‘I heard her mention Alexa,’ Tom said. ‘Sir Hugo’s daughter, I presume?’
‘Yep. Lives with the ex-wife.’
Becky was about to make some tactless remark about ex-wives when fortunately her mobile rang. Fiddling briefly with the earpiece behind her left ear, she answered.
‘DS Robinson.’ Nothing. ‘DS Robinson,’ she repeated.
With an irritated tut, she pulled the offending object off her ear and flung it over her shoulder onto the back seat.
‘Sodding bluetooth headset. It never works when I want it to. When whoever it was calls back, I’ll have to put it on speaker if that’s okay.’
Almost immediately the mobile rang again and Becky pressed the speaker button.
‘DS Robinson.’
‘Yeah, Bex. Finally! It’s Ajay. You with Throb?’
Tom turned his head and looked at Becky with raised eyebrows. Becky winced.
‘Yes, Ajay. I am.’
‘Better put this on speaker then so he can hear too.’
‘Splendid idea, Ajay - if a tad too late.’
‘Oh bollocks. Sorry, sir.’
Clearly deciding it was better to get on with the message in the hope that his gaffe would be overlooked, Ajay continued.
‘I thought you might like to know that Laura Fletcher’s definitely on the flight, and has checked in a bag. No bags were unloaded for no-shows, and the flight manifest shows she’s on board. They’ll make an announcement just before they land, and they’ll call you on this number to make arrangements for you to meet up with her.’
The conversation over, Becky disconnected and glanced nervously at Tom.
‘Oops!’ She knew she was blushing, but bloody Ajay should have had more sense. They had nicknames for all the senior officers, but they usually had the nouse to keep them private.
‘Care to explain, Becky?’
Becky groaned.
‘I get all the dirty work. I’ll kill Ajay. Oh well… you know when you came for your interview? Florence in the office saw you, and she said you were a bit of a heartthrob. When you got the job you became ‘The Throb’, and it’s kind of got shortened to ‘Throb’. That’s it - simple as that.’
Tom didn’t say a word, but Becky was fundamentally incapable of being silent.
‘Mind you, Florence is about ninety and blind as a bat!’
‘Ah, that would explain it then,’ Tom responded sardonically.
The thing is, Becky thought, he really is a bit of a dish. Not her type - she preferred them a bit less contained. A bit rougher round the edges, if she was honest. But she wouldn’t chuck him out of bed, and he had quite a body on him.
Quickly changing the subject, Becky pointed to a folder on the back seat.
‘You might want to look in there. I got some photos emailed to me while you were upstairs with the body, and printed them out in the secretary’s office. The techies said it would be okay to use that computer. They make interesting viewing.’
*
Tom was grateful to get away from the subject of himself, good looks or otherwise. He didn’t know Becky well, but he suspected that the last hour or so had proved quite illuminating for both of them. He didn’t think she was a gossip, though. She was tough and ambitious, and he was pretty sure she would respect his privacy. What little he had left.
He opened the folder.
The first image he came to was of a young and vibrant woman. Long, wavy red hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was wearing a pewter grey silk evening dress, cut low at the front with wide shoulder straps, and she had a gorgeous figure. Not pencil thin, but slim with lovely curves. The thing that struck Tom the most was her amazing smile. It lit up her whole face, and she looked on top of the world. Becky glanced across.
‘Laura Fletcher. That was taken about ten years ago. She’d just met her husband, and this was their first public date together. Did you notice the red hair? I’d have thought we were on to something, other than the fact that we know Laura Fletcher was in Italy.’
Tom started looking through the rest of the photos. The odds were always on the wife in these cases, so that made her the number one suspect. But there were too many things that didn’t fit. Apart from the fact that she was apparently out of the country, the whole bedroom set up, the champagne, the silk scarves - it didn’t feel like a rendezvous with a wife, particularly as the evidence suggested she rarely stayed at the apartment. Far more like an assignation with mistress. Wife out of the country; living apart during the week - a perfect opportunity for a visit from the other woman, Tom thought.
He had now reached the last photo in the pile, and couldn’t help but utter an expletive.
‘Shit - what on earth happened?’
‘I thought that might be your reaction when you saw that one,’ Becky said. ‘The others are interesting too, though. They were taken over a period of time, but she looks different, somehow. What do you think?’
Tom studied the other photos. In none of them did Laura Fletcher shine as brightly as she did in the first one. Her clothes were undoubtedly expensive, but somehow she managed to look less sexy in each one. Still beautiful, but thinner. And in the third of the formal photos her hair was no longer red. She looked like a brunette and it suited her. But she also looked stiff and uncomfortable in a dress that came unflatteringly half way up her chest with small cap sleeves. He dragged his attention back to the last photo and turned to Becky.
‘Do you know when this was taken?’
‘About six months ago, I believe. Apparently there have been very few photos in the last four or five years. She’s stopped accompanying her husband to functions, and she’s spent a lot of time in and out of private care homes, of the psychiatric variety. At least a couple of reasonably long stays that we know of. That last photo was taken by some very opportunistic paparazzo who was actually at the hospital to visit his mother. He didn’t recognise Lady Fletcher, but he did recognise the car that was picking her up. Hugo Fletcher’s car has a very distinctive number plate.’
Tom looked again at the picture. The woman in the photo could easily pass for fifty, although he knew that Laura Fletcher was only in her mid thirties. She was wearing a pair of trousers that looked as if they were at least two sizes too big, with a baggy jumper and flat shoes. Her hair was scraped back from her face and was a dull mousy colour - not red. She looked pale and lifeless. He could only think that she must have been quite ill to have changed so dramatically. It was a sad picture, and he wondered how Hugo’s very public life had been affected by his wife’s illness. He hated to admit it, but the mistress theory was definitely looking like a very plausible scenario.
‘Do we know what was the matter with her, Becky?’
Becky had done her research. ‘We’ve contacted the hospital, but of course patient confidentiality prevents them from saying anything. Anyway, you’ll be meeting her in a couple of minutes - because we’re about to turn off for the airport. We’ve made good time, so she probably hasn’t even picked up her bag yet.’
‘Let’s just hope the airline staff have done their stuff’
CHAPTER 3
Laura indicated left, and swung her car abruptly from the main road onto the unlit lane that approached Ashbury Park. Slamming her foot hard on the brake, the car slowed to a crawl as she stared nervously at a strange white glow, lighting up the sky above the trees ahead. She cautiously turned the final bend towards the gates of her home, and was met with a shattering sight.
‘Oh, dear God,’ she whispered.
There was no escape. The hordes of press, hearing the deep hum of her Mercedes coupé, rapidly whipped their cameras round towards her. The television teams swiftly adjusted their arc lights to point at her approaching car, the bright beams penetrating the interior with their harsh glare, momentarily blinding her. It wasn’t unusual to see photographers at these gates, and she could practically taste their excitement. After all, Hugo’s fame and near celebrity status had virtually been built by these very sam
e individuals, as he skilfully fed them just enough information about his work to maintain their interest.
But this was different. This was a feeding frenzy.
And there was only one way that she could gain access to her home. Hugo had insisted that the electric gates had a keypad opening system rather than a remote control. That way, he could change the code regularly. Remotes could be lost, or even sold to the highest bidder.
As she drew to a stop, she could do nothing to prevent the ruthless flashing of cameras from exposing her anguish, and as her window wound smoothly down so she could type in the entry code she heard frantic shouts from the press, each one trying to secure the best picture.
‘Look this way, Lady Fletcher.’
‘Have you been told the news yet, Lady Fletcher?’
‘Do you have anything to say, Laura?’ as if use of her first name would elicit a more favourable response. Yet nobody actually said what the news was. This in itself spoke volumes.
A multitude of cameras caught her look of utter despair as she wound up her window. She felt certain that this image would feature on the front page of several newspapers the next morning.
Manoeuvring the car as quickly as possible between the overgrown shrubs towards the front of her home, she was almost overcome with nausea. She knew the police would be waiting. They had the code to the gate for security reasons, and she was certain they would be at the house. What would they expect of her? It had been a long time since Laura felt that she could simply react instinctively to life.
So it was with a sense of surprise that she saw a solitary policeman standing as if on guard on the steps to the front door of Ashbury Park. He seemed small against the huge black doors. Glimpsing his face in the headlights, she could see he looked wary and uncomfortable, and was speaking urgently to somebody on his radio. It was evident that he was not expecting to have to do this job himself.
She pulled up in front of the steps. The policeman pocketed his radio and rushed down to open the door for her, but he was too late.
‘Lady Fletcher? I’m so sorry ma’am but we weren’t expecting you yet. At least, I was here just in case, but the senior officers are on their way. They went to meet you at Stansted, but ..’
Taking a deep breath, Laura interrupted in a voice quivering slightly from tension.
‘It’s okay, officer. Just tell me what’s happened.’
‘We tried to keep the animals at the gate at bay, your ladyship. There’s a press embargo until you’ve been told, and they know not to say anything. They didn’t say anything, did they?’
‘Enough. Enough for me to know that this is very serious. Tell me.’
‘Do you think we should go inside, ma’am, and perhaps wait for the senior policemen to arrive?’
Laura just wanted to get this over, and then to be alone as quickly as possible. She tried to control her mounting panic.
‘It’s my husband, isn’t it? If it were anything else, he would have called me. And he hasn’t. The reality can’t be any worse than I’m imagining, so for God’s sake just tell me. Please.’
The young policeman took a deep breath.
‘All I know ma’am, and I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, is that your husband was found dead at your London home some time earlier today. I realise that this must be deeply distressing for you. Would you like to go inside? Surely that would be for the best?’
Laura couldn’t trust herself to speak. She stared mutely at the policeman for just a few seconds, and then turned her back on him and walked towards the house without a word. It wasn’t his fault, but she couldn’t bear the thought of anybody being with her now. Forcing herself to place one foot in front of the other, she climbed the steps to the front door as if her legs knew what had to be done, even though her mind seemed to be a total blank. She felt as if she were somehow outside of her body, looking down and watching a performance - and a bad one at that. The policeman clearly hadn’t known what to say, and she hadn’t known what she should do, or how she should behave. A scream was hovering just below the surface, but she somehow prevented it from breaking through. She couldn’t fall apart yet.
As she reached the top step she heard an unwelcome sound. The press at the gates were out of sight, but a steady throbbing noise growing in volume indicated that a helicopter was fast approaching, and as she inserted the key into the front door lock, to her horror a huge overhead spotlight flooded the area, illuminating both her and the hapless policeman. The spell was broken.
She hurriedly turned the key, and pushed the door open, relieved to escape the probing lenses of the television crew overhead. Slamming the door with force, she leaned back heavily against it, and only then did she let the tears come. They flowed in relentless channels down her cheeks, but her weeping was soundless. Slowly, her legs gave out and she sank to the cold stone floor, her back still pressed hard against the door. She bent forward and rested her forehead on her knees, her arms tight around her head, trying desperately to stop herself from falling apart completely.
Her mind was filled with images of Hugo and how he’d looked the very first time she had seen him. How handsome and self-assured. And she had been as bright as a butterfly, flitting through life without a care in the world, loving her job, her family and her friends. How had it ended like this?
The silent tears turned to deep, wrenching sobs of regret, and she was still huddled by the door fifteen minutes later when she heard the unmistakable sound of a car racing up the drive, its door opening practically before the car had stopped. She heard muffled voices consulting with the policeman, but she couldn’t make out the words. Hastily she pulled a sodden tissue from up her sleeve - a habit that she had never been able to break even though Hugo always thought it was the height of unsophisticated behaviour - and wiped the tears from her face. She pushed herself shakily to her feet, and before the new arrivals had a chance to ring the bell, she opened the door.
Standing before her was a man who she guessed was around forty, dressed in a leather jacket, black tee shirt and jeans. She vaguely registered that he was tall with dark blonde hair that was slightly messy. She didn’t know how she expected a senior policeman to look, but it certainly wasn’t like this.
Having parked the car on the far side of the drive, a young dark haired girl in a conservative black trouser suit was quickly making her way across the gravel to the front steps.
As she stood in the open doorway, Laura felt herself swaying. The policeman leapt up the last two steps and grabbed her forearms gently but firmly.
‘Come on, Lady Fletcher. Let’s get you sat down.’
She saw the policeman signal with a flick of his head to the girl, who gently eased past them and disappeared down the hallway.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Laura said. ‘I’m not usually so pathetic. I’ll be okay in a moment.’
‘You’re not being pathetic. You’ve had a shock. Which way to your sitting room?’
Laura felt oddly relieved to hear a northern accent. It felt like a million years since everybody in her life had spoken like this. It was a reminder of an untroubled life.
With the policeman holding her right elbow, obviously fearing that she was about to keel over, she led the way across the stone flagged hallway to the drawing room. This had never been her favourite room, with its gloomy dark panelling and drab furniture, but it seemed the most appropriate to the occasion. The young woman had clearly found the kitchen, and was hovering with a glass of water in her hand.
The policeman guided Laura to a sofa and waited until she was seated, and the glass was placed on the table at her side. She was so cold, but although the fire was made up and ready to light, she felt no inclination to make the effort.
‘Lady Fletcher, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas, and this is Detective Sergeant Becky Robinson from the Metropolitan Police. We’re expecting Detective Chief Superintendent Sinclair to join us, but he got stuck on his way to the M40. He’ll be with us in about ten minute
s.’
The two police officers sat down on the facing sofa, and Tom Douglas took a deep breath. It was clear that he wasn’t enjoying this moment.
‘I’m so very sorry that we weren’t here when you arrived home, and that you had to run the gauntlet of the press out there. It must have been a very stressful experience, and I’m not at all surprised that you’re feeling a bit shaky. I know you’ve heard that your husband was found dead this afternoon in your London home, and you have our deepest sympathy for your loss.’
Laura closed her eyes and clamped her top lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling. She dropped her chin to her chest in a vain attempt to hide her lack of control. The tissue that had remained clutched in her hand was somehow torn to shreds in her lap. She had no recollection of doing that, and now her nose was starting to run. Bundling the bits into a ball, she attempted to wipe her eyes and nose. She felt a clean tissue being pressed into her hand, and knew she was being rude to not thank the thoughtful young sergeant. But she couldn’t bring herself to look at them, or to speak. She just held the tissue to her streaming eyes and nose.
The Chief Inspector began to talk again, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Police officers were called to the apartment in Egerton Crescent at around two pm following a call from a Mrs Beryl Stubbs, who had discovered your husband’s body about an hour earlier.’
She looked up sharply, her hands dropping to her lap.
‘Beryl? What on earth was she doing there on a Saturday afternoon?’
The sergeant answered.
‘She came to pick up her purse, but it was helpful having her there to be honest. She told us how we might find out where you were. We did try to catch you at the airport - there was supposed to be an announcement on your flight, but I gather you didn’t come forward. I’m sorry we missed you. We could perhaps have saved you some distress.’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 3