The Time and the Place: The Pitfourie Series Book 2

by Jane Renshaw

  At last she found her voice. ‘So you’re admitting it? You’re admitting that you are robbing from the rich? Whether... whether to feather your own nest or –’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing. I’m merely speculating on your thought processes. Probably a vain endeavour. I never have got to the bottom of Campbell’s twisted way of thinking, so why should I have any more success with you, Claire? Or aren’t you Claire?’

  ‘Yes. I am Claire. I can’t... I can’t.’

  ‘From what I can see, you’ve got two choices. You can flounce off back to Campbell and tell him what’s happened.’

  Oh God.

  ‘Or you can stay on as if nothing’s changed.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can’t want me to stay on, knowing that... knowing I’m a police officer.’

  ‘But I already knew.’

  She wasn’t going to ask him again how. She did still have some tattered remnants of pride.

  He perched on the edge of the desk, quite relaxed, quite at his ease, as if they were discussing tomorrow’s menu. ‘I won’t tell Campbell if you don’t. I’ve been... Well, I think you probably know that I’ve been enjoying our battle of wits.’

  ‘You... you... you seduced me because you knew –’

  ‘Seduced?’ He laughed. ‘Or should that be sexually assaulted?’

  She took a deep, steadying breath. It would be the ultimate humiliation, to cry in front of him. Oh, she was going to cry, but not here and not now. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing him what he’d done to her.

  She met his gaze levelly. ‘You were trying to... manipulate me into...’

  ‘Into what?’ He shook his head. ‘I think we both know that’s not what’s happening here.’

  For a long, long moment, she just looked at him as the clock ticked. Remembering... Those sure hands on her skin. Those lips on hers.

  She wanted him. Shamefully. She wanted him to cross the room and –

  He must be innocent.

  It struck her, suddenly.

  He wouldn’t be proposing this, that she stay on regardless, unless he was innocent.

  Or a risk-taker, a thrill-seeker, of mammoth proportions.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You agree? The game is afoot?’

  As if it really was a game. As if it really was possible that she’d take up his challenge. Agree to a ludicrous battle of wits, a farce in which she tried to find evidence against him and he tried to thwart her efforts. And suddenly she was laughing. She was puffing out the breath she’d been holding, and saying, ‘You are stark raving mad.’

  ‘I like to think not. If you don’t stay on, if your operation’s closed down, Campbell will only try again at some point. This way, at least I’ve got a fighting chance of drawing a line under the whole thing.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Obviously there’ll be rules of engagement. You can snoop around all you like, but incriminating evidence isn’t going to be left lying around for you to find like you’re a kid on an Easter egg hunt. I’m not going to leave drawers unlocked, or let you loose in the estate office. Which is alarmed. If you want to rake through the documents in there, or try to hack in to the computers, you’re going to have to figure out a way to get in without being detected, because if the alarm goes off – if you’re caught in there – of course I’ll be calling the police.’

  She gaped at him.

  ‘Also, Mrs Mac and Damian are neutrals. Theoretically, at least. We can’t tell them what’s going on. Or anyone else, for that matter. Certainly not Campbell.’

  She spluttered: ‘As if I’d want to tell Campbell Stewart!’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  ‘And what if I did find evidence against you?’

  ‘You can do with it as you see fit. And if you don’t find anything, you report as much to Campbell. Persuade him there’s nothing to find.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  This was ridiculous. Ridiculous. She should call Phil right now and tell him what had happened. Her career would be over, but what other choice did she have?

  ‘Think about it.’ As if it was a question of the merits of broccoli versus sprouts.

  She just shook her head.

  He stood. ‘Don’t you think it has the potential to be fun?’

  She’d been holding her breath again. She spluttered: ‘How can you... This is your freedom you’d be gambling with! Ten, fifteen years of your life! If I did find evidence that you murdered Chimp –’ And the realisation hit her punch-drunk brain.

  He must know Chimp had been a UC too.

  Had Chimp blurted it out to him, as she’d just done?

  What was it, the power that this man seemed to have over people?

  ‘I’m fine with that,’ he said, ‘for the very good reason that you’re not going to find any.’

  ‘Because you didn’t kill him.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. If you’re up for the challenge. But it’s not fair to ask you for a decision now. Sleep on it, and we can discuss it again in the morning.’ Suddenly all brisk and businesslike. ‘But go ahead and finish whatever you were doing.’ His mouth quirked as he glanced over at the filing cabinet.

  And then he had left the room.

  30

  Karen gaped. She’d only seen Aucharblet before in photographs – like the House of Pitfourie, it wasn’t open to the public – and they really didn’t do it justice. It was like a set from a film. Ahead of them was a bridge over a gorge, and beyond the bridge there was what looked like a big cliff-face but was actually a house, a castle, with rows and rows of lit windows. Like something out of Harry Potter.

  She wanted to make that comment, but she wasn’t speaking to Damian, who was sitting next to her in the back seat, and she really didn’t want to get into a conversation with Hector. She could say it to Claire when Hector and Damian weren’t around.

  There was a big courtyard beyond the bridge. The house was L-shaped, with the left-hand side of the courtyard formed by old-fashioned garages. She supposed this must be the back entrance. What must the front be like?

  ‘I might have to mention something about energy saving,’ Damian muttered as Hector parked up.

  Karen ignored him. How could he have landed her in it with the cops like that? For no reason? At first she’d just been angry, but now when she thought about it, it made her want to cry. Damian was supposed to be her friend. If Ade found out she’d given the phone to Damian to take to the police, without telling him anything about it, he was going to go mental. Especially as it had all gone to shit and, thanks to Damian, the police now suspected Ade, probably, of being involved in what happened to Chimp.

  Ade was already angry with her because of this stay at Aucharblet. She had tried to explain that she had to come, that she had no say, but she could tell he didn’t believe her. She was terrified he was going to break up with her.

  What would she do without Ade? She couldn’t even think about it without getting that shaky feeling she used to have before a panic attack. She couldn’t imagine how she could hold her life together, her sad, stupid, pathetic life, without Ade.

  ‘I was expecting another Drumdargie. But this is pretty magical, isn’t it?’ said Claire as they got out of the car.

  ‘Yeah, if you’re partying with the toffs. Not so much if you’re skivvying in a dungeon.’

  ‘Damiannnn!’ An anorexic tottered towards them in high-heeled boots, skinny jeans and a Christmas jumper with a big snowman on the front. Karen recognised her, of course, as Perdita Jarvie. She grabbed hold of Damian and air-kissed him. ‘My God, you are an absolute dreamboat! Every time I see you, you get more handsome!’ She patted his cheeks, then took them between her fingers and thumbs, like she was testing fruit for ripeness.

  For once, Damian didn’t have anything to say. He managed a smile, but only just.

  And now she was grabbing Hector. ‘What is it wi
th the Forbes genes? You’re all so disgustingly good-looking. Whereas the Jarvie gene pool... I mean, look at Ferg. I got off pretty lightly with my Desperate Dan chin and witchy nose.’

  No female would say that about herself if it was true.

  Karen hated and despised Perdita already. She had completely ignored Claire and Karen, as if they were invisible.

  A big red-faced man was waving at them from the lighted doorway. It was a high double door, and there were stone lions on either side of it. Probably there was another entrance for the servants?

  ‘Hello hello hello!’ he bellowed, advancing, his breath steaming in front of him in the icy air.

  Was this Mr Jarvie, the MP? But as he got nearer she decided he was probably a lot younger than the red face, big belly and receding hair suggested. His skin was smooth. He was probably her brother, not her father.

  ‘Are we ready to paaaartaaaaaaay?’

  Oh my God.

  ‘Suddenly that dungeon’s looking pretty good,’ she muttered to Claire, and Claire guffawed, and linked her arm through Karen’s.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and find our fellow skivvies.’

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Do you mind, could you take them. For Perdita.’ It wasn’t a question. The Aucharblet housekeeper, an unsmiling Polish woman called Magdalena, handed Claire a pair of shoes.

  ‘Okay. Where’s her room?’

  ‘First floor. Take back stair. Third on right.’

  The shoes were black suede with five-inch heels and red lacquer soles. Christian Louboutin. Claire knew that because Gabby had once blown all her savings on a pair and had to borrow her rent money from Claire.

  Five hundred pounds a pair, minimum.

  Obscene.

  Carrying them dangling from the tips of her fingers, she climbed the narrow spiral stair. Whenever she was alone with her thoughts, Hector and his ridiculous challenge went round and round her head. She should, of course, have gone straight to her superiors and told them everything; confessed that she’d messed up again, in exactly the same way as with the Bristows, but with sexual misconduct thrown into the mix for good measure. But the more she thought about it, the more she was convincing herself that going along with Hector’s proposal might not be such a bad idea. It wouldn’t stop her doing her job however she saw fit, after all. She’d still be going all out to discover the truth.

  And that, surely, was the important thing?

  What definitely wasn’t important was the other question that had kept her awake all night: did Hector have any genuine feelings for her at all, or was it all a performance designed to slip under her guard?

  It didn’t matter.

  What she needed to do was get on with the job as if nothing had happened. Now, for example, if Weber and Perdita weren’t in the room, she could search it and see if Weber had left anything interesting lying around.

  The stone stairs were so worn that she felt herself tipping backwards with every step. A bit of a hazard, but presumably they were listed or something and couldn’t be altered. As she approached the door that must lead from the stairwell onto the first floor, she saw it was open slightly, and got a glimpse of a thin arm in filmy green silk, and an elderly woman’s back.

  ‘It’s really very difficult, Hector.’ The voice was high and posh and wavery. She sounded as if she was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘Fergus refuses to occupy the same room as Max. I don’t know what we’re going to do about dinner.’

  ‘You can seat them at opposite ends of the table. Ferg will just have to suck it up.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ A sigh. ‘But then there’s Balfour... Balfour will keep baiting him – I think he’s hoping to provoke him, to show him in his “true colours”, as he keeps saying. He’s been going on and on about the “iceberg basement”, saying Max will have to start wearing designer tracksuits and get blinged up with gold chains and earrings. And you know how Max has no sense of humour.’

  ‘Sounds like we could be in for an interesting couple of days. But...’ He lowered his voice. ‘If Perdita and Max broke up, would it be the end of the world?’

  ‘He’s a steadying influence on her. He really is. Oh, I know he’s a cold fish, but – Perdie needs him. She was in a terrible mess before he came along, she really was, Hector.’ The voice quavered pathetically. ‘At her lowest point – I thought we were going to lose her.’

  ‘Perdita’s pretty tough.’

  ‘But that’s just it – she isn’t. Underneath it all, she isn’t.’ Another sigh. ‘Anyway. I’d better go and see how Clive’s getting on.’ Clive was the chef. Lucky old Magdalena didn’t have any cooking to do except, it seemed, the odd snack.

  Claire clomped up the stairs.

  The door came fully open and she was face to face with a thin woman who looked about seventy, although she could well have been younger. Women as thin as she was always seemed to age fast.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Claire, standing back.

  The woman smiled at her distractedly and went down the stairs, hanging on to the red silk rope that was strung in loops on the outer wall of the stairwell.

  Claire slipped through the door and, not making eye contact, tried to edge past Hector.

  ‘Have you had a chance to consider what we talked about yesterday?’ he said. ‘Just wondered if we should perhaps clarify...’ His eyes. Oh God, his fucking Mr Darcy eyes! ‘... the rules of engagement.’

  She managed to get out, her voice too high: ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well. Whether they preclude...’

  And somehow she had dropped the shoes, and, right there in the corridor where anyone could see, she was kissing him, one hand in the short, thick hair on the back of his head, and he reached behind her to yank open the door to the stairs, and she was backing through it, laughing suddenly at the thought that, in any given circumstance, it seemed that he would always make sure she preceded him over the threshold – and then they were in the dim stairwell –

  And face to face with Karen, nibbling on a biscuit.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Karen. ‘Oh ugh.’

  Claire shoved Hector away, stumbling slightly on the uneven flagstones. As he backed up, she smoothed her skirt over her hips in a ludicrous attempt to salvage some dignity.

  He put a hand through his hair. ‘Okay. I’ll maybe see you later, Claire, and we can... continue this discussion.’

  Alone in the stairwell with Karen, Claire was glad of the dim light as she struggled to control her breathing.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ said Karen contemptuously.

  Claire tweaked, briskly, at the front of her blouse. ‘It’s really none of your business.’

  ‘Um, hello? You’re my boss and he’s my employer?’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘He’s totally exploiting his position of authority? You need to not get sucked in. He’s just using you for sex. Like men at the top of the class system have always used women at the bottom. Prostitutes and servants –’

  ‘Right, yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’m only telling you for your own good.’

  Claire took a long breath. ‘What are you up here for, anyway?’

  ‘I’m taking a look around. No law against it.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be helping in the kitchen.’

  ‘And you’re supposed not to be having sex with your employer – I’m guessing whatever professional body there is for servants has rules against it? – but hey, nobody’s perfect.’ And with that, she strutted off up the next flight of stairs.

  Claire couldn’t help smiling as she left the stairwell and retrieved the shoes, and began counting the doors on the right-hand side of the corridor. If only Karen knew how the ‘professional body’ she was actually answerable to would react if they ever found out what was happening.

  But it wasn’t remotely funny.

  Hector Forbes could well be a murderer. A truly evil man.

  She knew that, in the abstract... b
ut when she was with him – when he was physically present – it was as if every logical thought in her head deserted her. She had come here so determined to make good, and within a week she was throwing away her whole career on –

  On what?

  She knocked on the third door.

  ‘Come in!’

  It was a massive bedroom with a massive four-poster bed. But it was warm. The whole house, miraculously, was warm. Perdita Jarvie stood barefoot in a long black dress, contemplating her reflection in a tall free-standing mirror as she struck a variety of poses, arms above her head, behind her back, one knee bent, hand on hip... She laughed, and turned, and danced across the carpet to Claire, whipping the shoes out of her hand.

  ‘Thank you, Christina!’

  ‘It’s Claire.’

  ‘It’s Claire, it’s Claire! Of course it’s Claire! It’s Claire-Bear!’

  She was skeletally thin, her ribs visible between her breasts, and she was breathing rather rapidly, as if she’d just run upstairs rather than skipped across the room. That, and the other signs – the slightly dilated pupils, the elevated mood, the volubility – made Claire pretty sure that Perdita Jarvie was on something.

  Amphetamines or methylphenidate would be her guess.

  The door opened behind her and the Twat said, ‘Oh for God’s sake. You are not attending a funeral.’

  Perdita pouted, and turned her back on him, but only, Claire was disappointed to observe, to let him unfasten the dress.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she found it empty apart from Karen, who was standing chewing and contemplating the array of plates of canapes on the big table in front of her. They were horribly tempting – little miniature quiches and pies and tarts and pizza slices; miniature kebabs; tiny nests made of what looked like crispy fried strands of potato, with a little quail’s egg inside and a dollop of thick mayo on top, sprinkled with paprika; seafoody ones; wraps of smoked salmon and cream cheese; tiny meatballs; tiny lemon meringue pies; shot glasses with miniature trifles and chocolate mousses in them...