“Give me a call if you’re ever off duty,” she told him, and fired up the engine.
She gave a brisk wave and Faulkner watched her bright blonde head disappear around the bend. He looked down at the card in his hand and wondered whether his luck had finally changed.
CHAPTER 33
After a short search of the house, Ryan found Dave Quibble in the turret room.
He stood beside the window looking out across the valley, surrounded by pots and brushes left over from its use as a studio by Alice Chapman. The portrait she had so painstakingly begun to restore had been removed to another firm of specialists, for fear that exposure to air and light might cause harm if left for too long.
It was a timely reminder that Quibble’s first loyalty was to inanimate artefacts and not the things that lived and breathed around them.
Ryan made a swift assessment of the man’s demeanour, which seemed somehow defeated. Quibble’s shoulders were hunched and his face downcast. He rested a hand against the wall as he continued to look out across the trees.
“Dave?”
His shoulders straightened immediately and he seemed to gather himself before turning to greet Ryan.
“Hello, Ryan. Just taking a break.” He lifted a hand toward the window. “It’s the best view in the house from up here.”
Ryan took a step closer but didn’t move to stand beside him.
“It’s been a difficult time,” he offered, sincerely.
Quibble ran an agitated hand through his hair and looked around the room, at all the objects and antiques, then back at Ryan.
“I spend my life thinking about the past, about things,” he said. “Even when Victor died…well, I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t feel too upset. He was an old man, it somehow seemed like he’d lived a full life.”
There was the difference between them, Ryan realised. His own approach did not differ whether a victim was young or old, rich or poor, black or white, male or female, gay or straight. As far as he was concerned, they were all victims and deserved his full attention.
“But when Alice died, it really hit me,” Quibble said. “A young woman like that, with so much talent…”
Ryan read a flicker of something else beneath the grief.
“You liked her?”
Quibble shifted his feet.
“I never told her,” he said defensively. “I was her boss, for one thing, and almost old enough to be her father.”
Ryan knew the value of silence in drawing people out, so he said nothing.
“You’re sure it was Henderson who killed her?” Quibble asked, after a moment.
“We’re almost certain, yes.”
Quibble’s face hardened into something almost unrecognisable.
“Murderous bastard,” he spat. “It’s no secret I never liked the man, but to kill—”
He broke off and swiped a hand across his mouth, as if it would help to clear the nasty taste on his tongue.
“I underestimated him,” he finished bleakly.
“It seems nobody liked Henderson very much.”
Quibble didn’t answer directly.
“He’s gone now. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”
Ryan took another step into the room and idly picked up one of the paintbrushes sitting in a porcelain cup.
“We still haven’t got to the bottom of why these power cuts keep happening, have we?”
Quibble rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, feeling warm.
“I’ve looked at everything I can think of,” he explained. “I can’t work it out.”
Ryan looked up with flat grey eyes.
“Can’t you?”
The words hung on the air like the dust motes that danced in the beams of light shining through the window. Then Ryan nodded and turned to leave.
Before he reached the door, Quibble called out.
“Ryan? Have you found out why Henderson fell?”
Not ‘jumped’, Ryan thought. Not ‘pushed’, either.
Interesting.
“You’ll be the first to know when I do.”
*
MacKenzie found the housekeeper in her sitting room, which formed part of a small apartment in one of the upper wings of the house. Maggie answered the door with a tired smile and immediately offered to make tea, which was politely declined.
“I was hoping to have a quick chat?” MacKenzie asked.
“Of course, pet. Come in and have a seat.”
The room was arranged around a small fireplace with an elaborate Victorian frieze and there were lace doilies as far as the eye could see. Framed pictures of family and friends were arranged across every polished surface and a small knitting bag rested beside one of the armchairs.
“My eldest is having her second child,” Maggie said proudly, picking up a pair of tiny woollen booties.
“I didn’t realise you had any children?” MacKenzie sank into one of the proffered chairs.
Maggie smiled and pointed to a framed photograph with a man and a woman standing either side of her. Also in the picture were Cassandra and Lionel Gilbert with another man and woman she didn’t recognise.
“Who are the others?”
“Oh, those are Cassie’s children,” Maggie said, lowering her voice. “Ellie and James. They live down south and don’t tend to visit much—to be honest, they’ve never been big fans of Lionel.”
“I understand Mrs Gilbert’s first husband died?”
“Yes, poor thing. It was years ago and Cassie never talks about it much.”
She reached across to a box of chocolates and offered one to Denise, who shook her head. Maggie popped a truffle in her mouth and settled in for a good chat.
“I’m still reeling from what happened last night,” she said between bites. “I can hardly believe that Martin would kill himself; he seemed so, well—”
She made a rolling motion with her fingers and tried to find a delicate way of saying ‘full of himself’.
“Confident,” she decided.
“We are investigating Mr Henderson’s death as a suspicious incident. Anything you can remember around nine o’clock last night would be very helpful.”
The housekeeper sank back in her chair, lost for words.
“I don’t understand,” she said and her face crumpled into sad lines. “Cragside is a beautiful, peaceful place. Murders just don’t happen here.”
MacKenzie didn’t bother to point out the obvious fact that murders could and had happened there.
“I understand Cragside is important to you,” she said gently.
“It’s been my life these past few years, since the children don’t need me around so much. I have a place, here,” she said, tearfully. “I can keep the house looking beautiful and feel…useful, I suppose.”
MacKenzie held out the box of chocolates with a smile and Maggie laughed.
“Go on then.”
While chewing, she pulled herself together.
“You were asking me about last night,” she said firmly. “Let me think about this. I told that nice constable about what I saw but if you need me to go over it again?”
“If you don’t mind,” MacKenzie prodded.
“Well, Lionel and Cassie had friends over for dinner, to cheer themselves up a bit. They arrived just after six and I had canapés ready for them.”
“Prepared on site or catered?”