retired.’
‘Of course, you are, and I’m a ballerina. You’ll never retire, my son. You’re a detective to the core.’ He wagged a bony finger in Adam’s face. ‘That’s why you wanted to meet in person – so you can watch my reactions. It’s what you do. Body language, human behaviour, lies and secrets are your specialities. Now, spill those beans while I finish these chips.’
Adam told him about finding Gregory Bishop dead in the garden of the Streamside Hotel. James nodded and frowned, waving chips in his fingers. At the end of the story, he pushed his plate to the side, wiped his mouth and fingers, sighed and leaned his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands.
‘So, this woman’s husband left three months ago and she hasn’t seen him since, or so she says, until he turns up on the very day of her father’s funeral, dead.’
He raised his eyebrows and Adam nodded. ‘That just about sums it up.’
‘Well, what do you think is going on? Suicide? Accident?’
Adam swirled the last drop of orange juice and lemonade around in the bottom of his glass. ‘Could be any of those things, but the suicide idea doesn’t ring true. The man was dressed for a funeral, he was expected, but he never arrived. Would you put your suit on if you’re planning to take pills and drink yourself to death in the garden? And wouldn’t you leave some sort of note?’
‘Not necessarily, although people usually do. And, it’s hard to die by accident sitting in a posh conservatory. You said there was a bottle nearby? Are we talking poison, by any chance?’
‘It’s no more than a possibility. There are a few possible motives. According to his widow, Gregory Bishop has been involved in some shady businesses. He could have trodden on someone’s toes once too often. Or it could be an elaborate attempt on his wife’s part to get rid of her husband, hide the savings she claims he took, then come up with a perfect alibi and get away with it all.’
James hooted. ‘Remind me not to get into crime while you’re around. But Avon and Somerset’s finest will be on the case. Why do you want to get involved? DCI Andrews; isn’t he the local guy? Big chap, spectacular eyebrows? Bit of a plodder with one eye on retirement?’
‘Truth is, I’m worried about the wife. She’s a strong woman, but she’s lost her father and now her husband. She’s independent – won’t even let the liaison officer help. I think she needs to have a few answers, and quickly. Always supposing she didn’t murder her own husband.’
James finished his Coke, grimaced, and dumped the glass back on the table. ‘Fancy her, do you?’
‘N-no. I like her, and my gut tells me she’s innocent, although the whole ‘taking me to the orangery’ thing could be an elaborate double bluff, I suppose. Still…’
‘You have your eye on someone else? I knew it.’
Adam ignored that. ‘I wondered if you could help – maybe pull a few strings, find the cause of death?’
‘So you can solve the case for her?’ His face the picture of lugubrious sorrow, James shook his head. ‘Once a detective…’ He checked the time, wiped his mouth and lumbered to his feet. ‘I have to go. Don’t leave it so long, next time, mate. I’ll see what I can do.’
As his friend drove off in a mud spattered Range Rover, Adam pulled out his phone and googled the number of the local police.
He did not get through to DCI Andrews himself, of course. ‘Please make a note that this is former DCI Hennessy calling.’
‘Hennessy?’ The young man at the other end of the phone sounded suddenly interested. Adam’s heart sank. ‘Not… not DCI Hennessy from the Andiron case?’
‘Just pass on the message, lad.’
7
Invitation
Imogen, the two police officers explained, was being interviewed as a witness. At least they weren’t calling her a suspect. She braced herself, glancing at her solicitor for support. Sheila Brooks gave a half-smile, her lips tight as though gestures of sympathy did not come easily.
One of the officers, a young woman, said, ‘Please tell us what happened on the day of your father’s funeral in your own words, Mrs Bishop.’
Imogen wanted to laugh. Whose words did they think she might be using? She squeezed her hands until the nails dug into her palms to gain control.
‘Mrs Bishop?’ the officer repeated.
Imogen took a breath, and the interview began.
A male officer took copious notes, and in the corner of the room, the red camera light gleamed. They weren’t going to miss a syllable of her story.
The female officer nodded, encouraging Imogen with an occasional, ‘Go on,’ and, ‘What happened next?’ Imogen’s heartbeat slowed as she explained how they’d discovered Greg’s body. She’d been worrying about nothing, imagining the police were going to set traps for her. Maybe she’d watched too many police procedurals on television.
She sat back, relieved to reach the end of the story.
The policewoman glanced at her colleague. He gave a tiny nod.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell us about the last time you saw your husband.’
Imogen’s stomach lurched. She’d relaxed too soon. She licked dry lips and glanced at her solicitor, but Sheila Brooks chose that moment to turn a page in her notebook.
‘Did you quarrel?’ the policewoman asked, eyebrows raised politely.
The solicitor’s head jerked up.
Imogen fought to stay calm. Should she tell the truth? Wouldn’t that make her look guilty?
‘No. It was a normal day. I went out early, to a stately home, Haselbury House. I was working in the gardens there. I planned to stay overnight, so I could work late and start early. They gave me a room…’ her voice faded. That was too much information. ‘Just answer the questions,’ Sheila Brooks had advised.
The police officer nodded. ‘Good. Now, did you speak to your husband, that morning, before you left?’
Imogen reflected. Greg had been asleep, waking only as she came back into the bedroom after her shower. He’d opened one eye. ‘Make a cup of coffee, Immy,’ he’d muttered, their quarrel apparently forgotten.
Imogen had no idea what time he’d returned home the night before. He’d slammed out of the flat after the row, muttering about going ‘out with the boys’. ‘Boys’ was Greg’s word for a bunch of men in middle age, every spare evening spent drinking beer together and arguing about football.
It seemed the previous evening’s argument was forgotten. Imogen had bitten back a sharp retort and clattered round the kitchen, making coffee and toast. She’d left the food on a tray beside her husband.
He’d grunted.
She’d shrugged into a warm jacket. ‘See you tomorrow night,’ she’d called as she’d left.
‘I made breakfast and said goodbye,’ she told the officer.
‘Did you kiss him goodbye?’
Imogen hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t remember?’
Imogen couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t kiss him. I was in a rush. I grabbed my keys and ran.’
‘You didn’t kiss your husband, although you were going to be away for a couple of days. But you say you didn’t quarrel?’
Imogen gulped. She opened her mouth to tell the truth, but before she could reply, the solicitor sat up straighter and sighed.
‘My