‘As I say, it’s not the sort of thing I’m much interested in. If the members of your little club were daft enough to pay you good money for arranging some discreet hanky-panky with Mr Petrou, good luck to you. I’m only interested in who killed him. And if it was one of your club members and you try to obstruct me, then God help you, Mr Bromley.’
Ben Bromley had gone very pale. The coffee stood cold in the cup on the desk in front of him, and he found it difficult to break free of Brock’s gaze.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘What I was trying to find in your computer was the record of who was actually here at Stanhope at the time of Petrou’s death. I had discovered that Norman de Loynes was here, although his name never appeared in the records given to Sergeant Kolla. That was your doing, wasn’t it, Ben?’
‘Maybe …’ Bromley whispered speculatively, ‘maybe I should get a solicitor or something.’
‘Be my guest.’ Brock indicated the phone. ‘Perhaps Sir Peter Maples would organize one for you.’
At the mention of his boss’s name, Bromley felt a flush of nausea rise up his throat. He fumbled his antacid tablets out of his pocket while he tried to think straight, but his head still felt fuzzy from being woken in the middle of the night. ‘De Loynes went for a walk after breakfast that morning,’ he said at last. ‘He spotted the police car sitting out there at the end of the drive that goes past the cottages. He came back here in a tizz wanting to know what was going on. It took me a little while before I managed to get hold of Stephen Beamish-Newell, who told me that Petrou had been found hanged in the temple. I was stunned, as you’d imagine. I went up to the private lounge that the Friends use, and found two of them there.’
‘Who?’ Brock interrupted.
‘Norman de Loynes and a bloke called Mortimer, Simon Mortimer. I told them what had happened, and how Beamish-Newell had told me that the police had asked that no one leave the clinic without their say-so. The two of them went into a blind panic at that. De Loynes had told his family he was somewhere else that weekend, and Mortimer had had a run-in with the police some time in the past, and neither wanted to get involved. They swore they had nothing useful to tell the police anyway. Apparently, they’d last seen Petrou on the Friday night, and neither had seen him on the Sunday. They more or less demanded that I keep them out of it.’
‘What did you do?’
I came back downstairs and found that Jay had started preparing a list of everyone who was there for Beamish-Newell to give to the police. I sent her off to make my coffee, and removed de Loynes’s and Mortimer’s names while she was away.’
‘Were they the only ones you removed?’
‘Yes. The only other Friend there was Mr Long, but I hadn’t seen him. Anyway, I didn’t think he’d need my help.’
‘Go on.’
‘I could see more police beginning to arrive, so I went upstairs again and told de Loynes and Mortimer that they’d just have to sit tight for the day until the police left. There was a good chance they’d get overlooked provided they never showed their faces, and that’s exactly what happened. I called them a taxi about nine that night, after the last of the coppers had left.’
‘Had you any way of knowing what the two of them had been doing on the Sunday?’
Bromley shook his head. ‘I wasn’t here on the Sunday at all.’
‘So their claim that they hadn’t seen Petrou on that day could have been false.’
‘Yes, but they …’ he hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Oh,’ Bromley sighed. ‘They just seemed convincing. They told me about this party that Petrou had organized for them in the gym on the Friday night, and they swore blind that they hadn’t seen him since. In fact de Loynes said he’d arranged to see Petrou again on the Sunday evening and he’d been annoyed because he never showed up.’
‘What kind of party was it on the Friday?’
‘Don’t ask, squire. / didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Petrou got a couple of lads in from Edenham, or something.’
Brock sat back in the thickly padded chair and considered Bromley in silence. There was a kind of underlying swagger to the man’s manner, an impudent gleam that he couldn’t keep out of his eye, that tended to make you distrust him, even if he was only giving the time of day.
‘Look,’ Bromley said, feeling a need to fill the silence, ‘the amounts were chicken shit, let’s face it — I mean, compared to what you’d call real money these days. It was just a bit on the side, that’s all, an appreciation for services rendered.’
Brock lowered his eyes and didn’t respond, increasing the tension.
‘It wasn’t as if I invented him, for God’s sake. One day, there he was. He already had it pretty well worked out. He made it clear that he had people looking after him. It was noticeable how Beamish-Newell let him have his way, and he more or less told me that he had you lot on side. I just lent a hand to make it all happen as unobtrusively as possible.’
‘What do you mean, that he had us lot on side?’ Brock asked.
‘Well, Mr Long. He was Mr Long’s favourite, right from the start.’
Brock nodded. ‘This Mortimer, was he here when Rose was killed too?’
Bromley shook his head. ‘No, he hasn’t been back since Petrou copped it. Frightened him off, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘But de Loynes was here on both occasions. And you’re absolutely certain, Ben, that he is the only one of your Friends who was? I want you to think for a moment before you answer. I don’t want there to be any mistake about this.’
Bromley nodded, then seemed to take in the implication of the question.
‘Oh, but look, bloody hellfire. He didn’t have anything to do with it!’
‘How do you know?’
‘Rose died sometime between two and three that afternoon, right?’
Brock nodded.
‘Well, de Loynes was with me in this room throughout that time. I told that to your bloke who took my statement. De Loynes is investing in this time-share set-up in the south of Spain, and I was helping him with the paperwork that afternoon. You blokes should talk to each other, for God’s sake!’ There was an edge of panic in Bromley’s voice.
Brock gave a little smile and got abruptly to his feet. ‘All right, Ben. Now, I want you to stay here and make yourself a fresh cup of coffee and I’ll be right back.’
Brock returned fifteen minutes later, accompanied by Kathy.
‘Hello, Ben,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Got any new jokes for us?’
He regarded her sourly over the rim of his cup. ‘Why does it take six premenstrual women to change one light bulb?’ he said grumpily.
‘Heard it,’ Kathy smiled. ‘Put your cup down now, Ben. We want you to come down to Division with us. We’d like you to make a new statement. OK?’
‘You realize this is the middle of the effing night. Doesn’t the United Nations have rules about this sort of thing?’
But he did as they said, going outside with them into the cold night and settling himself in the back seat of their car.
After a few miles he said to Kathy, who was driving, ‘Where the hell are you going? This isn’t the way to Crowbridge.’
Brock turned and spoke over his shoulder.
‘We’re just going to pick somebody else up on the way, Ben. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.’
It took another twenty minutes along empty country lanes before they reached a crossroads by a deserted village green. Brock consulted the map on his lap and pointed forward. Soon they came to a row of oaks, and behind them the dark outline of a large house. The headlights picked up two white gateposts marking the entrance, and Kathy turned the car up the drive.