Deadly Petard by Roderic Jeffries Page B

suicide or was she murdered?’
    Cullon spoke excitedly. ‘West! We heard he’d moved there. For some reason she was going to recant on his alibi and he killed her to keep her mouth shut.’
    ‘Before you let your enthusiasm run too far ahead, all we know for certain is that there’s a query over the nature of her death and the Spanish police have asked for some help. They want a full resume of the facts surrounding the death of West’s wife and evidence on what kind of a person Miss Dean was—was she neurotic, given to fits of depression, did she ever threaten to commit suicide . . . Who can help us there?’
    ‘As far as I could ever make out she knew very few people . . . But she did mention once that she had a daily in to do the housework because she loathed dusting and cleaning. The daily might be able to help. Only thing is, I’ve no idea who she was. Shall I tell Mac to make enquiries?’
    ‘It’ll be best if you handle everything.’
    Cullon, remembering what Tina had said that morning, cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have my hands full preparing the resume . . .’
    Rifle jerked himself upright, picked up a single sheet of paper, and read what was typed on it. After a while, Cullon left. There were many aspects of his work which Tina didn’t really understand.
    Cullon drove out to Queenswood Farm and parked in front of the garage. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed that the drive had recently been resurfaced, the sides of the shed had been tarred and the windows and corrugated tin roof painted, and the five-bar-gate into the front paddock was new. The garden had been altered and now there were geometrically shaped and placed flower-beds and the lawn was immaculate, looking like a bowling green. All the house doors and windows had been painted an interesting shade of puce. He was not surprised to be greeted at the front door by a woman who was dressed as if off to a cocktail party in Hampstead.
    She did not ask him into the sitting-room, but kept him standing in the hall. Her voice was drawling, high-pitched, and condescending. ‘Yes, I know the woman you mean. As a matter of fact, she worked for me for a while after we moved in, but she really was rather too . . . too familiar, even for this day and age.’
    ‘Can you give me her name? And have you any idea where she lives?’
    ‘Her name’s Randall and she lives somewhere in Nearington: I’ve no idea exactly where. Perhaps in one of the council houses.’
    ‘Thanks a lot for all your help.’
    She nodded.
    He returned to his car and drove away. Gertrude Dean would surely have been very bitter to learn exactly what kind of people had bought her house, which she had so plainly loved and cherished.
    Nearington was a village which had quickly expanded when the main line railway had been electrified to bring it within commuting distance of London: as it had grown it had lost its character and now it was a sprawl of modern houses and bungalows, grouped around the few original homes which looked out of place with their bowed, peg-tile roofs and inaccurate walls.
    He stopped outside the general store, now a mini supermarket. The woman behind the till told him that Mrs Randall lived up the road at Cherry Tree Cottage. He drove a couple of hundred yards further on, then turned off to the right and went down the second of three access roads which served the housing estate. Cherry Tree Cottage was the last bungalow on the right and because the land beyond sloped away, there was an attractive view over the surrounding and well wooded countryside.
    Mrs Randall was a solidly built woman in her middle fifties who had the determined, though not aggressive, manner of someone who always knew her own mind and was quite ready to express it.
    ‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard that unfortunately Miss Dean has died?’ he said.
    ‘Dead?’ She stared at him with shocked surprise. ‘But she was no age.’
    ‘It seems she may have committed suicide.’
    ‘Poor