silence.
âDid Melanie Caine object to the activity you demanded?â
âIf ...â
He repeated the question.
âIf I tell you ...â Again Belamy stopped before completing the sentence.
âI would leave as soon as possible. You telephoned Melanie and ordered her to come here?â
He nodded.
âWhat was her number?â
âI ... I canât remember. I donât have it anymore.â
âYou expect me to believe that?â
âIt is fact. When my friend gave it to me, I wrote it down. But afterwards I tore the paper up because ...â
Had he been scared his wife might find the paper and ask him whose number it was or was it the need to destroy the evidence of what, now that passion was spent, was a humiliating memory?
âYou say your âfriendâ gave you the phone number. What is his name?â
âI donât remember.â
âYouâre living in another world,â Pascall said scornfully. This man needed to face up to the consequences of his own actions. âI want his name,â he repeated.
âHeâs married and his wife ... Sheâd ...â
âA little common sense on his part and, as with you, his wife will have no reason to learn about her husbandâs off-duty life.â
After barely a hesitation, Belamy volunteered a name. âSheridan.â
âHis address?â
âIâll have to look it up.â
âPlease do so.â
Belamy left the room. When he returned, he had a filled glass in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. He handed Pascall the name and address.
Pascall pocketed the piece of paper and left the house with barely an acknowledgement. Mission successful but how he hated those bloody arrogant rich people!
The six-mile drive was past fields with many shapes whose boundaries were marked by thorn hedges and were laid down for hay or in which cattle or sheep grazed.
Frackley Grange, a seventeenth-century house which had been extended in the middle of the twentieth century, was in a small village and on one side of the traditional green. Sheridan, middle-aged, overweight, had a fulsome manner. âCome along in, constable. Is there some sort of problem which brings you here? If there is, I shall be pleased to help you if I can,â he proclaimed in a cheerful tone, clearly clueless as to the policemanâs mission.
âHasnât Major Belamy phoned you?â
âNo. Why do you think he might have done?â
âIs your wife here?â
âAway with friends. The natterpack, I call them.â
âThen you can give me Melanie Caineâs phone number and address.â
Sheridanâs bonhomie manner vanished. âWhoâs she?â he asked, trying, and failing, to sound puzzled. Instead he sounded scared and shocked.
âYouâve not read about her murder?â
âOh! ... But you canât think I could have had anything to do with what happened to her?â
âI donât.â
âThen why mention her as if ...â He stopped.
âAs if youâd met her?â
âItâs absurd to think I could have done.â
âAs absurd as giving Major Belamy the telephone number of a woman youâd never met?â
âWho says I did?â
âHe does.â
âI donât believe that.â
âYouâve forgotten thereâs no honour amongst adulterers. The name and address, please.â
This man was easier to crack. Ten minutes later, Pascall sat in the car and reread the address. Cloverdean, Alersham. The guvânor had been right â the flat theyâd found so far had been Melanieâs off-duty home. He put the paper down on the passenger seat, started the engine, drove off. He accepted his manner when questioning both men had been sharp and aggressive. But that was often necessary when someone thought he was insulated from others by wealth or breeding. And ultimately, it had worked and