by Sam Blake
Her tyres crunched on the gravel as she drove into the courtyard in front of the house. It was full, already occupied by Aidan’s car, several garda patrol cars and an ambulance. She threw open the car door and jumped out just as Aidan appeared at the front door, his face pale and drawn. He was wearing jeans and his sailing jacket, as if he’d forgotten to take it off.
‘Vittoria I’ve been trying to call—’
‘I turned my phone off on the flight, I forgot to turn it back on. What on earth’s happening?’
‘You need to come inside. There’s been an accident.’
‘What?’ Her tone shocked, Vittoria slammed her car door closed and ran up the steps to the front door.
Aidan caught her by her arm as she pushed past him into the house. ‘You can’t go into the kitchen – it’s sealed. It’s Marcus. And some guy we don’t know. Something happened. They’re in the pool.’
‘What do you mean something happened? Marcus hates swimming – why’s he in the pool?’
Aidan took a deep breath. ‘He’s dead, Vittoria. We don’t know exactly what happened but they are both dead.’ Behind him, Vittoria could see several men hovering in the doorway to the living room, all in plain clothes but with that unmistakable look of police officers.
*
Vittoria’s hands shook as she cradled the whiskey Aidan had poured her from the decanter in the den. On the opposite side of the house from the kitchen and living room, it was Marcus’s room but rarely used except in the winter. He kept it locked, had all his model planes and sailing pictures in here. This was the room he and Aidan crashed out in to plan their summer sailing when Vittoria was away or working late.
Now she sat on one of the red leather Chesterfield sofas, hunched forward, Aidan perching on the arm beside her. Opposite them, sitting on the matching sofa, two plainclothes detectives opened their notebooks. One was young, blond, very attractive in an all-American kind of way, the other older, greying, wearing a lilac golf jumper and matching argyle socks. If he hadn’t been wearing a navy garda jacket she’d have thought he was one of Marcus’s golfing partners. Perhaps he was.
Vittoria shook her head. ‘My God, I still can’t believe it.’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
‘We’re sorry we need to ask questions at a time like this, but I’m sure you understand that in the case of a suspicious death we need to act quickly.’
‘Of course, of course.’ She smiled weakly, her eyes on the glass clutched in her hand.
‘My name is DI Frank Gallagher and this is Detective Jamie Fanning. We’re based at Dun Laoghaire Garda Station. You can call either of us at any time.’ He passed Vittoria a white business card. She smiled weakly and reached for it, putting it down on the sofa beside her. ‘We met after your first break-in. I was on leave when the second one happened, so you were dealing with a different team.’
Vittoria ran her hand over her face. ‘I remember. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you – it’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. Do you think the break-ins are connected to this?’
‘At this stage, everything is a possibility. But don’t worry. It’s not your job to remember us, it’s our job to remember you. Now can you tell us when you last spoke to your husband, Mrs Devine?’
Vittoria cradled her glass in her hands as she answered. ‘Friday. I think it was Friday evening. He’d had some trouble at work and he called me to tell me what was happening.’
‘And where was he then?’
‘On his way back to Dublin. I was in London.’ Vittoria trailed off. ‘It was all total nonsense. He didn’t even know that woman. He’d never risk his career like that – it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.’ She took a ragged breath. ‘Sorry, there was this article in the newspaper … He had to fight it, but we needed money – I took a painting to London to see if we could find a buyer. The art dealer I met, Edward Croxley, liked the picture, so I arranged for Marcus to meet him here at the house yesterday. Marcus had some other paintings that he wanted to sell, but it needed to be incredibly discreet – we couldn’t use a dealer here.’
As if the realisation had suddenly dawned on her, a look of horror crossed Vittoria’s face. ‘That’s not him, is it? In the pool as well? Croxley? Oh my God.’ Her hand shot to her mouth.
‘It seems it might be, Mrs Devine. At least, the man we’ve found had a passport belonging to an Edward Croxley in his pocket. How did you meet him?’
Vittoria shrugged. ‘I called Beaufort Fine Art. They work with him a lot, apparently – they introduced us by email.’ The detective inspector nodded as she continued. ‘I met Croxley at my hotel, The Hogarth on Great Russell Street. I’d found some paintings at the back of the attic – I was looking for a vase.’ She took a ragged breath. ‘I’m sorry – you don’t need to know that. They were right at the back, these paintings. Marcus didn’t even know they were there. So, anyway, I took one of them to London for Croxley to see. I didn’t know if they were valuable. They were all so different from each other and the rest of the collection.’ She paused. ‘When I met Croxley, I showed him the painting. He was confident it was an original and authentic, so I showed him the photos I’d taken of the others. He was very surprised.’ Vittoria drew another shaky breath. ‘I should have done it before but I checked out the paintings on the Internet then.’ Vittoria cleared her throat. ‘They were all lost after the war, pictures that had been stolen by the Nazis.’
The detective inspector raised his eyebrows as she paused again, taking a sip of her whisky. ‘Marcus’s father was a friend of Eamon de Valera’s. Apparently there was some Dutchman his father met through him who was an art collector. Marcus thought that’s where they had come from. He was a war criminal, the Dutchman, Marcus said.’
Vittoria shook her head, her eyes filling with tears as she took another sip, the ice clinking in her glass. ‘When I found out, I told him we had to give them back – we couldn’t keep them. But Marcus said we’d had enough trouble with the press – he couldn’t have anyone knowing about these pictures and he needed the money. Edward Croxley said he could sell them quietly, that he had Russian buyers who collected this type of stuff. I really had no idea when I met him that they’d had such a terrible past.’
‘And why didn’t you come back from London to introduce them?’
Vittoria shook her head like it was obvious. ‘They’re both adults. I had my flight booked for this afternoon, but I wasn’t even sure if I was going to make it, to be honest. I was dying with the flu. I slept almost all day yesterday. I woke up about three and tried to get up to get some air, but I still felt terrible. I tried to call Marcus on the landline. He answered but he couldn’t hear me – I called from my mobile so maybe there was a problem with the connection. I heard splashing so I guessed he was down at the pool. Then I tried from my hotel phone but the line was engaged, so I left a message on his mobile.’
Vittoria took another sip and looked up sharply. ‘But what about the CCTV? I specifically asked the company to put a camera in the pool house, after the last time …’ She shuddered. ‘Marcus said they came last week. He was here – Thursday, was it? The company came to test the system and put in new cameras.’
‘Unfortunately, it looks like someone has wiped the recordings from all the cameras on the property from about 2.30 p.m. yesterday afternoon.’
Vittoria’s mouth fell open. ‘But how—?’
The inspector continued, ‘We’ve people going through them now. But the system seems to be missing approximately two hours of film.’
She sighed deeply, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe this, after everything that happened before. The system is supposed to work! Do you think this has to do with the man who broke in before? Could Marcus have upset someone?’
‘What makes you say that, Mrs Devine?’
Vittoria’s lip trembled. ‘Because he was supposed to be here that night. The night the man came into the bedroom. I only realised it later, but I told your colleagues. Something happened a
nd he got held up in London, but we’d only spoken on the phone that afternoon and he’d said he was on his way.’ She shook her head again. ‘I don’t know, it’s all so confusing.’ Vittoria put her hand over her face, biting her lip. A noise at the door distracted her. She looked up as a man in a full white forensic overall came in, his paper suit crinkling as he moved.
‘Got something, Thirsty?’ The inspector twisted in his seat. The man in the forensic outfit was holding a large brown paper bag in his hand, the top rolled up, numbers scrawled on the outside in black marker. ‘Just need Mrs Devine to tell us if she’s seen this before?’ Unrolling the top of the bag, he extracted a black V-neck lamb’s-wool sweater, holding it up for Vittoria to see.
Vittoria stared at it for a moment, glancing quickly at Aidan sitting beside her. ‘It looks like Marcus’s. There’s a hole in the sleeve …’
Thirsty turned the sweater so she could see the sleeve. ‘I can’t let you touch it, but there’s a hole here.’
‘Yes, that’s his. I wear it around the house sometimes – I caught the sleeve in the French windows a few weeks ago and I haven’t had time to get it fixed. Where did you find it?’
‘It was thrown over a lounger beside the pool. It looks like someone had just taken it off. It’s inside out.’
Vittoria frowned. ‘Marcus must have been wearing it. I left it in the bedroom on my dressing-table chair so I’d remember to get it fixed when I got home from London.’
The forensics officer grimaced. ‘We’ll get it examined and then we’ll have more idea who came into contact with it.’
The inspector turned back to her. ‘We’re going to need to take samples from you, if that’s OK, for elimination purposes.’
‘Of course.’ Vittoria’s voice was low. She stared into her glass. ‘What on earth happened?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
Chapter 52
‘WILL YOU have tea, Inspector?’
Vittoria picked up the heavy silver teapot and put the strainer over the top of the china cup in front of her. After talking to the guards yesterday she’d had to leave the house. It was a crime scene and they’d needed it for examination.
And she knew she was a suspect. Her husband had apparently been caught with another woman and publicly lambasted in the press. People had murdered for less.
As she’d driven out of the gate, a uniformed officer had started unrolling blue and white crime-scene tape behind her, sealing off the entire property. She hadn’t even been able to get into her bedroom to get fresh clothes. Aidan had suggested she stay with him until she could get back home, but she wanted to stay close to the house, so she’d booked into Killiney Towers Hotel, a few minutes’ drive up Killiney Hill.
The only room they’d had left was their largest suite – which was just as well, as this morning she seemed to have been playing host to half of Dun Laoghaire’s gardaí, and chatting to them in the bedroom would definitely have been peculiar. The detective inspector she’d met yesterday and the young good-looking detective had arrived just after ten. Aidan had reorganised his surgeries and taken a few days off from the hospital, arriving shortly after them.
‘I’m going to need you to come down to the station today to make a statement about your movements yesterday and on Saturday.’
‘Of course. There’s not much to tell. When I couldn’t get through on Sunday morning I called Aidan.’
The detective inspector nodded. ‘It was just as well he knew the code to your gates or …’
‘It could have been me finding them.’ Vittoria winced and sat back as the inspector helped himself to milk.
‘Any sign of the paintings?’ Aidan moved away from the French windows overlooking the narrow balcony. The morning sun was streaming in. He sat in one of the high-backed armchairs gathered around the glass-topped coffee table. The room was pure eighteenth century and utterly opulent, from the magnificent curtains to the enormous draped bed in the adjoining room.
The hotel had provided a fabulous spread of finger sandwiches and biscuits with the tea and coffee she’d ordered, although only the guards seemed to be hungry. Vittoria could feel the younger one watching her the whole time the detective inspector was speaking.
Aidan reached for the coffee-pot and topped up his cup as the inspector, Frank Gallagher – she’d remembered his name this morning – answered. ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve had the pathologist’s and early forensic reports, though. The pathologist’s toxicology results won’t be with us for a few days but there are traces of a powerful sedative in a glass of brandy that has your husband’s fingerprints on it, Mrs Devine. It was on a table beside the pool.’ DI Gallagher cleared his throat. ‘We found a bottle of brandy on the kitchen table had been bought in London City Airport with Edward Croxley’s credit card – the receipt was still in the bag – and the bottle was laced with it.’
‘So you think he drugged Marcus deliberately? And then Marcus fell into the pool?’
DI Gallagher looked Vittoria in the eye. ‘Or was pushed.’
Aidan let out a sharp breath. ‘Christ.’ He paused. ‘But how did this Croxley end up in there too? Do you think they had a fight, or he was followed by someone?’
Gallagher shrugged. ‘We’ve only got the facts to work with. But the post-mortem showed that Croxley’s neck had been broken.’
Aidan leaned forward in his chair. ‘Good God. But how? I mean how did he break his neck?’ He glanced at her anxiously. ‘Sorry, Vittoria – I’m a doctor, remember. The devil is always in the detail.’
Gallagher grimaced. ‘The pathologist – Professor Saunders, you might know him?’
‘Sure do.’ Aidan raised his eyebrows and a look passed between them that Vittoria couldn’t quite work out.
‘The professor believes his neck had been twisted sharply. He likened it to a movement that’s taught to special forces. Well, I’m not sure if it is any more – he was talking about the Second World War, but it’s the same principle.’
Aidan frowned. ‘It must have been someone fairly big then, to overpower him?’
‘Apparently it’s not just about strength, but you’d need to know what you were doing.’
‘That’s awful. He was such a nice man.’ Vittoria rubbed the corner of her eye, catching a tear.
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘I’m not entirely sure about that. We’ve been doing some digging and it appears Croxley was interviewed after the death of an Irish girl, Arabella Smyth, at a party near London some years ago. Coincidentally, she also died in a swimming pool.’
Vittoria raised her eyebrows. ‘Mio Dio.’ She was quite sure the gardaí never saw anything as coincidental.
Gallagher continued, ‘He was released without charge – the statements taken at the time were apparently conflicting – but there was a strong suspicion from our UK colleagues that he was, at the very least, a key witness who chose to keep quiet.’
Vittoria looked at him, shocked. ‘My God, that’s awful. I had no idea. Do you think he could have pushed Marcus?’
‘It’s a possibility. Perhaps he got away with it the first time and thought he’d try it again – who knows. But more interesting is the company he’s been keeping in London. He’s been closely associated with a Sergei Andronov who works for a Russian businessman called Kaprizov. Did he mention either name to you?’
Vittoria shook her head, her face blank.
‘Both men have been under surveillance for some time by the National Crime Agency. They have links to serious organised crime.’
‘Really?’ Vittoria’s hand shot to her mouth and she felt herself pale.
‘My colleagues in the UK observed Croxley meeting you, Vittoria, in The Hogarth Hotel.’
‘Yes, we met couple of times. I even had lunch with him. I didn’t want to tell him about all the paintings straight away.’
Gallagher nodded, like he already knew. ‘And then he was observed meeting this Sergei Andronov at a private club in Covent Garden. One of
their team was in situ right beside Andronov and Croxley and heard them discussing your painting.’
‘He said he had a Russian buyer.’ Vittoria shook her head in disbelief. ‘I left that first painting with him – with Croxley, I mean – so he could show him. My God, that was stupid, wasn’t it?’
‘Have you any idea what it’s worth?’
Vittoria shrugged. ‘Croxley said he’d had an offer of two million. But I’ve no real idea what any of them are worth. Bearing in mind where they came from, I’d imagine quite a bit. Honestly, with so much going on, once I’d realised their history I just wanted Marcus to get rid of them – I wouldn’t want anything in the house with that sort of provenance.’ She shrugged. ‘And Marcus needed the money. Suing the Inquirer was a huge risk, but he was determined to clear his name.’
The Inspector frowned. ‘We did a bit of research on the images you sent Croxley. The,’ he checked his notebook, ‘Pissarro is worth three to five million.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Aidan leaned forward in his seat. ‘And the others?’
‘Something similar, nothing less than a million.’
Aidan sat back. ‘Several million reasons to leave two blokes dead in a pool.’ He glanced at her quickly. ‘Sorry, Vittoria. But what about the CCTV, is there anything from earlier on Saturday or the previous day? Surely someone must have been scoping the place out? Vittoria made sure there were extra cameras installed.’
The young guard, who had been quiet until then, flipped open his notebook. ‘I spoke to the security company. Mr Devine called on Thursday to ask them to do a rush job and their team came out Thursday afternoon. He made it worth their while.’
‘That’s Marcus all over – he leaves everything to the last minute and then throws money at it.’ Vittoria smiled weakly and ran her hand through her hair.
Aidan leaned forward. ‘So is it likely this Russian – Sergei, did you say? – followed Croxley, thinking he could get his hands on the paintings for free? Vittoria said she’d made it clear they needed to be sold very discreetly, that she didn’t want any publicity. Perhaps he thought she wouldn’t report it if they got stolen. Particularly bearing in mind their origins?’