Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (12 page)

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4. Wednesday
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The first of the links thrown up by the computer was Giles Adams. He was Cynthia Adams’ son. He had been briefly interviewed immediately after his mother’s death and had made no objection to providing a DNA sample. Of course it was simply for record purposes since there was no suggestion that he had shared his mother’s bed in the hotel room. In fact, due to his unfortunate experience in losing both his parents in a period of less than twelve months, the computer suggested that the interview had been less than penetrating. Rather more questions should be asked of him.

At Charlotte’s request Paulson phoned Giles Adams to set up a meeting with her. The inspector said the young man was most unhappy about answering further questions, but the inspector pointed out that they were still doing everything they could to bring his mother’s murderer to justice. At eleven on Wednesday morning they were sitting in his plush town centre office.

Giles Adams was a shortish, plump man in his mid-thirties. He had a round face and thinning, fair hair. Charlotte wasn’t impressed by his manner. His main emotion, when he discussed his mother, seemed to be embarrassment, rather than sorrow at her early demise. He regarded Charlotte with a mixture of fear and suspicion.

“I’m sorry to have to take you back over all this again, Mr Adams.” she said. “I appreciate that you have been through this ordeal before and had probably hoped to be spared any further questioning. However, I’m sure you will also appreciate that we are still trying very hard to solve this case, as we do all long-running cases like this. I’ve been sent down from London to see if I can help with the investigation. And to do that, I have to talk personally to all the important people involved in the case. I’m sure you understand.”

Adams swallowed and nodded wordlessly.

“I have read through Inspector Paulson’s case notes and discussed all aspects of the enquiry with him. He has come with me now so that he can add anything which occurs to him as we go through your evidence.” She paused for a second. “I assume that your mother’s murder came as a great shock to you.”

“Yes.” He appeared nervous. “Well, naturally.”

“You had no idea that she had been seeing a man - on an intimate basis, I mean?”

His lips pursed and his face turned a bright pink as he replied. “Of course I hadn’t. She insisted on continuing to live on her own in that great big house. She had no reason to carry on with some man like that. She had a position to keep up. She was still very active - in local politics and other affairs, I mean …”

“Did you see very much of her?”

“Not a great deal.” He looked down at his desk as though deliberately trying to calm himself. “No - she and my wife didn’t get on very well. My mother thought Helen didn’t like her. She seldom came to visit us and my wife wouldn’t go near Druce’s Hill House. Er - that’s the name of my parents home. She still won’t, even though my mother’s been dead a year.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “I understand you’re the only son?”

“Yes. What of it?” He corrected himself. “I have a sister, but she’s married to an American. He’s a colonel in the U.S. army. He’s posted to Hawaii at the moment. Stephanie flew home for the funeral, of course, but she only stayed for a few days. When I sell the house, I’ll send half to her as required by the will - after paying tax, of course.”

“Are you and your sister the sole beneficiaries of your mother’s estate?”

“Yes, with the exception of a few small specific bequests it’s all shared equally between us. The main item is Druce’s Hill House, which was originally owned in the joint names of my parents.” Now he had started talking he seemed in a rush to divest himself of all the information he could, whether it was relevant or not.

“You don’t intend to take on the big house?”

He shook his head emphatically. “We much prefer our comfortable, modern house. Druce’s Hill House is so big - it costs a fortune to keep it up - and it’s cold and damp in winter. It’s on the market at present.” He pulled a face. “It’s proving to be a problem to sell.”

“What about other assets?” asked Paulson. “What about your business?”

“Oh.” He seemed taken aback for a minute. “That had nothing to do with my mother. That was purchased some time ago by my father. He gradually transferred the ownership to me, and the balance was left to me in his will.”

“None of that went to your sister?”

He leaned forward to explain. “This was a business built up by me and only initially financed by my father. At no time did my sister have anything to do with it.”

“What sort of business is it?”

“We’re accountants,” he explained. “We audit the books of a number of important local businesses.”

She suddenly had an idea. “You don’t by any chance do the accounts for the businesses of,” she checked her notes, “of Raymond Parsons?”

“Never heard of him,” said Adams, almost too quickly.

“Or Lionel Hillman or Alfred de Billiere?”

“We work for Hillman’s garages. Lionel’s family own a string of car franchises throughout the area.” He shook his head. “But I’ve never heard of the other chap. Why?”

“Just a thought,” she said. “But to return to your mother - I understand she was widowed only about six months before she died. Is that right?”

His eyes watched her carefully, as though suspicious that she was trying to trap him into giving away secret information. “That’s right. My father died a week before the previous Christmas.”

“And you didn’t see very much of your mother after that?”

“No.”

“How much exactly?”

“Pardon.”

“How many times,” asked Charlotte slowly and clearly, “had you seen you mother between your father’s death and her murder?”

He pulled a face and shrugged slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe twice, maybe three times.”

“Three times in six months?” She couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice. “How far apart did you live?”

“About a mile,” he conceded after a pause.

“Where did you meet? Your house or hers?”

“We met at the funeral, of course. Then she called in here at the office once or twice when there was something important to discuss.”

Paulson intervened. “You wouldn’t say you were a close family, Mr Adams?”

“I told you,” he said impatiently, “my wife and my mother didn’t get on.”

“Were you shocked and horrified when you heard that she had been in bed in a hotel room with an unknown man in the middle of the afternoon,” asked Charlotte.

“Of course I was,” he snapped back at her. “Wouldn’t you be horrified if you found out your mother, who had been one of the pillars of local society a couple of years before, had been having an illicit affair?”

“Didn’t you think that she might have been lonely?” asked Charlotte mildly. “Your mother was recently widowed. She hardly ever saw her family, even though they lived quite close. Didn’t you think that a lonely, bereaved woman might be easy prey for a man who seemed to offer her kindness and affection?”

Charlotte had the pleasure of seeing an expression close to shock pass across the man’s face. She stood up. “I don’t think Mr Adams can help us any further, Stafford. I don’t think he knew his mother well enough to have any useful information about her.”

Giles Adams made no attempt to respond.

She went to the door, followed by Paulson. As she grasped the handle she suddenly remembered something else. “Tell me, Mr Adams, did your mother have any staff working for her at the time of her death?”

He looked up at her, his mouth still half open. He shut it hurriedly and said, “Er - yes. Emily and Stan Burrows live in the cottage just inside the entrance gate at Druce’s Hill House. They’ve got an agreement which lets them stay there for the rest of their lives. That’s one reason why the property is so difficult to sell.”

Charlotte looked at Paulson. “You know where that is, Stafford?”

He nodded.

“Then thank you, Mr Adams. Good bye.”

The man was still sitting at his desk, his face showing nothing except an expression of relief.

As they went down the corridor she said, “God preserve me from relatives like Giles Adams. Now let’s go and see the hotel manager. The computer programme suggests his contacts might be explored more deeply for possible further information.”

* * * * * * * *

Nicolo Montessori fussed around them as he ushered them into his office and pulled up chairs for them to sit on.

“Oh, Mrs Faraday,” he simpered, “I do not want to go through a summer like the one I had last year. It is always so difficult with the staff. And then to have a murder on the premises …”

“Detective Chief Inspector Faraday,” said Paulson firmly, “wants to ask you about the circumstances which led to the discovery of the body of Cynthia Adams.”

“Ah, yes.” Montessori wrung his hands. “It is so sad for Mrs Adams and her family …”

“What I’d really like to do,” said Charlotte, “is speak to your chamber-maid who found the body.”

“It is not possible, I’m afraid.” He raised his hands to heaven. “The staff - they do not stay for long these days. That maid is no longer with us. In fact, I think she was leaving us less than two weeks after the tragedy.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

He spread his arms expansively and looked at the floor as though he suspected she might have been hidden below it. “I am sorry, but I do not know. I expect she go to Portugal for the winter. After that - who knows?” He gave an extravagant shrug which Charlotte thought would be a fine exercise for his back muscles.

“Well, in that case I’ll have to ask you to let me have her full name and home address in case we need to contact her.” Charlotte decided to make him sweat a little. “Did you keep a copy of her contract?”

“I’m afraid not.” Montessori gave her a sickly grin. “I destroy my records at the end of each summer.”

She gave him a bland smile. “You never know - it may be there with your current records. I’ll send down a couple of uniformed officers to check through this year’s employment forms. Maybe they’ll find it among all your other papers.”

“Are you sure that is necessary?” The man began to turn white and started to babble. “Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly let you see confidential records without the permission of my head office in London.”

“Which I’m sure they’d give as soon as we rang them,” said Paulson. “It seems to me, Mr Montessori, that you aren’t being as helpful to us as you should be when we are investigating a murder which took place on your premises. Do you understand the law in this country about the penalties for obstructing the police in carrying out their enquiries?”

Montessori was now wringing his hands in earnest. “Please ask me anything you want to know,” he pleaded. “I will do my very best to help you as fully as I know how.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, leaning forward. “Now then - I understand the hotel register was checked fully at the time, but I hope you will still remember what it said. I believe Cynthia Adams booked a room on three separate occasions over a period of about two weeks. Was it always by telephone?”

“Yes. That is so.”

She looked at her print-out. “On the third occasion - the day she was murdered - I understand your receptionist allocated her room number 307 when she booked and she told her that number over the phone?”

Montessori nodded.

“Wasn’t that unusual?”

A strange expression appeared on the man’s face, part amused, part lewd. “It is unusual,” he said slowly. “But some people do ask for it?”

“What does it make you think, when you are asked to give the room number in advance?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“What do I think?” The manager feigned astonishment. “I think nothing. It is not for me to question a customer.”

“Come off it, Montessori,” burst in Paulson. “Tell us straight - in your experience, what does a request like that usually mean?”

The Italian spread his hands and rocked his body as though he were dancing to some exotic music. “Ah well, I suppose it mean they want to give the number to somebody else for a meeting.” He looked at the faces of the two police officers but they gave him no help. He ducked his head on one side and smiled apologetically. “I suppose it mean a little - how you say? - a little hanky panky.”

Charlotte found it difficult to keep a straight face. “And does a lot of hanky panky take place in your hotel?”

“Oh! Certainly not.” He registered appropriate outrage at the suggestion, then looked down guiltily at his feet. “Of course, it is not for us to question customers about what they wish to do in their rooms.”

“But,” said Paulson, “what did you do if you suspected that somebody had booked your room - like Cynthia Adams for example - for an afternoon’s hanky panky, as you call it?”

“What did we do?” Montessori looked suitably mystified. “We did nothing.”

“Did you give any instructions to your chamber-maids,” asked Charlotte.

“Instructions? What instructions?”

“Did you for instance tell them to make sure they didn’t disturb the people in room 307?”