out for a sandwich, sometimes she left after an hour or so. It depended on how busy we were and whether or not she had another business appointment."
"Things must have been pretty slack yesterday."
"What?"
Coghill pointed to a thin batch of invoices on the desk fastened together with a bulldog clip. "It doesn't look to me as though you had many sales."
"Actually, we had a better than average day." June Strachey brushed a stray wisp of hair off her face. "Besides, you have to remember this isn't the sort of boutique that depends on a high turnover."
You can say that again, Coghill thought. It was an even bet that Karen's Boutique charged its clients eighty to ninety pounds for a simple dress they could have purchased from Marks and Spencer's for less than thirty. The labels would be different of course, and there were bound to be some fancy trimmings to go with the price tag, but even so, they were still paying over the odds.
"If business was so brisk yesterday," he said, "why did Mrs. Whitfield leave at noon?"
"Karen had a business appointment, at least that's what she told me."
"With whom?"
"Her accountant, I imagine. I know she tried to phone him while we were checking the cash sales for the previous day, but apparently he wasn't there and she left a message asking him to call her as soon as he came in. I presume he did, because about an hour later I heard the phone ring while I was busy attending to a customer."
"That would seem a logical assumption." Coghill smiled wryly. June Strachey wasn't the chatty kind and it was clear the aloof bit wasn't just an act for the customers.
"Do you happen to know who she dealt with at Richard Atkinson and Company?" he persevered.
"Who are they?"
"Her accountants."
"Oh? I've only ever heard Karen mention a Mr. Oliver Leese." The small pink tongue made another brief appearance and moistened the bottom lip. "I suppose he must be one of the partners?"
Coghill said he reckoned she was probably right, then asked June Strachey how long she had been working for Mrs. Whitfield.
"I've been the manageress here ever since the boutique opened five years ago," she told him.
"That was before the Whitfields moved to Wimbledon?"
"Yes. I saw the job advertised in the local paper and applied for it. The interview was held at the Fulham branch in New King's Road."
"I see." Coghill edged toward the desk and leafed through the sales invoices. There were eight in all, two of which had been charged to a credit card. The largest bill came to £89.95, while at the other end of the scale, somebody had bought a silk scarf for £18. Computing the various sums in his head, he arrived at a total of £340.81. "Any idea where she was living in those days?" he asked casually.
"I think Karen said she had a flat in St. John's Wood. Or was it Maida Vale?" June Strachey gave him a helpless smile. "I'm sorry to be so vague but it was a long time ago."
"It's not the sort of thing you'd remember anyway." Coghill paused, then tried a different tack. "About that phone call?" he said. "What sort of mood was Mrs. Whitfield in after she spoke to Leese? Did she appear worried or tense? Or was she just her usual self?"
"Now that you mention it, she did look rather annoyed."
The dividing line between fact and supposition was becoming more than a little blurred. June Strachey had told him everything she knew and was merely responding to suggestion. It was, Coghill decided, time to call a halt.
"Thank you for being so helpful," he said cheerily. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time."
"You haven't," she assured him. "We're not busy at the moment."
Coghill could see that for himself. The boutique was still empty and the sales assistant June Strachey had been talking to when he arrived was busy filing her fingernails. He thanked the manageress again and went out into the street. The phone booth outside the post office caught his eye and, waiting for a break in the traffic, he crossed the road and
"Things must have been pretty slack yesterday."
"What?"
Coghill pointed to a thin batch of invoices on the desk fastened together with a bulldog clip. "It doesn't look to me as though you had many sales."
"Actually, we had a better than average day." June Strachey brushed a stray wisp of hair off her face. "Besides, you have to remember this isn't the sort of boutique that depends on a high turnover."
You can say that again, Coghill thought. It was an even bet that Karen's Boutique charged its clients eighty to ninety pounds for a simple dress they could have purchased from Marks and Spencer's for less than thirty. The labels would be different of course, and there were bound to be some fancy trimmings to go with the price tag, but even so, they were still paying over the odds.
"If business was so brisk yesterday," he said, "why did Mrs. Whitfield leave at noon?"
"Karen had a business appointment, at least that's what she told me."
"With whom?"
"Her accountant, I imagine. I know she tried to phone him while we were checking the cash sales for the previous day, but apparently he wasn't there and she left a message asking him to call her as soon as he came in. I presume he did, because about an hour later I heard the phone ring while I was busy attending to a customer."
"That would seem a logical assumption." Coghill smiled wryly. June Strachey wasn't the chatty kind and it was clear the aloof bit wasn't just an act for the customers.
"Do you happen to know who she dealt with at Richard Atkinson and Company?" he persevered.
"Who are they?"
"Her accountants."
"Oh? I've only ever heard Karen mention a Mr. Oliver Leese." The small pink tongue made another brief appearance and moistened the bottom lip. "I suppose he must be one of the partners?"
Coghill said he reckoned she was probably right, then asked June Strachey how long she had been working for Mrs. Whitfield.
"I've been the manageress here ever since the boutique opened five years ago," she told him.
"That was before the Whitfields moved to Wimbledon?"
"Yes. I saw the job advertised in the local paper and applied for it. The interview was held at the Fulham branch in New King's Road."
"I see." Coghill edged toward the desk and leafed through the sales invoices. There were eight in all, two of which had been charged to a credit card. The largest bill came to £89.95, while at the other end of the scale, somebody had bought a silk scarf for £18. Computing the various sums in his head, he arrived at a total of £340.81. "Any idea where she was living in those days?" he asked casually.
"I think Karen said she had a flat in St. John's Wood. Or was it Maida Vale?" June Strachey gave him a helpless smile. "I'm sorry to be so vague but it was a long time ago."
"It's not the sort of thing you'd remember anyway." Coghill paused, then tried a different tack. "About that phone call?" he said. "What sort of mood was Mrs. Whitfield in after she spoke to Leese? Did she appear worried or tense? Or was she just her usual self?"
"Now that you mention it, she did look rather annoyed."
The dividing line between fact and supposition was becoming more than a little blurred. June Strachey had told him everything she knew and was merely responding to suggestion. It was, Coghill decided, time to call a halt.
"Thank you for being so helpful," he said cheerily. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time."
"You haven't," she assured him. "We're not busy at the moment."
Coghill could see that for himself. The boutique was still empty and the sales assistant June Strachey had been talking to when he arrived was busy filing her fingernails. He thanked the manageress again and went out into the street. The phone booth outside the post office caught his eye and, waiting for a break in the traffic, he crossed the road and
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