The Marx Sisters

8

Terry Winter was waiting for them in an interview room when they got to divisional headquarters. He looked sulky.

Kathy began, her face expressionless, voice neutral. ‘Well, Mr Winter, what can we do for you?’

‘I wondered if there were any developments.’

‘Oh we’ve made some progress. We believe that your mother did die of asphyxia. And we’ve discovered that you didn’t have a cup of coffee in the place next to your Deptford salon, as you informed us yesterday.’

Winter rocked a little in his seat and blinked. ‘Yeah,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Well, that’s what I came here to talk to you about, wasn’t it?’

‘Could you speak up, sir? Just so we don’t miss anything.’

‘Look, I didn’t tell you the exact truth yesterday.’ He spoke aggressively. ‘I was in sort of a difficult position.’ He shrugged, as if that explained it.

‘Go on.’

‘I spent most of Sunday afternoon with a friend… a woman friend. My wife doesn’t know.’ He tried to address himself to Brock, but the Chief Inspector had opened a newspaper and appeared to be ignoring the proceedings.

‘Yes,’ Kathy said without any hint of surprise. She thumbed through a file of papers on the table in front of her, as if the whole sorry mess had already been written up. ‘Name?’

‘Is… is it going to be necessary for this to come out?’

‘Is she married?’

‘No, divorced. I was thinking of my wife.’ His voice tailed away. He swallowed. ‘Could I have some water?’

Kathy poured him a glass. He took a gulp. ‘Can I smoke?’

‘No. I’d rather you didn’t. It’s these new smoke-free zones, you know.’

‘Jesus.’ He shook his head and shoved the packet back into his jacket pocket. ‘Her name’s Geraldine McArthur. She’s the manager of my New Cross salon.’

‘You were with her between what times?’

‘From about 2.15 till around 6.’

‘Can anyone else vouch for that?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so. We were alone in her flat near the salon at first. Then we went out for a drive in the Merc, up to Greenwich. We took a walk in the park, but I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular there. We returned to her place for a cup of tea, then I left.’

‘No one phoned her while you were in her flat?’

He shook his head. He was fingering the gold chain round his wrist impatiently.

‘And you’ve discussed this with her, and told her you were coming to see us?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. We’d better get her over here straight away. Where will she be?’

Winter gave Kathy a phone number and she left the room. They waited in silence, Brock slowly scanning the pages of his newspaper, until Kathy returned with a young woman constable.

‘We’re going to videotape you. Is that OK?’

‘I suppose…’

‘Fairly normal now. Just to make sure we get it right. Now, you realize that, having lied to us once, you have now given us an explanation of your movements during the afternoon your mother died which depends on one other witness, with whom you have since had the opportunity to collude, and with no likelihood of corroborating evidence. So’-Kathy sighed and put her papers to one side-‘the only way we can test your statement is to take a detailed account from you and another from Ms McArthur, and see if they match.’

‘I’ve told you what we did…’

‘I said a detailed account, Mr Winter, minute by minute, of what you did. Who did what, to whom, in what order, and for how long.’

Winter stared at her, startled. He glanced at the policewoman in the corner, head down, writing furiously, and at Brock who turned the page of his newspaper absently.

‘You’re not serious!’ Winter was agitated, his fingers working overtime.

‘Only way, sir. So let’s get on with it. You arrived in your car at what time?’

Winter began haltingly with the innocuous details of his arrival. He described parking the car round the corner because it was so conspicuous among the wrecks in her street, the walk to her front door, how many times he rang the bell, the sound of her footsteps running to the door. His attempt to maintain a neutral flow of words was disturbed by vivid pictures of what he was describing-Geraldine’s face glowing with pleasure at his arrival, her arms around his neck.

‘Was that before or after you closed the front door?’

‘After.’

‘Then?’

Pause.

‘I said, “Let’s go to bed.” ’ There was an edge of defiance in his voice.

‘You said, or she said?’

‘She said.’

‘You first said that you said it.’

‘No.’ Confusion. ‘No, she said it.’

‘Then?’

‘We went into the bedroom. Geraldine drew the curtains. We got undressed.’

‘Did you undress each other, or what?’

‘No. Each on our own side of the bed. Quickly.’

‘Did you put your clothes on a chair? What were you each wearing?’

Winter was becoming flustered, but he stuck gamely to his account, the mental images of private passion so at odds with this drab room and his indifferent questioners that he kept losing the thread. He saw his lover’s naked belly, smelled her perfume. He lifted the glass of water again and saw that his hand was trembling.

‘And then we made love.’

‘How?’

‘What?’

‘How did you do it? What position?’

‘I don’t know, several.’

‘You made love several times?’

‘No, once. But we had several… positions.’

‘Describe them.’

‘Well… to begin with face to face… then later, her on top.’

‘Did you have oral sex?’

‘Yes… no, I don’t know.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No… I can’t remember.’

Kathy raised her eyebrows incredulously. ‘What about anal sex then? Do you remember that?’

Winter’s face had turned bright red and there were drops of sweat on his forehead. He turned to appeal to Brock, but he was now engrossed in the crossword.

‘No, certainly not that, because…’

‘Because?’

His jaw was clenched tight and for a moment it looked as if he might explode. Then he burst out, ‘Because we used to do that, but we had to stop after Geraldine saw the doctor.’

His chest was heaving, his eyes fixed on the floor. But what he saw was not the grey sheet-plastic flooring, but the look on Geraldine’s face when she had told him that time that it was hurting.

‘All right, Mr Winter.’ Kathy’s voice was mild, reassuring. ‘Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Just have a little break. Have another drink of water. Perhaps you’d like tea, no?’

They started again, patiently opening up Winter’s Sunday afternoon, moment by moment. They discovered the form of contraception used, whether Ms McArthur was having her period, and what colour the pillows were. Then they moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen and the lounge.

An hour after he had arrived at his girlfriend’s flat, the two had gone out to his car and driven to Greenwich. They walked through the park, where there might or might not have been small boys playing football on the grass, families picnicking beneath the trees and tourists queuing to see the Queen’s House. They established that the affair had been going on for six months, and that the Sunday afternoon assignation had been a regular event for over four. The only questions which Winter evaded concerned the future-whether he was intending to divorce his wife and marry his lover.

‘I don’t see the relevance of that,’ he said.

‘It would be expensive, wouldn’t it? That nice house in Chislehurst, the cars, the overseas trips, maybe some of the business. You’d lose quite a bit.’

Winter shook his head and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It could all be worked out.’

‘You think your wife would be reasonable, do you?’

Winter looked queasy.

‘When did you suggest to your mother that she mortgage her house and lend you the money?’

For a moment Kathy thought Winter was going to pass out. His expression was stunned, his eyes unfocused. Then he recovered himself and gasped, shaking his head.

‘That… that was nothing to do with this. After I opened the fifth salon last year, I needed extra cash. It was just a suggestion to Mum, in passing. It wasn’t serious.’

‘Well, she seemed to have taken it very seriously. She was very worried about it.’

‘I… I didn’t know.’

‘Yes, well perhaps you’d know what had been worrying her lately?’

‘Lately?’

‘Yes. She was worried, depressed about something. For the past three or four months, maybe longer. She’d been getting antidepressants from the doctor.’

‘I had no idea. Really, I didn’t know. She never said.’

‘Maybe you’d been putting pressure on her to sell her house.’

‘Dear God, no.’ Winter bowed his head, his hands between his knees, palms together, and began to rock back and forward.

‘Come on, Mr Winter. You wanted her to sell the house, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes. I wanted her to get rid of that place. It was always needing maintenance. It needs rewiring. The roof needs complete reslating. I wanted her to get a nice little place on one level she could cope with. A modern flat with central heating. Maybe nearer to us. She had got a good offer. And her solicitor told me that everyone was selling up and leaving there. She would be left there in the middle of a building site. It was crazy.’

‘And did the agent for First Properties also tell you that if she didn’t sell soon, the place might end up being unsaleable?’

Winter looked at her with a mixture of grief and despair on his face.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘he told me that.’

Winter was taken out to wait in another room while they interviewed Geraldine McArthur.

Brock got to his feet and stretched. He groaned. ‘Oh dear. I need a coffee before we get on to her. The things we have to do! I’m glad I had a decent breakfast this morning. I couldn’t have stood that on an empty stomach.’

‘You think I was too rough on him, sir?’

‘No, no. Exactly what he deserved, really. You wonder why he bothers, don’t you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, hauling himself off every Sunday afternoon to bed down with some woman whose every bump and wrinkle must be as familiar as his wife’s by this stage. I mean if he can’t even remember the next day whether she gave his dick a suck-sorry, Constable.’ The WPC in the corner smiled and stirred her coffee. ‘You can understand it at first, the excitement, the irresistible temptation, showing off in a big flashy car to some impressionable girl, but by this stage it must be getting a bit of a chore. And it’s going to cost him plenty, one way or another. Probably already has-that new kitchen, for instance.’

‘You think the wife knows?’

Brock shrugged. ‘I mean, I know I’m getting old, but where’s the point at this stage? I suppose the other woman must have her claws sunk deep into him.’ Kathy opened her mouth to object, but Brock carried on. ‘What do you reckon she’s like? Have to be a stunner, I suppose. Glamorous.’

‘That’s a bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?’ Kathy realized she sounded irritable.

‘Yes, maybe. “The other woman.” Could be an intelligent, sensible, attractive woman like… well, like you, Kathy.’ Brock ploughed on, relentless, pretending not to see the look on her face. ‘But unlikely. Why would such a woman go for a sleazy married man like Terry? Almost bound to be some glamorous, vain young thing. Hairdressing salon manageress. All hair and boobs. Let’s take a bet on it.’

Brock lost his bet. Ms Geraldine McArthur was older than Caroline Winter, and not nearly as striking. She had a wide mouth with a generous smile, and wore her dark brown hair in a plain straight bob. She was obviously very worried, but more self-possessed than Winter had been. She also had a better recollection than he had had of the detailed events of Sunday afternoon, which she related to Kathy without protest, and with some considerable, if embarrassed, dignity. Her account of the past tallied with his in every significant respect, although her version of the future seemed rather clearer than his.

‘Terry has been working out with his accountant how things can be settled with Caroline, his wife. It’s complicated, you see, with the loans outstanding for the businesses and the cars leased, and so on. It’s taking him a long time to work out just the best way to do it, so that everyone comes out of it all right. He wants to have that all worked out before he tells Caroline that he wants a divorce, to make it as painless as possible. I think he’s right about that. Only the accountant is being very slow.’

Kathy’s eyes narrowed.

‘His two girls are quite grown up now, so it shouldn’t be too hard on them. I have two boys, six and nine. My husband married again not long after we were divorced, and because he and his wife have a nice home with a garden for pets and so on, and good schools near by, we agreed that the boys would live with them. My flat isn’t really suitable. But when Terry and I get married, I shall apply for custody of the boys.’

‘I see.’

Kathy seemed temporarily lost for words. The rustle of writing in the corner stopped, and for a moment a heavy silence hung in the room.

‘Did you ever meet Terry’s mother, Ms McArthur?’ Brock asked at last.

‘No. I would have liked to. But it didn’t seem possible. She would have been very upset to learn that Terry’s marriage was a failure. Although I think we would have got on after she’d got over the divorce. She was very fond of Terry, and she would have seen how much in love we are. I think she was a generous person.’

‘In terms of money?’

‘Yes. I don’t think she had a lot, but she was very independent, and she was always buying things for Terry and his family. Terry used to complain about her being too generous.’

‘And did Terry ever talk about getting financial assistance from his mother-for his business, or to help with the divorce, for example?’

Geraldine McArthur frowned. ‘No, he never said anything about that.’

‘Or about the possibility of her selling her house?’

‘Yes, he did talk about how unsuitable it was for her, and how she should sell it. She was quite stubborn, I understand.’

From the window of Kathy’s office, Brock looked down on the figures of Winter and his girlfriend as they emerged on to the street. They spoke briefly and then parted, walking away in opposite directions.

‘It doesn’t really settle anything, though,’ Kathy said. ‘They could have been describing the Sunday before last. Say Winter left her after an hour or so, and went to call on his mother to have another go at persuading her to sell the house. He went in to 22 and found her fast asleep on her bed. Just looking at the cantankerous old bird snoring away there, he knew she’d never change her mind. She was going to sit it out and he’d see his quarter of a million crumble to dust. He’s fuming. He goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, and he sees a plastic bag. He’s seen warnings on the TV about how easy it is to suffocate by accident with a plastic bag. He takes it back into the bedroom and discovers that they’re right, it is easy. Then he goes back to New Cross.’

‘So you see him as a villain?’ Brock smiled.

‘Damn right.’

‘And her too? I owe you a drink by the way. Not at all the scarlet woman.’

‘No. I think she’d protect him, but she wouldn’t murder. I think he returns in a state. He tells her that when he went to see his mother he found her lying dead on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. He thinks she killed herself. He says he took the bag off and put it in the kitchen bin, but then worried that he shouldn’t have. He panicked and left. He’s in a state of shock. He begs her not to contact anyone until he’s had time to think it through. He delays until he hears from his wife that his mother’s been found and the police are on the scene. Now he tells his girlfriend that he can’t admit that he was there, and anyway there’d be no point. She agrees to cover for him.’

Brock nodded. ‘Plausible.’

The pathologist’s report arrived shortly afterwards. Analyses of blood and vital organs had revealed no poisons. The moisture on the inside of the plastic bag was confirmed as Meredith Winterbottom’s saliva, and the hairs were also hers. Dr Mehta’s conclusion was as he had indicated on the phone the previous day-cause of death unable to be determined by anatomical or toxicological analysis, but evidence compatible with asphyxia of some form. The coroner had now agreed to release the body to the family for cremation on the following day.

‘Fair enough.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve had my fill of life’s tangled web for one day. I think I might go back to the Yard and play with my computer for a while. All right with you?’

‘Of course, sir. I thought we might go down to the seaside tomorrow, to visit somebody else who was in Jerusalem Lane on Sunday afternoon-Adam Kowalski, former professor of Cracow, now resident of Eastbourne.’