Gold Diggers

by Tasmina Perry

  What troubled Wright the most was the lack of forensic evidence. Michael doubted Karin had struggled. He had worked on countless assault and murder cases where the victim had put up a fight. There was always something: tell-tale blood spots, fibres from the murderer’s clothes, skin or hair under the victim’s fingernails. But in Karin’s case, the initial pathologist’s report suggested that there was nothing. She hadn’t struggled. She had been caught unaware. And that meant she probably knew her attacker.

  The previous day’s evening news had gone heavy on the death of Karin Cavendish; since then information from the public had begun to filter through. Two of Karin’s neighbours had both spotted a grey sports car parked outside her townhouse between around eight and half past. Michael wasn’t sure how significant the detail was. A sports car parked in a Kensington street was hardly unusual, but he filed it in his mental database anyway.

  Michael stretched out his legs and held the beer bottle to his forehead. What had Evan said about a phone call? The kid had claimed that, when he’d been standing by her window, Karin had received a phone call from someone called Maggie. Of course, he had asked the telephone company for a list of calls to and from Karin, but the process was slow. Suddenly, he jumped up and walked over to a sparse bookshelf. Michael wasn’t a big reader: he didn’t have time. There were a few golf magazines, a DIY manual, some picture books on World War Two and a handful of thrillers. He pulled out the book at the end of the shelf: The Big Book of Baby Names. He had always wondered why this book was on his shelf. When he had left the marital home three years ago, it must have been slipped into his hurriedly packed box of belongings. He smiled at the memory of him poring through the pages with his ex-wife Lynn, with her bloated pregnant belly and their giddy excitement about parenthood: he’d been unable to throw the book away; it was a connection to happier times. Before the drink problem kicked in, before work consumed his life. Before Lynn began to hate him for never being there.

  He flipped through the yellowing pages before he came to the section on girls’ names – M. He put on his glasses and began to read the names, saying them out loud: ‘Maggie … Mandy … Molly.’

  He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled them all down.

  66

  At 8.30 a.m. DCI Michael Wright walked into the Midas Corporation building for his appointment with Adam Gold, suffering only slightly from a hangover. Many people would have thought it was strange that a grieving man should be in work, but years in the force had taught the detective that people responded to grief in different ways; for some the best method of coping was for business to carry on as normal. After being shown into Gold’s office, Wright settled into a chair opposite Adam’s desk and fixed him with a searching look. God, he looks worse than me, thought Michael. There were bags under Adam’s eyes and a permanent crease between his brows.

  ‘Can you tell me if the name Maggie means anything to you, Mr Gold?’ he began.

  Adam simply shrugged and shook his head.

  Michael pressed on. ‘What about Mandy, or Molly?’

  ‘Molly? Yes,’ said Adam, looking up alarmed. ‘Molly Sinclair is in our circle of friends.’

  ‘Molly Sinclair the model?’ asked Michael. ‘She was a friend of Ms Cavendish’s?’

  Adam nodded. ‘Although I have to say that Molly and Karin have never particularly seen eye to eye.’

  Wright made a note and looked up curiously. ‘What do you mean by that? Did they have a falling out?’

  ‘No, no specific reason that I am aware of.’ He paused. ‘I guess it was just social competitiveness.’

  ‘Competition enough to be a motive for murder?’ asked Wright quickly.

  Adam scoffed. ‘Molly Sinclair is many things, but a murderer is not one of them.’

  So what is she exactly? thought Michael, thinking back twenty years to police college when a picture of Molly Sinclair had been sellotaped to the inside of his locker. Legs as long as Africa. That famous tumbling tawny mane of hair. She had more sex appeal than those skinny page three girls, was more natural and earthy than any Playboy centrefold. She must be roughly his age now. Mid-forties. Was she married? Wealthy? What if she wasn’t? Perhaps Gold was right, thought Michael, perhaps there was an element of jealousy. It couldn’t be easy to sit back and watch younger women like Karin Cavendish snagging the handsome, rich men she would once have attracted.

  ‘So, what about Harris?’ asked Adam. ‘I thought you had arrested him. Is there any reason why you’re extending the investigation?’

  Michael Wright smiled to himself. How many times did coppers make that mistake? Spending all their time trying to nail the prime suspect when the real killer was roaming free, reading the papers and laughing at the police. Michael Wright wasn’t one of those men. Until he was absolutely sure that Harris was his man he was going to keep an open mind, and that if that meant digging deep, then so be it.

  ‘One last thing,’ said Michael, putting his notepad in his jacket pocket. ‘Do you know who Ginsui might be?’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, Mr Gold,’ said Wright, standing. ‘Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch again soon.’

  Summer had been lucky, very lucky. After her Fallopian tube had ruptured, she had suffered massive internal bleeding, a plummeting pulse rate, and had needed an emergency blood transfusion. The surgeons had just got to her in time, however, and Summer woke to hear just how close she had come to death. She also heard that she had lost the baby; growing inside her left Fallopian tube, it had never had a chance, which sent her spiralling into a state of despair.

  Molly meanwhile had telephoned Adam, who had insisted she be transferred to a private room in the hospital. Disappointed that he did not seem to have immediate plans to come and see Summer, Molly accepted his offer anyway, hoping the hospital bill would be enormous.

  Molly sat at her daughter’s bedside, holding her hand, for three days. Summer was as pale as the inside of an eggshell. Her honey-coloured hair, spread out on the hospital pillow, seemed to have lost all its shine and lustre. Her eyes were shut, just two subtle dark crescents on her perfectly oval face. She looked tiny and broken, her thin frail body under the sheet. Molly’s eyes misted as she thought of her daughter alone and in pain. She had been in the flat when Summer had tried to wake her. After her argument with Summer, she’d gone to meet a friend for cocktails and, as she hadn’t been able to drive back to Marcus’s place, she had crashed at home, too far gone to hear Summer’s frantic knocking.

  For the first time in a long time, Molly felt disgusted with herself; Summer’s condition – God she almost died – had been a slap in the face, a wake-up call that made Molly realize just what kind of mother she had been these past years. Sitting at her bedside, Molly had wondered how she could make it up to her daughter, and only one idea had seemed appropriate.

  She heard the sound of the door creak open and soft footsteps on the floor. Thinking it was another nurse doing their regular check on Summer, Molly glanced up. It wasn’t a nurse, it was a man in his late forties, tall and stockily dressed in a navy-blue suit and tie. He looked as if he had been handsome once, but his jaw now was jowly and his dark brown eyes were serious.

  ‘Molly Sinclair?’

  ‘Yes’, said Molly, surprised.

  ‘You’ve been a difficult woman to track down,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘And you are …?’ she asked, feeling a slight sense of unease. Molly put a protective hand on Summer’s arm.

  He slipped his hand in his pocket and brought out a wallet. ‘Sorry, Chief Inspector Michael Wright,’ he said, flipping the wallet open to reveal his ID. ‘I’m looking after the Karin Cavendish investigation.’

  His eyes wandered over to Summer and his shoulders seemed to stiffen. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She will be,’ said Molly, squeezing Summer’s fingers. ‘She will be.’

  ‘Miscarriage?’

  ‘Ectopic pregnancy,’ she said quietly.<
br />
  A ghostly quiet settled on the room as Molly tried to work out what the inspector knew.

  ‘I know this is a bad time, but I need to talk to you about the death of Karin Cavendish,’ said Wright.

  ‘I know, I heard about that. It’s dreadful.’

  ‘So you won’t mind me asking a few questions? It won’t take long. If you’d just like to come through to somewhere a little more private.’

  ‘According to my mate Mark, the police aren’t entirely sure that they’ve got their man,’ said Chris, leafing through a pile of the day’s papers in Erin’s living room, looking for more news on the case.

  ‘So the police don’t think it’s that stalker?’ asked Erin, looking up from a news magazine.

  Chris shrugged. ‘Mark says they’re not confident enough to charge him. Your mate Adam Gold has apparently been put under the microscope, too, but he has an alibi. However, Molly Sinclair has been taken in for questioning.’

  ‘Molly?’ said Erin. She had suspected months earlier that Molly was after Adam herself but, after the summer fête at The Standlings, Erin had become convinced that Summer was Adam’s bit on the side. Which of them was it, and would either murder Karin? Surely not Summer?

  Erin felt a stab of guilt. Even if it was for selfish reasons, she still wanted Karin’s murderer found, and she knew the fact that Adam had a mistress would undoubtedly be of interest to the police. But Erin was struggling with the idea of putting Summer into the frame. She was so sweet. A good person. They had had such fun in Monaco and at The Standlings. There was no way that she would have murdered Karin … Was there?

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ asked Chris, peering down at Erin’s wine rack.

  ‘Umm, I think I’m becoming an alcoholic.’

  ‘Well, we’re under stress,’ smiled Chris, pulling out a bottle of red and opening it with a practised flourish. As Erin watched Chris pouring the wine, she had a sudden flash of déjà vu. Something that had been nagging at her suddenly became clear, and she cursed herself for not acknowledging it sooner.

  ‘Listen, something has been bothering me,’ said Erin, leaning forward, ‘and I’ve only just realized what it is.’

  ‘What?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Karin is a neat freak. A total perfectionist who doesn’t like a hair out of place.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, when I first went into the house that night, I remember seeing a bottle of wine on the kitchen side.’

  Chris had a doubtful expression. ‘Erin, plenty of people have booze lying around the kitchen.’

  ‘Not Karin,’ said Erin. ‘She’s very particular like that – everything in its place. She drummed that into me when I was working for her. She’d certainly have put her wine away in the cellar. And there was nothing else on the kitchen surfaces that night, nothing at all. I remember thinking it was like a show home.’

  ‘Couldn’t she just have bought it that afternoon, or fetched it from the cellar? Who doesn’t like a glass of wine when they come home from work?’

  Erin frowned. ‘The bottle in her kitchen was a bottle of red. Karin hates red wine. I heard her say once it gives her such a headache she thinks she’s allergic to it.’

  Chris was looking at her with confusion. ‘So what does all this mean?’

  ‘I think Karin had a social call the night she died. Someone was at the house with her.’

  Chris was starting to warm to the theory. ‘Well, it can’t have been a casual caller. Your mum or your best friend wouldn’t bring a bottle, would they?’

  ‘And think about it – who would bring a bottle of red wine round?’ said Erin. ‘Not a friend like Diana or Christina – they’d know she’d prefer a cup of green tea.’

  They looked at each other, both feeling they were on to something.

  ‘A lover?’

  ‘Possible,’ said Erin, thinking out loud. ‘Anyway. Won’t the bottle have been checked for fingerprints?’

  ‘They could easily have been rubbed off by the murderer on his or her way out, if he or she had brought the wine round.’

  Erin nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Anyway. What was the wine?’ asked Chris.

  Erin laughed. ‘I’ve only just remembered it was there, let alone what vineyard it came from. Anyway, what does it matter?’

  ‘Ooh, a great deal,’ replied Chris, walking back over to Erin’s wine rack. ‘You’re saying that whoever brought the bottle round is Karin’s killer. Well, the choice of wine a person brings round to somebody’s house says a great deal about them. For instance, if you go to a girlfriend’s for a gossip –’ Chris pulled out a bottle and held it up – ‘I bet you take a five-quid bottle of Pinot like this: cheap, cheerful. You don’t care about the wine. It’s just a prop.’

  ‘So you’re saying I’m cheap, Mr Scanlan!’ laughed Erin, throwing the cork at him.

  He ducked and grinned, but continued with his line of thinking. ‘But say I was coming round to your house to seduce you …’

  ‘Promises, promises,’ laughed Erin before she could help herself.

  ‘Well, say I was rich and knew a lot about wine and wanted to impress you – which of course I would,’ he added with a grin, ‘I’d choose a very, very expensive bottle of vintage claret. A night-time wine. A romantic wine, a wine that said something about my status and taste, like a Petrus or a Château Margaux. A wine that deserved to be shared with somebody special.’ Chris was nodding thoughtfully. ‘You need to find out about the wine, Erin.’

  ‘Won’t the house be all cordoned off?’

  ‘Probably. But it was Karin’s home. I bet Adam could get in and I bet you could too. You just need an excuse.’

  67

  The interview room was cold and windowless and smelt of cigarette smoke. To Molly it felt like a trap. She shivered, wondering if it was some sort of sick retribution for not attending her father’s funeral. For having sex with Adam Gold. For exposing Donna Delemere as a call girl. She stopped herself. This was no time for superstition. She had her reasons for everything she did in life. She didn’t deserve punishing.

  ‘What am I supposed to think, Molly?’ said Michael Wright evenly. ‘You don’t have any alibi for that evening. Evan Harris was at Karin’s window and heard her on the phone to a Molly. He heard her say “See you later.” Given those facts, anyone would suppose that it was you arranging to pop over.’

  ‘I admit I called Karin that evening,’ said Molly defensively. ‘But if she said “see you later”, I can assure you it was just a figure of speech.’

  ‘What did you call Karin about?’ asked Michael, swirling some tepid tea around in the bottom of his paper cup.

  ‘Simply to thank her for a wonderful party,’ she replied inscrutably.

  Wright blinked at her. ‘What about the grey car that matches the description of the one you drive? It was seen outside Karin’s house one hour after the phone conversation, at around eight thirty. I repeat, what am I supposed to think? You went round to see her that night, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did not!’ snapped Molly, feeling so flushed she had to undo another button on her shirt. She felt it was definitely time to instruct a solicitor.

  ‘Can I ask you who the father was of Summer’s child?’

  Ever since he’d left the hospital he’d been curious. He’d asked around the girls in the station, who all seemed to be devoted to the gossip magazines, if they knew who Summer Sinclair was involved with. Michael was aware that Summer Sinclair was a celebrity, and if she had some glamorous boyfriend, he knew it would be common knowledge. However, when the general consensus was that Summer was single, Michael’s curiosity had turned into suspicion. Unless it was the immaculate conception, he reasoned, somebody had made her pregnant. Was it too much a stretch of the imagination to think it was Adam Gold? Summer was certainly beautiful enough to attract a lover like that. And if Adam was the father of Summer’s child, then Molly had the strongest motive in the world: motherly love. With Karin out of the way, Summer and Adam c
ould live happily ever after.

  Molly had folded her hands on top of the table and was now sitting tight-lipped. ‘To ask about the paternity of Summer’s child seems both irrelevant and, at this time, in very poor taste. If you’re going to continue with this line of questioning, I must demand to have my lawyer present.’

  Michael switched off the tape recorder and drank the last of his tea. It was going to be another long day.

  Erin had found her mission to get back into Karin’s house surprisingly easy. There were two constables on guard at the top of the steps to keep the press and prying neighbours away, but she had spotted Chief Inspector Wright in his car outside. Erin had explained that she had left her keys to the office inside. She wasn’t sure whether Wright had believed her: he had seemed wary, but had still accompanied her inside to look. The keys were never found, of course, but there was enough time to quickly inspect the bottle of wine still sitting on Karin’s black granite worktop.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ said Chris, reading the name Erin had copied down from the label. They had met for lunch in an American-themed diner off Kensington High Street.

  ‘Nineteen forty-seven Château Henri Jacques, are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what it said. What’s wrong?’ asked Erin, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

  ‘It’s a red wine alright,’ said Chris with an incredulous expression. ‘It’s also one of the finest wines in the world. Extremely rare and will probably have been sold through an auction house like Christie’s or a very high-end wine merchant.’

  ‘If it’s so rare, do you think we’ll be able to find out who owned it?’

  Chris smiled and shovelled a handful of French fries into his mouth. ‘I like your thinking and, actually, I think I know just the man who can help us. I warn you he’s very eccentric, but what he doesn’t know about wine you can write on a postage stamp.’