‘If you think you can believe anything that man says.’ Charlie rolled his eyes.
Holly jumped in. ‘And they all thought Miranda Barton was a wonderful woman, and nobody had met her before this week.’
‘Not even Giles Rickard?’ Joe Ashworth asked. ‘They were writing at the same time.’
‘Different sort of material, apparently. She was considered a literary novelist. He wrote detective stories. They’d have no reason to bump into each other.’ Holly paused. ‘And nobody can remember seeing a handkerchief with a red heart in the corner.’
‘You need to have a word with the boss,’ Charlie broke in angrily. It seemed to Joe that he hadn’t even been listening to this last exchange. He got that way sometimes, for no reason. Since his wife had run off there were times when he was angry at the whole world.
‘What about?’ Joe said, though he could guess.
‘She’s making a fool of herself over those hippies.’ Joe thought Charlie had eaten lunch too. Tuna sandwiches, from the smell of his breath. ‘It’s obvious that they’re behind it all. The woman’s tried to kill before, and the bloke’s as mad as a snake. Sergeant Pepper! And look at the way he stormed into the place last night, shouting the odds.’
‘Everyone says that he calmed down and apologized before the end of the evening.’ Joe didn’t know why he was standing up for the hippies. Because Vera didn’t think they were behind the murders? Is that what he’d become? Vera Stanhope’s representative on Earth?
‘Doesn’t mean the chap still didn’t have murder on his mind.’ Charlie was chuntering just loud enough for Joe to hear him.
Joe thought if they didn’t get on with the next two interviews they’d be here all day, and the hotel, with its Seventies colour scheme and his nana’s ghost, was already freaking him out.
‘Why don’t you get off, Charlie?’ he said. ‘I can sit in with Holly for these. It won’t take three of us.’
Charlie brightened. ‘I’ve arranged to go over to Carlisle tonight to have a beer with my mate. The one who worked with Winterton. Despite what the boss says, I don’t see why I should do it in my own time.’
‘Off you go then.’
And when Charlie shambled out of the room Joe felt a sudden sense of relief.
They took Mark Winterton first, because he had furthest to travel home and Lenny seemed to be in no hurry. The ex-policeman took a seat opposite them. The hotel had provided a trestle table, and Joe thought this felt more like a job interview than taking a witness statement. Tell me, Mr Winterton, why did you decide to apply to be a writer?
And his first question was almost like that. ‘Why the Writers’ House course? It’s not cheap, is it? And pretty intensive for a beginner. I’d have thought there’d be places closer to home, if you were interested. Evening classes. That sort of thing.’
Mark Winterton blinked at him through the small, square spectacles. ‘I thought I’d already explained that to your colleague.’ He nodded towards Holly. He kept his voice patient and polite, but the blinking eyes suggested a repressed irritation. ‘I’d always enjoyed writing, and this seemed like a great opportunity to kick-start the crime novel I’d thought I might write.’ He paused. ‘As to the money, I don’t have many extravagances.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘I paid maintenance for the children of course, when I was first divorced, but they’ve left home now. My ex-wife married again very quickly and her husband’s a wealthy man. My pension seems rather generous for a man of simple tastes.’
Joe wondered why Winterton felt the need to share all this personal information. Perhaps he was just lonely. Perhaps that was the explanation for him attending the course.
‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your daughter,’ Joe said.
‘You know about that? Of course, you’ll have checked up on us all. Nothing is ever the same afterwards.’ He looked up. ‘I discussed that with Miranda yesterday afternoon. The loss of a child. How that affects absolutely everything that happens later. Miranda was immensely understanding. I’d never really talked about it to anyone else in the same way. She was a sympathetic woman.’
‘When did you have this conversation with Miranda?’ Joe kept his tone light. The woman had never struck him as particularly sympathetic. Beside him, Holly was twitching like a hunting dog scenting prey. He hoped she’d have sense enough to keep her mouth shut.
‘Before dinner. I’m always early. At work I was a tyrant about punctuality, and I see now that it was my obsession. I’d showered and changed and was waiting for the others in the drawing room when Miranda came in. She brought me a sherry and we began to talk. She was nervous, I think. She wanted the final evening to be a success, despite Tony’s death. I’d never been alone with her before and I was surprised at how well we got on.’
‘Did she ask for your advice?’ Joe remembered that Miranda had invited Nina into her cottage the same day.
‘I had the sense that she wanted something from me, but I never quite worked out what it was. You must have come across that, Sergeant: acquaintances with vague anxieties wanting reassurance. About children mixing in unsuitable company, or neighbours who seem suddenly to have come into money. I suspect it goes with the job, but of course we have no answers. We can’t always keep our own family safe.’ Winterton looked up. Joe had the sense that he wanted to prolong the discussion and that he was in no hurry to return home to his empty house. Joe wondered about the ex-wife. Had she had a lover even before the separation? Was that the cause of the divorce? Joe thought it would be interesting to meet her.
‘What anxiety did Miranda have? Did she have concerns about her son?’
‘Certainly we talked about our children. But I don’t think Alex was causing her any problems. He always seemed the sort of boy you’d be proud of. I did wonder…’
‘Yes?’
‘… if she’d had a daughter. Perhaps who’d died when she was still a baby.’ He put his hands on the table in front of him. Ashworth saw he still wore a plain gold wedding ring. ‘Miranda spoke with such understanding about losing a child,’ Winterton said, ‘and last night there was a slip of the tongue that made me think she’d had a baby girl. She was talking about the experience of giving birth. I’d never known pain like it, but once I’d taken the baby into my arms it was all worth it. She was so tiny.’ Really, I’m sure she said she, but I didn’t want to follow it up.’ He looked up and frowned. ‘Of course none of this is evidence. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But sometimes in an investigation small snatches of gossip can make a difference. I thought you should know.’
Joe’s attention was caught by a bright-yellow coach that had pulled up outside the hotel. Elderly people climbed stiffly out. The driver began to unload luggage. Joe dragged his focus back to the room.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Would you mind waiting until we’ve finished talking to Mr Thomas? Then we can give you both a lift to the Writers’ House.’
‘No problem at all.’ Winterton stood up and gave a polite little nod. ‘I’m not in any rush to get home.’
Lenny Thomas sat awkwardly looking at them across the table. ‘I wouldn’t have killed her,’ he said without introduction. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have killed either of them. But Miranda picked me to go to the Writers’ House and I loved every minute of it. I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me the chance. For taking me seriously. As a writer, like.’
‘We’re not accusing you, Mr Thomas,’ Holly said. They’d agreed that she should take the lead on this one. Only fair. But Joe wished he was asking the questions. Sharp, bright Holly would make Lenny nervous and tongue-tied. ‘We’re just trying to find out what happened.’ She paused. ‘Last night you read your piece early in the evening, while the group was still in the dining room.’