“The Superintendent here,” again that swift glance at Kincaid, “thinks I ought to fess up. And I’d much rather confess to you, Inspector, than Chief Inspector Nash.” Cassie awarded Raskin a floodlit smile.
“Do go on.”
“I said that I spent Sunday night alone in my cottage. Well, it’s not true. I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t in my cottage. I’d met Graham Frazer in the empty suite… oh, around ten, I guess, and we were there until nearly midnight.” Kincaid marveled at her ability to turn a potentially embarrassing revelation into an almost flirtatious challenge.
“Did you do that often?” Raskin asked, then colored slightly as he realized how it sounded. “I mean, the two of you.” Not much better, thought Kincaid, amused to see a crack in the imperturbable Raskin’s composure.
“Well, we’ve had a thing, you might say, for the last year or so.” Cassie drew on her cigarette and leaned forward confidentially. “Graham didn’t want anyone to know. Custody problems. Of course, I would have said something right away if I’d known it would be important. I hope,” her voice became intense, “it won’t have to go any farther.”
Raskin stood and moved toward the door. “I can’t make any promises, of course.” He sounded ingratiatingly smitten. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Miss Whitlake.” Raskin’s emphasis fell on the formal address. He’d had the last word, after all.
“How’d you manage to worm that tidy bit of information out of her?” Raskin asked Kincaid when he had shut the door.
“My irresistible charm.” Kincaid grinned. “That, and a bull’s-eye guess. I told her I knew they’d been together, but I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t admit it. Figured I had nothing to lose.”
“Apparently not. Let’s have Mr. Frazer in next and see what he has to say about it all.”
Graham Frazer began as intractably as he meant to end, with a bulldog glare at Kincaid. “Stopped sitting on the fence, then? Give you a sore bum, I should think.” Angela, following in his wake, looked mortified.
“Daddy-” Frazer ignored her and sat in the chair, leaving his daughter to stand, awkward and hesitant. Kincaid stood and offered her his barstool with a flourish. He won a small smile.
“I was working in the suite all morning. Catching up on some paperwork,” Frazer said in response to Raskin’s question. “Angie was sleeping. That’s what teenagers do, isn’t it?”
Angela bristled on cue. “Daddy, that’s not-”
“Fair,” Raskin finished for her, and smiled. “What is your business, Mr. Frazer?”
“I’m in assurance. A bloody bore, but there it is. It pays the bills.”
“I see.” Raskin carefully straightened his notes. “And you didn’t leave your suite for any reason before ten o’clock this morning?”
“I did not.” Even the bullying humor had left Frazer’s voice, and he offered nothing further. “Now if you’re quite-”
“Angie,” Kincaid interrupted, “what time did you wake up this morning?”
She looked at her father before she met Kincaid’s eyes. “About ten, I think.”
“Angie,” said Raskin, “you can go now, if you’ve nothing to add to your father’s statement.” Frazer started to rise. “Mr. Frazer, if you don’t mind, I’ve a few more questions to ask.”
“I do mind. Do I have a choice?”
Raskin waited until Angela had gone out and closed the door behind her. “You can have a solicitor present if you wish, of course, but these are very informal inquiries, Mr. Frazer. We are not accusing you of anything.” Frazer deliberated, then nodded once. He’s decided he’s better off not to make a fuss at this point, thought Kincaid.
“Mr. Frazer, Miss Whitlake has informed us that the two of you were together on Sunday evening, from around ten o’clock until midnight. You had both previously made statements to the contrary. According to Miss Whitlake you urged her not to mention this as you were concerned about your child-custody hearing.”
Graham Frazer’s flat, heavy face didn’t register emotions easily, but Kincaid thought his utter stillness indicated the extent of his shock. After a long moment, he spluttered, “She told you that? Cassie? She was the one who insisted-” He fell silent, then said softly, “Bitch. I knew she was trying something on.”
“Are you saying that you were not the one to suggest lying about your activities that evening?” Some of Raskin’s polite formality had dropped away.
“Yes. I mean no. It wasn’t my idea. Why should it make any difference to the damned custody hearing? And even if it did, I’m not sure I’d care-I’m beginning to think Marjorie’s welcome to her. No, Cassie was the one worried about her reputation. Begged me not to embarrass her.” Frazer gave a mirthless snort. “She’s the one who’s made me look a fool.”
Edward Lyle entered ahead of his wife, and only remembered to offer her the chair when Raskin greeted her. Kincaid quietly fetched another stool and resumed his unobtrusive seat. Lyle seemed subdued, less bristly with righteous indignation than Kincaid had seen him before. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Inspector.” Lyle ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Most unfortunate, most unfortunate about poor Miss MacKenzie.”
Unfortunate? Kincaid thought it an odd word choice. The morning had been rather more than unfortunate. Raskin let the comment fade into silence before he spoke. “If you would just tell me what you and your wife were doing this morning, I’m sure that will be sufficient, Mr. Lyle.”
“Well, we breakfasted as usual-I like a proper breakfast, you know. Then I walked down to the village for a paper, left Janet writing some letters in the suite. After I returned I had a look at the paper, and we had begun going over some maps, planning the afternoon’s outing, when all the commotion began. That’s all, Inspector. I must say-” he began, his voice sliding into the querulous range, when Raskin broke in.
“Is that correct, Mrs. Lyle?” Lyle drew breath to protest, but his wife began to speak.
“Yes… of course. I was writing to Chloe, our daughter. She’s at boarding school. It’s such a shame we weren’t able to acquire time that coincided with Chloe’s holidays. She would have-” She glimpsed her husband’s disapproving expression. “Sorry. How stupid of me. I’m glad she’s not here.” Her brow furrowed and she took a breath, as though nerving herself to speak. “Inspector, this is terrible, what’s happened, but I don’t understand what it has to do with us.” She turned toward Kincaid as she spoke, including him in her appeal, the severity of her thick, dark hair softened by the lightest dusting of gray, her skin clear, her dark eyes expressive.
Kincaid thought suddenly what an attractive woman she was-or would be, if she didn’t wear that constant air of anxious diffidence. He remembered the burst of animation he’d seen as she sat in the tea shop with Maureen, and he wondered what she would have been like if she had not married Edward Lyle. And why had she married him? That, Kincaid considered, was the real question. Fifteen, twenty years ago, had she seen some promise, now dissipated, in this weedy, self-important man?
“Mrs. Lyle,” Raskin answered, interrupting Kincaid’s musing, “we must ask everyone the same questions, just in case they might have seen or heard something helpful. I’m sure you must understand that.”
“We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary at all, Inspector,” said Lyle. “Nothing at all.”
Patrick Rennie, always the gentleman, solicitously seated his wife in the chair. Marta looked as if she needed all the support she could get-she was obviously not one of those lucky few who escaped hangovers. The flaxen hair hung limply, pulled back from her face with a plain elastic band.