“You are ‘accessories’ after the fact if you are hiding the identity of the car driver, already admitted ‘obstruction’ charge,” I say harshly, wondering if they regret not waiting for a lawyer now, not that he would be able to help them.
Whittle mediates as ever, “Perhaps you have just forgotten one set of guests in all the excitement of the good food and exquisite wine?”
I try not to sneer, “And are we to be deemed worthy to know what this august gathering was about lest it bears on this woman’s tragic death? As anyone who believes, like you sir, in justice, transparency, democracy would surely be willing to tell - in complete confidence if we can. Even confidentiality agreements do not top a homicide inquiry.”
We see the global operator come to the fore now as Charles Hakluyt is all forced calm, “It was a social dinner, general discussion, business possibilities. Nothing relevant. Bigger picture things.”
My voice is ice, “Important enough to hide two guests attending though?”
Both are hard faced now as I go on, “You know there were two more guests, the Chinese women, so why not tell us who they are, where we can find them, why they were here, why you have gone to all these lengths to protect them?”
Hakluyt is absolutely still, looks up sharply, sly, careful now. His wife’s marble cheeks are red tinged, triumphant at seeing him caught out before the glacial mask takes over once more.
Hakluyt says simply with a knowing smile, “Shi Yen and Bai Yen. Senior executives with my bank from China, close friends, over here on holiday really.”
I nod, ask about their whereabouts now and since Sunday night, ending, “We need to talk to them as soon as possible.”
Hakluyt visibly relaxes as his wife takes his hand and he answers, “Good luck with that, they are back in China, after meetings with your Foreign Office and other government departments all week - I have been with them since Monday morning in London. Saw them off at Heathrow before I flew up to see you today.”
“A holiday laden with meetings?”
He shrugs. I ask, he answers. The women did not seem upset at all, quite the opposite all week, he says. They enjoyed their time in Ancaster and London. They showed no sign of being in an accident, nor seeing a woman die. The very idea is preposterous. Though of course he did not see them until a day after events.
“So why keep their identity a secret?” Fenwick interrupts rudely.
His wife supplies the answer, addressing Whittle as the most sympathetic of us, “They saw nothing but in any event, have diplomatic passports, immunity with your police.”
Whittle reasons softly, “But presumably a chauffeur was driving - if their car hit this woman - they would only be witnesses after all, so why hide it, why hide them?”
A shrug from her speaks without words, ‘The bigger picture, people like these are not called as witnesses to a road accident. Go away.’
Frankly my dear, it does not work like that. Or, more often than not, it does.
53
‘Axel’s Castle’ is in my hand. A book of literary criticism by Edmund Wilson; ‘a study in the imaginative literature of 1870 to 1930 from the Symbolist Movement’ runs the back-page blurb. The lady has handed it to me from her pile in a lull while the natty maids reappear, bearing olives, nibbles and an Aperol spritzer cocktail for our two interviewees. Nothing is offered to us now. Charles Hakluyt is supervising the creation - pure orange Aperol itself, the right champagne measured carefully, a splash of soda, a hint of gin with a small leaf fluttered on top.
“We have an apartment in Venice, love their aperitif,” his wife explains coldly, surprised we are still present. Even as I wince, remembering how Bess and I too found delight in this shimmering drink in that floating city of light.
She asks me if I have read the book. Twenty years ago as a teenager, I say, especially the title chapter on how a day of pure joy led a couple to decide that life could never be as perfect again, could only deteriorate to ordinariness, so why go on? In the book, they ended their lives at the zenith. The light of interest in her face is slight.
After Literature and Classics at Cambridge, do I read much now? A clear warning that they have done research on me also. Seldom, I reply, but I do have two of her own books on order, a remark which elicits a friendly glance.
Things go quickly then. We are running out of time.
We shock them again. Their son Louis’ car hit a fox, a text from forensics half an hour ago has confirmed. I raise the matter.
Hakluyt is canny now, asking, “How do you know all these details of the cars leaving, Rocco arriving, when and what happened that night?”
My face is blank, “Even the fields have eyes and ears in Ancaster, Sir.”
On script, Tom booms from the fireplace, “Where is your son, we need to talk to him as a vital witness.”
They are not even apologetic as the lady explains what we already know: that he too is on a plane away to Utah, away from us, the ticket booked only yesterday.
The woman’s voice is animated then as she says, “Eagle Point, beautiful mountains, layers of fluffy snow, steep black diamond runs with tree-lined blues and greens and acres of untouched backcountry terrain.”
“Exquisite, and only a twenty-minute helicopter ride to Vegas too,” her husband boasts. “Family tradition at Christmas since the kids were very young.”
***
I explain we are almost finished, but a couple of points interest me personally, if they would be so kind. Their gracious nods anoint my return to servile ways.
“Rumour has it that you are buying up land around Ancaster Acre?”
Amy’s information and Gadd’s discovery - that the dead woman’s camera automatically loads stills to an address and secure file she has titled ‘Ancaster Acre Confidential’ at a Dropbox style service in America - reaps dividends here.
They are both smooth and cover up in a second, but only after a twitch of an eye from the woman, a noticeable imposition of a poker face by the man.
I distract, wistfully explaining to my DCs, “Cherished old playground for tens of thousands of us local folk over the years, real beauty spot, endless lawns, woods and picnic places all around the ancient and mystical castle, monastery, site of learning and education for half a millennium after the Norman Conquest. Wonderful place. Steeped in history. Hardly relevant to our enquiry though.”
I do not plunge on, do not say I have an inkling what their meeting might be about. The Acre, plus their guest list, are the clues. It would be the perfect symbolic place for such a project. Though I cannot readily see why such a project is so sensitive as to be kept secret especially with a death in play. I can certainly understand they want to announce in their own time. Are they afraid of local opposition? No need, I imagine the bulk of the county would welcome innovation, income. If I am right.
Chinese investment is welcome surely and the thousands of jobs that would come. Though there would be naysayers, especially after the Hinkley Point nuclear power station debacle. While the resurgent ‘America First’ in Trump’s USA might not be keen on a major ally getting in bed with the Chinese. But would even Trump really object to something in sleepy old Ancaster County. Still, I rattle their cage, a little.
“Knowledge is a wonderful thing,” I say almost dreamily, drawing sharp glances from the couple and my DCs while a silence follows and lingers.
***
Change the mood music. I stand. Hakluyt visibly relaxes and even smiles. He thinks it is all over. It isn’t.
I am amazed that this interview has gone so well for us. In boxing jargon, we have been on the attack from first to last, had our opponents on the floor several times and are way out ahead on points. It is not sporting to hit an opponent when he or she is relaxing as the final bell goes, but that is precisely what I do.
Arrangements are made for formal statements early tomorrow morning before they fly off to join their son.
The man sips his Aperol Spritzer, Adams and Crowley are by the sofa
, the two security men back in position in the room, the four models hovering in the hall, full of earth shaking news and decisions to be made.
Whittle, Fenwick and I nod and move towards the large wooden doors to the hall, half a cricket pitch away. Goodbyes, thanks, handshakes are not forthcoming on either side. I stop and walk back close to the still seated and visibly relaxing master and mistress of the house.
“Just one other quick thing?”
I go rapidly on before they can say nay, “Your wonderful perfume, madam, the exclusive one that you have specially created just for you in the deep South? Unique, I think you said?”
“Yes,” graciously answers the lady of the house, for so I shall always think of her. I can see in her face that she will enjoy pointedly confirming that the wondrous aroma is used by her alone. And certainly, not to be handed out to any old British policeman who asks for a spoonful. I disappoint her, my voice hovering over each point.
“Might you have any idea why the dead woman….”
A pause, “Who neither you … or any of your staff, recognize?”
I point into the darkness outside their front windows, “Who was found in a ditch at the end of your drive?”
A reluctant glance at having to raise such a mundane matter, “Would be wearing exactly that same – ehm - unique perfume of yours on the night that she died?”
I wait for a reaction. It comes almost in slow motion.
Rebecca Hakluyt’s beautiful face becomes a mask of white stone. Adams moves towards her and then stays himself as she sinks into the sofa and gasps. Her facial bone structure and veins almost visible through the suddenly translucent skin. She visibly shrinks, shaking her head repeatedly, her hands fluttering in disbelief. We suddenly see how gaunt she will look at eighty or ninety.
The man shakes his head as if to rid it of painful irritation, honestly confused as far as I can tell.
His wife looks raggedly in every direction, lost and suddenly forlorn despite her opulent surroundings and previously preening confidence. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
***
Bitter wind gusts outside, battering the windows. We three say nothing as Chuck Adams leads us out without more ado save a hostile glance at me. We must have done something right to merit the enmity of the Head of Global Security for D’Eynscourte Bank.
Veering through the enormous hall with broad polished wooden stairs doing a triple dog-leg to the floors above, a glass lift slips soundlessly upwards.
Hakluyt appears ahead of us, beckoning me alone into an enormous study, lined floor to ceiling with leather bound books on three sides, quietly lit by pools of light from table lamps on various small tables. I stand facing him as he sits behind an antique desk that brims with open books and small and large pieces of delicate porcelain.
Curtains are not drawn here and the woods beyond shift and sway menacingly.
He thanks me for the extra few minutes alone.
“I want to stress I have never seen or met that poor young woman who has so tragically died,” he says, hands open towards me in a gesture of honesty, staring me directly in the face as he does so. “Nor do I know how she got my wife’s perfume.”
The woman in question appears through the doorway behind us and moves to stand beside him facing me.
He pauses, suddenly unsure of himself, “You will no doubt hear that I am a womaniser, I admit I have been in the past but I care for my wife, would do nothing to hurt her. I will sign your statement to that effect.”
But my attention is no longer on them, but rather on a beautiful piece of shimmering green, red and yellow porcelain laid to one side on his desk.
He sees me looking and manfully lifts the beautiful large bowl, ushering me closer to see the detail. His huge hands and stubby fingers become almost delicate as he reverentially caresses what he tells me is a fruit bowl, turning it round and around so that the intricate designs and colours of a dragon, a mazy river, people and the houses of an ancient Chinese village almost animate their story in the soft flickering light.
His voice is hushed, other worldly, “A cultural expert of the time says of these creations - ‘As blue as the sky, as lustrous as a mirror, as thin as paper and as resonant as a chime.’ So says Wen.”
The banker is stood behind the desk, his eyes lost as he traces the design with one finger and says wondrously to himself alone, “The Zhou period, found in the Yellow River Basin of China, probably buried with its owner in the 1600’s. The Western Zhou ruled for eight centuries. Just and virtuous, it was the age of Confucius and they saw off the rival Shang. Heaven blessed the Zhou in their attempts to do good.”
I let the silence lengthen in homage to what is clearly a genuine devotion as the man turns the porcelain bowl to point out its charms in detail to me.
In truth, I am hanging in the moment myself, for a tiny memory half comes into my consciousness, tantalizes and is gone.
“Like Vermeer who painted similar in many of his works in Delft near Amsterdam?” I hear myself ask, dizzy in the head, voice weakly hoarse as I struggle for air, putting my hands on the desk to steady myself and avoid taking both of them by the throat and shaking out some truth that will aid my memory. If it has anything to do with them.
Hakluyt jerks from his reverie, dismissive, “Delft was a charade, a poor European imitation. This is Ming, Chinese, we Europeans did not then have the technology or skill to rival China’s invention, art, craft, culture, philosophy, approach to living. This treasure is testimony to that supremacy.”
He returns the bowl to a shelf, closes the glass door carefully and surprises me by not mentioning the no doubt huge cost.
He smiles expansively, “The Chinese wanted nothing from us then, they had it all. Their porcelain is an exemplar of their superiority. It was thinner, stronger, more durable, more beautiful, stylish, colourful. A huge industry, very prosperous in the Far East and often selling only their rejects to Europe.”
His deep voice throbs with conviction, “Our major corporations, banks, governments, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Emperors wanted to muscle in, imitate, exploit. The Chinese got the better of it of course. More advanced, more far seeing, much to teach us. Just as now. The individual is just a speck in the bigger picture.”
Hakluyt seems to notice my swollen face for the first time then even as his wife stands staring at me as he says, “Bad bruises you have there, DCI Cade. You must take more care of yourself.”
54
I am in conflict with Sergeant Parsons. Or rather she is in conflict with me.
I had put her off when she tried to talk to me earlier. Now sat back in my office she appears and demands time to talk as I munch a sandwich. Parsons quietly announces she will stay with Major Crime Team 2 and help build it into an efficient unit. Oddly, my silence does not infuriate her as I expect.
“First, because I do not want to go back into uniform and traffic control,” she says softly.
I am blank, “Your attitude will need to change dramatically Sergeant, otherwise I do not want you. This group have the makings.”
She nods, I presume in agreement but who knows as she speaks so quietly I strain forward to hear, “Second, because of your, hmm, room.”
I say nothing.
In the late afternoon, her face is creamy bright, eyes contrite, “I did not need to wrack my brains - it is your own Incident Room, you are innocent, are conducting your own inquiries to find Bess and Grace?”
My face is stony. Nobody ever said Parsons was stupid but this is quite a leap of thought: a steel door to an incident room means I am innocent? Does she expect me to admit it? Is she wired? Jerry will have moved everything by now. Her surmise makes no difference even if she has told those on high.
Her voice actually trembles, brittle, “If it is so, I am sorry, for my behaviour, that of my colleagues, most of all, so very sorry, for you all these years. I cannot even begin to think what …”
I butt in, having heard enough, “Whatever you think or
feel Sergeant, it is just a room which you intruded on, or tried to.”
Her face reacts as though she has been slapped, hard, as she backs out.
***
Punch brutal. Club down mean. The pain welcome to still thoughts that slash my mind. Four three-minute rounds of high intensity punch out drills on a heavy bag. Arms and hands ache, sweat glistens on face and upper torso as my feet dance left, right, in, out, round. Daniel barks, ‘Short break, repeat.’ The same drills, greater speed, meaner punches. No time, energy for thoughts but still they pierce the sweat in my eyes and pounding in my ears.
A replay of the debrief on the way back from Albion, Whittle driving my car with me sitting alone in the back to think as the two DCs worked through their own observations, worries unspoken about any repercussions from such rich and well-connected people whom we have just humbled in their own home.
Whittle was visibly stunned, she said, to see such wealth that close up, especially Lady Macbeth’s hair, make up, clothes, watch, jewellery and home, all from a different higher dimension than anything she has met or dreamt of. I listened dully, about to warn not to get caught up in superficial appearances when she concluded that the couple were together yet apart and she had the husband down as ‘a sexist tyrant.’
“How did you know about the split between them, Sir? As something we could work on?” she asked as she expertly spun us around a difficult narrow corner, notorious for black ice in cold weather on days like today.
“Every picture tells a story, that one in Ancaster Country Life. Look at it again, their positions, a slight gap between them, their body language with each other frozen, the wife clearly not relishing his hand on her shoulder, her eyes averted from him. Same pattern as soon as he came in.”
Fenwick came in quickly as Whittle slowed down with the lights of Merian coming into view as we breast a hill, “The perfume was a master stroke Guv.”
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 33