Smug as Jessica was, Becky had to admit that this approach had its merits.
After the chat over coffee, she decided to talk to the two girls separately. On the face of it they seemed to get along, but it was pretty clear that Jessica saw Rosie as her inferior and a bit of an airhead. Rosie had worked for Sir Hugo for around five years, but Jessica had been with him for over twelve, so thought herself superior in every way. Funnily enough it was Rosie who had eyes red from crying, whilst Jessica seemed completely unmoved.
Wanting very much to remove the slightly arrogant look from Jessica’s face, Becky was sorely tempted to interview Rosie first. But she couldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way, and she needed Jessica on her side, so they made their way into a private office and sat down.
‘I just want to get a bit of background, really Jessica, to try to understand as much as possible about Sir Hugo, his life and his work. I’m sure that you were very close to him after all these years, and I’m hoping that you can give me some insight into the man. Perhaps you could start by telling me what you do here, and how you worked with Sir Hugo.’
‘I must start by saying that Sir Hugo was a truly exceptional man. He was unique in every way, and it’s difficult to imagine life without him. I’m sure you think that my lack of any outward display of emotion signifies an absence of feeling, but that would be a false assumption. It’s all about upbringing, sergeant. I have been brought up not to wear my heart on my sleeve. So you won’t see me cry. It’s not what we do.’
Bloody hell, thought Becky. She was momentarily lost for words. But she needn’t have worried, because Jessica was in full flow.
‘A personal assistant to somebody as important as Sir Hugo has many roles to fulfil. I liaise with Brian Smedley at the property company on Sir Hugo’s behalf, but that doesn’t fill my days as the majority of that work is done from head office. My main interest is in helping Sir Hugo with the day-to-day running of the charity. When we receive responses to advertisements for homes for the girls, I undertake the initial inspection. Obviously we ultimately designate somebody who is trained in social work, but I select which of the girls seems most appropriate to the family’s needs, and then assign the management of the relationship to one of the qualified team. I ensure they get follow up visits, confirm that the funding is in place, and so on. I’m also the first port of call if there are any problems with the girls or the families. So my job requires a level of expertise that can only come with years of experience.’
Becky swallowed another bite of a delicious almond croissant, wondering if this really was her third pastry.
‘What sort of problems do you encounter?’
‘Oh, some of these girls are so stupid. They get a unique second chance at life, and they just throw it away. Very occasionally we have one who steals from the family, but that’s quite rare I’m pleased to say. We’ve had the odd instance of a girl seducing the husband of the family. That’s always very difficult, because the Foundation somehow gets the blame. The wife, of course, prefers to perpetuate the myth that her husband is entirely innocent. And then some go back to the streets because they think they can earn more money. Others just leave a note and go. Who knows where? And then there are those that get picked up on the street by one of the gangs they thought they’d escaped from. It’s quite hard to track them down if they’re back behind locked doors. So my job’s not easy. It’s very challenging, actually.’
Aware that Tom thought some of these girls might be pertinent to the crime, Becky thought she should pursue this angle.
‘Have any of the girls gone missing recently, Jessica?’
‘Oh yes. A silly little girl who should have known better. About two weeks ago.’
‘And?’
‘Sorry? Oh, you mean what happened to her? Ridiculous, given her history. She was living with a very nice family, and working as a waitress in a local café. She met some man - he came in every day and flattered her. I’m sure you know how easily some women are seduced by a few kind words. Pathetic, really. Anyway, he had apparently asked her to go and live with him, and she said yes. She thought it was her chance for a normal life, I imagine.’ Jessica gave a derisive laugh. ‘She was too embarrassed to tell the family, because she thought they might try to stop her. I’m sure you’ve guessed the rest. He was a pimp. Once he’d got her, she had nowhere to go. She couldn’t go back - or didn’t think she could. We tracked her down through some of our street intelligence, and the owner of the café wasn’t entirely blameless either. We won’t be using him again. We’ve given her another chance, with another family. The first ones weren’t happy to take her back. Understandable, really. As far as I’m concerned, this is her last chance though.’
‘Any others before that?’
‘Not recently, no. I would say it’s at least two months since anybody else decided that they were better off on the streets. Some people just don’t deserve our help.’
Becky kept her thoughts on Jessica’s sympathetic attitude to herself, and decided to move on.
‘How did you find working with Sir Hugo?’
‘Marvellous. I couldn’t fault him. He was always courteous - even when I could tell he wasn’t happy, or when he was in one of his strange moods.’
‘Wasn’t he happy, then? Did you think he was unhappy in his marriage?’
Jessica pursed her lips slightly and looked down at her hands. Becky knew without a doubt that some thinly veiled, but nevertheless derogatory remark was about to be delivered. She’d met women like this before, although generally without the superficial disguise that money and upbringing offers. But a snidey cow was a snidey cow - whether wearing posh clothes or hand-me-downs.
‘I must admit that I was quite shocked when I realised that Sir Hugo was going to marry Laura - she was clearly not right for him. He needed somebody with breeding - the right background. Somebody who understood him well. Somebody with class - a kindred spirit. I didn’t think that she was an appropriate choice at all.
‘However, there was an air of expectation about him from the day he met her until the day he married her. Barely suppressed excitement, I would call it. His eyes literally glittered. Nobody could compete with that, could they?’
‘So you think his marriage was a happy one?’ Becky asked, thinking that ‘compete’ was an interesting choice of word.
The coy look reappeared.
‘I couldn’t possibly say. But when he returned from honeymoon, the sparkle seemed to have gone, as if something hadn’t quite lived up to his expectations.’
‘Did you ever suspect that Sir Hugo had a mistress, Jessica? Or can you think of anybody that he might have had a relationship with?’
‘Sir Hugo was a very manly sort of man. He had made two bad choices, in my opinion, in terms of his life partner. I think he needed somebody that would understand him, live in his world, give him all the comforts that he deserved. And I don’t think that’s what he has had from either of his wives. There were occasions over the years when the strange mood returned - that same mixture of elation and agitation. It was particularly noticeable in the last few weeks, but I have no idea if he was having an affair or not, although if he was I certainly wouldn’t blame him.’
Was this hero worship, or obsession? Becky wondered. Jessica obviously thought that Hugo should have chosen her, and so if she knew of an affair, wouldn’t she say so? Wouldn’t she find an opportunity to put the knife into somebody else who was unsuitable? Unless, of course, she was the one who he was having an affair with. That would make sense.
Thanking Jessica for her time, and making a note to ensure that her formal statement included information about her whereabouts at the time of the murder, Becky gave herself a minute or two to think about her next interview. Rosie seemed like a nice girl. A bit scatty, perhaps, but normal. She’d obviously come from a decent background, judging by her accent; certainly better than Becky’s own. But then old Hugo would undoubtedly only have employed people who spoke nicely
. And at least Rosie wasn’t like Jessica - with an accent so far back that she was nearly falling over.
Rosie’s eyes were still red when she came through the door, but her heavy blonde fringe nearly covered them. Quite how she could see, Becky couldn’t imagine. She’d obviously dressed for a Sunday, rather than an office day, in a pair of expensive looking - and very tight - jeans, long leather boots and a vivid green sweater. Suddenly feeling very old in one of her customary black suits and sensible flat black shoes, Becky dragged her mind back to the questioning.
‘Okay, Rosie. I just want a chat with you - to try to understand what you do here, how involved you were in Sir Hugo’s daily life, etcetera. Can you start by giving me a bit of a rundown on your job, do you think?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to think it doesn’t sound like much of a job, but it does require quite a lot of managing. I book all his travel, arrange his bodyguards when he needs them, check what his charity commitments are, and keep his diaries up to date with everything. I also look after the office management - ordering stationery, answering the phone, that sort of thing. It keeps me very busy, although Jessica thinks I’m a waste of space.’
‘Don’t you get on with Jessica?’
‘She’s okay. A bit posh for the likes of me, though.’
‘And how did you like working for Sir Hugo?’
‘It was all right, really. He was a bit up himself, but it was great to tell everybody that I worked for a ‘sir’ - and he was surprisingly good about it when I got carried away in Harvey Nick’s and didn’t get back on time after my lunch. As long as I made the time up, of course. He was better than Jessica, anyway. She gets so cross if we’ve run out of paperclips or anything. Anybody would think it’s the end of the world!’
‘Tell me about his diaries, Rosie. Did he put personal stuff in, or just his appointments?’
‘I have to say he was a real pain about his diaries. He wouldn’t have a personal organiser. I tried to get him a Blackberry, but he wouldn’t have it. He likes things he can touch - or liked, I suppose I should say. So I had his diary on my computer, and then I had to copy it all out - word for bloody word - into his desk diary, which was enormous. A huge leather thing. He had one for every year, with a great big page for each day. There were only ever a few lines on each page - just his appointments. But he kept them for years.
‘Anyway, it’s my job to make sure the two diaries tally, and then each day I have to produce yet another version - a typed itinerary of his movements for the day, with all the phone numbers, addresses, times and types of appointments. He would only use technology when he had absolutely no choice. Computer? “Get thee behind me, Satan”, he would say - and he wasn’t smiling when he said it! He did have a mobile phone though, and he never went anywhere without that - but I had to programme in any useful numbers - which mainly amounted to the office, his home, and a limo service to be honest.’
‘His mobile phone? Where would he have kept that, Rosie? We certainly haven’t found one.’
‘He had a leather document wallet. He kept his itinerary, meeting notes, and phone in it. He wouldn’t put the phone in his pocket because it would have spoilt the cut of his suit, and we couldn’t have that, could we?’
Becky was aware that Hugo’s document wallet had indeed been found, although the itinerary only listed the appointments for the day before his murder. They were being checked, but didn’t seem suspicious. There was definitely no phone.
‘Do you know anything about Sir Hugo that would suggest that he was having an affair, Rosie?’
‘Well, there’s one thing that’s a little odd and it could mean that. But I don’t know. I could be reading too much into it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Every now and again he has an odd entry in his desk diary. It just says ‘LMF’. Sometimes it’s just for one day, sometimes a couple of days, sometimes just an overnight. He won’t tell me what the appointments are, but he won’t change them. Not for any reason at all. When I ask what LMF stands for he just smiles and says it means ‘Leave me free’. But I don’t believe that for a minute, because even I know it’s not brilliant English. He’s more likely to say ‘I’m temporarily unavailable’ or something.’
‘Could the F stand for Fletcher? Perhaps he goes to see somebody in the family with those initials?’
‘Could be - but nobody that I’ve ever heard of. That means nothing, though. He wouldn’t tell me, would he? I thought at first the L might stand for Laura - but I book flights for her, so I know she hasn’t got a middle name.’
‘What about his relationship with Jessica. Was that good?’
‘She worships the ground he walks on. But sadly for her, he treats her like his PA. I’ve never for a minute thought that he fancied her or anything.’
Becky thought for a moment. If they were having a relationship, Hugo could just have been a better actor than Jessica. But this LMF sounded promising too.
‘Did Jessica not know what these meetings were? She seemed to pride herself on knowing everything about Sir Hugo.’ Becky said, unable to resist the small dig.
‘I’ve asked her, and she hasn’t got a clue either. I always thought it might be another woman, but Jessica says it’s none of our business. Perhaps if we’d made it our business we’d be able to help you now. Whatever his little quirks, he didn’t deserve to die.’
Sensing that a new bout of tears was imminent, Becky decided to wrap things up.
‘Okay, thanks Rosie. If you do have any other ideas, please do let me know. However trivial you think something is, please tell us. Okay?’
*
Becky recounted both of the conversations to Tom as they made their way from London to Oxfordshire. For most of the journey, Tom had listened intently - when not complaining about Sunday drivers. She’d told him that she was happy to drive, but he had insisted for some reason.
‘You did well, Becky. It’s interesting that the only girl that seems to have gone missing in the last couple of weeks has been found. Perhaps that rules out a theory, but not necessarily. Let’s get the interview with Laura over with, and I need to speak to Imogen too, and then I can go and see the ex-wife - who by all accounts is something of a charmless individual.’
‘I have to tell you, Tom, I don’t like Jessica. There’s something about her that I just don’t trust. We shouldn’t ignore her in all this. She was all over Hugo like a rash, it would seem. We have to check if she was his mistress.’
Tom nodded, but at that moment they swung through the gates of Ashbury Park, and made their way up the drive. They both looked at the grey, gloomy house through the even more gloomy shrubbery. The long approach to the house was bordered with tall trees that disappeared into dense woodland, under planted along the driveway with overgrown rhododendrons which might look pretty in flower, but at this time in October just added to the general dreariness and darkness of the approach. Becky shivered and saw Tom glance at her.
‘You know, Becky, this house gives me the creeps. It should be really beautiful, but everything is so dark. The trees seem almost threatening, and the windows seem lifeless, as if there is nothing but emptiness behind them. It’s got no soul.’
Tom was right. This was definitely not a happy house, and Becky couldn’t think why Laura had never done anything to make it more of a home.
***
The girl woke suddenly from a fitful doze. She was afraid of sleeping properly. She was afraid that something would happen to her whilst she slept - something that she couldn’t control. Unsure of what had woken her, she opened her eyes in panic. Had he come? Was he here, in the room? Or had he been and gone whilst she slept?
But there was nothing. No sign that anybody had been. There was no more food, no more water, and the bed was undisturbed. She was sure that if he’d been, the bed would have been disturbed.
Then she heard a noise. It was a tapping sound, coming from the window behind her. She tried to turn her head, but realised that her neck was locked.
She was desperate to turn. Perhaps somebody was trying to get in. Perhaps somebody had found her. What was wrong with her neck?
Her hands went to her throat, and then she felt it. It was the chain. During her sleep she must have twisted her body, and this was the result. The tapping stopped before she was able to turn her head. She cried out with frustration. Finally she freed herself and managed to turn towards the window. But there was nothing there.
She covered her face with her hands, fighting back the tears. Then she heard it again. Relief flooded through her and she uncovered her eyes.
But it was nothing more than a blue tit, sitting on the ledge and tapping away at the window.
Despair swept through her, and so far was she removed from reality that she failed to grasp the fact that no human hand could have touched a window so high above the ground.
CHAPTER 11
Imogen poked her head around the bathroom door, where Laura was still lying in the bath, lost in her own thoughts. She looked at her friend and felt sad when she saw for herself how much weight Laura had lost over the years. She still had a good figure - no doubt many people would say it was an improvement - but personally she thought her previous curvaceous shape was more suited to her vibrant character. Mind you, she thought, perhaps the new body was better matched to the new personality. Would she ever get back to the old Laura?
‘Hey Laura,’ she said softly. ‘I really hate to disturb you honey, but the police are here again. I’m happy to entertain them for a while, particularly the chief inspector, but I know they want to talk to you. How long do you think you’ll be?’
Laura seemed relieved to be roused from her thoughts.
‘I’ll be about ten minutes. Can you cope until then, Imo? Is Alexa still asleep?’
‘Yes and yes. Don’t look so worried, Laura. I know what I can and can’t say. Horrible Hannah has gone for a walk and Alexa is fast asleep. Let’s hope the poor kid stays that way until the police have gone.’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 10