The Private Patient (29 page)

13

By the time Kate and Benton arrived the three glasses were on the table, the wine uncorked, but for Dalgliesh it was a less successful, at times almost acrimonious meeting. He said nothing about the visit of Emma, but he wondered whether his subordinates were aware of it. They must have heard the Jaguar passing Wisteria House and been curious about any car arriving at night on the road to the Manor, but neither of them spoke of it.

The discussion was probably unsatisfactory because, with Boyton's death, they were in danger of theorising in advance of the facts. There was little new to be said about Miss Gradwyn's murder. The postmortem report had been received, with Dr. Glenister's expected conclusion that the cause of death was throttling by a right-handed killer wearing smooth gloves. This last was hardly necessary information in view of the fragment in the WC in one of the empty suites. She confirmed her final assessment of the time of death. Miss Gradwyn had been killed between eleven o'clock and twelve-thirty.

Kate had had a tactful word with the Reverend Matheson and his sister. Both had found strange her questions about the vicar's one and only visit to Professor Westhall but confirmed that they had indeed visited Stone Cottage and that the priest had seen the patient. Benton had telephoned Dr. Stenhouse who confirmed that Boyton had questioned him about the time of death, an impertinence to which he had given no response. The date on the death certificate had been correct, as had his diagnosis. He had shown no curiosity about why the questions were being put so long after the event, probably, Benton thought, because Candace Westhall had been in touch with him.

Members of the security team had been co-operative but not helpful. Their leader had pointed out that they were concentrating on strangers, particularly members of the press arriving at the Manor, not on individuals with a right to be there. Only one of the four men had been in the caravan outside the gates at the relevant time and he couldn't remember seeing any member of the household leave the Manor. The other three members of the team had concentrated on patrolling the boundary separating the Manor grounds from the stones and the field in which they stood in case this offered a convenient access. Dalgliesh made no attempt to press them. They were, after all, responsible to Chandler-Powell, who was paying them, not to him.

For most of the evening Dalgliesh let Kate and Benton take over the discussion.

Benton said, “Miss Westhall says she told no one about Boyton's suspicions that they faked the date of her father's death. It seems unlikely that she would. But Boyton himself may have confided in someone, either at the Manor or in London. And if so, that person might use the knowledge to kill him and then tell much the same story as Miss Westhall.”

Kate's voice was dismissive. “I can't see an outsider killing Boyton, Londoner or not. At least not in this way. Think of the practicalities. He'd have to arrange a rendezvous with his victim in Stone Cottage when he could be sure that the Westhalls weren't there and the door would be open. And what reason could he give for enticing Boyton into a neighbour's cottage? And why kill him here anyway? London would be simpler and safer. The same complications would apply to anyone at the Manor. Anyway, there's no point in theorising until we get the autopsy report. On the face of it misadventure seems a more likely explanation than murder, particularly in view of the Bostocks' evidence about Boyton's fascination with the freezer, which gives some credence to Miss Westhall's explanation—provided, of course, that they're not lying.”

Benton broke in. “But you were there, ma'am. I'm sure they weren't lying. I don't think Kim in particular has the wit to make up a story like that and tell it so convincingly. I was absolutely convinced.”

“So at the time was I, but we have to keep an open mind. And if this is murder, not misadventure, then it has to be tied up with Rhoda Gradwyn's death. Two killers in the same house at the same time beggars belief.”

Benton said quietly, “But it has been known, ma'am.”

Kate said, “If we look at the facts and ignore motive for the present, the obvious suspects are Miss Westhall and Mrs. Frensham. What were they really doing at the two cottages, opening cupboards and then the freezer? It's as if they knew that Boyton was dead. And why did it take two of them to search?”

Dalgliesh said, “Whatever they were up to, they weren't moving the body. The evidence shows he died where he was found. I don't find their actions quite as odd as you do, Kate. People do behave irrationally under stress, and both women have been under stress since Saturday. Perhaps subconsciously they were fearing a second death. On the other hand, one of them might have needed to ensure that the freezer was opened. That would be a more natural action if the search so far had been thorough.”

Benton said, “Murder or no murder, we won't get much help from prints. They both opened the freezer. One of them may have been taking good care that she did. Would there have been prints anyway? Noctis will have worn gloves.”

Kate was getting impatient. “Not if he was tipping Boyton alive into the freezer. Wouldn't you find that a bit odd if you'd been Boyton? And isn't it premature to start using the word Noctis? We don't know whether this was murder.”

The three of them were getting tired. The fire was beginning to die and Dalgliesh decided it was time to end the discussion. Looking back, he felt he was living through a day which would never end.

He said, “It's time for a relatively early night. There's a lot to do tomorrow. I'll be here but I want you, Kate, with Benton, to interview Boyton's partner. According to Boyton, he was lodging at Maida Vale, so his papers and belongings should be there. We're not going to get anywhere until we know what sort of man he was and, if possible, why he was here. Have you been able to get an appointment yet?”

Kate said, “He can see us at eleven o'clock, sir. I didn't say who was coming. He said the sooner the better.”

“Right. Eleven o'clock in Maida Vale, then. And we'll talk before you leave.”

At last the door was locked behind them. He placed the guard in front of the dying fire, stood for a moment gazing into the last flickers, then wearily climbed the stairs to bed.

BOOK FOUR

19-21
December
London, Dorset

1

Jeremy Coxon's house in Maida Vale was one of a row of pretty Edwardian villas with gardens leading down to the canal, a neat domestic toy house grown to adult size. The front garden, which even in its winter aridity showed signs of careful planting and the hope of spring, was bisected by a stone path leading to a glossily painted front door. It wasn't at first sight a house which Benton associated with what he knew of Robin Boyton or expected of his friend. There was a certain feminine elegance about the façade, and he recalled reading that it was in this part of London that Victorian and Edwardian gentlemen provided houses for their mistresses. Remembering Holman Hunt's painting
The Awakening Conscience,
he brought to mind a cluttered sitting room, a young woman starting up, bright-eyed, from the piano, her lounging lover, one hand on the keys, reaching out to her. In recent years he had surprised in himself a fondness for Victorian genre painting but that hectic and, for him, unconvincing depiction of remorse was not one of his favourites.

As they unlatched the gate, the door opened and a young couple were gently but firmly propelled out. They were followed by an elderly man, neat as a manikin, with a bouffant of white hair and a tan which no winter sun could have produced. He was wearing a suit with a waistcoat, the exaggerated stripes of which diminished his meagre frame still further. He appeared not to notice the newcomers, but his fluting voice came clearly to them down the path.

“You don't ring. It's supposed to be a restaurant, not a private house. Use your imagination. And, Wayne, dear boy, get it right this time. You give your name and the booking details to the reception, someone will take your coats, then you follow the person greeting you to your table. The lady goes first. Don't bang on ahead and pull out your guest's chair as if you're afraid someone will grab it. Let the man do his job. He'll see to it that she's comfortably seated. So let's do it again. And try, dear boy, to look confident. You'll be paying the bill, for God's sake. Your job is to see that your guest has a meal which makes at least a pretence at being worth what you'll be paying for it, and a happy evening. She won't if you don't know what you're doing. All right, perhaps you'd better come in and we'll practise the knives-and-forks bit.”

The couple disappeared inside, and it was then he deigned to turn his attention to Kate and Benton. They walked up to him, and Kate flipped open her wallet. “Detective Inspector Miskin and Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. We're here to see Mr. Jeremy Coxon.”

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I'm afraid you arrived at an inopportune moment. It'll be a long time before those two are ready for Claridge's. Yes, Jeremy said something about expecting the police. You'd better come in. He's upstairs in the office.”

They passed into the hall. Benton saw through the open door to the left that a small table for two had been set with four glasses in each place and a plethora of knives and forks. The couple were already seated, staring at each other disconsolately.

“I'm Alvin Brent. If you'll just wait, I'll pop up and see if Jeremy's ready. You will be very considerate with him, won't you? He's terribly upset. He's lost a dear, dear friend. But, of course, you'll know all about that, that's why you're here.”

He was about to walk up the stairs but at that moment a figure appeared at the top. He was tall and very thin, with sleek black hair drawn back from a taut, pale face. He was expensively dressed with a careful casualness, which with his dramatic stance gave him the appearance of a male model posed for a camera shoot. His close-fitting black trousers looked immaculate. His tan jacket, unbuttoned, was a design Benton recognised and wished he could afford. His starched shirt was open-necked, and he wore a cravat. His face had been furrowed with anxiety but now the features smoothed with relief.

Coming down to meet them, he said, “Thank God you've come. Sorry about the reception. I've been frantic. I've been told nothing, absolutely nothing, except that Robin's been found dead. And of course he'd rung to tell me about Rhoda Gradwyn's death. And now Robin. You wouldn't be here if it was death by natural causes. I have to know—was it suicide? Did he leave a note?”

They followed him up the stairs and, standing aside, he indicated a room to the left. It was overcrowded and obviously both sitting room and study. A large trestle table before the window held a computer, a fax machine and a rack of filing trays. Three smaller mahogany tables, one with a printer precariously balanced, were crowded with porcelain ornaments, brochures and reference books. There was a large sofa against one wall, but hardly usable since it was covered with box files. Despite the clobber an attempt at order and tidiness had been made. There was only one chair behind the desk, and a small armchair. Jeremy Coxon looked round as if expecting a third to materialise, then went across the hall and came back with a cane-bottomed chair which he placed before the desk. They seated themselves.

Kate said, “There was no note. Would you be surprised if it were suicide?”

“God, yes! Robin had his difficulties, but he wouldn't take that way out. He loved life and he had friends, people who would help him out in an emergency. Of course he had his moments of depression—don't we all? But with Robin they never lasted long. I only asked about the note because any alternative is even less believable. He had no enemies.”

Benton said, “And there were no particular difficulties at present? Nothing you know which could have driven him to despair?”

“Nothing. Obviously he was devastated by Rhoda's death, but ‘despair' isn't a word I'd have used about Robin. He was a Micawber, always hoping something would turn up, and usually it did. And things were going rather well for us here. Capital was a problem, of course. It always is when you start up a business. But he said he had plans, that he was expecting money, big money. He wouldn't say where from, but he was excited, happier than I had seen him for years. Rather different from when he came back from Stoke Cheverell three weeks ago. Then he seemed depressed. No, you can rule out suicide. But as I said, nobody's told me anything except that Robin's dead and to expect a visit from the police. If he's made a will, he's probably named me as an executor and he always put me down as next of kin. I don't know anyone else who will take responsibility for his stuff here, or for the funeral. So why the secrecy? Isn't it time you came clean and told me how he died?”

Kate said, “We don't know for certain, Mr. Coxon. We may know more when we get the results of the autopsy, which should be later today.”

“Well, where was he found?”

Kate said, “His body was in a disused freezer in the cottage next to the guest cottage where he was staying.”

“A freezer? You mean one of those rectangular chest freezers for long-term storage?”

“Yes. A disused freezer.”

“Was the lid open?”

“The lid was shut. We don't yet know how your friend came to be in there. It could have been an accident.”

And now Coxon was looking at them in stark amazement, which even as they watched turned to horror. There was a pause; then he said, “Let's get this clear. You're telling me that Robin's body was found shut in a freezer?”

Kate said patiently, “Yes, Mr. Coxon, but we don't yet know how it got there or the cause of death.”

He shifted his gaze, wide-eyed, from Kate to Benton, as if testing which, if either, could be believed. When he spoke his voice was emphatic, the note of hysteria barely suppressed. “Then I'll tell you one thing. This was no accident. Robin was seriously claustrophobic. He never travelled by air or on the underground. He couldn't enjoy a restaurant meal if he wasn't seated close to the door. He was fighting it, but not successfully. Nothing and no one would ever have persuaded him to climb inside a freezer.”

Benton said, “Not even if the lid was propped wide open?”

“He'd never believe that it wouldn't fall and trap him inside. What you're investigating is murder.”

Kate could have said that it was possible Boyton had died either by accident or natural causes and that someone, for reasons unknown, had placed his body in the freezer, but she had no intention of swapping theories with Coxon. Instead she asked, “Was it generally known among his friends that he was claustrophobic?”

Coxon was calmer now, still gazing from Kate to Benton, willing them to believe. “Some may have known or guessed, I suppose, but I never heard it mentioned. It's something he was rather ashamed of, particularly not being able to fly. That was why we didn't have foreign holidays unless we went by train. I couldn't get him onto a plane even if I tanked him up at the bar. It was a hell of an inconvenience. If he told anyone, it would have been Rhoda, and Rhoda's dead. Look, I can't give you any proof. But you have to believe me about one thing.

Robin would never have got into a freezer alive.”

Benton asked, “Do his cousins or anyone at Cheverell Manor know that he was claustrophobic?”

“How the hell do I know? I've never met any of them and I've never been there. You'll have to ask them.”

His composure had cracked. He sounded close to tears. He muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” and fell silent. After a minute, in which he stood still, taking deep regular breaths as if they were an exercise in regaining control, he said, “Robin had taken to going to the Manor more frequently. I suppose it could have come up in conversation, if they were talking about holidays or the hell of London tube trains at rush hour.”

Kate said, “When did you hear about Rhoda Gradwyn's death?”

“On Saturday afternoon. Robin phoned about five o'clock.”

“How did he sound when he gave you the news?”

“How would you expect him to sound, Inspector? He wasn't exactly ringing to enquire after my health. Oh God! I didn't mean that, I'm trying to be helpful. It's just that I'm still trying to take it in. How did he sound? He was almost incoherent at first. It took me some minutes to calm him down. After that—well, you can take your pick of the adjectives—shocked, horrified, surprised, frightened. Mostly shocked and frightened. A natural reaction. He'd just been told that a close friend had been murdered.”

“Did he use that word, ‘murdered'?”

“Yes, he did. A reasonable assumption, I'd say, when the police were there and he'd been told they'd be coming to interview him. And not the local CID either. Scotland Yard. He didn't need telling that this wasn't a natural death.”

“Did he say anything about how Miss Gradwyn died?”

“He didn't know. He was pretty bitter that no one at the Manor had bothered to come and break the news to him. He only found out that something had happened when the police cars arrived. I still don't know how she died and I don't suppose you're about to tell me.”

Kate said, “What we need from you, Mr. Coxon, is anything you can tell us about Robin's relationship with Rhoda Gradwyn and, of course, with you. We now have two suspicious deaths which could be linked. How long have you known Robin?”

“About seven years. We met at the party after a drama-school production in which he had a not particularly distinguished part. I went with a friend who teaches fencing, and Robin caught my eye. Well, that's what he does, he catches people's eyes. We didn't speak then, but the party lingered on and my friend, who had another date, had left by the time the last bottle was finished. It was a foul night, the rain pelting down, and I could see Robin, somewhat inadequately clad, waiting for a bus. So I hailed a cab and asked if I could drop him. That's how the acquaintanceship began.”

Benton said, “And you became friends?”

“We became friends and later business partners. Nothing formal, but we worked together. He had the ideas and I had the practical experience and at least the hope of raising money. I'll answer the question you're thinking of a tactful way to ask. We were friends. Not lovers, not fellow conspirators, not buddies, not drinking companions—friends. I liked him and I suppose we were useful to each other. I told him I'd inherited just over a million from a maiden aunt who'd recently died. The aunt was genuine enough, but the old dear hadn't a penny to leave. Actually I was lucky in the Lottery. I don't quite know why I'm bothering to tell you this except you'll no doubt find out sooner or later, when you start wondering whether I have any financial interest in Robin's death. I haven't. I doubt whether he's left anything but debts and the jumble of things—mostly clothes—that he's dumped here.”

“Did you ever tell him about the Lottery win?”

“No, I didn't. I never think it's wise to tell people if you have a big win. They simply take the view that, since you've done nothing to deserve your luck, you have an obligation to share it with the equally undeserving. Robin fell for the rich-auntie story. I invested over a million on this house, and it was his idea that we started etiquette courses for the newly rich or social aspirants who don't want to be embarrassed every time they entertain the boss or take a girl out to dinner at a decent restaurant.”

Benton said, “I thought the very rich didn't care one way or another. Don't they make their own rules?”

“We don't expect to attract billionaires, but most people care, believe me. This is an upwardly mobile society. No one likes to be socially insecure. And we're doing well. We've got twenty-eight clients already, and they pay five hundred and fifty pounds for a four-week course. Part-time, that is. Cheap at the price. It's the only one of Robin's schemes that ever showed any promise of making money. He got chucked out of his flat a couple of weeks ago, so he's been living here, in one room at the back. He isn't—he wasn't—exactly a considerate house guest, but basically it suited us both. He kept an eye on the house, and he was here when it was his turn to take a class. It might be hard to believe but he was a good teacher and he knew his stuff. The clients liked him. The problem with Robin is that he is—was—unreliable and volatile. Madly enthusiastic one minute and chasing off after some new hare-brained scheme the next. He could be maddening, but I never wanted to cast him off. It just never occurred to me. If you can explain the chemistry which keeps disparate people together, I'd be interested to hear it.”