‘I’m not aware of an – Orlando, did you say, sir?’
‘Ah, yes. Beatrice’s brother. Interesting man . . .’ And Joe reported his findings in Surrey to an intrigued Cottingham.
‘Orlando, though he has the strongest motive for bumping off his sister, would appear to have a watertight alibi. An alibi which Sergeant Armitage is checking this morning.’
Cottingham nodded his approval. Sandilands had a reputation for meticulous checking. He never took anyone or any statement at face value. Everything by the book. Steady police teamwork. He knew his boss would now spend an hour looking carefully through the reports delivered to his desk. But Sandilands was no plodding automaton. Cottingham had seen the man get to the heart of a problem in minutes but Joe’s flashes of inspiration were always backed up by days of evidence-collecting, interrogation and sound use of forensic science. Cottingham smiled. He wondered if Joe was aware of his nickname amongst the lower ranks. Padlock Holmes. It seemed to suit his style. And it was a style that suited Ralph Cottingham. He glanced about him at the opulence of the furniture, the good carpet, the personal telephone, the view over Horseguards, and was cheerfully envious. He sighed. One day, perhaps he might have a bit of luck?
Sandilands was talking again. ‘Ralph, when we’ve finished with this Irishman I’d like you to go straight back to the Ritz. Check the duty rosters. Any witnesses who were about in the corridors at the crucial time. If our bloke emerged from the murder room I’ll guarantee he didn’t use the lift. Check anyway! Again! But then, if he used the stairs, he would have encountered Westhorpe as you say. The third possibility . . .’
‘He had a room of his own at the hotel? On the same floor, likely as not? He could have ducked through a doorway before Westhorpe surfaced. We did a preliminary check on Saturday night – there’s a list in the file – but now we know more I’ll be asking different questions.’
‘Draw up a short list of everyone who’d booked accommodation on the fourth floor or above on that night, will you?’ Joe grinned. ‘It’s all moving, Ralph!’
They met at one minute to nine before the door to one of the basement interview rooms. Peering through the small spyhole in the door they saw that their guest was already installed on the hard chair allocated to interviewees. A young detective constable was standing in the at-ease position opposite, avoiding eye contact with his charge.
Joe looked with interest at the Dame’s alleged lover. A tall, rangy man in his mid-thirties, he was sitting in a relaxed manner, one long leg thrown casually over the other and smoking a cigarette. Curly bronze-coloured hair, well-barbered and combed (nothing less than perfection would be accepted by the Ritz management), framed a lean brown face. An intelligent face, Joe decided, watching the grey eyes narrow against the smoke as he took another draw on his cigarette. Joe looked at his mouth. This neglected part of the human face, he always reckoned, could give away clues to character that the eyes were capable of disguising. Narrow lips but well-shaped. A mouth whose strength was outlined by deep lines running down on either side. Lines that could indicate humour and a readiness to laugh. Handsome? Yes, as reported. Attractive to women? He would expect so. Perhaps at some stage he would be lucky enough to be favoured with a judgement on the matter from Westhorpe. For a passing moment Joe wished that she were by his side.
‘Good-looking chap, sir,’ whispered Cottingham, echoing his thoughts. ‘No one’s idea of a villain, I’m sure.’
‘The best-looking bloke I’ve ever set eyes on stuck a knife in the throat of a young child and damn nearly shot me,’ said Joe wryly. ‘Shall we go in and get the measure of this Adonis?’
Donovan stood politely when they entered, looking them firmly in the eye as names and ranks were announced. ‘The inspector and I have already met,’ he murmured, acknowledging Cottingham with a warm smile.
They seated themselves and Cottingham produced a notebook and fountain pen.
‘Your name, please?’ asked Joe. ‘And your address and occupation. For the record.’
‘It hasn’t changed since the inspector last enquired on Saturday night. I still answer to the name of Thomas Donovan. I still may be reached at the Ritz where I have a room and I work there in the position of night porter, occasionally desk clerk. I also man the telephones.’ His voice was a pleasant baritone with only a trace of a softening Irish accent. His smile, quizzical and deprecating, took the edge off any possible sharpness in the response. He added, confidingly, ‘Dogsbody, you’re thinking, of course, and so it is, but when I’m trying to impress I’m apt to say Assistant Manager.’