‘If only! But no, I don’t think so. She clearly thought he walked on water, and you don’t normally leave your blackmailer a heap of money in your will, even if it is tied to your on-going silence. But everything seems to come back to these rescue girls.’
Tom uncrossed his legs, leaned forward in his seat and rested his forearms on the desk.
‘I’m on it, though. I’ll let you know when I’ve got some answers.’
Tom knew that James was giving him his full attention despite the fact that he appeared to be swinging idly from side to side on his swivel chair.
‘The main thing I wanted to discuss relates to the conversation with Annabel that I told you about. I’d like you to look at these pictures.’
Tom laid the images down on the table. James stopped swinging and brought his chair back to upright with a thump. Pulling his reading glasses from the top of his head, he looked at the photographs that Tom had placed in front of him.
‘Who’s this, then? Mm. Very attractive woman, isn’t she?’
‘Was, actually. It’s Hugo’s mother, Lady Daphne Fletcher.’
Without saying another word, Tom laid the second picture down. James looked at the picture, then up at Tom. His tone was serious, and rather sad.
‘When was this taken?’
‘About ten years ago. Just about the time she met Hugo, and way before she was ill.’
‘It’s uncanny. Given everything else we know, especially what Annabel told us, it’s a little sickening too.’
‘I agree. It’s important to understand that Laura has never seen a photograph of her mother-in-law. She said that Hugo had some, but he liked to keep them private. She says she didn’t look for them because he’d asked her not to. She can have no idea about this.’
James shook his head sadly.
‘The poor woman. Well, I think it confirms that the man had an Oedipus complex, don’t you?’
‘An interesting point,’ Tom said, ‘because as I understand it an Oedipus complex is not just an obsession with the mother, it’s also a desire to kill the father. Since we now know that the father’s death may not have been suicide, that’s certainly an intriguing thought.’
The senior detective looked pensive. With his face resting on one hand, his features were realigned and for a moment his face looked almost symmetrical. He moved his hand to speak, and the skin relaxed into its habitual imbalance.
‘Does this get us anywhere, do you think?’
‘No. But I think it confirms the fact that Hugo Fletcher was far from the saint the world believes him to be. If he married Laura because she was practically identical to his mother, then the poor woman must have lived through hell.’
‘Is that enough reason to kill him, do you think?’
‘I’d say that Laura is a very rational woman, despite the mental health problems which I still have to get to the bottom of. I think she must have had a terrible life with Hugo. The more I find out about him, the more disgusted I become. If she was the murdering type, I think she had more than enough reason to kill him.’
Tom paused and thought about the Laura he had spent time with after the will reading.
‘She was clearly not there for the money, as evidenced by her reaction to the will. And anyway we’ve now checked her whereabouts for the twenty-four hours before the murder, just to be absolutely sure. We asked PC Massi - obviously of Italian descent - to speak to the locals. The villa’s just outside a small town where everybody knows everybody else’s business. She was seen on Friday picking olives and the local carabinieri chap passed her car on the way to the airport on Saturday and waved to her. As if that weren’t enough, we’ve checked the message that was on the phone in Oxfordshire. It definitely came from the house in Italy, and it was definitely on Saturday morning. And there’s no doubt it was Laura’s voice.’
‘What about the friend, Imogen Kennedy. Did she have any motive?’
‘Becky likes her for it. Mind you, she refuses to rule Laura out either. She says there’s something fishy going on. We think Hugo had something to do with the break up of Imogen’s marriage, but that was a long time ago. On the other hand, we thought the two women hadn’t been in touch for years, but Becky discovered that they have. The other interesting thing is that apparently Imogen’s maiden name is Dubois, and Becky discovered that somebody with the name Imogen Dubois caught the Eurostar from St Pancras to Paris early on Saturday afternoon. But we’ve checked her passport, and it’s in the name of Imogen Kennedy. She never reverted to her maiden name.’
James Sinclair leaned forward in his chair.
‘But some people can legitimately have two passports. People who travel to both Israel and its enemies, for example, or people who do so much globetrotting that they need an extra passport to use because one might have to be submitted for a visa application just when they need to travel. This is sounding very promising.’
‘Well, not so promising actually. We’ve checked with the UK passport office, and there are no passports in that name, so that’s another blind alley.’
‘Dubois is a rather unusual name for somebody from Manchester, isn’t it?’
Tom laughed. ‘That’s because she’s not originally from Manchester, she’s… oh shit. How could I have been so stupid?’
Tom was on his feet and running out of the door, dragging his mobile from his pocket as he ran.
‘Becky? Imogen Kennedy left Cannes on Friday - is that right?’
With Becky’s incredible memory, he knew that she would confirm his recollections, and she did.
‘But her flight didn’t leave Paris until late on Saturday afternoon?’
Again, Becky confirmed this - squeaking ‘why, why?’ down the phone. But Tom wasn’t to be distracted.
‘I want you to work out how long it would have taken Imogen to drive to Paris from Cannes, and then I want you to go through the Eurostar records in the other direction. We know that an Imogen Dubois took the Eurostar from London to Paris - with just about time to catch that plane. But she would have had to get to London in the first place. See if she could have travelled over the night before or first thing in the morning on the Eurostar. If not, we need to start checking flights again.’
Tom was out of the door, and on his way to where his car was parked. Becky was still yelling in his ear in her excitement that something finally seemed to be happening.
‘What? Sorry, I missed that. Yes, it’s quite possible. I’ll put money on her having a Canadian passport too. No, I’ve no idea of motive, but one thing at a time. I’ll see you in about an hour.’
CHAPTER 27
Imogen was pleased to see Laura looking so much better. She was dressed casually again in jeans and a jumper, but the rigidity seemed to have gone from her shoulders, and she seemed less tense. Except when the bell at the gate rang. She jumped each time, as though she were expecting even more bad news. Perhaps she thought it was the police returning. It was three days since Tom Douglas had been, and Imogen was sure this meant that he was pursuing some active line of enquiry, although Becky had been very quiet on the subject.
Maybe the improvement in Laura was partly due to her discovery that Hugo had indeed overlooked her private money, and there was nothing to stop her from making some of the changes to the house that she’d been planning for years. She’d already started a team of gardeners who had begun to cut back the trees and shrubs, and both the house and Laura were looking considerably more cheerful. Even the stuffed stoat had miraculously disappeared overnight, although taking down some of the other dead animals would need a strong man with a large screwdriver.
Alexa had spent the day with them yesterday, and Imogen had watched and marvelled at the love and affection that Laura showed the girl. Although twelve years old, in many ways Alexa seemed much younger. She had a very delicate build, and seemed to be lacking the early signs of maturity that Imogen might have expected. Laura had spent hours talking through the changes that she wanted to make, and the ideas seemed t
o take Alexa’s mind off the death of her beloved father.
Imogen decided that she needed to return to Laura’s letters. It wasn’t easy. She hated seeing her friend’s unhappiness and felt the weight of it sitting heavily on her shoulders. She understood why Laura had never told her everything. But so many things still remained unexplained.
***
JUNE 2005
My dear Imo
These are the ravings of a mad person!
That’s how I feel. I’ve spent eighteen months as a crazy woman and that’s how everybody sees me.
Each day starts in the same way. The nursing staff work so hard, and they are relentlessly cheerful. Every morning they waltz into my room - which I have to say is very smart indeed - with a cheery ‘Good morning! How are we this morning?’
I don’t understand why people say ‘we’ in this context? Am I missing something here?
Anyway, breakfast is served in the room - and I’ve got into a rut of always having the same thing. I’m not sure whether they see this as one more sign of madness. Does this mean that I feel safer not making decisions? It’s not that at all. It’s just that they do have very good chefs here, and nothing beats their scrambled eggs!
The home is very exclusive. It’s a place to hide away insane members of extremely rich families. I suppose there’s no predicting how many seriously wealthy people will be ill at any one time - which is probably why they got into such trouble. I suspect that Hugo is providing significant funds. All to keep me quiet.
Each day I have to have a private consultation to check whether I’m still mad, and share in some group therapy session or other. And then there are the classes. Occupational therapy they call it. I’m pretty good at flower arranging now, and the yoga class is excellent - although the meditation sessions don’t go down too well with some of the more disturbed patients. Too much silence and introspection is a bit counterproductive, or so it would seem.
Lunch and dinner are both taken in the dining room. We’re supposed to mix - with the more stable patients, that is. Some, of course, can’t be let out of their rooms because of outbursts of violence. I keep my own counsel. Despite the persistent jollity of the staff, it’s not a happy place. Mental illness is such a heart-breaking thing. From schizophrenia to personality disorders, every one of them is in a sad period of their lives. And for some, it’s their future too.
I do try to find time each day to chat to some of the people with one form of dementia or another - those who can’t communicate at all. I read the papers each morning, and tell them stories about what’s happening in the world. Only the happy stuff, though. Not the wars and murders. They’ve got enough of a burden to carry. I don’t know if they can hear me, but that’s no excuse not to talk to them. Imagine that they actually know what’s going on around them, and the only thing they can’t do is communicate? How awful would it be if nobody spoke to them?
And then, there are the visits from Hugo. The nurses think this is the highlight of my week! And of course, to them he is a committed (if I can use that word in this context) and devoted husband who never misses a visit. I’m drug free on these occasions. He wants to assess me. He wants to know if I am full of remorse. He wants to know if I am tamed.
I’m not, of course. I’m far less tamed than I was when I came in here. But he doesn’t need to know that.
And he brings Alexa quite often. She’s growing up, but I feel so guilty being in here when I should be out there giving her the love that she needs. He brings her to taunt me. He thinks that seeing me here will turn her against me. Or that I’ll try to use her to find things out about what was happening ‘on the outside’. I don’t. I’d never do that. I would never say anything negative about her father, because I’m the one who would lose out. She deserves to believe that her daddy is wonderful, whatever the truth might be.
He came to see me yesterday, and things were a little different. He left me alone with Alexa for a long time, and I’m not sure why he did it. I think it was another test.
I gave her a big hug, but she felt a bit stiff. Not her normal cuddly self. I tried to break the ice gradually.
‘It’s so good to see you, Alexa. How’s school?’
‘School’s fine, thank you for asking, Laura.’
At nine years old, Alexa is still the most polite child that I have ever met, but even so this response seemed a bit extreme.
‘Are you okay, poppet? Have I done something to upset you?’
Alexa looked at me, with a very solemn gaze.
‘Why are you still in here, Laura? Why aren’t you at home with us?’
‘Because I’ve not been well, darling, and Daddy and the doctors need to decide when it’s the right time for me to come home.’
‘You do want to come home, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Lexi. Of course I do. I can’t wait to see you every single week.’
‘Daddy says you like it here, and that you’re in here because you make up bad stories about people.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to this. Criticising Hugo wasn’t an option.
‘Well I certainly don’t mean to do or say anything to upset anybody. I’ve never wanted to do that, sweetheart, and if I have then I’m very sorry.’
‘Can we talk about something else please? When we’ve been on our own for a few minutes, Daddy always asks me what we’ve been talking about, and whether you’ve told me any secrets.’
‘We can talk about anything you like, and I wouldn’t say anything to you that’s a secret from Daddy.’
‘Well, Daddy and I have lots and lots of secrets - but he says that’s okay. He says that daddies and their little girls always have secrets.’
My blood ran cold.
‘You know, poppet, it’s usually okay to tell your mummy or me about secrets with Daddy. He wouldn’t keep any secrets from me, I’m sure.’
Alexa gave a shy smile.
‘He said that you’re the last person I should tell, because you’re not clever like me. But I love you anyway, Laura. You’re always nice to me. Can we talk about something else now, please?’
The conversation moved onto safer ground, but by now I was really worried. Hugo didn’t come back for another half an hour, and I could only speculate that he had been cooking something up with the doctor. Judging by his very superior smile when he came back into the room, it was something I wasn’t going to like.
‘Alexa, darling, the nurse is going to take you outside for a moment. I need to talk to Laura alone. Say goodbye to her now, and I’ll come and find you in a few moments.’
Alexa gave me a big hug that nearly made my heart break, then she skipped off with the nurse.
‘Laura. You’re looking a lot better, and I’ve spoken to the doctor. We’ve agreed that you probably need another spell in here, probably about six months, and during that time I need to prepare you to come back out into the world.’
I knew it was inappropriate to display my new found spirit, but I had to clarify what he meant.
‘I’m not sure I entirely understand what I need to be prepared for, Hugo, although I will be glad to be out of here.’
This wasn’t entirely true if it meant I had to go back to my old life. But then I wasn’t planning on doing that.
‘You need to listen and understand well. I have been divorced once, and I have no intention of being divorced twice. Once can be considered a mistake. Twice shows poor judgement. You will not divorce me, nor will you make any threats or divulge information about our life together that would prove embarrassing to me. You will remain as my faithful wife for as long as I wish it. What goes on under my roof remains under my roof. Do you understand, Laura?’
I had to fight hard to retain my self-control. It wouldn’t do to show all my cards at once, but I couldn’t just accept this. I looked out of the window and tried to appear nonchalant.
‘And if I don’t agree, Hugo? What happens then?’
‘Oh, that’s quite simple, Laura,’ Hugo paused. ‘Yo
u die.’
My head jerked round, and I just stared at Hugo, too shocked to speak immediately. Then I found my voice.
‘I don’t believe you just said that, Hugo. You have just threatened to commit murder!’
He laughed. He actually laughed.
‘It’s not murder, Laura. It’s an act of self-preservation. I am not prepared to be shamed by you. You are known to have a history of extreme depression. Your death by an overdose of the very medication that you will be given on leaving here would be easy to explain, and I promise you it would never be questioned. Your records will show a history of attempted suicide - the doctor and I have just agreed the terms - so the choice is entirely yours.’
Of all the things that I had expected, it had never been this. And I knew without a doubt that he meant it.
‘And what does living with you mean, exactly, Hugo?’
His smile was entirely without sincerity.
‘Oh don’t worry, Laura. I won’t ask you to renew your rather tedious services in the bedroom. I can find many a willing substitute.’
I couldn’t just let this go. If he meant what I thought he meant.
‘When I came in here, Hugo, it was triggered by…’
But I froze when I saw the fury in Hugo’s eyes.
‘I know what triggered it, Laura. Your ludicrous over reaction to a perfectly normal event. Your behaviour has made my life exceptionally difficult, and that is something that I can’t forget or forgive. But this is what we are going to do.’
And then we discussed terms, as if we were negotiating a business deal to buy a second hand car. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Let’s face it, I’ve had plenty time to think! I can’t leave him and just ignore everything that I know. The consequences would be just too devastating. My history of mental illness would make it difficult for me to be believed if I tell anybody about Hugo’s predilections. But I can’t walk away. I have to do something positive. Something proactive. So I told him my terms. I made a deal with the devil. My complicity in return for a number of concessions - one of which is the purchase of a home in Italy. Somewhere to escape to, to feel safe - somewhere that he would hate. We can appear on the face of it to be a normal couple, but during the week when we don’t have Alexa I can get away from the oppressive atmosphere of our marriage. This was a concession he found easy to make. But it was by no means the most important one.
(2011) Only the Innocent Page 30