She stood up as the two officers entered. She recognized Vogel at once.
‘Mr Vogel,’ she said, by way of greeting.
She glanced enquiringly towards Saslow, whom the DCI introduced, before explaining that he was SIO of the Quinn investigation.
‘I understand that you have information which you think might help us in our enquiries,’ he remarked.
‘Yes I do, although I’m not sure quite how helpful you will find it,’ responded Helen Harris evenly, sitting down again, and gesturing for Vogel and Saslow to do the same.
Vogel wondered what she meant by that. But he did not speak, instead waiting for her to continue.
Helen Harris was a big woman, probably in her mid-fifties, taller than average and heavy. But she was not unattractive. Her face, maybe because of her excess weight, bore virtually no lines nor any other overt indication of the passing of the years. She wore wire-framed glasses, very slightly tinted, which seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the pleasantness of her features. Her long hair, a soft shade of brown streaked with pale grey gleamed in the shaft of morning sun shining through the narrow window, and hung in a single tress falling loosely over one shoulder. It suited her well. But more than anything the secret of Helen Harris’ attractiveness was what Vogel’s wife always called ‘the light behind the eyes’.
Vogel had noticed it the first time he met her, and he was again struck by it.
It was only a few seconds before Helen spoke again. But it seemed longer to Vogel.
‘First of all, I have to tell you that Gill Quinn is known to us here.’
‘I see,’ said Vogel, who was quietly confident that he did see.
‘Yes, and I am sure you guessed that from the moment you heard I had called in, and you probably also guessed what it might indicate,’ Helen continued.
‘Indeed,’ Vogel agreed. ‘I assumed it was likely that there was at least some history of domestic violence in the Quinn household.’
‘A reasonable assumption. You sat on a committee where we discussed the problems which still abound in dealing with violence in the home. And we learned long ago here at the House that it is only by operating under a strict code of confidentiality that we can be of any assistance at all to victims of domestic violence.’
‘I completely understand that,’ said Vogel, who did understand, but wondered exactly how Helen Harris was going to proceed from this point. If at all. But, of course, it was Helen who had contacted them.
‘And so, Mr Vogel, before I take it upon myself to break that code, and I realize this might involve a certain breach of protocol for you, I wonder if you could clarify a couple of points for me,’ she continued. ‘I understand that Thomas Quinn was found dead at his home yesterday. Are you able to tell me at approximately what time he might have died?’
Vogel thought for a moment. This information would probably soon be publicly released as part of a call for possible witnesses. He saw no reason why he should not answer Helen Harris’ question as best he could. And he suspected it would be in his interest and that of his investigation to cooperate with her as fully as possible.
‘We think he died around mid-afternoon, probably between three and five,’ he said.
‘I see,’ Helen responded. ‘Also, I heard on Radio Devon that a woman had been taken to Barnstaple police station and was helping you with your enquiries. I assumed that would be Gill. The spouse of a murder victim is always the first suspect. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, on both counts,’ said Vogel.
‘So could I ask, have you arrested Gill Quinn? Do you have her in custody?’
‘No, we have not arrested Gill, and we are not holding her in custody. But she is helping us with our enquiries. And I feel I should tell you that she is what we call a person of interest in this case.’
‘As I thought,’ muttered Helen.
There was another brief pause. And when she spoke again Helen Harris’ tone of voice was loud, clear and unequivocal. Almost as if she was daring Vogel to challenge her.
‘Therefore, I must tell you that Gill Quinn was here all day yesterday,’ she said.
Vogel felt himself start to blink. He turned his head slightly to one side so that Helen Harris wouldn’t notice.
‘She arrived just after eight a.m., and stayed with us until early evening,’ Helen continued. ‘Somebody here was with her all the time. Either me, or another member of staff, or one of the other women. She did not leave the premises at any time.’
Fourteen
Kurt had booked a loft suite at the waterfront Hotel du Vin boutique hotel. It was lavishly appointed and designed, in the style of the exclusive hotel chain, to complement the original features of the Sugar House, the seventeenth-century Grade II listed warehouse from which it had been constructed. Lilian didn’t notice any of that.
She wasn’t aware of anything except Kurt’s overwhelming presence. He was at his most charming. And she knew only too well how dangerous that could be.
He ordered the room service meal he had promised without asking her if she wanted it. And the champagne.
She toyed with the food. When he mildly chastised her she forced down a few mouthfuls. And she drank the champagne which he poured for her. She was used to doing his bidding.
His manner would have appeared to an outsider to be gentle, courteous and considerate. Did he really believe that he could win her over with his contrived charm, after what he had done to her? She thought that maybe he did. His ego was, of course, enormous.
After they had eaten, he stood up, put his arms around her, leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
‘Don’t worry, kitten, I just want to be with you, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘In every way.’
Her heart missed a beat. But she had known he would get around to this sooner or later.
‘I’ll just go and have a shower,’ he said, kissing her head again. ‘Then maybe you’d like to have one too. I’ve had a bathrobe sent up for you.’
She looked down at the plate before her. It had always been like this. Kurt was a fastidious man when it came to personal hygiene. He had only rarely touched her without showering first. And he expected her to do the same.
The thought of sex with him repelled her. And, of course, there was the ever-present fear of what it invariably brought with it.
She heard the unmistakeable sounds of him using the lavatory then washing his hands, the buzz of his electric razor, the brushing of his teeth. Then after a moment or two the whir of the power shower.
She glanced towards the door. It appeared to have just a standard hotel room lock on it, designed to be opened from the inside without a key. Why had he left her like that? Was he testing her? Was his ego so enormous that he could even in his wildest imaginings think that she would ever again stay with him of her own free will? Maybe it was. Or maybe he just thought she would be too afraid to make a run for it, hampered by a broken ankle, and with him just yards away. In any case she knew all too well that he would soon find her again. And then, in one of his terrible rages, she dreaded to think what he might do to her.
She didn’t care. She just had to try. She couldn’t face the thought of sex with him, and of what it took for that to happen.
She ran to the door. In her haste she fumbled with the catch. Eventually she managed to shift it and was halfway out into the corridor when she felt a muscular arm around her pulling her back into the room. She hadn’t heard him approach. His feet were bare and the room was thickly carpeted.