Mark Mildmay’s whole body seemed to be trembling when Yardley led him into the dining room and indicated that he should sit down at the table opposite Vogel. His face was ashen beneath his shock of dark-blond hair. He was a thin young man, but his distress made him look even thinner, emphasizing the hollows beneath his cheekbones.
He also looked frightened. Could it be that Mark Mildmay was afraid of something beyond the prospect of losing his younger brother?
Mark relaxed a little as Vogel began to take him step by step through his movements that morning. He had left his flat above the garage at his grandparents’ well before eight, driving off not long after his grandfather, he said. They were both in the habit of starting work early.
‘Grandma called about ten past nine on Granddad’s mobile,’ he said. ‘We share an office. I knew straight away that something was wrong. Granddad went white. He told Grandma we’d be straight over, then he put the phone down, looked across at me and said: “Fred’s gone.” I couldn’t believe it.
‘We were both shocked, naturally, but at the time . . . well, I suppose we thought Fred would soon turn up. He’s been very upset since Dad died. Not hysterical or anything like that, just that he wasn’t always himself. He did funny things. We were hoping it was another one of those funny things, I suppose.’
Vogel studied the young man carefully. Everything he said had a ring of truth, but there was something behind his eyes that Vogel couldn’t quite make out. Just as there had been something about Joyce that hadn’t felt right. And in her case it had turned out that, for reasons she’d failed to explain to Vogel’s satisfaction, she had been hiding something important. Was it possible that Mark Mildmay was also hiding something?
‘So you drove over here straight away, did you?’ Vogel asked, studying every flicker in Mark’s eyes, every facial twitch, every bit of his uneasy body language.
The young man nodded.
‘Yes. And Granddad came with me in my car. Geoff had taken the Bentley in for a service.’
‘What about Stephen Hardcastle? Doesn’t he work in the same building? Wasn’t he there? Didn’t he come with you?’
Mark nodded.
‘He’d arrived at the office a few minutes before Mum called, and he came to the house straight away – he’s like family, Steve. But he drove here in his own car. Mine’s a twoseater.’
Vogel had noticed the metallic grey Porsche parked outside and had taken an educated guess that it would be Mark Mildmay’s two-seater. This family had money and clearly liked their trophy homes and their toys for grown-ups. There was something about these people that Vogel didn’t quite approve of. And it went beyond the suspicions aroused in him by those unfinished police enquiries into Tanner-Max which he had learned about that morning, or even Charlie Mildmay’s letter alluding to questionable goings on. For Vogel was a bit of a Puritan at heart. He wasn’t comfortable with excess. And everything about Tarrant Park and the Tanner–Mildmay clan seemed excessive to Vogel.
He was, however, an old hand at not letting his innermost thoughts and suspicions show.
Vogel ended the interview and thanked the young man, informing him that though he had no further questions for the time being, he would be in touch should anything arise. Mark looked even shakier after the interview than he had before, which Vogel considered to be a perfectly satisfactory result.
Felicity Tanner was ushered in next. At first glance she seemed composed, but Vogel could see that she was struggling to control her emotions.
‘Mrs Tanner, perhaps you could confirm for me what time you came to the house this morning?’ he began.
Felicity nodded. ‘Yes. I got here about twenty to nine, I think. Joyce called me as soon as she and Molly were certain Fred wasn’t in the house. We were still hoping he was somewhere close by. Silly, I know, but we kept on looking and looking.’ She paused, screwing up her face in pain. ‘We haven’t stopped all day – we can’t help it. Everyone’s been checking the same places over and over again.’
Vogel felt for her. Felicity Tanner was a good-looking woman for her age, which Vogel assumed to be mid sixties. Her grey bobbed hair was streaked with blonde, probably by a hairdresser rather than nature, Vogel thought, but it looked natural and suited her skin tone. Beneath the grief and the pain, Felicity had intelligent eyes. There was also an air of vulnerability about her.
Felicity went on to substantiate the arrival times of her husband and of Stephen Hardcastle, and everything that Joyce had told Vogel concerning the sequence of events that morning.
Vogel then asked to see Molly. He rose as Yardley brought the teenager into the dining room, then sat down next to her at the table, not opposite as he had so far positioned himself with the adults.
‘I’m sorry I have to speak to you now, sweetheart,’ he said quietly. ‘But I know you want to help find your brother, don’t you?’
Molly was sitting with her head down, fighting back the tears. She glanced up at him and nodded.
It was obvious she had been weeping. Her pretty face was streaked with tears. Her eyes were badly swollen. Surely this was one family member even he could not suspect of any wrongdoing. Everything about Molly radiated her honest distress. Unlike the rest of the family, she seemed quite transparent and unguarded.
Molly scrubbed her eyes with both hands and gulped a couple of times.
‘I need all the help I can get if we’re going to find Fred quickly,’ Vogel continued.
Molly nodded again, biting her lip.
‘So will you please take me through exactly what happened this morning?’ Vogel asked. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me when you and your mother first realized Fred was missing, and so on.’
Molly’s story was the same as her mother’s, barely differing in even the slightest detail. If people are not telling the truth, there are almost always discrepancies, unless they have concocted a story, in which case it would often be repeated word for word, the phrasing suspiciously similar. Neither seemed to be the case in this instance. Molly told her story in her own words and in her own way.
‘Good, now perhaps you could tell me about the last time you saw your bother,’ Vogel encouraged. ‘Can you tell me when that was?’
‘Yes, last night,’ answered Molly.
‘And do you remember the time?’
‘It was eight thirty. That is, it should have been eight thirty because that’s Fred’s bedtime on school nights. But I think it was a bit later. We’d been playing around . . . fighting a bit . . . it was only fun, but . . .’
Molly’s face clouded over again. Vogel feared her tears had not departed for long.
‘But what, Molly?’ he enquired gently.
‘It’s only that, well, he was being the little horror that he can be. He was teasing me rotten. So I said, “I’m going to kill you, you monster.”’ Molly stared at Vogel, her eyes wide open, her lips trembling. ‘That’s what I said, Mr Vogel. I told my little brother I was going to kill him. That was the last thing I said to him before he went to bed. And this morning he wasn’t there, he was gone. He’s still gone. And that was the last thing I said to him . . .’
Her words were overtaken by sobs.
‘But you didn’t mean that, did you, Molly?’ Vogel’s question was rhetorical, and he murmured it softly.
Molly shook her head.
‘No. And your brother knew that, didn’t he?’
Molly nodded again, more of a half nod this time. ‘I suppose so,’ she managed.
Vogel leaned towards Molly, careful not to touch her or to do anything that might intimidate her, but leaning so that his face was quite close to hers.
‘You love your little brother very much, don’t you, Molly?’ he said.
She nodded weakly.
‘And you know that he knows that, too, don’t you?’
She nodded again.
Vogel dropped his voice even lower.
‘So don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘I’m going to bring him back for you, dar
ling, I promise you.’
Molly looked at him with hope in her eyes.
‘Th-thank you,’ she said.
Then she started to cry again. It could have been Vogel’s kindness that had sparked her off once more, or it could have been that she simply couldn’t stop. He straightened up, mentally kicking himself. He knew better than to make promises like that, didn’t he? Particularly to a child, because children took promises at face value. As a rule, they didn’t understand about saying things just to make someone feel better. As a rule, children were more honest than adults. Sometimes brutally so.
But Vogel hadn’t been able to help himself. He had a daughter at home who was only a little younger than Molly. Rosamund Vogel was a sensitive, caring girl. She didn’t have a brother to worry about, but if she had and she feared that anything might have happened to him, she would be distraught. She could never be what Molly Mildmay was. Rosamund Vogel had her own problems, but like Molly, she was still at that stage where she loved her family unconditionally.
Vogel found it difficult to watch Molly’s distress. Whenever possible he tried to keep his questioning methodical and nonconfrontational in style, cool, controlled, dealing with facts not emotions. He had tried so hard not to add to her misery, to try to come up with some words of encouragement to lift her spirits.
Vogel sighed inwardly. Would he never learn? He only hoped he could keep his promise in this instance and bring Molly Mildmay’s little brother home.
At least they were still within the golden twenty-four hours, he reminded himself. He just had to get on with things. As ever.
‘Yardley, take Molly back to her mother will you, and bring Janet Porter in,’ he commanded.
The PA had short wavy hair dyed an unnatural dark brown and cut in a severe bob. She was wearing a striped business suit and at a glance looked every inch the competent, dedicated aide. In sharp contrast to young Molly and Joyce Mildmay, she had not been crying. But then, she was no relation to the missing boy, Vogel reminded himself. Her surprisingly bright blue eyes did, however, betray a hint of alarm.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Vogel said briskly. ‘I only need a moment of your time, Miss Porter.’
Janet said nothing. She clasped her hands together and placed them on the table. Vogel couldn’t help wondering why everyone seemed to do that during police interviews. Most people, innocent or guilty, were nervous when interviewed by the police, particularly as part of an investigation into something as serious as the possible abduction of a child.
Janet told Vogel that she had arrived at the house at around 10 a.m., not long after Mark Mildmay, Henry Tanner and Stephen Hardcastle. They had all left the office as quickly as they could when Joyce had called them with the shocking news. Janet had remained a little longer than the men in order to lock the place up.
She seemed to have nothing more to offer concerning the immediate circumstances of Fred Mildmay’s disappearance, but there remained the matter of the delayed letter.
Vogel cut to the chase.
‘Miss Porter, something has come to my attention which I hope you may be able to throw some light on,’ he began. ‘I don’t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily at this stage, nor cause further distress to Mrs Mildmay, so I would appreciate it if you would not discuss with anyone else the matter I now wish to ask you about. Is that clear?’
Janet cleared her throat and looked even more nervous.
‘Uh, yes, of course,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Vogel. ‘I understand that Mr Charles Mildmay left a letter to be given to his wife and read only in the event of his death. And I think you know about that letter, is that correct?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ began Janet hesitantly.
‘I also understand that it was you who forwarded the letter to Mrs Mildmay, along with an accompanying letter which I believe bears your signature,’ Vogel continued. ‘Can you confirm that?’
‘Yes,’ said Janet.
‘And when did you post it to Mrs Mildmay?’
‘On Monday. I’m certain of that, because Mr Tanner and Stephen were away from the office.’
‘This letter, bearing a clear instruction that it be passed to Mr Mildmay’s wife in the event of his death, had presumably been in your office since before he died. Given that he lost his life last November, can you explain why the letter was not sent then?’
Janet hesitated.
‘Well, I sort of can. It had been wrongly filed. It wasn’t in Charlie’s file, you see, along with his will and other papers.’
‘So how did it finally materialize? And who instructed you to send it on to Mrs Mildmay?’
‘Nobody did,’ Joyce replied quickly.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Vogel.
‘Nobody told me to send it on. I found the letter myself, misfiled. Stephen had asked me to deal with something concerning his own affairs – he’s trying to buy a new property and the mortgage company wanted to know about his life insurance – and when I went to his file to look for the policy I found Charlie’s letter there. I realized it must have got in the wrong place.’
Janet paused as if an unwelcome thought had occurred to her.
‘It wasn’t my mistake, Mr Vogel, I can assure you of that,’ she continued, suddenly going off at a tangent. ‘I had never even seen the letter before. I don’t know how it came to be in the wrong place, but I certainly didn’t put it there.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, Miss Porter,’ murmured Vogel, stifling a smile.
Janet Porter clearly had considerable professional pride, and was not prepared to allow her competence to be questioned.
‘Please go on, Miss Porter,’ said Vogel.
‘When I saw what was written on the envelope – that it should be given to Joyce Mildmay in the event of Charlie’s death – well, I was horrified to think that it had been sitting there in our office all that time,’ Janet continued. ‘I thought it should be sent to Mrs Mildmay straight away.’
‘So you posted it on yourself, without checking with Mr Hardcastle, or Mr Tanner?’
‘Well, not exactly. As I told you, Stephen and Mr Tanner were out of the office. They were in London that day, you see. They had an important business meeting in the morning, then lunch at Mr Tanner’s club. It was about lunchtime when I found the letter. I called and left a message on Stephen’s voicemail telling him about it and asking if he wanted me to pop it in the post with a covering note, but he never got back to me, not all afternoon. I wasn’t surprised. Mr Tanner’s club lunches are legendary. Anyway, both Stephen and Mr Tanner trust me to use my own initiative – indeed, they encourage me to. So when it came to five o’clock I phoned Stephen again and left a message saying I would put the letter in the post unless I heard from him to the contrary. I didn’t hear from him, so on my way home I dropped it in the post box opposite the office. It seemed the right thing to do. And I was afraid that if Mr Tanner found out about the letter being in Stephen’s file, he might be angry with Stephen. He has rather a temper on him, you see. Also, I didn’t want to keep the letter from Joyce any longer . . .’ She looked at him quizzically.
‘Shouldn’t I have done that, Mr Vogel?’
‘You were doing what you thought was the right thing, Miss Porter,’ said Vogel, his tone noncommittal. ‘Did you not get any response whatsoever to your phone messages?’
‘Oh yes, eventually,’ replied Janet. ‘Stephen called me at home a bit later on. His voice was a little slurred – those London lunches are inclined to be rather liquid. Mr Tanner never gets the worse for wear, but his guests always do.’
‘What did Mr Hardcastle say when he called you?’
‘He asked if I’d already posted the letter. I told him I had.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He didn’t say anything much that I remember. Just “right”, or “OK”, or something. Then he said he’d see me in the morning. And goodnight, I suppose. Nothing much. Why?’
Vogel ignored the question.
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‘Did you not think it strange that he called you at home to ask if you had posted the letter?’
Janet looked surprised.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I assumed he was making sure that I had. After all, it was embarrassing that we’d kept it all that time, in the wrong file, without anyone knowing it was there.’
Without you knowing it was there, thought Vogel.
Aloud he asked: ‘Were you aware of the contents of the letter, Miss Porter?’
Not for the first time during the interview, Janet looked shocked.
‘Of course not! It was a sealed letter from a dead man to his widow. How on earth would I know what was in it?’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Vogel ambiguously. ‘What about Mr Tanner and Mr Hardcastle? Do you think they knew anything of the contents of the letter?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Janet, but Vogel could almost see the wheels turning as she considered this. Then her expression hardened.
‘If you are suggesting that either of them would have opened a letter of that nature and then resealed it, I can assure you that you are totally wrong, Detective Inspector. Neither Mr Tanner nor Stephen would ever do such a thing. In any case, I’m not sure Mr Tanner knew of the existence of the letter. Stephen was Charlie’s personal solicitor as well as representing the company. Presumably Charlie gave the letter to him. And Stephen always does things by the book. He would regard that as confidential, I’m sure.’
‘No doubt you are right,’ replied Vogel, who thought just the opposite.
So that was it then. The letter had been sent on to Joyce without the prior knowledge of either Tanner or Hardcastle. And Vogel was pretty sure that both men were aware not only of the existence of the letter but of its contents, and that they had deliberately refrained from sending it on to Joyce. But why had they kept it, albeit filed in a place they thought was safe? Why hadn’t they destroyed it? And if they had destroyed it, would young Fred Mildmay still be safe at home?
Death Comes First Page 13