‘But you managed to resist temptation?’
‘To be honest with you, I was screwing my articled clerk at the time and there are only so many hours in the day.’ Ossie bared his crowns, the best that private health care could buy. ‘Besides, I can’t say I ever cared too much for Becky Whyatt. Her first husband was a real loser, by all accounts. She dumped him soon enough and was on the lookout for a better bet. The sort who would have kept pestering me to leave June if we’d ever had a fling. Who needs that? Tits aren’t everything. In the end she married one of Ed’s clients, a chap who had a few bob from the family business. I don’t suppose it was a love match, but she got what she wanted.
Not from Steven Whyatt, Harry was tempted to say, but he simply looked inquiring as Ossie warmed to his theme, apparently glad that they had left behind the question of Ed Rosencrantz’s death.
‘Yes, she was never popular with the other girls in the office. As far as they were concerned, she was a selfish bitch, always on the make.’
‘So you weren’t sorry to see her leave?’
Ossie chortled. ‘On the contrary. I felt with Boycott Duff, she could have gone far.’
Chapter Six
‘A maze is more than just a puzzle to be solved,’ Steven Whyatt said the following Monday. ‘People in olden times thought that the souls of their ancestors resided at the heart of a maze. The pathway to the goal twisted so as to prevent direct penetration. Equally, the dead were barred from escaping to wreak havoc in the world outside.’
It was not quite midday yet already the sun was burning fiercely enough to deter most mad dogs, let alone Englishmen. Harry was grateful for the shade offered by a young birch tree as they sat on a wooden bench in the centre of his client’s showpiece. It was a peaceful spot, yet it struck Harry as faintly sinister. Tall and impenetrable hedges surrounded them and between the evergreen rows, a complex of narrow passages turned into dead end after dead end, with only one of the many gravel lanes leading to the exit. Whyatt seemed more relaxed than during his visit to Fenwick Court: he was on his home ground. For his part, Harry was inclined to doubt whether he could have found his way out from the labyrinth on his own. He was trapped with a strange man and he felt a prickling sense of claustrophobia.
‘You’re an addict,’ he said as his client paused for breath. It was a safe remark. Enthusiasts always took it as a compliment, although he had enough obsessive traits himself to know the dangers of taking fanaticism too far.
A gleam appeared in Whyatt’s eyes. ‘Mazes have fascinated me since I was a small boy. My father was a gardener, pure and simple, but the creative instinct took me in a different way. I couldn’t see myself spending a lifetime on nothing more challenging than suburban patios.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘For most people, landscaping means flagging the back garden, erecting a trellis and draping a couple of ivies and a Russian vine over it. I see it as the supreme art: because of time and the seasons, the landscape is always changing.’
Keen to change the subject, Harry nodded at the folder of papers on his lap. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Whyatt hesitated. ‘It gave me something to do over the weekend after I’d finished hauling my guts up. I can’t remember when I last felt so ill. It was almost as if …’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, never mind. I – I fell victim to food poisoning, that was all. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?’
Yet his awkward manner suggested that he was not being entirely frank. Harry waited for a few seconds while he leafed through the documents to give his client the opportunity to unburden himself. But Whyatt remained silent: he was evidently determined to keep any further thoughts he may have had private.
‘From a glance at these accounts of yours, I have the impression that recently people wanting mazes have been few and far between.’
Whyatt shrugged. ‘I’m the first to admit it. My beloved brother never stops reminding me that my business isn’t brisk. People enjoy coming here to look at the maze, but they aren’t in the mood to buy. Most of them are still licking their wounds after the last economic recession. Building a maze is hardly one of life’s necessities.’ He rose. ‘The rest of the information you wanted is under lock and key in my office. Shall we wander back?’
They began to thread between the hedges. For all his ungainliness, Whyatt did not falter whenever confronted by a choice of route. Harry became completely lost and it came as a surprise when they turned a sharp corner and found themselves in the open air. A path led between shrubs and ornamental trees and past climbing plants and a carpet of heathers. The scent of a hundred roses filled the air with perfume so sweet that Harry found it overpowering. Further on, they reached a clearing. A glance over his shoulder gave him his bearings. The site extended towards the river bank; in the middle distance he could see the white tower of the old Hale lighthouse ahead and to the left were racks of terracotta pots, wooden tubs and garden tools; to the right fencing, conservatories and an aquarium centre; beyond lay the main buildings. Hardly any customers were about; Harry guessed that the place only came alive at weekends.
In front of a row of featheredge panels, a lean man in blue vest and jeans was haranguing a teenager who had a hose in his hand. The boy spat defiantly on the ground. The man responded by grabbing a half-moon lawn edger from its rack and hurling it into a panel not more than half a foot from the boy’s chin.
‘Jesus!’ Harry gasped.
‘My brother Jeremy,’ Whyatt said. ‘He no longer shocks me. I got over that when we were children and he used to smash up the playroom rather than lose a game of snakes and ladders.’
Jeremy Whyatt strode forward and yanked the edger from its resting place. A violent grin split his dark features. Too shocked to speak, the lad picked up the hose again and shuffled away and out of sight. Jeremy turned and, catching sight of his audience, walked briskly towards them. ‘Leave this to me,’ Whyatt said under his breath. ‘I don’t want him to know anything about the real reason for your visit here.’
‘A customer, Steve?’
Jeremy’s tone was faintly derisive, and flushing at the provocation, his brother gave a curt nod before retaliating. ‘I see you’ve been demonstrating your flair for industrial relations.’
Jeremy shrugged dismissively. ‘The little runt’s learned his lesson.’
‘You and your temper. If he’d moved his head a fraction …’
‘We’d have saved on the weekly wage bill.’ Jeremy pretended to slap himself on the wrist. ‘Careless of me. I’ll aim straighter next time.’ He gave Harry a sidelong grin. ‘You look shocked. I’m sure you didn’t realise how exciting a garden and leisure centre could be.’
‘We’ve been fathoming the secret of the conifer maze,’ Harry said. He still felt shaken. What kind of family was this? As evenly as he could, he added, ‘I’m flattered to have been shown round by the man who thought it up. And impressed.’
‘So you should be,’ Jeremy said ironically. ‘Steve is an artist. Me, I’m no Capability Brown. The name’s Jeremy Whyatt.’
Steven introduced Harry. Jeremy gave him a bone-crushing handshake and raised his thick black eyebrows. ‘So you’re interested in having a maze of your own?’
A window box represented the summit of Harry’s horticultural ambitions. Plants with any sense of self-preservation folded up their leaves and merged with the scenery whenever he approached. In desperation, he had even tried talking to them, only to be rebuffed by their eloquent silence. Carefully, he said, ‘I’m just looking at this stage. And I must say I’ve been astonished, listening to your brother. I had no idea of the history of mazes, or the variety available.’
Jeremy scoffed, ‘Once Steve starts talking about maze design, no-one else has a chance to get a word in edgeways. Have you had a look round yet?’ Harry shook his head. ‘Follow me, then. There’s more to Whyatts’ than maze design, I promise you. Can’t let you leave without seeing how much we have to offer.’
Taking long strides, he marched to
wards the group of buildings. Following in his wake with Steven, Harry was conscious of the scrutiny of stone Buddhas, which peered at them from the section devoted to garden statuary. Their superior expressions reminded him of Theo Jelf. Jeremy led them into a large hall divided into a dozen alcoves, each selling a different category of goods. There were long lines of potted plants, enough pestkillers to wipe out the whole of the Inland Revenue, and much more besides. Glassware, crockery, picnic hampers, mirrors, coffee-table books and sweets vied for attention alongside the patio furniture and dried flowers. It struck Harry as more like a shopping mall with environmental pretensions than a garden centre. Things had changed since those long ago days when, as a small boy, he had accompanied his father to a desolate nursery in South Liverpool to pick up a couple of tomato plants for their lean to greenhouse.
Jeremy crossed a courtyard to a separate building whose signboard proclaimed it as THE COUNTRY CRAFT CENTRE. ‘You’re not fit,’ he said as they caught up with him.
‘We don’t all have your military training,’ his brother said.
‘You were in the army?’ Harry asked.
Jeremy tapped the side of his nose. ‘SAS. Can’t say much about it, but I’ve done my share of yomping across the Falklands. To say nothing of drinking Germany dry and doing all sorts of unmentionable things to the young ladies of Belfast. Ah well. As you can see, here we cater for my particular hobbyhorse, country sports.’
The place sold waxed jackets and saddlery goods at prices which made Harry feel faint. In a secure cabinet behind the counter, a small arsenal of shotguns was on display. The youth in charge of it was engrossed in a copy of Soldier Of Fortune whose cover promised a feature article on the subject of ‘Killing Quietly’. ‘You won’t find many places like this registered to sell firearms,’ Jeremy said. ‘We have a market lead.’
Harry nodded towards the weaponry. ‘I see the wildlife of Hale can expect no mercy.’
‘My brother spent years learning how to kill human beings,’ said Steven Whyatt. ‘Believe me, this is progress.’ With a touch of malice, he added, ‘But even the most highly trained fellows sometimes let their discipline slip, wouldn’t you agree?’
Harry saw the brothers exchange fierce glances. He was aware of undercurrents between them which he could not fathom, but before Jeremy could respond, a slender woman laid a proprietorial hand on his shoulder. Although she had emerged from a door marked STAFF ONLY, Harry did not need to strain his deductive powers to decide that she was not one of the hired helpers. Girls who worked in garden centres did not wear high-heeled shoes and mini-dresses, let alone make-up that co-ordinated perfectly with every stitch they wore. Even before she opened her mouth, he knew this was Michelle Whyatt, patron of image consultants and confidante to the adulterous Becky.
‘Ready, darling?’
‘With you in a second, angel. I’ll just slip into the back room to smarten up.’
She nuzzled her husband’s neck. ‘You look good enough to me.’
He patted her backside and gave his brother and Harry a sharp grin. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. We have a meeting to attend.’
Steven said. ‘Both of you? You wouldn’t be seeing – those other people again, by any chance?’
‘Why not? It’s in all our interests. You’re welcome to join us, if you wish.’
‘No thanks.’
‘It’s your funeral.’
Michelle Whyatt pulled her husband closer to her. ‘Come on, darling.’ She nodded towards Harry. ‘Let’s not air our little family disagreements in public.’
Jeremy gave his brother another scornful look, but when he spoke his tone was unexpectedly mild. ‘You’re right, angel. I’ll leave you both to it.’
They parted and Steven Whyatt led Harry to his office. It was in a small Portakabin tacked on to the back of the leisure centre. One wall was covered with elaborate plans of labyrinths, another with aerial photographs of mazes in different media: turf and gravel, glass and stone. Through the window they could see one or two elderly couples pottering around the displays of dahlias and queuing up for a sandwich lunch.
Harry shifted on his plastic chair and asked, ‘What was all that about?’
His client sighed. ‘I suppose you need to know. Jeremy is bored with the business and wants to sell out to a company called Verdant Pastures, which owns a chain of garden centres throughout the North West. They’ve had their eyes on us for years. This site is perfect for their business and there’s scope for further expansion along the shore.’
‘But you are hostile? I suppose you like being your own boss?’
‘It runs deeper than that. They’d be buying us lock, stock and barrel. I’d be tied down for three years by a service contract and after that, for the next five I wouldn’t be allowed to compete within a twenty-mile radius – or work for any of my old customers. Effectively, I’d be finished in maze design – and I simply refuse to contemplate that.’
‘Is the money on offer attractive?’
‘Oh yes – but what would be the point of taking it? I’d be giving up the most important thing in my life.’ He unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of bank statements and credit card receipts. ‘Here’s the rest of the bumph. Make of it what you will. Perhaps now you’ll understand the dilemma I’m in. I can’t risk splitting up with Becky if it would mean that, in order to pay her out, I’d have to sell my shares. You – you understand?’ His face was white and his Adam’s apple was moving up and down, up and down. He’d shown less emotion when listening to his wife as she whispered sweet nothings to her lover. ‘I won’t allow anyone to destroy everything I have struggled so hard to create.’
‘I do understand, but remember that at present you’re the only one who has even mentioned divorce. There’s no sign that Becky wants a parting. Your marriage isn’t over yet. If you wish, we don’t have to take our discussions any further.’ Harry paused. ‘I’ve listened to the rest of the tape. What did you make of the silent calls? The person who telephoned her but would not speak?’
Steven Whyatt shrugged. ‘The world is full of peculiar people.’
Yes, thought Harry, and I seem to act for more than my fair share of them.
‘If – if you are interested,’ his client said, ‘there is more.’ He fished in the drawer and retrieved another cassette tape. ‘This is the latest. I’ve not been able to bring myself to listen to it yet.’
‘Do you need to?’ Harry asked. ‘You know what is going on.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Whyatt said, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t even know who Becky is sleeping with.’
‘You’re aware his first name is Dominic.’
‘I don’t know any Dominics. I told you the other day, I’ve no idea who the fellow might be.’
‘And what would you do if you had?’
Whyatt looked startled. ‘I – I’m not sure. I’d like to see him, I suppose. Try to discover what he gives her that she finds lacking in me. Talk to him, maybe. Ask if he understands the damage he is doing.’
‘Do you seriously think that would help anyone?’ Harry asked. He was still reluctant to disclose Dominic Revill’s identity. Jeremy Whyatt was plainly a dangerous man to cross and, in his very different way, Steven might be an equally formidable enemy.
‘Then what should I do? She’s besotted with him, surely you can see that?’
‘Infatuation isn’t an ideal basis for a long-term relationship.’ I should know. I made the mistake of marrying a woman I was crazy about. ‘The flame may be burning now, but soon it may die out altogether.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘You will have to decide.’ Harry spread his arms. ‘Think of it as making a choice between two paths in a maze.’
Whyatt moistened his lips. The comparison had struck a chord. ‘Perhaps I ought to keep Becky hidden away at the heart of one of my own mazes until she sees sense. Like Fair Rosamund, Henry the Second’s mistress. Legend has it that the kin
g kept her in a labyrinth of walls and doors at Woodstock, but his queen consort tricked her way in and murdered the girl. Demanded that she choose between a dagger or poison. Not much of a choice in that case, eh?’
Chapter Seven
Heading back to the city past the huge Ford factory at Halewood, Harry put on the tape Steven Whyatt had given him. His client might not have had the stomach to listen, but even though he had now discovered the identity of Becky Whyatt’s boyfriend, he was unable to resist temptation. Shameful, of course, but the fact he was due to meet Dominic Revill later that afternoon added spice to his eavesdropping.
Click.
‘Eight nine, eight nine.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
Grimly, she said, ‘I know it’s you, Roger. Even when you say nothing, the silence is so pathetic, I’d recognise it anywhere. I can picture those big brown eyes of yours gazing at the telephone at this very minute. Well, you can stop playing the fool, there’s absolutely no chance …’
Click.
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Pet, are you all right?’
‘Oh, it’s you, Michelle.’
‘You sound so surprised. Were you expecting your gentleman friend? Has something gone wrong? You know my shoulder’s always here for crying on if you need it.’
After a pause, Becky sighed. ‘It’s all right, Michelle, I’m just in a bit of a state. You see – I’ve bumped into Roger again.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. I popped into the city centre to do a spot of shopping – and there he was. I could scarcely believe that he was there. I hurried on, hoping he hadn’t noticed me, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, he was staring right through me.’
‘Oh God, how awful!’ Michelle was evidently thrilled.
Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 7