The Inspector Thanet Mysteries Volume One by Dorothy Simpson

Author:Dorothy Simpson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504052238
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2017-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

14

“What the hell has it got to do with you?” snarled Ingram.

Dennis Ingram was the owner of the largest employment agency in Sturrenden and his office was as modern and expensive as his house: thick carpets, chrome and leather chairs, smoked glass tables and paintings to which Thanet wouldn’t have given house room. Its one enviable feature in his opinion was the view of the river, framed in a window the length of Thanet’s living room.

“Nice view you’ve got here, sir.” Thanet said, crossing the room to look out at the broad expanse of water, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. The inconsequence of the remark was, he knew, deliberately provocative. When people were angry they were often indiscreet. And he was comfortably sure of his ground. After dropping Susan he had called in at the hair-dressing salon in Turtle Street before coming here. Ingram’s “blonde, very painted” had freely admitted her involvement with him—which was evidently more than Ingram was prepared to do, the other way around.

“Never mind the bloody view. I don’t see what right you have to come poking about in my private life.” Head down, colour high in cheeks, Ingram looked like an angry bull about to charge. There was no doubt about it, he was over-reacting. Because he was afraid that his wife would now find out about his girlfriend, or because he had been involved in the murder? Thanet was determined to find out.

“Mr Ingram,” Thanet said in a world-weary tone, “your private life is, I can assure you, of no interest to me except insofar as it touches upon the murder I am investigating. No,” he said, holding up a hand as Ingram opened his mouth to interrupt, “please, let me finish. The young lady in question has already admitted her involvement with you. I am merely asking you to confirm it. If that involvement has no bearing on the case, I can assure you that my interest in the matter will cease forthwith.”

Ingram stared at him, eyes narrowed. “You mean,” he said at last, “that my wife doesn’t necessarily have to know about this?”

“What would be the point in my telling her? Assuming, of course, as I said, that there is no connection with the murder.”

“But what possible connection could there be?” said Ingram. He had relaxed a little now and was sitting back in his chair. He picked up a pencil and began to slide it through his fingers from one hand to the other in a smooth, rhythmic movement that Thanet guessed was habitual.

Thanet found this reaction interesting. Hands were often a give-away, less easily controlled than facial muscles. It really began to look as though Ingram’s main concern was his wife.

Thanet shrugged. “At this stage I’m casting around amongst Miss Birch’s acquaintance, seeing what turns up. Seeming irrelevancies can often prove to be of vital significance.”

“Well, this one won’t,” Ingram said. “It’s true that I have been … involved … with Miss Parker, but I really do fail to see how that fact could have even the remotest connection with the death of Miss Birch.

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