‘So when did your ex husband threaten to cut you out of his will?’
‘My new lawyer had been trying to sort all this out for me, but progress was slow. I’m afraid I phoned Hugo last week and resorted to a few personal threats. He hung up on me. Two days later I got a message from his lawyer via mine that in view of my lack of appreciation of his generosity, he would be reviewing the contents of his will, and considering his options in relation to the trust fund. That’s when I left the message that you heard.’
As Tom knew from personal experience, wills could be tricky things. However it did appear that Annabel Fletcher - discontented as she was - would be better off with Hugo alive than with him dead. Even if he changed his will he was only in his fifties, so she should have had many years of a very generous maintenance payment with plenty time to get him to change his mind - and his will - to her benefit. He consulted his notebook.
‘Can you tell me, Lady Fletcher, why you said “You bought my silence once, but the price has just gone up” in your message to Sir Hugo?’
For the first time, Annabel looked uncomfortable.
‘Oh, that was something and nothing. Just something between Hugo and me. I’d rather leave it at that, if you don’t mind.’
‘Well I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to leave it at that. I need to understand what you meant.’
Annabel sighed. This was evidently a story she didn’t relish telling.
‘We met when I was working for Hugo’s mother, and there were certain aspects of Hugo’s personality, certain… quirks, if you like, that I discovered quite by chance. Things that Hugo would definitely not have wanted to become general knowledge. My initial price was a bit of a personal makeover; a few little bits of enhancing surgery, nothing much. But then I decided that I liked the idea of becoming Lady Fletcher, and I asked him to marry me. He really had no choice, you see.’
There was a conceit about her that was grating on Tom. Why would you want to marry somebody who had no choice but to comply? And what the hell had Hugo done that had put him in such an invidious position?
‘Of course, living with Hugo was a different thing altogether. Unbearable, actually. When we divorced, I was sure he wouldn’t want Laura to know all the gruesome details that I had promised to keep to myself, so my price was this house. And before you say anything, it wasn’t blackmail. I just told him what I would like to happen, and he complied. When I phoned him last week, I knew it would be a bit late to threaten him with Laura. She undoubtedly knows all his grubby little secrets by now, so I was subtly threatening him with exposure to the sleazy press - something to damage his whiter than white reputation, if you get my drift.’
‘Are you saying that he wasn’t whiter than white?’
Annabel threw her head back and laughed, although without any signs of genuine amusement.
‘Good God, no! I mean yes I am saying that, but no, he wasn’t whiter than white. Not even pale grey! He was a very strange man, Chief Inspector. He had peculiar appetites that I’d rather not go into. I blame that witch of a mother of his.’
‘If your ex-husband was so strange, why were you comfortable with letting your daughter spend so much time with him?’
Annabel bristled with indignation.
‘Alexa’s his daughter too, and he pays for her, so I’ve not got much choice. Anyway, Hannah always goes with her. Mind you, Hugo pays for her too, and she’s like a love sick cow, so I’m not sure whether that’s a help or a hindrance.’
This was said with an air of indifference that Tom found very difficult to swallow, having a daughter of his own. Still, maybe Hugo’s ‘peculiar appetites’ were pertinent, given the nature of his death.
‘I’m afraid I need you to be a bit more specific about your ex-husband and his sexual proclivities, even if it’s uncomfortable for you. I’m not being voyeuristic here, but given that your husband was almost certainly murdered by a woman, and the mode of this death suggests some sexual activity, I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me everything you know.’
Annabel Fletcher leaned back in her chair, took a long drink from her glass, lit yet another cigarette and responded with a grimace of distaste.
‘Look - I’ll tell you. I suppose I haven’t got much choice in the matter. But it’s not a pleasant story, so are you sure you won’t have that drink?’
*
Tom had declined the drink, but as he made his way back to the centre of London for the daily debriefing, he seriously wondered if that had been a mistake, particularly as he had a driver so Becky could keep her car in Oxfordshire. He wasn’t shocked by what he had heard - he’d been a policeman for far too long and thought he had seen all the depths that humans could sink to. But he was nevertheless surprised.
He couldn’t decide how much of what he had been told was exaggeration or make-believe conjured up by a thwarted wife. Perhaps it would be sensible to only share this information with the DCS for now. He also needed to ask James to investigate which Chief Constable had been involved in the sectioning of Laura Fletcher, and what exactly his role had been. Becky had done well to elicit that piece of information from Stella Kennedy.
He stared out at the dark, wet, autumn evening, not really seeing anything but simply mulling over the events of the day and trying to piece together a puzzle that appeared to be growing in complexity and depth almost by the hour.
***
The girl pushed herself up from her bed, and made her way wearily to the window for her nightly vigil. Despite her fear, she needed him to come, and to come soon. If only she could open a window and perhaps attract the attention of a passerby. Not that anybody ever seemed to pass by. Still, at least it would have given her some hope. Perhaps some man would walk his dog down these lonely lanes, unafraid of what the night might be hiding.
But the windows were made of toughened glass, and were screwed shut. He’d made sure she knew that. And the steel mesh on the inside meant that she couldn’t reach the glass, even if she had something to break it with.
She looked at the old, soiled mattress on the floor and the molded plastic table sitting next to it. She knew that neither could provide a tool for breaking out, and the other furniture in the room was way beyond her reach. As soon as he’d unlocked the door to this room and pushed her inside, she was afraid. Whatever she’d done to anger him, this was her punishment. But what frightened her most was that the room was here at all - prepared, as if waiting for her.
She stared down at the chain around her ankle, and followed its path to where it was firmly screwed into a strong oak ceiling beam above. She would never be able to reach it, even if she had the means to unscrew it. And she needed to sleep carefully. She mustn’t get entangled in it again.
Whilst she scoured the countryside in search of any sign of an approaching vehicle she reflected that, if she were an animal - perhaps a rabbit or a fox - she would gnaw off her own foot to free herself from her trap. But she could never do that. At least, she didn’t think so.
And anyway, she was sure that he would come. When he thought she’d suffered enough.
CHAPTER 17
Tom arrived back at the office just in time to catch the end of an evening briefing delivered by two officers from Operation Maxim, the Met’s Human Trafficking Team. He was handed a piece of paper that identified the two as Inspector Cheryl Langley and DC Clive Horner. As a double act, they made Tom smile, as she was a short, chubby woman with a huge smile, and he was tall and lanky with a long lugubrious face. Cheryl was just summing up with their views of Sir Hugo.
‘He did a great job, under very difficult circumstances. Human trafficking is a significant problem, as I’m sure you all know. Once the girls get here, they find they have no means of escape. They’re told that the only way is to buy themselves out - but with the gangs taking about eighty percent of their earnings, it’s impossible, because they are demanding upwards of twenty thousand pounds for each girl - sometimes as much as forty thousand.’
It only took a second for Tom to work out that, even at the lower ‘purchase price’ the Allium Foundation must have paid out a minimum of two million pounds just to buy the girls out of their miserable lives as unwilling prostitutes. And then, of course, there were all the other costs involved in running the charity.
Cheryl nodded to her colleague, who took over - his slightly high-pitched voice at odds with his appearance.
‘Sir Hugo did much more than simply buy the girls out and find homes for them. The charity had a number of well-staffed centres and even some safe houses. Those girls who were not kept under lock and key could come voluntarily to ask for help, although fear of repercussions often made them afraid of taking the risk. There were a number of campaigns in place which aimed to discourage men from using these girls, although nobody believed they had much hope of success with that particular venture.’
The talk had attracted interest from all around the office, and one of the newest recruits had a question for Clive.
‘I expect I’m the only person in the office that doesn’t know this - but how do they get the girls from the Eastern European countries to the UK?’
Clive’s confidence was growing, and he perched himself on the edge of the table and managed a smile.
‘It’s not a bad question. You’d think there were numerous points at which they could be stopped. But some years ago, something called the Schengen Agreement was put in place between many countries in Europe. It effectively opened the borders between member countries, without the need to show passports. With no border controls in place, they only have to be smuggled out of their home countries to get free passage throughout France, Italy, Germany, and other parts of the continent. Some are smuggled by boat into Italy, others overland. And then there’s only the crossing to England to worry about. However tight we try to make our own borders, the reality is that it’s impossible to search every lorry or container that enters the country. We have to rely on a mixture of intelligence and luck to find them as they arrive.’
Interesting as this was, Tom had a murder to solve.
‘In your opinion, do you think that these gangs would have had any interest in killing Hugo Fletcher?’ Tom asked. It was the Inspector who answered.
‘Frankly, we think it’s unlikely. Much has been said about the personal danger that he puts himself in, but we don’t buy that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but much as we admire the work he does, I think that the risk element is just good PR. He pays the gangs well for the girls - he buys them out. They set the prices, and he agrees to them, so it’s unlikely that they would see any reason to kill him. Even his campaigns to persuade your man in the street not to use the girls can be seen by some of the gangs as free advertising. It’s the old ‘no publicity is bad publicity’ thing, as far as they’re concerned.’
Tom was surprised by this answer as along with everybody else he had fallen for the hype and believed Hugo to be risking his personal safety for these girls.
He wished he had time to listen to the question and answer session, but he didn’t. He needed to share the information gleaned from Annabel with James Sinclair. It had to have some bearing on the murder, but he was damned if he knew what it was.
*
Tom recounted his conversation with Hugo’s ex-wife almost verbatim to a silent, but attentive, DCS.
‘So, what do you think? We can’t ignore the correlation between what she claims to have witnessed and the murder scene, but she could only have known about that if she’d been there and seen it with her own eyes because we’re keeping all the detail under wraps. She’d hardly have described it so accurately if she’d killed him would she?’
Tom continued without waiting for a response.
‘She did tell me that she wanted Hugo dead but would never have sullied her own perfectly manicured hands - or words to that effect. If I’m honest I don’t fancy her for it. But of course she may not be the only one who knew about Hugo’s predilections. Somebody else could have been blackmailing him too, and there’s always the chance that Annabel shared her knowledge of Hugo’s unusual tastes, although she swears she didn’t.’
James Sinclair gave a worried shake of the head.
‘It doesn’t get us any closer to who though, does it? Give it some thought, Tom, and we’ll have an update tomorrow. A clear head is what you need.’
‘I think I’d rather we keep this between ourselves for now. I don’t want people to be distracted by the scandal aspect. I’m just going to tell them the facts: she was born as Tina Stibbons, she was Hugo’s mother’s nurse, and she changed her first name when she got married - apparently because she didn’t think Tina sounded very classy.’
‘Your decision, Tom,’ James said. He screwed his face into one of his strange grimaces. ‘I get the feeling we’ve got all the bits of the puzzle. We just don’t know how they all fit together.’
Tom nodded, knowing that it was his job to join the pieces but for the moment not having any idea what the final picture would look like.
‘Just one last thing, then I’ll be off. I got the distinct impression tonight that nobody actually thinks Hugo was in any danger - even his wife was a bit scathing on the subject. So why the bodyguards? Was it really just PR, or did he know of some danger that nobody else was aware of?’
*
It was with relief that Tom turned the key and made his way into his welcoming apartment. Pressing a single switch, the lamps around the room came on simultaneously, and he held his finger down until the dimmer lowered the lights to about half strength - a calm and soothing atmosphere was what he was looking for. He went over to his music system and selected Natalie Merchant. Setting the music to play in all parts of the apartment, he moved from room to room, shedding his clothes in the bedroom and making his way into the bathroom for a quick shower. All that he had heard today had made him feel dirty, and his quick shower turned into a ten minute deluge of the hottest water he could stand. Pulling on a pair of ancient, but very comfortable black jogging pants and a white tee shirt, he made his way into the kitchen to rustle up something simple for dinner.
Pouring himself a glass of Pinot Noir, he placed a pan of water on the hob to boil, and put a drop of olive oil into a deep sauté pan. Grabbing a pack of ready chopped pancetta from the fridge he tossed it into the olive oil until it began to sizzle. He halved some ripe cherry tomatoes, ripped some basil up, and added some pasta to the pan of boiling water.
He wasn’t entirely sure that he could stomach food, but he knew from experience that he was useless if he didn’t eat. At least this was quick and simple. While he waited for the pasta to cook, he sat at the counter, clasping his glass of wine between his hands, deep in thought. Who was Hugo Fletcher? Was he the paragon of virtue that everybody had always believed? Or was he the man that Annabel had described? And if he was, how had that impacted on his life with Laura? Nothing fit. It was as if they were looking at two entirely different men.
The timer pinged, and he got to his feet to add the tomatoes to the pancetta for the last couple of minutes. On automatic pilot he added a couple of turns of black pepper, then added the drained pasta to the sauté pan with a bit more oil and the ripped basil. Tipping it straight onto the plate, he quickly grated some Parmesan, topped up his wine and sat down, no further forward in his thinking than he had been when he’d walked through the front door.
No sooner had he placed the first forkful of the delicious but simple food in his mouth than he was interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom. From where he was sitting on a tall stool at the kitchen counter, he could see the video image on the screen, and was concerned to see it was Kate. He rushed over to pick up the receiver, all thoughts of his food gone.
‘Kate - what are you doing here? Is Lucy okay?’
‘Yes, Lucy’s fine. She’s with a baby sitter. Can I come up, please? I’d really like to talk to you.’
With immense relief that Lucy was okay, and with considerable irritation that his ex-wife was int
errupting his dinner if it was nothing to do with Lucy, he pressed the entry button, took the front door off the latch, and went to sit down to continue eating. He hadn’t forgotten the way she’d spoken to him the previous day.
He glanced up at her when she found him in the kitchen, and tried to hide his surprise. Her exotic good looks had been enhanced by some carefully applied makeup, and instead of her usual casual ponytail, her long dark hair was hanging straight and shiny to just below her shoulders. Resisting an impulse to comment, he pointed to the fridge.
‘White wine in the fridge, if that’s still your preference. Glasses are in there.’ Tom pointed to a wall cupboard next to the fridge.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I finish eating, but I’ve been looking forward to this all the way home.’
‘You always were a better cook than me. That’s one of the things that I miss about you.’
Tom didn’t look up, but thought this was very odd. Kate had never given him any indication in the past that he had any redeeming features - at least not in the few years since Lucy had been born.
Kate poured herself a glass of wine and sat on the stool opposite him, on the other side of the counter. She looked around with a half smile on her face.
‘This is a beautiful apartment, Tom. You’ve done really well.’
Tom could imagine that in her eyes, this was the height of luxurious city living. The apartment had everything you could possibly wish for, except a soul. He hadn’t chosen a single thing - it was a job lot. The dark brown leather sofas, huge flat screen television, and shiny white kitchen represented only the best, it was true. But it said nothing about him, apart from the books and CDs piled on the floor, because clearly the modern man was not expected to read as no bookshelves had been provided.
Still extremely suspicious about this late evening visit, Tom responded without warmth.
‘We both know that my earnings as a DCI didn’t pay for this, Kate. Why the surprise visit? You weren’t exactly friendly last time we spoke, were you?’
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 16