by Granger, Ann
‘Is it usual for Mr Crown to be unreachable?’ Jess was making notes on a pad with her free hand. Foscott was concerned and apparently had some reason to be. Morton wandered over and read what she’d written. He pulled a face.
‘Well, not usual, but on occasions he, ah, isolates himself from contact,’ the solicitor’s voice said in her ear. ‘In addition to the surfing, and other sporting activities, he also plays a lot of golf. Nothing worse on a golf course than a mobile phone ringing just when someone is about to make a shot …’
‘So? Is the dead man Gervase Crown?’ Sergeant Phil Morton asked later. The question was rhetorical. It was what was in all their minds.
He and Jess were in Carter’s office. The heating system had lumbered into action but so far seemed to have raised a lot of year-old dust and not much heat. Morton, over by the window, was looking glum. That didn’t mean Phil thought they had no hope of solving the case. It was just that he tended to approach all investigations as likely to be strewn with unforeseen pitfalls. His attitude was born of experience. Right now, he was working out what the snags might be in this one. As he remarked to Jess earlier, a mystery corpse and a scene of crime destroyed by fire was a good enough start.
As for the rest of the team today, Sergeant Dave Nugent was in his favourite place, before a computer, trawling Missing Persons in the hope of finding a possible lead to the identity of their corpse. Detective constables Bennison and Stubbs had divided between them the area within a five-mile radius of the murder scene, and were driving round the countryside calling at all dwellings, including farms, hoping someone might have noticed something suspicious on the day of the fire or during the previous days. In particular they were asking about strangers. Someone had died, but someone else had set the fire.
‘This fellow …’ Carter glanced at Jess’s notepad. If she had realised everyone would be queuing up to read her scrawled summary of the conversation with Foscott, she would have written it out more carefully. ‘Even if he’s resident abroad, we still have to start with him. He could be over here on a visit. Gervase Crown. You seem to have found out quite a bit about his family already, Jess. Also, his solicitor is concerned enough to call us when he can’t contact the man over there in Portugal by phone or email.’
‘Crown doesn’t have to be at home in Portugal to read and answer his emails,’ Morton put in, ‘or to answer his mobile.’
Jess reminded them, ‘Apparently Crown does disconnect from the outside world when he doesn’t want to be interrupted. He often goes surfing in suitable conditions and plays a lot of golf and other sports the rest of the time. It’s in my notes, sir.’
Carter gave her a look. ‘That didn’t stop the solicitor grabbing the phone. He’s covering his back. He doesn’t want his client annoyed by a set of Portuguese police officers turning up, sent at our request to check him out. But he’s desperate to know if the dead chap is Crown.’
‘Some people have all the luck,’ muttered Morton. ‘What does Crown do to finance his lifestyle?’
‘Private income.’
Morton’s expression said clearly that there was no end to this world’s injustices.
‘When was he last in this country for certain?’ Carter asked her.
‘We don’t know yet,’ she admitted. ‘Nor, I fancy, do his solicitors. He generally calls on them but that’s not to say he might not, if it suited him. He’ll have to be careful how often he comes here on a visit, won’t he? Because of the tax situation? I mean it’ll be a question of where he’s resident for tax purposes. If he’s paying his taxes in Portugal, then there’s a limit how long he can spend in this country before the Inland Revenue here queries his genuine residence abroad.’
‘On the other hand, if he pays his taxes here, he’ll be able to come back as often as he likes,’ Carter pointed out. ‘We can find out if he’s officially resident for tax purposes here or in Portugal easily enough. Those solicitors should know. Does this firm represent all his interests here, while he’s sunning himself on some beach or knocking a golf ball around? Which firm is it? You say it’s local.’
‘Yes, and we’ve dealt with them before,’ Jess told them, ‘not all that long ago, in the case where the girl’s body was found at that farm …’
‘You had this conversation with Reggie Foscott!’ Carter exclaimed, tapping her notepad. ‘Why didn’t one of you say so?’
‘The one with the horsy wife,’ Morton confirmed, adding a little defensively, ‘it’s in my notes, sir. I spoke to a guy called Trenton who has been writing to them, or rather, writing to Crown care of Foscott’s. Trenton’s never had a reply to any of his letters.’
‘Yes, Trenton told me that, too, at the scene, but he didn’t mention the name of the solicitors at the time,’ Jess said. She should have got the name of the solicitors from Trenton at the scene, or at the very least from Morton first thing this morning, before Foscott rang. She hoped Carter hadn’t noticed the slip and categorised it as screwing up. But he was the sort who wouldn’t miss it. ‘As Foscott rang me, I could follow it up, go and interview him again,’ she offered. ‘See if he can come up with anything else of interest about the house.’
‘No, I’ll go,’ said Carter. ‘He might not expect me.’
Is that, wondered Jess, telling me I did get it wrong and I’m not to be allowed to speak to Reggie Foscott? Or am I being paranoid?
‘The thing that bugs me about the house,’ muttered Morton, ‘is that this fellow Crown didn’t live in it and hasn’t sold it. That makes no sense at all to me. Look at the money those big old places round here fetch! OK, he’s rolling in dough and doesn’t need the cash. But leaving it empty was asking for trouble and, well, trouble is what we’ve all got now because of it.’
Carter stood up. ‘Whatever his reasons, the first thing we have to do is establish whether the body is or isn’t that of Gervase Crown. We agree that, because he hasn’t told his solicitor he’s in this country, it doesn’t mean he isn’t here – alive or dead. Or he may still be on the golf course in the sunshine. I’ll get on to the Portuguese police to check it out for us, at the risk of putting Mr Crown off his golf stroke. If Crown is out of the country, then we have to start looking for another name for our dead man.’
Jess offered, ‘Pete Nichols at Fingerprints is still hopeful. He says he’s got prints from worse cases. He tells me fingerprints are readable below the surface skin. If the body is that of a vagrant, drug addict or squatter, then we may well have his prints on record.’
Carter was looking thoughtful. ‘Didn’t Dr Layton tell you Gervase Crown got into some sort of trouble here, before his father died and he left to take up residence abroad?’
‘Yes, Layton said it wasn’t his business to tell me about that. I put his unwillingness down to his professional scruples,’ Jess said. ‘I got the impression the doctor felt he’d already been too chatty.’
‘How about if Layton was so coy because Gervase Crown’s spot of trouble involved the police? Has anyone checked to see whether we have his fingerprints on record?’
Chapter 3
‘Ah, Superintendent Carter,’ Reginald Foscott greeted his visitor. He rose from his chair and extended a long, bony hand.
Carter shook it briefly. He took the chair Foscott indicated to him with a slightly jerky sweep of his freed hand. As on the previous occasions, the man made Carter think of a marionette dangling from strings; its thin, stiff, though jointed, arms moving at the bidding of some unseen puppeteer.
Foscott retook his own seat, and leaned back with his long fingers steepled and a half smile on his pale face. His manner was outwardly benign, but there was caution in his eyes. Fair enough. The last time they’d met the occasion had concluded with Carter charging Foscott’s then client with murder, among other crimes. Now Foscott didn’t sit in an interview room on a client’s business, Carter sat in Foscott’s office and the balance of power had subtly shifted. Tables turned? Not exactly, Carter thought, although we seemed destined to be
linked by murder inquiries, Reggie and I.
There was a framed photograph on the solicitor’s desk, showing a little girl, not much older than Millie, sitting atop a sturdy pony. So they were linked in another way, too. They both had daughters. He wondered briefly what sort of a family man Foscott was – probably an ideal husband and father.
‘Very sad affair,’ said Foscott, by way of introducing the subject of the visit. He waited.
‘A death is always a sad investigation to be making,’ agreed Carter.
‘No doubt about it being suspicious, I take it?’ Foscott raised eyebrows so nearly hairless that the puckering of the skin was the chief sign of the expression.
‘No doubt at all.’
‘Ah …’ murmured Foscott again, and looked disapproving.
‘You telephoned Inspector Campbell,’ Carter continued, slightly irritated, ‘because you were concerned the dead man might be the house owner, Mr Gervase Crown. You told her you’d not been able to reach him by email or phone. May I ask whether you’ve yet heard from him?’
‘Yes, we have, only minutes ago, as it happens.’ Foscott reached out a hand and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘By email. I have a printout, you may like to see it.’ He handed it to Carter. ‘I must say, I am relieved. I also apologise for troubling Inspector Campbell. But one’s first thought, you understand, when hearing of a body …’ His voice trailed away.
‘“Hi, Reggie!”’ read Carter aloud. ‘“Alarming news about the old home burning down. Some bloody tramp, I suppose, or a loony with a box of matches. Do we know who the stiff is/was? I suppose I need to come to the UK. Will book a flight today. Be in touch as soon as I arrive, with a bit of luck tomorrow, or if I’m really lucky, late tonight.”’
‘As soon as he arrives,’ Carter said, ‘ask him to contact the police at once, asking either for me personally or Inspector Jessica Campbell. If neither of us is available, he can speak to someone else, but we do need to speak to him urgently.’ He held up the printout. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’
Foscott hesitated briefly. ‘No, no, I don’t see why not.’
‘How long has Mr Crown been living in Portugal?’
Reggie Foscott pursed his thin lips and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. ‘Five or six years. He lives on the coast in an area where there are a number of excellent golf courses. He’s a keen golfer. He also keeps a horse at some livery stables there and does a little competition showjumping. But chiefly, I understand, the attraction of the area is that it’s near a beach called Guincho. It’s a spot for surfers. Mr Crown is very keen on the pastime – or the sport. I don’t know quite what you call it.’
‘At his age, I’d call a lifestyle like that immature!’ Carter said sourly, getting to his feet. ‘Has he ever done any kind of work? He’s what, thirty?’
‘Mr Crown is, ah, thirty-five,’ Foscott said in a prim way. ‘He did inherit a considerable fortune from his father.’
‘Even though we’ve been given to understand he and his father had fallen out?’
Foscott raised his eyebrows disapprovingly. ‘I have no such knowledge, Superintendent. I don’t know who told you that. Even if it were so, I don’t think Sebastian Crown was the sort of chap who would cut his only heir out of his will, and leave everything to the cats’ home. Gervase can afford to avoid the nine to five daily grind, Superintendent, and has taken advantage of it. Which of us, given the opportunity, would not do the same?’ Foscott smiled benignly at his visitor.
‘That’s the obvious explanation, certainly,’ Carter returned as blandly. He did not add, but is it the only one?
Even so, Foscott looked mildly discomfited.
‘Is he resident in Portugal for tax purposes, do you happen to know?’
‘I do know.’ Foscott’s confidence returned. Direct questions and answers were his forte. ‘He is resident for tax purposes in Portugal. The firm of canine products that was the source of the family wealth was sold some time ago. Mr Crown’s other financial interests are dealt with through a firm in London. I only deal with his private affairs.’
‘And he usually gives you – and one assumes this firm in London – warning when he’s likely to make a visit to the UK?’
Foscott looked cautious. ‘I am not privy to his communications with the London firm. He would normally let me know if he’s coming to this part of the world on the very rare occasions that he does. We keep an eye on Key House for him, so it is rather unfortunate that it’s burned down. Although perhaps “burned down” is an exaggeration. I understand the walls are still standing but the interior is pretty well gutted. I have not yet been out to the scene myself. I am hoping to drive over there before it gets too dark, so that I can make a report to Mr Crown when he arrives. He will want to view the damage himself, naturally, and no doubt arrange for a survey as soon as the fire investigation is complete. He may decide to restore the property, or it may be beyond that.’
Struck by a thought, Carter asked, ‘Was it a listed building?’
‘Yes, a Grade Two listed building, constructed just a little after 1700, and although it isn’t, or now wasn’t, the finest in the area, it did have a few features of particular interest. Some late Stuart oak panelling, I recall. It was a farmhouse originally. It became a family home around 1880 and all the outlying farm buildings were knocked down except for some stables and a barn used as a coach-house. The former coach-house was later converted to a garage for motor vehicles. The stables were unused and what remained of them pulled down in the late 1960s after being extensively damaged.’
‘How were they damaged?’
It was Foscott’s turn to look bland. ‘I understand there was a fire. They burned down and it was not thought necessary to rebuild them.’
Outside again, and sitting in his car, Carter contacted Jess on his mobile.
‘Gervase Crown has been in touch with Foscott by email to tell him he’s on his way back to the UK. I suppose we can assume, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, he did send the email and the dead body isn’t that of Crown himself.’
‘It’s not,’ Jess’s voice echoed in his ear. ‘Pete Nichols has just got back to me. He managed to lift a fair set of prints from the fingers on one hand. The other hand was a bit too badly damaged. Gervase Crown’s prints are on record, as it turned out, so we were able to compare them and eliminate Crown as the corpse.’
‘The dickens they are!’ interrupted Carter. ‘Why do we have his prints? What’s he done?’
‘He was in a little trouble being caught in possession of banned substances, when he was a teenager.’
‘Wealthy public schoolboy,’ Carter interrupted. ‘Natural target for dealers.’
‘He also managed to write off two cars before he was twenty-two. Both instances put down to driving while under the influence of alcohol. He caused a three-car pile up the first time. His car and one of the other vehicles were a write-off. By some miracle, none of the drivers or passengers was seriously injured or killed. Paramedics did attend the scene, and treated some of those involved and a passer-by for cuts and bruises. One person went to hospital with whiplash injury to the neck. Young Crown was breathalysed at the scene and the reading was well over the limit. The second crash, however, resulted in a far more serious injury. A passenger in his car, a girl, suffered spinal injuries. She was left in a wheelchair for life and later awarded considerable damages in a civil case. Young Crown got a year and served six months.’ She paused. ‘Dr Layton told me Gervase had “got into a bit of trouble” when young. I can understand now why he didn’t want to give me any details.’
Carter gave a growl. ‘“Bit of trouble” sounds the understatement of the week! I’m not surprised his father was fed up with him. It was probably the last straw. Did Gervase Crown, on leaving school, volunteer to go backpacking round the world, I wonder, or did his father send him? When he eventually turned up again and started writing off cars and earning himself a prison record, his father must
have been furious.’
‘But he made no move to reduce his considerable inheritance,’ Jess commented.
‘Only heir of his body? People put up with a lot of aggravation before they start thinking of leaving their money outside of the blood. I did try to draw Foscott on that one, but he said Sebastian wasn’t the sort of man to leave his fortune to an animal sanctuary. A little odd, that, considering he’d made that fortune out of canine health products. Still, it can’t have been a happy situation.’
Carter drove slowly away from the solicitor’s offices, aware the solicitor watched him discreetly through a Venetian blind. After a few minutes, he drew into the car park of a supermarket, where he sat in the car reviewing his conversation with Reginald Foscott. Around him harassed housewives wielded heavily laden trolleys, some with a baby crammed in a wire seat aloft above the soap powder and cornflakes. More than one trolley had recalcitrant wheels, plotting a course of its own. Some of the infants were loath to cooperate, too, one or two quite purple with rage. He didn’t blame them, poor little tykes.
That’s how it goes, he thought. It starts, when you’re a teenager, with having fun, eyeing up the talent. Then you meet one person in particular. It progresses to candlelit dinners and wedding bells, and the next stage is this, parenthood, home life … Then, in his case, the wheel had come off their wedding trolley and it had all fallen off a cliff and into the divorce court. Somewhere I went wrong, he thought; not Sophie, me.
Gervase Crown had been a young tearaway, driving fast, smashing up cars, causing serious injury to a girl passenger. In a few years’ time, Millie would be a teenager, going to parties, meeting young fellows with more money than brains. He hoped Millie herself would have the good sense not to get into a car with any of them. But wasn’t it every father’s nightmare? It was certainly his.
He supposed that, eventually, Gervase Crown would deign to return to the land of his birth and see what had happened to the family home he’d abandoned. He’d declared that to be his intention in his email. But how reliable Crown might prove in any intention he expressed, they had yet to find out. Carter had never met Crown, but already felt he disliked the man and that would never do. Keep an open mind! he told himself as he turned the key in the ignition. Perhaps Crown is a changed character now. Grown-up, grown sensible … And living by the sea in Portugal so he can surf.