A Conflict of Interests Read Free Page A

investigation was no longer quite the mystery it had been an hour or so ago. Thanks to a bunch of keys Coghill had found in one of her handbags, he'd been able to open the desk and filing cabinet in the spare bedroom. The drawers in the desk were used as a depository for receipts for bills from the gas and electricity boards, various insurance policies, the title deeds to the house and a wad of bank statements relating to the Whitfields' joint account with Lloyds. From the way these household accounts were stapled together and itemized, it was obvious Karen Whitfield had been a very methodical woman, but it was the contents of the filing cabinet which had really given him an insight into her considerable business acumen.
    The memorandum and articles of association which he'd found in the top drawer told him that Karen Boutiques Limited had been incorporated on February 8, 1973, and the balance sheets for the subsequent years, prepared and audited by her chartered accountants, Richard Atkinson and Company, showed that the business was in a very healthy financial state. After examining the various cash books, it was evident to Coghill just who had been the breadwinner in the family.
    Karen's Boutique was on the left-hand side of the road, opposite the post office. Unable to find a parking space in the High Street, Coghill left the Volvo in Belvedere Grove and walked back to the shop.
    The premises were smaller than he'd expected, but the elegant window displays on either side of the entrance gave the place a touch of class, and he thought the absence of any price tags on the clothes was a sure sign the clientele were drawn from the upper income bracket. It so happened that as of that moment, the well-heeled customers were conspicuous by their absence and, apart from two bored-looking sales assistants, Coghill found he had the place to himself. For a while, neither one seemed inclined to acknowledge his existence; then the taller of the two, a willowy blonde dressed in a smart but severely cut navy two-piece, came toward him, her mouth stretched in a welcoming smile that showed a lot of capped teeth.
    "Good morning, sir," she said politely. "May I help you?" Her diction was perfect, but the accent affected and contrived.
    "I hope so," Coghill said and produced his warrant card. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" His eyes went to the glass partition at the far end of the boutique. "The office perhaps?"
    The saleswoman nodded and moved ahead of him to open the door. "I'm afraid you may find it a little cramped in here," she said with a faintly apologetic smile.
    The office was no bigger than a glorified cubbyhole with barely enough room for the essential items of furniture — a desk, two upright chairs, a large Chubb safe and the inevitable filing cabinet.
    "Oh, I don't know about that," Coghill said, "you should see where I work, Mrs.—?"
    "Strachey, Mrs. June Strachey." Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "What is it you want to see me about?" she asked.
    Coghill gave her the bald facts and provoked an expression of shocked incredulity. Her jaw dropped and the tip of her pink tongue explored the bottom lip. It took June Strachey some time to find her voice; when finally she did, it was husky and scarcely above a whisper.
    "Murdered? I can't believe it, Karen didn't have an enemy in the world. Why should anybody want to kill her?"
    "I don't know," Coghill said. "That's why I wanted to have a word with you."
    "Me?" Her eyes widened into a puzzled stare.
    "Well, you must have known Mrs. Whitfield better than most. I imagine you saw her every day of the week?"
    "Oh, no." She shook her head. "No, Karen only came in every other day. She used to visit the branch in Fulham on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays."
    "Then I assume she was here yesterday?"
    "Yes, until midday."
    "Anything unusual about that?" Coghill asked. "I mean, did she always lunch at home?"
    "Karen didn't have a set routine. Sometimes she stayed all day and sent