by James Hazel
‘My, my,’ Mrs White had remarked as the barman had pushed a cocktail in Li’s direction. ‘What a beautiful outfit.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me, dear, are you one of the students or a very young lecturer?’
Mrs White was used to getting what she wanted. And what she wanted was Li. In turn, Li had discovered that she was the sort of girl who, for five hundred pounds a time, was quite happy to let the odd forty-something businessman come on her tits. And for that sort of money, it didn’t have to be every night, not even every week. Just as long as whenever Mrs White rang her to say she had a client – ‘this one’s a lovely chap, dear. He’s sixty-two and probably can’t even get an erection but if you let him finger you he’ll pay double’ – Li made herself available.
‘You’ve always been one of my best girls, Li,’ Mrs White had once said to her with a wry smile. ‘It’s that Oriental look, and the freckles. Drives the poor sods wild. If you had three vaginas and could hold your breath for an hour I wouldn’t need anyone else!’
Li smiled as she walked back up the stairs to Georgie’s room. She was surprised Georgie had given her the key. Where was she off to in such a hurry this evening? Perhaps she was giving it to that dishy boss of hers. Li had seen the way that red rash had spread across Georgie’s face when he had showed up at the bar the other night – and why not? He was very handsome and, judging by the size of his arms, it looked like he spent a lot of time in the gym.
‘Good for her,’ Li said to herself as she unlocked Georgie’s door.
The room smelt of Georgie. Not an unpleasant smell but a human smell. Not like Li’s room, or Mira’s, which smelt like a nail bar. There was a laptop in the corner but Li wasn’t here to snoop around. She needed a hairdryer, genuinely. But she would walk slowly to get it – there was no rush.
There were four shelves of books. Li recognised most of them from their university days. Some of them were even hers – gifts that Georgie had eagerly accepted after Li had decided that soliciting paid better than solicitors. Multiple subjects, no apparent specialism. But then again, Li knew the only brain with more capacity for knowledge than hers was Georgie’s.
There was no shrine to Martin. That was a shame. Not that Li got off on watching someone pine, but she had hoped at least for a clump of his hair, a few nail clippings, maybe the odd sock. So Georgie’s weirdness did have a limit.
There was some post discarded on the side. Three letters – two obvious circulars and something else.
You’re here for the hairdryer, girl. But Li was already feeling the crinkles of the envelopes. Is that an Avon invoice? Does she use Avon? Really? How old is she, fifty?
Something else, too. An envelope with Georgie’s name and address printed on it in faded blue ink, but no postmark. Someone must have shoved it in the pigeonholes at the entrance to the building. Intrigued, Li studied the envelope further. There was something inside, something lumpy. One end of the sealed lip was riding up, the adhesive not sticking all the way across. Li shook the envelope and a little more of the lip detached from the waxy strip.
Something fell out and on to the table.
Li frowned. She didn’t pick up what fell out. She put the envelope down in disgust. Why the hell has someone sent Georgie a dead insect?
30
The Dower House fulfilled every part of Priest’s expectations to the point where it was disappointing. The driveway meandered through clusters of dormant trees, curving sharply for no reason other than to ensure the front of the house wasn’t visible from the road. White pillars stood either side of an oak door intricately carved with leaves and intertwining vines. The pediment bore a red-and-blue shield above the entrance – presumably the family crest. The house was early Georgian. Rows of white-framed sash windows punctuated the red brickwork giving the impression that there were more rooms than there actually were.
The rain had let up but Priest pulled his jacket tightly around himself as they trudged across the gravel to the front door. As they approached the steps Jessica turned to him, her hair partially covering her face, making it difficult for him to read her expression.
‘I should warn you,’ she said gravely. ‘My sister’s back from the States. She came as soon as she got the news about Miles.’
‘Why must I be warned about this?’
Jessica coughed and shivered in the cold before taking hold of the handle and pushing the front door open. The warm rush of air that met them was welcoming. She turned to him and they went in. ‘She’s a corporate lawyer advising American businesses on UK law. She’s a handful.’
A few moments later, Priest stood in a spacious kitchen, gleaming with new appliances. There was a farmhouse feel to it but, on closer inspection, the rustic finish was an expensive imitation.
‘You could have called earlier.’ A tall, frail-looking woman rose from the kitchen table. She kissed Jessica on both cheeks. For Priest, she offered a curt nod of the head before averting her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy, there wasn’t time. May I present –’
‘I know who this is, Jessica. Tea, Mr Priest?’
Priest accepted the cup she poured and shuffled his weight uncomfortably. Grief hung in the air. He had no right to be here. This family was in mourning.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs Ellinder,’ he offered. ‘I know this is a difficult time for you.’
‘Lucia, please,’ she replied dully.
He opened his mouth, not sure what combination of words would emerge, but any potential embarrassment was prevented by the arrival of Kenneth Ellinder.
‘Jessie!’ The old man embraced his daughter momentarily. ‘How wonderful. And Mr Priest, too. You are both very welcome.’
‘We wanted to update you, Daddy.’
‘Of course, of course. But it is late and you must be starving. Will you join us for dinner, Mr Priest?’
It was the last thing in the world that Priest wanted right now. He felt as if he was drowning. Overwhelmed by a sick feeling of helplessness, desperate to claw his way to the surface. But Jessica looked tired and her father was paying his bill, and so he relented. As Kenneth Ellinder led him through a set of double doors, Priest caught Lucia Ellinder’s eye. Her look made something clear: He wasn’t welcome here.
*
The dining room was dimly lit but even in the gloom Priest could make out a dozen or so sets of eyes bearing down on him – various dead members of the Ellinder family, immortalised with varying degrees of merit, on canvas.
‘This is a ninety-three,’ Kenneth explained as he peered at the bottle of wine. ‘The ninety-five is arguably superior but I cannot trace a single drop of it in the cellar.’ He poured a crimson liquid into Priest’s glass.
‘Thank you. I wouldn’t know the difference anyway,’ Priest admitted.
Priest felt movement from somewhere behind before the seat next to him was very gracefully taken.
‘You’re late, Scarlett,’ Kenneth observed, although he didn’t appear to be too annoyed.
‘Sorry, Daddy.’
Scarlett Ellinder was a few years younger than Jessica. Like her mother, she was tall and elegant with striking brown eyes. She moved with extraordinary precision – as if every manoeuvre was pre-planned. She also had her mother’s looks, and her sharp features, more so than Jessica in many ways. But Scarlett lacked the hardness that Jessica and her mother exuded. Her eyes were bright and playful, her smile genuine – the way she rested her hands on the table and leant forwards suggested she might have more of an intuitive understanding of people than her older sister.
‘You must be Charlie Priest,’ Scarlett said, offering her hand.
‘And you must be Scarlett.’ Priest returned the smile. He felt Jessica’s scowl burning into the back of his head. He noticed the sisters didn’t appear to acknowledge each other.
‘May I say, Mr Priest,’ said Kenneth Ellinder, pouring Scarlett a glass of wine, ‘how pleased I am that you finally agreed to accept our instruc
tions in the matter of Miles’s death.’
‘Your daughter is most persuasive, Mr Ellinder,’ replied Priest.
‘The matter of Miles’s murder, Daddy,’ said Jessica quietly. ‘Not his death.’
‘And so, please do not prolong an old man’s woe any longer. What progress has been made?’ Kenneth asked, ignoring Jessica’s remark.
Priest considered his reply. What progress had been made? He flashed a look at Jessica. Kenneth Ellinder still didn’t know that Miles had visited Priest the night before his murder. How much did Jessica want her father to know?
‘It’s too early to say,’ said Priest carefully. ‘I have several leads, but . . .’
‘Give them a chance, Daddy,’ said Scarlett. ‘It’s quite unreasonable for you to demand a progress report about an investigation at such an early stage. Let’s be realistic. It could be years before we know what really happened to Miles.’
Scarlett looked at Priest and smiled again. He nodded in gratitude.
‘The Attorney General is dead, Daddy,’ Jessica announced.
Kenneth bowed his head. ‘I am aware. Very sad. But what has that to do with –’
‘Did you know Sir Philip, Mr Ellinder?’ Priest interrupted.
‘I did, as did your father of course, although he perhaps knew Wren better than I did. Philip Wren was an honourable man. I gather he was under considerable stress, although I had no idea the burden was great enough to result in him taking his own life.’
‘I don’t think Philip Wren killed himself.’ Priest took another sip – the wine tasted of almost nothing to him.
Ellinder frowned. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that. Philip Wren’s death was not suicide.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Scarlett, leaning forward, holding his gaze.
‘We were there, Scarlett,’ said Jessica in a warning tone.
‘The police –’ Ellinder began.
‘Are being led by Detective Inspector McEwen,’ Priest interjected.
Ellinder hit the table with his fist. ‘That man is an incompetent buffoon! Why on earth is he involved with Philip Wren’s death? He should be finding out what happened to my son!’
‘Moreover,’ Priest added, ‘there is another connection between what happened to Miles and Sir Philip’s death.’
‘Surely not!’ Kenneth exclaimed.
At the end of the table, Lucia Ellinder shuffled in her seat and let out a groan.
‘Sir Philip has a daughter called Hayley,’ Priest continued. ‘She seems to be missing, driven away in an unknown car several nights ago. We have just returned from Cambridge in an effort to trace her.’
Ellinder narrowed his eyes. ‘And this is connected to Miles because . . .?’
‘In Cambridge, we made contact with a reverend in Hayley’s church. Prior to her disappearance, Hayley had been sent a dead insect in the post. The same sort of insect that was found lodged in Miles’s throat. A mayfly.’
Kenneth Ellinder placed his wine glass carefully back down on the table. Priest could feel disapproving eyes on him, both living and dead.
‘Does this mean anything to you, Mr Ellinder?’
The old man sat grimly for a moment, rubbing his fingers up and down the wine glass. Priest held his breath.
‘No,’ he said in the end. ‘It means nothing to me.’
There was silence for a while until Lucia pushed her chair back violently, upturning her glass and spilling wine across the table.
‘I’m sorry!’ she declared. ‘I cannot stand this.’
She swept away from the table. Her husband rose to his feet but she was out of the door before he could do anything to stop her.
‘Lucia!’ Ellinder called after her.
Priest heard the sound of a door slamming shut.
31
In the taxi Georgie had worked out what she was going to say when she knocked on the Wrens’ door, but now, standing at the top of the driveway with a policeman approaching, her plan didn’t seem all that great. The plan involves lying. I’m really no good at lying . . .
‘Can I help, madam?’ asked the policeman, positioning himself between her and the house.
‘Yes,’ Georgie replied.
There was a moment’s silence; then the policeman shrugged.
‘And?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Georgie could sense her face flush. Even in the bitter cold she was starting to feel hot. ‘I should have said. I’m from Pipes and Cooper. The funeral directors?’
The policeman looked her up and down suspiciously and said, ‘You don’t look like you’re from the funeral directors.’
Georgie hesitated. ‘I’m an apprentice,’ she tried.
This seemed to strike a chord with the policeman, who scratched his beard and led her up to the front door. He rang the bell.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Got to be careful nowadays. You’d be surprised at the number of news reporters who say they’re one thing just to get a good story.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Georgie.
A few moments later, the door opened and a stern-looking face appeared. Georgie smiled as pleasantly as she could.
‘This lady is from Pipes and Cooper,’ the policeman explained. The face didn’t flinch, or respond. ‘The funeral directors.’
‘Not due for another week,’ retorted the face jutting out from the side of the door. Georgie was starting to feel her confidence melt away. The policeman shot her an accusing look. I did say I was bad at lying.
‘Lady Wren asked us to come early,’ Georgie offered. It was her last roll of the dice and from the sour look, it hadn’t scored high. Georgie was just wondering whether she could outrun the policeman when she heard a voice from somewhere inside.
‘It’s all right, Sissy. Let her in.’
*
Georgie understood loss. She remembered how her house had felt when it was permeated with the grief of her father’s death. How still everything was. How it seemed as if everything was made from ash, ready to crumble at the slightest breeze. This was how the room felt in which she found Terri Wren hunched up in a leather armchair, a woollen blanket trailed over her knee.
Sissy scowled as she ushered Georgie through and sat her down. She was a stern-looking woman in her late fifties with the air of a strict schoolteacher about her. She introduced herself as Terri’s sister.
‘Shall I stay?’ asked Sissy, casting Georgie a disapproving look.
Terri was looking apprehensively out of the window, as if she had seen something approaching. Or someone, perhaps. Sissy coughed and Terri looked up, straight through Georgie.
‘No, Sissy. Thank you.’
Sissy nodded but made a point of whispering in Georgie’s ear before withdrawing from the room. ‘Five minutes, dear. No more.’
Georgie crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to wriggle into a comfy position on the sofa. ‘I’m grateful for you agreeing to speak to me, Lady Wren. I know this is a very difficult time for you.’
‘Do you?’ The side of her mouth inched upwards but there was no hint in Terri Wren’s sad eyes that she was actually smiling. ‘I doubt that, dear.’
‘Charlie sent me,’ Georgie told her.
‘I know. He phoned me and told me to expect you. Were it not for the fact that Charlie had sent you, I wouldn’t have let you in.’
‘Thank you. I really am truly sorry to intrude.’
Terri furrowed her brow as if she was in pain. ‘What is it you want?’
Georgie wondered whether she should take out her notepad, or whether Terri would see it as disrespectful. In the end, she left it where it was. Behind her, she heard the floorboards creak. Most likely Sissy, prowling the hallway.
‘Has there been any sign of Hayley?’ Georgie began.
Terri sighed. ‘No. But she will turn up – she always does.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, dear.’
‘Before he died –’ Georgi
e swallowed. She suddenly felt very inadequate. ‘Before he died, Sir Philip sent Charlie a letter telling him that he had sent a flash drive containing computer data to Charlie’s home. Do you know anything about this?’
‘No,’ Terri said pitifully.
‘You weren’t asked to post anything for him?’
‘I just said, no.’
‘Sorry.’
Terri had pursed her lips, folded her arms. She was staring, mesmerised, at the floor.
This isn’t going well. After a moment’s hesitation, Georgie said, ‘I wonder whether –’
‘You could see his office?’ Terri asked.
‘Yes.’
Sissy appeared, as if from nowhere, and led Georgie to the Attorney General’s office.
‘Two minutes this time, dear,’ Sissy whispered. ‘I’m counting. And do not under any circumstances touch anything.’
Georgie stepped cautiously into the room. The office was like any other. Desk, filing cabinets, fan. She took shots on her phone from different angles, trying to capture everything. She had no idea what she was looking for, so tried to document as much of the room as possible. Charlie would do the rest.
Sissy had disappeared from sight but Georgie doubted she had gone far. The desk was bare. Just blotting paper and a few pens. No computer. She guessed that had been seized as part of the evidence. She took pictures of the desk anyway and particularly of the partial footprint across the edge. It struck her as curious; it was so perfectly aligned as if . . . No, it doesn’t matter.
She stopped and listened. Silence. No footsteps outside. She tugged at one of the desk drawers. Locked. Another. Also locked. This one made a rattling noise rather more loudly than Georgie would have hoped. She tried the third drawer down but found that also locked. The filing cabinet didn’t look any more accessible.