Karlsson glanced at her. ‘She’s got an instinct,’ he said. ‘We’ve enough people following procedure.’
Yvette just stared at the road; rain was starting to fall. ‘People like me, boring and awkward and plodding,’ she wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘What about the younger brother?’ she asked instead.
‘Robin. He’s had a more chequered career and personal life. He ran a small company. Garden landscaping, it says here.’
‘Ponds?’
‘I guess so. That went belly-up in the nineties, and since then he’s done all sorts. Now he’s a business consultant, whatever that means. He’s got a son by his first marriage, and another much younger son by his second. Lives near the bay in Cardiff.’
‘And did Frieda take against him as well?’ asked Yvette.
‘He doesn’t see much of his old mother either. But Frieda thought he was the weaker of the two. Not such a bully.’
When they reached the M6 they stopped for coffee and petrol, and by eleven o’clock the satnav was directing them through the more prosperous suburbs of Manchester. Jeremy and Virginia Orton lived in a large detached house in Didsbury, set back from the tree-lined road, with a gravel driveway and two cars parked on it, a BMW and a Golf. There was smoke coming from the chimney and, sure enough, when Virginia opened the door and led them to the living room, a fire was burning in the grate.
To Karlsson, the dark furniture, the silver tray on which coffee was served and the silver-framed photographs of the children in their uniforms that were displayed on top of the baby grand seemed like something from another age.
Virginia Orton was a tiny woman, with a brittle manner and a head of tight burnished curls. But Jeremy was large: not fat, but tall and solid like a rugby player, a centre, with broad shoulders, a large, balding head, big hands and feet. He was wearing a lilac shirt under his jacket and a shiny watch. His grey, slightly protuberant eyes watched them suspiciously.
‘I expected you half an hour ago,’ he said.
‘Traffic,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘Thanks.’ Jeremy nodded to his wife in dismissal, and she left the room with the click of heels over bare boards. ‘What’s this about?’
‘As you know, I’m leading the murder investigation.’
‘Yes, yes. But why are you here? I don’t see what I’ve got to do with any of it. Apart from being fleeced by him, of course.’
‘We’ll take as little of your time as we can. But I thought it was your mother who had been fleeced by Mr Poole, not you.’
‘Terrible. An old woman cheated like that.’
‘But you never met him?’
‘Of course not. I’d have seen through him if I had.’
‘Or even heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘Did she tell you she was having work done on the house?’
‘If she had, I’d have told her to get quotes. I know about these cowboys. What about the other men he was working with? Can’t you get hold of them?’
‘We’ve tried, of course. There’s absolutely no record of them. We’ve no names, no contact numbers, nothing.’
‘They were probably Poles.’
‘Did you know her roof was leaking?’ asked Yvette.
‘I don’t know, I can’t remember. What’s the point of all of this? He conned her, he’s dead, she’s had a lucky escape.’
‘So,’ said Karlsson, ‘you had no idea she was having her house repaired?’
‘Well, she wasn’t, was she? It was a way of getting at our money.’
‘Her money.’
‘Our money, her money. We’re a family.’
‘You didn’t know about the repairs, and you never met Mr Poole, correct?’
‘Correct.’ Jeremy Orton looked at his watch.
‘Because you hadn’t been to visit your mother since the summer?’ put in Yvette. Karlsson looked at her warningly.
‘That therapist’ – he said the word with distaste – ‘has already been on about that to me and Robin. I know what she was trying to say. We’re busy people. We do what we can.’
‘So you had no idea that she wanted to change her will?’
‘She didn’t want to. She was under this man’s influence and in a confused state.’
‘A will that would have given a third of her estate to him.’
‘No. I didn’t know. I’ve had words with Ma. She won’t be so stupid again.’
‘We’re going to need you to inform us of your movements during the last week of January,’ said Yvette.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just for the record. Can you please let us know where you were during the last ten days of January?’
Jeremy Orton stared at her and then at Karlsson, his face turning crimson. ‘Are you serious?’
‘And any witnesses who can corroborate what you say would be useful, so that we can check them.’
‘You can’t seriously suspect me of having anything to do with this.’
‘We’re just establishing the limits of our inquiry, that’s all.’
Jeremy Orton rose from his chair. ‘Virginia!’ he barked. ‘Bring me my diary, will you?’
Four and a half hours later, Karlsson and Yvette were in Cardiff. Robin Orton’s house had a view of the sea, but it was more modest than Jeremy’s. His car was parked on the road outside. His wife was at work. Tea came in mugs, not cups. There was no grand piano, although there were photographs of his children on the wall.
Robin Orton was smaller than his brother. Karlsson thought he looked like a man who had lost a large amount of weight in a short time: the skin was slack on his face, and his trousers were loose, held up by a black leather belt.
They went through the same questions, and he gave the same answers, more or less. No, he had never met Robert Poole. No, he had not known about the repairs to the house. No, he had been unaware about the change in the will – but if you were to ask his opinion, it was a complete disgrace that people like this man Poole could go about worming their way into old women’s houses. No, he hadn’t seen his mother very recently. What business was that of theirs? It wasn’t as if Mary Orton made much effort to come to Cardiff to see him and, anyway, she’d always been more interested in Jeremy than in him – and if they really wanted to know what he thought, then he thought that some of that money she’d handed over so casually to whatever rogue came knocking at the door could much more usefully have been given to him to help him with his new business. Old people should be more generous – it wasn’t as if his mother really needed anything for herself. As for that last week of January, as a matter of fact he had been in bed for most of it with a particularly nasty bout of flu. They could ask his wife – though she might call it a cold, but that was women for you. And they could see themselves out and remember to shut the door firmly.
‘Horrible, horrible, horrible men,’ said Yvette.
‘Yes, but what do you really think?’
They were heading back to London, along the M4, and the rain was now falling steadily from a sodden sky.
‘I wish they’d killed him together,’ she said, ‘and could be put away for a long time. Their poor bloody mother.’
‘Does that mean you think they didn’t?’
‘We have to check what they were doing that week, of course, and go back to Mary Orton to confirm they haven’t visited her. But unfortunately I’d bet they hadn’t been to see her since the summer. Because they were so busy.’
‘So,’ Karlsson said, ‘they have a motive, but it’s a motive that comes too late.’
‘I need a shower.’
‘I need a drink.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you want one too?’
‘Yes!’ she said, then tried to mute her enthusiasm. ‘I guess.’
‘On one condition.’