A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  He didn't acknowledge her call or look back, hurrying away. A draught of cold air blew in from the hall and the front door slammed shut. Kirsten held her ground for a moment, standing behind Tamara, and then she, too, melted into the background. Jane's expression switched to embarrassment. Tamara met her forlorn gaze, smiling supportively.

  "You'll have to forgive Luke. The last couple of years have been particularly hard on him."

  "Because of the relationship with his father?" Tom asked.

  Jane was pensive. She nodded.

  "Didn't they get on?" Tamara asked. "Luke and his dad?"

  "Quite the opposite. Luke loved his father. All he ever wanted was Gavin's approval. He sought it out but no matter how hard he tried; it was never enough."

  "I can relate," Tamara said. Tom didn't react but something in her tone made him see Tamara's comment as genuine, rather than a prescribed response to put a witness at ease. She caught him looking at her, suddenly seeming self-conscious. "I think we have enough for now, Mrs Felgate—"

  "And you'll be in touch about …"

  "The identification?" Tamara asked, Jane nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow morning with the arrangements. I can send a car for you if you like?"

  "Yes, thank you. None of us drive." Tamara failed to mask her surprise. "Oh, Gavin wouldn't allow …"

  She looked down at the floor and Tom exchanged a look with Tamara.

  "We'll see ourselves out," Tamara said. Tom took the lead and Tamara stepped forward placing a hand on Jane's forearm. "I'm sorry for your loss." She turned and left the kitchen, meeting Tom at the front door. He looked past her and up to the landing at the top of the stairs where a pair of blue eyes were watching them. Tom smiled at Kirsten and she disappeared from sight.

  The doorbell rang. The hallway was too narrow to allow anyone else to pass by them to answer the door, and Jane Felgate hovered behind Tamara craning her neck to see past Tom. He opened it. A woman stood on the doorstep surprised to see two strangers, in Tom and Tamara, greeting her. She smiled nervously and then, spotting Jane in the background, offered her a wave.

  "Don't mind us," Tom said to her, "we're just leaving."

  "Oh, okay," the woman said, awkwardly moving aside to give them room to pass. Jane Felgate came to the door. The newcomer noticed how upset she was, reaching out to her.

  "Jane, whatever is the matter?"

  "Oh, Leigh... I–it's Gavin…" she said. "He's dead."

  Leigh gasped, a hand raising to cover her mouth as it fell open. "What? How?"

  Jane shook her head, indicating Tom and Tamara. "They are from the police."

  Leigh's eyes darted between them, settling back on her friend. Jane threatened to cry at any moment, retreating inside and beckoning Leigh to follow. She glanced at Tom and Tamara before doing so, nodding in their direction. Tom returned the gesture with a sympathetic smile. The latch clicked into place and they turned, making their way down the path, heading for the car. Tamara spoke as they walked. "The daughter – Kirsten – is quite skittish. Unless young women always run off when you look at them kindly?"

  A smile crossed Tom's face. "You didn't."

  "You hardly ever smile at me, though, Tom—" She stopped, gently elbowing him in the ribs and pointing up the road to where their car was parked. Luke Felgate stood there, leaning against their car, arms folded across his chest.

  They approached, the young man dropped his arms to his side and slipped his hands into his pockets, looking sheepish. In his haste to leave the house he hadn't picked up a coat. His breath formed massive clouds of vapour around him with every exhale. The wind had dropped which was a blessing.

  "Sorry about that," Luke said. "Sometimes… I don't react well to things. Emotional things."

  "That's understandable, under the circumstances," Tom said, moving alongside him and leaning his back against the car as well. "How did you know this was our car?"

  Luke shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at the car. "It's the only one parked out here that I've never seen before. Not a lot changes around here, you know?"

  Tom laughed. He was observant. "Inside, you said your father was—"

  "An arse, yeah."

  That wasn't what Tom was going to say, but he understood the sentiment. "Did he drink a lot then, your father?"

  Luke nodded, staring at his feet. "Some days he wasn't too bad. Other times … you wanted to be anywhere but near him, you know?" He glanced up at Tom glumly. "On those days you knew it was only going one way."

  "Which way?"

  Luke shrugged. "One of us would get a good kicking. Usually Mum… unless…"

  "Unless?"

  He sighed. "Unless I got in the way."

  "Did you?"

  He nodded. "Sometimes."

  "That's harsh."

  "I should have done more but," he stared at Tom hard, "I was scared. Let my mum take it while I hid."

  "It wasn't your fault, Luke," Tom said, shaking his head. Luke was biting back tears now. "Do you want to go somewhere, grab a coffee or something?"

  Luke shook his head, sniffing hard and stepping away from the car. He took a couple of steps back towards the house.

  "I should get back inside, see to my mum."

  He didn't meet Tom's eye. Tamara, lingering quietly in the background, looked on.

  "Luke?" Tom said, the boy turned and Tom passed him one of his contact cards. He nodded towards it as Luke accepted it from him, turning it over in his hand. "You can call me on that number any time you fancy a chat. Any time at all, okay?"

  Luke silently accepted with a brief nod and set off back to the house. Tom waited until he was up the steps and passing through the door before he looked over the roof of the car at Tamara who mouthed a silent wow.

  "What do you make of that?" he asked as the front door closed and he unlocked the car.

  "So much to unpick there. Families, huh?" she replied, pulling open her door and getting in.

  Chapter Six

  They made their way through an open-plan office on the third floor of the building. It was a nondescript office block built sometime in the eighties, Tom figured, uninspiring but functional. The same couldn't be said for the view out of the windows overlooking part of Norwich city centre. Buildings constructed hundreds of years previously, ones that stood the test of time regarding their aesthetics, lined the street opposite. The hustle and bustle of late afternoon traffic filtered up to them.

  Their guide glanced back over his shoulder, offering a pleasant smile. His cheeks were pockmarked from acne and, despite making an effort to dress in a formal shirt and tie, he still looked like a little boy. He must be an intern. The shirt was too large for him around the collar, the arms looking far too baggy. Reaching the office, he knocked once and a voice beyond bid them to enter. The lad opened the door, passed through and held it for Tom and Tamara.

  "Thank you, David. That'll be all." The escort smiled at the visitors and left, pulling the door closed behind him. Charles Adams, a balding man with a pot belly, rose from behind his desk, offering them a broad smile. "It's a good job you arrived when you did, I was just about to head off."

  Tom glanced at his watch; it was only half past three. Adams noticed, the smile fading a little.

  "The nights draw in early this time of year and you can't play a round in the dark, can you?"

  Tom nodded and smiled. He didn't play; never quite understanding the love of the game but each to their own. They introduced themselves and Adams offered them both a seat.

  "We're here to talk to you about a member of your staff, Gavin Felgate. He writes for you?"

  Adams rolled his eyes, his mouth falling open. "What's Gavin done now?" He splayed his hands wide in a gesture of supplication. "There's nothing he was assigned to that should be of interest to the police—"

  Tamara interrupted him. "I'm sorry to have to tell you, Mr Adams, that Gavin was found dead this morning."

  Adams stared at her, open mouthed. It took a moment for the inform
ation to sink in. He sank back in his chair, shoulders sagging. "My word. Gavin … really?"

  Tamara nodded. "We are trying to build a picture of his movements in the last few days. Could you tell us what he was working on?"

  "Um … yes, certainly," Adams said, sitting forward again, placing his hands flat on the desk and drawing breath. His eyes turned to the ceiling as he thought hard. He was rocked by the news and seemed to be struggling to process simple questions. "He … um … was assigned a couple of stories recently." He shook his head, turning the corners of his mouth down. "None of them were particularly monumental; what we call lifestyle gigs."

  "Lifestyle gigs?" Tom asked.

  "Yes, interviewing prominent locals about their successes, how they do what they do," he said, waving one hand in a circular motion in the air before him. "Sometimes not so prominent, depending on what else we have to run at the time. I like to build up a catalogue of these types of stories, they're cracking filler if you come up a little short content-wise in a slow week."

  "And Gavin was working on these, anything specific?"

  Adams dragged his hands across both cheeks, his brow furrowing. "Yes, hang on a second and I'll look up what I'd given him." Pulling his keyboard across his desk in front of him, he clicked through a number of folders, his expression lightening as he found what he was after. "Here it is. Gavin was doing a piece on a local businessman in the catering trade. He supplies restaurants, fulfils government contracts and has several restaurants along the coast I believe."

  "What was the angle, if you don't mind my asking?" Tamara said.

  "Not at all, no. As I said, it was a lifestyle piece and I understand this particular company offers work to those that are perhaps deemed less appealing by other employers; apprenticeships, paid internships … things like that. I'll give you all the details I have, if you like."

  "Thank you. That would be helpful," Tamara said. "Anything else?"

  "Erm … he had a follow-up visit to someone who has become something of a local celebrity in the past twelve months – Greg Beaty – do you know him?"

  Tom and Tamara exchanged looks. Neither of them had heard of him.

  "Maybe you know him by his pen name – T. C. Boyd?"

  Tom shook his head and Tamara apologised. Adams seemed disappointed.

  "He used to be a journalist but recently turned his hand to writing crime fiction. His first book has been a runaway success … I'm surprised you've never heard of him."

  Tamara smiled apologetically. "Crime fiction is a bit too close to the day job. I prefer romance, personally."

  "Right, yes, of course. I can see that," Adams said, bobbing his head in agreement. "I didn't think of that."

  "You said it was a follow-up story?" Tom asked.

  "That's right," Adams said, running a hand down the length of his tie and straightening it. He appeared thoughtful. "I commissioned the piece a couple of months ago but Greg was putting a new book together, so I left it on the shelf with a view to running it when the next book was published. That was the beginning of this month, releasing just in time for the run up to Christmas. Gavin had to check in with him just to make sure nothing had changed prior to publication."

  "Have you read the piece?"

  "Yes, obviously."

  "Anything in it that was surprising to read?"

  Adams laughed. "Salacious revelations, that sort of thing?" Tom nodded that that was his thinking. "No, not at all. Greg has led an interesting life, a story well worth reading even without the novel, but nothing in the story would be considered contentious. We don't really specialise in investigative journalism, Inspector. No, no, we are – how can I phrase this – the easy-reading Sunday afternoon type of publications." His eyebrows knitted momentarily and he cast a suspicious look between the two of them. "Why do you ask? Just what is it that has happened to Gavin?"

  "We are investigating the circumstances surrounding Gavin's death," Tamara said. "At this time, we can't say anything further than that."

  "Good Lord. He's been murdered, hasn't he?"

  Tamara held up a solitary hand in denial. "That's not what I said—"

  "No but it's a possibility, isn't it? Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

  Neither Tom nor Tamara denied the possibility but it was true that they didn't yet know what had befallen Gavin Felgate.

  Tom sat forward and sought to change tack. "Are you aware of any threats made or arguments Gavin may have had with anyone recently, or noted any change in his behaviour, good or bad?"

  Adams blew out his cheeks. "Where to start?" He immediately waved away his own comment. "Please, don't get me wrong. Gavin was all right, not the most popular member of the team, I think it's fair to say, but he hadn't fallen out with anyone as far as I know." He read Tom's expression, encouraging him to elaborate. Adams held his hands up. "He could be," he looked up, searching for the right word, "spiky. Yes, he could be spiky around people and that's not particularly inspirational and doesn't help forge the bonds of friendship, so to speak. Not that it bothered Gavin. I think he'd got used to his own company since his marriage broke down and liked it that way. Not the sort to crave human interaction."

  "Makes him an odd choice for a lifestyle journalist, doesn't it?" Tom asked.

  Adams tilted his head to one side, pursing his lips. "Maybe, but he was a damn fine writer. He could deliver me a piece needing minimal editing, on time, every time. And he learned to fake it years ago."

  "Fake what?" Tom asked.

  "His love of people," Adams said, raising an eyebrow along with a pointed finger. "That's the gift journalists need in interviews; the ability to put the interviewee at ease, off guard, relate to them on their level or look up to them if they have the ego requiring it. Reading people. It's as important a talent as organising words on a page. Gavin had both. That's why he made it on the nationals."

  "Then how come he wound up here?" Tom said, "No offence intended."

  Adams smiled. "None taken. The nationals, the tabloids in particular, are like a hamster wheel that never stops spinning. The demand for the next story doesn't let up and it takes a particular type of character to stay in the game for their entire career. The columnists have longevity, the opinion writers, too, but those pumping the stories in day after day … well, they have to maintain their levels because if not the next guy is champing at the bit for your desk space. It's tough, stressful. And it takes its toll."

  "Are you saying Gavin Felgate … did what … cracked?"

  Adams frowned. "I think the worst of it was behind him, left back in London, but …"

  "But?" Tamara asked.

  "I admit I had to speak to him on a couple of occasions when he came into the office having overdone it the night before." He drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his brow creasing. "But none of that was recent. In the last month or so I'd say he has had a bit of a spring in his step."

  "And the breakdown of his marriage, how did he react to that?" Tamara asked.

  "I’m not aware of any specific change in him," he shook his head. "Gavin didn't speak about his personal life in any detail. Not to me, at least. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to give you a name of anyone in the office he was close to. Crying shame that though, don’t you think? To go through life alone. You must miss out on so much."

  "So, there's no possibility that he was involved with anyone from work?"

  "Involved? What, romantically?"

  "Yes," Tamara said, smiling, "I'm an old romantic, after all."

  "No, not as far as I know but, then again, stranger things have happened."

  Tamara looked at Tom. He didn't have anything further to ask and so she glanced over her shoulder through the window towards the open-plan office. "Can we take a look at his desk?"

  Gavin Felgate's desk was on the far side of the office, tucked away in a dog-leg section opposite a short corridor linking the office to the communal facilities. Looking at the proximity to other desks, Tom figured it was the ideal spot for s
omeone who didn't wish to interact with nearby colleagues, fitting in with his boss's assessment of him. There wasn't much to look at; the desk was cluttered, but not by anything meaningful, just the detritus that collected over time, Post-it note reminders stuck to the edge of the monitor, stationery and scribbled notes on scrap paper. A framed photograph stood off to the right of his screen, a shot of his wife with their two children. All three of them were smiling and it looked like it was taken at an evening celebration, bunting hanging from the ceiling behind them. The children looked around ten or eleven years old, Kirsten was slight but Luke was already showing how tall he was likely to become. Thinking about it, Tom found it curious. Luke was far taller than his mother and considerably taller than his father as well, which was unusual.

  "I don't know what you'll find that's useful," Adams said, standing nearby. "Gavin was old school and didn't make a lot of notes. He liked to keep things in his head."

  Tom opened the top drawer of the pedestal, finding a number of loose pens, a stapler and other bits and pieces. Alongside these he found an A5-sized diary; it was worn at the edges, the cover scratched. It had seen some use this year. He slid the drawer closed and opened the two larger ones beneath it but they were almost completely empty, perhaps proving the editor's point. Thumbing through the diary, he found the previous week and then quickly scanned the two weeks prior to that. It was only a week-to-view diary, leaving little room for each day besides the briefest of entries.

  "Interesting," he said aloud. Tamara turned to him with a quizzical expression. Tom looked up from the pages at her. "He had two meetings last week, Tuesday and Friday, same time. They were recurring – going back weeks."

  "Who with? Does it say?"

  Tom shook his head. "Marked with a letter 'M'. Half past two, every Tuesday and Friday."