“Good works? Charities?” There was something positively Victorian about this. Susan pictured an earnest woman striding from hovel to hovel in a flurry of garments, long dress trailing in the mud, distributing alms to the peasants and preaching self-improvement.
“Yes. She collected for a number of good causes. You know, the RSPCA, NSPCC, cancer, heart foundation and the like. Nothing political – I mean, no ban the bomb or anything – and nothing controversial, like AIDS research. Just the basics. She was the boss’s daughter, after all. She had certain Conservative standards to keep up.”
“The boss’s daughter?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? Her maiden name was Mary Hatchard. She was old man Hatchard’s daughter. He’s dead now, of course.”
“So Keith Rothwell married the boss’s daugher,” Susan mused aloud. “I don’t suppose that did his career any harm?”
“No, it didn’t. But that was more good luck than good management, if you ask me. Keith didn’t just marry the boss’s daughter, he got her pregnant first, with Tom, as it turns out, then he married her.”
“How did that go over?”
Pratt paused and picked up a paper-clip. “Not very well at first. Old man Hatchard was mad as hell. He kept the lid on it pretty well, of course, and after he’d had time to consider it, I think he was glad to get her off his hands. He could hardly have her married to a mere junior, though, so Keith came up pretty quickly through the ranks to full partner.”
Pratt twisted the paper-clip. He seemed to be enjoying this game, Susan thought. He was holding back, toying with her. She had a sense that if she didn’t ask exactly the right questions, she wouldn’t get the answers she needed. The problem was, she didn’t know what the right questions were.
They sat in his office over Winston’s Tobacconists, looking out on North Market Street, and Susan could hear the muted traffic sounds through the double-glazing. “Look,” Pratt went on, “I realize I’m the one being questioned, but could you tell me how Mary is? And Alison? I do regard myself as something of a friend of the family, and if there’s anything I can do… ”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure they know. Can you think of any reason anyone might have for killing Mr. Rothwell?”
“No, I can’t. Not in the way you described.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I suppose I could imagine a burglar, say, perhaps killing someone who got in the way. You read about it in the papers, especially these days. Or an accident, some kids joyriding. But this…? It sounds like an assassination to me.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“About a month ago. No, earlier. In March, I think. Shortly after St. Patrick’s Day. The wife and I went for dinner. Mary’s a splendid cook.”
“Did they entertain frequently?”
“Not that I know of. They had occasional small dinner parties, maximum six people. Keith didn’t like socializing much, but Mary loved to show off the house, especially if she’d acquired a new piece of furniture or something. So they compromised. Last time it was the kitchen we had to admire. They used to have a country-style one, Aga and all, but someone started poking fun at ‘Aga-louts’ in the papers, so Mary got annoyed and went for the modern look.”
“I see. What about the son, Tom? What do you know of him?”
“Tom? He’s travelling in America, I understand. Good for him. Nothing like travel when you’re young, before you get too tied down. Tom was always a cheerful and polite kid as far as I was concerned.”
“No trouble?”
“Not in any real sense, no. I mean, he wasn’t into drugs or any of that weird stuff. At worst I’d say he was a bit uncertain about what he wanted to do with his life, and his father was perhaps just a little impatient.”
“In what way?”
“He wanted Tom to go into business or law. Something solid and respectable like that.”
“And Tom?”
“Tom’s the artsy type. But he’s a bright lad. With his personality he could go almost anywhere. He just doesn’t know where yet. After he left school, he drifted a bit. Still is doing, it seems.”
“Would you say there was friction between them?”
“You can’t be suggesting-”
“I’m not suggesting anything.” Susan leaned back in the chair. “Look, Mr. Pratt, as far as we know Tom Rothwell is somewhere in the USA. We’re trying to find him, but it could take time. The reason I’m asking you all these questions is because we need to know everything about Keith Rothwell.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. But what with the shock of Keith’s death and you asking about Tom… ”
Susan leaned forward again. “Is there any reason,” she asked, “why you should think I was putting forward Tom as a suspect?”
“Stop trying to read between the lines. There’s nothing written there. It was just the way you were asking about him, that’s all. Tom and his father had the usual father-son arguments, but nothing more.”
“Where did Tom get the money for a trip to America?”
“What? I don’t know. Saved up, I suppose.”
“You say you last saw Keith Rothwell in March?”
“Yes.”
“Have you spoken with him at all since then?”
“No.”
“Did he seem in any way different from usual then? Worried about anything? Nervous?”
“No, not that I can remember. It was a perfectly normal evening. Mary cooked duck à l’orange. Tom dropped in briefly, all excited about his trip. Alison stayed in her room.”
“Did she usually do that?”
“Alison’s a sweet child, but she’s a real loner, very secretive. Takes after her father. She’s a bit of a bookworm, too.”
“What did you talk about that evening?”
“Oh, I can’t remember. The usual stuff. Politics. Europe. The economy. Holiday plans.”
“Who else was there?”
“Just us, this time.”
“And Mr. Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?”