way you conveniently forgot to mention that Maggie Rossiter was not only in the vicinity of Colcutt Manor at the time of Moira Pollock’s death but was also out and about in the highways and by-ways of Cheshire at the relevant time,’ he snarled.
‘Well, for one thing, Inspector, I wasn’t even sure what the relevant time was. The fact that she was in the lane a good hour after Jett and I discovered the body didn’t seem especially revelant to me, I have to admit.’
‘Don’t try to be clever with me, Ms Brannigan. I’m not making idle threats here. If you interfere with the course of my investigation again, or if I find you’ve been withholding evidence, I’m going to come down on you so hard it’ll make your eyes water. Do I make myself plain?’
‘As the proverbial pikestaff, Inspector.’
‘Right. And I think I’ll be wanting another word with you about your version of events around the time of the murder. You seem rather more hazy than I’d expect from someone who thinks she’s as sharp as you do. I’d appreciate it if you could come into my office tomorrow morning at nine.’
Before I could refuse, the line went dead. Going back to Colcutt could only be an improvement on the day.
‘Kate!’ Neil exclaimed as I stuck my head round the door of his office. ‘Come in!’ I’d caught a glimpse of his retreating back as I’d entered the manor and followed him.
He was standing by his desk pouring a mug of coffee from a Thermos jug. His face had the bleary, unfocused look of a hangover. ‘Fancy a cuppa? I’ve no milk here, I’m afraid.’
‘Black’s fine,’ I replied. He opened his desk drawer and took out a second mug, which he filled and handed to me.
‘Fancy a little something to keep the cold out?’ he asked. I shook my head with a mental shudder, and watched in revulsion as he pulled a bottle of Grouse from his desk drawer and poured a generous slug into his mug. He took a long swallow of the brew, and as it went down, his face seemed to regain definition. ‘Aah,’ he sighed comfortably. ‘That’s better.’
Neil slouched across the room and collapsed into a leather armchair in a corner. ‘So,’ he said with a crooked smile, ‘how’s Hawkshaw the Detective getting on? Ready to finger the culprit yet?’
‘Hardly,’ I replied, sitting down on the typist’s chair in front of the desk. I was in two minds whether or not to tell him about Maggie’s arrest. On the one hand, I didn’t want to help him earn a shilling out of selling the story. But on the other, I was convinced Jackson was so far off-beam that I wanted him to end up looking like the fool he was. In the end, I decided I wanted to get my own back on Neil more than I did on Jackson, so I kept the news to myself.
‘I’ve only just started my inquiries,’ I said. ‘And if Gloria’s anything to go by, I’d have more joy panning for gold in the Mersey than extracting information out of you lot.’
Neil pulled a face. ‘I don’t envy you the lovely Gloria. But if it’s good gossip you’re after, you’ve come to the right place. My encyclopaedic knowledge of the occupants of Colcutt Manor is entirely at your disposal. Fire away.’ My relief must have shown in my face, for Neil chuckled. ‘Bit of a shock to the system, eh, finding someone who actually wants to talk.’
‘Just a bit,’ I said. ‘Before we get down to the serious gossip, though, I have to do the proper detective bit. You know, where were you on the night of, etc.’
He lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke with an appreciative smile. ‘Eat your heart out, Miss Marple. Well, I’d been nattering to Kevin earlier, then about ten I went down the local pub for a few sherbets before closing time. I must have got back about half-past eleven, then I came through here and did a couple of hours’ work, transcribing tapes and knocking them into shape. I went up to bed around half-past one. Didn’t see a soul, before you ask.’ It was hard to gauge his truthfulness from his hooded eyes. Like most journalists I know, he’d carefully cultivated the appearance of total sincerity to encourage the public to fly in the face of all the evidence and trust him.
I asked a few more questions, and soon elicited the fact that he hadn’t seen Moira in the pub. Presumably she and Maggie had gone up to her room before he’d arrived. I decided to change to a more profitable line of questioning. ‘So, if you were a gambling man, who would you be putting money on?’
His eyes crinkled up in concentration for a moment, then he rattled off the odds: ‘2–1 Tamar, 3–1 Gloria and Kevin, 7–2 Jett, 4–1 Micky and 10–1 the girlfriend.’
I couldn’t help smiling. I hadn’t expected such a literal answer. ‘And what about you?’
Neil stroked his moustache. ‘Me? I’m the dark horse. An outsider in more ways than one. You’d have to put me down at 100–1. After all, I was the only one who had nothing to gain and everything to lose from her death.’
I was intrigued. On the face of it, what he said was plausible. But since my only experience of murder is in the pages of Agatha Christie, that made him number one suspect in my book. I said as much.
He roared with laughter, and got up to refill his mug. This time, the tot of whisky was noticeably smaller. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Kate,’ he remarked, ‘but I meant what I said. Moira was the best possible source for early material on Jett. I mean, we all know how showbiz biogs steer well clear of scandal. And Jett’s life has been well-documented. The only genuinely new angle I could hope for was finally lifting the lid on what happened between Jett and Moira all those years ago. I couldn’t get an on-the-record word out of anybody about the reasons for the partnership splitting up. Her arrival on the scene was a godsend. She was willing to talk, and we’d only just begun to get into it. So I had a vested interest in her being around to talk to me. Forget the doctrine of the “least likely person”.’
‘OK. So you didn’t have a motive. But you obviously think the others did. Suppose you run them past me?’ I flipped my bag open and on the pretext of getting my notebook out, I switched on my tape recorder. I’d meant to tape all my interviews, but finding a strategy to deal with Gloria had driven the thought from my mind.
Neil stretched out in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle, revealing odd socks above his scuffed leather loafers. ‘First, Tamar,’ he said, a note of relish in his tone that made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Life with Richard has shown me that journalists are the biggest bitches on two legs, but I still can’t get off on listening to them dishing the dirt. ‘They were on the rocks long before you found Moira. She’d actually taken a walk a week or two before that gig when I met you, but when Jett didn’t chase her, she came back off her own bat. If he hadn’t been so distracted with the work on the album, she’d have been on her bike a long time ago. But she was putting a lot of work in on making herself indispensable. When Moira turned up, Tamar could see all that good work going down the tubes.’
‘What d’you mean, good work? All I’ve seen her do so far is doss around,’ I interrupted.
Neil grinned. ‘I mean, “Yes, Jett, no, Jett, three bags full, Jett”. And all those evenings in the kitchen rustling up tasty little gourmet dinners for her hard-working man. Not to mention the horizontal work. Once Moira arrived, she used to wind Tamar up something rotten, flirting with Jett whenever Tamar was around. As long as Moira was around, Tamar was living on borrowed time. And hell hath no fury. But now Moira’s gone, Tamar’s wasting no time consolidating her position. As you no doubt noticed for yourself yesterday.’
‘I can’t see Tamar choosing a tenor sax as her murder weapon,’ I objected.
Neil crushed out his cigarette. ‘All the more reason for her to use it,’ he countered. ‘Though I agree it is a bizarre image.’
We both paused for a moment to contemplate the idea. For me, it didn’t work, but judging by the satisfied smirk on Neil’s face, he was having less trouble with it. ‘Next,’ I demanded. ‘Gloria at 3–1.’
‘Obvious motive. She is obsessive