Death at Beacon Cottage

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘What about all the signed photographs?’

  ‘Oh, they were genuine enough – after all, actors are only too happy to dish them out to fans. It was the phoney messages that gave the game away.’

  ‘How d’you know they were phoney?’

  ‘Hill says they were all written in the same handwriting with the same coloured ink.’

  ‘You mean, she wrote them herself? Poor old thing.’ Sukey finished her vegetable preparation, got out a sauté pan and poured in some oil. ‘So what about the information she gave DC Hill about seeing Rodriguez being taken away in an ambulance and so on? D’you reckon she made that up as well?’

  ‘No, I’m sure that’s all genuine enough. It would never stand up in court, though – not that this case is ever likely to get there anyway.’

  ‘But you said you’d issued a warrant for Rodriguez’ arrest—’

  ‘We’ve got to find him first.’

  ‘… and surely the evidence of the tracksuit and trainers is enough to prove he was the one who broke into Bussell Manor?’

  ‘It doesn’t prove he nicked anything, and in any event it’s not much good if we can’t produce him.’

  ‘But if in the meantime any of the stolen stuff turns up…?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain it won’t. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced there’s a very big and very efficient organisation behind all this.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that some shadowy “Mr Big” arranged for Rodriguez to be spirited away?’

  ‘I’m almost certain of it. His skill at deactivating alarm systems is worth a mint to anyone wanting to add to their art collection without having to part with the true value of the items.’

  ‘I still don’t see the point of arranging the disappearing act – surely, it would be obvious that it would simply confirm any possible suspicion that he was implicated in the robbery.’

  ‘Unless they knew there was a weak link in the organisation that would sooner or later lead to Roddy’s arrest.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Don’t forget the anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Sukey tipped vegetables into the hot oil and stirred them. ‘Have you any idea where that came from?’

  ‘None at all.’ Jim got up and stood beside Sukey at the stove, sniffing in appreciation. ‘That smells good. What goes with the stir-fry?

  ‘Cajun chicken breasts.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘What puzzles me,’ Sukey went on, ‘is why there had to be all that cloak-and-dagger stuff. Why couldn’t Roddy have simply packed a bag and taken off somewhere?’

  ‘We don’t know that he went voluntarily, do we?’

  ‘Are you suggesting he might be in danger?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m sure he’ll be very well looked after. But if there had been any kind of interruption – a visit from a police officer wanting a little more help with enquiries, for example…’

  ‘I see what you mean. You can’t pester a sick man with questions.’

  ‘More likely an unconscious man.’

  ‘You think they doped him?’

  ‘It would make sense. Oh yes, as I see it, spiriting Roddy away like that was masterly. Sending people in to clear the flat under the pretence of carrying out a cleaning job was pretty smart as well. They obviously have a very slick set-up to be able to do all that at such short notice.’

  ‘What d’you reckon was the purpose of the cleaning job?’

  ‘Obviously, to take away anything incriminating. Maybe Roddy had some of the stolen stuff stashed away there, although I doubt it. It looked as if a lot of his clothes had been taken, and toilet items. His passport wasn’t there either, or any other personal documents – no credit cards, nothing. We’re trying to contact his family in case they’ve heard anything – not that I think it’s at all likely – but we’ve had no luck so far, and of course there’s no one at his office because it’s the weekend.’

  Jim’s gloomy aspect deepened and Sukey fetched a bottle of red wine from a cupboard, took a corkscrew from a drawer and put them on the table in front of him. ‘Cheer yourself up with a drop of that,’ she said. ‘You know where the glasses are.’

  It was Saturday evening, the day after the break-in at Bussell Manor. They had just come indoors after spending an hour or so sipping iced drinks on the patio behind Sukey’s little semi-detached house in Brockworth while Jim brought her up to date on the progress of the police enquiry. The weather had been fine all day and the soft spring air lay like a warm, light coverlet over the garden and the open fields beyond. With Fergus away with Anita and her parents, the prospect of twenty-four hours on their own stretched invitingly before them. Sukey took the glass of wine Jim handed her, slid an arm round his shoulders and gently kissed his ear. ‘Don’t let it spoil our weekend,’ she whispered.

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’ He cupped a hand round her head, kissed her on the mouth and ruffled her short, dark curls before releasing her. ‘You have to admit, though, it is frustrating. If only Nina – that’s Pepita’s real name, by the way – had been able to let us know where the break-in was going to take place…’

  ‘Now come on, we’ve been over all that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So let’s enjoy the rest of this evening.’ She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before going back to her cooking.

  Later, as they were clearing away after their meal, Sukey said, ‘So where do you go from here – with the Bussell Manor job, I mean?’

  Jim paused in the act of drying the sauté pan. ‘I thought we were supposed to drop the subject?’ he said slyly.

  She gave a sheepish grin. ‘I know, I didn’t intend to raise it again, but it’s been gnawing away at the back of my mind—’

  ‘Mine too. Well, of course, we’ll do all the usual things – ask local art dealers to let us know if they’re offered any of the stuff, alert TRACE, make enquiries among known fences and check airports. Patterson seems confident that his insurers will be offering a substantial reward, which may tempt someone out of the woodwork.’

  Sukey tipped away the washing-up water and dried her hands. ‘Yes, I’ve been wondering about Patterson,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Jim, you don’t suppose he’s in on it, do you? To claim the insurance, I mean?’

  ‘It had occurred to me, but I doubt it. He gave me the impression of being genuinely upset about losing some of his most prized possessions.’

  ‘That could have been an act. He was very insistent that his friend Rodriguez couldn’t possibly be implicated, remember.’

  ‘That’s true. I’ll be giving it some more thought, but not tonight.’ He put the pan away, hung up the cloth he had used to dry it, and gently slid his arms round her. She nestled against him. ‘We are not, repeat not, going to refer to the Bussell Manor job again tonight,’ he commanded. ‘Agreed?’

  She gave a sigh of mingled desire and contentment. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So how was your weekend, Mum?’

  ‘Fine thanks. How was yours?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Fergus paused for a moment before adding, ‘Anita’s parents told me to say that if you and Jim would like to rent their cottage some time when they’re not using it, they’d let you have it at a special rate.’

  ‘How nice of them,’ Sukey responded warmly, then gave her son a keen look. ‘Gus, just what have you been telling them about me and Jim?’

  ‘Only that Jim’s a great guy and you and he have been an item for quite a while, but they knew that anyway.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘Anita told them, of course.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Sukey rinsed out the milk bottles and went to put them on the front doorstep before locking up for the night. She knew, of course, that Fergus was aware of, and sympathetic to, her relationship with Jim Castle, but it came as a slight shock to realise that it had been the subject of discussion outside the family. Then she mentally scolded herself for being so prissy. ‘Tell Mr and Mrs Masters “Thanks very much”
and I’ll mention it to Jim,’ she said when she returned to the kitchen. It seemed a long time since she had had a holiday and it would be heavenly if she and Jim could have a few days away together.

  Fergus upended his canvas holdall, tipped his weekend laundry on to the floor and began loading it into the washing machine. ‘Any developments in the Bussell Manor robbery?’ he asked. ‘The Sunday papers are full of it.’

  ‘Really? We decided not to bother with a paper today.’

  ‘Better things to do?’ Over his shoulder, he shot a sly, mischievous look at his mother.

  ‘Cheeky!’ Sukey landed a gentle thump on his back with her fist before giving him a brief account of the latest developments in the case.

  ‘Wow! It sounds like something out of a spy novel!’ he said excitedly. ‘I wonder what they’ll do with the body.’

  ‘Oh, Jim doesn’t reckon Rodriguez is in any danger. He thinks he’s been carried off and hidden away somewhere because they want him for some more jobs.’

  Fergus considered this theory for a moment, then shook his head and grinned. ‘That’d be a bit tame, wouldn’t it?’ he said flippantly. ‘In a case like this there’s sure to be at least one body sooner or later.’

  Eight

  Several thousand miles away from the semi-detached house in Brockworth where Sukey Reynolds and Jim Castle were spending a blissful weekend, during which they found little difficulty in avoiding further reference to the possible whereabouts and future plans of Miguel ‘Roddy’ Rodriguez, the subject of their earlier speculation was lying in the shade of a huge umbrella beside a sparkling blue swimming pool, sipping an iced piña colada and reflecting bemusedly on the extraordinary change in his fortunes. He tried to figure out how much time had passed since two strangers in white coats carrying a stretcher had entered his flat claiming to be there to carry out instructions from Mr Wallis, but he was still confused and disorientated. The men had explained that it was considered better for him to ‘go away for a while until the heat had died down’ and invited him to lie on the stretcher and pretend to be unconscious. When he demanded further explanations they merely said they were there to carry out Mr Wallis’s instructions and told him brusquely not to ask questions. Time was short, they said, and would he please get on with it. He remembered reaching for the telephone, determined to get confirmation from Wallis that they were acting under his orders, at which point they had exchanged glances and one of them moved behind him and pinioned his arms while the other produced a syringe. He remembered his shout of mingled alarm and outrage, a brief but futile struggle, and a sharp prick in his arm followed by temporary oblivion.

  After that, recollection became blurred, a jumble of confusing impressions that he could not place in chronological order. He had vague memories of being taken from a car while still on the stretcher and carried aboard a small plane by two men – not the ones who had taken him from his penthouse apartment, but swarthy individuals who remained constantly at his side, spoke to him in Spanish with an unfamiliar accent and gave him warm, sweet drinks that made him sleepy and compliant. After the flight came another car journey followed by a ride in a wheelchair along what seemed to be miles of passages, dimly recognised as airport channels. Solicitous hands that all seemed to belong to beautiful, smiling women installed him in a first-class cabin, fastened his seat belt, covered him with a soft blanket and at intervals roused him with food and more sleep-inducing drinks.

  This morning – or was it yesterday morning, he was still not sure how long he had been under the influence of the drugs – he had for the first time awakened fully conscious to find himself lying in an enormous bed between pale blue sheets that had the cool feel of silk against his skin. Sunlight filtered through shuttered windows; as his eyes adjusted to the subdued light, he made out carved and painted furniture in the Spanish style, and portraits of aristocratic men and elaborately coiffed and gowned women on the whitewashed walls.

  There had been a silk dressing-gown on a chair beside the bed. When he stood up to put it on, his feet sank into a soft rug, one of several scattered over a tiled floor. He found the bathroom, appointed in a style that made the Ritz look utilitarian, and took a shower. When he returned to the bedroom, he saw a man whom he vaguely recognised seated in an armchair at the foot of his bed. He remembered asking in Spanish, ‘Who are you?’ and receiving the reply, ‘I am Juan, one of your travelling companions.’ On enquiring where he was, he was told, ‘You are the guest of El Dueño.’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘El Dueño will explain all.’

  El Dueño. The boss. Mr Big. Roddy knew instinctively that Juan had not been referring to Wallis. Somehow he had caught the attention of someone enormously wealthy and powerful whose arm could reach across oceans to pluck him from his home and transport him halfway across the world. Juan had not revealed the exact location, nor even the name of the country where he had been brought.

  The heat of the sun was intense, yet there was a freshness in the air that reminded Roddy of visits to the Swiss Alps. He raised his head and looked lazily around him. The villa was definitely not Swiss; it was built in the Spanish style, yet he was certain he was not in Spain either. From the tropical vegetation surrounding the villa, the brilliantly plumaged birds in the garden and above all the majestic backdrop of mountains that looked like pictures he had seen of the Andes, it was more likely to be somewhere in South America. The thought had sinister connotations which he preferred not to consider for the time being.

  He relaxed and closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment. He had no idea what drugs they had given him, but for the moment nothing seemed to matter. It was simply bliss to be lying there; it would have been heaven if only Pepita could be with him. Perhaps they’d let him send for her. And then, with the force of a violent punch in the stomach, recollection returned in full. Pepita had betrayed him. She had pretended to love him when all the time she had been working towards his downfall. The memory of her treachery injected a whiff of poison into his newly found paradise. His mind flew back to the moment when he had taken her picture from his wallet and in his blind fury been on the point of ripping it apart. Something had stayed his hand then, perhaps some lingering hope that there had been a mistake, that it was none of her doing that the police were taking so much interest in him… but he felt no such qualms now. He would destroy her picture right away, expunge her from his life forever.

  He sat up and reached for his wallet; it crossed his mind to feel vaguely surprised that it had not been taken from him, then reflected that at no time had he felt seriously threatened. What lay behind his abduction he had yet to find out, but from the opulence surrounding him it seemed unlikely that they were after his money. He yawned, telling himself that there was no hurry to get to the bottom of it. There was always mañana.

  He found the wallet and opened it. Everything was in its usual place: credit cards, driving licence, phone card, about fifty pounds in English money… but no photograph. He checked everything a second time; it wasn’t there, and somehow it became terribly important to find it. From hating Pepita and wanting to tear her out of his memory and his life, he felt a desperate need to see her face again.

  ‘Have you lost something, amigo?’

  Juan had emerged from the villa unnoticed, moving silently on his soft leather loafers. He was a stocky individual with short black curly hair, olive skin and the appearance of having been tightly compressed before being packaged in his faultlessly cut, pale-blue suit. His eyes were permanently masked behind dark glasses, making it impossible to tell whether or not they reflected the smile that seemed permanently painted on his features. He was smiling now, his full, sensuous lips drawn back from teeth that shone like an advertisement for dental care.

  ‘There was a photograph in this wallet when I left home, and now it’s gone,’ said Roddy impatiently. ‘Where is it? Have you taken it?’

  Juan shrugged dismissively. ‘What would I want with a picture of your chica?’ he said
blandly.

  ‘How did you know it was my girlfriend?’

  Juan gave an oily chuckle, his smile never wavering. ‘A man does not become so agitated over losing a picture of his maiden aunt,’ he replied. He helped himself from the jug which Isabella, the taciturn woman with a forbidding expression who apparently presided over the household and complied with Roddy’s every request with a murmured, ‘Si, señor,’ had placed on a table in the shade.

  ‘Where is it?’ Roddy repeated. ‘I want it back!’

  ‘After she betrayed you?’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘You told us everything after your arrival here.’

  ‘While you had me drugged, I suppose.’

  Juan merely shrugged, making it clear that he either could not, or would not, give an answer. He sat down on a lounger beside Roddy’s and drew a folder from the briefcase he was carrying. ‘You have created quite a sensation,’ he said with another flash of enamel. ‘I downloaded these from the internet half an hour ago. See for yourself.’ He opened the folder and took out a sheaf of papers which he handed to Roddy. ‘You have been given a nickname – “The phantom robber”,’ he went on, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘How about that, huh?’

  Roddy stared in stupefaction at a reproduction of the front page of one of the more sensational English tabloids. Beneath the solid black headlines, ‘Phantom Robber Strikes Again’ was a picture of Bussell Manor, described as ‘Electronic Wizard’s Latest Target’. In a short paragraph at the bottom of the page, readers were informed that the police were seeking a suspect – as yet unnamed – who was alleged to have been spirited away under their noses as they were on the point of making an arrest. Roddy turned to the next page and read on, chuckling at the sensational language the journalist had used to report what was described as ‘this cloak-and-dagger operation’.