The Last Judgement

Her decision to go to Switzerland had been reinforced by the careful perusal of the papers accumulated by the Carabinieri the night before. As Fabriano had said, they were methodical; a model of how to do it. The trouble was, they hadn’t had much time, and getting information via the Swiss police inevitably involved an awful lot of paperwork and delay. Not the fault of the Swiss, just the way it was.

She had toyed with the idea of ringing ahead to Ellman’s apartment to give warning that she was on her way, but decided against. If the housekeeper Fabriano’s report mentioned wasn’t there, that was a pity. She’d have a wasted journey, but it wasn’t a long one, only around fifteen minutes by taxi. When she had arrived at the destination, she stood and examined the street. It was a non-descript line of apartment blocks, all around thirty or forty years old. Comfortable enough, in decent repair and with the streets as immaculate as they always were in Switzerland. A respectable neighbourhood, but not in any way a wealthy one, so she reckoned.

The entrance to Ellman’s block was similarly anonymous but worthy in appearance; clean, tidy, the walls covered in little notes reminding tenants to make sure the doors were firmly closed and the rubbish sacks secured to stop the cats getting at them. Muller himself had lived on the fifth floor, and Flavia took the well-maintained, comfortably carpeted lift to get there.

‘Madame Rouvet?’ she asked in French as the door opened, having desperately checked her file at the last moment to make sure that she remembered the name properly.

‘Yes?’ She was probably ten years younger than her employer had been, and didn’t seem at all like a housemaid. Very well dressed, with an attractive face spoiled only by a thin, puritanical mouth.

Flavia explained who she was, and where she had come from, showing her Italian police identification. She had been sent up by the Rome police to ask a few questions about Mr Ellman’s death.

She was allowed in without any awkward questions being asked. Like, isn’t it a bit late? And don’t the Swiss authorities insist on accompanying foreign policemen when they investigate on their patch? And where is your written authority to be here?

‘You’ve come from Rome today?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ Flavia replied as she carefully looked around to get a feel of the place. The instant impression was of a home that was as proper as the block that contained it. Modestly furnished, with nothing exceptional. Inexpensive modern furniture, a preference for bright colours. No pictures on the wall except for a couple of popular prints of paintings. A vast television dominated the little sitting-room, and the air of meticulous cleanliness was spoiled only by the faint smell of cat.

‘I arrived about half an hour ago,’ she continued as she took all this in. ‘I hope you don’t mind me just turning up like this.’

‘Not at all,’ Madame Rouvet said. She looked properly, but far from excessively, distressed at her employer’s death. One of those people whose period of grief would be fitted into the day’s schedule, somewhere between the shopping and the ironing. ‘How can I help you? I’m afraid this has all come as rather a shock to me.’

‘I’m sure,’ she replied sympathetically. ‘A dreadful thing to happen. And I’m sure you understand, we want to find out what happened as soon as possible.’

‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

‘Not really. Bits and pieces, hints and clues, and lines of enquiry. But I must tell you that at the moment we need all the information we can gather.’

‘I will, of course, be eager to help. I can’t imagine who would want to kill poor Mr Ellman. Such a nice, kind, generous soul. So good to his family, and to me, as well.’

‘He has family?’

‘A son. A good-for-nothing, frankly. Idle and grasping. Always coming here with his hand out. Never had a decent job in his life.’ She looked disapproving at the mere mention of the son.

‘And where is he?’

‘On holiday. In Africa, at the moment. He’s due back tomorrow. Typical of him. Never around when he’s needed. Always spending. Always other people’s money. And his poor father could never say no. I would have, I can tell you.’

The conversation paused for a moment while Flavia jotted down details of the son and where he was. You never knew. Greedy son, dead father. Will. Inheritance. Oldest motive known to man, more or less. But somehow she thought it wasn’t going to be that easy. Already, this case did not seem the sort that had money at the bottom of it. A pity; those were always the easiest. Even Madame Rouvet was sceptical; she may have disliked the son, but she didn’t think him capable of murdering his own father. Largely because he was too spineless, in her opinion.

‘And his wife?’

‘She died about eight years ago. A heart attack, just as poor Mr Ellman was about to retire.’

‘And he was in the, ah, import-export business?’

‘That’s right, yes. Not rich, but hard-working, and as honest as the day is long.’

‘And the company name?’