by Mark Dawson
The vicar finished the service with a psalm and then a short reading from the Bible, and then led the congregation in a prayer. She commended Eddie to God’s love and mercy.
The children next to Milton had been well behaved throughout the service, but now, as the pallbearers readied themselves to take the coffin once again, they started to fidget impatiently. The child immediately adjacent to Milton, a young boy of five or six, started to kick his feet against the pew in front of them. The mother, fraught with irritation, told him sternly to stop. Milton looked over at her and gave her what he hoped was an understanding smile.
The coffin went by, followed by the mourners, umbrellas unfurling as they stepped out into the rain again.
#
EDDIE’S COFFIN was loaded back into the hearse and driven away to the crematorium. The chief mourners got into their cars and followed the procession. The others gathered around outside, cowering beneath umbrellas and inside the shelter of the porch. The vicar was sharing consoling words with the mourners, and Milton nodded solemnly to her. He glanced around and saw, to his surprise, the detective inspector whom he had met at the station yesterday. He remembered the man’s name: Bruce. The policeman saw Milton, too, and made his way over to him.
“Mr. Smith.”
“Detective Inspector Bruce,” Milton said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I thought it was the right thing to do.”
Milton gave a discreet nod in the direction of the women in the black dresses who were waiting to get into their cars so that they could follow the hearse. “Eddie’s mother?”
“That’s right.”
“And his sisters?”
“That’s right.”
Milton thought of what Bruce had told him yesterday, that the sister had been away from home when Eddie killed himself in her driveway. “What was the name of the sister Eddie went to see?”
“It’s Lauren, Mr. Smith.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
The man bristled. “I told you, I can’t talk to you about the investigation.”
“So there is one? An investigation?”
Bruce smiled indulgently. “It was good to see you again, Mr. Smith.”
The policeman walked away. Milton crossed the gravel path to a spot beneath the boughs of a broad alder that offered some respite from the rain, and took out his cigarettes. He was observing the mourners when his attention was drawn to a large car that had parked at the corner of the unpaved track and the road that ran through the centre of the village.
It was a Range Rover, new, a splatter of mud across the wing. Expensive. Darkened privacy windows.
Milton stubbed out his cigarette against the edge of a gravestone, dropped it into a rubbish bin, and made his way to the fringe of beech trees that marked the edge of the graveyard. He passed through the open gate and by the parish noticeboard, making no show of looking at the vehicle, just ambling along and pretending to look at something distracting on his phone. He opened the camera application, switched to video and set it to record. There was a row of cars parked nose first between him and the Range Rover: a red Audi, a blue VW Golf, a grey Mini Clubman. He aimed the phone down low, using the parked cars as cover so that he could approach as discreetly as possible. He walked by the Range Rover, filmed the registration details, and then walked up to the driver’s door. He rapped his knuckle on the window.
The glass slid down.
“What?”
There were two men inside. The driver was of medium build, with short hair and stubble across his cheeks and chin. The passenger had longer hair and a distinctive scar across his forehead. The driver was wearing a black bomber jacket and the passenger a faded denim jacket.
“Sorry for bothering you,” Milton said.
The driver shuffled around so that he could look right out of the window. “What do you want?”
“Smile for the camera, please.”
Milton brought the phone up and aimed it into the car.
The driver frowned as Milton filmed him. He should have been angry, or at least surprised, but, instead, he bore an expression that mixed confusion and wariness. The passenger was angry, already reaching down to release his seat belt. Milton made his way to the front of the car. He aimed the camera so that he could be sure that he had recorded the registration plate, and then kept filming as he stepped back onto the pavement. The passenger stepped out, and Milton aimed the phone and took a few seconds’ worth of footage of him. The man started forward and then, turning to look at the crowd of mourners—some of whom were looking their way—he stopped. Milton walked back to the cemetery, rejoining the clutch of people who were waiting for the family to leave the church. He didn’t feel particularly threatened. There were too many people here for them to try anything foolish.
He heard the grumble of a powerful engine and, as he turned back, the Range Rover jerked forward into the empty road and accelerated away. The driver’s window was open and the man turned to him as the car went by. Milton didn’t get a very good look at him, but he felt a flicker of something—unease? surprise? recognition?—before the vehicle raced by him and disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MILTON FOLLOWED the procession of cars as the mourners transferred to the Fabian estate for the wake. Halewell Close was to the north of the village, along a narrow lane that doubled back after a sharp right-hand turn. Milton drove over a cattle grid, the Volkswagen’s suspension juddering ominously, passing onto a private driveway that was demarked by two stone pillars that were topped by impressive electric lanterns. An engraving on one of the pillars revealed the name of the property beyond. The drive was long, perhaps a mile, and marked by regularly spaced yew trees on the right and left. Milton bore right around a shallow turn and the headlights cast out into the gloom across a wide lake, the water sparkling. The road swung back around to the left and the rough tarmac surface was replaced with gravel. It opened out as it approached a hill and then, as he crested the brow, the house below was revealed.
The building was old and had clearly been rebuilt and added to over the years. It was set into its own private valley, amongst a sprawling beech wood, and was huge. It was built from stone, with parts that were two storeys tall and others that were three. Milton took it in: he picked out the three granges, set into the shape of a U, the steep slate roofs and the stone walls the colour of mustard. The granges surrounded a courtyard. The west grange was the largest, comprising four bays; the other granges looked as if they had been added over the years. Lights blazed in leaded windows all the way across the house, casting a lattice of gold across the wide lawns. A new addition, with broad glass windows, was topped with thatch. A row of converted stables was on the far side of a wide parking area, and at the end of the lawn were a swimming pool and summer house. The place was impressive.
Milton drove across a small bridge that spanned a stream. Wrought-iron lamp posts were set on either side of the final length of the drive, ready to cast their light across neatly terraced private gardens and the southern shore of the lake; there was a boathouse built next to a wooden jetty beside which a tethered rowing boat bobbed on the gentle swells.
Milton parked his battered old car in an empty space next to the stable block and got out. He lit a cigarette and observed the building in more detail. He saw an array of CCTV cameras, enough to offer a view of most of the property. He had noticed others along the drive, too. The gates were substantial, and Milton had noticed that he had driven over two pressure sensors once he had passed into the grounds of the house. Security was clearly something that Frankie Fabian took very seriously.
Milton dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath the toe of his shoe. Two carloads of mourners were headed toward the house, and Milton tagged on at the back.
#
TEA AND COFFEE were being served in the drawing room. Milton looked around, impressed once again at his surroundings. The place was grand, yet, as Milton looked a lit
tle closer, he could see that it was in need of maintenance. Skirting boards were loose, paint was in need of refreshing, woodwork needed polishing, and a couple of the sash windows were jammed open and closed off with plastic sheeting. In better times it would have been as impressive as the little châteaux that he had visited while he was surveiling a Saudi arms dealer in the south of France. But those days, Milton saw, were gone.
Milton took a coffee and a biscuit to the edge of the room and watched the other mourners. Small groups formed and he caught fragments of their conversation. Six middle-aged women shook their heads at the tragic waste of life and expressed sympathy for the family, particularly Eddie’s mother, who, it was said, was taking things very hard. A group of hard-looking men, ill-suited to the delicate china coffee cups from which they were drinking, expressed similar sentiments, shaking their heads as they wondered at the surprise that they had felt when they heard the news.
Milton went in search of the bathroom, taking the opportunity to scout out the rest of the downstairs. There was a long corridor and from it were open doors that led to the dining room, a room that looked like a study or a library and a new kitchen that had been added to the existing property as an extension. He found the bathroom and then went back to the refreshments table for another coffee, taking a moment to look around the room. He searched for Eddie’s sister, Lauren, and, after a moment, he found her. She was not a very attractive woman, with a masculine face that borrowed a little too liberally from her father at the expense of the softer lines of her mother. She was talking to a group of women, their laughter a little too easy for the occasion. Milton did not form the best impression of her.
#
MILTON WENT OUTSIDE and crossed to the opening of the large tent that had been pitched on the lawn. It had been set aside for smokers, although he was the only one there. He took out his packet of cigarettes and his lighter. One of the women from the drawing room followed him. She paused in the porch, glanced up with grim consternation at the sky and then hurried across to the tent.
Milton tapped a cigarette out of the packet when she walked over to him.
“Could I grab one of those?”
“Sure,” he said, giving her the one that he had taken out and taking out a second.
She put it to her lips. He thumbed flame from the lighter and she leaned in so that he could light it. He caught the smell of her perfume: something that reminded him of citrus.
Milton lit his own cigarette and inhaled. The rain came down harder, pattering against the canvas and leaving a fine spray as it rebounded against the ground.
“Great weather.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Seems right for a funeral.”
“Yes.” He looked at her. He guessed that she was in her early thirties. She was wearing a simple black dress and he noticed that a silver crucifix shone against her pale skin. He recognised her immediately. She had been at Piccadilly Circus on the morning that he had arranged to meet Eddie.
“I’m Olivia,” she said. “Olivia Dewey.”
Milton pretended that he didn’t recognise her. “John Smith.”
“Did you know Eddie?” she asked him.
Milton shrugged. “A little. You?”
“Same. A little. Awful, isn’t it?”
Milton nodded and drew on his cigarette. He had the feeling that he was being appraised.
She waved her arm in a gesture that encompassed the big house and the grounds. “This place is impressive.”
“It is.”
“Do you know the family history?”
“Only what I’ve heard. Not much.”
“This house goes back years, obviously. It was bought by the Costello family originally. They were a big criminal family, but this is sixty years ago. They were into everything: protection rackets, they ran racing before the war, prostitution—you name it, they were into it. You can get a different story about what happened next depending on who you ask, but the story I heard is that the family was taken over by this guy no one had ever heard of before. He just came out of nowhere. His name was Edward Fabian, too—Eddie’s grandfather by adoption. He ran the London underworld for years; then he handed the business down to his son, Frankie. You know him?”
“Gave the reading at the funeral.”
Olivia nodded across the garden. Frankie Fabian was standing in the shelter of the boathouse that was down the sloped lawn at the edge of the lake. His black suit was impeccable and the whiteness of the shirt almost glowed beneath it. He had stepped outside to make a phone call.
“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with Frankie. They say he’s a genius. From what I’ve heard, he’s been involved in all the big heists of the last twenty years. Brinks Mat, the Knightsbridge Security Deposit job, all the big ones. The police have never been able to get close to him. He’s very careful, stays well away from the action, but he’s not someone that I’d want to get on the wrong side of. They say he’s ruthless, too, the people I spoke to. They say he’ll do anything to protect his family.”
“But he couldn’t help Eddie.”
“You know Eddie was adopted?”
“I do.” He finished his cigarette, saw that she had finished hers, too, and offered her another. She took it. “How do you know so much?” he asked.
She dipped her head again to light the new cigarette. “I’ve taken a professional interest in the family.”
“What does that mean?” Milton asked. “You’re police?”
She laughed. “Hardly.”
“What then?”
“Journalist.”
Milton pretended to be surprised.
“I recognised you straight away at the funeral,” she said. “Eddie was supposed to meet me at Piccadilly Circus the morning after he died. You were there too. I saw you. Waiting for him. I’ve got a great memory for faces.”
“I was,” Milton said, feigning surprise.
She looked him right in the eye and then spoke with certainty. “I don’t think he killed himself, Mr. Smith.”
Milton didn’t reply, and he tried not to react. He wanted to assess her more carefully before he voiced anything about his own suspicions.
She was watching him shrewdly. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What happened outside the church? The men in the Range Rover—why did you go over to them?”
“They were parked in front of my car. I wanted them to move out of the way.”
She looked disappointed. “Come on, John. Don’t give me that. I’m not an idiot. Who were they?”
“I have no idea. I was just asking them to move.”
She finished the second cigarette, dropped it onto the gravel and ground it underfoot.
“Nice to have met you,” Milton said.
He started to head back to the house but she reached over and took his arm. “What are you doing now?”
“I was about to go.”
“Can I buy you a coffee? I’d like to have a talk with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
OLIVIA DEWEY drove an old and slightly battered Audi TT. Milton let her pull out of the row of cars that had been parked on the lawn and followed her down the long drive, over the hill and then through the wood to the main road. She bumped over the cattle grid, turned sharply to the right and took the narrow country lane to Withington. There was a pub in the middle of the village, a large sign fixed to the wall announcing it as The King’s Head. She indicated and turned off, reversing into a slot in the almost empty car park. Milton slotted the Volkswagen next to hers and got out.
“This okay?” she asked as they walked to the door together.
“Fine.”
Milton held the door for her and then followed her inside. It was a small pub, very quaint, with a low ceiling, exposed oak beams and horse brasses on the walls.
“What are you having?” she asked him. “My round.”
“An orange juice.”
“Don’t want any
thing stronger?”
Milton shook his head. “No, thanks. A little early for me.”
Milton took a table by the window and waited as she ordered a gin and tonic for herself, the orange juice for him, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps for them both. She brought the glasses and the crisps over, deposited them on the table and sat down.
She took a card from her purse and slid it across the table.
“Olivia Dewey,” Milton said, reading it. “Freelance journalist.”
“Used to work on the nationals, got sacked, now I work for myself. I live in east London, I’m not married, I drink too much, I don’t suffer fools gladly. That’s me. Anything else you’d like to know?”
He smiled, amused at her candour. “No, I think that’s all I need to know.”
“And you?”
“Like I said. John Smith. I’m a cook. I live on my own. I like The Smiths, The Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays.”
“John Smith. Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Where are you a cook?”
“I work nights at the cabmen’s shelter in Russell Square.”
Her face lit up. “Those green sheds? I’ve seen them before. They’re actually open?”
“They are.”
“That’s where you met Eddie?”
He had no interest in telling a journalist that they had met at an AA meeting, so he took the opening that she provided. “Yes,” he said. “He came in for meals every now and again. We got talking. He’s a nice guy.”
“He was,” she corrected.
“Was, yes.” Milton acknowledged that with a nod. “He said he’d spoken to a journalist.”
“He called me out of the blue a while ago.”
“And said what?”
“He’d read one of my stories. He said he had some information for me.”
“What story?”
She sipped her gin. The ice cubes jangled against the glass. “You follow the news at all, John?”
“Not if I can help it.”