Final Account by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

know. It didn’t cost a fortune, and he’d no trouble arranging a fair mortgage. He put a lot into that house over the years.”
    Susan looked at her notes and frowned as if she were having trouble reading or understanding them. “I understand Mr Rothwell actually owned a number of businesses. Do you know anything about this?”
    Pratt shook his head. “Not really. I understand he was interested in property development. As I said, Keith was an astute businessman.”
    â€œDid Mrs Rothwell work?”
    â€œMary? Good heavens, no! Well, not in the sense that she went out and made money. Mary was a housewife all the way. Well, perhaps ‘house manager’ or ‘lady of leisure’ would be a more appropriate term, as she didn’t actually do the work herself. Except for the garden. You must have seen Arkbeck, how clean it is, how well appointed?”
    â€œI’m afraid I had other things on my mind when I was there, sir,” Susan said, “but I know what you mean.”
    Pratt nodded. “For Mary,” he went on, “everything centred around the home, the family and the immediate community. Everything had to be just so, to look just right, and it had to be seen to look that way. I imagine she was a hard taskmaster, or should that be taskmistress? Of course, she didn’t spend all her time in the house. There were the Women’s Institute, the Church committees, the good works and the charities. Mary kept very busy, I can assure you.”
    â€œGood works? Charities?” There was something positively Victorian about this. Susan pictured an earnest woman striding from hovel to hovel in a flurry of garments, long dress trailing in the mud, distributing alms to the peasants and preaching self-improvement.
    â€œYes. She collected for a number of good causes. You know, the RSPCA, NSPCC, cancer, heart foundation and the like. Nothing political—I mean, no ban the bomb or anything—and nothing controversial, like AIDS research. Just the basics. She was the boss’s daughter, after all. She had certain Conservative standards to keep up.”
    â€œThe boss’s daughter?”
    â€œYes, didn’t you know? Her maiden name was Mary Hatchard. She was old man Hatchard’s daughter. He’s dead now, of course.”
    â€œSo Keith Rothwell married the boss’s daughter,” Susan mused aloud. “I don’t suppose that did his career any harm?”
    â€œNo, it didn’t. But that was more good luck than good management, if you ask me. Keith didn’t just marry the boss’s daughter, he got her pregnant first, with Tom, as it turns out, then he married her.”
    â€œHow did that go over?”
    Pratt paused and picked up a paper-clip. “Not very well at first. Old man Hatchard was mad as hell. He kept the lid on it pretty well, of course, and after he’d had time to consider it, I think he wasglad to get her off his hands. He could hardly have her married to a mere junior, though, so Keith came up pretty quickly through the ranks to full partner.”
    Pratt twisted the paper-clip. He seemed to be enjoying this game, Susan thought. He was holding back, toying with her. She had a sense that if she didn’t ask exactly the right questions, she wouldn’t get the answers she needed. The problem was, she didn’t know what the right questions were.
    They sat in his office over Winston’s Tobacconists, looking out on north Market Street, and Susan could hear the muted traffic sounds through the double-glazing. “Look,” Pratt went on, “I realize I’m the one being questioned, but could you tell me how Mary is? And Alison? I do regard myself as something of a friend of the family, and if there’s anything I can do …”
    â€œThank you, sir. I’ll make sure they know. Can you think of any reason anyone might have for killing Mr Rothwell?”
    â€œNo, I can’t. Not in