by Clare Curzon
‘Where’s that dratted girl?’ demanded the DCI.
‘Sergeant Zyczynski?’ Yeadings enquired after a second’s thought. ‘She’s gone to check up on something in London. Do you need her specifically?’
‘London? Beaumont went there yesterday, to fetch Hoad’s will. He could have doubled on it. Now that’s two lots of expenses they’ll put in for.’
‘She’s gone by car. Much the same mileage as a day spent footling around our patch. My worry, anyway. Not yours, Inspector.’
‘According to Chief Superinien — ’
‘Yes, I know. Expenses. I still bear the scars. What did you need Z for? Use one of the DCs.’
‘Have to, I suppose.’ Disgruntled, Salmon took his leave.
This stalemate’s getting to him, Yeadings silently observed: it has us all on edge.
Upside down, with her seatbelt searing her shoulder, Z wriggled her mobile phone from one pocket. She had to beat the airbag down to get her breath before she could press out the number. It took fourteen minutes before she heard emergency vehicles and voices on the road above, and all the time she was aware of small slithering sounds as the soggy earth gave way a little more. Too much movement on her part and the car, nose down, could toboggan farther downhill on its roof. Was it water below or trees, she asked herself. This way up, it wasn’t easy to work out exactly what point she’d reached.
‘No brakes,’ she gasped, as soon as they’d smashed the rear window to pull her out. But the Traffic officer wasn’t one to mutter ‘woman driver’ under his breath.
‘We’ll get you sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, miss,’ he assured her.
‘Sergeant,’ she insisted. ‘I’m in the job. Regional CID. I want the car examined for tampering.’
‘Right, Sergeant. Bob here’ll give you a lift to A&E.’
‘I don’t need hospital. I want a car. Or a train to London.’
They argued, but she got her way. The aforementioned Bob delivered her to Wendover station and bought her a return ticket for Marylebone.
It was in the train that the shivers started.
I could have been killed, she told herself. Who the hell wanted that? The car had been serviced a week before and given a clean bill of health.
In the toilet at Marylebone station she examined herself. There was a livid band of red on her lower neck from the seatbelt, and a bruise was already starting to show over her left breast.
Not so serious as it might have been, she decided. She applied fresh make-up, thanked her stars that she hadn’t phoned ahead to fix an appointment, and queued for a cab to take her to Knightsbridge.
Two hours before the expected visit from Dr Abercorn, DS Beaumont arrived to take Daniel off for interview. A Traffic officer had come up from Ascot, one the boy hadn’t met before, who proposed a charge of Death by Dangerous Driving. Police bail would be arranged at a reasonable sum which Anna could cover, and a duty solicitor appointed to the case.
Daniel appeared sulky and uncommunicative. Cover-up, Anna guessed, for the very real fear he felt at the death threat. Up until now he’d shown no hint of remorse for causing the unfortunate girl’s death.
As they manoeuvred the narrow passage back to Reception they ran into a grey-haired couple being escorted in. Anna barely recognised Ben Huggett accompanied by a straight-backed woman who could be his wife. The poacher wore a well-cut dark blue suit with hand-finished lapels, but never tailored for him. It pulled diagonally from collar to armpits over his barrel chest, and the trousers had been inexpertly shortened.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, standing aside for Anna to pass. Best Sunday manners as well.
‘Mr Huggett, how are you?’ She observed his wife’s outrage at finding herself in a police station.
The woman eyed her sourly. ‘You the lady staying at the Manor?’
‘My wife,’ Huggett apologised on her behalf.
‘How d’you do, Mrs Huggett. I’m Anna Plumley, Daniel’s grandmother.’ She would have moved on, but the policewoman with the Huggetts was in no hurry to cut short any interesting exchange between them. Her considerable body blocked the way.
‘I’ll have you know,’ the poacher’s wife declared in high dudgeon, ‘that we’re respectable folk. I don’t know why you should stop my husband walking in Fordham Woods. It’s not trespassing, since he never did no harm there.
‘Just ask our neighbours. They’ll tell you. We’re decent folk what pays our bills prompt, and goes to church at Easter and Christmas. And I run the jumble sales for Age Concern,’ said Huggett’s wife importantly.
It explained her husband’s suit. A smidgen of time sacrificed to charity can repay in scooping cream off the benefits. Wifely duty, you might say, securing perks from the job.
‘Well, quite,’ said Anna, smiled at them both, removed the policewoman with a hard stare, and passed on.
‘Did you grass on him?’ Daniel demanded, nearer to cheerful than he’d been all morning.
‘Just suggested he might have some information on what went on in the woods,’ she said serenely. ‘The police are interested in a hut up there. The old pheasant-raising place. I doubt he had any recent connection.’
‘Why?’ he asked, perhaps too keenly. ‘I mean, why the police interest?’
‘I’m not in their confidence,’ she assured him. ‘But it seems they found something unexpected.’
Daniel fell silent. In the police car which returned them to the Manor he sat hunched, his face averted. ‘I’m going to my room,’ he announced on arrival.
Anna heard him trudge upstairs, and then the slam of his door. She let herself quietly out of the gun room and stared up, flattened against the outer wall. She heard the boy unlatch his window. He leaned out, field-glasses to his eyes.
Simply curious about the police activity? Or disturbed on account of involvement with what went on in the woods? He’d be none the wiser in any case. The forensics team in their white coveralls had long gone, carrying off their trophies in black plastic sacks.
‘Coffee,’ she reminded herself, and went indoors to have a word with Alma Pavitt.
‘It’s not an interview,’ Dr Abercorn insisted as he shed his coat in the hall. ‘More in the nature of a medical consultation. So there isn’t the need for a responsible adult to be present.’
He waited a few seconds before adding, ‘Unless I’m considered to be that myself.’ His chuckle was practised but feeble, as if he was tiring of the well-worn joke himself.
‘I’ll fetch Daniel down,’ she offered. ‘He’s been resting.’
The boy entered belligerently. ‘You know my life’s been threatened?’ Anna heard him challenge as she closed the door between them. Go for the shrink’s jugular before he picks at your brains, she thought. Demand why he’s here and not a tough bodyguard.
He had a point, but there was a deal of anger dammed up inside Daniel and a whole lot of secrecy as well. She had got nowhere trying to get through to him. Maybe the professional would be more successful.
She went through to the kitchen where Anna Pavitt started lifting objects and putting them down elsewhere with unnecessary firmness. Invasion of the woman’s territory, Anna admitted, but on what other ground could they meet for any sane discussion?
‘Mrs Pavitt, something has to be done about your wages. And free time too. We’ve been trading on your good nature too long already. I should like to make up what’s owed you, until such time as my son-in-law’s solicitor takes over.’
The other woman stiffened, with her back to Anna. Then she turned, suspicion in her eyes. ‘I was paid to the end of the month, so I don’t need charity. But I could do with a break, if only to go and get my car back. They can’t deliver, with a police guard on the entrance gates.’
‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised the difficulty. But they should certainly let your car through. It’s only the press and other prying eyes they’re meant to keep out.’
‘Well, the garage people tried and were turned back. Now the
y’re being shirty about it.’
‘So by all means take time off to fetch the car. Why not now? Take the rest of the day. Daniel and I will be out until quite late in any case and won’t be needing a meal.’
Saying thank you must have cost the woman, but she was clearly less disgruntled now. ‘I could, I suppose. There’s only Melba toast to make for the pâté. The goulash is simmering for lunch and it’s a chilled dessert. I made plenty, if the doctor wants to stay on.’
‘Splendid,’ Anna decided, beamed on her and left. Twenty minutes later the front doorbell shrilled. Through the study window Anna saw the housekeeper, wrapped in a burgundy-dyed sheepskin coat, escorted to a waiting taxi by the cabby. This time, it seemed, the gate police had been less rigid in their duties.
All seemed quiet in the drawing-room. Perhaps Dr Abercorn was patiently waiting for Daniel to open up. Anna leaned close to the panelled door and caught the sound of low sobbing. She nodded. It had taken a stranger to get through.
She felt little better herself. It was the same grief: his mother, adoptive father and half-sister dead; her child, her grandchild, poor Freddie. There was always a sense of guilt over the old surviving the young.
From her own soured experience of Jennifer, she knew there’d be plenty the boy must have regretted, however intense his love for her. Quite early on he’d struck her as almost Oedipal, with Jennifer’s behaviour fuelling his obsession. He would never be free of his mother; had even less chance now she was dead, an ever-present ghost to haunt him.
Anna returned to the kitchen to look in on the goulash, a rich brown with little peaks of red peppers, bubbling gently. Perhaps a tad heavy for midday eating, but the aromatic scents should tempt any reluctant appetite. She reached for baking potatoes from the vegetable rack, slit and seasoned three of the largest, ready for the oven.
Again the doorbell shrilled. She opened up and found a lanky figure in shabby brown leathers towering over her. He had a lean, curved, Don Quixote face with shaggy brows and an enormous, limply drooping, reddish moustache. The eyes, assessing her, were a bright blue, clear as a summer sky. Under one arm was a black helmet. Behind him, parked at the bottom of the steps, gleamed an enormous Harley.
‘Ms Plumley?’ he enquired. ‘Superintendent Yeadings sent me. I’m known as Charlie Barley, but my first name’s really John.’
The bodyguard. She held out her hand. ‘I’ll use Charlie, if I may. I’m Anna.’
The gangling figure followed her in, produced ID. A DC taking six months’ sabbatical, he explained. She couldn’t help wondering why, but wouldn’t ask outright.
‘Something smells good.’
‘I wasn’t the cook, I’m afraid. You’ll join us, of course?’ She took his wide grin for assent and went to prepare a fourth potato.
In the event, while Daniel again slunk upstairs, Dr Abercorn made a swift departure. At least as far as his car, where he remained, presumably making notes, then just sitting, staring up at the cloudless sky.
Anna turned from the window and was startled to find Barley looking over her shoulder. He was a silent mover. She stepped away. ‘How well up on this business are you?’ she asked.
‘Mr Yeadings briefed me, but I could do with more detail. That was the shrink leaving?’
She nodded. ‘I imagine he’ll report back to the superintendent?’
‘Yup. Dr Abercorn’s right in there with the team now. He’s good. I know him.’
‘You’ve worked together?’
The droopy moustache quivered, curved up at the ends. ‘He sorted me out.’
Anna managed not to blink at the admission. The fact that Barley could freely offer it meant surely that the other had done a good job on him. Discretion, she warned herself: don’t pry. I’ve known others go through personal hell and come out on the right side.
‘I hope you’ve an appetite. I’d calculated on Dr Abercorn staying for lunch. Would you care to call Daniel down? He might not hurry for me, but your voice will make him curious.’
The conversation over their meal was mainly gentle probing on Anna’s part and a droll recital of ‘funny things that happened in the job’ from Barley. Occasionally Daniel showed slight interest. Eventually, as she brought in the cheeseboard, Anna heard him burst out, ‘They’re making such a bloody fuss over that bike crash. And the girl. She was only a fucking prostitute, for God’s sake.’
‘A life’s a life,’ said the detective. ‘Has to be followed up.’
‘As if you care. Just a statistic.’
‘Like your family,’ Anna ground out, disgusted with him.
It caught Daniel unprepared. He blanched and swung on her, mouth agape. Almost choking, he managed to get the words out. ‘That was a tragedy. God, I’d give everything for that not to have happened.’
‘Can’t turn back the clock,’ said the man. He was rolling out the cliches with monotonous detachment.
Daniel stared at him. ‘It’s nothing to you, is it?’ More curiosity than anger now.
‘It’s my job. Happens all the time.’
But it doesn’t, Anna thought. Murders aren’t that common in Thames Valley. Wholesale slaughter almost unheard of. What was the man up to, gutting the boy?
But at least he was getting a reaction. She decided to take a step or two backwards and leave them to each other. ‘Why,’ she suggested, ‘don’t you both make the most of the sunshine and take a turn round the grounds while I fill the dishwasher? The housekeeper’s got the day off, but I’ll serve coffee soon. After that we’re going out for a drive. I’ve something to show you.’
The other two looked at each other. Daniel shrugged, took out a coin from his pocket, flipped it several times in one hand. ‘Uphill or down? Call for the river.’
‘Tails,’ said Barley.
‘It’s heads.’ Daniel held out his hand with the coin in it. ‘Uphill then. We’ll go to the woods.’
He pranced to the door, turned, twirled an imaginary moustache. ‘Aha, to the woods, me little darling!’ — delivered in a theatrically villainous voice. Then a child’s piping treble, ‘No, no! I am only thirteen, sir.’ A gruff, ‘This is no time to be superstitious!’ A frantic wail, ‘I shall tell the vicar!’ Most villainous of all, ‘But I am the vicar!’
A faint flicker moved the detective’s own moustache. Anna turned away, uneasy: you try to treat an adolescent like a grownup, and then in an instant he’s a child again. Really I am fit only to deal with adults.
‘You’ll need stout boots,’ she said shortly to Barley. ‘It won’t have dried out up there.’
‘These’ll do,’ the man said.
Daniel went upstairs to change from the clothes he’d worn for the police interview, and Anna appealed to Barley. ‘He has a rather morbid interest in the woods at present.’
‘I guessed he would have. Which is why I bid tails for the river. There are a few double-headed coins about and he was a tad too cocky. I’ve yet to see a double-tailed one.’ At the door, he stopped. ‘May I ask where we’re bound for later?’
Anna smiled. ‘I arranged a little treat to distract him.’ She explained.
‘That’s novel,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a first for me as well.’
So he would be coming too. Just as well, perhaps. He and Daniel might yet hit it off, man to man.
Chapter Eighteen
When the cab dropped Z at Miradec Interiors a young couple with a small boy were just going in. She fell in behind and let Hilary Durham take her for one of the group. He was far too occupied with pleasing the couple to notice, let alone recognise, her. They had come by appointment to view the computerised ground floor layout for an impressive Georgian town house.
Not to the manor born, Z noted, and a later mention of ‘Our Good Luck’ was clue to a big National Lottery win or a Premium Bond turned up trumps.
Hilary was earnest and slightly bumbling still, but he knew his stuff. I’d have consulted him myself, she thought, falling instantly in love with the graceful staircase a
nd elegant hall – if I had the money.
The clients loved the layout, but had doubts about the discreet colours. Hilary flicked at the screen, changed them to crude primaries, almost incandescent, and won his point. He passed on to display the state-of-the-art kitchen and the woman was enchanted. The man signed a clip of papers and they were given a copy of the video.
When Hilary saw them out he at last took account of the extra presence. ‘Oh, S-S-Sergeant,’ he stuttered. ‘I’m so sorry. I …’
‘Don’t be. I’m impressed. Actually I wondered if I’d find Mr Halliwell here.’
‘He was. But he got called away.’
‘So if I wait …?’
Hilary wriggled with discomfort. ‘Actually, I couldn’t say. He could be gone some time. It was an emergency.’
‘Then maybe I could be of some help?’
‘You mean as police? No, nothing like that. A friend taken ill at Heathrow. He just panicked and rushed off.’
Z couldn’t imagine the urbane and smooth-tongued Justin Halliwell in panic. ‘Was the friend catching a plane?’ she asked. ‘Fear of flying can be awful.’
‘No. No, she was coming back. From Disneyworld.’
‘With her family?’
‘Alone.’
Now who goes to Disneyworld alone? Z asked herself. You’d surely beg, borrow or breed at least one child to take along. But Disneyworld meant Florida. Flying out of Orlando. Or even Miami.
‘How ill did she seem?’
‘Just jet lag, I guess.’ But at that Hilary clammed up. Any confidence he’d displayed with the clients had totally disappeared. He was frankly in a dither.
Z’s curiosity had been centred on cocaine. So did this connect? From Colombia or Cuba illegal immigrants smuggle the raw stuff into Miami by sea. It’s picked up there and flown to the UK in innocent-looking tourists’ luggage. Or, at worst and sometimes fatally, swallowed.