‘Which estate agent did you use?’
‘Huntley and Palmers.’ For the first time since he had arrived Aaron Sedgewick smiled, though it was more of a grimace. ‘Always reminds me of the biscuit people – you know?’
Alex smiled too ‘Did you ever go up into the attic?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Obviously you never noticed anything untoward up there?’
‘No.’
‘No smell?’
‘No. I would have investigated if I had had any suspicions that all was not well.’
‘Did you do any building work in the attic?’
‘No. None.’
Alex decided to spring something on him. ‘Does the name Poppy mean anything to you?’
Sedgewick looked bemused. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t. At least not that I can think of. I don’t know anyone called Poppy. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Just one of the many lines of enquiry we’re pursuing, sir.’
‘Oh.’ Sedgewick made a further attempt at conciliation. ‘Nice name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Alex paused for a moment. ‘You have two children yourself?’
Without warning the blustering, angry man was back. ‘What the hell has that got to do with this…?’ A pause while he fumbled for the appropriate word. ‘Mess,’ he finally spat out.
‘Just making conversation, sir.’ Alex paused. ‘Umm grandchildren?’
‘No. Look.’ Aaron Sedgewick was back in control. ‘This is obviously to do with some previous occupant of The Mount and nothing to do with us. I understand the child had died some years ago. Probably years before we came to live there.’
‘So it would seem, sir.’ Alex was polite and non-committal. ‘We will, of course, be having a DNA analysis on the child.’
Aaron’s face darkened. ‘What are you suggesting,’ he asked carefully.
Alex kept his cool. ‘Nothing, Mr Sedgewick.’ He borrowed a phrase straight out of the police handbook. ‘I’m merely imparting information.’
Aaron Sedgewick had no response ready. He stood up. ‘So if you’ve quite finished?’
‘For now, sir. Thank you.’
‘How long will your team be occupying my house?’
‘No longer than is necessary. Another day or two – no more.’
‘You will leave my family out of this?’
‘As far as we can. I can tell you that we shan’t bother them unless it proves necessary to the investigation.’
‘Then I would prefer it if you would make your approaches through me.’
‘If it’s reasonable and possible, I will, Mr Sedgewick.’
Sedgewick shot him a suspicious glance and left, scowling.
Alex sat back in his chair. He knew full well that there were still plenty of reasons why the Sedgewick family might continue to be involved but he let it ride – for now.
Wednesday afternoon
PC Gethin Roberts pushed the door open to Huntley and Palmer’s estate agent. It was an upmarket place, with smart offices in Market Street, which tended to deal with properties at the upper end of the market – not anywhere that a police constable could afford. Gethin Roberts hadn’t even bothered scanning the window for anywhere he might like. Out of his price range. A glamorous receptionist, heavily made up with thick black eyelashes, bright red lipstick and wearing a white polo-necked sweater looked at him, registered the uniform, obviously decided he was not going to buy one of their ‘des reses’ and gave him a patronizing smile. ‘Can I help you?’ She hesitated, took in his age, and tacked on: ‘Constable?’
Gethin Roberts gave a tentative smile. ‘We’re investigating some circumstances around the finding of a baby’s body in number 41, The Mount. You may have read something about it in the local newspaper.’
The receptionist’s eyes flickered across him as though she was far too posh to read a local newspaper.
‘I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with us.’
Roberts pressed on. ‘I believe you sold the property a few years ago?’
The receptionist looked confused. ‘How long ago?’
‘I believe the property sold around five years ago.’
The receptionist’s face cleared as though she was off the hook. ‘I wasn’t working here then,’ she said with obvious relief. ‘You’ll have to speak to Mr Palmer.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Roberts said, with dignity.
‘I’ll see if he’s free.’
‘Thank you.’
She was gone for no more than a couple of minutes. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said, with no let-up of her patronizing manner.
Mr Palmer turned out to be a plump, suited man of around forty, with a pale, unhealthy complexion and a sweating face. ‘Constable,’ he said, emerging from the area behind the reception desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
Patiently Gethin Roberts repeated his request and wondered whether Palmer had read the headlines of the local paper and if he had whether he’d connected the lead story with the property he’d sold a few years before. If he had why hadn’t he come forward with the information?
Mr Palmer ushered him into his office. ‘It’ll be more private in here,’ he said holding open the door for him.
‘Now then.’ He opened a filing cabinet and consulted some records. ‘41, The Mount.’ He couldn’t resist lapsing into estate agent’s spiel. ‘Lovely place, well proportioned rooms, dating from the mid Victorian period.’ He looked up and registered that Roberts was a police officer – not a potential customer. He cleared his throat. ‘Sold five years ago, in 2005, to Mr and Mrs Sedgewick.’
‘The vendors?’ Roberts asked stolidly.
‘A Mr and Mrs Godfrey,’ Palmer supplied, adding, ‘they were moving abroad. To Spain, I believe. Lucky things.’ He peered out through his window at the drifting snowflakes. ‘All that sunshine.’
Roberts didn’t take up on the comment. One day, he thought, he would be in ‘all that sunshine’ himself. One day.
‘Do you know how long the Godfreys had lived there?’
‘I am not party to that information,’ Palmer said, washing his hands of the affair. ‘I did not act for them buying the property, only selling.’
‘Do you know whom they had purchased the property through?’ Roberts was proud of the ‘whom’. He had studied English language at school and remembered the rules of subject and object and used them frequently.
‘No,’ Palmer said shortly. ‘It would have been on the deeds, of course, but I have no record of them.’
‘Do you have an address for the Godfreys?’
For the first time Palmer looked confused. ‘Somewhere,’ he said, ‘I must have a forwarding address.’ Panic seemed to be rising. ‘I must have one,’ He leafed through the file then looked up, ‘but I don’t seem to have it here.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind looking,’ Roberts said.
‘Yes – yes – of course. I’ll have a more thorough look on my computer records.’
Palmer sat at his desk and started using his mouse to access files. He tapped a few keys and stared into the computer screen. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d have it somewhere.’ He looked up. ‘But I may have a bit of a problem. The address I have is of a hotel in Malaga. As far as I remember they were building their own house over there. I seem to remember them talking about it to me. So…’ He looked up helplessly.
‘If you can give me all the details you have.’ Roberts was dreaming… A trip to Spain, a trip to Spain. Surely he couldn’t be so lucky? He was already picturing himself lounging by an azure swimming pool, bright, hot sunshine, lovely girls in skimpy bikinis, him telling them all he was ‘pursuing a murder enquiry’. A cross between James Bond and George Smiley.
He came to with a start. Palmer was handing him a computer printout.
‘Here you are,’ he said, and as though he had read Roberts’s mind, he added jovially, ‘expect you’ll be flying out to Spain, constable.’