Just as Imogen decided she would go blind if she didn’t stop and get outside for half an hour, Adam exclaimed, loudly but incoherently.
Imogen said, ‘What have you found? More loans?’
‘Hm. Not sure, yet. Give me a minute.’
Imogen held her breath. She’d pretended not to mind finding her father was some sort of criminal, but she had to force herself to stay in the room.
The air had turned tense.
Adam placed a few sheets of paper in front of her. ‘I’ve been looking at records for the sale of the hotel to your father. There are a couple of items that we need to check. See, here,’ he pointed, ‘and here.’
She looked. ‘More loans?’
‘That’s right. But then I found this.’ He flipped back through the pile of paperwork. ‘Here are the same amounts going in, regularly, apparently from your father’s personal account.’
Imogen’s stomach rolled. ‘Does that mean he’s laundering money?’
Adam tapped the fingers of one hand on the desk. ‘It could do, but I don’t think so. You see, the money’s going the wrong way. If he were cleaning up ill-gotten gains, it would be coming into the business account from an outside source and passing on into other outlets. He wouldn’t let it anywhere near his personal account. That’s asking for trouble.’
‘So, what do you think is going on?’
‘There’s one explanation. You see the payments going out? They’re always the same as the money going in, and they go out at regular intervals to one single account.’
Imogen held up one hand. ‘Wait, don’t tell me. Let me think. Why would Dad pay someone through the business account, with his own money? It’s crazy. He’s not getting anything in return.’
‘Unless…’
The explanation hit Imogen like a train hitting station buffers. ‘Blackmail. He’s paying someone to keep quiet, and it’s going through the hotel accounts because…’ she fell silent, still thinking hard. It made no sense. ‘Why would he pay through the business? Surely it makes the accounts more complicated?’
‘I have an idea.’ Adam’s face wrinkled. ‘He could use his own money to keep the hotel going, if it was going through a bad patch—’
‘Which it was,’ Imogen put in.
‘Quite. Your father was getting on. He was in his eighties, for heaven’s sake, and, by all accounts, he didn’t live the kind of quiet, retiring life that would keep him fit. He knew he wouldn’t be around for ever. Now, if he were paying a blackmailer, presumably he wouldn’t want you to know about it, but he knew if he made regular payments to someone, you’d find out about it after he died.’
‘So, you think he went through this elaborate reverse laundering just to stop me finding out about his murky past? Why would he even care about that? It’s not as though we were close. We hardly even exchanged Christmas cards.’ Imogen heard the edge of bitterness in her own voice.
Adam picked up the pile of documents, tapping them sharply on the table to square the edges before he replied, speaking slowly. ‘He’s still your father. If I’m right, and nothing’s certain so far, your father wanted to protect you, either from knowing about his nefarious activities, or because he was afraid for you.’
‘Afraid? What do you mean? How can I be in danger from some unknown blackmailer?’
‘What if the blackmailer is someone you know?’
Shocked to the core, Imogen took time to process the idea. ‘Someone has been blackmailing my father, and it’s someone I know?’ The turmoil in her stomach built up, until she was scared she would be sick.
‘Sit down,’ Adam insisted.
Imogen realised she was on her feet, as though about to make a run for the door. She didn’t remember standing.
‘Don’t have more coffee.’ Adam removed the pot from her hand, just in time to stop her pouring another cup. ‘The caffeine will make you ill.’
Imogen’s heart thumped so hard she was surprised Adam couldn’t hear it. This must be what a panic attack felt like. Furious with herself, her pride offended – other people had panic attacks, not her.
The office felt claustrophobic. Imogen pushed open the door and Harley, ears pricked, clattered across the foyer, made a beeline for Imogen and leaned against her. Trying to slow her thumping heartbeat, she tickled him behind a front leg. He leaned harder.
She muttered, ‘I need to think this through. There must be a mistake.’
Adam waited.
‘I’m going to have to reconcile this view of my father,’ she announced. ‘All the time we were ignoring each other, he was worried about me. If I think about it, I’m not really surprised he was being blackmailed. He wasn’t bothered by a bit of illegality. For one thing, there’s the rare plants scam…’ She stopped talking as another thought struck.
Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you thought of something?’
Breathing steadily, the panic retreating a little, Imogen managed a smile. ‘It’s nothing. I just need to think all this through. It’s been something of a bombshell.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No.’ The last thing she needed was sympathy. She softened her tone. ‘I mean, thanks, but I’ll just take Harley for a run in the garden. I always think better out of doors.’
28
Earring
As Adam left, Imogen turned back into the office, grateful for his understanding. She swivelled the computer screen round and clicked the mouse several times. Immediately, a list appeared of the day’s guests. She clicked on the little calendar icon at the top of the screen, worked her way back to the week of her father’s death, and printed out the names and addresses of everyone staying at the hotel.
Harley panting with excitement at her heels, the list in her pocket, Imogen strolled through the hotel and out into the garden, maintaining as calm an exterior as possible. The air in the garden was blessedly warm, scented with the perfume from early roses, but its charms were wasted on Imogen.
She drew in a deep breath. Her mind raced, full of thoughts she couldn’t ignore. What if her father was killed because of the rare plant business? Oswald, the gardener, had realised something illegal was going on, but most visitors to the hotel or local guests would have no idea there was anything odd about the plants. They were just ordinary flowers, growing anonymously in an obscure corner of the carefully managed grounds of the Streamside Hotel.
Imogen sank onto on an old wooden bench by the stream. She’d sat here often, watching Daniel paint.
She shook the thought away. No time for that.
She spread the lists on the bench, weighting them down with stones. She’d have to find somewhere more comfortable to sit, if she intended to spend so much thinking time out here. Maybe a cushion?
She ran a finger down the list on the first page, murmuring names aloud, testing them for familiarity, but none rang a bell. It seemed everyone on the list was a complete stranger. Imogen had not even been at the hotel the week her father died, so she couldn’t even match a face to any name.
She turned to the second sheet and repeated the process, more mechanically, with less eager expectation.
She stopped and hesitated. Here, at last, was a name that rang a bell. Imogen muttered it aloud once more and remembered. It was a mildly famous actor, one who’d been in a TV drama. Not Broadlands, she thought, or Happy Valley. She closed her eyes and recalled the actor had taken small parts in either Midsomer Murders or Lewis. That was it. The handsome, dark eyed suspect in a Lewis episode. Fancy his staying at the hotel.
She continued down the list, wishing she’d been around then. The actor was quite the heartthrob, with a magnificent physique and one of those little boy smiles Imogen recognised. Some men used that look to disarm their wives when they were lying. Greg had tried it, often, never realising Imogen was no longer fooled.
Imogen reached the final page. Her gaze slid down the last few lines. She was already half on her feet, ready to give up, when a name seemed to jump from the page. David Canberra. H
e’d been one of the boys she knew from the boys’ school.
Excitement rising in the pit of her stomach, Imogen scrambled to her feet. She couldn’t remember much about David, apart from his friendship with Julian, but he’d been there, that night, in the tunnel, and she had his address. She blessed the legal requirement for hotels to keep records. She didn’t care if she was breaking data protection laws by using the information for her own purposes. This was a connection to her father’s death.
Why would David be staying at the hotel? Surely, he had friends or family in the town. Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to know he was here. Or, had her father invited him? Was he involved in the plant scam?
No, she was getting ahead of the evidence. Just as well Adam wasn’t around to point that out.
Still, if David, who she recalled as a tall but weedy teenager, with a gap between his front teeth, had something to do with her father’s death, that meant Daniel wasn’t the culprit. Voicing the idea that he could be, even in her own head, terrified Imogen. Anyone but Daniel. That had been the reason for her embarrassing panic attack – the fear that Daniel was involved.
Much better it should be David Canberra.
She took a breath.
David Canberra lived in Cornwall. There was no time to drive that far today, but tomorrow…
Harley barked, breaking into her thoughts.
She looked up, but he was out of sight.
‘Harley,’ she called, but no dog scurried towards her. Thrusting the lists into her bag, she set off in pursuit as the dog barked again. ‘I’m coming. What’s the matter, you silly animal?’
Harley’s tail waved in the air as he scrabbled at the earth beside the orangery.
In moments, Imogen was by his side, sickened. Her husband’s body had lain only a few feet away. She hadn’t been back to the building since the police left. She was thinking of tearing the structure down, replacing it with a tree, something in memory of Greg. She owed him that, at least.
She shrieked at Harley. ‘What are you doing? Get away.’
The dog looked up and waited, one paw in the air.
Imogen swallowed hard, wishing she could run back into the hotel. ‘What have you found?’
Harley barked again, rigid as stone, nose pointing at the earth.
Something glinted in the sunlight. Imogen crouched low. She scrabbled the object from the earth. An earring.
‘Not one of mine. What on earth is it doing here?’
She held the small pearl in the palm of her hand, its gold clasp bright in the sun. How did it find its way to this spot?
She sat back on her heels, thinking hard. She was sure she’d seen it before.
She gasped as she remembered. Steph had worn a pair of earrings like this to the reunion.
When had she been in the garden?
‘How very odd.’
Harley still stood at doggy attention.
Imogen delved into her pocket and pulled out a dog treat. ‘Here you are. Well done.’
She tossed the treat to Harley, ignored his pleas for another, and let him follow her up to her bedroom.
How had Steph’s earring found its way to the orangery?
Another mystery. There were so many, but perhaps she was getting close. Means, motive, opportunity; did they fit? What did this earring tell her?
She’d spoken out loud. Harley looked at her expectantly. She pocketed the earring, left the hotel, and crossed the lane to The Plough, Harley at her heels.
She peeped through the window to Adam’s sitting room. He stood by his easel; face wrinkled in concentration. Was it fair to bother him? She’d shrugged off his offer of help and sent him home. It would serve her right if he told her to get lost.
She’d leave and tell him about her strange discovery later.
It was too late. Harley had other ideas. He shoved the door open and leaped inside, tugging Imogen across the floor.
Adam grabbed the easel to stop it falling, while Imogen pulled on Harley’s lead.
‘Sorry. He took me by surprise. He’s pleased to see you.’
Adam bent over and scratched behind Harley’s ear, but his gaze rested on Imogen’s face. ‘Hello, again. I’ve missed you, too. It must be an hour since I left the hotel.’
‘I’m sorry. You’re busy and I’ve disturbed you. I’ll take Harley away and let you paint.’
Adam smiled, loaded a brush with red paint, and swept it across his canvas. ‘I was joking. I’ll paint, you talk. Just stop this animal eating my work, will you? You seem to have news. What’s happened?’
‘A funny thing. I don’t know whether it’s important, but it’s odd.’ She fell silent, watching Adam’s brush moving rhythmically across the empty canvas. The effect was calming. What on earth was he painting with all that red?
‘Go on. I’m intrigued.’
She’d tell him about the earring in a moment. She had to ask, ‘What exactly is that painting meant to be?’
‘It’s going to be the village. Lower Hembrow. I’m planning to fit your hotel and my pub in the same composition.’ He waved a hand at the canvas. ‘This red is called under-painting. I believe it’s meant to give the picture a warm glow, according to one of the highly priced books I bought. I’m planning to paint the buildings over the wash, and it will look as though the evening sun’s shining.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not so sure. I’d like to stand outside to paint, but I don’t want anyone watching my pathetic splatterings.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll go—’
‘I don’t mean you. You’re welcome. Now,’ he used the rag on his hands, ‘you have me on tenterhooks. What strange thing happened to you in the garden?’
Imogen told him the details of Harley’s discovery. ‘I can think of a way the earring found its way there,’ she added, ‘but I don’t like it.’
‘Mm.’ Adam scratched his cheek, leaving a streak of red paint. ‘Tell me your theory.’
‘Not yet. I need to think it through, first.’
Adam washed his hands. There was no time for more painting. He looked around the room. Intended to be his bolt hole, where he painted and enjoyed his so-called retirement, it was filling quickly with evidence from this new, fast growing investigation.
A row of files stood on the console table at the side of the room that had recently held his coffee maker. They were filled, partly with documents relating to the hotel, but also with the plant sketches he’d taken from Daniel. He’d pass it all on to DCI Andrews, but not yet. He’d reported his theories about the councillor’s death to the authorities, and Andrews had taken them less than seriously.
Adam wrinkled his nose in disgust. Proper policing, the DCI had said, but hadn’t bothered with the hotel’s records.
Adam made a promise to himself. He would see this case through to the end.
And what if, a little voice in his head wondered, what if Imogen’s secret love, Daniel, turns out to be the villain? Adam felt oddly protective of Imogen. He’d grown fond of her so quickly. She’d become his best friend – he felt closer to her than to that unobtainable goddess, Maria.
Daniel wasn’t the only suspect. There was another, even less welcome.
‘No, not that,’ he groaned aloud.
A murderer, no matter who, must be apprehended and put away, safely, at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Justice – that was central to his moral code.
Collateral damage was irrelevant.
He shrugged into his coat. He needed to dig his way to the bottom of this case, as soon as possible, or even worse things could happen.
29
Waterfall
Imogen’s head whirled with information. She pushed the earring puzzle out of her head. Instead, she would focus on the unexpected revelations about her father. He had cared about her, after all. He’d been up to all sorts of illegality, but Imogen could forgive him, now.
Suddenly cheerful, she relished the next few hours she planned to spend at Haselbury House, well away from any mysterious deaths.
As she hurtled through the foyer, Emily stopped her in her tracks. ‘Mrs Bishop.’
Imogen halted, Harley skidding past on the polished floor.
‘Mrs Bishop, there’s someone to see you. In the lounge.’
Imogen cursed under her breath. ‘Who is it?’ She crossed her fingers. Not the police. She’d have to talk to them again soon, but not today, please.
‘Someone called Steph Aldred.’
Steph? What was she doing here? Anger sparked, and a stab of fear. Steph and Daniel had been together at the reunion; were they an item? Had Steph come here to warn Imogen off Daniel.
She cast a longing look at the door but turned into the lounge.
‘Hello. What can I do for you?’
Steph, who’d always been small for her age, didn’t seem to have grown much since leaving school. She struggled from the depths of a hotel sofa.
‘Imogen.’ Steph held out a hand, and Imogen took it. The fingers felt long and cool. Steph said, ‘I didn’t really get to talk to you at the reunion. I wanted to say how sorry I was about Greg. I mean, I know things weren’t great between the two of you, but still, it must have been a dreadful shock.’
Imogen struggled with her feelings. Steph had always been the kindest, most gentle of her friends, but now?
‘Thank you,’ she managed. ‘It’s all been… very difficult.’
‘And your father died, as well. So sad.’ Steph’s eyes looked into Imogen’s; her expression guileless.
She was about to blurt out the news that her father had been murdered, too. She caught herself in time. No one knew that, apart from Adam. Imogen spoke with care. ‘It’s good of you to come,’ she said. ‘It sounds horribly rude, I know, but I have to leave. I’m still working at—’
A Village Murder Page 14