What they also knew was that the Lincolnshire force’s background enquiries had discovered that Edgar Turnbull’s first wife had also been a patient at the Woodlands. As Desmond had said, in life, she had been an extremely talented artist. What he hadn’t known, was that her death was certified as due to heart failure two weeks after her admission to the Woodlands.
All in all, Edgar Turnbull has an awful lot of questions to answer, Calderwood thought grimly, as he tuned back into the general conversation.
‘Yes, The Dolphin’s going to take some time to sort out,’ Gwilym was saying. ‘It appears that Gerald DeLancy still owns it, through some company in Switzerland, so heaven knows what’ll happen with it.’
‘A wily piece of work,’ Helen had said earlier to Calderwood, when they were briefly alone. ‘He’s trying to cut a deal. He’ll tell us where the laboratory is in exchange for a lighter sentence, in an open prison.’
‘Will he get it?’ Calderwood had asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
‘Not a cat in hell’s chance,’ she responded. ‘He’s playing for time, though. Within hours of us getting him back to London he started complaining of chest pains, dizziness and shortness of breath; quite convincingly too!’
‘Could it be genuine?’
‘Quite possibly. He’s ninety, after all, and physically very feeble. But,’ she continued, ‘as he is indeed an addict, as became very clear on the drive back, he’s much more dependent on us than he yet fully realises, despite our providing the drugs he wants. We’re content to play things slowly for now. He’s in hospital and is being carefully screened, so there’s no danger of him contacting anyone. Other than a solicitor, of course, one who’s on our list of “safe men”.’
‘I imagine you’re scouring the area for the... premises?’
‘Oh yes. We think they must be quite near the theatre and we’re working through old plans, photographs etc., trying to narrow things down. We’ve made a lot of progress, actually. Best-case scenario is that we find it, but, now we have Mr Renick, we could live with it never being found, of course. For the provincial proprietor of a not very large theatre, he’d certainly acquired some very international contacts,’ she added, drily.
Calderwood nodded. ‘He most certainly had,’ he agreed, equally drily, recalling how John and Cerian, after brainstorming the impossibility of so many men disappearing so completely, had hit upon a possible explanation. After a lot of digging, they found their hunch was correct. Gerald’s council friends had been suspected of far more than they’d ever been convicted of in the UK. Years after their release and move to Spain, the duo had been arrested again, having been found to be using mobile gangs of men – all illegal immigrants in whatever country they were sent to – for all sorts of criminal activities across Europe. Crucially, none could speak the language of the country they worked in. Calderwood had little doubt that the funny talking men the two young women had seen, were, indeed, from the continent and were quite probably Spanish. Almost certainly, they’d been got out of Britain immediately afterwards. It was a clever set-up, he thought, effectively closing off any route back to the masterminds themselves.
‘A very clever man, is Gerald DeLancy. It’s a shame his abilities were used so viciously. The same goes for his son. They’re a very nasty pair,’ he remarked, sombrely. ‘I’m just glad that we collared them both – and that’s earned us all a drink, I think!’ he added with a smile.
‘Yes, indeed; a well-earned one, I’d say!’ Helen paused, and then asked quietly. ‘I assume you don’t plan to talk to the people who might be involved in your new set-up, tonight; have you any idea when you will?’
‘I’m not sure yet, to be honest. I’m still mulling over what your Mr Adams, said.
‘My Mr Adams?’ she queried, smiling.
Calderwood, beyond giving her a small, rueful smile in return, didn’t reply. His mind went back to the unexpected, and unwelcome call he’d received two days previously; a call which, in one way or another, would drastically affect, more than one of the evenings guests.
‘I’ll have to do it in the next few days, obviously; but it’s going to be very complicated and, I suspect, not wholly welcome to everyone, so tonight, I just want to relax,’ he smiled.
Helen nodded, returning his smile, as they re-joined the rest of the party, each glad the other was there.
*
Tears were not Elena Kujenikov’s normal way of dealing with things. Her disciplined upbringing, the outcome of centuries of ancestors who stoically bore whatever life hurled at them, ensured that they’d played little part in her life; until now.
But now, as she sat alone in the dark of her sitting room and watched her daughter mesmerise and enchant, as she performed the brilliant dances created and choreographed by her equally talented and long dead lover, they were the only thing that helped, and then, not very much.
‘Was Daniel actually your lover, my darling?’ she murmured. ‘Oh, I do hope so! I do hope that, for however briefly, you knew the joys of being a woman in the arms of the man you loved. You can rest now my darling,’ she murmured, as the disc came to an end; ‘you can rest. My penance is that I can’t.’
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Author’s Note – Thanks
No published novel is the work of one person and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank, yet again, Freda Glanville, Jan McLardy and Nick Elliott. They, with their care and reading skills, ensure that when I send off the finished work to be read by the equally eagle-eyed, and even more professional editors at Endeavour Publishing, it is as free from errors as possible.
Their input was particularly valuable with this novel, where the complexities of the plot meant I was in more in need than ever of alert eyes to help correct any weaknesses in either the novel’s structure or the plot-line itself. These they provided and they gave me numerous comments and suggestions – which, very sensibly, I took up! Hopefully, between us, we’ve managed to produce a story that’s intriguing, entertaining and above all, enjoyable.
Should any other writer be interested in similar assistance, Nick can be contacted on [email protected]
Anthony Litton
Suffolk
September 2016
Death of a Dancer Page 24