by Will North
Hunnicutt tapped a key on the keyboard on the desk before her and a large flat screen mounted on the conference room wall sprang to life with a mosaic of house images.
“I thought you might like to consider these properties,” she said. “Shall I scroll through them?”
Hansen nodded. Joey’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth.
“These small villas are in a well-established area just east of Marbella called Mijas Costa. It has none of the tacky high-rises you find in the larger cities,” Hunnicutt continued. The first photo was an aerial shot that captured dozens of traditional stuccoed Spanish houses that tumbled down a steep hill toward the glittering sea.
“They’re so white they look made of sugar cubes!” Joey exclaimed. All were capped with curved rust-red terracotta roofing tiles and had stone terraces giving views out over the Mediterranean beyond. Many had small pools.
Archie looked at how densely packed the houses were and said, “Not much privacy…”
“If you want to be on the coast, rather than up in the mountains of Andalusia,” Hunnicutt explained, “you’re looking at two choices: beaches crammed with high rise apartments and condos, or these more traditional, clustered coastal villages with their little boutiques and cafes and restaurants catering to a local clientele—which, by the way, includes many UK ex-pats. But wait until you view the properties themselves. I think you’ll see they are brilliantly situated to be very private indeed.”
And they were. The estate agent had done her homework and had chosen only a half dozen villas for them to view. As she scrolled through the photos it became clear that each had private walled gardens filled with flowering shrubs and thick-trunked palms, multiple private view terraces and, below the terraces, a small level area with a glittering pool. All seemed to have been very recently renovated inside and out.
Joey was wide-eyed and speechless. The scale of this village, while a bit larger, reminded her of Helford, where her parents lived. These Mijas Costa houses clustered in the same companionable way but were lush with tropical greenery.
The villas ranged from three hundred to seven hundred thousand Euros, depending on the size of the lot and number of bedrooms and bathrooms.
Finally Archie said, “Go back to that third one.” The ground floor living area was open, airy, and floored in Terrazzo tiles the color of beach pebbles in Cornwall. The kitchen was modern and bright with white cabinets. A curved wooden staircase led to the bedrooms and bathrooms, three of each, above. Each room had at least an outdoor terrace or balcony with either sea or garden views. The light-filled master bedroom had an adjoining bathroom faced in white marble veined in silver and a walk-in shower big enough for two. It was almost exactly a half million Euros.
Archie had already decided, but he turned to Joey. “What do you think of this one, luv?”
Any one of the villas looked like paradise to her so she said only, “Yes.”
“Done, then,” Archie said to Hunnicutt. “But I want most of the furniture, too.”
Hunnicutt smiled. “Let me see what I can do there, Mr. Hansen. But don’t you want to fly down there to inspect the property more closely?”
“In my business I make costly decisions every day…and I trust those with whom I have commercial relations. I trust you that what you have presented is accurate. Are we clear?”
Hunnicutt smiled again, though less brightly. “This is Savills, Mr. Hansen, and here trust is everything.”
“Then we have an understanding,” he said as he rose. “Draw up the paperwork. I should have the resources in a few weeks. You can have the deposit tomorrow if you wish.”
“That would certainly help, Mr. Hansen, to demonstrate your earnest offer.”
“Send me the figure. I’ll attend to it.”
He stood and took the arm of the woman beside him.
“Joey,” he said. “Come.”
DICKY TOWNSEND CALLED Charlotte Johns as soon as he’d picked up his Ford from the car park at Temple Meads Station late Wednesday afternoon. No one was following him.
“Are you free this evening, Charlotte?”
“Of course, and I must talk to…”
“I have information about the value of Archie’s find,” Townsend said. “I thought it best to share it with you immediately.”
“Yes, good. But…”
“I don’t understand why Archie has not been in touch, do you? It was he who came to me. I should think he’d be pestering me. What’s he up to?”
“Dicky. Please come. Fast as you can.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“What is it, love?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.
“It’s a long drive. It will be nearly dark.”
“I’ll have supper waiting.”
TOWNSEND DESCENDED THE darkening lane to Charlotte’s bungalow after eight that Wednesday night. He’d pushed his aging auto to nearly ninety miles per hour down the whole length of Devon and Cornwall. It wasn’t just the news he had to share with her about the treasure, it was the woman herself.
“Come in!” she called when he knocked. She was standing at the cooker, stirring a pot. She wore a reconfiguration of some of the clothes she’d worn for Archie: boots, dark stockings in a lacy pattern, a short black woolen crepe skirt, and a loose white blouse, several buttons undone. “It’s another chilly evening,” she said. “I’ve made a Tuscan soup with tomato, Cannellini beans, onion, garlic, fresh spring greens from the garden and chunks of chicken. It’s hot and ready.”
“That’s not all that looks hot and ready, Char,” he said, embracing her from behind and kissing the nape of her neck.
“Go on then, you,” she said, pushing him away. “We need to talk. Go wash up.” She’d decided, among other things, that it was time to abandon her vegetarianism if she wanted to have Dicky. A small price for a big prize.
When they settled at the round table in her kitchen, she poured a chilled Australian chardonnay into both their glasses and lifted hers.
“I have something to tell you,” she said as she touched his glass to his.
“As I do you,” Townsend said.
“Me first.”
He nodded. “As you wish, Char.”
“I’m done with him. Archie. He’s having an affair with our neighbor’s wife. He’s videoed them together. It’s on his computer.”
“Videoed? Jesus…”
There were tears in her eyes and he rose, came to where she was seated, and wrapped her in his arms, saying nothing.
“Your soup’s getting cold,” she said finally, smiling and scrubbing her eyes dry with the back of a hand. “I won’t have that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Townsend said. And that was when he realized he was in love for the first time in his life.
Charlotte saw it, too. And she shared it.
“You said you had news?” she asked.
“I do,” he began. And during the next hour they talked excitedly about the meeting with Chalmers, the deal he’d struck, and what that might mean for them...until, finally, she pulled him up to her bedroom.
Twenty-Seven
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT MALCOLM Crawley, resplendent in his pressed black officer’s tunic with the four glittering white bars of rank on each epaulet, sat rocklike behind a desk the polished surface of which was so completely barren of personal effects that it might well have been the site of a nuclear disaster.
It was Monday morning, twenty-eighth May. DCI Arthur Penwarren hated traveling north to the sprawling brick complex that was the Devon and Cornwall Police headquarters on Exeter’s Sidmouth Road. It wasn’t the distance and time; it was the almost predictable futility of dealing with senior officers whose only care about a case at hand was their own personal advancement. But he had requested the meeting.
“I am sorry to say, sir,” Penwarren began, “that after ten days we have precious little to go on in this Hansen case.”
“So we have noti
ced.”
Crawley always spoke in the first person plural, as if he were a royal, or perhaps a spokesman for the entire upper echelon of the force. Penwarren found this routine barely tolerable, but held his tongue. He noticed Crawley had put on weight: a roll of florid flesh spilled from the tight collar of his regulation white shirt. Crawley had been a good detective in his day, but that day had long since passed. The only comfort, Penwarren thought, was that the pretentious bastard had to be close to retirement or, with all that extra weight, a heart attack.
“My detectives believe the only way to gather the kind of evidence we need to move this case forward is to launch a full SOCO search of Hansen’s property.”
“You are free to search any suspect’s property, of course…”
“I am aware of that, sir.”
“But you do not have a suspect.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And now you want our permission to search the victim’s premises?”
“Given the unusual aspects of this case, yes.”
Crawley leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Let us guess: this must be the recommendation of your resident loose cannon, the witch-loving Davies, are we right? We were opposed to her promotion to detective inspector, you know.”
“Thankfully, sir, the Commander was not. Let’s also recall that Davies solved the Chynoweth case with the aid of the village wise woman to whom you refer. Without that woman’s help, we’d have had another dead child on our hands. I doubt you’d have wanted that on your record when you were angling for the promotion to your current position...Sir.”
Crawley sat stone faced.
“So yes,” Penwarren continued, “DI Morgan Davies is the lead investigator in the Hansen case, and yes, this search is her recommendation. It is also mine. Look, we have a victim who is not only dead, but appears to have been tortured as well. The question isn’t what he had that someone else wanted, but what he knew that only torture would reveal. Apart from interviewing associates, which of course we are doing, the logical next step is to search the victim’s home and property for possible reasons for, and evidence of, his torture. West agrees, and is ready to put his team to work there at once.”
“Isn’t the obvious reason the alleged treasure?”
“Well, yes, sir. That would be the obvious reason.”
Crawley arched an eyebrow. He could never tell if Penwarren was insulting him, as he did it so smoothly. Penwarren sat erect in his chair, patrician perfect, as if he’d attended a prestigious boys’ school, which of course he had: Harrow, just outside London. Another reason Crawley resented him. What was the man doing in the police force anyway?
“Are you proposing searching his fields as well as his house?” Crawley asked.
“For the site of the alleged treasure find? Yes, of course.”
“Of course,” Crawley sighed. He gazed across the shimmering expanse of his desktop. Finally he said, “The only thing we know about you with any certainty, detective chief inspector Penwarren, is that you’re not after our job. If you had been, you’d have had it by now, given your record. So, despite our reservations, we’ll make this happen, yes? Just bring us something we can show the bosses upstairs to prove this was a wise move our part, eh?”
“Do what I can, sir.”
“Always the braggart, Penwarren…”
“WE SHOULD HAVE searched Hansen’s place days ago, Guv,” Morgan barked into her mobile. “It’s already been sanitized by someone.”
“And you know this because…?” Penwarren was speeding down the A30 from Exeter after his meeting with Crawley, and was calling on his hands free mobile.
“Because I had a look around Hansen’s place a while back. Then I sent DC Bates and Falmouth’s PC Novak to make a new visit just this Wednesday last. I used Common Law authority. I had Novak—bright lad you should keep an eye on, mind—have another look around while Terry distracted Johns out on Hansen’s property. ”
“I’m sorry, must be having a signal problem. I didn’t catch that…” Penwarren was glad his phone wasn’t monitored.
Davies chuckled.
“Hello, Morgan?”
“Guv?”
“Remember: there’s always something. I’ll call West next. No need to get clearance from Johns. It’s not her property. Wednesday morning. Meeting at Camborne first, at eight.”
“Why not tomorrow? I feel like we’re losing evidence every day, Guv. Someone’s ahead of us.”
“I understand, Morgan, but I need to get the team together. They do have other assignments, you know…and I’ll need Crawley’s final okay. I think I have it but I’ll go around him, if necessary.”
“Will it be Calum’s SOCOs or the knuckle draggers?”
“If you refer to our Tactical Aid Group, and I am certain you will refer to them thus never again, detective, the answer is both.”
“Sir. Sorry. Calum’s nickname for them. It just stuck.”
“Unstick it, then. The big boys are professionals, too.”
The phone signal died.
THE MEMBERS OF the Major Crime Investigative Team sat at an oval conference table at the Camborne nick at eight on Wednesday morning, thirtieth May. SOCO crime scene manager Calum West stood. Penwarren nodded and West began.
“We’ll do this in stages,” West explained. “In full Tyvek kit, my SOCO people, along with Morgan and Terry, who’ve been there before, will canvass the home and outbuildings, right? I’ll be taking record photos as well.”
“I swear he’s a voyeur,” Morgan mumbled. Laughter all around, except from Penwarren.
West continued “We’ll dust and tape everything for prints, hair, threads, the lot. But there’s no telling what that will yield. There will no doubt be plenty of evidence of Hansen and Johns, as they lived there; but we’ll be looking for anything else, anything that doesn’t fit. Next, the Tactical Aid Group will apply their special expertise to every nook and cranny in the house and the surrounding fields. We’ll be focusing especially on the field Mr. Tregareth showed our PC Novak.” West nodded to the constable, who smiled and was chuffed about being a part of the investigation. “Beth Thompson, my staff archaeologist, will oversee that investigation. She and the TAG boys are already on their way.”
“What if Charlotte Johns shows up?” Penwarren asked.
Morgan answered. “Been keeping obbo on her, Guv, and she’s stayed close to her own home since the body was found.”
“Well done. But what if?”
“Escort her home again.”
“And if she makes a fuss?”
“We remove her to the Falmouth nick, as per procedure: Obstruction.”
“Fine. Anything else, Calum?” Penwarren asked, rising from his chair.
“We’ll begin shortly after nine, Guv,” West said.
“Need me there?”
“Only if you wish.”
“Unnecessary. You people are the best. I’d only be in the way. I’ll read the reports.”
Davies had been watching Calum during the meeting and was struck yet again by how so gentle a man could be so completely and easily in charge. She smiled to herself: A good and solid bloke, is our Calum.
Penwarren interrupted her thoughts: “Morgan, how about you? Anything else CID needs?”
“Family, Guv. Hansen’s. Divorced, two kids. They’re somewhere up north in Cumbria, Charlotte Johns says. I mentioned this before. Does she or their children stand to inherit? She’s a person of interest, that’s certain.”
“Okay, agreed, though I am not optimistic in this case, given how many years have passed. But start with the obvious: the Child Support Agency. Find out if Hansen was paying support to his ex. Cross-check with council tax records up there, and voter records as well. Should be fairly easy to find her.”
“I can’t be in two places at once, Guv.”
Penwarren nodded and turned to DC Bates. “Terry? As I recall you’re also a trained Family Liaison Officer, which we’d want when c
ontacting next of kin, even though divorced. You want this one? Might be a dead end.”
“I’ll take it, sir. Let me see what I can find.”
“Long drive up to Cumbria. Book accommodation.”
“No need; I’ve an aunt outside Carlisle, my late mother’s sister. I could stay with her if I find Hansen’s ex.”
“Good, Terry. It’s all yours.”
Bates grinned. Davies ducked her head to hide a smile.
Twenty-Eight
BARRELING THROUGH NARROW country lanes he knew well, Calum West reached the Hansen farm just over half an hour after the Camborne MCIT meeting ended. The rest of his SOCO team and the CID people would take the main roads following the instructions on their GPS units, and would take longer.
But he’d underestimated Morgan Davies. She pulled up beside him just as he’d finished brewing his customary cup of coffee from the kit he’d installed in his car.
She walked to his open window. “I’m old enough that I still use maps, you clever devil,” she said. “Think you could get away from me that easily? And are you sharing that coffee?”
“I’ve only the one cup, but be my guest. Oh, and never think I’m trying to get away from you. And I’ve never thought I could get ahead of you, either. You’re too smart for me.”
“Oh, bollocks,” she said gulping half of Calum’s coffee.
“I just like to get to these sites early.”
“Yes, yes, I know; you like to have a look around before the rest of the lads show up. Kind of a meditation on the site. You told me last year in the Chynoweth case. Care to have company on your little walkabout?”
He stepped out of the Volvo. “No man could ask for better…”
“Also bollocks.”
“I am only speaking truth.”
“You want to get to work or just stand about flirting, you idiot?”
“Sadly, work. Get your Tyveks on.”
Then the two of them, suited up, walked around the house and through the farm buildings, saying nothing. She watched West soaking up information as if his eyes were made of sponge.