She frowned, then remembered. It seemed so long ago. “It didn't seem like much fun to wait for it alone. I didn't go after all.”
“That's just as well. We wouldn't want you lost on the moors.”
“Oh, that's unlikely, isn't it? It was only Eyam Moor. And even if it had been one of the others, I've been out there enough by myself that I always know where I'm—” She stopped herself. She looked at her cousin. He wasn't watching her, but his ruddy natural colouring gave him away. “Ah. I see. Is that what you think?”
“I'm sorry.” His voice was wretched. “I can't stop thinking about it. Having the police turn up made everything worse. All I can think about is what happened to her. I can't get it out of my mind.”
“Try doing what I do,” she said past a pounding heartbeat that she heard in her ears. “There are so many ways to keep one's mind occupied. Try considering, for example, the fact that dogs have been giving birth on their own for a few hundred thousand years. It's remarkable, that. One can think about it for hours. That thought alone can fill up one's head so there's no room left for anything else.”
Julian was immobile. She'd made her point. “Where were you on Tuesday night, Sam?” he whispered. “Tell me.”
“I was killing Nicola Maiden,” Samantha said, getting to her feet and walking back to the fireplace. “I always like to end my day with a spot of murder.”
MKR Financial Management was housed in what looked like a pale pink confection on the corner of Lansdowne Road and St. John's Gardens. The decorative icing consisted of woodwork so clean that Barbara Havers imagined a duster-wielding lackey getting up at five in the morning each day to scrub his way from the faux columns on either side of the door to the plaster medallions above the porch.
“Good thing we've still got the guv's motor,” Nkata murmured as he pulled up to the pavement across the street from the building.
“Why?” Barbara asked.
“We look like we fit in.” He nodded to a car whose back end was sloping up the drive at one side of the pink confection. It was a Jaguar XJS, silver in colour. It could have been the Bentley's first cousin. A black Mercedes sat in front of the building, locked between an Aston-Martin and an antique Bristol.
“We're definitely out of our financial depth,” Barbara said, heaving herself from the car. “But that's just as well. We wouldn't like to be rich. People with dibs are always dead choked.”
“You believe that, Barb?”
“No. But it keeps me happier to pretend it. Come on. I need some serious financial managing, and something tells me we've come to a place where it can happen.”
They had to ring to get in. No voice enquired as to who'd come calling, but none was necessary since a high-tech security system on the building included a video camera placed strategically above the front door. Just in case someone was watching, Barbara took out her warrant card and held it up to the camera. Perhaps in response, the door buzzed open.
An oak-floored entry became a hushed corridor of closed doors with a width of Persian carpet running down it. Off this, Reception consisted of a small room that was heavy on antiques and heavier still on silver-framed photographs. There was no one present, just a sophisticated telephone system that appeared to answer calls automatically and send them on their way. This sat on a kidney-shaped desk across whose top were fanned out a dozen brochures with the logo MKR stamped in gold upon them. It was all very reassuring in appearance, just the sort of place one wouldn't mind coming to in order to discuss the delicate matter of one's monetary situation.
Barbara went to investigate the photographs. She saw that the same man and woman were common to them all. He was short, wiry, and angelic in appearance, with a wispy corona of hair round his head, which added to his celestial aura. His companion was taller than he, blonde and as thin as a walking eating disorder. She was beautiful in the fashion of a catwalk model: vacant-looking and all cheekbones and lips. The photographs themselves were vintage Hello!, featuring their subjects with an assortment of well-turned-out nobs, políticos, and celebrities. A former prime minister stood among them, and Barbara had no trouble identifying opera singers, film stars, and a well-known U.S. senator.
A door opened and closed somewhere in the corridor. The floor boards creaked as someone walked along the Persian carpet towards Reception. With a click of heels against a bare section of wood, a woman came into the room to greet them. No more than a glance told Barbara that one of the two photographed subjects had herself come to see why the rozzers were calling.
She was Tricia Reeve, the woman said, assistant director of MKR Financial Management. How might she be of help to them?
Barbara introduced herself. Nkata did the same. They asked the woman if they could have a few minutes of her time.
“Of course,” Tricia Reeve replied politely, but Barbara couldn't help noticing that the assistant director of MKR Financial Management didn't exactly embrace the words Scotland Yard CID with the devotion of a member of the faithful. Instead, her glance moved like nervous quicksilver, sliding between the two detectives as if she wasn't certain how to behave. Her wide eyes looked black, but a lengthier look at them revealed that her pupils were so enlarged that they covered all but a thin edge of iris. The effect was disconcerting, but it was also revealing. Drugs, Barbara realised. Tsk, tsk, tsk. No wonder she was jumpy, with the cops on her doorstep.
Tricia Reeve took a moment to inspect her watch. Gold-banded this was, and coruscating expensively in the light. She said, “I was just about to leave, so I hope this won't take long. I've got to attend a tea at the Dorchester. It's a charity do, and as I'm a member of the committee …. I hope you understand. Is there a problem?”
Murder certainly was a problem, Barbara thought. She let Nkata do the honours. For her part, she watched for reactions.
There were none other than perplexity. Tricia Reeve observed Nkata as if she hadn't heard him correctly. After a moment, she said, “Nicola Maiden? Murdered?” and then she added most strangely, “Are you certain?”
“We've had a positive ID from the girl's parents.”
“I meant are you certain she was murdered?”
“We don't think she bashed in her own skull, if that's what you're asking,” Barbara said.
That got a reaction, limited though it was. One of Tricia Reeve's manicured hands reached for the top button of her suit's jacket. It was pin-striped, with a pencil-width skirt that showed several miles of leg.
“Look,” Barbara said. “The College of Law told us that she came to work for you last autumn on a part-time basis that turned to full-time in May. We take it she'd gone on leave for the summer. Is that right?”
Tricia glanced towards a closed door behind the reception desk. “You'll need to speak to Martin.” She went to the door, knocked once, entered, and shut it behind her without another word.
Barbara looked at Nkata. “I'm panting for your analysis, son.”
“She's pilled-up like a pharmacist's cupboard” was his succinct reply.
“She's flying, all right. What d'you reckon it is?”
He flipped his hand. “It's keeping her sweet, whatever she's on.”
It was nearly five minutes before Tricia reappeared. During this time, the phones continued to ring, the calls continued to be routed, and the low murmur of voices came from behind the heavy closed door. When it opened at last, a man stood before them. It was Angel Hair from the photographs, decked out in a well-tailored charcoal suit and waistcoat with the heavy gold chain of a pocket watch slung across his middle. He introduced himself as Martin Reeve. He was Tricia's husband, he told them, managing director of MKR.
He invited Barbara and Nkata into his office. His wife was on her way out to tea, he explained. Would the police be needing her? Because as head of fund raising for Children in Need, she had an obligation to her committee to be present at their Autumn Harvest Tea at the Dorchester. It began the season, and had Tricia not been the chairman—“Sorry, darling, chairperson—�
�� of the event, her presence wouldn't be so crucial. As it was, she happened to have the guest list in the boot of her car. And without that list, the seating assignments for the tea couldn't be made. Reeve hoped the police would understand …. He flashed a mouth of perfect teeth in their direction: Straight, white, and capped, they were a testimony to one man's triumph over the vicissitudes of dental genetics.
“Absolutely,” Barbara agreed. “We can't have Sharon Whosis sitting next to the Countess of Crumpets. As long as Mrs. Reeve is available later should we need to talk to her …”
Reeve assured them that both he and his wife understood the gravity of the situation. “Darling … ?” He nodded Tricia on her way. She'd been standing hesitantly next to his desk, a massive affair of mahogany and brass with burgundy leather inlaid in the top. At his nod, she made her exit, but not before he stopped her for a goodbye kiss. She was forced to bend to accommodate him. With stilettos on, she was a good eight inches above his height.
That didn't cause them any difficulty, however. The kiss lingered just a bit too long.
Barbara watched them, thinking what a clever move it was on their part. The Reeves were no amateurs when it came to gaining the upper hand. The only question was: Why did they want it?
She could see that Nkata was growing as uncomfortable as they wanted him to be with their unexpected, extended display of affection. Her colleague shifted from one foot to the other as, arms crossed in front of him, he tried to decide where he was supposed to look. Barbara grinned. Because of his impressive height and his equally impressive wardrobe and despite his adolescence spent as chief war counsel with Brixton's most notorious street gang, she sometimes forgot that Winston Nkata was in fact a twenty-five-year-old kid who still lived at home with his mum and his dad. She cleared her throat quietly and he glanced her way She gave a nod to the wall behind the desk where two diplomas hung. He joined her there.
“Love's a beautiful thing,” she murmured quietly. “We must show it respect.”
The Reeves eased up on their mouth-to-mouth suction. “See you later, darling,” Martin Reeve murmured.
Barbara rolled her eyes at Nkata and inspected the two diplomas hanging on the wall. Stanford University and London School of Economics. Both were made out to Martin Reeve. Barbara eyed him with new interest and more than a little respect. It was vulgar to display them—not that Reeve would ever stoop to vulgarity, she thought sardonically—but the bloke was clearly no slouch when it came to brains.
Reeve sent his wife on her way. From his pocket he took a snowy linen handkerchief, which he used to wipe from his face the leavings of her pale pink lipstick.
“Sorry,” he said with a boyish smile. “Twenty years of marriage and the fires're still burning. You've got to admit that's not too bad for two middle-agers with a sixteen-year-old son. Here he is, by the way. Names William. Favours his mom, doesn't he?”
The appellation told Barbara what the Stanford diploma, the antiques, the silver frames, and the careful mid-Atlantic pronunciation had only suggested. “You're an American?” she said to Reeve.
“By birth. But I haven't been back for years.” Reeve nodded at the photo. “What d'you think of our William?”
Barbara glanced at the picture and saw a spotty-faced boy with his mother's height and his father's hair. But she also saw what she was meant to see: the unmistakable cutaway and striped trousers of a pupil at Eton. La-dee-dah-dah, Barbara thought, and handed the picture off to Nkata. “Eton,” she said with what she hoped was the right degree of awe. “He must have brains by the bucketful.”
Reeve looked pleased. “He's a whiz. Please. Sit down. Coffee? Or a drink? But I suppose you don't while you're working, do you? Drink, that is.”
They demurred on everything and got to the point. They'd been told that Nicola Maiden had been employed by MKR Financial Management from October of the previous year.
True enough, Reeve affirmed.
She worked as a trainee?
Equally true, Reeve agreed.
What was that exactly? What was she training for?
Investment advisor, Reeve told them. Nicola was preparing herself to be able to manage financial portfolios: stocks, bonds, mutual funds, derivatives, offshore holdings … MKR managed the investments of some of the biggest hitters in the marketplace. With complete discretion, of course.
Lovely, Barbara told him. It was, then, their assumption that Nicola had remained in his employ until she'd taken a leave of absence to work for a solicitor in Derbyshire for the summer. If Mr. Reeve would—Reeve stopped them from going further. He said, “Nicola didn't take a leave from MKR. She quit at the end of April. She was moving home to the North, she said.”
“Moving home?” Barbara repeated. Then what of the forwarding address she'd left with her landlady in Islington? she wondered. An address in Fulham was hardly north of anything save the river.
“That's what she told me,” Reeve said. “I take it she told others something else?” He offered them an exasperated smile. “Well, to be honest, that doesn't surprise me. I discovered that Nicola sometimes played a bit fast and loose with her facts. It wasn't one of her finer qualities. Had she not quit, I probably would have let her go eventually. I had my …” He pressed his fingertips together. “I had my doubts about her ability to be discreet. And discretion is critical in this line of work. We represent some very prominent players, and as we have access to all their financial data, they have to be able to depend on our ability to be circumspect with our information.”
“The Maiden girl wasn't?” Nkata asked.
“I don't want to say that,” Reeve said hastily “Nicola was quick and bright, no mistake about that. But there was something about her that needed watching. So I watched. She had an excellent hand with our clients, which was certainly to her credit. But she had a tendency to be a bit … well, perhaps overawed is the best way to put it. She was rather overawed by the value of some of their portfolios. And it's never a good idea to make how-much-Sir-Somebody-is-worth the topic of lunchtime conversation with your pals.”
“Was there any client with whom she may have had a special hand?” Barbara asked. “One that extended after business hours?”
Reeves eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Nkata took the ball. “The girl had a lover here in town, Mr. Reeve. We're looking for him.”
“I don't know anything about a lover. But if Nicola had one, you'll more likely find him at the College of Law.”
“We've been told that she left the College of Law to work full-time for you.”
Reeve looked affronted. “I hope you're not suggesting that Nicola Maiden and I—”
“Well, she was a fine-looking woman.”
“As is my own wife.”
“I'm wondering if your wife had anything to do with why she left. It's odd, you ask me. The Maiden girl leaves law college to work for you full-time, but she leaves you practically the same week. Why d'you think she did that?”
“I told you. She said she was moving home to Derbyshire—”
“—where she went to work for a bloke who tells us she had a man in London. Right. So what I'm wondering is whether that London man's you.”
Barbara shot Nkata an admiring glance. She liked that he was willing to cut to the chase.
“I happen to be in love with my wife,” Reeve said deliberately. “Tricia and I have been together for twenty years, and if you think I'd jeopardise everything we have for a one-time romp with a college girl, then you're wrong.”
“There's nothing to suggest it was a one-off,” Barbara said.
“One-off or every night of the week,” Reeve countered, “I wasn't interested in a liaison with Nicola Maiden.” He seemed to stiffen as his thoughts suddenly took another direction. He drew in a shallow breath and reached for a silver letter opener that sat in the middle of his desk. He said, “Has someone told you otherwise? Has my good name been slandered by someone? I insist on knowing. Because if that's the case, I
'll be talking to my solicitor.”
He was definitely an American, Barbara thought wearily. She said, “Do you know a bloke called Terry Cole, Mr. Reeve?”
“Terry Cole? C-o-l-e? I see.” As he spoke, Reeve reached for a pen and a pad of paper and scrawled the name. “So he's the little bastard who's said that—”
“Terry Cole's dead,” Nkata cut in. “He didn't say anything. He died with the Maiden girl in Derbyshire. You know him?”
“I've never heard of him. When I asked who'd told you … Look here. Nicola's dead and I'm sorry she's dead. But I haven't seen her since the end of April. I haven't talked to her since the end of April. And if someone out there is besmirching my good name, I mean to take whatever steps are necessary to rout the bastard out and make him pay.”
“Is that your usual reaction when you're crossed?” Barbara asked.
Reeve set down his pen. “This interview's over.”
“Mr. Reeve …”
“Please leave. You've had my time and I've told you what I know. If you think I'm going to play police patsy and sit here while you attempt to lead me down the garden path towards some sort of self-incrimination …” He pointed at them both. He had, Barbara saw, inordinately small hands, his knuckles cross-hatched with myriad scars. “You guys need to be less obvious,” he said. “Now, get out of here. Pronto.”
There was nothing for it but to accede to his request. Good expatriate Yank that he was, his next move surely was going to be to ring up his solicitor and claim harassment. There was no point pushing anything further.
“Nice work, Winston,” Barbara said when her colleague had unlocked the Bentley and they'd climbed inside. “You put him on the ropes quick and proper.”
“No sense in wasting our time.” He examined the building. “I wonder if there's a real Children in Need do going on at the Dorchester today.”
“There must be something going on somewhere. She was dressed up to the nines, wasn't she?”
Nkata looked at Barbara. His glance traveled over her clothes sorrowfully “With all respect, Barb …”
In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner Page 24