by Amy Myers
Peter flinched – but I had to press on.
‘Yes,’ Paul barked at me.
‘Why should he have done so?’ I threw back.
‘That too is immaterial,’ Hazel said coldly. ‘Can you prove that he did not? Were you with that man every minute of the day and night after his release?’
‘You forget,’ I said, ignoring this, ‘that without the blood found on the car and his clothes there is no evidence whatsoever against Giovanni either on the Wednesday night or later.’ I then played my last card with as much flair as I could muster. ‘Andrew and Lucy Lee would have been involved in your plan, and the police will be interviewing them too.’
It won my case. There was a tense silence, and then Peter surrendered. ‘Jack, it is time to explain our position.’
A great relief flooded over me, but I had to steel myself not to relax to the point of letting the Comptons fool me yet again. ‘It’s understood,’ I said firmly, ‘that everything you tell me will be passed on to the police.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be most eager to do so,’ Hazel said drily.
There followed some family friction as Stephanie and Paul did their best to persuade Peter that there was no ‘position’ that could possibly affect Hugh’s murder. Hazel kept silent, however, and again I wondered where Bronte was.
Peter was not swayed. ‘The disappearance of Hugh was, as you deduced,’ he told me steadily, ‘a plan that went tragically awry. Our purpose was for Donati to be discovered miles from Plumshaw after recovering from the sedative that we had administered in his wine. The blood had been taken from Hugh earlier by Hazel and of course with Hugh’s full cooperation.’ His dry recital continued, and I wondered if he had any idea how chillingly this was coming over to me.
‘Once in the barn,’ Peter continued, ‘and with Donati unconscious Hugh drove the Ferrari himself while Paul took his own car to bring him back to Plumshaw, where Hugh remained quite happily at the pub, moving while the police search was in progress and on one occasion returning to the manor over the fields by night in order to discuss the situation.’
‘Which night?’ I asked sharply.
‘Friday.’
‘You saw him after that?’
‘We did not, but Lucy did on Saturday morning and evening. We had all heard the news that Donati had been released, and Hugh told Lucy that he might move somewhere safer. Therefore, we did not worry overmuch when she reported that he was not at the chalet on Sunday morning.’
‘How long had you intended that your son should remain in captivity?’ I’d take this step by step and tried to sound as detached as Peter – which included holding back on the pressing question of why on earth they had thought up this crazy idea. At least this meant Giovanni was in the clear for Saturday afternoon. Only Sunday remained a mystery.
‘I prefer the word hiding. Hugh was as much part of the scheme as the rest of us. The answer to your question is a few days only, after which he would simply return home with a most convincing story of where he had been.’
Breathtakingly facile! ‘How could that explain the blood in Giovanni’s Ferrari?’
‘It takes time for forensic testing. We planned for him to be home on the Monday evening before it became relevant. It was, you must understand, a joke, albeit one that went tragically wrong. When he did not arrive that evening, we were worried but assumed he would return during the cover of darkness and would be with us for breakfast. He was not, and we were very concerned. Then came the news of his death. We could not have foreseen that terrible outcome.’
I wondered if any of these Comptons knew what the real world is like. I might be judging too much from external appearances, of course. The shock to this family, especially to Hazel and Peter, must have been immense if their story was true. The bereavement must have been doubly hard as they themselves had been responsible for lighting the touchpaper that set it off. Nevertheless, I couldn’t lose sight of the fact that one or all of them might have used the hoax as a cover for murder. Looking at their impassive faces, how could I tell what churning thoughts lay behind them? At present they were looking at me like spaniels expecting to be patted and told what to do next.
I didn’t pat anyone.
I went to the heart of the matter. ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘play such a ghastly joke? And why Giovanni?’
‘Old scores, Jack,’ Paul answered almost laconically. He was out of tune, however, because Peter promptly came in with his version.
‘The Alfa Romeo is the reason. Donati came here under false pretences, pretending he wished to paint the car.’
‘Pretending? He was passionate about painting it.’ My head really was spinning now. This just could not be true.
‘He was passionate about claiming its ownership. Ever since Hugh received his request to come here, we have known that.’
‘You’re completely wrong,’ I argued. ‘How could he be the owner?’ Even if Giovanni had had such a nonsensical idea in his mind, he would have told me that. Laughed about it.
‘To his way of thinking, very easily,’ Peter replied. ‘Giulio Santoro, the original owner of the Alfa Romeo, was his grandfather.’
I was knocked sideways once again. ‘His family name is Donati.’
‘His mother was Giulio Santoro’s daughter. His only child.’
He sounded so certain that I took this seriously. I remembered Maria’s reticence when I had asked her about Giovanni’s family. She spoke only of his father – and I had not followed up with questions about his mother. I had some hard work to do here, but meanwhile I must struggle not to be distracted from the basic story. Whoever Giovanni was, he had been framed.
‘Why the hoax? A cruel way of telling him he wasn’t going to be able either to own or paint the car.’
‘Revenge, Jack, and fully justified. The hoax was intended to teach him what captivity on a false charge can be like.’
Another knockout blow? ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Because as a result of the Santoro family’s actions, I once found myself in captivity in Italy on a charge of having stolen the Alfa Romeo and collusion with an illegal regime.’
The Comptons had told me enough to convince me I needed a complete reassessment of the case – and so would Brandon. Unless the story was without any foundation at all, Giovanni had been keeping me in the dark. Why? He wasn’t stupid. He had been charged with murder. I needed time to get to grips with it. Nothing more could happen today, surely, or so I thought as I reached Frogs Hill.
I was wrong. Pen was waiting for me in her car.
‘Your witch,’ she yelled as she scrambled out to accost me.
‘Cast a spell on you, has he?’ I asked wearily.
‘No, on you. Peacemaker, my foot. Nantucket Brown served eight of a fifteen-year sentence for murdering his wife.’
NINE
After a night’s sleep, I was better prepared to face the bombshells thrown my way. The vital one had been Giovanni’s alleged connection with the Alfa Romeo through his ancestor, of which he had given me no inkling whatsoever. The second was also troubling. Nan the peacemaker now had a question mark over him, given his violent background; there was, however, a wide gulf between killing a wife over twenty years ago in a crime of passion and killing his landlord as the result of the careful plan there must have been behind Hugh’s murder.
Giovanni, whom I was struggling to save from his murder charge, had, it seemed, been as economical with the truth as he was uneconomical with flowing wine. There was little doubt about that and my best route would be through Maria who, when she abandoned her drama queen role, was a practical, no-nonsense woman. She had to be to have remained married to Giovanni for so long.
Tracking down Maria should not be too difficult, and tackling her was more urgent than following up a possible Nan link. Assuming this ‘friend’ was the one Giovanni had hopefully cited as an alibi, I could call Brandon’s team for information on this restaurant in the Eynsford area. The back history between Peter Comp
ton and the Santoro family meant that the prosecution might be able to produce a much stronger motive for Giovanni wanting to kill Hugh Compton. I remembered Peter Compton’s mention of ‘revenge’ and, coupled with Pen’s clearly ridiculous ‘Mafioso’ reference, it could mean there were even darker angles to this case than had so far been apparent. And somewhere in the middle of them was the Alfa Romeo.
Brandon’s team, after some huffing and puffing, supplied me with the restaurant’s name – La Casa. It was in a hamlet called Castleford, between Swanley and Eynsford and Umberto Monti was its owner. It was situated conveniently near the M20 and its junction with the M25, the motorway that girdles London (usually slowly due to heavy traffic), so it was also convenient for reaching Colchester and Giovanni.
I had feared Maria would do a runner when I rang to tell her I was coming and was now on my way to her early on the Tuesday evening. She had agreed to see me, even if somewhat reluctantly. When I arrived at five thirty before the restaurant opened for the evening, she had obviously decided on battle, judging by her expression. That suited me, because this time I would take no prisoners. Unfortunately, I could not play the ace in my hand. Brandon had naturally flatly refused any mention of the fake murder – at least until he had worked it through. He had been the nearest I had ever heard to incandescent when I rang him with the news, although he had grudgingly agreed that I’d done a good job in forcing the issue.
I let Maria finish her seafood linguine – either a belated lunch or early supper – and then fired my opening shot. ‘How come neither you nor Giovanni mentioned that Santoro was his grandfather – and,’ I added, seeing she was about to let forth a torrent of denials, ‘therefore the first owner of the Comptons’ Alfa Romeo?’
The torrent was stopped in its tracks. She looked puzzled, then apparently enlightenment came followed by an expression of great wisdom. ‘You must ask Giovanni about his family. He will tell you.’
She then proceeded to study the dessert menu, always a favourite with her. I gently removed it.
‘I shall ask him, Maria, and so will the police – far from politely.’
She reached out for the menu again. ‘Why?’ she asked aggressively.
I could play games too. ‘Because it’s connected to the murder of which he’s accused.’
‘It is not,’ she snapped.
‘How would you know?’
‘Giovanni care only about painting – and me,’ she added defiantly. ‘He do not want to own cars, only paint.’
‘He likes owning his Ferrari Daytona.’ I moved the menu slightly towards her but kept my hand on it.
She brushed this comment aside. ‘Giovanni is great artist. Only that is important.’
I was not going to get any further on that score, so I pushed the menu further towards her, keeping my hand firmly on it. ‘The police will be asking him, Maria, so you might want to warn him of that.’
She remained stony-faced, so I began on another track. ‘Giovanni told me and the police that he came to see a friend at this restaurant. Is he here now?’
‘No.’
I pulled the menu back again.
‘No.’ She could see I was not going to give up, however, because she graciously added, ‘Umberto’s family friends of the Santoro family, friend of Giulio’s sister Floria – no, that was Lucia – and friends of Donati family.’
‘You’re sure he’s not here?’
‘No. Not here. Day off.’
This was like getting petrol out of a dry pump. I had made some impression on her, however, so we concluded the festivities with a zabaglione each, which restored her to happiness – until it occurred to her that Giovanni might not be fed zabaglione in prison.
Encouraged that at least she had admitted the family connection, I pondered on the case against Nan again on the way home. I still could see no motive, however. Whoever killed him must have known Hugh’s hiding place in the chalet. That could still leave Giovanni in the frame and it also put Andrew into it as well. Andrew had no driving motive for the murder either, despite his ambivalence over the development plans. He might have passed on Hugh’s whereabouts to the Makepeace clan though. Where, I wondered, was the safer hiding place that Hugh had apparently found for what was to be the last day of his captivity before his planned return home?
It’s not often I’m honoured by a visit from DCI Brandon himself – it’s usually a summons over to Charing HQ and must be a sign that he was becoming worried over this case. He asked me, greatly to my surprise, if he could see the Pits. As he has no great interest in cars, this must be counted a tribute of some sort.
Brandon can be an affable man, when he’s not nose-to-grindstone, and Zoe was impressed at his interest in the Lanchester. Len was less so, I suspect because he thought he was going to be implicated in the Giovanni story. I noticed the glint in his eye which suggested the visitor would get short shrift if he interrupted his work schedule unnecessarily.
He need not have worried. Brandon did not even mention Giovanni, only told a story about his grandfather’s Javelin in the 1950s. I guessed that he had been satisfied that Len was in the clear and had no more to offer in the way of information on Giovanni’s movements.
When Brandon finally returned to the farmhouse he came straight to the point.
‘This crazy fake murder – do you believe the Comptons?’
‘Risky, but yes.’
‘I’m on my way to see them. We’ll have to consider charges. More police time wasted, no doubt.’
‘Will it clear Giovanni?’
‘Not if he hasn’t a damned good alibi for Sunday the eighteenth.’
‘I didn’t see the famous friend, but he does seem to exist at least.’ I knew what I had to ask next. ‘OK if I go to see Giovanni?’
‘I won’t stop you. But the fake murder is off limits.’
‘I’ll concentrate on the grandfather and Peter Compton’s captivity.’
He was more grudging this time. ‘Tread on eggshells, Jack.’
Fate then stepped in. It chose to do so in the middle of the night via a phone call.
Louise shot up in bed and by the time I had struggled out of the land of Nod she had already picked up.
‘For you,’ she said, handing the phone over. ‘It’s Martin Fisher.’
Even my sleepy eyes could see from the alarm clock that it was 2.05 a.m. and not even the earliest bird had as yet opened its beak to greet the day. Martin was calling from his mobile, so something was up and it wasn’t the birds.
‘Thought you’d want to know, Jack.’
‘Know what?’ I slurred.
‘The Hop and Harry. It’s burning down.’
I didn’t take it in at first. Then I rearranged the jumble of my first thoughts. ‘Burning down’ sounded no mere small blaze. This was bad. ‘I’m on my way,’ I told him.
‘What on earth for?’ Louise said wearily as I swung my legs to the floor. ‘What can you do about a fire? Nothing.’
‘Perhaps I can. It’s my case anyway.’
‘Whether it burns down or not, your being there won’t solve anything,’ she pointed out reasonably enough.
She was right, but I still knew I had to go. ‘It seems the right thing to do.’ I pulled on the nearest clothes at top speed.
‘Correction. The wrong thing even if for the right reasons. Need me along?’
‘If you weren’t so beautiful already, I’d say you needed your beauty sleep.’
She threw a pillow at me, flopped down into bed again and was instantly back in Nod. Nothing is more beautiful than the sight of a beautiful woman sleeping, especially when it’s my bed. I kissed her and tore myself away.
I could see the glow in the distance, as I drove along the Canterbury Road to the Plumshaw turning. Fire has an emotional effect on those who view it, whether or not they are directly involved. Fear is only one of those emotions, but it’s a powerful one. Fire is man’s friend and his enemy, but tonight it would be solely enemy.
I
parked some way from the pub – or what might be left of it. As I hastily locked the car I could smell the stifling smoke in the air as I ran along the road to join the crowd watching outside. All the way I passed open doors with people standing with their eyes fixed on the pub. I could see the occasional flame, although the fire must already have been well under way when Martin had called me. I began to think Louise had been right and there was no place for me here, and yet with what seemed most of the village gathered I knew I’d been right to come. For whatever reason I was temporarily part of this village – for good or ill.
I briefly wondered how this would affect the case. It would certainly affect the Compton/Makepeace battle. With no pub many of the protesters upholding the rights of the old village would see their hopes as doomed and only the Comptons might be left to deal with the Makepeace clan.
When I reached the corner of the road where the pub stood, flames were still licking one end. The familiar gabled outline of the roof had changed, almost vanished. I could smell charred wood and see that the roof seemed partly to have fallen in, taking with it the top storey of the building at one end. The fight seemed to be more successful on the other end, where it had only just begun to eat its remorseless way through the timber and walls. I could see not only fire engines and the usual police car but three of the latter which meant there must be a crime scene investigator here, plus the Fire Investigation Team. I saw one of the fire fighters taking off his helmet briefly to wipe the sweat from his face and I recognized him. It was Nan, who must include this amongst his many other jobs. Almost immediately he put his helmet on and disappeared back into the burning building.
At last I spotted Martin in the crowd and went over to join him. He was bright-eyed with tiredness, his eyes fixed on the burning pub.
‘Was anyone inside?’ I asked him.
‘Only Andrew and Lucy. Their son was over with her parents. It was Andrew who called the fire brigade and so he and Lucy got out quickly.’
That at least was good news. ‘Is it known yet how the fire started?’ With someone’s help was my immediate thought and must surely be on most people’s minds.