‘So how did you get there?’ he asked.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me,’ he said.
‘Have you ever ridden a horse, Chief Inspector?’ I asked.
The DCI shook his head.
‘Neither had I until last night.’
‘Don’t tell me you rode a bloody horse all the way to Six Mile Bottom.’
‘No,’ I said, laughing. ‘But I rode one nevertheless.’
In the end I told him everything. Perhaps I should have done so right from the start.
‘Why didn’t you call the police last night?’ he asked.
‘For what?’ I said. ‘To report a cut ear?’
‘Imprisonment is a serious offence.’
‘So is attempted murder,’ I said. ‘But you know as well as I do that Suffolk Constabulary would have been unlikely to come hotfoot at midnight to Castleton House Stables after the event. I would simply have been told to report it in the morning, as I am now doing.’
He didn’t deny it.
‘Do you believe someone was really trying to kill you?’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘They couldn’t know I’d leave my mobile in the hotel. That was just their good luck.’ And my bad, I thought. ‘If whoever it was had truly wanted me dead, he could have easily hit me over the head instead of on the shoulders. A couple of good clouts with a metal muck shovel would have done the trick. Why leave it to chance that the horse would do the deed for him? After all, no one could think I’d wandered in there by accident, especially with the door bolted from the outside.’
‘So why?’ he asked.
‘Maybe just to frighten me enough to scare me off.’
‘Scare you off from what?’
‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector, that is the question,’ I said. ‘If only I knew the answer.’
I stared at him, and he back at me, in silence.
‘Do you fancy some breakfast?’ I said. ‘I’m starving and I want to ask you a favour.’
We sat in the hotel dining room and I had a full English, while the chief inspector ordered just a coffee.
‘I’m buying,’ I said. Or, rather, Simpson White was.
‘I had my breakfast earlier,’ said the DCI, but he still ate a slice of my toast when it came, together with some thickly spread butter and orange marmalade. ‘Now, what’s this favour you want?’ he asked with his mouth full.
‘It’s actually two favours,’ I said. ‘I want the Robertsons’ bank statements and Zoe Robertson’s medical records.’
‘What for?’ he asked in true police style.
‘My client has been arrested for murder and, even though released from custody, he is still under investigation. Hence I continue to work on his defence.’
‘So you don’t think he did it?’ the DCI asked.
‘As you know, what I think is irrelevant. But, since you ask, no, I don’t think he did it. Neither do you, otherwise you’d have charged him by now.’
He didn’t rise to my bait, so I went on.
‘I need Zoe’s medical records to determine the state of her health at the time of death, so I can assess whether she might have died of natural causes prior to the fire starting.’
At least, that was my excuse.
He looked at me cynically. ‘Grasping at straws, are we?’
‘I know it’s a long shot but I need to cover every eventuality, however remote.’
‘And the bank statements?’ he said.
‘My client claims that his sister came to see him demanding money. Hence I would like to establish the state of her finances.’
I could tell he didn’t like it. Not one bit. The police were always reticent to give away any information, even when they were required to do so by the law.
‘Call it disclosure of evidence to the defence,’ I said. ‘You will have to give them to me eventually if Declan is charged. Having them now might just save you some embarrassment in the long run.’
It was a tenuous argument, but it seemed to work.
‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do with the medical records. That shouldn’t be a problem — we’ve already got those from her doctor. The bank statements, however, will be a bit more difficult, especially if the Robertsons had a joint account. Peter Robertson is still living and data protection would still apply. I wouldn’t count your chickens on that score.’
He said it in a tone that implied he didn’t think much of the data protection laws.
‘Please do your best,’ I said. ‘And send over the medical records as soon as possible.’
I took another mouthful of my bacon and eggs while the DCI wrote a note in his ever-present notebook.
‘How are you getting on, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Any more suspects?’
‘Not as yet,’ he said.
‘No dodgy alibis overturned by new evidence?’
‘None of the Chadwick family seem to have an alibi for last Sunday night anyway, other than Arabella Chadwick, who we know was with friends in Great Yarmouth. And she’s now dead.’
‘Anything further on that?’ I asked, without mentioning the suicide note I’d seen on the fridge.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘The initial post-mortem results are consistent with death by hanging.’
‘So you’re treating it as suicide?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘There is nothing to indicate otherwise.’
‘The back door wasn’t locked,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think that could be suspicious?’
‘We are satisfied that Arabella Chadwick’s death was a suicide,’ the DCI said with certainty, clearly wanting to end discussion on that matter. I wondered why he didn’t just tell me that she’d left a note. But, in my limited experience with the police, they always loved to keep something back. Perhaps the DCI, like ASW, imagined that greater knowledge somehow gave him greater power. Or maybe the chief inspector just enjoyed believing he knew something I didn’t.
But I did know it, and I quite enjoyed that too.
My boss would be proud of me.
‘Did you say just now that Ryan Chadwick also doesn’t have an alibi for Sunday night?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t he with his wife?’
‘His wife was in Ely. She took their children over to see her mother for Sunday lunch and then stayed over with her. So Mr Ryan Chadwick was home alone on Sunday night. As was Mr Tony Chadwick, as his mother was visiting her sister in Ipswich.’
‘So Susan Chadwick, then, has an alibi,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, no. Not exactly,’ the DCI replied. ‘She claims that, with her mother acting as babysitter, she took the opportunity to go to the cinema.’
‘Alone?’
‘She says so, but I’m not convinced. I’m not even sure she went to the cinema at all.’ He left his suspicions hanging in the air.
‘Another man?’ I asked.
‘Quite possibly. But I’m not pushing her too hard on that at present. Unlike in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, or even in half of the United States, cheating on your husband is no longer a criminal offence in this country, and there’s nothing to suggest that she was involved in the fire.’
‘She was certainly at Castleton House Stables with her husband and the others when I arrived there at lunchtime on Monday,’ I said. I remembered back to the smart clothes and the bright red lipstick.
‘Mr Ryan Chadwick says he telephoned his wife early on Monday morning to tell her of the fire.’
‘How early?’
Before the DCI had a chance to answer, my phone rang and I recognised the number on the screen. It was Kate.
‘Hello, my love,’ I said.
‘Oh, Harry, it’s so awful.’ She was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘What a bastard.’
‘What’s awful?’ I asked with trepidation. ‘Who’s a bastard?’
‘Ryan Chadwick,’ she said. ‘He’s just fired Janie.’