‘My name is Jonathan Farrell,’ he said. ‘I believe Ms Page is expecting me.’
She nodded and gestured for him to enter. He saw that the house went back farther than he’d thought; there was a kitchen or utility room beyond the hallway, and from where he stood at the foot of the stairs, he could see through its window to a paved terrace beyond.
Again obeying her gesture, he followed the maid, or whatever she was, up the narrow staircase to a large living area. His immediate impression was of luxury – deep-piled carpet, expensive hangings, paintings vibrant against white walls, and deep sofas covered in cream tweed, from one of which Myrtle Page rose gracefully to greet him.
‘Thank you, Isabella,’ she said and, as the maid returned downstairs, came towards him with outstretched hand. ‘Mr Farrell, I presume?’
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
Myrtle Page was by any standards a striking woman, and he found it hard to believe she was in her late fifties. Tall and almost painfully thin, she had high cheekbones, slanting eyes of a disconcertingly light blue, and a wealth of red-gold hair that he suspected was no longer natural. She was wearing tight white trousers, a silk tunic in jade green, and a heavy gold chain that hung almost to her waist.
The hand he took was long, the wrist bony, and the fingers liberally bejewelled. Once a model, he thought, always a model. He met her eyes, faintly mocking, and realized that the summing-up had been mutual.
‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘It’s some time since anyone requested an interview. I’m out of practice.’
‘I hope you won’t mind my recording this?’
‘Not in the least.’
He switched on the machine, setting it on the low table between them, and as he did so, she retrieved a silver cigarette case from the shelf beneath.
‘And I hope you won’t mind if I smoke? It soothes my nerves.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Perhaps you’ll join me?’ She offered the case, but he declined with a smile, watching as she lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and settled back on the sofa opposite him.
‘Right, darling; off you go, then.’
And the interview began. Though eager to reach the part of her life that most interested him, it seemed politic to concentrate first on her modelling career. Consequently, the next twenty minutes were spent enlarging on the sketchy details he’d gleaned from his Internet search, culminating in what had proved to be her big break, being picked to model for Delaney.
‘Though what I really should have been modelling was maternity clothes!’ she added with her throaty laugh, lighting another cigarette. ‘Because by then Lewis and I were married. Still, we managed somehow to work round my bumps.’
The opening he’d been waiting for! ‘That was before he started his health clubs?’ Jonathan asked, rapidly recalling dates.
‘Oh yes, at that stage no one had heard of him. He was an accountant when we met, and bored out of his mind, poor love. He’d always hankered after his own business, and he had one or two tries before he hit on the health clubs. Mercifully, they took off in a big way, but for the first years of our marriage I was the main breadwinner.’
‘Then, in 1980, he bought Mandelyns Court.’
‘Correct; and when they launched their own beauty products – behold!’ She lifted both hands, palms uppermost. ‘They had a ready-made “face” to advertise them. Which, I may say with all modesty, did them no harm at all.’
‘I’m sure.’ Jonathan hesitated, unsure how to turn the conversation back to her husband. But again she forestalled him.
‘It’s appalling luck, all this bad publicity they’re getting. The timing could hardly be worse.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He paused. It didn’t seem likely, but . . . ‘Did you know the dead girl?’ he asked.
‘Not personally, no, though I’d seen her with my son.’
He took a shot in the dark. ‘Wasn’t she his PA?’ Either his or his father’s.
Myrtle nodded. ‘Later, yes.’
A frisson ran down his spine. ‘Later?’
She tilted back her head, blowing out a perfectly formed smoke ring, which she studied for a moment before continuing. ‘I suppose that’s how she got the job. Not, mind you, that she wouldn’t have been good at it – I’m sure she was. Cameron’s not one to let sentiment stand in the way of business.’
Jonathan was struggling with this new and somehow alarming angle. ‘But you’d seen them together before she went to Mandelyns?’
‘Oh yes, several months before, at the theatre. They didn’t see me, and I never mentioned it – my son’s a very private person. He’s always had a pretty girl in tow, and I didn’t give it a second thought, till I saw her again at Foxfield. I assumed she was a guest, till someone told me she was his PA.’
‘You think they were still . . . in a relationship?’
‘Well, darling, I’d have said that was the point of the exercise, wouldn’t you? I did try a little gentle pumping once – enquired after his love life, and so on. He said his girlfriend’s name was Alice, which, on reflection, was probably as close as he could get without spilling the beans.’
Her long fingers were playing with the chain round her neck. ‘I’m so desperately sorry for him. He looked dreadful when we met for lunch, but when I tried to comfort him, I was immediately cut off.’
They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and the maid Isabella appeared with a tea tray.
‘I always have tea around three o’clock,’ Myrtle said as it was laid on the table between them. ‘It keeps me going till the sun’s over the yardarm! Tea time, followed by G&T time!’
Having unloaded the tray – cups and saucers, silver teapot and milk jug, a saucer of sliced lemon and plate of shortbread – the maid withdrew, and Myrtle, stubbing out her latest cigarette, poured the tea.
‘Milk or lemon?’ she enquired.
‘Milk, please.’
She handed him his cup and saucer and the shortbread, taking a slice of lemon for herself. Jonathan hesitated, unsure whether the interview was suspended during the tea break, though anxious to return to the subject of Cameron and Elise. But his hesitation cost him, because when she spoke, it was at a tangent.
‘Anyway, if I probe too deeply into Cameron’s affairs, he retaliates with some cutting remark about Damien, my husband. He persists in referring to him as my toy boy.’
Jonathan followed her glance to a silver-framed photograph on the bookcase, experiencing a stab of recognition. Damien Jessop’s face was familiar from his many television appearances, but admittedly the boyish grin seemed at odds with the mature, sophisticated woman in front of him.
‘No doubt you’re married yourself?’ Myrtle said suddenly.
‘Yes, and two kids to show for it.’
‘Pity!’ she said enigmatically.
Jonathan flushed and was stumbling after a suitable response when the sound of the doorbell reached them.
Myrtle exclaimed with annoyance, ‘Whoever can that be? I’m not expecting anyone, and Damien has his key.’
Voices reached them from below, one of them male, then a single set of footsteps, and a man rounded the corner of the staircase.
‘Cameron!’ Myrtle exclaimed. ‘Hello, darling, we were just talking about you! What a pleasant surprise! Did you ask Isabella for another cup?’
‘I can’t stay, Mother,’ the newcomer said tersely, his eyes on Jonathan. ‘I just brought you the vouchers you asked for.’
‘This is Jonathan Farrell; I think I mentioned he was coming to interview me. My son Cameron, Jonathan.’
Jonathan rose to his feet. Cameron nodded briefly, and he did the same, taking stock of the man he’d been hearing about. He was very dark, his hair sleek and showing signs of receding at the temples, his eyes deep-set and shadowed.
Before Jonathan could form some kind of greeting, Cameron said abruptly, ‘I believe our parents met in South Africa.’
‘Real
ly?’ Myrtle’s voice rose in surprise. ‘What a coincidence!’
‘Is it, Farrell?’ Cameron asked levelly. Then, again before Jonathan could respond: ‘Have you met my father?’
‘No, I—’
‘Nor I your mother. Perhaps we should do a spot of joint investigating.’
‘Just a minute,’ Myrtle interrupted. ‘Are you saying Lewis and Jonathan’s mother are seeing each other?’
‘Seeing’s the least of it!’
She gave a low laugh. ‘Well, the old fox! Good luck to him!’ She glanced apologetically at Jonathan. ‘But we’re embarrassing my guest. Darling, do sit down, and—’
‘No, really, I have to go.’ He came forward and dropped an envelope on to the table. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ His eyes flicked to Jonathan. ‘Nice to have met you,’ he said, and, turning, ran lightly back down the stairs, leaving the two of them to deal with the bombshell he had tossed between them.
FIFTEEN
‘They were lovers?’ Steve echoed incredulously.
‘It would certainly seem so. Which puts a different complexion on things, wouldn’t you say?’
‘If nothing else, it explains why she was so hesitant to blow the whistle. But you’re saying no one knew?’
‘Well, it would have made things difficult, wouldn’t it? In point of fact, though, it probably doesn’t alter anything. I mean, it won’t affect alibis and such.’
‘Having met him, do you think he could have done it?’
‘Any one of them could, as we’ve said all along.’
‘But does being her lover make it more or less likely?’
‘We won’t know that till we know the motive. If we ever do.’
‘Fair enough. So – how was la belle dame? Did she eat you for breakfast? Or tea, or whatever it was?’
‘No, though if we hadn’t been interrupted, who knows?’
Steve laughed. ‘Dream on! Did she dig any dirt on hubby?’
‘Actually, she seemed quite fond of him. I was surprised; I’d heard it was an acrimonious divorce.’
‘Ah well, time heals most things, they say.’
‘If you’re going all philosophical on me, I’m ringing off!’
‘You’ll write up the interview, though?’
‘Too right I will. She’s back in the news, with the Mandelyns anniversary coming up. Memories of the early days, et cetera. I’m glad I got in first.’
‘I suppose she’ll be at the do next week. She’ll be surprised to see you there!’
Or not, Jonathan thought as he ended the call. What he hadn’t passed on to Steve was the fact that Myrtle had told Cameron he’d be there. That, Jonathan was sure, had been the real reason he’d called. But why, having made a detour specifically to see him, had he left after only a couple of minutes?
A possible answer struck him: Cameron might have seen his name on the guest list and wanted to be sure of recognizing him at the dinner. But again, why? So they could have a longer, more private conversation? And if so, what about? Not their parents, surely?
He switched on the recorder and replayed the interview. Since he’d hoped to continue it during tea, he hadn’t turned it off, and Cameron’s arrival was duly recorded, as was the slight awkwardness following his departure.
‘I hope you don’t feel I came under false pretences,’ he’d said to Myrtle as he left.
‘Let’s just say under a flag of convenience.’
‘I really am a journalist, you know, and I really will write up this interview. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Dear boy!’ she’d said and, before he realized her intention, leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. Jonathan went hot under the collar, remembering. Older woman or not, he could well understand Damien falling under her spell.
Karen Chadwick stood looking at her husband with folded arms.
‘How long is this going on?’ she demanded.
Mike looked up, startled. ‘What?’
‘You know damn well what – you moping around the house like a sick parrot!’
‘Karen, we’re in the middle of a murder enquiry, we have a dinner for a hundred guests coming up, and you ask why I’m worried?’
‘But it’s something more personal, isn’t it? I know you, Mike.’ She drew a deep breath, steadily holding his gaze. ‘Tell me the truth: did you kill Elise du Pré?’
He gasped. ‘Good God! What kind of question is that?’
‘A necessary one, in the circumstances. Something’s eating you up, and I want to know what it is.’
He felt the sweat break out – on his face, in his armpits, on the palms of his hands. But her first question, at least, he could answer.
‘I assure you categorically that I did not kill Elise, poor girl. Why the hell should I have done that?’
‘Why the hell should anyone? OK, so it’s something else. And don’t trot out that excuse about the dinner, because it just won’t wash. You could organize such things in your sleep.’
Briefly, Mike closed his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’
‘But you haven’t, have you? It started when you got back from Manchester – which is what made me think of Elise – and I’ve been waiting all this time for you to discuss it with me, as usual. But you haven’t, and now it’s eating me up too, and I can’t wait any longer. If you think you’re sparing me by keeping me in the dark, not knowing’s much worse.’
She slipped to her knees in front of him, taking hold of his hands. ‘It can’t be that bad!’ she said encouragingly. ‘As long as we’re all together, nothing—’ She broke off as his hands clenched, regarding him with dawning apprehension.
‘You’ve found someone else!’ she whispered.
‘No! God, no!’ He reached for her convulsively, pulling her into his arms.
‘But it’s something to do with the family? The boys?’ Her voice rose. ‘Mike, tell me, for God’s sake!’
Holding her tightly against him so she couldn’t see his face, he said, ‘It’s Paul. No –’ as she instinctively jerked – ‘he’s not hurt. You spoke to him last night, remember? At least, not hurt in that way.’
She pulled back, searching his face. Paul, now sixteen, was their elder son, an exceptionally bright boy. He’d won a scholarship to public school, and, with his flair for languages, had set his heart on a career in the diplomatic service. The world seemed to be his oyster, so what could possibly . . .?
‘He’s involved in a drugs ring,’ Mike said expressionlessly.
‘No!’
‘I’m afraid so, my darling. I caught the first whisper at Simon’s concert, the night I got back from Manchester; John Pierce, whose son’s also at Ashton, asked if I’d heard the rumours.’
‘But . . . if it’s just cannabis, lots of young people—’
‘It’s not just cannabis, it’s coke.’
She gasped, her hand going to her mouth. ‘But it doesn’t mean Paul’s involved,’ she protested. ‘There are over two hundred boys—’
‘That’s what I hoped, but I was taking no chances. The following day, Sunday, when I said I had to go to Woodcot, I went down to see him, still praying he wasn’t involved. We went out for a walk, and as soon as I brought up the subject, there was no mistaking his reaction.’
‘What did he say?’ Karen whispered, white-lipped.
‘At first, he tried to deny it, but when I persisted, he . . . went to pieces. Insisted it was only recreational – all the usual claptrap – and promised faithfully he’d never touch it again.’ Mike shrugged hopelessly. ‘I might have scared the life out of him, but that’s as far as it went. He keeps phoning me at work – for reassurance I suppose, poor kid – but every time I ask if he’s stopped using, he admits he hasn’t and begs me to hang on, give him more time.’
He looked helplessly at his wife’s appalled face. ‘Where have we gone wrong, Karen? Where have I? I should have known – there must have been signs, and I missed them.’
Karen’s voice cracked. ‘What
will you do?’
‘Report him. I have to.’
She stared at him, aghast. ‘But Mike, you can’t! He’ll go to prison! It’ll ruin his life!’
‘Not as much as if we do nothing. Think about it; Paul says only half a dozen of them are involved, but that’s six too many, and if they’re not stopped soon they’ll become seriously addicted. I’ve been going out of my mind, wondering what to do for the best. I should have told you – of course I should – but I kept telling myself I could deal with it. I even got as far as writing to his headmaster, giving him the facts as I knew them and imploring him not to reveal his source. The letter was in my briefcase, ready to be posted next day. But I was in such a state that night that I went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table for two hours. And after several glasses of whisky, I tore it up, telling myself that if I sent it, Paul would never forgive me. And nor would you.’
He glanced at her briefly. ‘There’s also Simon to think of. You know how he looks up to his big brother. If Paul said jump, he would.’
‘You’re not saying he’d involve Simon?’ Karen regarded him with horror.
‘Who knows what he might do, when he’s on a trip? No, I’ve dithered quite long enough, it’s time for positive action. Once next weekend is over, I’ll make an appointment to see Crawford. A letter was taking the easy way out – it’s better done face-to-face. I’ll lay the facts before him, and he can take it from there. He’s a sensible chap, and he’s got the good of his school to think of. He’ll be determined to stamp it out, and fast.’ Mike squeezed his wife’s hands. ‘But we’ll have to accept Paul’s days at Ashton are over.’
Jonathan and Sophie had agreed, over the phone, to tell their partners about Anna and Lewis, on the grounds that it might come out during the dinner. In neither case was the reaction as censorious as they feared.
‘Have you met him?’ Angus asked, after his initial surprise.
‘Briefly.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Impossible to say. Ma seems fond of him, and it’s apparently reciprocated, but she’s been beating herself up over Dad, poor love.’
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