Almost Love Page 4

  “But you didn’t turn the torch off?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Guy Maichment shrugged again, but he was calmer now. He smiled self-depreciatively.

  “Scared, I guess. I didn’t stop to think it through properly, but I was pretty alarmed. I don’t pretend to be a hero.”

  “Once you were in the house, did you call out to your aunt?”

  “No. By then I had already decided that something was wrong.”

  “Because the door was open?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you first see the blood – or whatever it is – on the wall?”

  “Not until after I came back downstairs. I turned the lights on after I searched the house.”

  “So you searched the whole house by torchlight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you start with the upstairs rooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was that? If there had been an intruder in the house and they were still downstairs, they could either have got away or trapped you. And what about your aunt? You said that she sometimes sleeps all night in a chair. Didn’t you think that she might have been doing that last night? In which case, she would have been very frightened if she’d woken up to hear someone moving around upstairs. Much more frightened than if you’d rung the doorbell.”

  Guy Maichment shot Tim a look of pure loathing. Tim noted that the pupils of his eyes shrank rapidly, while the irises, normally hazel, took on an iridescent yellow hue. The yellow faded as suddenly as it had appeared when Maichment tamed his stare. He evidently hoped that his anger had gone unnoticed. He dropped his gaze and attempted another of his “I-was-doing-my-best-but-was-out-of-my-depth” shrugs. Tim kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on Maichment’s face throughout this performance. He was beginning to lose patience. It was clear that the man had something to hide and he was tired of pussyfooting around. He stopped himself from directly challenging Maichment by recalling the day on which Katrin and Juliet Armstrong had each separately told him that he gave himself away too easily. Instead he waited. Guy Maichment compressed his lips, and ran his tongue around the top one. He took another swig from the water-bottle.

  “To be honest, I don’t know why I went upstairs first. The doors to all the downstairs rooms were closed, and the staircase leads straight up from the hall, as you see. It just seemed the natural thing to do.”

  “I see. How many rooms are there upstairs?”

  “Three. My aunt’s bedroom, Jane Halliwell’s room and what Claudia calls the box-room. It actually has a single bed in it, but there’s a lot of junk in there as well. When guests stay, Jane usually moves out of her room into the box-room for a few nights.”

  “Isn’t there a bathroom?”

  “Yes, but it’s downstairs; it’s part of the extension at the back of the house. As you can imagine, there was no bathroom when the house was built, nor for centuries afterwards, as far as I know. My aunt didn’t build the extension herself. I think it was added in the 1930s.”

  “So you went upstairs, still with the lights off, still shining your torch, and looked in all of the rooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one did you start with?”

  “My aunt’s bedroom. I knocked on the door and said, ‘Claudia, it’s me, Guy. Don’t be alarmed. I’ve just come to see that you’re all right. May I come in?’”

  “Was there any response?”

  “Of course there wasn’t. As you are perfectly aware, she’s disappeared.”

  “So then you entered the room?”

  “Yes. I knocked again, a little louder, and then I went in. I could see immediately that she wasn’t in the bed. I walked round the bed, in case she had fallen on to the floor. There’s a walk-in cupboard – her ‘closet’, she calls it – on that side of the room, beyond the window. I opened the door and shone the torch in there as well. I thought there was an outside chance that she might have hidden in there, if she’d been alarmed by something.”

  Tim nodded.

  “And after that?”

  “I went into Jane’s room. It’s much smaller, with no large cupboards, so I just stood in the doorway and swung the torchlight around. I don’t think I’ve been in it once since Jane came to live here, but it is just as I’d expect her room to be: pin-neat, with nothing left out at all. Then the box-room. As I’ve said, it’s full of junk. The bed is made up, but piled with stuff at the moment: it looks like old curtains. And all the usual boxes that my aunt refuses to get rid of. It was pretty obvious that there was no-one lurking in there.”

  “Then back downstairs again?”

  “Yes. I came down the stairs by torchlight and opened the door to the parlour. It was there that I decided to turn on the lights. The parlour is cluttered and I was afraid of tripping over something. In any case, I was pretty convinced by this time that I was alone in the house – though it did cross my mind . . . .” Guy Maichment paused abruptly.

  “Go on, Mr Maichment. What crossed your mind?”

  “It did occur to me that she might have died, or had a stroke, or something.”

  “Quite a natural thought. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the open door, I’m guessing this would have been the thought uppermost in your mind?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So what did you find in the parlour?”

  “Nothing unusual at all. My aunt is not a tidy woman; the room looks much as I would have expected it to, especially as she has been on her own this week. But there is no sign of a disturbance, or of her having left in a hurry. The same goes for the other rooms. There is an office leading out of the parlour – I think it was a dining-room in times past – and the extension leads out of the office. It’s really just the bathroom and conservatory.”

  “There must be some kind of kitchen?”

  “Yes, but it’s separate from the rooms I’ve just been talking about. You get to it through the other door that leads out of the hall.”

  “Did you go in there as well?”

  Guy Maichment hesitated.

  “Not until . . . afterwards.”

  “After what?”

  “I returned to the hall, intending to explore the kitchen, as you suggest. But I was using the lights now. I had to feel along the wall for the hall light – I couldn’t remember where the switch was – I know that it is over the little bureau that stands opposite the door, but I couldn’t remember exactly where. I found it, anyway, and I was about to go into the kitchen when something made me turn round and look at that wall.” He shuddered, a little theatrically, Tim thought.

  “What made you turn round, exactly?” Tim asked crisply. “Was it a noise of some kind?”

  “Oh, no.” Guy Maichment eyed Tim with a contemptuous look which suggested his profound sense of his own superiority. “It was just a feeling. I have always been very sensitive.”

  “Indeed. So seeing the mess on the wall prevented you from going into the kitchen?”

  “It didn’t prevent me exactly: it just made me focus very clearly on what I ought to do next. I decided to telephone the police immediately.”

  “Very sensible,” said Tim drily. “So you went back into the parlour?”

  “Yes. I called nine nine nine. The woman who answered said that what I had told her could not be classed as an emergency as such, but when I mentioned Roy Little she promised to talk to her superior. I must say that Roy called me back very promptly indeed,” he added, almost with a simper.

  “At what time was this?”

  “Do you mean my original call, or Roy’s call back?”

  “Either or both. From what you say, they were very close together.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t look at my watch, but my guess is that it was about 4.30 a.m. While I was making the first call, I could see that the moon was dip
ping behind the clouds. It rained briefly afterwards.”

  “Do you own a mobile phone, Mr Maichment?”

  “Of course. I carry it with me everywhere. It would be impossible to do my job without it.”

  “So you had it with you last night?”

  “Certainly.”

  “In that case, why did you use the landline? If I were in someone else’s house, even someone I knew quite well, I wouldn’t use their phone without their permission unless I had no alternative.”

  Again the shrug. “Force of habit, I guess. I never use the mobile when I’m at home myself. I suppose it’s a kind of hangover from the days when calls on the mobile were much more expensive. Nowadays, of course, they tend to be cheaper than ordinary calls, but one doesn’t always think clearly, especially in trying circumstances; one’s habits tend to become a little ingrained. Besides, my aunt wouldn’t have minded.”

  He made himself sound like a pensioner, thought Tim, when he was probably fifty at the outside.

  “After you made the call, did you just sit and wait until Superintendent Little rang you back? Or did you do something else for however many minutes it was?”

  “I just waited. I sat quietly in one of the armchairs. To be honest, I was beginning to feel the effects of all I’d been through up until that point. A kind of dizziness came over me, so I needed to rest. I also wanted to get some instructions about what I should do next,” he added virtuously. “I didn’t want to do anything that would destroy evidence that might help to find my aunt.”

  “And after Superintendent Little spoke to you?”

  “I remained seated for a while, and then I decided to look in the kitchen. Roy Little said that I should touch as little as possible, but he didn’t forbid me from touching anything at all, so I thought it would probably be all right. I must admit to being a bit apprehensive about what I might find in there, and I loitered outside the door for a few seconds before I could pluck up courage to turn the handle. But it was – is – fine. Some of the usual clutter that my aunt creates, but nothing to suggest a struggle.”

  “And no body lying on the floor?” said Tim, with a hint of satire.

  Guy Maichment looked affronted.

  “That’s in very poor taste, if I may say so. And quite unnecessary. If there had been a body, obviously we wouldn’t all be standing here, thinking about what might have become of my aunt. Would we?”

  It was on the tip of Tim’s tongue to retort that that would depend on whose body it was. He thought better of it, however, in part because he was more interested in the car which he could now hear approaching. He turned to face the track at the same moment as the first glimpse of a small white van appeared through the trees. He recognised it immediately as the vehicle used by Patti Gardner and her team of SOCOs.

  Chapter Four

  Alex sustained her veneer of jauntiness as she entered the conference room, though her heart was still quailing at the prospect of the day ahead. She saw that Oliver was already waiting for her. He was sitting at a table near to the podium with his back to her, his long legs stuck out to one side of the table, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with what looked like a piece of plastic. The tables had been arranged ‘cabaret style’, as the events manager of the hotel had suggested: a break with tradition that had at once appealed to Alex and filled her with alarm when she considered the reaction that it might provoke amongst the old guard.

  Oliver turned to look at her as the swing door banged behind her and rose to his feet. He was sucking a sweet. He held out the packet.

  “Love hearts,” he said, brandishing the twist of transparent paper with which he had been toying. “Why is it that hotels seem to think that conference delegates have suddenly regressed to late toddlerhood and need fortifying with the sort of sweets that one saw on the pocket-money counter of the corner shop, circa 1960? Or is it just the pernicious creeping American influence, do you think, of trivialising everything? Want one?” he added, taking another himself. He scrutinised the inscription on the next sugared sweet in the packet. “Wonder girl,” he read. “How appropriate! You must take it now!”

  Alex laughed and brushed his hand away.

  “Certainly not!” she said. “It’s far too early in the day to be eating sweets.” She looked around her. “I see that the technicians aren’t here yet, despite all the fuss that they made about getting the equipment tested and all the rehearsals over by eight-thirty. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them, have you?”

  “No. I’ve only just arrived myself. I daresay I could switch on the sound system and a mike on my own, though. It can’t be that difficult.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. They’re certain to make us pay if anything gets broken. I suggest we give them another five minutes and then, if they still haven’t turned up, I’ll go in search of the events manager and ask him to page them. It’s the sort of thing that he loves doing: you can just tell.”

  Oliver scrutinised the love heart again.

  “Sure I can’t tempt you?” he said. “No, really,” said Alex. “To tell you the truth, I felt a little the worse for wear when I got up this morning.”

  “Indeed?” Oliver’s curiosity was almost palpable. “You surprise me! I’ve always thought of you as being picture-perfect at these events. Over-indulgence doesn’t fit my notion of you at all.”

  Alex could not think of a suitably witty riposte, so she didn’t reply. She couldn’t tell if Oliver’s incredulity was genuine; he might well have been mocking her.

  “I blame myself, actually,” he continued. “I should never have left you in Edmund’s clutches. The man is such a bore – in every sense of the word, if one disregards the spelling. He’s enough to turn anyone to drink. I do hope that you managed to get rid of him eventually?”

  “We spent the night in separate beds, if that’s what you mean,” said Alex curtly.

  Oliver looked abashed. She decided to change the subject.

  “Did you ever meet Claudia McRae?” she asked.

  “Of course. I went on some of her digs when I was a student. It’s funny that you should ask, because, as a matter of fact, she lives close by to here and I dropped in on her yesterday. Why do you mention her? Do you think we should have invited her to the conference? I must admit that it crossed my mind to suggest it, although she is quite frail now and extremely eccentric. Many people feel that her theories have been discredited – including, I am quite certain, some of our esteemed fellow delegates. If she’d come, it could have caused a bit of a ruckus.”

  “You saw her yesterday?”

  “Yes. Only for half an hour or so. I dropped in for a cup of tea, that’s all. I’ve always kept in touch with her, though it must be several years since we last met. You seem surprised.”

  “You obviously didn’t see the news this morning.”

  “I never watch so-called ‘breakfast television’. Another detestable American habit, with a name to match. Why? What did I miss? Something about Claudia?”

  “She’s disappeared. The police are treating it as suspicious.”

  “Disappeared! But how could she have? She was at home yesterday, and certainly not planning on going anywhere. In fact, she seemed quite lost – tired out, disorientated, almost – but I put that down to the fact that her paid companion wasn’t there. Claudia was always hopeless at practical things, even in her heyday. I had to make tea for her yesterday, because it was clear she was never going to gather herself together enough to make it for me. What you say is worrying. Do you mind if I go to my room to listen to the news headlines? Perhaps I ought to talk to the police as well.”

  Alex was faintly amused by Oliver’s penchant for placing himself in the midst of a drama; she had watched it happen before. She knew from long experience that his sense of theatre could always be relied upon. However, the diversion was short-lived; it did not take her long to realise that Olive
r might be right. The police might well want to speak to him.

  The swing door banged boisterously. Three men clad in black T-shirts and jeans burst in.

  “Hi! I’m Archie, and this here is Baz, and Gully. We’re the sound guys. Sorry we’re late. Ready to roll now, though.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said Oliver. “I did get here on time, as you specified, but I’m afraid something rather urgent has come up now that I have to attend to.”

  Archie looked affronted.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “You wanted the rehearsal. Don’t blame us if your gig doesn’t go according to plan.”

  “My ‘gig’, as you put it, might not happen at all if you don’t learn to behave with a bit more respect.”

  The technical team stood and faced him across the expanse of white-cloth’d tables, arms folded, lowering like a bunch of trainee matadors who had just cornered an elderly bull.

  Alex put her hand on Oliver’s arm.

  “Please,” she said. “I can see that you’re upset, but it’s no skin off their nose if the conference goes badly. I don’t think you need to rehearse very much; just make sure that your mike is working and adjusted to the right height for you. Then you can go and listen to the next news bulletin on the radio, if that’s what you want to do and, if you think it’s necessary, call the police. There’s plenty of time before we start – until nine-thirty, it’s just coffee for people who weren’t here last night.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Sorry,” he said. Alex was surprised to see his face contort briefly, as if he might burst into tears. “You’re right. I am upset. I’m amazed at how upset, actually. It’s not as if Claudia and I are particularly close these days and, God knows, we crossed swords enough times when we were working together. She rarely got on with anyone that she worked with, actually. It’s just that – well, she’s frail now, and very elderly, and I think sad about what’s happened to her reputation. I can’t bear the thought of something frightening having happened to her – or, worse, that she’s wandered off by herself somewhere and hurt herself or been attacked by some vagrant or something.” He smiled briefly. “If I’m honest, I suppose it’s myself I’m concerned about, not just Claudia. She represents what I did in my youth, you see; what many of my generation of archaeologists did, in fact, because of her. Whether or not her theories were right – and opinions will always differ on that point – her passing will mark the end of an epoch.”