The Time and the Place

by Jane Renshaw

  Separation anxiety.

  Permanent damage had been done to this boy, she suspected, long before the accident and its aftermath. Invisible damage, for the most part, because he was lucky enough to have the sort of resilience which, she suspected, you were either born with or not. She recognised that in him because she had it herself, to a degree – although it was currently being tested to the limit. If she lost her career, she would be knocked sideways but she’d pick herself up. She’d survive.

  As he had survived far worse.

  But all this afternoon and evening, when she’d wanted to talk to Hector, she couldn’t because Damian had been with him. Even when he’d gone out to the well for more water, Damian had gone too, and she’d watched him labouring along in the snow, limping heavily, and Hector had transferred both buckets to one hand so he could put a casual arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  Damian himself never initiated physical contact, she’d realised then. Not even with his brother, who was like some sort of social animal, a meerkat or a lion or a wolf, the alpha male butting heads or noses with its pack members at every opportunity.

  They were both socially adept, of course, all easy charm and friendly chat, but underneath there was a reserve in Damian, a holding back. It was a difficult enough time, this transition from child to adult, and she wondered just how difficult it was proving for this boy who had learned, too early, that trusting the people he was supposed to trust wasn’t a great idea.

  But Hector would help him through it, as he’d helped him through all the rest.

  If he remained at liberty to do so.

  Hector had turned to Gavin and was now talking about what strategy to use with Campbell Stewart; what Gavin should say when questioned. And before long, Damian couldn’t resist putting his oar in.

  ‘Obviously, everyone should deny all knowledge of Claire’s movements.’

  Hector nodded, as if this hadn’t occurred to him.

  Whatever Hector’s relationship had been with his father, he could never, ever, have caused an accident that would have endangered this boy. There was just no way. And Hector was nothing if not meticulous – he was bound to have factored in the possibility that Damian might be in the car.

  When they’d finished the meal and washed up, and Damian was, finally, asleep in the parlour, into which Hector and Gavin had lugged mattresses from the iceboxes that were the upstairs bedrooms, she sat on the stairs nursing a cup of cocoa with UHT milk.

  Hector, suddenly, was standing in front of her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine and dandy.’

  He raised his eyebrows, his mouth just twitching in that annoying almost-smile of his.

  He was a classic risk-taker. An adrenaline junkie. They weren’t always the most careful or considered of people, were they? Maybe he hadn’t factored in the possibility of Damian’s presence in the car.

  Why was she obsessing about this ancient history, when there were so many more pressing issues she should be addressing?

  Because it went to the heart of it. The heart of who he was.

  What man art thou?

  If she could work that out, everything else would fall into place.

  ‘Campbell Stewart,’ she said. ‘He thinks you had something to do with your father’s death.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ she found herself saying.

  ‘Do you?’

  She was suddenly very aware of the small sounds she could hear – Gavin in the kitchen, clinking crockery; a creak from somewhere; the wind in a chimney, sighing.

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ she could only repeat. ‘You didn’t kill your own father.’

  ‘Not personally, no.’ It was almost as if he was speaking to himself.

  She stood; grabbed his arm. ‘I know you wouldn’t have killed him, and you wouldn’t have arranged to have him killed or had anything at all to do with it, so why are you suggesting that you did?’

  ‘You know all that, do you?’

  She flung his arm aside. ‘God! Why hasn’t anyone killed you?’

  ‘A very good question.’

  And her breath caught in her throat at the note in his voice. But she couldn’t read his expression – and he stepped away from her, putting physical distance between them.

  ‘Hector –’

  There was something here. Something...

  ‘Whatever happened,’ he said, ‘is hardly of any relevance now.’

  ‘But do you know –’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do about it,’ he said, wearily. ‘It’s been a hell of a long day, and it’s time we all got some kip. You’ll be pleased to hear you have the box bed to yourself tonight. I’ll bank up the fire and fill a piggie for you, but it’s not that cold out there and the house has warmed up anyhow – you should be fine.’

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ she sighed.

  46

  Hector kicked off his skis and propped them against the trunk of a huge beech tree. Claire did the same. They were at the edge of a wood on a little rise overlooking Aucharblet. Although it was ten o’clock in the morning it was a dull, grey day, and the castle was blazing with light.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s another secret passage?’

  ‘No, but when we were kids, Perdita used to sneak out though the pantry window. It had a dodgy lock. Hopefully still might. There’s a handy hedge alongside that part of the building.’

  ‘Okay, in the unlikely event that we manage to get inside without being spotted – There may well be a police presence in the house.’

  ‘Every silver lining has a cloud with you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, you’re getting off lightly, believe me.’

  The head-high hedge bounded a lawn outside the kitchen with a washing line and a paved area for the wheelie bins. They crept along close to it. Hector indicated a window to their right.

  ‘That’s too small,’ Claire hissed.

  ‘Perdita always managed it.’

  ‘Perdita’s a size six at the most.’

  Hector pushed at the sash and the window flew up. He put his hands on either side of it, assessing the space. Then he unzipped his jacket and tossed it under the hedge, followed by his fleece, jumper and shirt. There was a long white line running down his side, as if he’d been raked there by a knife; another old scar under a shoulder blade. When she’d asked him about them, that night in Pond Cottage, he hadn’t satisfied her curiosity, saying only that they had already established that he was the type to run with scissors. She averted her eyes now from the leanly muscled torso.

  He scooped up handfuls of snow and rubbed himself down with it. ‘Detaching Karen from that gate springs to mind.’

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to follow suit.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You could always wait here.’

  ‘No way.’ She needed to hear what Perdita had to say.

  She managed, by dint of a lot of wriggling and Hector hauling on her arms from inside, to get through the window, having divested herself of everything except her thermal underwear. Once through, she pulled the trousers and T-shirt back on.

  ‘My shirt’s out there,’ said Hector.

  ‘Well I’m not going back for it.’ She looked at him. ‘Gratuitous nudity.’

  He put his hands over his nipples, blinking in mock modesty, and she turned away to hide a smile.

  And found herself looking straight into Magdalena’s sharp eyes.

  The Polish woman opened her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Hector got in before she could speak, his voice low and serious, all the hilarity suddenly dropped away. ‘I need to speak to Perdita. I need her help. The police think I killed Max Weber.’ He fixed Magdalena with a steady gaze. ‘I’ve been set up.’

  It was such a ludicrous situation – a half-naked man, a Polish housekeeper and a rogue UC standing there amongst the boxes of cornflakes and tins of sweetcorn. But laughter was evidently the furthest thing from Magdalena’s m
ind. She stood foursquare in the doorway, glaring at Hector.

  ‘You did not kill him,’ she said at last. It was not a question. ‘I know this,’ she added.

  Claire pounced. ‘Do you know who did kill him?’

  A shrug. ‘No.’ As if this was a minor detail. ‘But I know that Mr Forbes did not.’ Because, evidently, Mr Forbes could do no wrong. ‘I will bring Perdita.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When she’d gone, Claire released the breath she’d been holding and sat down abruptly on a kick stool. Hector examined the shelves and selected a packet of ginger snaps. He opened it and offered it to Claire.

  ‘How can you think about food?’

  ‘Never a problem.’

  She watched him eat one, hand cupped under his mouth to catch the crumbs. And the thought slammed into her head that that small gesture, that unthinking thoughtfulness, if there was such a thing, that automatic consideration of the people who had to clean the floor said it all about Hector. It said everything she needed to know.

  Although he was pinching someone else’s ginger snaps.

  ‘Were you and the Twat... “business” associates?’

  He swallowed the last of the biscuit and threw the crumbs out of the window. ‘God, no.’ As he turned to her there was a twist to his mouth, a look in his eyes, so fleeting it was gone almost before she had marked it –

  He hates it.

  He hates doing what he does.

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why do you do it?’

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. For a long moment they contemplated each other, standing there in that frigid little room that smelt faintly of custard powder.

  Then he shook his head.

  But she never knew what he was about to say, if he was about to say anything, because before he could do so the door came open and Perdita was exploding into the room.

  ‘Oh – my – God!’ she wailed, flinging herself into Hector’s arms.

  She was wearing a grey woollen dress that might have been suitable mourning attire were it not for the fact that the hem finished just under her bum, exposing long elegant legs in black tights and heels. The grieving fiancée. Max Weber had been dead less than forty-eight hours and here she was, pressing her heaving bosom to the naked torso of the nearest eligible male.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hector.

  ‘I know you had nothing to do with it!’ Perdita gulped, finally detaching herself and finding a tissue in her pocket. ‘But what were you doing at Drumdargie? That awful policeman said you were there, you were moving Max’s body when they... You’re all over the news, you know – you’re “aristocrat wanted for questioning in connection with murder of German art dealer”.’

  ‘It’s a little hard to explain,’ Hector began.

  ‘Oh, you can tell me later! The important thing is you have to leave right now! The police are here – an awful woman with no social graces. She’s talking to Mummy, getting her statement. Poor Mummy wasn’t able to give it yesterday, she was too upset.’

  ‘Melissa Gardiner?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Perdita was the type for whom the oiks didn’t really register. She hadn’t looked at Claire once. ‘God, I’m so glad you’re all right! I’ve been worried out of my mind!’

  ‘The CCTV at Drumdargie,’ he said. ‘The power was shut off, but do the cameras have back-up batteries and onboard storage on SD cards?’

  Finally, Perdita let him go. ‘Yes, but apparently the SD cards were removed – so there’s no footage of... of...’ She put a hand to her mouth, and Hector put his arm around her. She turned her face back to his naked chest.

  ‘The fuse box is in the cellars,’ Hector muttered over Perdita’s head. ‘But it’s one of those systems that can be controlled remotely, so presumably whoever killed the – Max cut the electricity before getting anywhere near the place, in order to disable the CCTV.’

  ‘They must have had access to the app that controlled it, then.’

  Hector nodded.

  ‘And they removed the stored footage.’

  ‘They’ve certainly thought it through.’ He took Perdita by the shoulders and eased her away from him. ‘The hidden room,’ he said.

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Have the police been in there? Do they know about it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you knew about it... I mean, those stories about Black John and the secret torture chamber – no one actually believed them, did they? Daddy wasn’t even aware it existed until the men found it when they were doing the renovations.’

  ‘What did they find inside, just out of interest?’

  Perdita shrugged. ‘No thumbscrews or racks or skeletons chained to the walls... Just some old oak boxes. Empty. But Max didn’t want us telling anyone about it, not even Ferg, so he could use it for his art collection. He’s got a secure space for it in the London house, but while that was being extended, he moved it all up here and into the secret room. The tradesmen he used for the renovations were all from London, and he made them sign a confidentiality agreement to stop them blabbing about the secret room.’

  Claire looked at Hector, but he was avoiding her eye.

  ‘Is there a camera in there?’ he asked Perdita.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not connected to the others. It’s a motion-detector one operated by battery.’

  ‘With onboard storage?’

  She nodded. ‘Max didn’t trust the security company’s cloud with the footage. He didn’t trust anyone with it except himself.’

  Because what he had in there was dodgy. Of course it was.

  ‘Where’s the camera?’ said Hector. So this was why he had needed to speak to Perdita so urgently. He knew there must be a camera in there, in the secret room, one with onboard storage. He had probably been looking for it when Claire had turned up.

  ‘It’s hidden in the frame of a picture,’ said Perdita. ‘A big landscape. Max showed me – or rather, I saw him changing the battery once, in London. Should I tell the police about it? Do you think whoever... Do you think they might have been in there? Stealing his art collection? Oh God, Hector –’

  ‘Unlikely. Don’t mention it to the police for now. Actually, it’s quite important that you don’t, Perdie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’ Claire asked her.

  At first she thought the woman was going to ignore her, but then she sighed and said, ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! I don’t know anyone who could have done this! God!’

  She was lying. Claire was sure of it.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Hector, rubbing her arm. ‘Perdie, can I ask you for a favour? Two favours, in fact? Can we borrow one of your vehicles? And a tablet?’

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Wilkins,’ said Karen, setting him on her palm so she could look into his face. ‘Get out through that hole and unbolt the door.’

  Wilkins looked back at her with his little worried face.

  ‘We need to get out of here.’

  She was losing it.

  She pressed him against her fleece as the tears came.

  47

  Gavin Jenkins shook his head, and went on shaking it. No question – the Boss could be scary as hell, but he was a teddy bear in comparison with this bugger. Given the choice of incurring the wrath of one or the other, he knew which he would choose. But:

  ‘Not an option,’ he said firmly.

  Damian said nothing. He just stood there, arms folded, leaning back against the kitchen worktop in Mick and Chris’s flat. The House itself was full of cops and none of them were allowed in there.

  Chris McClusky cleared his throat. ‘The Boss –’

  ‘– isn’t here,’ said Damian. ‘And I really don’t see the problem.’ He waved a hand at the screen of Gavin’s notepad, where the footage they’d found on the USB stick was frozen. ‘Campbell Stewart’s no doubt going to look at
it at some point, and maybe he’ll see what we can’t. In the meantime –the Kinty hippies are claiming that Karen isn’t there, but Bill and Christine don’t believe them. I’m going to Kinty to get her, if I have to drag her out of there by the ears of her rabbit onesie. Ideally I’d also like to search the place.’

  Gavin sighed. ‘The police need to search Kinty. Chain of custody and all that.’

  ‘They should. But will they?’

  Yesterday, he and Damian had returned to the House to find that Campbell Stewart was treating the place like a crime scene – cops and SOCOs everywhere. Damian, characteristically, had accepted the situation with no obvious emotion, requesting only that he be allowed to pack a bag and collect his crutches, ‘if that’s permissible?’ The DCI had sneered: ‘Oh, here we go. Cue written complaint to the Professional Standards Department and the COPFS. You –’ He pointed at the female uniformed cop guarding the front door ‘ – are a witness to the fact that I am in no way preventing this – individual from accessing anything he claims to require from the property in the way of “disability” aids.’

  The female cop had opened her mouth to say something, but evidently thought better of it.

  ‘Go with him, then,’ Stewart had snapped at her.

  Damian had kipped at Gavin’s place, and in the morning had managed to blag his way back into the House, before Stewart had arrived, claiming he needed a book from the library for his English revision. It had been the same female cop at the door, and in ten minutes Damian was back with Far From the Madding Crowd and the USB stick concealed inside it, containing a single file: kinty.mov.

  They’d watched the footage on Gavin’s notepad.

  It had been shot through a window. By Chimp himself, presumably.

  ‘The kitchen at Kinty,’ said Damian. ‘And that’s Perdita Jarvie.’

  One of the Boss’s exes.

  Four baggies of orange pills on the table. One of the Kinty hippies picking up a baggie, tossing it from hand to hand. Perdita snatching it from him, throwing a bundle of notes on the table.

  And that was it.

  Forty seconds’ worth.

  ‘So they’re supplying Perdita with drugs of some sort,’ Damian had said, playing it back for the third time. ‘But why would Chimp go to such lengths to obtain evidence of a drugs offence and then conceal it, while making sure Hector knew about it, without quite knowing about it? It doesn’t make sense. There must be something on here that we’re missing.’