‘OK, but don’t be all bloody day about it.’
Horton made his escape before Uckfield could change his mind or Bliss could persuade him to. Walters had been designated to continue working on the restaurant attacks after another fruitless late night spent watching them and to attend to CID matters. He seemed to have recovered from his stomach upset.
Horton asked Cantelli to call Louise Durridge to tell her they were on their way. He didn’t want a wasted journey. He turned to Walters. ‘Chase up forensic to see if they’ve got more on the manufacturer of the paint that was used on those restaurants and if so follow it up. Yes, I know you’ve checked the major hardware stores but there must be other shops in the area.’ Then he paused on his way to his office as an idea struck him. Walters had already identified those restaurants whose security systems were doubtful and those whose kitchens looked in need of redecoration, but had he returned to the three that had been vandalized?
He turned back. ‘Find out if any of the restaurants attacked have received a quote for redecorating. If they have, get whatever information you can on who’s quoted them. Find out what jobs they’ve carried out before. This could be a straightforward con man trying to drum up business.’
Horton fetched his sailing jacket from his office and eyed his phone, hesitating over whether to call Harry Kimber. Early that morning, before the briefing, he’d discovered from his research on the Internet that the Royal Navy Hospital Haslar had expanded its remit in 1966 to admit members of all three services – the Royal Navy, Army and Royal Air Force. So Bernard Litchfield could have been a patient there. And Eileen could have been visiting him. And Jennifer could have been heading there. Horton was sure that Kimber would have visited his closest friend in hospital. He might be able to confirm that Bernard was actually in the hospital at that time and for how long.
Cantelli popped his head round the door to say that Louise Durridge would see them at her place of work, a dress shop in the small market town of Marlborough. Harry Kimber would have to wait.
Horton calculated that it would take them about eighty minutes to get to Marlborough, in the north-east corner of Wiltshire, and another eighty to get back, plus about an hour at the most to interview Louise Durridge, so they should return by mid-afternoon. But Horton’s timescale soon went by the wayside when first they were held up because of an earlier accident on the M27 heading towards Southampton and secondly because of heavy traffic on the M3 to Winchester. He was beginning to wonder whether in fact they would ever reach Marlborough and were doomed to spend the entire day on the gridlocked roads of Britain. Eventually though Cantelli drew into the market town and began searching for a parking place in the middle of the wide and ancient high street.
‘Did you know that Marlborough was granted a Royal Charter by King John in 1204 enabling it to achieve market town status?’ he said, scouring the road keenly, ready to pounce if someone looked even remotely like they were returning to their vehicle.
‘No, but I believe you. Anything else I should know?’ Horton asked – apart, he said to himself, from the fact that one of Lord Eames’ estates bordered the attractive old market town.
‘They’ve got a very posh private boarding school here.’
Horton knew that.
‘Well outside the remit of a sergeant’s pay and even a Chief Constable’s,’ Cantelli added.
But not that of the Eames family, because Horton had also discovered through his research on the Eames family history that Richard Eames’ younger brother, Gordon, had attended Marlborough College. It had been founded by a group of Church of England clergymen in 1843 with the prime purpose of educating the sons of clergy. Perhaps Lady Marsha and Lord William Eames had hoped some of the Christian influence of the past would rub off on their younger son. If so they had been sorely disappointed. Gordon Eames’ life had spiralled out of control somewhere between the mid 1960s and early ‘70s and he had died abroad in 1973, leaving Richard Eames, the current Lord, the only surviving child.
Horton wondered what Eames had made of the death of Thelma Veerman. He must have been told by now and that meant that Mike Danby would also know but he’d not been on the phone to inquire about it. Why should he though? Kenton’s death being connected with Eames was now highly unlikely. His Lordship could get on with his trade negotiations with Russia in peace.
Cantelli finally found a parking space and they located Louise Durridge’s spacious and tastefully decorated dress shop just off the high street. Cantelli apologized for their lateness, which she dismissed with a nervous smile.
‘I know what the traffic is like,’ she said, excusing herself from her assistant, an elegant lady in her late fifties. She showed them through to the back of the shop where to his left Horton caught sight of a row of well-lit changing rooms with enough mirrors to terrorize anyone suffering from Eisoptrophobia. They stepped into a back room that, despite the fact it contained rails of clothes, a steam iron and ironing board as well as a sink, fridge, coffee machine and kettle, was spotlessly clean and tidy. A door to the right indicated the toilet, which, Horton thought, her customers must need if they took as long as Catherine to buy clothes. From what he’d seen on entering this was just the kind of place that would have had her salivating at the mouth. And at prices her new boyfriend could easily afford, but then he wasn’t a public servant, a phrase that had become something of a dirty word of late and which Horton bitterly resented. There was another door beside the fridge that led into a back yard for deliveries.
Louise Durridge offered them refreshments, which they accepted, Cantelli plumping for tea and Horton coffee. He eyed her keenly. She was younger than her brother by four years but she could easily have passed for late thirties. Her dark hair was cut in a short neat bob framing a lean and attractive dark face with minimal make-up. She was dressed smartly in a light grey shift dress that reached her knees and showed off her figure, rounded in all the right places, but not fat. Her legs, clad in black stockings, or tights, were shapely and she wore black court shoes with a small heel.
‘How long have you had the shop?’ Cantelli asked, as she gestured them into two seats at a small table and flicked on the kettle.
‘Eight years. I stock all the latest designer wear. It’s very successful,’ she declared proudly and a little defensively, Horton thought. ‘It’s a wealthy area and being so close to the College I get mothers, aunts, sisters and even some of the students in here.’
‘From Marlborough College?’ Cantelli said, displaying his recently acquired knowledge.
Yes. It’s half term next week so I’m expecting to be busy today and over the weekend.’ She handed Horton his black coffee in an expensive-looking porcelain mug. And as if to prove her point the shop bell buzzed.
‘We won’t keep you long,’ Horton replied. ‘And we do appreciate you giving us the time.’
‘That’s OK, only I’m not sure I can help you much. I don’t really know anything about Jasper’s life. I hadn’t seen him for years.’ She handed Cantelli his tea and put milk and sugar on the table in front of them.
Cantelli said, ‘When was the last time you had contact with your brother?’
She stood back and eyed them both. Again Horton thought she seemed nervous. ‘I don’t remember exactly. It was a very long time ago.’
But it was a lie. Horton saw that instantly and so too did Cantelli, not that he betrayed it and neither did Horton. They both remained silent, sensing that it would prompt her to disclose more. And she did.
‘Jasper and I … well, we were different,’ she stammered.
‘You fell out?’ Cantelli prompted gently.
‘Not exactly.’ She took a breath. ‘We just didn’t have a lot in common.’ She eyed them anxiously. ‘I understand from Ms Swallows that you’re investigating his death. Do you think … is there any reason to believe …?’
‘He was unlawfully killed, yes.’
‘Murdered?’ she breathed.
Cantelli solemnly nodded.
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She studied his face for a moment then let out a long slow breath. Pulling out the third seat at the table, she sat down as the shop doorbell again buzzed and loud female voices reached into the back room. She seemed not to notice.
After a moment she resumed. ‘Jasper was the favourite. A boy, and clever. He was quiet, studious and obedient. He always did what people wanted or expected him to do. Me? I was the dunce. I was noisy, clumsy and rebellious.’ She gave a timid smile as though it was a joke but Horton heard the bitterness and sensed the pain it had caused her. She looked down at her immaculate manicured fingers. ‘I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that but …’ She trailed off.
‘What happened?’ Horton asked quietly.
Her head came up and in her eyes Horton saw years of anguish.
‘I left home as soon as I could, just before I was seventeen. I couldn’t stand hearing about how wonderful Jasper was and how well he was doing any longer. He’d got high grades in his A levels and was destined to go to university. He was a credit to his parents. The sun shone out of his every orifice. So when Stuart Hayes told me he had a friend in London who was looking for someone to share, I went like a shot.’
‘Stuart Hayes?’ Cantelli said, surprised.
‘Yes. You remember him?’ she asked with an expression that Horton thought was pleasure as he racked his brains trying to recall the name, which was obviously familiar to Cantelli.
‘If it’s the same one, he was the drummer in Gracious Grove, the 1980s band,’ Cantelli answered.
‘That’s right.’ She beamed at him.
Horton hid his surprise. It was the group Mike Danby had mentioned because his first client James Westrop had recommended Chas Foxton, also a previous member of Gracious Grove, to Danby. And Foxton’s pop star clients had stayed at Lord Eames’ Isle of Wight residence. Interesting. But significant? He didn’t yet know but he felt a frisson of excitement.
‘How did you know Stuart Hayes?’ he asked her, keenly interested. Cantelli threw him a curious glance.
‘I went to school with him; we were in the same class. Jasper won a scholarship to the grammar school but I went to the local comprehensive.’
Horton tucked away this interesting piece of information for examination later, uncertain where it would lead them, if anywhere. But perhaps more would be revealed as she continued.
‘I got a job in a boutique in London and loved it. I began to spend more time with the boys in the band. That’s when I met Mason Petterson, another member of the band and, well we became more than friends.’ Then her smile faded. ‘It took Jasper two months before he turned up and two weeks to get hired by them.’
That wasn’t on his CV. And Danby certainly hadn’t mentioned it. Why? Because he didn’t know or he didn’t want him to know? Horton’s interest deepened. His police antennae told him this meant something. Quickly he recalled what he’d read and what Trueman had told him about Kenton; he was certain there wasn’t anything about him having a degree.
He said, ‘Your brother didn’t go to university.’
‘No. He preferred to stay with the band. My parents were furious, not with Jasper but with me. They blamed me for corrupting him and ruining his future chances. They didn’t want to have anything more to do with me. Jasper said not to let it worry me. He’d talk them round. I believed him. Jasper could be very persuasive.’
She said it with a passion borne of bitterness tinged with resignation and regret. Horton’s mind raced with thoughts as she continued.
‘The band got bigger and more famous. Mason and I got engaged. He even bought me a ring.’ She looked sad and her head dropped but quickly came up again. Not before Horton saw a ring on the third finger of her left hand. It looked expensive. A large ruby set in a cluster of diamonds. ‘But Mason and I spilt up,’ she said hastily, her gaze flicking between them uneasily.
Horton saw at once what she meant. ‘Jasper used you to get the job. He targeted you to get in with the band.’
She studied him with surprise because he’d so quickly understood. ‘Yes. Jasper used everyone to get what he wanted. That’s what he was like. He was very charming but very ruthless. He’d let no one and nothing stand in his way.’
And here was yet another side of the dead man’s personality that no one had mentioned. Alongside the thorough, patient, painstaking, quiet man, and one who had been described as reckless, impulsive, and chatty, Horton now added persuasive, manipulative and cunning. If he put what she was saying with what Danby had told him about how they’d met, a thread was beginning to form. It was possible that Kenton had singled out Mike Danby and probably before him Eunice Swallows. Why though? What was it that Kenton had wanted? Was it access to Chas Foxton via Danby? If so where did that leave them with Brett Veerman as a suspect? Time to consider that later.
‘What did Jasper want from the band?’ he asked.
‘What do you think? Money. He even used our parents.’
‘He sponged off your parents?’
She smiled sardonically. ‘No, Jasper was too clever for that. He never took a penny from them. He was the hard-working, clever and very dutiful son. They adored him.’
‘Then how did he use them?’ asked Cantelli, clearly as intrigued as Horton.
Women’s voices came from the room behind them as they began to try on clothes.
‘They went to their graves thinking Jasper was a saint. My mother died first. I came back for the funeral and my father barely spoke two words to me. It hurt.’ She stared down at her hands then took a breath and her head came up. ‘I got into a relationship with a married man, had his child, he ditched me. Then my father died three years after my mother. Jasper found where I was living and asked me to come to the funeral. The quarrel wasn’t between us, even though I resented him. I refused. He told me that Dad had left everything to him but that he didn’t think that fair and he was prepared to split it fifty-fifty. It wasn’t much he said. The house had been remortgaged to pay for health care bills and Dad had spent much of his savings. Jasper said there was about ten thousand pounds left in the estate. There should have been more and there probably had been and that had gone to Jasper. But five thousand pounds was a lot of money to a single parent and I took it.’
‘It was money to keep you silent,’ said Horton. But if she had been that hard up, why hadn’t she sold the ring Petterson had given her – unless she had and the one she was wearing now was from another man, her husband. Except she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
‘I can’t prove anything,’ she was saying, ‘but I think Jasper took money from my father’s account gradually over a period of time, either without his knowledge or because Jasper had spun him some yarn when he was ill. And Jasper put the money somewhere no one would find when it went to probate.’
And Horton was beginning to see how Kenton could have done that. He had been an expert on computer fraud and cyber crime and although this was in the 1980s and 1990s, when the Internet was in its infancy, before cyber crime and Internet fraud had become the epidemic it now was, Kenton had cut his teeth on siphoning funds from his parents’ account so that they wouldn’t notice. He’d been honing his skills before hitting the big time later. And Horton wouldn’t mind betting that was what he had done with the band’s money. Kenton’s ability with a computer had existed long before many had even tapped at a keyboard, manipulated a mouse and stared at a screen.
With a wry smile she said, ‘I don’t think he will have left me anything in his will.’
Horton didn’t even know if there was one. Dennings had said nothing about finding it in the apartment and if Jasper Kenton hadn’t made a will then Louise Durridge might be in for a windfall.
‘Have you any idea who would have killed him?’ she asked somewhat anxiously as laughter came from the room behind them. But Horton also caught the sound of a movement outside. And he glimpsed the silhouette of a man behind the window. There was someone in the yard. Louise Durridge looked troubled.
‘Do you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she answered quickly, but perhaps she did and there was only one man she would protect, he thought, rising swiftly and crossing to the door. The man who had given her that ring. With his heart pumping, he wondered if he was about to come face to face with the beachcomber. Louise Durridge sprang up. Her skin paled. Horton threw open the door and found himself facing a well-built man in his late forties with longish greying-brown hair who, disappointingly, was not the beachcomber Lomas.
‘It’s OK, Louise,’ the man said as he entered the room. Then to Horton he said, ‘I’m Mason Petterson and although I’d like to have done, I didn’t kill Jasper Kenton.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘Jasper Kenton came to see you,’ said Horton, but Petterson was prevented from answering as Louise Durridge’s assistant put her worried head around the door.
‘We’re rather busy,’ she said agitatedly.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Louise Durridge turned her anxious eyes on Horton – not, he thought, because she might be losing sales but because she was afraid for her lover.
Petterson said, ‘I don’t know how he found me but he did. Louise and I have told no one and everyone believes me to be Joshua Jenkins, Louise’s partner.’
But Jasper Kenton was skilled in tracing assets and people. Chas Foxton would have been easy to find. He was a public figure. Horton didn’t know about the rest of the band but he soon would.
Petterson took Louise’s hand and continued, ‘After the band split up I followed another passion of mine, painting. And I became successful, helped no doubt because I was already a very public figure. I had a name and that brought punters into the art gallery and sold my paintings. But it also pissed me off because I felt people were buying them because of who I was, not for what they were. I took to drinking in a big way. Then one night during an exhibition I lost it. The media loved that. There were pictures of me all over the newspapers, completely off my head, ripping up my paintings. I stopped painting, drank more, until one day I tried to end it all by throwing myself off the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol. I was talked down by a kindly fireman. After that I took myself off to the Priory Clinic. It took me five years to rebuild myself. I changed my name and rented a remote cottage in Wales in the Brecon Beacons where by chance I met up again with Louise. She was on holiday and her car had broken down. The mist was coming in. Her mobile phone wasn’t working, she had no idea where she was. I recognized her at once but hoped she didn’t recognize me – not because I didn’t want to see her; I did. But because I didn’t want to see Jasper, or anyone from those days, and I certainly didn’t want to be involved with any revival or some such crap.’
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