backed up the steep drive, its transmission grinding loud enough to drown the rest of the itinerary. Above Draycott's monotone, Coghill heard the attendants get out and open the rear doors; then they clumped past him and went up the staircase, carrying a stretcher between them.
"Naturally, we'll find someone to relieve him," Draycott continued. "With any luck, Trevor should be able to catch a plane from Budapest late this afternoon."
Coghill said, "What's all this about a relief? I was given to understand that Mr. Whitfield was on the board of directors."
"A director?" Draycott almost choked on a derisive laugh.
"What is he then?"
"A good linguist, Inspector, fluent in French, German and Italian. He's also a pleasant and good-looking young man; that's why we hired him as a guide."
"I see. How long has he been working for your tour company?"
"Over four years," said Draycott. "He joined us in March 78 nine months after leaving Sussex University. Trevor was hoping to get a job with the EEC in Brussels, but I gather the commission had all the interpreters they needed."
Coghill frowned; it didn't add up. Unless he had been a mature student, Whitfield would have been twenty-two or twenty-three when he left Sussex University in 78, yet Mace had told him they had a son aged twelve. The apparent discrepancy suggested that Trevor Whitfield was not the natural father and it was possible his wife had been married before.
"Not that he has any reason to be dissatisfied with his present position," Draycott went on. "He's on a reasonably good salary and all expenses paid."
"What do you call reasonable?" Coghill asked him pointedly.
"I can't see why that should concern you."
"Well, it does, Mr. Draycott. You may find the question embarrassing, but I'm investigating a homicide and I'd appreciate a straight answer."
"He's on five thousand a year." Draycott cleared his throat somewhat noisily. "Look, I'm rather busy just now. If I may, I'll call you back later and let you know what flight Trevor will be on.
"I'd be grateful if you would," Coghill said and hung up.
There was a mink coat hanging in the wardrobe of the master bedroom and thirty thousand pounds' worth of jewelry in the top drawer of the dressing table. There were two expensive cars in the double garage, the house would fetch at least eighty thousand at today's inflated prices and his son was away at boarding school. Even taking into account his wife's boutiques, Coghill couldn't see how Whitfield could afford such an extravagant way of life on a salary of five thousand per annum.
2.
Coghill went down St. Mark's Hill and turned left into the High Street, keeping a sharp look out for Karen's Boutique. Most of the pressmen outside the house had departed, satisfied with a short statement of the known facts and the promise of a more detailed briefing that evening. The TV reporters were an exception and they had decided to stay on for a while. Their cameramen had the statement on video, but it seemed they still had some footage left and were intent on giving the viewing public a general impression of the neighborhood. There was no point in getting uptight about it, however; to object to their continued presence would invite adverse criticism of the police, and that was something he could do without.
So far, the press was being very cooperative. How long that happy state of affairs continued would depend on the way he handled the briefing that evening. Coghill doubted if a resume of the postmortem would satisfy them, and on the basis of the information he'd already released, they'd probably made up their minds about the motive. The victim had been young and attractive, they had his word for that, and there were no prizes for guessing that Karen Whitfield had captured their interest. They'd want to know all about her and the successful business ventures that had enabled the Whitfields to live in such a desirable and secluded neighborhood.
At least that aspect of the
"Naturally, we'll find someone to relieve him," Draycott continued. "With any luck, Trevor should be able to catch a plane from Budapest late this afternoon."
Coghill said, "What's all this about a relief? I was given to understand that Mr. Whitfield was on the board of directors."
"A director?" Draycott almost choked on a derisive laugh.
"What is he then?"
"A good linguist, Inspector, fluent in French, German and Italian. He's also a pleasant and good-looking young man; that's why we hired him as a guide."
"I see. How long has he been working for your tour company?"
"Over four years," said Draycott. "He joined us in March 78 nine months after leaving Sussex University. Trevor was hoping to get a job with the EEC in Brussels, but I gather the commission had all the interpreters they needed."
Coghill frowned; it didn't add up. Unless he had been a mature student, Whitfield would have been twenty-two or twenty-three when he left Sussex University in 78, yet Mace had told him they had a son aged twelve. The apparent discrepancy suggested that Trevor Whitfield was not the natural father and it was possible his wife had been married before.
"Not that he has any reason to be dissatisfied with his present position," Draycott went on. "He's on a reasonably good salary and all expenses paid."
"What do you call reasonable?" Coghill asked him pointedly.
"I can't see why that should concern you."
"Well, it does, Mr. Draycott. You may find the question embarrassing, but I'm investigating a homicide and I'd appreciate a straight answer."
"He's on five thousand a year." Draycott cleared his throat somewhat noisily. "Look, I'm rather busy just now. If I may, I'll call you back later and let you know what flight Trevor will be on.
"I'd be grateful if you would," Coghill said and hung up.
There was a mink coat hanging in the wardrobe of the master bedroom and thirty thousand pounds' worth of jewelry in the top drawer of the dressing table. There were two expensive cars in the double garage, the house would fetch at least eighty thousand at today's inflated prices and his son was away at boarding school. Even taking into account his wife's boutiques, Coghill couldn't see how Whitfield could afford such an extravagant way of life on a salary of five thousand per annum.
2.
Coghill went down St. Mark's Hill and turned left into the High Street, keeping a sharp look out for Karen's Boutique. Most of the pressmen outside the house had departed, satisfied with a short statement of the known facts and the promise of a more detailed briefing that evening. The TV reporters were an exception and they had decided to stay on for a while. Their cameramen had the statement on video, but it seemed they still had some footage left and were intent on giving the viewing public a general impression of the neighborhood. There was no point in getting uptight about it, however; to object to their continued presence would invite adverse criticism of the police, and that was something he could do without.
So far, the press was being very cooperative. How long that happy state of affairs continued would depend on the way he handled the briefing that evening. Coghill doubted if a resume of the postmortem would satisfy them, and on the basis of the information he'd already released, they'd probably made up their minds about the motive. The victim had been young and attractive, they had his word for that, and there were no prizes for guessing that Karen Whitfield had captured their interest. They'd want to know all about her and the successful business ventures that had enabled the Whitfields to live in such a desirable and secluded neighborhood.
At least that aspect of the
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