by Clare Curzon
‘Another little gem I found from grubbing through the recyclable waste is an anonymous, computer-printed letter from a whistle-blower at Hoad’s Bristol foundry, suggesting a check on staff actually employed there. It reported sackings over several months, and fictitious names substituted on the wages lists. Fallon, as Managing Director, is accused of cooking the books to feather his nest, to thoroughly mix the metaphors.’
Yeadings went on to explain that although Hoad had torn up the letter, he must have seen fit to act on the information, and that a meeting with Fallon had probably been arranged by phone.
‘We don’t know if such a meeting actually occurred. Hoad’s phone call was made on the Wednesday. By the early hours of Saturday morning he was dead. We need to account for every movement he made in between.’
Yeadings started moving papers on his desk to signal he was almost done with bringing her up to date. ‘Fallon will be putting in an appearance here tomorrow afternoon to give his version of the matter.’
Z waited. Was she to be allowed in on the interview?
‘Acting-DCI Salmon will question him along with DS Beaumont,’ Yeadings explained shortly, killing her hopes. Then he relented, cheeks crinkling and eyebrows soaring. ‘ …while, after lunch, you and I take a trip to Bristol to look into the matter for ourselves.’
Beaumont had expected the document he received from the London Chambers to be sealed against his own prying eyes, but not that it would be addressed to Graham Dent, a solicitor in Aylesbury. Even the Boss had been left out of the equation. Apparently Stanley was one of the old school who set great store by observing protocol. The will would be disclosed first and formally, by a member of his own profession, to members of the deceased’s family. Which, failing other interested parties suddenly appearing, meant Daniel and his grandmother.
Yeadings, advised of this, approved. ‘No cause to rush things,’ he said. ‘But when the will’s read after the funeral, I’ll need to be around.’
So the Boss had something more pressing in the meantime. Beaumont put on his prize pupil face and waited to hear where he’d feature in it: as back-up to Salmon, he learned, when Fallon arrived from Bristol next afternoon for a further interview. It sounded as though the Boss accepted by now that Z was out of the running.
Beaumont caught up with her later at her desk in the CID office and, relaxing to switch off competitive mode, suggested a pub meal. ‘Unless you have to rush back and do the culinary thing for Max. How is he by the way?’
‘No, no, and yes,’ she answered, eyes still on the computer screen.
‘I get the noes, and gather I’m turned down, but what’s the yes for?’
‘Max being by the way. Rather a long way. Sudan, in fact. Not much of a culinary treat out there, it seems. The people are starving.’
‘So you’re free. Why refuse an invitation? You need to get out more.
She turned to look at him. ‘I understand that’s a little dated as a sophisticated insult. Actually I’m busy.’
‘On what?’
She flicked off the screen as he circled to scan it. ‘Oh, women’s work, you know. Nothing to trouble your mighty mind with.’ She smiled frostily at him.
Touchy, he thought. Salmon’s really getting to her. But she needn’t have turned down the offer of a meal: soon she would need all the friends she had. Especially when he took over as DI.
‘Salmon’s having another go at young Danny early tomorrow, about the Ascot death crash. I’m to fetch him. And we’re pulling Fallon in again after lunch tomorrow,’ he confided.
‘Yes, I heard he could be fiddling the books. But is that serious enough to give a motive for murder?’
‘Depends how deep in the mire he is. Needed to shut Hoad up before he went public on it and dissolved the partnership, maybe. Fraud carries a sizeable sentence.’
‘So would he wipe out the whole family while he was at it?’
‘If he went totally barking, why not? Somebody did.’
‘That could be where our friendly neighbourhood shrink plays his master card. What do you make of him?’
He grinned. ‘I’ve not had him on my couch yet. Have you?’
Z smiled. ‘We took a little walk together in the woods today. He hadn’t a lot to say. Nor I, for that matter. I think he plays his cards close to his chest.’
‘Ah, building an impressive silence before uttering the pedestrian obvious.’
‘He did seem interested in relations between Daniel and his grandmother. I’d like to know what he made of them.’
Beaumont rolled his eyes, backside hitched on the edge of her desk. ‘He’ll be working on a theory they did the job together, despite the physical impossibility. Family wipe-out to swipe the Hoad millions.’
He shrugged again as she stared at him. ‘Salmon had me check the boy’s alibi with the Ascot potman, and it holds. Also there were no dabs from Granny P found in the house before she was officially allowed in. But our DCI always susses females who throw their considerable weight about. So be warned, Z, and stay sylph-like.’
Z scraped her chair back against the wood-block floor. It covered the sound of a gentle snort. Fat or thin, all women got short shrift from Salmon. If anything, he treated her worse the harder the work she put in. She wheeled on Beaumont, forced a grin.
‘I’ll be thoroughly female-indexed and change my mind. Not a meal, but certainly a drink. Hang on a minute while I fetch my coat.
Anna Plumley put off going to bed until almost one o’clock but still she didn’t sleep right through, too conscious of muffled sounds of distress from the open door across the corridor. She’d left her own ajar on purpose, then regretted it, knowing it would humiliate the boy — the young man — if she went to give him the hug that was needed.
When finally she awoke she thought it must be late because light already showed between the curtains. Crossing to the window she saw a sky clear of clouds. High white diagonals crossing the pale blue were vapour trails of jets stacking for entry at Heathrow. The rising sun struck silver on a plane’s fabric and she was consumed by longing to be up there. For her the sky had always been the limit; nothing ever coming close to the sense of rightness in controlling altitude, take-off, landing. Without flying, her early life would have been as empty as — as — as her grandson’s now was.
She sighed, put on her housecoat and made for the guest bathroom, passing Alma Pavitt with a tray for her early morning tea. ‘Lovely morning,’ she greeted her.
‘Amazing,’ said Pavitt. ‘But it won’t last. Do you want your tea with you or …’
Anna had higher hopes of the weather. ‘Just leave it in my room, thank you.’
Anna finished soaping herself, rinsed off and lay back in the bath to do her cycling exercises, observing she still had good ankles, and straight toes untrammelled by ever wearing fashion shoes. Then, with her feet propped on the taps, relaxation. Just a couple more minutes … She closed her eyes.
There was a sound outside. Someone in the corridor. Actually coming in. She hadn’t thought to lock the door. It was the guest bathroom and the only guest was herself.
The door was behind her head. With her feet cocked high and her shoulders low she couldn’t turn to see who had entered. The intruder moved across towards the window and she saw it was Daniel. He seemed unaware of anything amiss. Perhaps accustomed to walking in on private ablutions. Casually he drifted past to sit side-saddle on the bath’s edge.
At the feet end, facing her.
Anna’s back had stiffened and she lacked the balance to move her legs down. Vulnerable ankles. He had only to grasp them and lift, then she’d be helpless, face underwater, breathless and drowning.
For a moment a flicker of some emotion crossed the boy’s face. Amusement? For once free of defensiveness, he was authoritative, coolly in control. She knew he was enjoying her discomfiture.
Anna planted her elbows firmly on the bath’s curved rim and forced her back upright, bent her legs and removed her feet from b
eside his bare thigh, where the terry robe had fallen open.
Sitting bolt upright, she flipped a hand, batting a floating island of foam to cover her genitals, aware of the unsightly bobbing of sixty-seven-year-old breasts. ‘Daniel, perhaps this isn’t the time or place for a conversation.’
But he hadn’t spoken, had he? Just looked at her. And made her afraid.
‘Maybe not,’ he drawled, stood tall, then leaned over and splashed a wave over her chest. ‘Don’t take a chill.’ Then he left.
Anna sat on, shivering, water drying on her skin. Was she crazy to think there was menace in his actions? He’d meant to mock, certainly. He’d succeeded in humiliating her — ugly, aged flesh exposed to youth’s beauty. It was shaming.
But did that matter? It was her spiritless reaction that had betrayed her. Just two words would have sufficed: ‘Get out!’ And she’d failed to say them. The realisation unnerved her further.
She looked in on her grandson as soon as she was dressed. He answered her knock with a groan and she found him, legs dangling from the side of his bed, hands gripping the mattress edge, shoulders stiffly hunched. His face was grey and taut, a totally different person. Stricken.
Such contrast alarmed her. She had to stay cool. ‘Bad night?’ she asked. ‘Me too.’
But it was more recent than that. ‘Look.’ He held out one shaking hand. Clenched in it was his mobile phone.
Anna reached for the glasses suspended on a chain round her neck. The text message she read was simple enough: ‘U NEXT.’
Warning or threat? Either way wickedly cruel.
‘Who would do that?’ she demanded. But then who could commit such an atrocity as his family’s slaughter? She felt her heart beating high in her throat. She must let the police know at once. They could trace the call.
‘I’ve got to get away. Disappear.’
‘You’re safe enough here. If you run you’re more vulnerable. We can arrange for protection.’
Even as she spoke, she questioned her own advice. This message might be a malicious hoax. But if a real threat, then the slaughter hadn’t been indiscriminate. There was intention behind it, and the entire intention was still unfulfilled. Killing Daniel would complete it. Madness like that couldn’t be lightly brushed aside.
‘I’ll phone the superintendent,’ she said. ‘From downstairs.’
Yeadings, an early riser, was in the garden, muffled in a polo-neck sweater and enjoying the day’s brightness while confronting the still soaked ruin of his dahlias. At least the kitchen plot no longer resembled a paddy field. A few fine days and the damage of the past ten could be repaired. There’d be fresh growth.
He gazed at the clean-swept sky. It promised to be one of those stupendous golden October mornings when the sun was still warm on your face.
Nan, in dressing-gown and slippers, called to him from the porch door. ‘Telephone.’
He waved back, picked his way across the squelching lawn and took the call outside. Mrs Plumley, not at all happy, but resolute, wasted no words.
‘It could be an unpleasant hoax,’ he offered, but she’d arrived there already.
‘But if not, we must take it seriously,’ she insisted. ‘Daniel is for running off and getting lost. I’ve told him he’s safer here where we can control things. I thought of hiring someone to keep an eye on him. Alternatively, I suppose he could go back to boarding-school, but a different one. It appears he was asked to leave Stowe. Some trouble with a housemaid. In any case arrangements like that can take time.’
‘Will you leave it with me, Mrs Plumley? I have an ex-constable in mind who might stand in as bodyguard.’
‘Equally I could find someone ex-RAF, but he needs to be fit, not too old.’
‘The man I’m suggesting is all of that, Mrs Plumley. If he’ll take it on he could be with you tomorrow. Even later today.’
She felt reassured, laid down the phone and stood thinking how she might distract Daniel from his panicky state. She’d forgiven him the bathroom intrusion. It was understandable, the boy-man resenting the way she’d taken over. He’d needed to take the wind out of her sails, reinstate his own dignity by humiliating her. She must put it behind her, look forward, plan something special, a diversion.
But he wasn’t a toddler to be distracted with a candy bar or toys. And yesterday’s outing with Camilla had turned into the proverbial lead balloon.
She glanced out the window again. Wet grass sparkled like gems. Hillside’s dew-pearled, she thought. Snail’s on the thorn; that Pippa Passes stuff. But all was not right with the world. How could she fix it?
She made a second call. ‘Caspar?’
‘Plummie, you just caught me. I’m flying to Morocco at noon. How’s everything with you and the venerable Plum?’
‘Plum’s gone fishing in Devon and I’m fine too, thank you. No need to ask how you are. Have you closed down for the winter here?’
‘Yes. I’m taking a fortnight’s break, while the gear travels out by freighter. Then in mid-November we start up in Marrakech.’
‘Sounds wonderful. I’ll wish you a good season. I had hoped you’d a week or so left here. And for once it’s a glorious day.’
‘Is this personal?’
‘Myself and grandson.’
‘You’ve kept him under covers, Plummie. How old is he?’
‘Sixteen, but passes for older. Actually I’m temporary guardian. I was wondering if …’
‘Look, although I’ll be away myself, Jeremy’s hanging on with some of the gear. Let me find out if he can get a mate to help out. Then maybe, if the weather holds. Why not? I’ll get him to ring you on your mobile.’
She thanked him, sat in a patch of sunlight and waited for the return call. It came a quarter of an hour later. Satisfied with the result, she was almost purring as she joined Daniel at breakfast. ‘We have a little expedition arranged for this evening,’ she announced. ‘Something to look forward to after your talk with Dr Abercorn. Did I tell you he’d be dropping in to ask about your mother?’
Chapter Seventeen
Waking was a let-down for Rosemary Zyczynski. She had dreamt they had a puppy; dark, smooth-coated and rolled into a little, soft ball, asleep. They had been Max and herself. They’d seemed to be living together.
This morning the sky was empty of clouds, deceitfully halcyon. But reality was less honeyed, with Max thousands of miles away. His apartment, across from hers, lay silent. For her it was a working day and the case showed no signs of breaking.
Get going, she told herself. Go and soak in everything available in the analysis room. Maybe lightning illumination will strike.
At Area she had to deal with Acting DCI Salmon first. He accosted her in the corridor and snarled a demand for coffee and a bacon sarnie, in his office, asap. A man who hadn’t breakfasted and was in a hurry going nowhere.
She delivered the order, found he’d no other use for her. What new in that? Seating herself opposite the longer wall of the analysis room, she tried to see all the whiteboard data as new; nothing she’d been grinding over for days.
There was the Hoad family in the middle. From it lines reached out in all directions like a starburst; one towards the Bartons, physically close to the crime but fully involved with farming and their antipodean family. Or so they seemed. They’d had opportunity; could have had a key to the Hoads’ back door; might have had cause to hate the man’s guts. But it took a leap of the imagination to see them as mass murderers and superb actors to boot.
A second line led to Bristol and the inherited foundry from which Hoad derived his wealth. He appeared to have a detached interest in its activities, or at most a purely financial one. So was Bertie Fallon, or some other with easy access, fleecing Hoad there, and panicking when threatened with exposure? But surely wiping out the whole family, except for the absent son — that was insanely over the top?
Insane. She considered the word, which featured at the end of another line with a question mark alongside the capital
letter X. Wasn’t that the solution you fell back on when logic, sweat and hard graft failed readily to turn up the true killer? — a random mass murderer who just happened along at that particular time, secure in anonymity and unconnected with his victims? No, she couldn’t accept that. All crimes she’d come across so far had been subject to recognisable cause and effect. This had to be the same.
Another line on the whiteboard led to the family of the child visiting the house overnight. That she found she could accept as a random fact. How could young Monica’s presence have been a factor in causing such carnage? It must be irrelevant to the overall crime.
From Jennifer Hoad’s name a line ran out to the company Miradec Interiors in west London, which she’d visited herself. She recalled the two men there, the self-assured fashion-plate Justin Halliwell and the insecure Hilary Durham, proud to be called Jennifer’s ‘Ideas Man’. Halliwell manned their European office in Paris. He was concerned with import-export. From all accounts the company was a successful one. Certainly the Knightsbridge set-up implied as much and, according to her mother, Jennifer had made a fortune for herself once Freddie had financed her start.
Crack cocaine had featured in the raves that went on in the woods, and Z suspected its source was more likely London than anywhere local. Thames Valley had its share of dealers, but drugs were less easily accessible in villages like Fordham. Jennifer, a user, might well have been supplied by contacts regularly visiting the Knightsbridge office. Or from the ultra-sophisticated Halliwell, probably a sexual — if not officially a business — partner.
He was arranging to call in auditors, to present updated accounts for Jennifer’s executors. The results could take a while, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t pay Miradec Interiors a visit and enquire how far things had gone.
She made for Yeadings’ office but he wasn’t there, so it had to be an approach to Salmon, who snarled at her, phone clamped to one ear.
‘If you don’t need me, sir …’