“Just a few more questions,” said Templeton. “I’m by myself this time. As a matter of fact, I’m very surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be down in London. It was your wife I was planning on talking to.”
“I’m off sick,” said Cropley. “Summer cold. What do you want to talk to Eileen about?”
“Oh, this and that. But now that you’re here, too, let’s have a party, shall we?” Templeton edged his way into the hall. Eileen Cropley was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, Mrs. Cropley. Good afternoon. I don’t believe we had a proper chance to get acquainted on my last visit.”
“That’s because you were so rude, if I remember correctly. Roger, what does this man want? What have you been up to?”
“I haven’t been up to anything. It’s all right, dear.” Cropley sighed. “You’d better come through,” he said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The living room still smelled of lavender, but the flowers had wilted and shed a few petals. “I might have been a little hasty last time,” said Templeton, when both Mr. and Mrs. Cropley had sat down. They sat on the sofa, Templeton noticed, one at each end, like bookends. Mrs. Cropley was definitely frosty. Cropley himself seemed resigned. “I hadn’t got all my ducks in a row.”
“You can say that again,” said Cropley.
“But that’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? No hard feelings?”
Cropley regarded him suspiciously.
“Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’m glad I found both of you in. Gives me a chance to make up for bad first impressions. We’ve talked to the AA, Mr. Cropley, and they verify that you were, indeed, at the time in question, stuck on the hard shoulder of the M1 just south of the Derby turnoff.”
“As I told you.”
“Indeed. And I apologize for any… disbelief… I might have shown at the time. We tend to get quite wrapped up in our search for justice, and sometimes we trample on people’s finer feelings.”
“So what do you want this time?”
“Well, we’ve got a bit more information than we had before, and it looks as if these two men you saw in the dark Mondeo followed Jennifer Clewes – that was the victim’s name – off the A1 on the road to Eastvale, where they ran her into a drystone wall and shot her. They then returned to wherever they came from and the following night they dumped the Mondeo in the East End of London, where it was immediately stolen and later involved in a serious accident. Now, we’ve got some tire tracks the car made in a private lane in Gratly and some fingerprints that might possibly belong to one of the men. Our forensic scientists are checking the Mondeo for fingerprints to compare, but as you can imagine, after a crash like that, well…”
“This is all very interesting,” said Cropley, “but I still don’t see how my wife or I can help.”
“Hear the man out, Roger,” said Mrs. Cropley, who seemed interested despite herself.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cropley. Anyway, we got a description of the man who dropped off the car in London and a colleague down there has just faxed me an artist’s impression. I was wondering if you’d have a look at it and see if you can identify him.”
“I told you,’ said Cropley, “I didn’t get a good look. I’m not very good at describing people.”
“Most of us aren’t,” said Templeton. “That’s why looking at a picture helps.” He lifted his briefcase. “May I?”
“Of course,” said Cropley.
Templeton showed him the sketch.
Cropley stared at it for a while, then he said, “It could be him.”
“Only could be?”
“As I said, I didn’t get a good look.”
“But he did turn to look at you when the driver pulled right out in front, didn’t he? You told me that.”
“Yes, but it was dark.”
“The petrol station was well lit.”
“I’m still not certain. I mean, I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court. Is that what you want?”
“Not yet. We just want to find him.”
“Well, it definitely looks like him. The hair, the general shape of the head, but it was too dark to make out his features.”
“I understand that. Was he well-built?”
“He did have rather broad shoulders, now I come to think of it, and not much of a neck. And he seemed tall, high in the seat.”
“Fine,” said Templeton, putting the drawing away. “Many thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Cropley. “But you said you came to talk to my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to identify this man as she wasn’t with me.”
“Just seizing the opportunity, Mr. Cropley. Saved me a trip to London, this has.” Templeton took out his notebook.
“So what did you want to ask me? ” Mrs. Cropley said.
Templeton scratched the side of his nose. “That’s another matter entirely, Mrs. Cropley. At least we think it is. On the twenty-third of April this year, a young woman named Claire Potter was raped and stabbed just off the M1 north of Chesterfield. She was last seen at the Trowell services a short time earlier.”
“You mentioned this the last time you were here,” said Roger Cropley. “It meant nothing to me then and it means nothing now.”
Templeton ignored him and faced Mrs. Cropley. “We’ve now got quite a bit more information about that crime,” he said, “and believe me, whoever did it must have picked up quite a bit of blood. I was just wondering if you had ever noticed anything about your husband’s clothing around that time – you know, unusual stains, that sort of thing. Devilishly hard to get rid of, blood. You do the washing around here, don’t you?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” said Mrs. Cropley. “The sheer nerve of it.”
“Well, I’ve never been faulted for my lack of nerve,” said Templeton. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s my motto. So if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest…”
“I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Well, the clothes might have been beyond salvation, I suppose,” said Templeton. “Have any of your husband’s clothes gone missing over the past few months?”
“No.”
“Still,” Templeton mused aloud, “the killer washed the victim’s body, so the odds are he managed to deal with his own clothes. Very fastidious, he was. Are you a fastidious man, Mr. Cropley?”
“I like to think so,” said Cropley, “but it doesn’t make me a killer, and I resent these accusations.”
“Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I have to ask. I’d be a pretty useless detective if I didn’t, wouldn’t I?”
“Quite frankly I don’t care what kind of bloody detective you are,” said Cropley. “One thing I do know is that you’re a very offensive person and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my house immediately.”
“Just one more question, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Eileen Cropley glared at him.
“How often has your husband been unusually late home from work on a Friday? Say, after midnight.”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely you ought to be able to remember something like that? Don’t you wait up for him?”
“No. I usually take a sleeping pill at eleven o’clock and go to bed. I’m fast asleep before midnight.”
“So he usually gets back after eleven, then, can we say?”
She looked at her husband. “I suppose so.”
Templeton turned to Roger Cropley. “Nearly done now, sir. I remember the last time I was here with DC Jackman that you distinctly told me you usually try to get away by mid-afternoon to beat the rush-hour traffic.”
“If I can. I don’t always succeed.”
“How often in the last four months?”
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”
“I think I’d remember,” said Templeton.
“I’m not you.”
“No, you’re right about that.” Templeton put his notebook back in his inside pocket. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for your time. No need to see me out. I know the way.”