Maybe that’s a bit of a joke. Why is it that it’s taken a crisis to make me see what’s been staring me in the face for months? Has Hugo ever considered my point of view? Has it ever occurred to him for a single moment that he could be wrong?
Everything he does, he appears to do for me. But is that just so he can remain in control? Or is he the generous, thoughtful person he has always appeared to be, constantly trying to make my life easier? He comes with me to buy clothes - he says he knows the best places, and he is footing the bill. He always chooses meals in restaurants, because he says he knows what each particular restaurant does best. He even organised the wedding - as his special gift to me.
Now, I really don’t know. What is he? Control freak (as, if I remember correctly, my mother once suggested) or kind, considerate, thoughtful man? My mind was spinning in circles, and I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. I couldn’t help a despairing outburst.
‘Oh God. What a bloody awful mess.’
A small sound alerted me to the fact that I was no longer alone.
‘Are you all right, Laura? Who are you talking to?’
When I moved my hands, I looked straight into the lovely, concerned face of Alexa. Dressed entirely in various shades of her favourite pink, the choice of clothes - no doubt her own - made me blink a little. But nothing could detract from the beauty of this child.
‘Daddy sent me to find you. He says it’s time you were up. Are you all right?’ she repeated.
Struggling to prevent tears spilling from my eyes, I nodded.
‘Would you like a cuddle? Daddy says a cuddle always helps, and he loves my cuddles.’
I held out my arms and hugged Alexa’s little body, wishing with all my heart that Hugo had offered me a cuddle. Just that would have been something.
‘Thank you, Alexa. I needed that,’ I said, gently releasing her. ‘Tell Daddy I’m going to have a shower, and I’ll be about half an hour. Can you remember that?’
Alexa gave me a slightly scornful look, as if messages of any complexity would be easy for her. Then she leant towards me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Laura. I like you.’ She smiled, and skipped happily from the room.
Now Alexa was adding to the confusion. I made myself to get up from the bed, and went and stood under the hottest shower I could stand. I had to rationalise this situation. Hugo and I are very, very different. We were brought up with different values, and perhaps sleeping in separate rooms is the norm for people in his world.
I mustn’t continue to think that my husband has made every decision with only himself in mind. I have to recognise his generosity and thoughtfulness for what it undoubtedly is.
I’ve over-reacted. Yes, it’s true that things are not the way I had envisaged. So now I have to change that. I have to make him realise that he can’t sleep without me. But he won’t be bludgeoned into it. The only way with Hugo is to appear compliant. Arguing will not help. I have to find different ways of making him realise what he’s missing.
*
So here I am now at the end of the first day of my marriage, in theory having a rest before our journey this evening. I still don’t know where we’re going. Another of Hugo’s surprises, but he says I’ll love it. And I believe him.
After that dreadful start, with me feeling like the end of the world was nigh, I’m now feeling much more positive. I met the housekeeper - a pleasant lady called Mrs Bennett who insists on calling me ‘your Ladyship’ in spite of me telling her to call me Laura. Hugo says I can choose for myself what staff I need, as long as they don’t live in. He doesn’t like that (although we’re not short of a room or two, that’s for certain). Anyway, I’ve already told him that I want to cook for him, so we don’t need a chef. I’ll soften him up, just give me time!
There was only one slightly tricky moment. I think I need to get used to sometimes feeling like a bit of an outsider with Hugo and Alexa. They’ve had each other since the day Alexa was born, so it’s not surprising that it might seem as though I’m intruding - I suspect that’s a normal step-parent thing. Anyway, when I eventually came downstairs this morning - all signs of tears gone, I’m pleased to say - I found them in the morning room. Alexa was giggling, and the low notes of Hugo’s voice obviously meant he was saying something to make her laugh. I put on the brightest smile I could muster.
‘Daddy’s telling me a silly story,’ Alexa shouted. ‘Go on, Daddy, finish the story.’ I am constantly amazed at this child’s ability to speak in clear sentences; but then Annabel does pay for her to have conversation lessons several times a week. Probably an easier option than talking to her herself, I imagine.
But Hugo refused to finish the story, and I felt I had interrupted a special moment.
‘Not now, Alexa. I’m sure Laura’s not interested in my silly story.’
‘Of course I am Hugo. I’d love to hear it.’ I turned to him with a smile. He mustn’t know how much he hurt me last night.
‘No more stories. Alexa, finish your breakfast now please.’
For a moment, my resolve flagged, but Hugo surprised me by rising from his seat and with a smile and a slight flourish, he pulled out a chair for me at the table. Relief flooded through me. Everything is going to be fine. I love my husband, and I’m sure he loves me. We just need to get used to each other.
So we’re off in a couple of hours. And I’m getting excited again. I’m just ‘resting’ in my pretty bedroom. And it is pretty. He clearly put a huge amount of thought into it. I wanted to see the other room that he told me about - that I rather unpleasantly called the ‘sex room’. But he didn’t have the key with him, so that will have to wait. Perhaps by the end of the honeymoon, though, it will be completely unnecessary, because we’ll have sorted all that nonsense out.
Much love
Laura
CHAPTER 16
Tom Douglas was grateful for some thinking time on his journey to visit Hugo’s ex-wife. He tried to make conversation with Alexa, but the child was too devastated and Hannah was uncommunicative, so he left them in peace. He did need to talk to Hannah, given what Stella had told Becky, but not with Alexa in the car.
Becky’s observations of Laura were interesting, though.
‘Seemed more concerned about her bloody olives than whether or not her husband was having an affair!’ had been her acerbic comment. ‘You’re being very gentle with her, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone. There’s something not right in all this. I don’t know what it is, but there’s definitely something.’
Tom was sure that Becky didn’t understand his modus operandi, but in this type of situation he always found it better to develop a rapport with those he was interviewing. People generally revealed far more than they meant to at this stage of an investigation when there was no apparent conflict. He’d come down a bit harder on Imogen because he could sense her unease, but he knew that her alibi would check out. She was far too clever to lie about anything that could be verified.
The charity girls were a different matter, though. Although he didn’t necessarily subscribe to the theory that all policemen have a ‘nose’ - his was definitely twitching every time these girls were mentioned. He was sincerely hoping to have some news on the missing girl, Danika Bojin, by the end of the day.
Finally Tom’s driver, who had been seconded from the local force for the purpose of running him around all day, pulled up outside an attractive small Georgian manor house that was home to Annabel Fletcher, her daughter and nanny; plus, from what he understood, a regular and ever changing number of young and increasingly unsuitable men. Painted a pale cream with white window surrounds, the property stood in well-maintained open grounds. The drive ended in a large circle, where a small fountain provided a focal point in the centre of a grass roundabout in front of the house. It was considerably smaller, but infinitely more beautiful than Ashbury Park in Tom’s opinion.
He opened the door to let a subdued Alexa and H
annah out of the car. He felt deep sympathy for the child. He was still struggling with the loss of his older brother just over a year ago, and whilst Jack was single-handedly responsible for Tom’s current luxurious lifestyle, he would happily live in a bed-sit if it brought his brother back.
He hadn’t known what to expect from the former Lady Fletcher, but it certainly wasn’t the person facing him in the open doorway. He knew she must be close to fifty, and he’d expected her to be fairly well preserved, but the woman that greeted him appeared even to his untutored eye to be all that is bad about plastic surgery. She was painfully thin, but with large breasts that didn’t quite match the rest of her body. She was wearing skin tight pink jeans, matching high heeled pink sandals and a skimpy black vest top. Tom couldn’t help thinking that to be dressed in clothes like this in late October, it must be very warm inside the house.
Annabel’s face was fully made up, including what appeared to be false eyelashes, and she was sporting a pair of overlarge sunglasses on top of her head. A style that had always amused Tom, he thought it even more ludicrous on an overcast autumn day in Oxfordshire - particularly indoors. She smiled in greeting, placing her head coquettishly on one side, but he realised that the smile wasn’t extending to any part of her face other than her mouth. Perhaps this was just her nature, he thought, or more than likely it was Botox.
‘Lady Fletcher? Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas. I’m sorry to disturb you today, but I do need to speak to you. I don’t know how close you were to your ex-husband, but I would like to extend my sympathy to you on your loss.’
‘Chief Inspector, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please do come in, and rest assured that Hugo is no loss to me, nor in my opinion to the rest of the world.’
Tom maintained a blank expression, but now he was strangely looking forward to interviewing Annabel Fletcher.
She led him towards the back of the house and into a room that was almost entirely glass.
‘What a beautiful conservatory,’ Tom said, looking around him at the lush plants.
‘Actually, Chief Inspector, it’s an orangery. The word conservatory always conjures up one of those revolting white plastic things that stick on the back of small houses like oversized carbuncles, don’t you think?’
‘My apologies, Lady Fletcher.’ It was fairly apparent that the former Lady Fletcher had absolutely no class herself, but was keen to give the impression of having the right background and the appropriate mannerisms to go with it. She sat down on a wicker sofa, and he took the chair facing her.
‘As you know, we are now certain that your ex-husband was murdered. We suspect that the murder was committed by a woman, but that’s all we know. I’m trying to understand everything possible about Sir Hugo and his life to see if we can identify somebody who may have wanted to kill him.’
‘Well, I for one would have happily killed him, but I didn’t. He was a pompous, self-opinionated, depraved little man, Chief Inspector.’
Tom could accept an ex-wife referring to her husband as pompous and self opinionated, but depraved seemed a little strong. She took a cigarette out of a packet from a table at her side, and lit it with an elegant silver lighter.
‘You say that you would have happily killed him. I’m sorry to have to ask, but it’s a standard question. Could you tell me where you were on Saturday between the hours of about 11 am and 12.30 pm, please?’
She blew a long stream of smoke upwards, and attempted a smile - as far as her paralysed muscles would allow.
‘I knew you’d ask that. I was here, of course. And before you ask the next inevitable question, I was on my own. Hannah had taken Alexa to the club for a swim. We still haven’t got our own indoor pool; Hugo was far too mean to have one installed.’
‘So let’s be clear about this. You were here all morning, and you neither saw nor spoke to anybody?’
‘Correct. But I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that I have wanted to kill Hugo many times, and if I were going to do it I would have done it long ago. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I wouldn’t have dirtied my own hands on the job.’
She flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette, and turned a defiant face towards Tom.
In all honesty, Tom couldn’t somehow bring himself to believe that Hugo would have lain naked on the bed, tied up, with this woman in the room. She so obviously hated him, it didn’t seem credible that he could have contemplated having any sexual relationship with her. Still, stranger things have happened.
‘Lady Fletcher, when we were at Ashbury Park, we listened to a few answer phone messages, including one from you. You seemed to suggest that Sir Hugo had pulled some clever stunt on you, and that he was planning on changing his will. Can you explain that to me, please?’
‘Oh, Christ. If I’d know the bastard was going to get himself killed, I clearly wouldn’t have left that message. Fortunately, I don’t think he had time to change his will - or so my lawyer told me this morning. He said any changes, codicils or whatever would have to be typed up, and then probably sent round to Hugo for signing and witnessing. So hopefully some clever person did us all a favour and got rid of him before he could do any more damage.’
She took a deep drag of her cigarette, her sucked in cheeks giving her an even more gaunt appearance.
‘He’d already pulled a fast one on me, you see. When Hugo and I divorced, I got this house and I asked Hugo to buy me a place in Portugal too. It was just the sort of place he hated, but I wanted a nice villa with a pool and preferred to be around other English people - of the right sort of course - so although I hate the game, I chose a villa on a very exclusive development that has two golf courses.’
Tom couldn’t help wishing that she would put the cigarette out or at least open a window. The fumes seemed to be drawn to him as if he were harbouring an invisible smoke magnet. But fortunately she chose that moment to stand up and walk towards the door to the kitchen, although clearly she hadn’t finished.
‘God knows why Laura wanted the place they’ve got in Italy. I’ve seen some photos that Alexa brought back with her, and it’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bloody Italians.’
She paused for breath.
‘Look, before we go on, can I offer you something to drink? I’m having a vodka and tonic, if I can interest you in the same?’
‘No thank you, Lady Fletcher. By all means, you get your drink. But I have a few more questions to ask you, and then I have to go back into London.’
Tom watched as Annabel tottered off on her high heels into the main part of the house to fix her drink. He couldn’t quite work out why Hugo had actually married her. Perhaps she was a great beauty in her time, but she clearly didn’t come from the sort of family that you would expect. Laura herself wasn’t from a wealthy or titled background, but you nevertheless got the impression that she had class, and that she knew how to behave. Annabel, on the other hand, was something else entirely.
It didn’t take her long to mix what looked like a very long drink. Tom suspected that the ratio of vodka to tonic was not quite the norm, but that was none of his business. Anyway, it might loosen her tongue.
‘Perhaps we could get back to what Sir Hugo had done to upset you?’
‘Yes, of course. I was talking about the house in Portugal, wasn’t I? Well, when we divorced the agreement was that I got this house, and the one in Portugal, and a million a year until Alexa is eighteen. Hugo pays any school fees for her directly, and he pays Hannah himself. Dreadful girl, dreary as hell, but I don’t get any say in the matter. When Alexa leaves home my money drops to three quarters of a million until I die - index linked, of course, as I’m quite a young woman.’
Tom knew that she was nowhere near as young as she was pretending to be, but as the house they were sitting in had to be worth at least three million and it sounded like the one in Portugal was worth a bob or two as well, she was certainly a wealthy - if middle-aged - woman.
‘It may surprise you that a million doesn’t
go very far when there are standards to keep up, so not actually having much in the way of capital, I decided that I wanted to raise some money against the house in Portugal. Its purchase had been organised through Hugo’s property company, because they had better negotiating power. What I hadn’t realised is that the Portuguese property is only mine to use. Due to some very clever wording in the divorce settlement, and equally due to a particularly brainless lawyer that I apparently employed, Hugo actually agreed to ‘provide a holiday home in a location of my choice up to the value of two million pounds’ or words to that effect. That was ten years ago, of course, so it’s worth a lot more than that now. That doesn’t actually mean that I personally own the house. It was only when I tried to raise some cash that I discovered what he had done. I told you he was a bastard.’
She took a large swig of her drink. Tom still couldn’t see what this had to do with the will, and said so.
‘Well, because that’s not all of it. Obviously when I realised this problem I changed lawyers immediately, and got them to look into the whole thing. It appears that his will is written in such a way that I might not continue to get the same level of maintenance if Hugo were to die. I had understood he’d set it all up in a trust so I would be protected, but I was wrong. Like so many things I believed about that appalling man.’
With unnecessary force, she stubbed out her half-smoked second cigarette in a large glass ashtray, overflowing with ash and lipstick smeared filters.
Tom smothered a cough. He didn’t understand the ins and outs of trust funds, but noted down the details so they could be checked for accuracy, although he did think it would be possible to sell this house and live very comfortably off the proceeds without on-going maintenance. Her ladyship would undoubtedly have an entirely different view of what was ‘living comfortably’, and he couldn’t help but muse about what would happen to her face if the Botox treatments were discontinued.
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 15