by Chris Dolley
Shand had just convinced himself when he clicked on the next file. And found a scanned image of the Montacute’s Building Society account.
He stared at the screen. How could George have obtained that?
And what was Annabel’s interest? Both statements were from June last year, was there some payment that Annabel was trying to track down to incriminate the Brigadess?
Several seconds passed. Dots dissolved and joined up again. Could George have been handling the Montacute’s investments? He was their bank manager after all.
He checked other scanned images. Copies of unit trust holdings, farm accounts, estate valuations. Annabel had all the Montacute’s financial details.
Another line of dots flared in Shand’s head. What was Gabriel’s job in the City? Market analyst? He scrolled through other files, skipping through letters until he found it. A copy of a letter from Gabriel to Ursula and Sandy. It was dated July last year and entitled, ‘Investment Portfolio.’ Shand raced through it. Gabriel thanked them for the information they had provided and suggested a re-balancing of their finances. A list of proposed acquisitions and disposals followed.
Gabriel Marchant had been the Montacute’s financial adviser.
Shand tried to square that with the antipathy between the two families. Had something happened since last July?
Shand checked the remaining files, stopping at a letter dated barely a month ago. It was from Annabel to an estate agent, asking if they’d approach the Montacutes on her behalf, and make an offer for Sixpenny Barton, the Montacute’s estate. ‘The buyer’s name must remain a secret,’ it said. ‘She mustn’t know it’s me.’
He delved deeper. More files. A valuation of Sixpenny Barton, a Land Registry map of the estate, and plans for its development. Annabel was looking to finance the purchase of the estate by selling off a parcel of land for development. Marsh’s name wasn’t mentioned, but Shand could see it pencilled in between the lines. Was that the motivating force behind the election campaign and the Gang of Four? A drive to remove dissenters from the Parish Council and force through planning permission?
~
He found Ursula Montacute by the stables, carrying a saddle into the tack room.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, chief inspector?” said the Brigadess, pausing by the door.
“I’ve been looking through Annabel Marchant’s computer files.”
“Ah,” said the Brigadess, “and you’ve found her file on me.”
Shand was surprised. “You knew about it?”
“I think everyone did. Annabel dropped enough hints. Sorry to be rude, but this saddle weighs a ton, and I’ve got to put it away.” She turned and heaved the saddle up onto a support protruding from the far wall.
Shand stayed in the doorway. “Did you know what the file contained?”
“All manner of nonsense I should imagine.” She turned and smiled. “Really, chief inspector, you don’t have to stand in the doorway. Sandy’s moved the bodies.”
“Bodies?” said Shand.
“The brace of ramblers? Sandy’s little joke? You should pay more attention, chief inspector. A man in your profession.”
Shand was not in the mood for jokes. “Did you know that Annabel had your financial details on her computer?”
Ursula stepped into the patch of sunlight by the tack room door. Her face set. “Gabriel gave them to her, I suppose? Or she took them.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”
“Gabriel Marchant was your financial adviser then?”
“’Was’ being the operative word, chief inspector. And another motive for you to add to my list. Except that it would have been Gabriel I’d’ve staked out in the circle, not Annabel. Sandy wanted to horsewhip the horrid, little man. I’m sorry I stopped him.”
“He lost you money?” asked Shand.
“Oh, no, chief inspector,” said Ursula sarcastically. “Men like Gabriel never lose other people’s money. It’s always unforeseen market forces.”
“Did you lose a lot?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Brigadess. “It was our own fault really. We bought into Gabriel’s pretty charts and projections. More fool us, but he seemed to know what he was doing. And we, rather stupidly, expected him to warn us if there was ever a problem.”
“Which he didn’t.”
“No, he did not. The markets tumbled and we thought, ‘Well, it can’t be that bad, or Gabriel would have said something. Maybe it’s better to hold on and wait for the markets to rally.’ But they didn’t rally, and suddenly Gabriel was unavailable. Always in meetings, or out of the country. And when we did contact him, he just shrugged and said, ‘we were lucky it hadn’t been worse.’”
“I take it he’s not your financial adviser any more?”
“You take it correctly, chief inspector. And believe me, If we were going to take our revenge upon that little oik we would have done so then. We don’t believe in putting off revenge in this family.”
“Did you take revenge?” asked Shand.
The Brigadess smiled. “Chief inspector, how could I possibly answer that?”
Shand persisted. “Off the record, Mrs. Montacute.”
The Brigadess considered the request, twirling a strand of hair that had escaped from under her riding hat.
“Off the record,” she repeated. “You could always ask Bill Acomb who gave him the idea for the cockerel.”
For the first time that afternoon Shand smiled. A smile broadening into a grin. And then a laugh.
“The Athelcott One was your idea?”
The Brigadess laughed. “We prefer to call him ‘The Marchant’s Bane.’”
Shand had one more question to ask.
“Did you know that Annabel wanted to buy Sixpenny Barton?”
Her smile dissolved. “That was her was it? The couple from Devon looking for a small estate?” Anger flared. She looked away. “I should have known.”
“Were you thinking of selling?” asked Shand.
“Of course not,” snapped the Brigadess. “Sixpenny Barton has been in the family for generations. I’d go to the workhouse before I ever considered selling.”
“What if someone made a very high offer?”
Ursula shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter what anyone offered. The estate’s not for sale.”
~
Shand returned to his office, wondering if Gabriel would deliberately impoverish a client to force them to sell up – if his wife told him to, or if Gabe Marsh showed him how much money they could both make from developing the land?
It had to run into millions. An estate that size in a location like that – an unspoilt valley only three hours from London.
And how far would the Montacute’s go to protect it?
Another line of thought. The Brigadess as Midnight Caller. I’ll sell, but on one condition – meet me on the green in five minutes.
Would that be enough to tempt Annabel from her home?
He thought it might. And then proceeded to join up the remaining dots. He had to place the Brigadess in sight of the circle at eleven o’clock. How? A late night walk with the dogs? It was possible.
But would she have let her friend be buried alive without calling the police? Could she have watched from the cover of the trees, deciding instead to seize the opportunity and murder Annabel? Even if she hadn’t seen who was being buried, was she that calculating, willing to do anything to stop Annabel destroying her beloved Sixpenny Barton?
Marcus Ashenden appeared in the doorway clutching a file.
“The girlfriend thinks Gabe’s in London, sir. But reckons he’ll be back later in the week. He’s supposed to be taking her to Newbury on Thursday.”
“Is that Marsh’s file?” asked Shand.
“No, sir, this came for you earlier. It’s that asylum seeker.”
For a second, Shand thought his career was about to flash before his eyes. “What about the asylum seeker?” he said, dreading the answer.
Shand took the file. There was a yellow sticker on the front with a handwritten note – thought you’d be interested. He wasn’t. He glanced at the single page inside, and the photo, and then passed the file back to Marcus.
“You’d better deal with this,” he said. “Very low priority.”
The rest of the afternoon dragged, waiting for calls that kept his concentration returning to the phone. Taylor in London, Marsh God knows where, auditors at the bank, financial background checks promised any second. He couldn’t settle.
When the phone did ring his mood worsened. The audit at the bank was progressing slowly. Nothing suspicious had been found so far, and it would take another two or three days to be sure.
A similar report from HQ. Nothing flagged against any of the names or Gabe Marsh’s companies. No bankruptcies, prosecutions, reprimands, or passing mentions in any criminal enquiry. Gabe’s companies all filed their returns on time, and appeared to be in profit.
“It’ll be another day before I have everything you wanted,” said the constable. “Some of the banks take their time, but I should have all the bank account information by tomorrow afternoon.”
More waiting. Another day, another drop in the statistical probability of success.
He tried Marsh’s phone again. Nothing. Rang round his various offices. Sorry, try again tomorrow.
Shand slumped back in his chair. The afternoon had gone downhill since that stupid tongue-tied phone call to Anne. And all these Gabriels! He was surrounded by them. A constant reminder of the rocky state of his marriage. Maybe he should call her? Have it our with her? End the doubt. Are you having an affair?
But what if she said, yes?
Was it better to live in life-sapping doubt or gut-wrenching certainty?
He stared at the phone. To call or not to call? Shand’s inner procrastinator counselled delay. Call her from the hotel tonight when you’re alone and you can both talk.
Except she never picked up when he called in the evenings.
He had to do it now or he’d never do it all.
His hand was hovering over the phone when it rang. He snatched his hand away. Then slowly leaned forward, his heart thumping, and picked up.
“I’ve got some interesting news about Gabriel,” said Taylor.
“What?”
“I’ve just checked the hotel’s CCTV camera and it shows him arriving at the hotel five minutes before midnight. He’s not the midnight caller.”
“Oh,” said Shand, thinking he’d have classified that as depressing news rather than interesting.
“There’s more,” said Taylor. “There was a woman with him. Late thirties, short dark hair, called herself Mrs. Marchant.”
Shand froze. Anne was in her late thirties. And she had short, dark hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
For the second time in two days Shand entered the marital twilight zone. All colour, and hope, and sound drained from his world leaving a silent, black and white wasteland. Despair. Shock. And an inevitability that had been building since the moment he left London. His marriage was over. Anne had moved on...
“Sir?” Taylor was still talking. “Are you still there?”
“Just,” said Shand, staring bleakly into the distance.
“Anyway, according to the receptionist, this Mrs. Marchant has been a regular visitor to the hotel over the past three months. Always with Gabriel Marchant. I’ve got a picture of her from the CCTV and I’m off to interview Sabine Delacroix.”
“Sabine Delacroix?”
“The woman who was at the restaurant with Gabriel. The one he made all the phone calls to.”
Shand closed his eyes. What was the matter with him? Of course the woman couldn’t be Anne. He’d have recognised her number in Marchant’s phone logs.
“Right,” said Shand. “Good work, Bob. Uh, did they make any calls from their room?”
“No. I checked.”
“Right.” Shand paused while he racked his still traumatised brain for something else to say. “Ask her if Annabel knew about her and Gabriel. Oh, and see if she knows anything about Marsh, George Benson or Gulliver’s.”
He could see the semblance of a motive for Annabel’s murder forming out of the fog. A mistress pressing Gabriel for something more than a fling, and a wife who would have taken half of everything he had.
And from what Shand had seen of Gabriel, he didn’t come across as the sharing type.
“I’m on my way,’ said Taylor.
Another thought.
“Oh, and see if Gabriel mentioned anything about buying Sixpenny Barton from the Montacutes.”
A re-energised Shand phoned Annabel’s estate agent next.
“You’re lucky,” a female voice answered. “I was just leaving.”
He introduced himself and swiftly moved on to the subject of Sixpenny Barton.
“How did the Montacutes react to the enquiry?”
“Not very well. They didn’t reply to my letter, so I rang and was told in no uncertain terms that the estate was not for sale.”
“How did Annabel react to the news?”
“She was disappointed but ... I think she saw it as the opening salvo in a long campaign. She was a very determined woman. She asked me to conduct an informal valuation of the estate for her without the Montacutes knowing.”
“Did you?”
“I was going to do so this week, but then…”
She let the sentence hang. Annabel had died and Sixpenny Barton had been saved.
“Did she mention any plans to develop Sixpenny Barton?” asked Shand.
“Yes, she asked about the possibility of planning permission and how she should go about it.’
“Would she have got planning permission?”
There was a long pause. “I think it would depend upon how she went about it. If she kept the development small – a dozen or so executive homes – and had local support, I think it would have sailed through.”
“What if the Parish Council opposed it.”
“It would have made things difficult, but not impossible. There’s a shortage of building land in the county and Sixpenny Barton’s part of the village envelope.”
~
Shand sat with his chin in his hands, staring into space. He couldn’t see how Annabel could ever hope to buy Sixpenny Barton. The Montacutes would never sell. Even if they were desperate for money, all they had to do was sell off a portion of the estate to a developer.
Or did Annabel think the idea of developing Sixpenny Barton would never occur to the Montacutes?
He supposed it possible. From what he’d read of her correspondence she had a low opinion of the villagers’ intellect.
Or maybe she had another plan?
An hour later he’d had enough. He’d gone over and over every aspect of the case until all the facts had begun to coalesce into one incomprehensible mass. And Anne was starting to intrude on his thoughts again. He’d run out of Gabriels for her to run off with, now he was lining her up as Annabel’s mystery lover.
He needed to get out. The room, the station. He needed somewhere to unwind and forget. Somewhere noisy and brash.
He found what he was looking for in Sturton High Street. Maybe not as loud and brash as he’d been planning, but the smell of food drew him in. The Taj Mahal: red flock wallpaper and piped Indian music. Strangely, it reminded him of home, a little piece of essential urban living transported into the wilds of the countryside.
And it sold cider, a brand he’d never heard of – Wessex Imperial Number Seven – he’d have to try it.
He ordered a half-pint while he read through the menu. Sipped it carefully – an interesting taste – slightly sparkling, dry, very clean, almost an apple wine taste without the alcoholic burn at the back of the throat.
He ordered another half with the meal. A Chi
cken Jalfreezi with a spicy Keema Nan, Onion Bhaji and Bombay Aloo. And another when he realised how hot the Jalfreezi was and needed something chilled to cool his throat. And then another because, after all, they were only halves and he was used to drinking three pints of lager with his curries. And then another…
The first intimation that three pints of Wessex Imperial Number Seven might be slightly stronger than three pints of watered down London lager came when the night air hit him outside the restaurant. Suddenly he felt light-headed and his legs turned to rubber. Either that or Sturton High Street had developed an unusual camber.
He carved an extravagant path to the hotel, concentrating hard on the art of walking and avoiding obstacles. He collected his keys from a swaying receptionist and mounted the stairs, clutching at the rail with both hands. The door was more of a problem. For some inexplicable reason someone had magnetised both key and lock, giving them an identical polarity that repelled on contact, forcing his hand to slip left or right, but never into the hole he was aiming for.
Sleep came unexpectedly swiftly that night, a deep sleep rich in dreams and a strange feeling that sometime during the night he’d got up to use the phone.
And in the morning he awoke to an unexpected call.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“He’s escaped, sir.”
Taylor’s voice broke into Shand’s befuddled consciousness.
“Who?” he asked. “Marsh?”
“No, the Athelcott One. Someone broke him out of the pound last night.”
Shand was halfway to Athelcott before he considered the reason for jumping out of bed and missing breakfast for the second day running. Was he really rushing to Athelcott to arrest a chicken?
Taylor’s words came back to him.
“Gabriel Marchant’s been on the phone three times. The cock’s been crowing since six thirty.”
Was Bill Acomb crazy? If he wanted his chicken back that badly, why advertise his whereabouts to the entire village? Gabriel was bound to complain. The chicken would be impounded, and Bill Acomb would be fined. All for what – a few hours fun at Gabriel’s expense.