"Is that a bad thing?"
He shrugged. "Not if you want existence without passion."
She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "If passion means confrontation, then yes, I prefer existence without passion. I lived through the disintegration of my parents' marriage, remember. I'd go a long way to avoid repeating that experience."
His eyes sparkled in his tired face. "Then perhaps it's your own dark side that scares you. Is there a fire in there waiting to blaze out of control? A scream of frustration that will topple your precarious house of cards? You'd better pray for gentle breezes and no strong winds, my angel, or you'll find you've been living in a fool's paradise."
She didn't respond and the room fell silent, its three occupants curiously abstracted like the portraits round the walls. It occurred to DS Cooper, fixed in fascinated immobility upon his chair, that Jack Blakeney was a terrible man. Did he devour everyone in the way he was devouring his wife? A scream of frustration that will topple your precarious house of cards. Cooper had held his own scream in check for years, the scream of a man caught in the toils of rectitude and responsibility. Why couldn't Jack Blakeney do the same?
He cleared his throat. "Did Mrs. Gillespie ever tell you, sir, what her intentions were with regard to her will?"
Jack had been watching Sarah intently. He glanced now towards the policeman. "Not in so many words. She asked me once what I would do if I had her money."
"What did you say?"
"I said I'd spend it."
"Your wife told me you despise materialism."
"Quite right, so I'd use it to enhance my spirituality."
"How?"
"I'd blow the lot on drugs, alcohol and sex."
"Sounds very materialistic to me, sir. There's nothing spiritual about surrendering to the senses."
"It depends who you follow. If you're a Stoic like Sarah, your spiritual development comes through duty and responsibility. If you're an Epicurean like me, though I hasten to say poor old Epicurus probably wouldn't recognize me as an adherent, it comes through the gratification of desire." He arched an amused eyebrow. "Unfortunately, we modern Epicureans are frowned upon. There's something infinitely despicable about a man who refuses to acknowledge his responsibilities but prefers to fill his cup at the fountain of pleasure." He was watching Cooper closely. "But that's only because society is composed of sheep and sheep are easily brainwashed by advertisers' propaganda. They may not believe that the whiteness of a woman's wash is a symbol of her success, but they sure as hell believe that their kitchens should be germ-free, their smiles as white, their children as well-mannered, their husbands as hard-working, and their moral decency as obvious. With men it's lager. It's supposed to persuade them they have balls, but all it really persuades them to do is wear a clean jumper, shave regularly, have at least three friends, never get drunk and talk amusingly in the pub." His grim face cracked into a smile. "My problem is, I'd rather be stoned out of my mind and rogering a sixteen-year-old virgin any day, particularly if I have to take off her gym slip slowly to do it."
Christ, thought Cooper in alarm, feeling the weight of the other's gaze upon his bent head. Could the bastard read minds as well? He made a pretence of writing something on his notepad. "Did you explain all that as graphically to Mrs. Gillespie or did you just stick with the spending of her money if you had it?"
Jack glanced at Sarah, but she was staring at Mathilda's portrait and didn't look up. "She had great skin for her age. I expect I said I'd rather be stoned and rogering a granny."
Cooper, who was far more respectable than he realized, was shocked into looking up. "What did she say?"
Jack was enjoying himself. "She asked me if I'd like to paint her in the nude. I said I would, so she took her clothes off. If it's of any interest to you, the only thing Mathilda was wearing when I made my sketches of her was the scold's bridle." He smiled, his perceptive eyes searching the policeman's. "Does that excite you, Sergeant?"
"It does as a matter of fact," said Cooper evenly. "Would she also have been in the bath by any chance?"
"No. She was very much alive and lying on her bed in all her glory." He stood up and went to a chest in the corner. "And she looked bloody fantastic." He took a sketchpad from the bottom drawer. "There." He flung the pad across the room and it fluttered to the floor at the policeman's feet. "Be my guest. They're all of Mathilda. One of life's great individuals."
Cooper retrieved the pad and turned the pages. They did indeed show Mrs. Gillespie, nude upon her bed, but a very different Mrs. Gillespie from the tragic cadaver in the bath or the bitter harridan with the cruel mouth on the television set. He laid the pad on the floor beside him. "Did you sleep with her, Mr. Blakeney?"
"No. She never asked me to."
"Would you have done if she had asked you?" The question was out before Cooper had time to consider its wisdom.
Jack's expression was unreadable. "Does that have a bearing on your case?"
"I'm interested in your character, Mr. Blakeney."
"I see. And what would my accepting an elderly woman's invitation to sleep with her tell you? That I was a pervert? Or that I was infinitely compassionate?"
Cooper gave a small laugh. "I'd say it was an indication that you needed your eyes tested. Even in the dark, Mrs. Gillespie could hardly have passed for a sixteen-year-old virgin." He fished his cigarettes from his pocket. "Do you mind?"
"Be my guest." He kicked the wastepaper basket across the floor.
Cooper flicked his lighter to the cigarette. "Mrs. Gillespie has left your wife three quarters of a million pounds, Mr. Blakeney. Did you know?"
"Yes."
The Sergeant hadn't expected that. "So Mrs. Gillespie did tell you what her intentions were?"
"No," said Jack, resuming his seat on the stool. "I've just spent a delightful two hours at Cedar House." He stared impassively at Sarah. "Joanna and Ruth are labouring under the misapprehension that I have some influence over my wife so they put themselves out to be charming."
Cooper scratched his jaw and wondered why Dr. Blakeney put up with it. The man was toying with her in the way a sleek cat playfully inserts its claws into a half-mangled mouse. The mystery was not why she had decided to divorce him so suddenly, but why she had tolerated him for so long. Yet there was a sense of a challenge unmet, for a cat only remains interested while the mouse plays the game, and Cooper had the distinct impression that Jack felt Sarah was letting him down. "Did you know before that?"
"No."
"Are you surprised?"
"No."
"Do your wife's patients often leave her money then?"
"Not as far as I know." He grinned at the Sergeant. "If they have, she's never told me."
"Then why aren't you surprised?"
"Give me a good reason why I should be. If you'd told me Mathilda had left her money to the Police Benevolent Fund or New Age Travellers, that wouldn't have surprised me either. It was hers to do with as she liked, and good luck to her. Mind you, I'm glad it's the wife," he put an offensive emphasis on the word, "who hit the jackpot. It'll make things considerably easier for me. I don't mind admitting I'm a bit short at the moment."
Sarah raked him from head to toe with angry eyes. "My God, Jack, if you knew how close I am to sinking my fist into your self-satisfied gut."
"Ah," he murmured, "passion at last." He stood up and approached her, spreading his hands wide in an invitation to do it. "Feel free. It's all yours."
She took him by surprise and kneed him in the groin instead. "Next time," she said through gritted teeth, "I'll break Mathilda's canvas over your head. And that would be a shame because it's probably the best thing you've ever done."
"GODDAMMIT, WOMAN, THAT HURT!" he roared, clutching his balls and collapsing back on to the stool. "I asked for passion not fucking castration."