A Death in Diamonds

Darbishire was unmoved. ‘Given how little she saw that’s of any real use to us, I rather do. If anything, she’s been wasting police time so far. Tell her I’d like to see her at the station in the morning. You too, sir. If you’re not there, there will be consequences. Goodnight, Mr Gregson. Sleep tight.’

He crossed the street to the western side, to his second elusive witness.

Number 42, a couple of doors down from 44 (the houses in the mews were numbered sequentially), was the London residence of a William Pinder, civil servant. Mr Pinder, who definitely existed, as confirmed by the War Office, had spoken to the police a couple of times, to assert that he was alone at home that night, having taken a sleeping draught, and he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. Darbishire had a couple of supplementary questions to ask, but Mr Pinder, too, had recently been out when his officers had called by.

The inspector knocked without much hope but, to his surprise, the door was answered within a minute.

‘Yes?’ a female voice demanded through a tiny crack. Her cut-glass accent was apparent in one word. It reminded him: Mrs Gregson’s accent on the telephone had been posher than her husband’s just now. Should he read something into that? Or was he just being a snob?

‘Police, ma’am,’ Darbishire explained. ‘Would you mind . . . ?’

The woman opened the door by about a foot, to reveal that she was in her dressing gown and slippers, with her hair in curlers under a little pink net and a blanket over her shoulders.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Are you Mrs Pinder, by any chance?’

‘Marion Pinder, yes.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Darbishire, CID. So sorry to disturb you. Is your husband in?’

She frowned. ‘No. He’s, er . . . no. He’s in the country.’

‘Not Shropshire, by any chance?’

She stared at him. ‘Surrey. He’s staying with his parents. What?’

She’d spotted the massively sceptical look on Darbishire’s face. But coincidences did happen. He gave her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Why isn’t he staying with you, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, from what he’s already told us you share a home in Reigate with the children. He just stays here during the week for work, yes?’

Mrs Pinder scowled and pulled the blanket tighter around her. She, too, had no intention of inviting him in. Darbishire was a friendly man by nature and this aspect of the job didn’t always appeal to him: alienating bystanders in the interests of investigation. However, he was good at it.

‘Bill normally stays here,’ she agreed. ‘Sunday night to Thursday. But he’s not well. I’m just sorting out some things here.’

‘Is he infectious?’

‘No! Nothing like that. We just . . .’ Her face hardened. ‘We needed some time apart, if you must know. Or we did. Now I’m wondering . . .’ As her voice trailed off she looked lost and sad. Darbishire sensed she needed a solid shoulder to cry on, but it wouldn’t be his.

‘Can you ask him to get in touch with me? One of your neighbours claims to have heard a gunshot the night of the murders—’

‘Gunshot?’ She almost leaped out of her skin.

‘Yes, and unless it came from number forty-four, where we have no evidence of it, it must have come from this property, if it came from anywhere at all. The house in between is empty, you see.’

‘I know. But there wouldn’t have been a gunshot. We don’t even have a gun. My husband was fast asleep, as I said. He’s been finding it difficult to rest recently so he took a significant amount of sleeping powder. I know because he was very groggy when he spoke to me the next morning. He’d have slept through anything. Who said so, anyway? Was it those bastards from across the road?’ She flicked her eyes to the space beyond Darbishire’s shoulder. ‘Don’t believe a word they tell you.’

He was so surprised by the crystal-toned profanity coming from under those curlers that it took him a moment to recover.

‘What about them? Do you mean the Gregsons at twenty-three?’

‘The Gregsons? No. You mean the Hallidays. But they moved out last month because of the flood. I was in town for the ballet and I saw them put all their things in a van.’

‘The flood?’

‘Yes. One of the pipes sprang a leak. Mrs Halliday said it was going to take weeks to dry the place out. She has trouble with her lungs, so they found somewhere cheaper in Earl’s Court.’

‘Very interesting.’ It had not escaped Darbishire’s notice how garrulous Mrs Pinder had suddenly become. ‘But if you didn’t know the Gregsons, who were you referring to?’

She pursed her lips and clammed up again.

‘Which “bastards” did you mean, Mrs Pinder?’

‘You’ll have to ask my husband. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to bed.’

She shut the door in his face. Darbishire turned around to examine number 22, directly opposite. This was where she had been looking when she swore. It was part of the Arts and Crafts row and slightly taller than the others. An extra floor had been added above the pantiles, with a couple of windows at roof level, overlooking the street.