by Celina Grace
She told herself not to be so stupid, but she could see Anderton was a little uneasy, too. He glanced towards the silent house, with its blank, shuttered look.
“They like their out of the way retreats,” he murmured. “Look at it. You couldn’t be much more isolated.”
“I know,” said Kate. “I guess if you can afford it…”
“What I don’t understand is—” Anderton began, and then they both started a little as the front door swung open. For a moment, the doorway showed only blackness and then the tall figure of Alexander Hargreaves moved into the light. He was wearing dark glasses and his expression could not be discerned. After a minute glance at one another, Kate and Anderton approached him.
“I know why you’ve come,” he said in a flat voice.
“You’ve been informed of the death of Jack Dorsey?” Anderton said and Hargreaves winced.
“The people who broke it to me the first time were a bit more tactful,” he said, but in the same flat voice, with no real heat in the reproachful words. He turned away from them and walked back into the house, almost plodding, leaving the door open behind him. Kate and Anderton followed him through the doorway and Kate shut the door behind them.
The interior of the house was large and airy, the wooden beams supporting the roof used as an architectural feature. The floor was tiled in slate, the furniture uncompromisingly modern. There was a lot of leather and glass about, and quite a variety of modern art. Kate’s eye was caught by a sculpture that looked like an elongated robot, all twisted silver limbs and square protrusions. Then she noticed a framed painting on the far wall which looked like, and quite possibly was, a genuine Jackson Pollock.
Hargreaves had slumped down on one of the large leather couches. On the glass table in front of him was a square cut-crystal glass, half full of an amber-coloured liquid.
“I don’t suppose either of you want a drink,” he said, a statement more than a question. Kate and Anderton confirmed his presumption with a shake of their heads. He gave the ghost of a nod and went on, “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have one. I need one, by God.”
“This must be very distressing for you—” Anderton began and was interrupted by Hargreaves’ gasp, a half sob that shook his rigid shoulders. He put a hand up to his mouth, as if holding himself back from retching. As Kate watched, tears began to slide out from under his dark glasses and, a few moments later, Hargreaves removed them, throwing them down on the table next to his whiskey glass. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
“I can’t take it in,” he said after a moment, in a ragged voice. He rubbed the tears away from his face. “I never thought… Jack – and Madeline too… I can’t – I can’t bear it…”
Kate cleared her throat, glanced at Anderton for permission. “Mrs Dorsey is still alive,” she said quietly.
Hargreaves head snapped up. A variety of emotions chased themselves over his face. “Is that true?” he breathed, as if talking louder would draw a negative response from Kate. “Seriously? She’s still alive?”
Kate nodded. Anderton said “She’s alive but she’s still extremely ill. There’s a good chance that she won’t make it. I’m sorry.”
Hargreaves’ eyes filled with tears again and he dropped his head into his hands. “Why would you say that?” he muttered. “Why give me that hope and then take it away again?”
“She’s doing as well as she can, sir,” said Kate, feeling a wrench of pity. “The doctors are doing all they can do. Her sister and father are with her.”
Hargreaves raised his head again. “Harriet’s here? I must call her – she must be devastated, poor girl. They were close…”
There was a moment’s silence. After another glance from Anderton, Kate leant forward a little. “We’d like to talk to you about Jack and Madeline, if we may, sir. You might be able to give us some more information that could be very valuable.”
“Me?” Hargreaves rubbed his face again. “I don’t know what I can tell you.”
You were only his friend and partner for twenty years, thought Kate impatiently. If you can’t tell us anything, then we’re really in trouble.
Anderton had clearly been thinking the same thing. He said, with a slight edge to his voice, “The first thing you can tell us, sir, is where you were between the hours of eleven pm and two am on the night of Thursday the ninth of May.”
Hargreaves blinked his sore-looking eyelids rapidly. “You want to know where I was that – that night? Why, for God’s sake? You can’t seriously suspect me of killing my friend?”
His tone was verging on panic-stricken. Anderton raised a placatory hand. “Standard procedure, sir. We ask everyone. It’s a process of elimination, nothing more.”
Hargreaves continued to blink rapidly. “I was – I was – where the hell was I?” He still sounded panicky. “I’m sorry, my nerves are shot to pieces… that’s right, I was at the pub. In the village.” Relief flooded his voice. “There’s a good gastro-pub in the village, I eat there quite a lot. I was there most of the night, ran into a few buddies, played some pool after dinner. The Haverton Arms, in the village.”
“I see,” said Kate, writing down the name. “And what time did you leave?”
“Late… I don’t know exactly. It’s got a late licence. I don’t know – maybe one o’clock? One thirty?”
“Did you drive there?”
“I never drive there,” said Hargreaves, in a virtuous tone. “Always want a drink, you see, and it’s not too far. I can cut back across my land.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.” Now he sounded offended. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean anything, sir. Do you have a partner? A wife?”
“I’m divorced,” said Hargreaves heavily. “Not that I can see the relevance of that to this situation. I got divorced about five years ago and I’ve been fancy-free and single ever since.”
“You’ve known Jack Dorsey a good few years, isn’t that right?” Anderton asked.
Hargreaves nodded. He reached out, picked up his drink with one hand and his dark glasses with the other. He took a sip of whiskey and swung the glasses by their arm.
“Jack and I met at university,” he said. “Oxford. We had rooms side by side and somehow we just – well, we just clicked, really. Chalk and cheese, you know – don’t know why we clicked but we did…” He trailed off into silence.
Kate took up the questions. “Had you or Mr Dorsey ever received any threats?” she asked. “Any direct threats, or even implied ones? By letter, or email or in person?”
Hargreaves gave her an incredulous look. “Are you serious?” he asked. “We were threatened all the time. We never opened any of our post, it all went through Security and was X-rayed. We’ve both got unregistered numbers, both careful… but – I don’t know – until that car bomb, it never felt very real, if you know what I mean. Just a load of animal rights nutters and old biddies. We never actually felt like they’d actually do us any harm.”
“Both you and Mr Dorsey live in extremely isolated conditions,” said Anderton, in a neutral tone. “For people who were worried about security, that does strike me as rather strange.”
Hargreaves half laughed. “Really?” he asked. “It makes perfect sense to me. It did to Jack. Hide yourself away and you won’t be bothered. We’ve both got serious security systems, I mean, really top notch ones.”
Kate and Anderton exchanged glances.
“That didn’t seem to do Mr Dorsey much good, in the end,” Anderton said eventually.
Hargreaves winced again and dropped his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what happened there. Jack had a security guard, for God’s sake—”
“Who is also dead,” Anderton went on, remorselessly.
“I don’t know,” repeated Hargreaves. He was shaking his head from side to side, as if to clear his thoughts. “I don’t know how it could have happened.”
They left him pouring another glass of whisk
ey while they took a short walk around the outside of the house, ostensibly to check on his own security arrangements. Kate and Anderton stood side by side on the decking looking over the surface of the lake, its waters ruffled into a multitude of little wavelets by the wind. It was beautiful, undeniably, but there was something lonely, something almost sinister in the landscape, empty of any sign of human activity. Kate thought of being here in the dark, alone, with the night pressing heavily against that great expanse of glass and almost shivered. The lapping of the water against the pillars of the decking was almost hypnotic. Kate found herself staring at a bobble of floating litter trapped against one of the pillars; several screwed up balls of pink paper, a crumpled plastic bag and an empty juice bottle. She focused her eyes on the up and down movement as her mind ticked over what they’d just heard.
“Let’s check his alibi on the way back,” said Anderton. “We might have a spot of lunch there, if the food is as good as Hargreaves says it is. What do you think?”
They easily found the pub in the village. Part of it was obviously the original building, probably dating back to Tudor times, judging from the broad black beams that ran through the walls, and when they entered it, the pitted stone floor and low ceilings. The windows were mullioned and small. A larger, modern extension had been built onto it, to house the restaurant. Kate had expected Anderton to quiz the staff about Alex Hargreaves’ presence on the night of the murder, but he shook his head when she asked and directed her to a table.
“Let’s eat, first,” he said, with a grin. “I get nervous when I have my food prepared by someone who knows I’m a copper. You never know when they might hold a grudge.”
Kate smiled. They found a table by the fireplace which held a vase of silk flowers. Kate relaxed back into her easy chair. Looking around, she realised that this was exactly the sort of place she liked to eat: comfortable, quietly decorated, people dressed casually, talking and laughing without much reserve. The waitress was a large young woman, with a cheerful face and spiky blonde pigtails. A secondary thought followed the first; she really didn’t much like the formal restaurants she went to with Andrew – all those hovering, deferential, attentive waiters, the hush that fell over the room that seemed to muffle any attempt at a normal conversation. She was always worried about spilling something on the white linen tablecloths. Kate looked across at Anderton who was reading a menu and commenting enthusiastically on various dishes. Shit, this really did feel like a date. She dragged her own attention back to the menu, her appetite deserting her.
“So,” said Anderton, once their food had arrived and they were eating; Kate without much enthusiasm. “How’s it feel to be back at work?”
Kate chewed, giving herself time to formulate an appropriate answer. “Fine.”
“You’re not finding it a bit much? Straight back into a serious murder investigation?”
“No,” Kate said, a bit annoyed. She was getting a bit tired of being treated like some fragile, porcelain doll. “I don’t find it a problem at all.”
“Okay. Just asking.”
“Sorry,” said Kate. “It’s just – oh, I don’t know – I get a bit fed up of all this solicitousness.”
“I thought you’d be glad people cared,” said Anderton.
Their eyes met across the table and Kate was transported back to that one night, a year before, instantly. Damn it, when was she going to get over that? The worst thing was that she could see Anderton was thinking along much the same lines.
There was a moment of loaded silence. Kate was very aware that they were eating in a pub that offered accommodation as well. We could do it, she thought. We could book a room here, just for the night, and stay a few hours. No one would know. She felt giddy with the possibility, almost faint with the longing. I just need to say it and he’ll agree.
Oddly, it was the thought of Olbeck’s face, if he ever found out, that stopped her. She pictured his shock, her shame and embarrassment… Andrew’s face came into her mind a few moments later and then, of course, she was swamped by guilt at him not being the first thing that stopped her.
She stood up abruptly. “Want another drink?”
Anderton indicated their half full glasses. “What’s wrong with yours?”
Kate blinked and sat down again. “Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“Are you all right?”
He sounded merely concerned. Perhaps she’d imagined that look in his eyes. Thank God she hadn’t done anything about it. Kate realised something – that there couldn’t be any more of these cosy little meals together. Not alone. She wouldn’t always be able to be strong.
The plump waitress came to see if they wanted anything else and Kate could have kissed her. Anderton replied in the negative to her enquiry, but then followed it up with “But you could help us with something else, if you don’t mind.”
Anderton pulled a print out of Alexander Hargreaves’ headshot from the MedGen website and held it out.
“Can you tell me if you know this man?”
“Alex?” said the waitress. “Seriously, are you, like, joking? He’s in here all the time.”
“You definitely recognise him?”
“Oh yeah. He’s often in here to eat and play the fruit machines.”
“Was he here last Thursday night? The ninth of May?”
The waitress narrowed her eyes in suspicion, which then widened as Anderton showed her his warrant card. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Yeah. Yeah, he was here then.”
“Do you know what time he left?”
“Not sure. Quite late. Sometimes he stays behind for a bit, after we close up. It’s like a private party,” she added, hastily, as if they were going to arrest her for breaking the licensing laws.
Anderton nodded. “You have CCTV here?” he asked.
The waitress looked positively scared now. “Yeah, we do. Above the front door.”
“Could we perhaps speak to the manager?” asked Kate, smiling reassuringly. “What’s his name?”
“Tim,” the waitress said, one finger up to her pierced lip. “Tim Jones. I’ll go and get him, shall I?”
She hurried off before they could speak. Anderton gave a tiny shrug and turned his attention back to his plate. Kate stared after the girl for a moment. The ring in the waitress’s lip had reminded her of someone.
“How’s Stuart getting on?”
Anderton looked up in surprise. “Stuart? Fine, as far as I know. We’ll pull him in for a debrief soon, but he’s been reporting in regularly.”
“Hmm.”
Anderton finished the last mouthful on his plate and pushed it away from him with a satisfied sigh. “You don’t like him, do you?”
Kate half-laughed. “I don’t even know him.”
“Well,” said Anderton. “We none of us really know him. I know he’s good at his job, and that’s exactly the sort of person I needed.”
Kate placed her knife and fork together neatly in the centre of her plate. “Who is he, really?” she asked.
Anderton met her gaze steadily. “SO15, Kate. You know that, I don’t need to spell it out.”
“Why? Why go that far?”
“I had to, Kate. We’re out of our depth, here. I need someone on the inside and my team aren’t – you people aren’t trained for it and you’re too well known around here. I needed an outsider, someone with experience.” He pushed his chair back a little and added “Someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Kate smoothed back her hair. “We were out of our depth last year,” she said. “You said that. We still got a solve.”
“You got a solve,” said Anderton. “No one’s forgetting that.”
Kate forcibly restrained her hand from reaching around to rub her back. She saw Anderton’s eyes flick downward at the sudden, stilled movement of her hand and was sure he knew exactly what she was trying to stop herself doing.
“I’m fine,” she hissed suddenly, as if he’d just told her the opposite.
“I—”Anderton began,
but they were interrupted by arrival of the manager of the pub; a tall, gangly young man with anxious eyebrows.
Tim Jones looked barely out of his teens but he grasped what they wanted with speed. After leading them to a viewing room, which reminded Kate a little of the one at Jack Dorsey’s house, they could see for themselves a grainy black and white image of Alex Hargreaves entering the pub at eight thirty five pm on the ninth of May and leaving it again, slightly unsteadily, at one forty one am that night.
“Well,” said Kate as they drove away. “He’s out. What now?”
“Dorsey’s PM is tomorrow. We need to interview Harriet Larsen and I need an update from the hospital, see if our Madeline is still holding on.”
“I’ll do Harriet,” offered Kate.
“Good, okay. Take Theo with you.”
“Okay,” Kate said, suppressing a groan. She looked at Anderton’s profile. That moment of weakness back in the pub dining room seemed even more like madness to her now. She pulled out her mobile and texted Andrew; miss you, shall I come round to yours tonight? She signed it off with three kisses.
Chapter Twelve
Stuart put Angie’s drink down in front of her on the scarred top of the pub table. She was busying texting someone on her phone and was so intent on the task that she barely looked up.
“’Thanks, Mike,’” Stuart said ironically when she finally slipped the phone into her pocket.
“Thanks,” Angie said, not rising to the bait. She took a deep swallow of the whiskey and said nothing more.
Stuart sipped his pint. This was the first time he and Angie had been out together, to a pub of her choice. Stuart didn’t think much of it – it was scruffy, down-at-heel, with a variety of rough looking men congregating at the bar. Angie didn’t seem to notice the squalor. She sipped her drink, looking out the grimy window by the table, her eyes fixed on something that Stuart couldn’t see. Again, she was dressed only in black and white.