Gently began again, trying to take it very easily. Anne Butters, as though ashamed of herself, listened meekly to his questions. Yes, she had ‘always’ known that Derek Johnson was married. Yes, she had entered the association with eyes wide open. She had been his mistress for two years, and she really was pregnant. They had always ‘taken precautions’, but once or twice they had been rather rash.
‘Did you used to go to his flat?’
She tossed her locks at him disdainfully. ‘We weren’t quite such congenital idiots as to walk in on his wife.’
‘Where did he used to take you then?’
‘Oh, it was anywhere at first. The yacht, the car, or a nice quiet wood — to begin with, we weren’t much worried by discomforts.’
‘But after that?’
‘We sometimes went to his office, only that was too risky to make into a regular thing. So Derek bought a furnished cottage — I suppose I can tell you about it now; it’s at the end of a lane, about a mile from Nearstead.’
‘Did you ever meet his wife?’
‘I looked her over once or twice. She was a bitch, as you probably know, and it didn’t surprise me that she was murdered.’
‘What did Derek say about her?’
‘He said she was queer, and that she liked other women.’
‘Didn’t he ever talk about a divorce?’
‘Yes. He said he’d divorce her when he got the evidence.’
She became bolder as the questioning proceeded, trying to compensate perhaps for her tears; her eyes she kept staring steadily into Gently’s, almost challenging him to do his worst with her. Butters, his glass never out of his hand, sat frowningly watching her from a seat near the door.
‘Where did you meet him on the Monday night?’
‘In the usual place — at the top of the lane.’
‘And then he drove you straight to the cottage?’
‘Yes. We arrived there before half past seven.’
‘And what time did you leave again?’
‘At eleven o’clock, or a few minutes after.’
Gently hunched his shoulders wearily. ‘Perhaps you would like to reconsider those estimates?’
For an instant it seemed that she didn’t understand him, her eyes slowly widening in interrogation. Butters, however, understood very well, and he made a helpless gesture with his hand.
‘It’s no use, Anne… he knows you’re lying.’
‘Keep out of this, you…!’
‘My dear, it’s no use. I… we all know what time you came in.’
‘Shut up — do you hear?’
‘It was at five past ten…’
They were trembling on the brink of another hysterical outburst. Her slim body was twitching and shuddering with emotion. But then, after a fit of glaring, she tossed her head away from her father, and contented herself with hitching her skirt a couple of inches above her knees. Butters swigged down some brandy and affected not to see it.
‘Very well, then — I told a lie! But don’t forget that I’m a harlot. You’re lucky to get a ha’porth of truth from a person such as I am.’
‘Perhaps I should tell you something, Miss Butters.’
‘Why not? It’s a favourite game of my father’s.’
‘Derek Johnson’s account of that evening doesn’t square with what you have told me.’
She burst into a mocking peal of laughter. ‘And did you expect him to tell you the truth? Did you expect he was going to tell you that he was shacked up with Butters’s daughter? He spun you a yarn, of course he did. He never dreamed that my father would betray him. He used to be in the RAF, where you could depend on your friends to stand by you!’
‘But naturally, we checked his account.’
‘There you are then — you knew it was a lie.’
‘But that is just what we don’t know, Miss Butters. His account is apparently confirmed by our checking. He made a round of some of the pubs, and a number of people can remember having seen him. So I’m afraid I must put this question to you: how did you spend that evening, Miss Butters?’
Her pallid cheeks grew paler still, and her eyes, by contrast, appeared to grow larger. Butters had gone off in a coughing fit — he had spilled some brandy on the carpet.
‘I was home by five past ten — I didn’t go out again after that!’
Gently turned to the spluttering Butters:
‘It’s true… she had a bath and went to bed.’
‘But what were you doing during the evening?’
‘It’s as I said — I was out with Derek!’
‘But nobody has mentioned seeing you with him.’
‘He — he brought me the drinks out to the car.’
Was she still lying, or was it the truth? Gently stared long at those flaming green eyes. As though it were an indicator of her good faith, she was quietly pushing her skirt back into place.
‘I was with him, all the evening, though I admit that we were going round the pubs. I only said that about the cottage because I thought you were more likely to believe it. But I was with him from a quarter past seven, and we were together until he dropped me at ten — I never stayed out later than that. It would have started my father prying.’
‘When had you told him that you were pregnant?’
‘Oh, weeks ago — as soon as I was certain.’
‘What did you intend to do about that?’
‘Derek was trying to find a good abortionist.’
‘Did he speak of his wife on Monday?’
She pouted. ‘You wouldn’t believe he didn’t! Well, he said he was certain that she was carrying on with an artist, but that she was being very clever, and that he was thinking of hiring a detective.’
‘Did he say who it was he suspected?’
‘No. She was playing about with several of them. But that was what he intended to do, and not to stick a paper knife in her back!’
Gently let it go at that, sensing further emotional fireworks — in the morning he would have another chance to see what he could chivvy out of her. Butters, in great relief, hustled his daughter out of the room; Gently thoughtfully lit his pipe and blew some smoke at the collecting mosquitoes.
A most illuminating hour! He glanced at the fallen level in the decanter. Down by the river some points of light showed where a yacht or two had made their moorings. In spite of his pipe he could smell the mustiness which persisted in the room, and he noticed a patch of mould that was growing on the paper beneath the window.
‘Do have a drink, Superintendent…’
Now, it was certain that Butters was drunk. He had to be careful where he put his feet, and his watering eyes had a bemused expression.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At Lordham Village, where he stopped to phone, Gently experienced an even longer delay with the exchange. The country operator answered him with a surly briefness, as though this was really laying it on too thick.
‘Can you bring Inspector Stephens to the phone…?’
His wristwatch was pointing to a minute to ten. As he could hear Stephens picking up the phone to answer him, the hour struck fussily on the church clock outside.
‘How is the session with Aymas going?’
In reality he could tell this from the sound of Stephens’s voice.
‘I’m afraid he’s been terribly stubborn up till now, sir… you were quite right about him not breaking down and confessing.’
‘What excuse does he give for sending his car to the breakers?’
‘He persists in maintaining that that was all it was fit for. He says that he only kept it till Tuesday on account of Monday night’s meeting, and that he’s negotiating for a better one, and hopes to buy it tomorrow.’
‘Have you checked on that?’
‘Yes, sir. With the vendor. He agrees that Aymas spoke to him about it over a fortnight ago.’
Gently clicked his tongue consolingly. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it! Just smooth Aymas down a bit and find him some transport. Then I want you to go out and to pull in Johnson for questioning… take another man with you. I want to talk to Johnson tonight.’
He hung up before Stephens could ask him for an explanation. He felt no particular exhilaration at being in possession of the conclusive facts. They had come to him by pure good fortune and through no exertion of his own, unless his luck could be counted, the luck that dogged a good detective. And that luck would have belonged to Hansom if Gently had not been called to the case.