dead man would come out soon enough. Again, they had only another telephone call to the incident room to indicate that Sarah Garrett was one of Oliver's lovers, but Mrs Garrett didn't know that. No wonder she looked apprehensive. He might, he realized, get more cooperation if she had doubts about him holding his tongue on her illicit union.

  He expected Carl Garrett to make difficulties about providing an alibi given his claim that he hadn't known the victim, and so it proved.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he protested. 'I told you I didn't know the man. Why on earth should I want to kill him?’ Then his eyes narrowed and he again gazed speculatively at his wife. ‘Unless — unless his relationship with my wife was rather more than casual. Is that what you're trying to imply, Chief Inspector?’

  Garrett was a cool customer all right. Was he pretending not to have known of his wife's infidelity and playing guessing games with them?

  Sarah broke into nervous laughter. ‘Don't be ridiculous, darling. I told you, I hardly knew the man.’ She turned to Casey, ‘But I suppose you need an alibi from me?’ Casey nodded. ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘As I told your sergeant, I was at home all Friday evening.’ She gave another laugh. ‘Not much of an alibi, I'm afraid. My husband was working late in his office in town here. I imagine some other member of staff can vouch for him.’ She looked enquiringly at her husband.

  Finally, Carl Garrett decided to be more helpful. ‘Unfortunately not. I was alone in the building. It's my own business,’ he explained to Casey, ‘so naturally I have my own key to get in and catch up on the work when it warrants it. I was there up till about eleven o'clock Friday night. I had some work I wanted to have cleared for a meeting on Monday so I could leave the weekend free.’

  Interesting, thought Casey, as he met Catt's eyes under their slightly raised eyebrows. ‘Do you often work late, Mr Garrett?’

  ‘At least three evenings a week,’ Mrs Garrett told him in the disgruntled voice of the neglected wife. Was that her excuse for her affair with Oliver?

  ‘When it's your own business you have to put the hours in,’ Garrett defended himself. ‘I've worked hard to build the business up since I inherited from my father.’

  It was clearly an on-going bone of contention between them.

  Casey also found himself wondering whether Carl Garrett used one or more of those evenings playing away rather than working. He questioned them about the early hours of Monday morning and, like the Merediths, they claimed to have been innocently tucked up in bed.

  Having learned what he had come for, Casey eased himself from his seat. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ He glanced in turn from Sarah to her husband. ‘We'll see ourselves out.’

  ‘But look here, Chief Inspector,’ Carl Garrett protested, ‘you can't just leave it like that. What happens now?’

  ‘What happens now?’ Casey repeated. Good question. He wished he knew. But he said, ‘Now I hope to find sufficient evidence to catch a murderer. Good day to you both.’

  His blunt words seemed to deflate Garrett, for he sank back in his chair with an air of defeat, his argumentative streak punctured.

  After they left the Garretts' apartment, they walked down the stairs and sought out the porter. Red-faced, portly, as befitted his portering role, and clearly over retirement age, the porter had been stealing forty winks in his little cubbyhole of an office behind the desk. They wakened him with difficulty. It seemed likely he told them the truth when he said he had seen neither of the Garretts on either the Friday night or the Monday morning when his duty shift had changed to earlies.

  ‘Snoring his head off, probably,’ said Catt caustically. ‘He's a fat lot of use as a witness, anyway.’

  Casey nodded. It meant that neither of the Garretts could be exonerated. It also meant that one or both of them would have known there was a good chance they could slip out unnoticed if they needed to. And slip back again.

  ‘Reckon Garrett knew his wife was carrying on with Oliver?’ Catt asked when they were back in the car.

  ‘As to that, I don't know. He certainly seemed adamant that he didn't know the dead man.’ Casey turned the key in the ignition, depressed the clutch and selected first gear before heading for the end of the short drive. ‘But one thing's for sure, we've placed a nasty suspicion in his mind about his wife's possible conduct with Oliver. I wonder if he prefers to leave it alone and remain in ignorance or if he'll keep questioning her till he gets the truth.’

  ‘The latter, I suspect, judging from his expression. Unless,’ said Catt, ‘he already knows the truth and was doing his best to pretend that it was only our visit that had put the idea that she was cheating on him into his head.’

  'Mmm, there's always that. Let's hope if he suspects his wife's been having an affair that there's not another murder committed.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was after nine; too late to call on Max Fallon and Carole Brown as he had hoped. Catt had been unable to speak to either of the couple to make an appointment. Given that Fallon's violent history made him meaty stuff as a suspect, Casey had thought of turning up unexpectedly, hoping to surprise some revelations from one or both of them, but a visit so late in the evening would be more likely to put them on their guard. They would have to wait till tomorrow night. Casey headed back to the station so they could write up the evening's two interviews. Fallon and Ms Brown would wait another day; maybe the wait would rattle them.

  The money from their lottery win must have gone to their heads, Casey surmised, for he could see any number of lights blazing from the commune's farmhouse as he approached down the rutted lane. Even with the lights, an air of wretchedness still hung over the place. It was certainly squalid enough for any number of black deeds to have occurred there. Casey wondered if — with the endemic drug-taking — paranoia didn't haunt the place. Had one of the inmates of Paradise Regained, which was what they had named their small plot, gone quietly mad, without the rest noticing?

  The possibility wasn't as unlikely as it sounded. When you spent your life in a drug-soaked daze, alertness and being observant were not strong traits. They might not notice madness in their midst until the paranoid person grabbed a carelessly discarded mallet and let fly with it. And maybe not even then.

  The dogs set up their usual cacophony as he stopped at the gate and beeped the horn. As before, Moon came out to unlock the gate and as he slipped through, Casey asked, ‘How are things?’

  ‘Much as you'd expect,’ she replied with a strange grimness in her tone which more than hinted that Paradise Regained had metamorphosed into purgatory. ‘We're all at one another's throats, as I told you last time we spoke,’ Moon continued as they walked towards the house. ‘Dylan Harper is still keeping to his room. Oh and Billy has got mumps. The doctor confirmed it. He's keeping to his room as well. The men insist on it.’

  Casey nodded. Understandable if Harper was keeping his distance from the rest, especially if he really was grief-stricken: the bedlam created by numerous children, teenagers and dogs that crowded into the commune would hardly be conducive to a person trying to come to terms with the sudden and violent death of a loved one.

  Moon glanced at him. ‘Reckon he thinks one of us murdered DaisyMay and he's avoiding us as much as he can?’

  Did she really expect him to answer that? he wondered. Because, clearly, the a
nswer would have to be 'yes'. Dylan Harper had struck him as a suspicious-minded man, not a natural commune resident at all. On his previous visits he hadn't seemed to mix much with the other members, nor had he appeared to share much in their rough and ready friendships.

  But it seemed Moon didn't expect a reply, because she didn't push for one. Instead, she took his arm and led him towards the open farmhouse door.

  He stopped her before she entered the house. ‘Would you say his grief is genuine, Moon, or put on to allay any thought that he might have killed his wife?’

  ‘What a suspicious mind you have, Willow Tree. His grief seems genuine to me. Not that I've seen much of him since the last time you came here. Besides, why would he kill her? He doted on her. I told you.’

  ‘What about recently? Had his behaviour towards her changed at all?’

  ‘No. In fact, if anything, he became even more attentive since her pregnancy and was so right up to her death. Couldn't do enough for her once she became pregnant. Hardly let her stir out of her chair. They'd been trying for a baby for over a year with no luck. DaisyMay wanted both of them to go for tests, but Dylan wouldn't go.’ Moon laughed. ‘Just like a man. But, as I said, it ended happily when DaisyMay fell pregnant shortly after. At first he was a bit quiet, but then, once he'd come to terms with the idea that they really were going to have a baby, Dylan was like a cockerel with the loudest crow in the coop. I never saw a man more pleased about being a father.

  ‘It's weird ‘cos I'd never had thought Dylan would take so well to the idea in reality. But you never can tell. Funnily enough, it was DaisyMay who seemed to go off the idea almost as soon as she knew she was pregnant. Scared of the birth, I expect, like most women.

  ‘Anyway, as DaisyMay's pregnancy advanced he treated her more and more with kid gloves. It was sweet to see.’

  Moon sounded wistful, as well she might; Casey couldn't imagine that his father had treated a Moon pregnant with him with such tender care.