A Very Private Murder (21 page)

‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘It goes back a long time.’ I didn’t comment. If he wanted me to know he’d tell me in his own way. A woman came in, asked him for ‘the key’ and went through into the private quarters. I thought the spell was broken but he came back to my end of the bar and started to tell me.

‘My great-grandfather was head gardener at the estate,’ he said. ‘Lived in a tied cottage. On the day he died Lady Muck Curzon paid his wife a visit and handed over a ten-pound note to pay for the funeral. It was the first ten-pound note
great-grandma
had ever seen. The day after the funeral the estate manager came a-calling and gave her a week’s notice to be out of the cottage. That’s the Curzons for you. That’s why I say it couldn’t have happened to anyone nicer.’

A couple of houses in Dunkley had B&B signs hanging outside, with sliding boards indicating that they had vacancies. I made a mental note of where they were and wrote a phone number down in case I was staying over and felt like a change from Phyllis Smith’s place, although I couldn’t see that happening. Driffield said I could have the desk in the corner, with a telephone, and I spent an hour catching up with the troops.

Maggie had seen the youth who called out to Ghislaine at the ceremony, and her heart had skipped a beat when he allowed her into his living room. Hanging over the mantelpiece was a full-page photograph of Princess Diana, cut from one of the tabloids. It was framed, with glass, and dominated the room. Standing on the television was another framed photo. This time it was of Ghislaine, taken by him at the ceremony, moments before she opened the curtains.

But it was all downhill from there. He was a pleasant lad, Maggie said, with a legitimate interest in beautiful girls due to being a hairdresser. Thursday to Saturday he hired a chair at one of the more expensive salons in town, and the rest of the time he went mobile, visiting his clients at home. He’d allowed her a quick look round and there wasn’t a shrine to Lady Di, complete with electric candles and Elton John whining in the background, in any of the other rooms. Maggie had thanked him for his cooperation and booked an appointment for a trim.

Dave and Serena had interviewed five people who’d come forward after the reconstructions of Janet Threadneedle’s last ride and it looked good. They’d seen her loading her distinctive car assisted by a tall youth parked in an adjacent space. When showed printouts of the hoody making his furtive way through the Curzon Centre two weeks earlier they’d all said, with varying degrees of confidence, that it could have been him. I asked Dave to track young Mister Sidebottom down and arrange an interview for in the morning.

We saw him in the incident room we were still using at the Centre, although now the murder had replaced the graffiti job in our affections and had its own incident room back at the nick. The two may or may not be linked, we thought, but for the moment we were hunting a murderer.

Oscar Sidebottom was not to know that. ‘Where were you on the fourteenth of May at ten o’clock in the morning?’ Dave asked. ‘That was the Monday morning Miss Curzon came to officially open the Curzon Centre.’

Young Oscar was a gangling, fresh-faced youth with a diffident manner that came across as barely suppressed arrogance. He’d declined our suggestion that he consider having a solicitor present, and positively recoiled at my offer to allow his mother to sit in on the interview. We pointed out that he wasn’t under arrest and he could walk out any time he wanted. He said he understood. In other words, he was just how we like them.

‘I was at home,’ he replied.

‘Which is where?’

‘Student quarters at York. Do you want the address?’

‘Yes please.’

Dave wrote it down. The interview wasn’t being taped but Dave was taking notes. His shorthand speed is in single figures, so I spoke slowly. ‘You don’t live with your mother?’

‘I have a room in her apartment. I stay there sometimes.’

‘You didn’t want to be at the opening? Didn’t want to enjoy your mother’s little moment of glory?’

‘Is that what you call it: her
moment of glory
?’

‘What would you call it?’

‘I’d call it pandering to the Establishment; encouraging them by perpetuating their influence over the working classes. I had no desire to be a part of it.’

Dave said: ‘Where were you a few hours earlier? Say about one a.m.’

‘I was drinking with friends in the uni bar until nearly midnight, then I went home to bed.’

‘Can anybody verify that?’

‘Yes, but I can’t give you a name.’

‘Out of old-fashioned chivalry? Highly commendable.’

‘No. Out of not remembering it.’

I took the A4 CCTV hard copies that Maggie had done for me out of my briefcase and slid them across the table. ‘Does he remind you of anybody?’ I asked.

He studied them for a long while, staring at each before placing it underneath the others, then placing them side by side on the desk. ‘No,’ he said, eventually.

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘Well I am. But I can see where you’re coming from. It’s not me, though.’

‘Do you have a hooded top?’

‘Yeah, like everybody I know.’

‘And a baseball cap?’

‘Likewise.’

‘You’ve spent a lot of time at the Centre, Oscar, behind the scenes, and we’re convinced that it was an inside job, to coin a phrase. Does the figure in the photos remind you of anybody?’

‘No.’

‘How do you think he got in and out without meeting anybody or triggering an alarm?’

‘No idea.’

‘You must have given it some thought, Oscar. From what I’m told you’re the expert on security at the Centre. So how did he do it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Dave said: ‘Would you tell us if you did?’

‘Probably not,’ Oscar replied. ‘We need another shopping mall like we need a dose of clap. If I could do anything to put the mockers on it, I’d be in there. I hope whoever did it gets away.’

‘But you’ve no objection to working here, taking the man’s money,’ I said.

‘It’s to pay off my student loan, and there’s an irony to using their own money to work against them.’

I saw a way to run the interview and I’m sure Dave saw it, too. Get him on his hobby horse, well away from the enquiries, and eventually he’d let slip whatever it was that made young Oscar Sidebottom tick.

‘So it’s all about green issues, is it?’ I asked, closing my notebook and sliding the photos back in their envelope, as if we were concluding the meeting, but I was too late: his training kicked in and he came out with response number seventeen, chapter five, of the anarchists’ handbook:

‘No comment,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve answered enough of your questions.’

‘You’ve been very patient with us,’ I told him. ‘Where will you be staying the rest of the week, in case we need to talk to you again?’

‘No comment.’

‘Have they taken the plaque down?’

‘No comment.’

‘Are all the alarms on the fire doors and emergency exits activated?’

‘No comment.’

‘OK, you can go.’ I flapped an arm to dismiss him and looked across at Dave. He pulled his
don’t look at me
expression and pushed his chair away from the table.

Young Sidebottom stood up and headed for the door. As he reached it Dave called after him: ‘Oscar.’

He stopped, one hand on the handle and looked at us.

‘Come and sit down,’ Dave said, and he did as he was told, his self-assurance crumbling as he realised we hadn’t finished with him yet.

There was a water cooler in the corner, half full, and I walked over to it and filled two beakers. Oscar declined when I asked him. I took a long sip and it tasted good. I told him that, as before, he still wasn’t under caution and could terminate the meeting any time. ‘Where were you on the morning of Monday the twenty-first?’ I asked. ‘That was a week last Monday.’

‘No comment.’

‘In case you haven’t realised it, that was the morning Arthur George Threadneedle was shot.’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘No comment.’

‘Had you ever met him?’

‘No comment.’

I said: ‘Your allegiance to the cause, whatever it might be, is commendable, Oscar, but murder is a serious offence and the advice given to you by whatever tame lawyer your group uses is, believe me, bad advice. If you continue to be uncooperative I shall be forced to arrest you and interview you under caution. The least that could happen then is that you’d spend two nights in the cells with a bunch of drunkards. So, did you know Arthur George Threadneedle?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you know his wife, Janet?’

‘No comment.’

‘Somebody answering your description was seen helping her with her shopping on the morning in question. Was it you? If it was, believe me, we’ll find out.’

‘No comment.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘We get the message. You can go. Bugger off.’

He looked mystified, raised himself from his chair but paused half stooped over the little table. ‘I can go?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t heard properly.

‘That’s right. We haven’t time to play games with tosspots – we’ve a murderer to catch. Don’t leave the country.’ He was out of the door before you could whistle the overture to
Iolanthe
.

Miss McArdle hadn’t been answering her phone, but it seemed a shame not to give her a visit while we were in the building. Much to my surprise Dave’s knock was answered by her shouted invitation to enter. She still hadn’t found herself a secretary.

Miss McArdle was standing behind her desk and a middle-aged man was standing opposite her. From the expressions on their faces it looked as if we’d interrupted some form of disagreement and saved them from scratching each other’s eyes out. ‘Ah!’ Miss McArdle exclaimed. ‘We were expecting someone else.’ She turned to the man. ‘Very well, Turner, I’ll arrange for your pay to be docked. That will be all.’

Turner, ashen-faced, stormed past us and slammed the door in his wake. I winced and Dave pulled a face. Miss McArdle invited us to sit down. ‘Apologies for the unpleasantness,’ she said. ‘We thought you were his Usdaw rep. How can I help you?’

‘We were in the building,’ I told her. ‘We’ve just had a talk with your son, Oscar, about his whereabouts when the graffiti was done, and we showed him the photographs. We advised him to invite a solicitor along, which he declined, and suggested as an alternative that you sit in on the interview, which he again declined. He answered all our questions with a “No comment”. He’s not doing himself any favours by refusing to cooperate.’

‘I thought we’d dropped the enquiry, Inspector. Are you saying that Oscar is a suspect?’

‘Everybody is a suspect until someone leaps into the frame. Oscar might be completely innocent, but he knows the people who work here, may even be able to point a finger at the culprit. The fact that he refuses to, or even denies being able to, casts suspicion on him. You know what the official caution says, Miss McArdle:
it may harm your defence
, and all that.’ I turned to Dave and explained that Miss McArdle was an avid reader of crime fiction.

‘In that case,
help
!’ he retorted, and immediately jumped up as his mobile phone started to vibrate in his pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, glancing at the display, and stepped outside the office, closing the door behind him.

‘What did we do without them?’ I wondered out loud, rather lamely.

‘I’d be lost without mine,’ Miss McArdle confessed.

‘Tell me …’ I began, then hesitated, not sure about the diplomacy of my words. ‘Tell me, did you know the Curzons at all?’

‘No. I knew of them, but never met them.’

‘But you lived in that neck of the woods, didn’t you, when you were working in York?’

‘Yes. We lived in Malton, which is not far away from them. I was born there; moved away when I went to university.’

‘What about Oscar? He’s a bit young for Ghislaine and too old for Toby, but he may have had … oh, I don’t know … a holiday job at the house; or used it in a school project; or played tennis there. Anything like that?’

‘He’s my son, Inspector, and I’m not happy answering these questions. I suggest you ask him.’

‘OK, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re quite right.’ Except, of course, that sweet baby Oscar wouldn’t answer our questions and was as forthcoming as a dead clam. I decided on one more try. ‘Tell me this, though,’ I said. ‘Did your son ever meet Mr Threadneedle? Or his wife? We need to know
for elimination purposes
.’ I like saying that: for elimination purposes. It’s always assumed that we’re talking about eliminating the person in question, but it could equally mean every other person in the world
except
him.

She puffed herself up with a deep breath and blew it out slowly, her mind racing, deciding which avenue to take. She’d read the books, and if her beloved son had left his prints or DNA anywhere incriminating it would help his case if she disclosed that he regularly frequented that place. Her hair had changed since our previous meeting. It was jet black, close cut in an asymmetrical shape, like a helmet, and nearly obscured her left eye. It probably cost a fortune but it looked good. No doubt about it: Miss Carol McArdle was back in the race. So when she answered my question I’d forgotten what I’d asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Right. Good.’ I hadn’t a clue what she meant, but had faith that the patron saint of detectives would come to my rescue, and there she was, right on cue.

‘Oscar is quite a musician. He plays the guitar, like so many young people, but wanted to take it more seriously. I mentioned it to Arthur and he suggested his wife, Janet, could give him lessons. Her principal instrument was the flute, but she was a respectable pianist and knew all the theory, of course, so he went to their house for lessons.’

Phew! Hallelujah! I said: ‘Wasn’t that … you know … a bit dangerous?’

‘That’s what I said, but he just laughed, thought it added something to our relationship. He told her that Oscar was the son of one of his employees and she believed him.’