A Conflict of Interests (2 page)

"The sooner you move the body, Tom, the sooner I can get on with the autopsy," Harrison reminded him brusquely.

"Right." Coghill glanced at the police constable on duty at the bottom of the drive and was about to call him over, when the telephone started to ring. "That will be Draycott," he said, voicing his thoughts aloud.

"Who's he?"

"A colleague of Whitfield's."

"You'd better answer it then," said Harrison.

Coghill reached past him, lifted the phone off the hook, told the caller to hang on a moment and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Would you do me a favor, Leonard?" he said. "Ask those ambulance men to back their vehicle up to the house."

"Certainly."

"Thanks a lot." Coghill removed his hand from the mouthpiece and apologized to Draycott for the delay.

"I believe you said there was some kind of emergency, Inspector?"

"Yes. It concerns Mr. Trevor Whitfield. I'm afraid his wife has been murdered."

There was a long pause, then in a shocked voice, Draycott said, "When did this happen?"

"Her body was found by the daily help this morning. Naturally, we want to get in touch with him as soon as possible."

"That may take a little time. At the moment, I should think Mr. Whitfield's coach party is halfway between Vienna and Budapest. "

"Coach party?" Coghill repeated. "I'm not with you."

"Trevor is away on one of our deluxe tours," Draycott explained patiently. "Seven European capitals in fourteen days; Paris, Vienna, Budapest, Prague…"

The ambulance backed up the steep drive, its transmission grinding loud enough to drown the rest of the itinerary. Above Draycott's monotone, Coghill heard the attendants get out and open the rear doors; then they clumped past him and went up the staircase, carrying a stretcher between them.

"Naturally, we'll find someone to relieve him," Draycott continued. "With any luck, Trevor should be able to catch a plane from Budapest late this afternoon."

Coghill said, "What's all this about a relief? I was given to understand that Mr. Whitfield was on the board of directors."

"A director?" Draycott almost choked on a derisive laugh.

"What is he then?"

"A good linguist, Inspector, fluent in French, German and Italian. He's also a pleasant and good-looking young man; that's why we hired him as a guide."

"I see. How long has he been working for your tour company?"

"Over four years," said Draycott. "He joined us in March 78 nine months after leaving Sussex University. Trevor was hoping to get a job with the EEC in Brussels, but I gather the commission had all the interpreters they needed."

Coghill frowned; it didn't add up. Unless he had been a mature student, Whitfield would have been twenty-two or twenty-three when he left Sussex University in 78, yet Mace had told him they had a son aged twelve. The apparent discrepancy suggested that Trevor Whitfield was not the natural father and it was possible his wife had been married before.

"Not that he has any reason to be dissatisfied with his present position," Draycott went on. "He's on a reasonably good salary and all expenses paid."

"What do you call reasonable?" Coghill asked him pointedly.

"I can't see why that should concern you."

"Well, it does, Mr. Draycott. You may find the question embarrassing, but I'm investigating a homicide and I'd appreciate a straight answer."

"He's on five thousand a year." Draycott cleared his throat somewhat noisily. "Look, I'm rather busy just now. If I may, I'll call you back later and let you know what flight Trevor will be on.

"I'd be grateful if you would," Coghill said and hung up.

There was a mink coat hanging in the wardrobe of the master bedroom and thirty thousand pounds' worth of jewelry in the top drawer of the dressing table. There were two expensive cars in the double garage, the house would fetch at least eighty thousand at today's inflated prices and his son was away at boarding school. Even taking into account his wife's boutiques, Coghill couldn't see how Whitfield could afford such an extravagant way of life on a salary of five thousand per annum.

2.

Coghill went down St. Mark's Hill and turned left into the High Street, keeping a sharp look out for Karen's Boutique. Most of the pressmen outside the house had departed, satisfied with a short statement of the known facts and the promise of a more detailed briefing that evening. The TV reporters were an exception and they had decided to stay on for a while. Their cameramen had the statement on video, but it seemed they still had some footage left and were intent on giving the viewing public a general impression of the neighborhood. There was no point in getting uptight about it, however; to object to their continued presence would invite adverse criticism of the police, and that was something he could do without.

So far, the press was being very cooperative. How long that happy state of affairs continued would depend on the way he handled the briefing that evening. Coghill doubted if a resume of the postmortem would satisfy them, and on the basis of the information he'd already released, they'd probably made up their minds about the motive. The victim had been young and attractive, they had his word for that, and there were no prizes for guessing that Karen Whitfield had captured their interest. They'd want to know all about her and the successful business ventures that had enabled the Whitfields to live in such a desirable and secluded neighborhood.

At least that aspect of the investigation was no longer quite the mystery it had been an hour or so ago. Thanks to a bunch of keys Coghill had found in one of her handbags, he'd been able to open the desk and filing cabinet in the spare bedroom. The drawers in the desk were used as a depository for receipts for bills from the gas and electricity boards, various insurance policies, the title deeds to the house and a wad of bank statements relating to the Whitfields' joint account with Lloyds. From the way these household accounts were stapled together and itemized, it was obvious Karen Whitfield had been a very methodical woman, but it was the contents of the filing cabinet which had really given him an insight into her considerable business acumen.

The memorandum and articles of association which he'd found in the top drawer told him that Karen Boutiques Limited had been incorporated on February 8, 1973, and the balance sheets for the subsequent years, prepared and audited by her chartered accountants, Richard Atkinson and Company, showed that the business was in a very healthy financial state. After examining the various cash books, it was evident to Coghill just who had been the breadwinner in the family.

Karen's Boutique was on the left-hand side of the road, opposite the post office. Unable to find a parking space in the High Street, Coghill left the Volvo in Belvedere Grove and walked back to the shop.

The premises were smaller than he'd expected, but the elegant window displays on either side of the entrance gave the place a touch of class, and he thought the absence of any price tags on the clothes was a sure sign the clientele were drawn from the upper income bracket. It so happened that as of that moment, the well-heeled customers were conspicuous by their absence and, apart from two bored-looking sales assistants, Coghill found he had the place to himself. For a while, neither one seemed inclined to acknowledge his existence; then the taller of the two, a willowy blonde dressed in a smart but severely cut navy two-piece, came toward him, her mouth stretched in a welcoming smile that showed a lot of capped teeth.

"Good morning, sir," she said politely. "May I help you?" Her diction was perfect, but the accent affected and contrived.

"I hope so," Coghill said and produced his warrant card. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" His eyes went to the glass partition at the far end of the boutique. "The office perhaps?"

The saleswoman nodded and moved ahead of him to open the door. "I'm afraid you may find it a little cramped in here," she said with a faintly apologetic smile.

The office was no bigger than a glorified cubbyhole with barely enough room for the essential items of furniture — a desk, two upright chairs, a large Chubb safe and the inevitable filing cabinet.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Coghill said, "you should see where I work, Mrs.—?"

"Strachey, Mrs. June Strachey." Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "What is it you want to see me about?" she asked.

Coghill gave her the bald facts and provoked an expression of shocked incredulity. Her jaw dropped and the tip of her pink tongue explored the bottom lip. It took June Strachey some time to find her voice; when finally she did, it was husky and scarcely above a whisper.

"Murdered? I can't believe it, Karen didn't have an enemy in the world. Why should anybody want to kill her?"

"I don't know," Coghill said. "That's why I wanted to have a word with you."

"Me?" Her eyes widened into a puzzled stare.

"Well, you must have known Mrs. Whitfield better than most. I imagine you saw her every day of the week?"

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "No, Karen only came in every other day. She used to visit the branch in Fulham on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays."

"Then I assume she was here yesterday?"

"Yes, until midday."

"Anything unusual about that?" Coghill asked. "I mean, did she always lunch at home?"

"Karen didn't have a set routine. Sometimes she stayed all day and sent out for a sandwich, sometimes she left after an hour or so. It depended on how busy we were and whether or not she had another business appointment."

"Things must have been pretty slack yesterday."

"What?"

Coghill pointed to a thin batch of invoices on the desk fastened together with a bulldog clip. "It doesn't look to me as though you had many sales."

"Actually, we had a better than average day." June Strachey brushed a stray wisp of hair off her face. "Besides, you have to remember this isn't the sort of boutique that depends on a high turnover."

You can say that again, Coghill thought. It was an even bet that Karen's Boutique charged its clients eighty to ninety pounds for a simple dress they could have purchased from Marks and Spencer's for less than thirty. The labels would be different of course, and there were bound to be some fancy trimmings to go with the price tag, but even so, they were still paying over the odds.

"If business was so brisk yesterday," he said, "why did Mrs. Whitfield leave at noon?"

"Karen had a business appointment, at least that's what she told me."

"With whom?"

"Her accountant, I imagine. I know she tried to phone him while we were checking the cash sales for the previous day, but apparently he wasn't there and she left a message asking him to call her as soon as he came in. I presume he did, because about an hour later I heard the phone ring while I was busy attending to a customer."

"That would seem a logical assumption." Coghill smiled wryly. June Strachey wasn't the chatty kind and it was clear the aloof bit wasn't just an act for the customers.

"Do you happen to know who she dealt with at Richard Atkinson and Company?" he persevered.

"Who are they?"

"Her accountants."

"Oh? I've only ever heard Karen mention a Mr. Oliver Leese." The small pink tongue made another brief appearance and moistened the bottom lip. "I suppose he must be one of the partners?"

Coghill said he reckoned she was probably right, then asked June Strachey how long she had been working for Mrs. Whitfield.

"I've been the manageress here ever since the boutique opened five years ago," she told him.

"That was before the Whitfields moved to Wimbledon?"

"Yes. I saw the job advertised in the local paper and applied for it. The interview was held at the Fulham branch in New King's Road."

"I see." Coghill edged toward the desk and leafed through the sales invoices. There were eight in all, two of which had been charged to a credit card. The largest bill came to £89.95, while at the other end of the scale, somebody had bought a silk scarf for £18. Computing the various sums in his head, he arrived at a total of £340.81. "Any idea where she was living in those days?" he asked casually.

"I think Karen said she had a flat in St. John's Wood. Or was it Maida Vale?" June Strachey gave him a helpless smile. "I'm sorry to be so vague but it was a long time ago."

"It's not the sort of thing you'd remember anyway." Coghill paused, then tried a different tack. "About that phone call?" he said. "What sort of mood was Mrs. Whitfield in after she spoke to Leese? Did she appear worried or tense? Or was she just her usual self?"

"Now that you mention it, she did look rather annoyed."

The dividing line between fact and supposition was becoming more than a little blurred. June Strachey had told him everything she knew and was merely responding to suggestion. It was, Coghill decided, time to call a halt.

"Thank you for being so helpful," he said cheerily. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time."

"You haven't," she assured him. "We're not busy at the moment."

Coghill could see that for himself. The boutique was still empty and the sales assistant June Strachey had been talking to when he arrived was busy filing her fingernails. He thanked the manageress again and went out into the street. The phone booth outside the post office caught his eye and, waiting for a break in the traffic, he crossed the road and entered it.

The A to D telephone directory had been vandalized, but the page he wanted was more or less intact. Richard Atkinson and Company, Dover Street, Piccadilly, London Wl; their name and address had been on the front cover of the memorandum and articles of association that had been drawn up for Karen Boutiques Limited. Coghill ran a finger down the listings until he found their number, then dialed it. Thereafter, it took him less than a minute to discover that no one by the name of Oliver Leese had ever been associated with Richard Atkinson and Company.

If Leese was now something of an enigma, Karen Whitfield's system of accounting had become an even bigger mystery. There were retailers who scrupulously accounted for every penny that went into the till and there were those who tried to defraud the Inland Revenue and kept two sets of books, but it seemed she was in a class of her own. According to June Strachey, £340.81 represented a better than average day for the Wimbledon branch, but the deposit slips he'd seen back at the house showed that Karen Whitfield had regularly banked upward of seven hundred pounds per day. Even more surprising, this artificially inflated income had been reflected in the balance sheets and in the tax returns submitted to the Inland Revenue.