Cruel as the Grave by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Author:Cynthia Harrod-Eagles [Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2020-09-10T23:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Pie in the Sky with Diamonds

Seagram led them to ‘my wife’s study’ which was at the back of the house, with a tall, gracious window – presumably looking over gardens, because Slider could see trees waving beyond. The room was large and warm and nest-like, deep with books and glowing dark wood, a worn red Turkish carpet on the floor, a faint smell of freesias from a bunch in a vase by the window. Flown in from the Channel Islands – expensive tastes! By the fireplace there was a big leather Chesterfield stuffed with cushions with a lamp invitingly placed for reading, and an enormous partner’s desk with papers, books and a PC screen and keyboard on it.

And there was Gilda Steenkamp, standing in the middle of the room to receive them, like someone patiently waiting to do their duty, like the Queen about to present a long list of OBEs. She was tall and slim and wearing a garnet-red jersey wrap-around dress that outlined an athletic figure. Her dark hair was short and expensively cut, her face was strong-featured and handsome with a full-lipped mouth, and large dark eyes, with heavy lids like curved gardenia petals. But the eyes were blue-ringed, the mouth drooped at the corners; she looked drawn and pale. Some trouble, Slider thought, had come to her recently. She looked as though she’d been doing a lot of crying.

‘Here are the police, dear,’ Seagram said in gentle tones as if talking to an invalid.

She gave him, Slider thought, a scathing look.

Slider took over the introductions, and offered their warrant cards, which she waved away regally. There was a slightly awkward pause, which Steenkamp broke.

‘Thank you, Brian,’ she said firmly.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said, and withdrew, closing the heavy door behind him. It made no sound as it closed, but it seemed to seal them in a velvety hush.

‘You want to talk to me about Erik Lingoss,’ she said. She took the armchair (French, late-eighteenth century) and waved them to the Chesterfield opposite. Her hands looked strong – a combination of typing and fitness training, Slider supposed – and perfectly manicured, with moderate-length nails lacquered dark red, and several rings whose large diamonds had the sparkle of authenticity. She was also wearing diamond stud earrings. This was, after all, he reminded himself, a very wealthy woman.

‘I’m not sure there’s anything useful I can tell you.’ She sat like the Queen, too – back straight, knees together, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap. Deportment lessons at school perhaps, Slider thought.

‘You never know what might be useful,’ he said. ‘And it seems that you must have been the last person to see him alive.’

She flinched slightly at the words, but she said, ‘I don’t know why you think that.’

‘You had an appointment with him at nine thirty on Tuesday evening.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said, a flat denial.

‘Ma’am,’ Slider said, ‘it was in his diary. Are you telling me you didn’t keep it?’

‘I’m telling you I never made it,’ she said.

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