Then came a question that gave her a moment’s indecision. Had she found anything in the house that the Cottons had left behind? Anything unexpected?
For a moment she vacillated about mentioning the letter to the Church of Utter Simplicity. Her finding it had been so serendipitous, she did feel a proprietary interest in the letter as her own private clue.
On the other hand, she did not wish to obstruct the police investigation unnecessarily. And she thought she had probably got as much as she was likely to get out of the Church of Utter Simplicity connection. Besides, the hypocritical atmosphere of the place had so repelled her that the idea of putting the wind up the members of the Church held a mischievous attraction. Although she did not think anything actually criminal (assuming that taking advantage of the gullible is not criminal) was happening there, she still doubted whether the foundation would welcome investigation. Mrs Pargeter was not by nature a vindictive person, but she did relish the idea of that unattractive Brother Michael being discomfited.
So she produced the letter for the police. Yes, she had glanced through it, but it hadn’t meant a lot to her. Seemed to go on rather about religion. No, she hadn’t known that Mrs Cotton was religious. As she had said before, it had been a very brief acquaintance.
At this point the policemen stopped their flow of questions and seemed to hesitate before embarking on a new course. Mrs Pargeter had the feeling that what they were about to ask was the most important part of their enquiry.
Finally the question came. Had she had any dealings during the house purchase with Mr Cotton?
No, she hadn’t. He had been transferred up North and started the new job. That was why the house was being sold.
Mrs Pargeter didn’t see the point of telling the police that the new job was as much a work of fiction as the new address. Apart from avoiding questions about her own curiosity, she wanted to give them something to do for themselves, and she was sure that the discovery of the non-existent job would give enormous satisfaction to some eager young detective. Pity to deprive him of his thrill.
The police asked more about Rod Cotton, but she couldn’t help them. They’d never met, you see, and she hadn’t really been in Smithy’s Loam long enough to pick up any local gossip about him.
And no, she had no idea where he might be.
Oops! That was a bit of a lapse. She covered it up quickly. Well, that was to say, she didn’t know where he was if he wasn’t at home…But presumably they could contact him at the Dunnington address…couldn’t they?
The two policemen thanked her for her helpfulness. They were afraid that there were almost bound to be more questions at a later date. And they hoped she would bear with the arrival of their forensic team to examine the house.
“Are you saying,” asked Mrs Pargeter in an awestruck voice which was only partly put on, “that you think the murder took place here?”
“It’s a possibility we can’t rule out,” came the diplomatic reply.
“Oh dear. The trouble is, of course, that I’ll have moved everything, won’t I? I mean, the sort of clues you’re looking for. You know, you do when you move into a new house, don’t you? You move stuff around, and you sweep and tidy and Hoover and…”
“Yes, I agree, Mrs Pargeter. They may not find much, but such examinations do have to be carried out.”
“Of course.”
“So, as I say, if you will bear with us…?”
“No problem. Goodness, I’d do anything to help you find the person who’s done this dreadful thing.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. I only wish more people in this country of ours were as cooperative and public-spirited as you are.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Mrs Pargeter, with a slight simper.
♦
The forensic team arrived soon after, and Mrs Pargeter, cooperative and public-spirited as ever, kept out of their way while they dusted for fingerprints and checked carpets and furniture throughout the house.
Through the net curtains of her bedroom, she saw the two policemen moving in the twilight from house to house, questioning the other residents of Smithy’s Loam.
And, predictably, not long after the police, the press arrived in droves. Mrs Pargeter was able to use the excuse of the forensic team’s presence not to let them in, but they tried all the other houses in the close.
The varying receptions they met with were indicative of the characters of the residents. Fiona Burchfield-Brown, all bumbling good nature, invited them in. Vivvi Sprake was also welcoming, eager to talk, while Kirsten at ‘Perigord’ (her employer must still have been at the office) seemed to see their arrival as an opportunity for her to achieve international stardom. She stayed on the doorstep for some time, talking effusively, with many gestures, to anyone willing to listen.
Carole Temple, predictably, slammed the door in the reporters’ faces.
And, though her car stood in the drive of ‘Hibiscus’, and though there were lights on in the house, Jane Watson would not even come to the door.
♦
Mrs Pargeter sat on her bed gazing out over the lamplit circle of Smithy’s Loam, and thought.
So…the first priority of the police was going to be to find Rod Cotton. Logical, really. In all marital murder cases, the most common criminal is the spouse. And, in this case, the murder weapon also pointed towards Theresa’s husband.
Hmm…Mrs Pargeter wondered whether the police would find it easier to trace the missing man than she had. At least, she thought with an inward grin, Truffler Mason was already out looking.
So she had a head start. And she had played fair with the police by giving them the letter to the Church of Utter Simplicity. Fair dos. Now they were starting on equal terms.
Because, however much she tried not to, Mrs Pargeter couldn’t help seeing the murder investigation as a kind of contest.
Mrs Pargeter versus The Police.
And it would be a bold punter who would predict which of them was most likely to reach the solution first.
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Twenty-Five
The Welsh voice answered. Mrs Pargeter did not take it to task about missing her out of the ‘market research’ survey. That was something to be raised discreetly at a later date with the voice’s employer.
“Is Mr Mason there?”
“I’m sorry. He’s out on an investigation. Can I take a message?”
“No, there’s no – oh yes, well, you could actually. It’s Mrs Pargeter calling.”
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. Yes, I’d be grateful if you could pass on the message to Mr Mason that there’s no longer any need to look for the woman. It’s just the man we need to track down now.”
“Always bloody is, isn’t it?” said the Welsh voice, predictably enough.
♦
It occurred to Mrs Pargeter that, though she had given the where-can-I-find-a-decent-gardener excuse a couple of airings, she hadn’t yet used it on her immediate neighbour. They had talked of gardening, but not of gardeners. And she had a feeling that the dramatic news of Theresa’s murder might make even the frosty Carole Temple relax a little into curiosity.
Her guess proved correct. When she knocked on the door of ‘Cromarty’, its owner welcomed her with what, by Carole’s somewhat narrow standards, probably amounted to fulsomeness. The visitor was instantly invited in for coffee. Living in a house where a murder had taken place did give a certain social cachet.
Mrs Pargeter was sat down in the sitting-room, while Carole went off to make coffee. The room was immaculately furnished – if one’s taste ran to louvred cupboard doors, beaten brass surrounds to log-effect fires, Capo del Monte figurines posing winsomely on top of dark veneered units, and curtains and chair covers with a frothing of frills on them.