Free Murder in the Cotswolds by Nancy Buckingham

right weight and pace when required.
    “Whoever could possibly want to ... to do anything so ... ?” Prescott was waffling.
    “You can’t think of anyone, then?”
    “No one. Certainly not. No.”
    “How well did you yourself get on with Mrs. Latimer?” Kate asked.
    “Perfectly well. Yes, perfectly well. I didn’t have what you might call a great deal of personal contact with her. My staff handle the day-to-day work.”
    “Who would they be, sir?” Boulter had his pen poised, ready to take down the names.
    “Well, only Mrs. Knight, really. She attends the estate office two mornings a week to keep the books in good order. That’s a service I offer to local farmers and small businesses.”
    Sergeant Boulter was nodding. “That would be Mrs. Alison Knight? We have her down to be interviewed, ma’am. She’s on DC Green’s list, I think.”
    “I don’t see why you should want to talk to her,” said Prescott, frowning worriedly.
    “Just routine questions, sir. And by the way, we’d better have your home address for the record.”
    “It’s a hotel, a residential hotel. I find that convenient, since my wife died. Bedford Court, I expect you know it. But I hope you won’t be going round there upsetting everyone by asking a lot of questions.”
    While that anxiety was still with him, Kate winged in with her next question. “I believe that you’re the honorary treasurer of the Chipping Bassett Leisure Centre extension fund?”
    Prescott’s head twisted back to Kate. It was plain fear that glimmered in his eyes. “I am, yes, but....”
    “Mrs. Latimer was on the organising committee?”
    “That’s right, but....”
    “What contact did you have with her in that connection, Mr. Prescott?”
    He made vague little gestures. “The occasional meeting, no more than that.”
    “And everything has been going well?”
    “Going well? How do you mean?”
    “No disagreements of any kind?”
    The accountant gaped, then pulled himself together with a visible effort and adopted an outraged tone. “Now, look here—”
    “Mr. Prescott,” Tim intervened again, “the chief inspector merely wants to get an accurate picture of recent events as they concerned Mrs. Latimer. You’d help us by giving simple, straightforward answers.”
    There was a sullen pause, and then his tone became one of patient explanation. “If you have ever had the experience of sitting on a committee, Chief Inspector, you’ll know that there are always minor disagreements. Little clashes of personality and so on.”
    “And you and Mrs. Latimer clashed?”
    “Not especially. No more than any of the others.”
    “She had no criticism of the manner in which you were handling the funds collected?”
    An appalled silence. His face drained of what little colour it had, giving him the pallid, flabby appearance of an oven-ready chicken.
    “Absolutely none! Really, Chief Inspector, I must protest most strongly at what you’re insinuating.”
    Kate chose this moment to terminate the interview. If she pressed him any harder at this stage he was going to clam up on her completely. She’d let him sweat for a while. Without doubt Prescott had something to hide, something that made him sick with fear. To what extent that something would confirm Richard Gower’s story she couldn’t be sure, though she did feel hopeful. Great oaks from little acorns grow, Kate! Oh sure, sure, but ninety-nine point nine percent of them wither and die. Even if George Prescott was up to his neck in financial chicanery, it didn’t necessarily make him a murderer. The next step would be to establish that he could have killed Belle Latimer. That he had no alibi for the vital time and that he was somehow able to use Gower’s car. A hell of a lot to hope for.
    She stood up, hitching her bag over her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott. That will be all for the time being. Good morning to you.”
    Long after the police had left his office, George Prescott sat at his desk,