Murder at the Old Abbey

by Pippa McCathie

  “And what about your parents?”

  “Oh, they’re quite different. I think Maman wanted to be free to make her own decisions after what her mother had been through. They were always very liberal, by Mauritian Hindu standards. Both of them are doctors. They trained at Kings in London and got married when they came back home. They run a private clinic, but they also do work in some of the poorer villages, mainly with mothers and babies. I think they’d have liked me to do medicine as well, but it was always art and design for me.”

  They talked long into the night, not just about Anjali’s history but about Fabia’s too. She told her about the awful events of six months before when her young friend, Amber, had been murdered. She spoke a little of Matt Lambert and their friendship, and how it had been blighted by her abrupt departure from the police force.

  “I was investigating a fraud case and hadn’t realised one of the high-ups in the Gwent police force was involved. I suppose you could say they set me up; that was what it amounted to. I was given to understand that if I went quietly, they’d not prosecute. You know the sort of thing?”

  Anjali looked shocked. “How awful, but yes, I suppose these things happen at home as well.”

  “It was a good deal more complicated than I’m making it sound, but I won’t bore you with the details. Anyway, the only good thing that came out of that dreadful time in April was that Matt managed to clear my name. I got my pension rights reinstated and a nice little bit of compensation.”

  “Did you not think of going back to the police force?” Anjali asked.

  “Oh no. I love what I do now, but I do still have that urge to investigate.” She grinned. “Hence my rather unsubtle interrogation of you.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s good to talk to someone about it.” A look of sadness crossed her face. “And now Caradoc’s in hospital and I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to get to know him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Fabia said, although she wasn’t at all sure of it – Caradoc was eighty years old after all – but she added, “he’s a tough old bird, you’ll see.”

  * * *

  Matt had not slept well. He felt a complete prat for making such a fuss over the sketch Fabia had done of him. He just couldn’t work out what had got under his skin about it, and that conversation last night, it had just escalated. Why did they always seem to end up sniping at each other? He’d have to apologise, not a happy prospect.

  He’d woken at an ungodly hour and realised he’d not be able to go back to sleep, so he decided to go into the station early and get on with work. Apart from several more local cases, the investigation into Mike Cotter’s activities was beginning to get interesting. Although they hadn’t got anything concrete yet, just a collection of rumour and coincidence added to a few definite pieces of evidence, his instincts told him there was something worth investigating. He’d spoken to a friend, Charlie Brewer in the Met, the day before.

  “How come he’s on your patch?” Charlie asked.

  “His sister is married to a local landowner’s son.”

  There was a low whistle from the other end of the line. “Is she indeed?”

  “You mean your lot didn’t know?”

  “Not my department, but the border force chaps have probably got plenty of information. I wish you joy on this one. From what I’ve heard, he’s a bit of a bad lot, but clever with it.”

  “Could you do some research for me? What they’ve got, how close they are to making an arrest, if at all?”

  “Be delighted, it’ll be a damn sight more interesting than the load of crap cluttering up my desk.”

  “Thanks,” Matt had said.

  He’d been surprised at how quickly his friend phoned back. “That didn’t take long.”

  “It’s called networking, mate,” Charlie said.

  This hit a nerve. Matt felt he’d never been good at networking – that had been Fabia’s forte. God, how he missed her input, but then he could go and pick her brains, couldn’t he? He pushed the thought away.

  “So, what do you have on him?”

  “They’re busy giving him plenty of rope at the moment,” his friend said, “keeping an eye on him but that’s about it. They think he might have got on the wrong side of some of his local associates and could be keeping a low profile. They didn’t sound particularly pleased that you’re ferreting around, but I persuaded them you knew your stuff. Anyway, Cotter is on record as having links to a pan-European fascist organisation which has its headquarters, or what amounts to that, in Sofia in Bulgaria. They’re dedicated to keeping immigrants out, particularly those from Africa, although they’re pretty militant about Syrians and Iraqis as well, and they’d like to wipe out the Romanies, whichever country they come from.”

  “Okay, so anyone who isn’t white European,” Matt said. “The Hungarians seem to be going in the same direction.”

  “These people he’s in with are a neo-Nazi group who’re determined to turn the clock back to the glorious days of the Third Reich.” The scorn in Charlie’s voice was palpable. “They tell me he’s probably in Wales trying to drum up funds from some local right-wing groups. His cover is legit, so far as it goes. They think he’s importing artefacts, mainly East European, and wine from around that area, and he’s buying antiques here to sell back to his pals in Europe. They suspect he’s not too bothered about where they come from or how they’re acquired.”

  “And they’re finding it all hard to prove?” Matt asked.

  There was a grunt of amusement from the other end. “Yup. They’re still busy gathering evidence, but they are in contact with the guys in Sofia and various other East European capitals, which could be useful to you.”

  “The local family he’s connected to, the Mansells,” Matt told him, “are known to have some pretty valuable stuff, rare Welsh silver, some interesting paintings, jewellery, and the head of the family owns a very valuable stamp collection, but I gather he’s not going to part with anything willingly. There was a theft of some silver at the house a while back, but they ended up spinning us some yarn of its being sent for restoration.”

  “Was Cotter staying there at the time?”

  “I’m not sure. I must find out when he pitched up.” Matt sat back in his chair. “Thanks for all that, Charlie, I owe you.”

  “A couple of rugby tickets for The Arms Park will do it.”

  Matt laughed. “You should be so lucky. Anyway, must get back to the grind.”

  Chapter 6

  Fabia was woken by her phone. Dragging herself out of sleep, she swung her legs out of bed, rubbed at her face and grabbed the handset, squinting at her bedside clock as she did so. Half past seven. Ugh! Who on earth was phoning so early?

  “Hallo,” she croaked.

  “Fabia? It’s Matt.”

  Immediately she was wide awake. “Matt! What sort of hour do you call this, for god’s sake?”

  “Sorry. I’ve been in work for over an hour now, feels like mid-morning.” There was an awkward pause then he said, in a rush, “Look, I’m phoning to apologise for being such a prick about that sketch.”

  Fabia grinned, that must have cost him. “Don’t worry about it, Matt,” she said, “shit happens.”

  There was a slight pause. “Now,” his tone had changed, “I wonder, can I pick your brains about something?”

  “I thought there’d be an ulterior motive.”

  “Fabia!”

  She grinned. “I’m not sure my brains will function that well at this ungodly hour, I’m a bit hungover, but pick away.”

  “When I was at your exhibition, I noticed a painting of White Monk Abbey; you know the family, don’t you?”

  Fabia frowned, that wasn’t what she’d expected, and this was getting a bit spooky. Every which way she turned she came up against the Mansells, and now Matt was asking about them. What the hell was going on?

  “Ye-es.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “No, no, it’s
not that.”

  “I thought you were doing some work for the daughter.”

  “I am.” Fabia ran a hand through her sleep-messed hair and took a deep breath. “It’s all rather complicated, Matt, but why are you asking? What do you want to know about them?”

  “Look, can I come and grab a coffee? I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about it, but stuff that, I really need some background. I’ve got one of those feelings about this.”

  “What feelings, Matt? You always say police work is a matter of facts and evidence, hunches don’t come into it.”

  “Maybe I’m learning the error of my ways.”

  “Matt.” Fabia bit her lip, not quite sure what to say. “As I told you last night, I’ve got a visitor, someone connected to the Mansells.”

  “What?”

  “She came down to meet up with Caradoc, you know, the father, and he’s had a stroke, he’s in hospital.”

  “Is he now? Who exactly is this visitor?”

  “A – a relative of the Mansells. The situation was a tad awkward and she had nowhere to go, so John Meredith asked if I’d take her in.”

  “What’s John got to do with it?” he asked sharply.

  “It’s all tied up with Caradoc’s will and John’s his solicitor.”

  “Couldn’t she have stayed with them?”

  “No, Matt, she couldn’t. It’s nice to have company, and I’ve got room, as you know. Anyway, come now. I doubt that Anjali will be up for a bit, we were very late going to bed last night.” Fabia knew she was letting her curiosity get the better of her, but she couldn’t resist. “See you in twenty minutes?”

  He arrived fifteen minutes later. “Good lord, Matt,” Fabia exclaimed as she led him through to the kitchen, “you must have been ignoring the speed limit all the way from Newport.”

  “Just kept my fingers crossed that Traffic were asleep on the job.”

  She grinned. “First it’s hunches, then it’s breaking the law, you’re a changed man.”

  He returned her grin a little sheepishly. “Must be your bad influence,” he said.

  She made coffee and a pile of toast, knowing that he wouldn’t have had breakfast, put butter and marmalade on the table and pushed a plate and knife towards him.

  “Help yourself.” She cupped her hands round her mug. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  “How well do you know the Mansell family?”

  “I’ve known them all my life really, not intimately but they’ve always been around. Caradoc and my father were at school together and they remained friends, although they lost touch in later life. They both collected stamps and Dad used to say that Caradoc’s collection was the best he’d ever come across.”

  “Who exactly is your visitor?”

  Fabia bit her lip, not sure how much she could say. She wanted to help Matt and was deeply curious about his reasons for asking her about the family, but John had said to keep Anjali and Caradoc’s relationship under wraps. Could she tell Matt about Anjali when Rodric and Megan, her aunt and uncle, didn’t know of her existence yet? John had called it pretty awkward – Fabia felt that was one hell of an understatement.

  “It’s a bit awkward, Matt. I was asked to keep things to myself. Humour me, tell me what you want to know, and why, and then I’ll see how much I can tell you.”

  He frowned, obviously not happy with this idea. “You seem to be pretty pally with John Meredith all of a sudden.”

  Fabia ignored this and there was a silent stand-off while he buttered and spread marmalade on his third piece of toast, but in the end he relented.

  “Okay. Here’s the thing. We’re looking into Mike Cotter, Rodric Mansell’s brother-in-law. He’s a dodgy piece of work, in with some unpleasant European fascist groups, and he’s been staying at the Abbey for a while. It’s occurred to me that he might be considering relocating some of the family’s valuables. We investigated a theft that turned out not to be one.”

  Matt told her about the silver.

  “So, what exactly do you want from me?” Fabia asked, getting up to make more coffee.

  “Just background, really. Have you met this Cotter guy? And, if so, what was your impression? Have any of them said anything about ‘losing’” – he wiggled his fingers to indicate inverted commas – “any of their treasures, or selling them for that matter? Anything like that.”

  But before Fabia had the chance to respond, the phone rang. “Sorry, I’d better get this,” she said as she searched around for the handset, which wasn’t on its rest. She finally found it on the window sill.

  “Hallo?”

  “Fabia? It’s John. I’ve just had a call from Rodric Mansell, and I thought you ought to know, Caradoc died an hour ago.”

  “Oh God, how awful. What was it, a stroke? His heart?”

  “They’re not saying, it’s all a bit odd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems there are some aspects to his collapse that aren’t adding up. Apparently, the registrar at the hospital isn’t happy, but Rodric was a bit cagey about it. There’s going to be a post-mortem, which seems a bit heavy handed, so we’ll know more after that.”

  “It could just mean the cause of death isn’t obvious.”

  “I know, but it could mean a complete nightmare,” he said, “given the changed will and Anjali’s arrival.”

  “Changed will?”

  “I can’t go into details, sorry. I’ll be round later to speak to Anjali. Look, I know it’s a hell of an imposition, but could you tell her what’s happened?”

  Fabia felt a sinking feeling at the prospect but pulled herself together. “Yes, of course.”

  “Sorry to let you in for this,” John said, “but she really needs someone to keep an eye out for her, fight her corner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got to go, Fabia. I’ll explain it all when I see you. Will you be in about half eleven?”

  “I can make sure we are.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. It’s not what I intended when I asked you to rescue her. Stupid, I should have realised something like this could happen.”

  Fabia replaced the handset and looked at Matt, a worried frown on her face. “That was John. Caradoc died early this morning, and there’s going to be a PM.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Something about the doctor not being happy.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Matt said.

  “The thing is, Matt, my visitor, Anjali, is a newly discovered granddaughter of Caradoc’s, and now I’ve got to tell her that he’s dead.”

  “Oh shit! How on earth did she end up staying with you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Matt waited, but Fabia didn’t elaborate. When she said no more, he glanced at his watch. “Look, I’d better get back, and you need to concentrate on – what did you say her name is?”

  “Anjali, Anjali Kishtoo, she’s Mauritian.”

  “One of these days you’re going to tell me the whole story, Fabia.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure I will.”

  * * *

  As Matt drove back to the station, this time keeping to the speed limit, he went over and over what Fabia had – and had not – told him. How come this newly discovered granddaughter had appeared just at this moment? Could she have anything to do with Mike Cotter? He needed to meet her, and not knowing how long she’d be with Fabia, he’d need to make it soon. Maybe he’d drop in after work, whenever that may be – he never knew these days. Why had he decided to rush out to talk to Fabia? He was reluctant to admit to himself part of it had been because he just wanted to see her. He was quite relieved when his handsfree clamoured for attention.

  “Dilys?”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way back to the station.”

  “There’s a message from a Dr Hari Patel at the Royal Gwent, he wants you to give him a ring. He says he’s a bit concerned about Caradoc Mansell’s death. He’s asked for a PM.
”

  “I know.”

  “How come?”

  “Never mind. What exactly did he say?”

  “Just that he wanted to talk to you, says there are aspects that he’s concerned about – he didn’t go into detail. Do you know him? Is he reliable?”

  “Yes, he’s a good chap. He’s a member of the chamber choir and we often have a drink together after rehearsals, so I know him quite well.”

  “He said he’ll be coming off duty in an hour and could you phone him then. Here’s his mobile number.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it saved. But I’ll be passing the hospital, so I’ll pop in and see if I can speak to him now.”

  “Where exactly are you?”

  “On my way back from Pontygwyn,” Matt said without thinking.

  “Been to consult with Superintendent Havard?”

  He could hear the grin in her voice.

  “Shut up Dilys. I’ll see you later.”

  * * *

  Matt managed to find a parking space at the hospital, relieved that they’d changed to free parking a few months ago. He went up to reception and asked for Dr Patel. Given that he’d expected to be told he’d have to wait, he was surprised at how quickly his friend strode towards him. He was a small but dapper man with a stethoscope dangling round his neck. The contrast between Matt’s untidy six foot two and the doctor was marked.

  “I got your message,” Matt said, shaking the doctor by the hand. “I was passing and thought I’d drop in. How can I help?”

  “Thank you for reacting so quickly. Come into my office.”

  Matt followed him down a short corridor and was ushered into a minute office crammed with a desk, filing cabinets, a couple of chairs, several photos of a smiling woman in a sari and children of various ages. Matt felt a stab of envy, wishing his office was crowded with photos of a family. But he dismissed such thoughts firmly and sat down in a chair opposite the desk.

  “So, what can I do for you, Hari?”