Crime Writers and Other Animals (18 page)

‘But he didn't go into detail?'

‘No. It was not an interesting subject – not one that we wished to talk about more than we had to. We had more interesting things to do with our time.'

‘Yes. Of course. It is true, though, is it not, that Mr Rudgwick wanted to live with you, but his wife wouldn't give him a divorce?'

‘That is true. That is what he told me, yes.' Another gust of anger swept through Gina. ‘She was a dreadful woman! She gave him no freedom at all. Two months ago, Ralph he has to go to Paris for an auction. He is going to take me. We will have wonderful, romantic two days. Then suddenly his wife – Jane – she say she want to go. Right at the last minute. Once again she spoil our pleasure.'

‘Do you think she did that deliberately?'

‘I think so. Why else so suddenly? She could not make Ralph happy herself, and she was determined nobody else would do so. She is, as I say, a monster!'

‘So you have no doubt that she knew about your relationship with her husband?'

‘She must have known. Everyone knew. We make no secret. We go to restaurants, opera. We are a unit. I have keys to his flat, he has keys to my flat. Whenever Ralph is in London, we are together.'

‘Of course, Mrs Rudgwick was very rarely in London.'

‘No, but she still must know. She lives with the man. No woman can be so stupid and insensitive not to know.'

‘Maybe not.' Bury was thoughtful for a moment. ‘And how long had you and Mr Rudgwick been seeing each other?'

‘We met at a private view. Five months ago. It was instant attraction, you know.'

‘Yes. And, er, I hope you don't mind my asking this, Miss Luccarini . . . but do you know if Mr Rudgwick had had mistresses before you?'

After what Jacob Keynes had said on the subject, it had occurred to Bury that Gina might find this suggestion insulting, but the tornado of reaction it prompted left him in no doubt that she did.

‘What are you suggesting: that I am just one in a long line of – what you call – “totties”! That he just pick me up for a bit of sex! That it was not a serious relationship!'

‘No, no, no.' The Inspector finally managed to calm her. ‘I was just asking. I mean, he had been married for nearly twenty years. If his relationship with his wife was as unsuccessful as you've suggested, then it might not have been surprising if he'd looked elsewhere before he met you.'

‘He did not!' she snapped. ‘He met me, and for the first time he knew what it was to be in love – to be really, fully in love!'

‘I see.' Bury hesitated. ‘Well, your reaction to that makes me think perhaps I shouldn't ask the next question I had in mind . . .'

‘What was it?'

‘I was going to ask whether you knew of any other girl-friends he was seeing while he was going around with you?'

Gina Luccarini's furious reaction proved that the Inspector's hesitancy about asking the question had been fully justified.

It was time, Detective Inspector Bury decided, for a bit of straight talking to Jane Rudgwick.

Her voice sounded strained when he rang her the next morning, but she was as co-operative as ever. No, she wasn't going out. Yes, he was welcome to come round whenever he wanted to.

Behind the spectacles, her eyes again looked very raw, as if she had been crying all night. And the pervasive flowery aroma which surrounded her made a sharp contrast to the exclusive perfume of Gina Luccarini.

Now that he could contrast the mistress and the wife, Bury had no difficulty in sympathizing with – almost even condoning – Ralph Rudgwick's behaviour.

Vying with Jane's scent that morning, there was also a smell of furniture polish. He knew that the sitting room had not just been done for his benefit, but that its cleaning was part of an obsessive daily ritual.

‘So, how're things going?' asked Jane Rudgwick, her small talk incongruous in the circumstances.

‘Our investigations are proceeding,' replied Bury, all policeman. ‘My Sergeant's making local house-to-house enquiries, to check whether anyone saw anything unusual. And forensic tests are continuing on various objects that were taken from the house, and, er . . . on your husband's body.'

‘Oh. Oh.' A sob trembled through Jane Rudgwick. ‘Excuse me . . .'

She rushed from the room. When she returned, her eyes were redder than ever, and it seemed as though she had drenched herself in scent.

‘I'm sorry about that. It's still . . . a shock, you know . . . When you mention . . . you know . . .'

‘Yes, of course . . .' Detective Inspector Bury soothed, lulling her into relaxation before his sudden change of approach.

‘I want to talk about your husband's infidelity, Mrs Rudgwick,' he announced firmly.

‘Oh.' She looked totally crestfallen. ‘You knew about that?'

Bury nodded, but before he could say anything, Jane Rudgwick continued, pleadingly, ‘It was only the once, though.'

‘What?'

‘Once. Only once that Ralph was unfaithful to me. In Paris.'

‘In Paris?' Bury was too stupefied to do more than echo the words.

‘Yes. A couple of months ago. Ralph told me all about it. He met this girl in his hotel, and they had a few drinks, and got talking and . . . well, one thing led to another. He was heartbroken about what had happened. He said he was completely in the wrong, and he swore it'd never happen again, and he said he'd fully understand if I turned him out, but . . . our relationship wasn't like that . . .'

‘So what happened?' the Inspector asked dully.

‘Well, I was hurt, obviously – it would be foolish for me to pretend otherwise – and my confidence was hit, but I think in some ways it turned out to be a good thing.'

‘A good thing?'

‘Yes, because it made us talk about our marriage. You know, if something works, you tend not to question it, you just let it tick over, and perhaps I had been getting to the stage of taking Ralph a bit for granted. I mean, the fact that he succumbed to the girl in Paris . . . well, maybe it meant there was something he wasn't getting from being married to me. So, anyway, we talked about it – talked about things in a way we hadn't since the days when we were first engaged – and I think, though I'm sorry for what caused it, that in a strange way it made our relationship stronger.'

‘Ah.' Bury realized he was almost literally gaping, and recovered himself sufficiently to ask, ‘Wasn't there some thought of you going on that trip to Paris with your husband?'

She looked at him in innocent puzzlement. ‘No. It would have involved flying. Ralph knew I hated flying. He would never even have suggested it.'

‘Oh.' The Inspector tried once again. ‘And you really do believe that that was the only occasion in the course of your married life that your husband was unfaithful to you?'

‘Of course,' she replied ingenuously. ‘I was very lucky, because I know some men are dreadful when it comes to that kind of thing.'

‘Yes,' said Bury slowly, ‘yes. And – I hope you don't mind my asking – but your marriage, I mean the sexual side, was satisfactory . . .?'

For the first time since he had met her, some colour came into Jane Rudgwick's cheeks. ‘Well, it always seemed so to me,' she replied rather coyly.

‘Ah,' said Detective Inspector Bury, ‘ah, well . . .'

And he began to invert everything he had ever thought about the case. They always said the wife was the last one to know. Ralph Rudgwick had peppered his married life with infidelities, and his wife Jane had never known about any of them. Not even about the
grand amour
that had come to her husband at the age of fifty-five.

But, as he thought about it, Bury began to wonder just how
grand
the
amour
had been. He had Gina Luccarini's word for it – and indeed that had been supported by Jacob Keynes – but, given the kind of character that was beginning to form in the Inspector's mind for Ralph Rudgwick, they had perhaps both been deluded. A man who was capable of telling wholesale lies to his wife would have little compunction about doing the same to his mistress.

Before he could sort through all the ramifications of his changed thinking, the telephone rang. Jane Rudgwick answered it.

‘Yes. Yes, he is.' She held the receiver across. ‘For you.'

It was the young Detective Sergeant, bumptiously pleased with himself. ‘I've got something. Old lady at the end of the road, apparently spends all her days snooping through the net curtains at everyone's comings and goings.'

‘What about her?' Bury asked, a little testily.

‘Early Friday evening, she saw a red Golf GTi arrive at the Rudgwicks' house.'

‘How long did it stay?'

‘She doesn't know. It was getting dark and she left her vantage point soon after to cook her supper. But she definitely saw it arrive about half-past seven.'

‘Hm. Well, that could be very useful information . . .
if
we happened to know someone who owns a red Golf GTi.'

‘We do.' The Detective Sergeant was now downright crowing. ‘Gina Luccarini owns a red Golf GTi.'

‘Ah,' said Bury. ‘Does she?'

‘But this is ridiculous!' Gina Luccarini protested. ‘What makes you think that I would kill the one person I have ever really loved?'

‘I'm not yet saying you did,' Detective Inspector Bury replied evenly. ‘I'm just asking you to answer some questions which might clarify a few points.'

‘Clarify a few points!' She threw her arms in the air. ‘All right – ask me what you want to ask.'

She was dressed on this occasion in black trousers and a buttercup-yellow silk blouse. Huge yellow kite-shapes dangled from her ears. Her perfume was heady, almost soporific, in the enclosed space of the flat.

Bury clicked the answerphone once again, rewound the tape and replayed it. A cultured, male voice oozed charm from the machine.

Bury switched the answerphone off and again asked, ‘Why didn't you tell me about that? Why didn't you tell me you went down to Henley on Friday evening?'

Gina looked sulky as she reiterated, ‘I just thought it'd make things more complicated. I thought, since I didn't see Ralph, it would be simpler to pretend I hadn't been there.'

‘But you must realize that it makes your behaviour look extremely suspicious.'

‘Yes, now I realize that, but at the time . . . I am a person of passion, Inspector – if an Englishman can understand such a concept! Often I act before I think. When you ask me about Friday, I make a decision on – what you call – the spur of the moment, and now I can see it was the wrong decision.'

‘I think I would agree with you there, Miss Luccarini.'

He let the silence hang between them. Small sounds came from the other parts of the flat, where the young Detective Sergeant and two uniformed constables were going through the artist's belongings. She had given permission for the search, but then refusing it would only have increased their suspicions.

A detail came back to the Inspector, of how, the night before, Gina had covered her confusion with a handkerchief when asked directly if she'd heard from Ralph on the Friday. Slowly, the case against her was falling into place.

‘The trouble is,' he went on, ‘that wrong decision you made means that you lied to me about Mr Rudgwick contacting you on the Friday. And if you lied to me about that “minor detail”, it does make me wonder whether you were lying to me about anything else . . .?'

‘No! I was not! Everything else it is the truth!'

‘So you're sticking to your story that you drove all the way down to Henley and didn't see him.'

‘Yes. I get there. I knock on the door – there is no reply. I try the back door. Nothing.'

‘Miss Luccarini, as I said, the forensic tests on the rubbish left in the Rudgwicks' bathroom found some boutique tissues of the kind that you use which show traces both of gunshot residue particles and of your rather distinctive perfume.'

‘She must have planted them! Jane Rudgwick planted them. I have never been inside the house in Henley. I have keys for the flat in Covent Garden, but not for the house. I tell you, when I go there Friday at seven-thirty, I don't go inside. There is no reply from the house. Jane has already killed him!' she concluded on a spurt of anger.

‘But why would she want to do that?'

‘How many times do I have to answer the same questions! She did not want our happiness! She wanted to destroy it!'

‘Miss Luccarini, I don't think Mrs Rudgwick even had any idea that you knew her husband.'

‘But she must have done.'

‘I think she thought she had a very happy marriage.'

‘But how could she think that? After the things Ralph said to me about their marriage—'

‘Yes, but he had reasons to say those things to you.'

‘What kind of reasons?'

‘Well, initially, to get you into bed with him.'

Her eyes blazed and she tensed forward. For a moment Bury thought she was actually going to slap him, but she managed to control herself.

‘That is not true. Ours was a real relationship. Ralph and I loved each other.'

‘I think you'd find Mrs Rudgwick would use exactly the same words.'

‘But she was . . . she had . . .' Gina Luccarini's hands clenched and unclenched as articulacy deserted her. Then she shook her head and said softly, ‘I come back to the same thing – why would I want to kill a man I love?'