‘Harry Burgoyne is a very wealthy man in his own right,’ Mr Young continued. ‘He and his wife certainly don’t need the money, and I don’t believe they’ll contest the will. They won’t risk losing what they’ve been given. And they don’t really have a case.’
‘But they’re his children.’
‘If Mr Nickolai had cut them out of the will altogether, given everything to you, they, as his children, would certainly have been able to make a claim. But, in fact, in financial terms, they have been awarded the greater part of the estate.’ He smiled dryly. ‘And Harry Burgoyne is not a man to let his wife make a fool of him in court.’
I just nodded. I didn’t want to talk about it any more. Mr Young shook my hand. We could discuss things another time, he told me, whenever I felt ready. I went home, miserable, and not feeling at all like a woman who’d just been given a considerable bequest.
When I got to my flat, I phoned Paul. I just wanted someone to talk to. He wasn’t answering his mobile, so I tried his landline. Carrie answered. She knew of my existence, of course, although not what had taken place between her husband and me in their caravan. She didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice. I could hear the baby crying in the background. This was not a good time. Paul wasn’t there. What did I want? I invented some story about someone wanting some restoration work done. Nothing urgent, I told her. He could ring me back anytime. Carrie said she’d pass the message on and put the phone down.
I let out a sigh. It wasn’t fair of me to ring Paul. He was looking for a new start, a new life elsewhere. I mustn’t keep trying to drag him back to the old one.
I kicked off the high heels, massaged my tormented feet and sat with my legs up on the coffee table, wondering what to do next and feeling about as motivated as a stunned slug. I’d put myself through the ordeal of cleaning up Nick’s blood to spare his children’s feelings. I could have laughed at the irony of it. They weren’t exactly prostrate with grief. All Helena seemed to care about was her grandmother’s rings
There was a knock on my living-room door. I opened it to Kate, who gave me a curious look and said there was someone downstairs who wanted to see me. Unwilling to put the torturing heels back on, I padded downstairs in my stockinged feet. Richard Nickolai was standing on the doorstep, hands in pockets. He smiled when he saw me. ‘Hello there!’
My response was less than friendly. ‘How did you find out where I live?’
I couldn’t believe that Mr Young would have given away my address, not after the scene he had witnessed that afternoon.
‘Well, I had to do a bit of detective work,’ he admitted. ‘As luck would have it, I called into the local shop for a packet of fags and I recognised the guy behind the counter, with the turban – he was at the funeral. I thanked him for coming. We got chatting and I asked about you. He showed me your business card, the one you have displayed in his window. It’s got your phone number on it and I looked up your address in the phone book. I wanted a chance to apologise for what happened this afternoon, for the way you were treated.’
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ I told him. He was the only one who’d been nice to me.
‘You’ll have to forgive Helena. She’s not usually so emotional.’
That I can believe.
‘No excuses for Harry,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘He’s always like that, grasping bastard.’
‘I’m sorry I caused the upset.’ I couldn’t think what else to say.
‘Anyway, I wanted to apologise for their behaviour,’ he went on, ‘and I wondered if you’d let me take you out to dinner this evening.’
I hadn’t seen that coming.
‘It seems the least I can do,’ he added.
I really wanted to tell him he could stuff his dinner, but felt I couldn’t because, after all, he’d been the one who’d defended me against his horrible sister and her even more horrible husband. But there was something about him I couldn’t quite take to. Possibly it was the fact that his jaunty, devil-may-care attitude seemed more studied than natural. I was casting around in my mind for an excuse when I stopped. I looked at him, standing there on the steps, all smiley and twinkly-eyed, and I heard the words ‘Yes, that would be lovely, thank you’ come out of my mouth.
‘Great!’ he said. ‘I’ve booked a table at Gidleigh Park. Be a pity to waste it. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
He whistled as he jogged off down the steps. I would have been indignant at his supreme self-confidence if my mind had not been fully occupied with the reason I’d agreed to go out with him: it had suddenly occurred to me, as he’d been standing there on the doorstep, where and when I had seen him before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ricky’s phone call forced me out of the bath. He and Morris were agog to know about the reading of the will, and I’d promised I would phone them as soon as I got back. My mind taken up with other matters, I’d forgotten them. They put me on speakerphone so they could both listen. I didn’t feel like addressing a conference.
I gave them as brief a summary of events as I felt I could get away with.
‘Come on round to us, Princess!’ Ricky offered. ‘We’ll cook you dinner and you can tell us all about it.’
I had to explain then that I already had a dinner date and with whom.
‘Where’s he taking you?’ Morris asked.
‘Expensive!’ Ricky exclaimed when I told them the name of the restaurant.
‘Is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s famous. Michelin star, celebrity chef … um, what’s-his-name …’ There was a momentary pause and then they both spoke together. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘I thought my cream silk dress.’
‘You’re not wearing that old rag!’ Ricky informed me in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘What time are you going out?’
‘He’s picking me up at seven.’
‘You go and dry your hair. We’ll be round in half an hour.’ And he put the phone down before I could protest.
I have to confess that the simple, bias-cut bronze silk with the handkerchief hem, last worn by the character of Amanda in Private Lives, did look pretty sensational.
It certainly caused Richard Nickolai to raise appreciative eyebrows.
‘You look ravishing!’
My turn to raise an eyebrow: the dress was ravishing.
‘Why the suspicious glance?’ he asked me. ‘You’re lovely.’
‘I’ve got a suspicious mind.’ This much was true. I didn’t for a moment believe that he was taking me out to dinner to make up for the events of that afternoon. He had some ulterior motive. But then, so did I.
I had to admit he was attractive. He’d swopped his clothes of earlier in the day for a dark suit, white shirt and tie, which looked great on him and would have been more suitable attire at the funeral. I’d hung on to the orange shawl I’d worn that afternoon and wrapped it around my shoulders as we walked to the car. Any agonies of guilt I might have suffered at the thought of depriving Richard of his inheritance melted away as he guided me towards a gleaming, new, cream-coloured Mercedes. He opened the door, saw me into the front seat, closing the door and walking round to the driver’s side with the easy stride of a man who’s confident he’s making the right impression.
I suppose if you own a powerful car, you drive it, well, fast. But the blind bends are safer in the evening, when headlights light up the solid green walls of the hedgerows and you can see if anything is coming. I forced myself to relax, watching Richard as he changed gear – tanned hands, immaculate nails, shining white cuff with gleaming gold cufflinks, Rolex watch. Rich and expensive from the wrists down; dead, I suspected, from the neck up. But I was probably being unfair.
‘You seem to know the area very well,’ I commented casually as we took the road to Chagford, ‘for someone who doesn’t live round here.’
‘Not really,’ he answered, smiling. ‘The receptionist at The Dartmoor Lodge was very helpful with directions. And there’s always the satnav
if we get desperate.’
‘Are you planning on staying here long?’
‘Just for a couple more days. You know, you really took us by surprise this afternoon. We knew that the old man had left something to his cleaning lady but, frankly, I was expecting some old girl in an apron and slippers.’
‘Curlers under her headscarf?’ I suggested.
‘Something like that,’ he admitted.
‘So, what do you do, Richard,’ I asked, ‘for a living, I mean?’
‘I’m in the motor trade,’ he volunteered cheerfully, ‘in London. We’re a private company. Basically, a customer contacts us, telling us what he wants and we find it for him. Strictly the class end of the market, of course.’
‘Of course.’
He failed to detect the note of irony in my voice and rattled on. ‘We’ll go anywhere to find the customer the car he wants. I’ve just driven a Lamborghini back from Milan for one of our Arab customers.’
‘You just deal with new cars?’
‘No, no. Vintage models sometimes.’
I had to hide a smile. A second-hand car salesman; it suited him down to the ground.
Gidleigh Park Hotel was up an extremely long and winding lane, which, once it had convinced you that you must have taken a wrong turn miles back, suddenly opened out to reveal a sprawling mock-Tudor pile set in its own grounds.
We had a drink in the bar whilst we debated whether to go à la carte or opt for the seven-course tasting menu. We decided on the à la carte and followed the waiter to a panelled dining room and our candlelit table. After Richard consulted with the sommelier over the extensive wine list, we sat in silence, studying our menus.
I debated over the langoustine ceviche to start, or the coffee-cured sea trout.
I decided on the langoustine, followed by lamb. Richard went for Cornish venison tartare and then Brixham turbot.
‘You know, I haven’t really thanked you for sticking up for me this afternoon,’ I said when the waiter had taken our orders.
‘You mustn’t think badly of Helena,’ he responded cheerfully. ‘She’s not such a bad old stick. She had a pretty ghastly time of it when we were younger.’
‘You didn’t seem surprised about the will.’
‘Not really. There was never any love lost between us.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘We’re an unnatural lot, I daresay.’
The waiter brought our wine and Richard was distracted by the ritual of tasting and approving it. Glasses filled, we clinked and drank.
‘To Nick,’ I said.
He stared at me a moment, but if he found my toast inappropriate he didn’t say so. ‘To you,’ he said. ‘You are very lovely by candlelight.’
I started to laugh.
‘Now, why are you laughing?’ He pretended to be put out. ‘You shouldn’t make a chap’s romantic lines sound ludicrous.’
‘Even if they are ludicrous?’
He grinned. ‘Sorry. I’m probably not very good at this sort of thing.’
His sudden honesty was a lot more disarming than his glossy charm. I had to remind myself to be on my guard. Fortunately, my langoustine came to the rescue, a welcome distraction.
‘You know, it was a real shock to me, what happened this afternoon,’ I ventured, after a minute or two of contented eating. ‘I don’t understand why Nick would leave his shop to someone who … well, was a friend, certainly … but … I suppose what I really want to know is what caused such a terrible break up in your family.’
Richard was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Mum always said that the old man loved things more than people.’
I remembered the way Nick’s hand would caress the surface of a fine wood veneer, or hold up an old cup so that I could see how delicate the painting was, how translucent the porcelain. ‘He loved antiques,’ I said, almost as a defence.
‘Didn’t he, though?’ Richard’s smile was sardonic.
‘Did you all live above the shop?’ I asked. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine a family squeezed into that small flat.
Richard shook his head. ‘No. We had a house at the time, on the edge of town. When he was sent to prison for the second time, Mum decided it was time to get out, to go whilst the going was good. I think she was a little afraid of him. I’m not saying he was ever violent, but I don’t know if she would have had the courage to leave if he hadn’t been safely put away. She didn’t like some of the dodgy characters he associated with, and she didn’t want us to spend our childhood visiting him in prison, so we moved out to live with her sister.’
‘Is your mum still alive?’
He shook his head.
‘And Nick never tried to re-establish contact when he came out of prison?’
Richard shrugged. ‘He agreed to a divorce. The house was sold, and he moved in above the shop. We saw him again, of course, in the first few years, but gradually contact slipped away. At Christmas he would send us money. I always felt he was relieved’ − he paused to consider − ‘relieved of the burden of a wife and two children. Glad to shed the emotional baggage.’ He spoke without any bitterness and raised his glass to me. ‘But we’re getting rather gloomy.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why he left the shop to me,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t as if I did much for him. If anyone deserves to be rewarded for their kindness to him, it’s Mr Singh.’
Richard was silent a moment and then spoke, very quietly. ‘If you think the old man rewarded kindness then you really didn’t know him very well. He rewarded strength, pragmatism, acumen … ruthlessness. If he’s rewarded you, it’s because he’s seen something in you that is like himself.’ The mask of foolish affability had slipped, and I could see in that moment that he didn’t like me any more than Helena and Harry did. I must have looked taken aback because when he spoke again he was all smiles, his voice returned to its hearty, fruity tones. ‘I’m sure Nick left you the shop because he had confidence in you, thought you could make a go of it.’
‘Did you ever know a dealer called Bert Evans?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘No, but of course I haven’t seen the old man in years. I don’t know who he associated with.’
‘Well, he knew your father, had dealings with him. And he was murdered too.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You think their murders are connected?’
‘I don’t believe it’s just coincidence.’
‘Unless someone’s out there randomly picking off dodgy antiques dealers.’ He raised his glass. ‘Good luck to him, I say!’
For a moment I was too angry to speak.
‘So, you haven’t been near him for years?’ I asked when I could find my voice.
‘Guilty as charged,’ he admitted, inclining his head.
‘Well, that’s really strange,’ I told him. He looked uncertain and it was my time to smile. I leant back in my chair. ‘You don’t remember our first meeting, do you?’
He frowned, his head cocked on one side. ‘Have we met before today?’
‘Oh yes, we bumped into each other – almost literally. I was forced to drive my van into the hedge because you were coming around the bend so fast – not in the car you’re driving today, but another big, swanky job – and I warned you to slow down because of horse riders on the road.’ I could see the memory of the event slowly unfold in his mind. ‘Surely you remember?’ I prompted. ‘This was just a mile outside of the town where your father lived − just a few weeks before he was murdered.’
Richard stared at me for what seemed like a long moment, his fingers playing idly with the stem of his glass. ‘All right, Juno, it’s a fair cop,’ he breathed at last. ‘I admit I did come down to see him, to tap him for money. The firm had been experiencing cash flow problems and … well, it wasn’t the first time he’d helped me out.’
‘He gave you money?’
‘I didn’t have to kill him for it, if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve never told Helena because … well, because she and Nick never got on, not even when she was a child. She hated hi
m. If I’d told her I’d been seeing the old man on and off over the years, she’d have felt I’d betrayed her and Mum. I could do without her reproaches, and I could certainly do without Harry’s.’
‘I’m surprised that Nick should be so … amenable.’
‘I am his son. And he always thought the way to gain affection was to buy it, so why not let him carry on?’
I found his cold-bloodedness chilling; he really was a heartless bastard. ‘So, that’s why you accepted the will so calmly?’
‘Certainly, I’d already received most of my share.’ He flicked open the dessert menu that the waiter had just brought. ‘Now what do you fancy? Dark chocolate fondant with salted caramel and orange compote?’
I said words I never thought I would hear coming out of my mouth. ‘I really don’t feel like dessert.’
‘Oh, come on, Juno, don’t let me down! Let’s try and work out who really killed him. You can tell me all about these Russians, over the piña colada and coconut mousse.’
I told him all I could about Vlad and Igor, and the murder of Bert Evans, but I could see that none of them meant anything to him. He told me about the rings.
There were three of them, apparently: a small diamond cluster, a square cut emerald and a heavy gold ring set with three rubies. None of them were spectacularly valuable but they had belonged to Helena’s grandmother and had sentimental value. Richard’s mother had inadvertently left them behind when she had fled the family home, and when he was released from prison, Nick had told her the only way she was going to get them back was if she came to fetch them herself. She never had the courage, and so it was assumed Nick had kept them all this time. Helena had searched for them when she and Richard had visited the flat, but had been unable to find them.
Could they not be in a safety deposit box somewhere, I’d asked. Richard shrugged. There was no record of one. He thought it was more likely that, at some time in the past, Nick had sold them.
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