Ashby?’
Beth blinked with surprise. ‘At home,’ she answered.
‘You don’t work?’ Her tone was almost scathing, telling Beth precisely what she thought of women who didn’t.
‘Not exactly. I used to, but I left,’ Beth responded, ‘to write a book.’
Freeling didn’t disguise her disdain. ‘Did you leave the house at all yesterday morning?’ she said curtly.
‘No.’
‘Did anyone visit you?’
‘No. Except the cleaner, Mrs Tolstoy. She was there.’
‘What about phone calls?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone called.’
‘Did you ring anyone?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. Won’t the BT records –’
‘There were no calls,’ Freeling butted in, ‘so how do we know you’re telling the truth?’
Beth’s eyes widened with alarm. She turned to Jones. ‘I was at home,’ she insisted. ‘Mrs Tolstoy was there, cleaning. I was working on my computer. I’m always at home in the day …’
‘Can you give us Mrs Tolstoy’s number?’
Beth gave it, shaking with indignation and fear.
‘So she will confirm that you were there between eleven a.m. and twelve thirty p.m.,’ Freeling demanded.
‘Yes, of course,’ Beth cried.
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
‘No! Yes. Hang on, yes, I did go out. I went to get paper for my printer. The stationer’s isn’t far. I bought paper, and a packet of pencils. I’ve got a receipt,’ she said, scrabbling in her bag. ‘It’s here somewhere. I know I kept it. I can claim those kinds of things against tax, so I always keep … Here it is! I don’t know if the time is on it, but I’m sure the boy who served me will remember.’
Freeling took the receipt and looked it over. She then handed it to Jones, who read it before passing it to the man in the corner.
After a while, like a weather vane, Freeling’s brief storm retreated into the shadows as Jones’s warmth returned to the light. ‘Do you have any idea, Mrs Ashby, why your husband would have killed Sophie Long?’
Beth’s eyes were bright with confusion. ‘No,’ she answered truthfully. ‘None whatsoever. He’s not a violent man. He never has been.’ Then realizing her answer had suggested a doubt in his innocence, she hurriedly said, ‘He wouldn’t have done it. He couldn’t. If you knew him … He’d never hurt anyone …’
Jones looked at her, his eyes a reminder of what he’d read in her diary.
‘I mean physically,’ she said. ‘He’d never hurt anyone physically.’
‘Has he ever told you anything that might have been … instrumental, or perhaps in any way linked, to Sophie Long’s death?’
Beth frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ she said. ‘I haven’t spoken to my husband since it happened, so how could he have told me anything –’
‘I mean before it happened,’ Jones interrupted. ‘Did you ever get the impression that your husband was, well, holding something back from you?’
‘He often did that,’ she reminded him.
‘Of course. But I wasn’t actually referring to the, er, other women in his life. I was thinking more of his professional, or financial affairs. Did you everfeel that there might be something there that he was, perhaps, in with too deep?’
Again she frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Nothing he might have been involved in, or knew about, or was trying to cover up?’
She was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. If you could be more specific …’
Jones looked down at his dossier again. ‘Does your husband discuss his colleagues with you?’ he asked. ‘I mean those since his recent appointment?’
‘Occasionally. Some of them have been friends for many years.’
He met her eyes again. ‘You’re aware of the Official Secrets Act, I’m sure.’
‘Of course. And if you’re asking if he ever broke it, then the answer’s not with me. Or not that I was ever aware of.’
Jones looked round as the man in the corner
Beth blinked with surprise. ‘At home,’ she answered.
‘You don’t work?’ Her tone was almost scathing, telling Beth precisely what she thought of women who didn’t.
‘Not exactly. I used to, but I left,’ Beth responded, ‘to write a book.’
Freeling didn’t disguise her disdain. ‘Did you leave the house at all yesterday morning?’ she said curtly.
‘No.’
‘Did anyone visit you?’
‘No. Except the cleaner, Mrs Tolstoy. She was there.’
‘What about phone calls?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone called.’
‘Did you ring anyone?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. Won’t the BT records –’
‘There were no calls,’ Freeling butted in, ‘so how do we know you’re telling the truth?’
Beth’s eyes widened with alarm. She turned to Jones. ‘I was at home,’ she insisted. ‘Mrs Tolstoy was there, cleaning. I was working on my computer. I’m always at home in the day …’
‘Can you give us Mrs Tolstoy’s number?’
Beth gave it, shaking with indignation and fear.
‘So she will confirm that you were there between eleven a.m. and twelve thirty p.m.,’ Freeling demanded.
‘Yes, of course,’ Beth cried.
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
‘No! Yes. Hang on, yes, I did go out. I went to get paper for my printer. The stationer’s isn’t far. I bought paper, and a packet of pencils. I’ve got a receipt,’ she said, scrabbling in her bag. ‘It’s here somewhere. I know I kept it. I can claim those kinds of things against tax, so I always keep … Here it is! I don’t know if the time is on it, but I’m sure the boy who served me will remember.’
Freeling took the receipt and looked it over. She then handed it to Jones, who read it before passing it to the man in the corner.
After a while, like a weather vane, Freeling’s brief storm retreated into the shadows as Jones’s warmth returned to the light. ‘Do you have any idea, Mrs Ashby, why your husband would have killed Sophie Long?’
Beth’s eyes were bright with confusion. ‘No,’ she answered truthfully. ‘None whatsoever. He’s not a violent man. He never has been.’ Then realizing her answer had suggested a doubt in his innocence, she hurriedly said, ‘He wouldn’t have done it. He couldn’t. If you knew him … He’d never hurt anyone …’
Jones looked at her, his eyes a reminder of what he’d read in her diary.
‘I mean physically,’ she said. ‘He’d never hurt anyone physically.’
‘Has he ever told you anything that might have been … instrumental, or perhaps in any way linked, to Sophie Long’s death?’
Beth frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ she said. ‘I haven’t spoken to my husband since it happened, so how could he have told me anything –’
‘I mean before it happened,’ Jones interrupted. ‘Did you ever get the impression that your husband was, well, holding something back from you?’
‘He often did that,’ she reminded him.
‘Of course. But I wasn’t actually referring to the, er, other women in his life. I was thinking more of his professional, or financial affairs. Did you everfeel that there might be something there that he was, perhaps, in with too deep?’
Again she frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Nothing he might have been involved in, or knew about, or was trying to cover up?’
She was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. If you could be more specific …’
Jones looked down at his dossier again. ‘Does your husband discuss his colleagues with you?’ he asked. ‘I mean those since his recent appointment?’
‘Occasionally. Some of them have been friends for many years.’
He met her eyes again. ‘You’re aware of the Official Secrets Act, I’m sure.’
‘Of course. And if you’re asking if he ever broke it, then the answer’s not with me. Or not that I was ever aware of.’
Jones looked round as the man in the corner
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