‘Unless you know he’s done something illegal,’ Beresford said.

  ‘How dare you! That is an outrageous thing to suggest!’ Maitland Williams said.

  But the outrage had come too late to hide the shock that Beresford had read in her eyes.

  ‘Did he have any enemies in the business world?’ he asked. ‘Were there people who might consider themselves – rightly or wrongly – to have been cheated by him?’

  ‘I can see no reason why I should continue to answer your questions,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t you?’ Beresford asked. ‘Eventually, you know, you’ll be questioned by the police, and it might be a good idea for you to practise your answers on someone else first.’

  ‘Do you think the police will ask me about Andrew’s business practices?’ Ms Maitland Williams asked, with a hint of panic in her voice.

  ‘Bound to,’ Beresford assured her.

  ‘There were other bottlers and distributors who probably envied Andrew’s success,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Andrew and Jane’s success,’ Beresford corrected her.

  ‘Andrew was very much the driving force. Jane was lucky to have him.’

  ‘’Cos you’re looking through the eyes of love,’ Beresford sang softly to himself.

  ‘What was that?’

  It was time to be brutal.

  ‘Did it never occur to you that the main reason Andrew wanted you around was because he needed a solicitor who was bent – and who better than a solicitor who was only bent because she was crazy about him?’ Beresford asked.

  He was prepared for her to start screaming. He was ready, should she attempt to scratch his eyes out. But she didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she burst into tears.

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s really horrible.’

  He almost felt sorry for her. Then he remembered that she was almost definitely a crooked magistrate, and that he had to do whatever it took to save the neck of his old mate Kate.

  The office of the managing director at the Whitebridge Bottling and Distribution Company had a glass frontage through which it was possible to look down on the factory floor below.

  ‘I once had a shop steward who complained that from this office it was possible for me to spy on my workforce,’ Jane Lofthouse said. ‘I pointed out to him that it cut both ways, and not only can I see what they’re doing, but they can see what I’m doing. That’s the way I’ve always run this company – nobody should have anything to hide, because everybody should be pulling their weight.’

  She was dressed all in black, but she wore her clothes with style, so it could have been either a sign of mourning or a fashion statement.

  ‘How are you coping with being on the outside again?’ Kate Meadows asked, remembering how hesitant she had been in the doorway of Overcroft House, only a day before.

  Jane sighed. ‘It’s not easy,’ she said. ‘For a start, after six weeks in Overcroft House, it’s hard not to feel agoraphobic. And then there’s the way some of the staff look at me.’

  ‘And what way is that?’

  ‘I suppose it’s best described as a mixture of pity and reproach. They’re very sorry for what’s happened to me …’

  ‘So they know you’ve been in Overcroft House?’

  ‘I’m not sure they know anything as specific as that, but they’ve got a pretty good idea of why I had to disappear for six weeks.’

  ‘So where does the reproach come into it?’

  Jane laughed, perhaps a little awkwardly. ‘That’s human nature for you – they knew I had a good reason to go, but they still felt deserted.’

  ‘They think you abandoned them to the mercies of your husband.’

  Another laugh. ‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. Andrew might not always have been a popular boss, but he was certainly a competent one, and even those people who would admit to being glad to see the back of him, are shocked by the fact he was murdered.’

  ‘Do you still think it was a good idea to discharge yourself from Overcroft House?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said decisively. ‘I’m badly needed here. Morale has never been as low as it is now, and though it won’t be easy, it’s my job to build it up again.’ She glanced out of the window, then continued, ‘So now we’ve got my situation out of the way, would you like to explain why you’re here, and why you’ve brought your dishy friend with you.’

  ‘Jack and I used to be in the police together, and we’re investigating your husband’s murder,’ Meadows said.

  Jane frowned. ‘Wouldn’t you be better leaving that up to people who are still policemen?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Jack said, ‘because we’re trying to keep Kate out of it.’

  ‘But why should Kate …’ Jane began. ‘Ah, I see. You think she might fall under suspicion because she had an argument with Andrew a few hours before he was killed. But surely, that’s nothing like enough to make her a suspect.’

  It is if you add the fact that having already injured him, she was stupid enough to go back with him to the house in which his body was discovered, Crane thought – but it would only complicate matters to explain that to Jane.

  ‘It’s not so much Kate we’re trying to protect here as the reputation of Overcroft House,’ he lied.

  ‘I can understand that, but I still don’t understand what your reason for being here is,’ Jane said.

  ‘Jack needs to talk to your staff,’ Kate explained. ‘He needs to find out if any of them had a motive for killing your husband.’

  ‘None of them did,’ Jane said firmly. ‘I know them all very well, and I can assure you that killing is simply not in their nature.’

  Killing is in everybody’s nature if the circumstances are right, Crane thought, but aloud, he said, ‘I’m more than willing to accept your judgement on that, but you see, they might know something – without even realizing it – which will lead us to the killer.’

  ‘Won’t the police object when they know you’ve been questioning my people?’ Jane asked.

  ‘They would if they found out,’ Kate said.

  ‘And how could you possibly avoid that?’

  ‘Jack’s a professor at the university,’ Kate explained. ‘His cover story will be that he’s doing the groundwork for a sociological study of the modern workplace.’

  ‘So you’re a sociologist?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I can produce a letter from the head of the sociology department saying I’m doing the work on her behalf,’ Crane said.

  ‘That’s not the same thing,’ Jane Lofthouse pointed out.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Meadows agreed, ‘but if this sociologist will back him even if she’s questioned by the police, it’s almost as good as. She will back you, won’t she, Jack?’

  ‘Yes,’ Crane said. ‘She’s an old friend.’

  ‘An old girlfriend?’

  ‘We had our moments,’ Crane admitted.

  ‘My employees trust me,’ Jane Lofthouse said. ‘I don’t like lying to them.’

  ‘And I don’t like the idea of Kate being arrested and Overcroft House being closed down,’ Crane said bluntly.

  ‘I’m still not happy about it,’ Jane Lofthouse said, ‘but you’re right – after all Kate’s done for me, I can’t let her down now.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Crane said, trying not to look too relieved.

  The room that the Lofthouses called the study led off the bedroom, was rectangular in shape, and was dominated by the Edwardian partnership desk which stood in the centre of the room. There were two large bookcases, one along the wall next to the door, the other along the wall opposite the window. The one by the door contained mostly technical books, many of which were about industrial sterilization and hygiene in the bottling industry. The bookcase opposite the window held mainly hardback fiction of the kind that is sold by book clubs, and bought by people who always intend to spend more time reading, yet somehow never do.

  O’Casey dusted the fiction shelves for prints, and was unsurprised to find that there weren’t any.

  ‘Do you read many books yourself?’ Mason asked him, from the other side of the room.

  ‘I’m from Ireland,’ O’Casey replied. ‘We have a strong oral tradition.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Mason asked.

  ‘That we talk so much there’s very little time left for reading,’ O’Casey replied.

  Mason grunted with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I figured.’

  O’Casey was just about to walk away from the bookcase when an odd thought struck him.

  ‘Have you ever seen a bookcase in which all the books fitted exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Mason wondered.

  ‘All the books are the same height, and there’s absolutely no space between them and the shelf above.’ O’Casey took hold of one of the books and pulled. It came out – but not easily. ‘Arguably, they’re too big for the shelf.’ He looked at the book. ‘The top of the cover’s damaged from jamming it in where it wasn’t meant to go. And it’s probably the same with the other books.’ He removed two more. ‘It is,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Now why would that be?’ Mason wondered.

  O’Casey reached through the space he had created, and tapped the wall with his knuckles. There was a hollow sound.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘It’s not so much a bookcase as a disguised entrance to another room.’ He knelt down and examined the base of the bookcase. ‘Tiny casters,’ he informed Mason. ‘There’s some kind of a brake on them, but if I can release that, it should be a piece of piss to move the bookcase.’

  He could – and it was. The bookcase glided easily out of the way to reveal a door with a recessed handle and a keyhole.

  O’Casey tried the handle, and was not surprised to find that the door was locked.

  ‘So what do you think we do now?’ O’Casey asked.

  ‘Now we inform Whitebridge Central, somebody there goes to see a magistrate to get a warrant, and we force it open,’ Mason told him.

  ‘Yes, that would work,’ O’Casey agreed. ‘On the other hand,’ he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of skeleton keys, ‘we could use these.’

  ‘Where the hell did you get them from?’ Mason asked.

  ‘They were in the evidence room. They’ve been there for years. I’m sure whoever used them has probably served his sentence by now and having learned his lesson, is leading a life of perfect respectability. That being the case, it seemed a pity to leave them gathering dust.’

  ‘Do you realize how many regulations you’ve probably broken already?’ Mason wondered.

  O’Casey chuckled. ‘It’s all part of my retirement plan. When I’ve stopped working for the police, I’m going to supplement my pension by becoming a safe cracker.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have the crackers part covered already,’ Mason said, but he knew from experience that there was no point in further argument.

  O’Casey tried three of the keys before he found the right one to open the door.

  ‘What happens now?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Now I go in,’ O’Casey replied. He stepped through the door. ‘It’s like a big wardrobe in here, but you wouldn’t find any of this stuff in your wardrobe. At least, I hope you wouldn’t.’

  Mason sighed. ‘Too flashy, is it?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  When he stepped back into the study, O’Casey was holding what could only be described as a full-length leather corset. There were pointed studs on the outside. They looked rather sharp.

  ‘There are studs on the inside, as well,’ O’Casey said. ‘And this is quite conventional compared to some of things that are hanging in there.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Now we ring DCI Dawson and tell him that we’ve found a pervert’s dressing room, which said pervert carelessly left unlocked,’ O’Casey said.

  Roger Dalton, marketing manager and officially number two in the command chain of Hadley Securities, was eating his lunch at his desk when his phone rang, and a voice he recognized as belonging to Helen Cosgrove, Jim Hadley’s secretary, said, ‘Is Mr Hadley with you, Mr Dalton?’

  Dalton put down the spoon with which he had been unenthusiastically scooping out low-fat yogurt.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen him at all today.’ He paused. ‘You sound worried? Are you?’

  ‘I am a little bit,’ Helen confessed. ‘You see, he’s not been in at all this morning.’

  ‘Maybe he’s decided to take a little time off,’ Dalton said, eyeing the chocolate cake which his wife must never find out about. ‘He can do what he likes, you know. After all, he is the boss.’

  ‘Mr Hadley never takes time off,’ Helen said. ‘You know that yourself. If he’s not in the office he’s down at the workshops, and I know he’s not down there now, because I’ve just rung them.’

  It was true, Dalton thought. Jim Hadley didn’t ever take time off.

  ‘Maybe he’s feeling unwell,’ he suggested.

  ‘Even if he was, he’d have phoned in, because he’s supposed to be meeting some important clients in half an hour.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring his home?’ Dalton suggested.

  ‘I wonder why I never thought of that,’ Helen said.

  ‘Well, you can’t think of everything,’ Dalton said, because he made it a policy never to speak to people as if they were idiots, even when they clearly were.

  ‘Can’t you recognize sarcasm when you hear it?’ Helen asked angrily. ‘Of course I bloody thought of it, and of course I rang him. I’ve been ringing him all morning. He doesn’t bloody answer.’

  ‘Can I remind you who you’re talking to?’ asked Dalton, who was touchy by nature and had never felt he was accorded the respect he was due within the company.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dalton,’ Helen said. ‘I should never have spoken to you like that, but I’m just so upset, you see.’

  ‘Well, if you make sure it doesn’t happen again, we’ll forget it,’ said Dalton.

  He was lying. He wouldn’t forget it. He had put a black mark against her name, and it was in indelible ink.

  He turned his thoughts back to the problem in hand. If Hadley didn’t answer the phone it was either because he couldn’t answer or because he wasn’t there. The first of these possibilities was concerning, the second mystifying.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but just to make certain, I’ll go straight round to Jim Hadley’s house,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dalton,’ the secretary gushed. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Too late, Dalton thought. You’ll not get back in my good books now.

  He hung up, and looked at the piece of chocolate cake. Should he eat it now? No, he had been looking forward to it as only a guilty sin can be looked forward to, and when he indulged himself, he wanted to take his time over it.

  And besides, although there probably was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the boss’s behaviour, his stomach had tied itself into such a knot in the last couple of minutes that he was not sure he would have been able to hold it down.

  FIFTEEN

  DCI Dawson and DS Boyd stood in the Lofthouses’ bedroom, examining some of the costumes which had hung in the closet of the room next door and were now spread out on the bed.

  ‘Well, this certainly throws a whole new light on the case, doesn’t it, sir?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Does it, indeed?’ said Dawson, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. ‘In what way?’

  What the bloody hell was the matter with the man, Boyd wondered. The further the case progressed, the more stupid and obtuse Dawson seemed to grow, until he had finally reached the point at which he was about as much use as a spare prick at a wedding.

  ‘What it tells us, sir, is that hanging Lofthouse wasn’t something the killer suddenly came up with after he’d caved his victim’s head in. What it actually turns out to have been was a pre-determined part of a sadomasochistic ritual.’

  ‘And you draw this rather hasty conclusion from what we’ve found in the wardrobe?’

  ‘From what we’ve found in the hidden wardrobe? Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, sergeant, that perhaps Mr Lofthouse just liked collecting costumes, and had nothing at all to do with actual sadomasochism?’

  ‘That’s a little unlikely, isn’t it?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Dawson replied. ‘I once knew a man who was an avid beer mat collector – he had samples from all over the world mounted on his living room wall – but he was a lifelong teetotaller, so he never touched a drop of the stuff himself.’

  ‘But what about the hook?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘The hook?’ Dawson replied, as if he had no idea what his sergeant was talking about.

  Yes, that thing in the ceiling, just above our heads, you bloody moron, Boyd thought.

  But instead of putting that thought into words, he just pointed to it.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Dawson said.

  ‘It must have been used for auto-erotic asphyxiation,’ Boyd said. ‘It can have had no other purpose.’

  ‘But this is the bedroom he shared with his wife,’ Dawson said. ‘How could he do something like that right under her nose?’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, she was involved.’

  ‘That’s unlikely,’ Boyd said. ‘She doesn’t seem to have been the partner in any of his sex games – she was just the one he beat the crap out of when he was frustrated with life.’

  ‘But she must have known what was going on – if anything was,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Not necessarily. All this may have taken place when she was out of the house. And even if she was here, he probably told her to stay away from the bedroom – and she was too scared to do anything else.’

  ‘So are you saying we should shift the focus of this investigation and put all our efforts into the pervert angle?’

  Shift the focus. Boyd repeated silently. What focus? As far as he could see, the investigation didn’t have a focus.

  ‘It’s certainly a possibility I think we should explore, sir,’ he said cautiously. ‘I believe there are a number of clubs in the area that cater for that kind of activity, and I think we could use them as a starting point.’