Cold Case in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 10) Read online

  The manager was one of the last people he would have expected to quote Shakespeare, thought de Silva. Odd how people had the power to surprise one.

  ‘The enormity of what I’d done horrified me,’ Flint went on. ‘I decided my only chance was to conceal what had happened. Marina told me that she and Donald hadn’t shared a bedroom for many months. When she went down to breakfast that morning, she wasn’t particularly surprised to find him not at home. Although even for him such a sudden departure was unusual, it wasn’t completely out of character. A few days later, Colonel McTaggart came sniffing around, then Archie Clutterbuck became involved. I carried on with my work and kept my head down. Then I heard that Isobel’s companion, Miss Collins, claimed to have heard Donald making plans to leave with some woman of his and I blessed providence for intervening on my side. I’d no idea who the woman was or what happened to her, but it didn’t matter. She was my saviour.’

  Flint’s story was plausible, but it didn’t explain everything. De Silva still wasn’t sure he believed him. ‘How did you move Moncrieff’s body to the place where you buried it?’

  Briefly, Flint looked startled at the question then recovered. ‘I hauled him into the back of the jeep he drove down to see me in – it was the one he used to get around the plantation – and covered him with a rug.’

  ‘Why that particular patch of ground? Why not somewhere nearer to your office?’

  ‘I didn’t want to run the risk of being seen if I buried him near the office or the drying sheds and the best place I could think of that was both accessible and private and would take me the least time, was behind the courtyard at the main house. In the darkness, anyone looking out of the window would see the jeep drive through the archway and away into the courtyard and assume it was Donald driving it.’

  ‘What happened to the Bugatti?’ He deliberately sprang the question on Flint to see how he reacted.

  ‘The Bugatti? Of… of course, I knew I had to find a way of making it look as if Moncrieff had taken it with him. After I’d buried the body, I left the jeep in the courtyard and got the Bugatti out of the garage. Moncrieff and I weren’t too dissimilar in build and as luck would have it, he’d left a cap in the car. I wore it as I drove the Bugatti back through the archway. I hoped that if anyone saw me, they would assume it was Moncrieff going for a spin or taking off to impress one of his lady friends. As it happened, I needn’t have worried as it seemed no one actually saw me coming back in the jeep or leaving in the Bugatti. I hid it in one of the outhouses at my bungalow and, over time, I dismantled it. I burned what I could, broke up the rest and dumped it. I wasn’t afraid of anyone thinking to search my property as everyone assumed Moncrieff was still very much alive, as I intended.’

  If that was true, de Silva winced at the thought of the desecration of such a beautiful car.

  ‘I expect you want to know where Marina stands in all this,’ said Flint. ‘I swear that I’ve never told her what happened that night. She believed her husband left her for another woman. I didn’t involve her or anyone else in disposing of the body or the car. For several months after that, Marina had nightmares about Donald coming back. I was tempted more than once to assure her that at last she was safe, but I forced myself not to. I didn’t want to put her in a compromising position.’

  ‘What about Mr Moncrieff's stepmother?’

  ‘Isobel? I’ve never entirely fathomed what goes on in her head. She asked a few questions but quickly seemed to assume that he’d absconded.’ He laughed. ‘A practical lady, Isobel. It wasn’t long before our conversations only concerned the financial side of the situation.’

  He paused and wiped a hand across his lips. ‘It’s stifling in here. I’ll have that water now.’

  De Silva went to the door and called out. Shortly afterwards, Nadar appeared.

  ‘Bring Mr Flint a glass of water.’

  They waited in silence for it to arrive. Flint gulped it down before resuming. ‘She told me that she had no need of money herself, but she was concerned that if Moncrieff came back, he’d squander the plantation’s profits as he’d done in the past and the business would suffer. She also suggested this was an opportunity to make some of the improvements that he had resisted and keep the cost quiet. I can’t claim I went along with her ideas purely for those reasons. I was also swayed by her offer that some of the profit we hid should go to Marina and me.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You’ve seen the evidence as to how I did it. A kind of running away fund if you like. In any case, as you may have noticed, not many people oppose Isobel for long.’

  De Silva pictured the scene. Isobel would no doubt have made good use of her imperious manner. He wondered if there’d also been a lingering anxiety in Flint’s mind that influenced his actions. Did she believe the story that her stepson had simply disappeared quite as wholeheartedly as she appeared to on the surface? Wasn’t it safer to accommodate her rather than risk her insisting on tracing him? After all, the plantation was in her family. She might not have been entirely happy to place her trust in Flint, a man she’d not known for long. Particularly once she knew of the feelings that he and Marina had for each other.

  ‘In any case, she set out her requirements.’

  It sounded a cold transaction. That didn’t surprise de Silva.

  ‘If I fell in with the plan, there’d be no questions asked. Provided I continued to run the plantation, and saw to it that the profits held up, Marina I and were welcome to please ourselves.’

  De Silva frowned. Flint wouldn’t be the first man to close his mind to inconvenient matters. Archie was a case in point. Why rock the boat?

  ‘Returning to the present, on the night Mr Moncrieff’s remains were discovered, where were you?’

  ‘At my bungalow. Marina was with me. She often stayed. The main house holds many unhappy memories for her, so she’s always preferred to spend as little time there as possible.’

  De Silva thought of Muttu. Presumably, the servant had lied and knew perfectly well where Marina was likely to be. It was hard to blame him though. He would have been hampered by loyalty to his employer.

  ‘When were you aware that the remains had been found?’

  ‘Muttu telephoned me after you saw him that night and told him about it. He was in a terrible state. Thought he was to blame somehow but I told him to stay calm and just keep denying he knew where Marina was. She was already asleep, and I didn’t wake her. I wanted time on my own to think.’ He scowled. ‘If it hadn’t been for that damned dog, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘I think that will do for now, Mr Flint.’ With relief, de Silva eased his backside off the chair. It had begun to feel like a bed of nails.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Flint despondently.

  ‘One of my officers will type up my notes. You’ll be given a chance to read them over and dispute anything you believe to be inaccurate. After that, you’ll remain in custody until your case is put before a magistrate.’

  **

  On the way back from the cells to his office he gave Nadar his instructions, also telling him to put in a call to the Residence. It was probably time he brought Archie up to date.

  The telephone rang on his desk a few minutes later.

  ‘Mr Clutterbuck is out, sir,’ said Nadar. ‘Do you want to leave a message?’

  ‘Just ask them to say I called and will try again later.’ He put down the receiver. In the meantime he’d go back to the plantation and take a good look around Peter Flint’s bungalow. Hopefully, it would help him to get a clearer measure of the man.

  As he drove away from the station, he saw the Residence’s official car coming towards him, its sleek, black paintwork gleaming in the sunshine. If Archie was on board, the middle of the street was not the ideal place for a discussion, but when the car slowed and the rear window rolled down, it was Florence who peered out from the shadowy interior. A waft of perfume and scented face powder drifted towards him on the hot air.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector
de Silva. How fortunate. I’ve been wanting a word about Marina Moncrieff.’ Florence lowered her voice. ‘One doesn’t wish to be inhospitable, but it would be helpful to know how much longer you want her to stay at the Residence. It is a rather unusual situation.’ She raised a hand to pat a stray hair back into place and her rings caught the light. ‘I like to think of the Residence as our home,’ she said with a frown. ‘Not an outpost of the Tower of London.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you are being inconvenienced, ma’am. I hope it won’t need to be for too much longer.’

  Florence’s expression softened. ‘I appreciate it’s not entirely your fault. Archibald told me he made the offer. The poor lady arrived in nothing but the clothes she stood up in. This morning I sent one of the maids in a rickshaw to fetch a few things for her.’

  ‘I’m sure she appreciates your kindness.’

  ‘One does one’s best, but it’s hard to know how to treat someone in her situation. Will she really be charged with murder?’

  ‘Nothing is certain at the moment, ma’am.’

  Florence pursed her lips. ‘Well, I hope I shan’t be the last to be told what is going on.’

  ‘As soon as the situation is clear, you will be first in the line,’ said de Silva feeling a little contrite. Even in a house the size of the Residence, there must be some awkwardness in having a guest like Marina.

  Two little boys who had been watching the car had sidled close. Out of the corner of his eye, de Silva saw that they were larking around, pulling faces, and giggling at their reflections in one of the car’s glossy wheel arches. Florence threw them a quelling glance and they ran away.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I must be going. I’m already late for my appointment.’ The window rolled back up.

  As he left the town behind him, de Silva let the needle on the speedometer climb. He wanted to reach Flint’s bungalow while there was still some light.

  Chapter 13

  Out at the plantation, a servant answered the door of Flint’s bungalow, his eyes widening when he saw de Silva.

  ‘My master is not here, sahib,’ he said anxiously.

  De Silva felt sorry for him, then thought of the plantation workers too. He ought to find out if Flint had a second-in-command who would be able to take over the day-to-day management of the place. There were sure to be things that needed doing such as workers’ wages to pay and orders to fulfil.

  ‘I know. He’s at the police station helping us with some inquiries. You may carry on with your duties while I look around.’

  Although the bungalow had not been much to look at from outside, its interior was airy and charming. De Silva wondered if the bright fabrics, comfortable chairs, and well-polished furniture were Marina’s touch. Peter Flint had struck him as too much of an outdoor type to be all that interested in creature comforts. But there were other things that interested him. In particular, a fine collection of seashells arranged in a shallow display cabinet caught his eye.

  He picked up one that he recognised to be from a black-lipped pearl oyster. It was a beautiful thing; its frilled shell, shading from slate grey to canary yellow, fitted snugly in his hand. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the gritty outer surface. Inside, the shell was smooth and iridescent, veined and mottled in delicate shades of blue and gold like shallow water in the evening sun. There were also leopard-patterned cowries, gaudily striped cone shells, and shells with strange, bony tentacles that made them look like petrified spiders. He put one of them to his nostrils and inhaled a memory of the sea. It was one of the smells that reminded him of his childhood in Colombo. He had loved the days when his father and mother took him to the beach: the golden sand soft beneath his toes, and the warm sea lapping at his skin. His father taught him to swim but his mother had hated getting wet and ran away shrieking if a surge of foam caught her unawares. He doubted, however, that these shells came from the city’s beaches. For years those had been well combed by men looking for something to sell to tourists. Most likely these ones had been collected at one of the wilder places elsewhere on the coast. He and Jane had often said they would visit some of them one day.

  His attention turned to the pictures on the walls. They were very different to the kind of thing that he’d seen in the Residence and the other British homes he’d been into. No misty watercolours of picturesque cottages and gardens, no paintings of the British Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, no hunting prints, and no gloomy lakes and castles. Whoever had chosen these pictures had picked out local scenes of people and animals that were rendered with vibrant energy and colour. In one picture, a snarling tiger’s orange and black stripes seared his eyes. Beside it, a pen and ink study of an elephant evoked the creature’s power so strongly that for a moment his alarm from the previous night’s close shave welled up once again. Whoever the artist was, he had an enviable ability to bring his work to life. De Silva peered at the signature and saw that it was Peter Flint’s. Another side to the man he wouldn’t have predicted.

  ‘Your master is interested in animals,’ he said to the servant who had reappeared.

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  The man sounded uninterested. De Silva guessed he had been brought up in one of the villages. Villagers were apt to view wild animals as a threat to their livelihood rather than something to be studied and admired. Tigers ate your goats and cattle; elephants trampled the crops that you had toiled to coax from the earth. For most villagers, life was a struggle to scrape an existence. Their lives had hardly changed from those of their ancestors.

  He turned away from the pictures. This wasn’t a time for thinking about the way people lived. He knew he was putting off finishing his search and going on to his next task, visiting Isobel Moncrieff. He had to admit that something about her made him feel that the years had fallen away, and he was once more a nervous police cadet. It was a sensation that even Florence at her most imperious failed to inspire to quite such a degree, but then he’d had many years to grow accustomed to Florence.

  The rest of the rooms didn’t take him long to search. It was clear from the clothes and toiletries in the main bedroom that Marina Moncrieff was at home in the bungalow. Did she avoid the one she had shared with her husband because it held unhappy memories or were there more sinister associations that she wanted to stay buried deep?

  A cough reminded him that the servant was still present.

  De Silva turned to him. ‘I’m finished here. I want you to lock the doors after me. If anyone else comes, you are not to let them in, do you understand? Just find out their name then call one of these numbers. Ask to speak to Inspector de Silva.’

  Quickly, he tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and wrote down the numbers of the station and Sunnybank. With a nod, the servant took them.

  The sun was low on the horizon, filling the sky with a fiery glow as he walked back to the Morris. It had dimmed to opalescent pink and lilac by the time he turned into the entrance to Isobel’s bungalow. Lights already shone in the windows. He stopped the car and got out, straightening his spine, and lifting his chin. It occurred to him that Isobel might already know that Marina and Peter Flint had been arrested. Some, if not all, of the servants at the main house would probably have heard that a maid from the Residence had come to fetch clothes for Marina. He found it hard to credit that none of them had been sufficiently curious to ask what was going on.

  **

  It was the servant, Jamis, who answered the door. His expression was as impassive as it had been on de Silva’s first visit. He left de Silva waiting in the hall while he went to tell Isobel she had a visitor. A few moments later, he returned and showed him into the drawing room.

  De Silva was glad to find that despite his forebodings, the elegant drawing room and its occupant seemed less intimidating the second time around. Isobel was dressed in a stylish black dress that reached to her ankles. The drop-waisted bodice glittered with jet bugle beads. She wore a triple-stranded pearl choker and a matching bracelet. He wondered if she was expectin
g guests.

  She greeted him with a wan smile. ‘I suppose you’ve come to confirm what I’ve already gathered from my servant. It’s shocking news. I hope Marina is being well looked after. I find it impossible to believe that she knew anything about Donald’s death. That is if you’re quite sure that they are his remains you’ve found.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt, ma’am. As for Mrs Moncrieff, she’s perfectly safe. Mrs Clutterbuck has seen to it that she’s made comfortable at the Residence.’

  Isobel raised an eyebrow. ‘How kind. Do you have more to tell me? Muttu’s message was that Peter Flint had also been arrested but gave no details of what he was charged with. Is he suspected of murder?’

  ‘He’s confessed to having a fight with your stepson on the night he died, but he claims his death was the result of an accident.’

  ‘I see. Did he elaborate on that?’

  She listened while de Silva explained the events as Peter Flint had recounted them. When he had finished, she leant forward in her chair. Her expression was grave. ‘He’s in a perilous situation, isn’t he, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, ma’am. Since no one else was present when the fight took place, we only have his word as to what happened.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a danger he’ll be charged with murder? I’ve known for some time that he and Marina have become close. She deserves some happiness. It would be too cruel if it was snatched away.’

  She frowned. ‘I want Flint to have the best lawyers available. If necessary, I’ll pay for them. What will happen to Marina?’

  ‘For the moment, she’ll stay at the Residence under house arrest.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘How much do you know about Peter Flint, ma’am?’

  Isobel gave him a sharp look. ‘If you mean do I think him capable of murder, the answer is no. Donald had a violent temper. Plenty of people will attest to that. If they fought, I’m confident that most, if not all, of the provocation would have been on his side and it’s true his death was an accident.’