‘I’ll do what I can. Tell her to ask for me personally when she calls in.’
‘Thanks, Dave, I appreciate it.’ Castle stood up. ‘I must be getting back. I’m hoping to get a positive ID on this jewellery sometime today.’
‘Nice to see you. Drop in any time.’
As soon as Castle arrived back at Gloucester police station, DC Hill followed him into his office, brandishing a videotape. His face was pink with excitement.
‘Bingo!’ he exclaimed. He laid the video on Castle’s desk like a dog bringing a slipper to its master. ‘Guess who’s starring on that, sir!’
‘Amaze me,’ said Castle, hoping his silent guess was about to be proved correct.
‘Mr Terence Holland!’ The young officer was grinning from ear to ear. ‘They ran it through for me and there he was, paying in his five grand shortly after eleven thirty yesterday morning. No doubt about it at all.’
‘Great! Did the girl remember how the notes were done up?’
‘She sure did. Elastic bands the colour of candy floss, she said. The guy gathered them all up and took them away… said they were for his kid.’
‘Nice to know he tells the truth now and again.’ Castle went over to a steel cupboard and locked the tape away. ‘Now, if only we could get Mr Chant to admit that he had a large quantity of money in that floor safe, fastened in bundles with candy pink elastic bands, we’d be well on our way to cooking Mr Holland’s goose for him.’ As he spoke, he spotted a note under a paperweight on his desk, picked it up and read it. ‘That’s good, it seems I have an appointment with Chant this afternoon. And I’ve got something here that I think will make his day.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
Castle slid the lacquered box from its envelope and carefully opened the lid. Hill gave an appreciative whistle. ‘That some of the stuff belonging to Mrs Chant, sir? Very pretty.’
‘Very valuable too, I’d guess. Once Chant has identified it, I’ll have it checked for fingerprints. Other people will have handled it since Holland lifted it, but you never know – we might be lucky.’
‘You reckon Holland’s our man, sir?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
Castle’s spirits were further lifted by the appearance of DS Radcliffe, who entered the office waving a sheet of paper. ‘Terence Walter Holland’s got form all right, Guv!’ he exclaimed. ‘Get a load of that!’
‘Walter!’ Castle’s normal sang-froid momentarily deserted him as he snatched the print out from Radcliffe’s hand. ‘Walter Baby! Of course! So Sukey could be right – maybe Lorraine Chant did enjoy a bit of rough.’ He ran his eye down the list of convictions. ‘Armed robbery, manslaughter. On the face of it, this has got to be our man.’
‘With a string of previous going back to his schooldays,’ Radcliffe pointed out gleefully.
‘Yes, but let’s not get carried away.’ After the initial surge of excitement, Castle’s analytical brain began examining the fresh evidence for snags. ‘None of these was for a violent offence. All right, there was the bank job, but it was the other guy who hit the old man with the sawn-off shotgun, not Holland. And Walter isn’t such an uncommon name, so the presumed link with Mrs Chant could still be a coincidence. And all his previous offences were committed within a comparatively small area of London—’
‘So maybe he decided it was time to set up shop somewhere else,’ Radcliffe interposed.
Castle pursed his lips. ‘It’d be unusual. Villains like Holland don’t often stray from their own patch, where all their contacts are.’ Reading the disappointment on the sergeant’s face, he said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, Andy, I’m as certain as you are that he’s our man, but you know what the Super’s going to say – it’s still only circumstantial. Now, if I could only get Arthur Chant to admit that he’s missing a load of cash fastened with pink rubber bands …’
Seventeen
The highly successful empire of Chantertainment, comprising a string of lucrative amusement arcades throughout the Midlands, was administered from offices just off Westgate, almost literally in the shadow of the magnificent Gothic cathedral and a short walk from the central police station. Before leaving to keep his appointment with Arthur Chant, DI Castle put his head round the door of the SOCOs’ office. Sergeant George Barnes, who ran the section, was in earnest discussion on the telephone. A couple of members of his team were busy at their desks, but there was no sign of Sukey. He had been hoping to catch a word with her to try and find out, under the pretext of telling her about the discovery of the necklace, whether she had spoken to Inspector Mahony at Headquarters. Disappointed, he left the building.
After yesterday’s rain the sky had cleared, leaving behind nothing more menacing than a few scattered clouds floating like dollops of beaten egg white on a background of cobalt blue. Herring gulls from the nearby River Severn wheeled and screeched in the limpid air or regarded the human activity below them from lofty perches on roofs and chimney pots. Castle had allowed himself a quarter of an hour for a five-minute walk and for once he moved at a relaxed pace, observing more closely than usual the ancient buildings lining the narrow alleys that criss-crossed the main thoroughfares of the city. He passed under a stone arch into College Green, where he loitered for a while observing the tourists milling around outside the cathedral. Some had their noses in maps and guidebooks, others stood in clusters listening to their guides before heading for the great west door to begin their pilgrimage. Castle reflected wryly that despite having been born in Gloucester he had not been inside the splendid medieval building since leaving school. The visitors probably went home with a more up-to-date knowledge of its history than his own.
Entering the offices of Chantertainment was like stepping into a different world. The furniture in the outer office, where a pretty young receptionist with a mane of natural blonde hair sat filing her nails and reading a teen magazine, was modern and functional. In startling contrast, the inner sanctum, where Arthur Chant rose from behind an imposing mahogany desk to greet him, reminded the detective of a New Orleans room setting he remembered from a visit to the American Museum in Bath. Everything that was not made of dark, elaborately carved wood seemed to be crimson, crystal or gilt. All it needed to complete the decadent ambience was some seductive enchantress showing off her cleavage on a plush-covered couch. Chant’s study at home, which until that moment Castle would have described as lavishly furnished, was austere by comparison.
There was a subtle difference in the man himself as well. At home, he was just another prosperous businessman with an expensively appointed house in an exclusive neighbourhood, a top-of-the-market car and, until her sudden and violent death, a young and beautiful wife on whom he showered every luxury. Castle guessed that at Hazel House it had been Mrs Chant who occupied the throne with her husband the adoring slave. Here, the man was in his true element. From this room he wielded power.
After an exchange of polite greetings, it was Chant who opened the conversation by asking, ‘Do I understand that you have made some progress with your investigation, Inspector?’
‘I believe so, sir. We have recovered what we believe to be some pieces of your late wife’s missing jewellery.’ From his pocket, Castle took a transparent envelope containing the necklace and earrings and passed it across the desk.
As Chant reached out and took it, Castle saw the muscles round his jaw tighten. He laid the envelope on the desk and sat staring down at it from beneath his heavy brows, his face inscrutable. It was several seconds before he drew a deep, juddering breath and whispered shakily, ‘Yes, they were my wife’s.’
‘You are absolutely certain?’
‘Of course. I had them made especially for her – the design is unique. Let me show you something.’
Without taking his eyes from the jewellery he reached into a drawer in the desk, drew out a manila folder and handed Castle a beautifully executed drawing that showed every detail of the intricate workmanship. ‘I spent a day with one of the finest craftsm
en in Birmingham while he created it in accordance with my own ideas,’ he said. His voice had steadied, but Castle felt a surge of pity at the misery in his expression. ‘It was made for her last birthday… but she didn’t like it and I don’t believe she ever took it out of its case.’ Sadly, Chant handed the envelope back to the detective. ‘I imagine you need this as evidence, Inspector. Where did you find it?’
‘It was being worn by a lady in Cheltenham who said her husband had given it to her. Sadly, he died yesterday so we haven’t yet been able to establish where he obtained it. Enquiries are proceeding and we expect in due course to recover more items.’
‘I see.’ Mechanically, Chant took the drawing from Castle and put it away. ‘Do I take it this is your only lead so far?’
‘In our search for Mrs Chant’s killer? On the contrary, I have every reason to hope that we shall soon be in a position to make an arrest.’
‘Oh?’ Chant’s head shot up and he appeared almost startled. ‘I had no idea… do I know the man? It’s not young Holland, is it?’ The possibility appeared to cause him considerable dismay. ‘I would never have believed—’
Castle leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, fixing Chant squarely in the eye. ‘We know that our suspect has a criminal record, but the evidence against him in this case is far from complete,’ he said. ‘In fact, unless you, sir, can give me certain information, it may never be complete.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The detective sat back in his chair without taking his eyes from the other man’s face. ‘You may remember, sir, that I asked you about the money you are in the habit of keeping in your floor safe at home. You assured me at the time that there was none there on the day your wife was killed.’
Chant gave a slight nod. ‘That is correct,’ he said guardedly. He picked up a paper knife in the shape of a sword with a jewelled handle and began turning it between broad, spatulate fingers.
‘I’m asking you to think again, sir.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? That safe was empty. Why do you keep asking the same question?’
There was a touch of defiance in Chant’s manner which convinced Castle that he was not telling the truth. He leaned forward again. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘yesterday morning our suspect paid five thousand pounds in cash into his building society account.’ From his wallet, he extracted two matching pink elastic bands and dangled them in front of Chant. ‘I have reason to believe that one of these was used to secure some of the notes. The other, I took from your desk at home when I came to your house the other day. As you can see, they appear identical.’
‘And you call that evidence?’ In an instant, Chant’s demeanour had changed from that of a grieving widower readily cooperating with the police to one of blustering resentment and anger. He threw down the knife, snatched the bands from Castle’s fingers and gave them a dismissive glance before tossing them aside. ‘What do you expect to prove from a couple of scraps of pink rubber?’ he asked scornfully.
‘The colour is so distinctive that we should have no difficulty in tracing the suppliers,’ Castle explained patiently. ‘With luck, they’ll be able to identify the batch number and give us a list of the shops they sold the bands to. Then we can start tracking down the people who bought them.’ He spoke with more confidence than he felt. Still, it was amazing what a combination of science and legwork could achieve nowadays. Aloud, he continued, ‘It’ll be a long and wearisome process. It would make our task so much easier if you would—’
‘For the last time, Inspector, I have nothing more to tell you,’ Chant interrupted. He rose to his feet and walked round his desk towards the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other calls on my time.’
‘Then I won’t take up any more of it.’ Castle spoke politely, but he was careful not to appear in a hurry as, having replaced the bands in his wallet, he stowed it carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to say before I leave, sir.’
‘Well?’
Chant’s attitude as he stood gripping the door handle with one powerful hand was belligerent, even intimidating, yet Castle was convinced that beneath it he was on the defensive. ‘If we can establish a link between this man and the stolen jewellery,’ he said, ‘it should give us sufficient evidence to charge him with theft, but not necessarily to be confident of securing a conviction for murder.’
‘So go out and get hold of some more evidence.’
‘That’s exactly what I intend to do, sir.’ As if that was the end of the matter, Castle got up to leave. As Chant made to open the door, the detective put out a hand and leaned his weight against it, holding it shut. ‘I’d like to ask you a hypothetical question,’ he said.
Chant scowled and made a show of consulting his heavy gold watch. ‘Ten seconds,’ he said curtly.
Keeping his tone casual and his voice deliberately low to avoid being overheard by anyone in the outer office, Castle said, ‘What would your advice be to someone who claimed that withholding information from the Inland Revenue was worth the risk – if the stakes were high enough?’
Chant’s face reddened and he thrust out his jaw. ‘What the hell are you insinuating?’ he demanded.
‘I’m insinuating nothing. As I said, it was a hypothetical question. And here’s another one. If, as a result of insufficient evidence, your wife’s killer were to go free, possibly to strike again, would you consider that possibility a risk worth taking?’ Castle waited for a response, but none came. ‘Think about it, sir,’ he said softly.
He took his hand from the door and Chant wrenched it open, his expression was savage. ‘Kindly get out of my office this minute!’ he ordered, in a voice so thick with emotion as to be unrecognisable.
‘Good day, Mr Chant, and thank you for your time,’ replied Castle politely. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’ As he strode towards the exit, Chant’s door slammed behind him. The young receptionist, startled, looked up from her magazine and stared first in the direction of her employer’s office and then at the policeman. Their eyes met in a fleeting glance of compassion at the muffled, but unmistakable, sound of a strong man weeping.
Back at the police station, Castle went straight to the SOCOs’ office. His spirits lifted when he found Sukey there on her own. She looked less tired and more alert, but at the same time more relaxed, than he remembered from the previous evening. ‘How did it go this morning?’ he asked.
‘OK, I think,’ she said, ‘but guess what! Mr Bayliss was found dead in his sauna yesterday evening… or perhaps you already know?’ she added as her eye fell on the contents of the transparent envelope Castle laid on her desk.
‘Yes, I know. I got that from the sorrowing widow this morning,’ he said. He had not been entirely convinced by Barbie Bayliss’s show of grief and realised from the sharp look Sukey gave him that his tone must have betrayed his misgivings. ‘Maybe I’m being callous, but I noticed that when she started sniffling into a handkerchief there were no actual tears,’ he explained. ‘And I’m pretty sure you were right about the bruises.’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘No, she was being comforted by a chap called Lovett from her husband’s office. He was very protective, but I suppose there’s nothing remarkable in that. By the way, when you gave your statement to Inspector Mahony, did he say if they’d checked on the intruder?’
‘They sent someone round this morning – that was when they found out about Bayliss having died. Mrs Bayliss was quite adamant that nothing had been disturbed and she wanted the whole thing dropped.’
Castle frowned and shook his head. ‘Mahony won’t agree to that. He’s more likely to apply for permission to have the house searched for drugs.’
‘You think she’s deliberately shielding someone?’
‘It looks like it. That fellow Lovett – he behaved perfectly properly and I certainly didn’t notice anything suspicious in his manner to Mrs Bayliss, but you never know, do you?’
‘It wouldn’t be surprising in a way if Mrs Bayliss had found a lover. Even with all that luxury, life with Hugo can’t have been a bed of roses.’
‘It could hardly account for such a violent attack on you. I’d love to know what was in that bag that it was so important you shouldn’t see.’ Castle’s brain began probing for possible explanations. Then he told himself it wasn’t his case and it was up to Mahony and his team to decide what action, if any, they should take. He switched his mind back to the job in hand.
‘See what you can get off that in the way of prints,’ he said, indicating the necklace. ‘Here’s the box Mrs Bayliss kept it in. You’d better take the prints off that as well, for comparison with any on the necklace. You’re unlikely to find the victim’s. Chant said his wife didn’t like it and never wore it.’
‘She must have been hard to please,’ Sukey sighed. There was a wistful look on her face as her fingers caressed the finely wrought piece through the protective film.
‘He had it designed and made especially for her, but she turned her nose up at it.’
‘Poor chap – he must have been hurt.’
‘I felt sorry for him too, until I tackled him about the money he kept in the safe. He turned into a real hard case then. He knows the Revenue would tear him apart if they suspected there was anything dodgy about his accounting system. I suppose the way he sees it, nothing can bring his wife back, but if as a result of admitting the loss of all that money it came to light he’s been filing false returns, he could end up in big trouble – a possible prison sentence, loss of his business, you name it.’
‘So he’s prepared to let his wife’s killer get away with it?’ Sukey’s mobile features registered disgust at such a callous attitude.
Castle shrugged. ‘That’s your big tycoon for you,’ he said morosely, ‘and unless we’re lucky enough to find Holland’s prints on that little trinket, it’s quite likely he will get away with it.’ He turned to go just as Sergeant Barnes came into the room. ‘Ah, just the man I want. I’ve turned up some more evidence in the Chant murder inquiry and I’d be obliged if you’d give it priority.’
Death at Hazel House Page 17