Chapter 32
When they entered the CID office, Wesley noticed that his colleagues were beginning to look overwhelmed.
And now investigating the threats made to Suzy Porter would add to their workload.
As soon as they’d arrived back, they’d handed her laptop to Tom from Scientific Support, emphasising the urgency.
‘Do you know, Wes,’ Gerry said as he sat down, his hand travelling once more to the small of his back, ‘I think the theory that Sue Potter’s murder was a case of mistaken identity holds water. Suzy Porter admitted she knows what a lanzani is. What if the link to Aleric Donnal is a red herring?’
Wesley sat down, thinking Gerry might have a point. ‘If you’re right, we should treat locating whoever sent those emails as a priority.’
‘Tom said it shouldn’t take long.’ Gerry regarded Tom with the awe once reserved for alchemists in days of old – a guardian of arcane mysteries.
Rachel appeared at Gerry’s office door with an eager look on her face.
‘I’ve got more information about Suzy Porter,’ she said.
‘The Lawrence the Lion series she writes under the name Daisy Cootes is about a lion who’s terrified of mice and various other harmless creatures.
In one he has a nasty run-in with a lamb.
Freddie loves them. Pretends to be scared of the lambs on the farm.
He thinks it’s hilarious.’ She gave a fond maternal smile.
Rachel didn’t often talk about Freddie at work, as though she thought she needed to keep up her professional persona if she wanted her career to progress.
‘I know,’ said Wesley. ‘We used to read those books to Michael and Amelia when they were small – which seems a long time ago now.’
‘I’ve spoken to her illustrator and her agent. She’s a tough cookie by all accounts. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, according to her agent. Reading between the lines, she isn’t a particularly nice woman.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘I got that impression when I met her.’
‘I’m disappointed,’ said Gerry. ‘I thought children’s authors would be all sweetness and light.’
‘There’s a rumour that she hates kids,’ said Rachel. ‘But she is very fond of her dogs. We’re still trying to get in touch with her ex-husbands.’
‘How many are there?’
‘She’s had four, but she’s between marriages at the moment.
I contacted Claire Mountjoy as you asked.
’ Rachel paused. ‘She didn’t seem very surprised about the death threats, which I thought was a bit odd.
I know I’d be shocked if the police called to say my sister-in-law had been receiving something like that. But she denies sending them.’
‘Believe her?’
‘Not sure. I told her we’d like to have a word with her. Just routine, I said.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Mr Ulswater from the optician’s called with an address for Ethelred Bingley’s daughter.
Her name’s Penny Worksop and she works for the Heritage Trust. She’s a curator at Lofton Hall, not far from South Molton, and she lives on the premises.
I called her and said someone would go up and speak to her tomorrow. ’
‘Good,’ said Wesley. He checked the time. ‘We might as well speak to Claire Mountjoy and find out what she can tell us about Suzy Porter. Coming with me?’
As they were walking out of the station’s front door, Wesley’s phone rang. When he saw Neil’s name on the screen, he almost killed the call. But instead he yielded to temptation.
‘It’s Neil. I’d better take this,’ he said.
Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘Don’t let me get in the way of your social life.’
Wesley felt a sudden urge to justify himself. ‘He’s working at Sycamore House. He might have information about Aleric Donnal’s death.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Neil. How can I help you?’
There was no mistaking the excitement in Neil’s voice. ‘We’ve found some coins. Gold nobles. Could be an actual hoard, Wes. I’ve never found one before.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Wesley, when he could get a word in edgeways.
‘They were by the holy well. I think they were offerings. I’ve arranged for them to be taken to the museum in Exeter tomorrow for safe keeping. It’s an important find.’
There was a sudden pause, as though Neil was gathering his thoughts. ‘I’m wondering whether the coins could be connected to the skeleton we found . . . or even to your man in the wall. If it was murder . . . Well, those coins are valuable and people have killed for less, haven’t they?’
Wesley couldn’t argue with Neil’s logic, but somehow he suspected there was more to Aleric Donnal’s death than a lust for gold. However, he knew he shouldn’t dismiss any possibility out of hand.
‘Want to take a look at them before they go to the museum?’ Neil asked.
‘I’d love to, but I’m busy at the moment.’
Wesley could sense that Rachel was becoming impatient, so he asked Neil to keep him updated and ended the call. Interesting though Neil’s finds were, he knew he should be concentrating on the case.
Claire Mountjoy’s house turned out to be large, detached and Edwardian, with a vine-clad loggia overlooking the river. It was an idyllic house from a more gracious age, and he knew it would be worth a bomb if it was ever put on the market. Way beyond the pocket of a police inspector and a teacher
Claire opened the door almost as soon as they’d knocked.
Her hair was as blonde and immaculate as Suzy Porter’s – perhaps, Wesley thought, they used the same hairdresser.
She sported a colourful kaftan that reminded him of something worn by a snobbish female character in a 1970s TV sitcom occasionally repeated during his childhood, and heavy gold jewellery – rings and necklaces.
‘You’re from the police?’ She looked Wesley up and down with barely disguised curiosity. ‘Someone rang and said to expect you. Come in, come in,’ she said impatiently, ushering them inside. ‘Don’t stand there on the doorstep for the neighbours to see.’
Wesley looked round, expecting to find crowds of nosy neighbours peering over the hedge. But the house wasn’t overlooked and there was no sign of anyone else around.
‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I won’t offer you anything stronger, because I know that’s not allowed.’
Wesley saw Rachel smile. This woman had clearly been watching too many detective shows and was caught up in the drama of the situation, which might not bode well for an honest and unbiased statement. He suspected she’d tell them what she thought they wanted to hear.
But it turned out he was wrong. As they sat down on the chintz sofa in a drawing room flooded with light, she began to speak.
‘Now, I want you to know that I’m no gossip.’
‘Of course not, Mrs Mountjoy. But we need you to be honest with us.’
During the long silence that followed Wesley’s statement, Claire Mountjoy fidgeted with her rings.
Eventually she spoke softly, as though she hardly liked to utter the words.
‘Suzy was once married to my brother, and we see each other from time to time for lunch in Tradmouth.’ She paused as though she was about to make a dramatic announcement. ‘But I can’t honestly say I like her.’
Rachel and Wesley looked at each other. ‘Any particular reason?’ said Rachel, leaning forward, hoping for confidences.
‘To tell you the truth, Detective Sergeant, she has a . . . ruthless streak. Doesn’t care who she tramples on to get what she wants.’
‘Your brother?’
‘He was a weak man. A pussycat. He died of a heart attack shortly after the divorce.’
‘What about her other husbands?’
‘One’s remarried and up in Scotland. The other two are abroad, I believe. One in the States and one in Dubai.’
‘Did you know she’s been receiving threatening emails?’
‘So I heard.’ She folded her arms and it was hard to read her expression.
‘She suggested you might be responsible.’
The look of outrage on her face was unmistakable. ‘That’s ridiculous. And I told her so.’
‘We can trace whoever sent the emails,’ said Rachel, watching the woman’s expression carefully.
‘I hope you do. Because it certainly wasn’t me. I’m disgusted that she would even think I’d be so petty and spiteful. But she’s always resented me. I think it’s jealousy.’
Suzy Porter had said the same thing about Claire Mountjoy, but Wesley let it pass. ‘You’ve no idea who might have sent them?’
‘None at all. But I imagine she’s ruffled a few feathers in her time.’
‘What about her career?’ he asked, thinking of his children’s enjoyment of the Lawrence the Lion books when they were younger.
Claire gave a little laugh. ‘I saw her at a local bookshop once. She was so sweet to the kids and their parents who came to have books signed. Then I saw the way she treated the staff in the back of the shop, out of sight of her fans. She snapped at one poor girl who was trying to explain how a microphone worked. Quite nasty, she was. The niceness was an act. In private she reverted to type.’
‘When did you last see Suzy?’ Rachel asked.
‘We met for coffee three days ago. I didn’t really want to and I told her I was in a rush because I had a hair appointment, but she said she needed to speak to me urgently. I thought that was a bit odd, because usually she made a thing of being so busy.’
‘Did she say why she was so anxious to meet?’
‘She seemed quite nervous; not her usual bombastic self at all. When I asked her what was wrong, she said there’d been a murder in her village. The police had been round interviewing everyone and asking whether they knew the victim or had seen anything suspicious.’
‘It’s routine in a case like that,’ said Rachel. ‘Why did it bother her so much? Did she know something?’
‘She didn’t mix with anyone else in the village, so as far as she knew she’d never met the victim, but . . . Well, the dead woman had a very similar name.’
‘Susan Potter.’
‘That’s it. She wondered whether the killer had got the wrong person. I told her to contact the police if she was worried.’
‘She did. That’s why we’re here. She showed us one of the emails she received.’