“I wouldn’t be able to divulge proprietary information.”
Christ.
“In a murder investigation, you would do well to divulge whatever I tell you to divulge, Miss Croom. A charge of obstructing justice would bring about an unwanted and perhaps unhealthy dose of publicity for your organization, don’t you think? With only you to thank for it.”
“Ms.,” she said automatically. Still, it thawed her. By a minute amount, a mere drop of sweat on the ice cube, but she was clearly weighing the consequences of answering his questions now against the inconvenience of not getting this over with so she could get on with her business. That her business seemed to consist of little more than routine rounds of redundancy announcements made no difference. He was getting in the way of progress. Her efficiency expert, no doubt, would have advised her to throw him a crumb. She went with that advice.
“All right, although I don’t see how this could possibly be of interest. The truth, Inspector, is that we’re in somewhat bad shape. Shockingly bad, in fact. The economy, the stock market, the dwindling audience for print products-it’s all been a disastrous climate for the publishing industry for some years. The old formulas don’t work. So we tinker with the formulas. That doesn’t help, so we tinker some more. We’ve asked more and more of our employees, the ones who are left. Those who can’t put in the extended hours required to keep the ship afloat are let go. Still, it’s not enough.
“Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk was not unaware of all of this. It preyed on his mind, the sinking profits, and the effect it would have on our long-planned merger. What it could have to do with his murder, I couldn’t say.”
And couldn’t care less-was he expected to believe that? Ruthven’s death meant more for her to cope with, and that was all? On the other hand, his death created some job security for her, however temporary, so that was all to the good-someone, after all, had to pick up the slack left by his demise. The rest of her speech could be translated as: People with lives outside their jobs are out.
It’s making matters worse, but stockholders have to be deluded into believing that it helps. If we don’t have an act, we can at least wear a costume.
“What about Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk’s personal life, outside the office? Any problems there?”
To his utter astonishment, she blushed violently at that. Not a soft, pink, maidenly blush, but a blotch of red that spread like sunrise from her throat, engulfing her face.
My, my, he thought. All that could be hoped for by way of a reaction.
“Now that, I really wouldn’t know.” She riffled the folders at her elbow, not willing to meet his eyes. She checked her watch, as she probably did a hundred times a day, and began twisting the cap of a pen. He was definitely putting a crimp in her composure; her redundancy speech might not go as smoothly as it should, despite all the rehearsals. Good.
“He was, of course, married.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
“Happily, would you say?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Inspector. What do you imagine? That he and I sat around swapping love stories? It was a business. We operated on a businesslike level. I’ve no idea what his personal life was like, apart from what I read in the papers. Like everyone else.”
That there was more going on than a business-like relationship, he already knew. That she had harbored hopes of something more permanent than their clandestine relationship, judging by her reaction, he no longer doubted. Was it possible there actually had been more, on Ruthven’s side as well-or had he only led her to believe so? Had she removed her glasses one night as they pored together over the spreadsheets and, seeing her sharp little eyes, had he suddenly been overcome by unquenchable passion? Had he realized then that of all the people in the world, he had most in common with Manda Croom?
No, it was absurd. And perhaps therein lay the problem. She must have enough self-awareness to know it was absurd, hopeless, that she would never receive more from Ruthven than a pat on the head for being so convenient-such a good assistant in every way. His wife’s income from a trust established by her father, St. Just had learned, was small by Beauclerk-Fisk standards, but reliable; no doubt Ruthven had come to count on it during the downswings. But it appeared such practicalities hadn’t stopped Manda’s daydreams.
Yet another feature of his job St. Just disliked, he reflected now, was reading other people’s love letters, which he had occasion to do with astonishing frequency. They were-with a few exceptions, when they were chilling-so boringly, predictably the same.
Manda’s letters, once the I.T. expert had broken Ruthven’s laptop code so the police could read them at their leisure, proved to be simply painful to read. Manda wrote like a woman pleading for her life. Ruthven, it seemed, was her life. The earlier letters were either coy or beseeching, desperate, numbingly repetitive. So much so, St. Just imagined Ruthven had not bothered to read them after the first half dozen or so and clearly had not bothered to reply. The later ones were manipulative, calculated, and at times threatening, implying rather than stating that she had a tale to tell his wife, if she chose. The most recent had reached an agonizing pitch: a screed of vituperation, followed by abject, abasing apology.
St. Just didn’t want to admit to her he had read every word, but he didn’t see another way to cut quickly through the line she was feeding him.
“Miss Croom,” he began.
“Ms.”
“Ms. You were having an affair with Ruthven Beauclerk-Fisk.”
She pulled off her glasses, the better not to see him.
“Whoever told you that?” The attempt at indignant outrage was one of the poorer efforts St. Just felt he had ever witnessed.
“Er. Certain letters-e-mails-you sent him have come to our attention.”
She froze for a long moment, no doubt sorting out the possible responses. But at last her shoulders slumped, as if a puppet master had cut the strings tying her to the controller.
“You had no right,” she murmured. She fumbled her glasses back in place but wouldn’t look him in the eye; her gaze focused on nothing as she, no doubt, recalled certain choice words and phrases that she’d sent over the Internet for all the world, and the police, to see.
He trotted out the stock phrase:
“In a murder investigation, you will find we have quite a few rights. We obtained his wife’s permission to search his belongings, in any event.”
“Lillian? You didn’t-”
“There was no need for her to see them, no. This, Miss-Ms.- Croom, is, again, a murder investigation. We’re not interested in spreading gossip or stirring up trouble to no purpose. We’re interested in the truth. Your e-mails to the murdered man…”
“Yes, I can imagine what you thought after reading them. So I’m the prime suspect, now, am I?”
“You need to be eliminated as a suspect, it would be more accurate to say.”
“By all means, let’s be accurate. ‘Where were you on the night of the sixth?’-is that it?”
“Yes. I enjoy speaking in clichés wherever possible. So, Ms. Croom, where were you?”
“I’ll need to speak with my solicitor,” she said, all business again.
“Why? Does he know where you were?”
“Inspector…”
“Detective Chief Inspector St. Just.”
“All right, DCI St. Just, my solicitor is Reginald Carr-Galbraith, Esq. And I am certain he would advise me to arrange a time at our mutual convenience for me to talk with you in his presence.”
“You’re not under arrest, Ms. Croom.”
“But I am a suspect, Inspector, by your own admission.”
By my own admission? Just who was being questioned here?
Still, he felt he’d learned what he came to know. She had no real alibi, or she’d have come out with it. The blameless telly-watching alibi was his guess. And despite everything, he believed that was even quite possibly true. Possibly.