Jennifer continued talking about the virtues of Saint-Marie, but Richard realised that he was now so smothered in this feeling of cotton wool pressing down on him from all sides that he’d lost his power of hearing entirely. Eventually, though, he saw that his mother had stopped talking and was now waiting for him to say something.
But what could he say? In truth, this was only partly because what his mother had told him had left him so sideswiped. It was also because he’d spent the last thirty seconds or so inside his cotton wool cocoon reciting the opening lines to Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’ — over and over to himself. Because, it was only now that Richard was truly in extremis, that he realised how woefully misjudged Kipling had been. As far as Richard was concerned, ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs’, then it just showed that you clearly hadn’t understood the severity of the situation.
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Jennifer asked, confused by her son’s silence.
‘No of course I am, it’s just …’
Jennifer looked at her troubled son. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘But you and Dad need to be together,’ Richard said.
‘I know,’ Jennifer said. ‘And maybe if he could change …? But the thing is, Richard, men don’t change. Just look at you. When you came out of the womb, you were frowning.’
‘I was?’ Richard had had no idea.
Jennifer looked at her son and saw a man in a suit who was still clutching his sandwich to his chest with the one hand she wasn’t holding. He’d always been like this, she thought to herself. Concerned, anxious, and always worried that the sky was about to fall on his head.
Jennifer sighed to herself. Was she to blame for the wonderful but limited man she saw sitting in front of her? After all, it had been her who’d obsessively drilled the twin virtues of neatness and precision into him from the moment he could toddle. And it had been her who’d put him in a school uniform when he was four years old. And here he was— forty years later—still basically wearing a school uniform.
But the regret Jennifer had above all others, she thought to herself, was that she’d sent Richard to single-sex boarding schools from the age of eight to eighteen. It hadn’t been her idea—it had been Richard’s father’s—but she wished she’d fought harder to keep her son at home, or at least make sure his boarding school had girls in it. But, back in those days, co-education was seen as a dangerous experiment. You knew where you were with a traditional boarding school. Yes, Jennifer thought to herself, you knew where you were when you sent your only son away from home: you were sewing name tapes onto your eight-year-old child’s teddy bear while the tears rolled down your cheeks.
‘You’re crying,’ Richard said, confused.
Jennifer wiped the tears from her eyes.
‘I know, darling. Just thinking about the past.’
Richard didn’t know what to say.
Luckily for him—or perhaps unluckily, he didn’t really know which way round he was facing by this point—Fidel bustled into view, a load of printouts in his hand.
‘Sir! Sir!’ he said, excitedly, as he approached the table. ‘Oh, Jennifer, you look lovely!’
‘Thank you, Fidel,’ Jennifer said, delighted at the compliment.
‘We’ve finally got hold of Polly Carter’s bank statements, sir, and Phil Adams was right, she’d spent all of her money. Sorry,’ Fidel added, ‘can I say any of this in front of your mother?’
Richard was still trying to realign the world, so found himself giving a strangled grunt of assent.
‘Okay,’ Fidel said, laying out the bank statements on the table, ‘because it’s not just that she’s got no cash, there’s more than that. Firstly, she’s not received any income since August of last year, that’s over a year without any money coming in.’ Fidel was indicating the ‘CREDIT’ column of the bank statements and Richard was finding his focus finally coming back as he looked at the columns of numbers all arranged in tight lines on the bank statements.
It was true what Fidel was saying. Polly hadn’t received any income in the last year, and although in September of the previous year she’d had over one hundred and three thousand dollars in her current account, she was now overdrawn by nearly twelve thousand dollars. And Richard could also see that her three credit card bills had between five and eleven thousand dollars on each of them as well. And, as Richard compared the various statements against each other, he could even spot the ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul’ technique that the cash-poor often used to handle their debt, with Polly taking out money on one credit card to make the minimum payments on another card.
And then Richard saw it, just as Fidel was about to mention it.
Three days before she died—and the reason why she was now over twelve thousand dollars in debt—Polly had taken ten thousand dollars out of her bank account in cash.
Richard knew very well that nobody takes ten thousand dollars in cash out of their bank unless they’re up to something dodgy as hell. But then he realised something even more profound. They’d searched Polly’s house from top to bottom after she’d died—looking for the yellow raincoat at first, and then for drugs and for something that the rusty key they found could have opened—and there’d been no cash anywhere, let alone ten thousand dollars. Nor could he think of anything Polly had bought in the last three days before her death that would have cost ten thousand dollars.
‘Okay,’ Richard said, now fully focused on the case again. ‘Why did she need ten thousand dollars? And where is it now?’
‘Well that’s the thing, sir,’ Fidel said. ‘Are we even sure she took the money out herself?’
‘How do you mean?’ Richard asked.
‘Well, that’s not the only suspicious withdrawal from her bank account. You see, back in February—while Polly was in rehab—there were two massive withdrawals from the same bank account.’
As Fidel was speaking, he turned back through the pages and showed Richard a bank statement from February.
Richard saw what Fidel was referring to at once. Polly had had nearly sixty thousand dollars to her name at the beginning of January, but then there were two different withdrawals the following month. The first took $17,000. The second took $23,000. And both were to the same payee: ‘M Brandon’.
And then Richard remembered that Phil Adams had told them that he suspected Max Brandon was a crook who’d been siphoning money from Polly for years. Now here was evidence that Max had cleaned out Polly’s bank account back in February. Was that why Max had been so nervous—picking at the skin around his thumbs—the first time he was interviewed by Richard and Camille? Were his nerves shredded because Polly had found out he was a thief?
And had he then killed her before she could tell the police?
Chapter 8
Richard and Camille found Max in Polly’s study. He was looking at old magazine covers that featured photos of Polly in various states of dress and undress, Richard could see.
‘She was so beautiful,’ Max said as Richard picked up one of the magazines and looked at the photo of Polly on the cover. Richard wasn’t entirely sure he agreed. He could see that Polly was striking-looking, but beautiful? He felt that beauty was more fresh-faced and optimistic than the dead eyes he saw in the face that were staring out at him.
Putting the magazine down, Richard looked at the bookshelves that ran down the side of the room, and once again had the nagging feeling that there was something about them that was maybe out of place. Or maybe it was just that they were so dusty.
‘Anyway, how can I help you?’ Max asked.
Looking back at Max, Richard saw a man who was still tense—and the plasters on his two thumbs suggested that he was still struggling with his nerves. So Richard decided to leave Camille to make their case while he went for a wander around the room. What was it about this room that was ‘off’?
‘Well,’ Camille said, recognising with a sigh that Richard had just absented himself from the intervie
w. ‘Perhaps you can first tell us why Polly hasn’t earned any money in the last year?’
‘That’s easy enough to explain,’ Max said. ‘You know she suffered a drugs overdose last year?’
‘She was hospitalised in September.’
‘That’s right, and she wasn’t remotely fit to work when she came out, I can tell you. But to be honest, I just presumed she’d take a month or so off to get her strength back and then she’d get back on the horse, as it were. A rather unfortunate metaphor considering what it was that put her in hospital. But she didn’t want to do any work when she got out of hospital. I’d ring her, and when she even bothered to answer she’d just say she was too tired to do a shoot. By Christmas, I was seriously beginning to worry for her. She had no interest in taking up any of the jobs I was offering her.’
‘So you confronted her?’
‘No, that’s not my style, but I maybe pointed out how foolhardy she was being. You see, the world of fashion is fickle. It’s kind of built into its DNA. And she needed to know that the longer she left it before going back to work, the greater the chance the world would have moved its attention on to the “next big thing” by then.’
‘And what did she say to that?’
‘That’s what I couldn’t understand. She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. I rang her a few times over Christmas and she just kept saying “and a Happy New Year to you, too, Max” whenever I tried to tell her she needed to take her career more seriously. And then, at the beginning of January, just as I thought she’d definitely return to work, she checked herself into rehab and vanished from the world for another three months.’
Max was getting more sure of himself as he got further into his story. In fact, Camille saw, he was almost beginning to enjoy himself.
‘I have to admit,’ Max continued conspiratorially, ‘I was frustrated with her. She’s my only client. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve earned plenty from her over the years, but she couldn’t just walk out on her career. That’s the way I saw it. So, when she finally got out of rehab in March, I issued a press release saying she was back on the market, knowing the offers would start to roll in, and you know what? They did. But every time I tried to get Polly to take a job, she just point blank refused to do it. I was appalled. It was like she had a death wish. Again, a rather unfortunate phrase, sorry about that. But it was at this time that she started telling me she had no interest in being a model ever again. It was all pointless, that’s what she said. What she really wanted to do was retire to the countryside and have babies. If I’m honest, I thought she was unhinged.’
‘Look, sorry to interrupt,’ Richard said, ‘and maybe it’s just me, but is there something wrong with this room?’
Camille threw a warning look at her boss. ‘Sir, do you mind?’
‘No?’ Richard asked again, seemingly unfussed by his non sequitur. ‘Just me, then. Anyway,’ he continued, now turning to look at Max. ‘So if Polly hasn’t worked since leaving rehab, what are you doing here’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Max sputtered.
‘Only, if she’s not working, why does she need to have her agent to hand?’
‘But that’s the thing. She didn’t invite me out here, I came of my own accord. Because … well, she’s my only client, so, if you must know, I’ve been here telling her face-to-face that she has to go back to work. But it didn’t matter what I said. She said she’d given up on the modelling.’
‘That must have concerned you,’ Camille said.
‘It did. But I’m a very persuasive person. And I don’t give up. I mean, everyone has to earn money, don’t they? So, as far as I was concerned, it was just a question of chipping away. She’d have gone back to work eventually. And what was giving me hope that she was about to return to work was how happy she was in herself just before she died.’
This got Richard and Camille’s attention.
‘You’re saying she was happy before she died?’ Richard said.
‘Yes,’ Max said, thrown by the question.
‘But everyone we’ve spoken to said Polly was spiky and difficult the whole time.’
Max sighed. ‘Sure. She could still be snippy, don’t get me wrong, she was all edges that woman, but no one knew Polly as well as I did, and I’m telling you I’ve never known her happier than she was just before she died.’
‘But why was she so happy?’
‘I don’t know, but I guess it’s got to be related to the fact that she’d finally managed to get clean of drugs.’
Richard considered what Max had said. Was he right? It was possible, seeing as the autopsy had shown no drugs in Polly’s system—and tests on her hair had shown she’d ingested no drugs for the previous few months as well. Maybe that’s what it was? After all, wouldn’t kicking a lifelong addiction to heroin be enough to make anyone happy?
And yet, everyone else apart from Max had been so sure that Polly was her usual prickly self in the last few weeks of her life, and there was no doubting that Polly had started an argument with Claire out of thin air just before she died.
As a pause developed in which Richard could see that Max was beginning to believe that the interview was now over, Richard turned and looked at Camille, and they came to a silent understanding. Richard wished for Camille to deliver the coup de grace.
‘Oh okay,’ Camille said, as though the interview was already done and dusted. ‘Then one last thing. Perhaps you can tell us why you’ve been stealing from Polly?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Max said.
‘There’s really no point denying it,’ Camille said just as easily. ‘You see, Phil’s already told us that he and Polly had suspicions that you’ve been taking money from her over the years, and when we got Polly’s bank statements we discovered you had. In February of this year you received fifty thousand dollars—in two separate transactions—from her current account.’
‘Which is interesting,’ Richard said, picking up from his partner, ‘seeing as agents are only supposed to get a cut of their client’s money when they earn anything. So thank you for telling us that Polly hadn’t worked for the previous six months. Now you can tell us, how come you received so much money from her when she wasn’t in work?’
‘I er … well, we agreed I should have the money,’ Max said, rallying. ‘It was a loan.’
‘It was?’ Richard asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. ‘How convenient for you, seeing as Polly’s no longer here to gainsay you. Or maybe there’s someone else who can corroborate the fact that the money you took from her was a loan?’
Max had no answer to this.
‘Okay,’ Camille said. ‘So what was this loan for?’
Max still didn’t have anything to say, and Richard found that this was the perfect moment to shoot the cuffs on his white shirt.
‘Very well,’ Richard said. ‘Then this is how I see it. Either you killed Polly Carter or you didn’t. This means that if you are the killer, then whatever you’re saying to us in this conversation is a lie. Therefore, if you wish to prove your innocence, I’d highly recommend you try to convince me—right now—that you’re telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
Max held out for a couple more seconds, but both Richard and Camille knew that silence was their best weapon now.
And when it came, it came as a flood.
‘All right, all right!’ Max said, suddenly rising from his chair. ‘I took the money from her, but it wasn’t theft. Okay?’
‘Keep talking,’ Richard said.
‘You see, I wasn’t joking when I said Polly’s my only client. So if she’s not earning, then I’m not earning, and over the last year I’ve … well, I’ve developed a bit of a shortfall in my finances. A massive black hole, more like. Not that I’m extravagant. Not really. I mean, I like to travel first class when I can, and I never eat in cheap restaurants, but this is nothing that I’m not owed for the stress I otherwise have to suffer. Running Polly’s career was hardly easy a
t the best of times.
‘But the thing is, if I’m being entirely honest … you see, I’ve always been susceptible to casinos. And roulette in particular. And as long as I’ve been earning—and you must believe, I have been earning—I was on top of my … hobby. And the thing is, I had a system.
‘Don’t worry, as someone who knows exactly what ten per cent of everything is, I know it’s not possible to beat the house when it comes to roulette, but I could just about manage my time so that I could revel in the big wins and walk away when the losses got too damaging. But the thing is, I always lost money in the long run. I knew that. I just had to make sure I had enough cash flow to get me through the losses.
‘I only made one mistake after Polly overdosed last September. I carried on playing in the same fashion I’d always done because I guessed my income stream would be starting up again just as soon as she recovered from her overdose.’
Here, Max stopped himself, as though realising something for the first time.
‘Actually, who am I kidding?’ he said. ‘That was just the first of quite a few mistakes. Because it didn’t take too long before I owed a grand or so around the gaming tables of London. But that was fine, I had a good line of credit with everyone. I hadn’t welched on a debt in my life.
‘But, as autumn turned into winter, I still presumed that Polly hadn’t given up working for good. It’s like I told you. I expected I’d pick up the phone one day and she’d be on the end of it telling me to fix up another photo shoot for her. So I made what I can only say was a reckless decision. I decided that the best way to clear my temporary debts with the gaming houses was by winning at the gaming houses. And, in no time at all, I’d managed to turn a debt of a couple of thousand dollars into a debt of nearly fifteen thousand dollars. And with Polly now in rehab, I knew I had no way of earning the cash to pay any of the money back.’
‘So you used your access to Polly’s account to take out the cash you needed to cover your debts?’ Camille asked.
Killing Of Polly Carter Page 13