Mountjoy said, “Come here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Peter Diamond had faults-more, perhaps, than most- but reticence wasn’t one of them. He needed to talk. At this minute his self-esteem was at rock bottom. He’d really messed up in 1990 unless G.B. had invented all that stuff about the comings and goings at the murder house. A killer had escaped thanks to his inept investigation.
So when he and Julie retraced their route through the woods to the road in silence, the break in communication wasn’t of his choosing. He was bursting to speak, but inconveniently the evening was closing in fast, obliging them to concentrate on their footing. All speculation as to the identity of the man G.B. had seen entering Britt’s lodging on the night of the murder had to wait until they were back in the car.
“Winston Billington,” he finally said, struggling to persuade the buckle of the seat belt across his middle. “Who else could it be but the landlord, letting himself in at that time of night?”
“You’re blocking my view,” Julie told him. “I’m trying to turn the car.”
“Clear road.” He let her concentrate on the U-turn. Once they were heading in the right direction, he leaned so close to her that the brim of his trilby touched her hair. “What do you think?”
“I thought Mr. Billington had an alibi. He was in Tenerife with his wife until after the murder.”
“But did we check it?” He turned away and pummeled his thigh with his fist. “Did we check it at the time, Julie?”
She said, “I wasn’t there.”
Diamond was talking rhetorically. “We had this statement that the Billingtons returned-when was it, two days after?-and discovered the body. The whole shebang started from there. Did I have their flight schedules checked? Or the hotel register? I honestly don’t think I did. You’ll say it was negligent. I’d say the same. But Billington was never seriously considered.”
“As a suspect, you mean?”
“What a cock-up.”
“Why would he kill her?”
“Anger, because she refused to come across. We heard from Marcus Martin that Billington fancied Britt.”
“Finding excuses to give her presents of flowers and chocolates,” said Julie.
He nodded. “The flower connection, you see.”
“Mrs. Billington insisted that the roses couldn’t have come from their garden,” Julie pointed out.
“That was obvious to anyone who’s ever grown roses,” he said as if he constantly carried a pair of pruning shears in his pocket. Julie wasn’t to know that he’d acquired his horticultural wisdom from Mrs. Billington herself. “They were definitely imported roses from a florist. The salient point is that he’s the only one of her admirers who liked to say it with flowers.”
They turned left at the Viaduct to go up Brassknocker. While the Escort was making heavy work of the curving incline, Julie commented over the engine noise, “It takes some believing. I mean, would Billington kill her in his own house and report it to the police himself?”
“Yes, because that’s smart,” said Diamond. “The dumb thing to have done was dump the body somewhere else. Bodies are hellish to dispose of. They won’t burn well, or stay under water for long and digging a grave is a job for a professional. No, it looks as if Billington brazened it out four years ago and I believed him.”
“You seem to have made up your mind.”
“Not at all.” He gave her a sharp look. “I’m weighing the possibilities.” He weighed them a little longer before adding, more tentatively, “The wife’s behavior was instructive. I’m sorry you weren’t there. Where were you?”
Julie reminded him, “Chatting up the crusties.”
He tried to break out of the despondent mood by being boisterous. “Well, if you will insist on keeping that sort of company…”
The car began picking up speed at the top of the hill. “You see,” he went on, “Mrs. Billington didn’t really want me to interview Billington. She was sheilding him, yet I got the feeling that she wasn’t doing it out of loyalty or affection. She spoke about him in a detached way, almost disdainful.‘You’ll get nothing out of Winston,’ but said in a tone that made me think she’d got nothing out of him.”
A little later, she asked, “What’s Mr. Billington like? Did you interview him at the time of the murder?”
“I saw them together then, and she did most of the talking. He was civil, unassertive, a quiet bloke, but they often are.”
“How do you see it, then?” Julie asked as they began the long descent into Bath.
“Assuming Billington did it? The middle-aged man lusting after the pretty young lodger who appears to share her favors widely, but won’t include him, for all his overtures with sweets and flowers. He comes back early from his holiday in Tenerife-maybe some family emergency, or a crisis at work-at any rate, some excuse he concocted-and leaves his wife to follow him in a day or two. This is the opportunity he’s waited for. A night alone in the house with Britt. He buys a dozen red roses at the airport and gets home around eleven.”
“At the airport?”
“There are always flowers at airports.”
“G.B. didn’t say the man he saw was carrying flowers,” said Julie.
“He could have hidden them inside his coat. He wouldn’t want the neighbors to see them, or Britt, until he was ready to surprise her.”
“And she was supposed to melt at the sight of a dozen roses?” said Julie skeptically.
“There are women who would.”
“It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.”
He said bitingly, “We’re talking about Billington. He goes to her room, gets the brush-off and goes berserk. Stabs her repeatedly. Then stuffs the flowers in her mouth.”
“And leaves her like that? For two days?”
“Certainly. He wouldn’t stick around. He’d clear off fast to somewhere else, ready to claim, as he does, that he actually traveled back from Tenerife with his wife and got back two days after the murder. He had to persuade her to back him, of course.”
“Cover up for a murder?” said Julie in disbelief.
“That’s not uncommon.” Now he gave her the benefit of his years in the murder squad. “The wife who shops her husband is rare indeed, Julie. From her point of view there’s always an element of doubt. A murderer doesn’t admit to his wife that he’s taken someone’s life. She has a vested interest in believing he’s innocent. She’ll clutch at any straw. After all, it’s a criticism of her if he fancies other women. And then to be the wife of a killer, stared at by other people, hounded by the press-that’s not a pleasant prospect. So, yes, Mrs. Billington stood by him and supported his alibi. She may have believed he was innocent at first, but I get the impression four years have changed her opinion. She’s not going to blow the whistle on him now, but she can’t disguise the contempt she feels for him. Pity you didn’t meet her.”
“Meeting him will be more interesting,” said Julie.
“Well, it’s already laid on for this evening.”
“What time?”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll have a bite first. In fact, if you take the next turn on the right, there’s a country pub where I’m always well treated.”
This evening proved the exception. The place was not as he remembered it. For one thing, there were rows of tables covered in red cloths, with places set for dinner and plastic flower arrangements. For another, the barmaid-or waitress- asked if they had booked.
“It’s supposed to be a pub, isn’t it?” he said combatively. “We can have a drink and a snack.”
“You can have a drink, by all means. No bar snacks in the evening, sir, apart from crisps. And peanuts.”
After he’d given his opinion of crisps and peanuts, they drove on to a public house Julie knew. It had a log fire and tables where you could sit without having a menu thrust in front of you by a young woman in a white apron. They ordered filled jacket potatoes at the bar.
He was still muttering about crisps and peanuts when they were seated. “That other place won’t see me again. Cheers.”