Deadly Intent

by Lynda La Plante

  “Minra.” Cunningham paced around the room. “She was shocked when we told her Frank was dead, but she’s no grieving widow. If she was doing something with the ex’s money, then that could create a threat, and could be the reason why Frank worked for her.”

  “I agree, but it doesn’t link to the drug squat or to Donny Petrozzo, as far as I can see.”

  “Well, let’s see what her sister turns up for you this afternoon.” Cunningham opened the door again. “You getting anything for us on the Petrozzo diary?”

  “I think he had some code for his dealing: little black dots and a square with a dot in it. What it means, I haven’t the slightest idea, but the dots coincide with the people I interviewed who scored from Donny. Also, he had substantial savings in a deposit account—as did Frank—so somebody was paying them; maybe Donny for drugs and Frank for—”

  “Protection?”

  “Could be.”

  Cunningham sighed. No way was she prepared to pull the surveillance off the house in Wimbledon. “This is a fucking nightmare case; it’s like an octopus with all these tentacles flailing around one central dead man.”

  Anna wondered if she should mention what she had been told by Pete Jenkins, but thought it better to keep her mouth shut, as he had said it was not confirmed. Maybe the center of the octopus was not Frank Brandon, but Donny Petrozzo.

  CHAPTER 9

  Anna, once more accompanied by Gordon, drove her own car to Oxfordshire. They had a good clear run on the motorway with little traffic, and even less conversation. Gordon had tried to discuss the case, but Anna didn’t want to get into it, partly because the drive reminded her of all the times she had driven to Oxford to the Met’s rehabilitation home. This was to visit DCI Langton, after he had been in such an horrific knife attack he had almost died. His recovery had been long and he had been a nightmare patient. Like everyone else, she had doubted that he would ever return to work. She wondered if he was still suffering and how he was coping; then got cross with herself for caring. At that point, Gordon tapped on her arm to say she was hitting over ninety miles an hour. She slowed down. “Sorry.”

  “I love Oxford,” Gordon enthused. “There are some beautiful villages, especially the ones outside. You drive through the main town, past all the colleges, and then about twenty miles on is a fantastic restaurant.”

  “Really,” she said flatly.

  “I also love going to Stratford. When I was a kid, my father took me regularly every season. The best production I ever saw was Richard the Third, with Anthony Sher; he was brilliant! He had these walking sticks and this hump on his back, and he moved like a spider.”

  “Really.”

  “Do you know that the swans around the Avon are constantly found wounded and tortured?” “No.”

  “I always think it’s strange. You have all that classic theater, all that beauty—and obviously the Shakespearean history—yet someone attacks these innocent creatures.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind you, they can be quite vicious. I never go near them. The way they can run at you, with their wings flapping and their feet paddling— they can take a slice out of you.”

  “Is this the turnoff” for Honington?”

  “Sorry? No, it’s the next one on our right, I think.”

  She continued driving. While she had been a student at Oxford she had never had the luxury of a car, and had rarely if ever left the city center. She had been a very diligent and dedicated student, and her weekends were spent with her parents in London. Her father had been so proud of her and had never ceased to praise and congratulate her on gaining a place at the prestigious university. In reality, she had often been quite lonely. Many of her fellow students were far more affluent and she was not the type of girl who enjoyed drinking in one of the many wine bars and pubs the undergraduates frequented. In fact, she had disliked the drunken antics they got up to and couldn’t even recall ever mentioning that her father was a police officer.

  “Nice village, isn’t it?” Gordon said, and Anna was jolted back into concentrating on the route.

  The village was straight from a picture postcard. There were white picket fences and velvet lawns, with tubs of flowers dotted around. Anna felt it was a trifle manicured, but nevertheless very lovely.

  “I doubt they ever allow any dog-walkers around here; there’s not a turd in sight,” Gordon commented. “Even the pub looks as if Emily Bronte is about to emerge and wait for her carriage.”

  “This isn’t right,” Anna said. She did a tour of the village and then saw a small sign leading to Lower Honington. They followed the road until they came to another sign that directed them toward a narrow lane, which soon turned into a dirt track. They passed a cottage draped in ivy, with a garden in flower, lattice windows and trailing roses over the door. Beside the cottage, set back, was a large garage, with its own small drive and gate.

  “Go and see if we’re heading in the right direction,” Anna said to Gordon. As she waited for him to return, she checked the map and the address: Honey Farm, Honington, was all they had written down. The map didn’t even show the dirt track. Anna looked impatiently up the garden path to see Gordon having a conversation with an elderly woman who was gesturing with her arms, pointing to farther along the track.

  Gordon returned and slammed the car door so hard she winced.

  “Okay, we’re not far. We continue down this road for about a mile, then take the right fork and it should be on our left, past a wood: it’s an old farmhouse.”

  They drove slowly up the track, reached the fork, and continued as instructed, passing a wooded area and a copse of high brambles. Eventually, the road became flatter and less bumpy.

  Honey Farm had a double-barred gate, which had been left open. Part of it was rotted away. They came through it into a very narrow drive with ditches on either side.

  “Wouldn’t like to do this with a few beers inside me,” Gordon said, winding down his window. They passed a dilapidated barn and two greenhouses that hardly had a pane of glass left intact, and parked outside the farmhouse, a long, low building with small-lattice bishop’s miter windows. It was covered in thick ivy that crept up over the tiled roof and seemed to be taking over the entire building. There was a huge tub of flowers by the front door, which was round at the side: an old stable door split in two.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home,” Gordon said.

  “Should be; I called ahead to the university.”

  There was an old iron bell ring. Anna pulled it but the bell was missing. She called out, “Hello!” and waited. She then rapped on the top half of the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice came from behind, and made them both turn in surprise. A young man in jeans and a filthy T-shirt was standing by the barn.

  “I’m looking for Honour Nolan,” Anna said.

  “She’s round the back, in the henhouse.”

  Anna smiled and was about to ask who he was, when he turned and walked away down a small path at the side of the house. It led to a big kitchen garden, overgrown but evidently still productive. There was a rickety henhouse, on stilts, with a ladder up to the small gate at the top.

  Emerging from the back of the henhouse, carrying a large straw basket, was a striking-looking woman. Her dark hair was worn in two big braids down to her waist and she was wearing a long print cotton dress and open-toed sandals. “Hi there, won’t be a minute,” she called.

  They watched her climb the steps and lock the henhouse gate, then come down. “We have to keep our eyes open; the foxes still manage to get in, even up the ladder.” She walked toward them with a wide smile. “I’m Honour Nolan.”

  Anna introduced herself and Gordon. Up close, she could see the likeness to Julia Brandon: the two sisters had the same tall, willowy figures, but Honour was totally natural, with obviously very different coloring. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll make some tea.” She walked ahead of them and pushed through the half-open door, gesturing fo
r them to follow her inside.

  The big, old-fashioned kitchen had two massive threadbare sofas, with throws over them. There were a number of moth-eaten kilims scattered over the York stone floor. Painted cupboards of sky blue and green, with glass fronts and a mishmash of crockery, surrounded the pine kitchen table, piled high with books and newspapers. There was a large open-brick fireplace with last night’s logs left charred in the grate. It was a big warm family room, with heat coming from the bright red Aga. Herbs were drying on strings above it, and there were bowls of wildflowers and fruit everywhere. Honour brewed up a pot of tea and placed homemade scones onto a rack to put into the oven to warm. Anna had to sit forward on the sofa; it was so deep her feet lifted off the ground if she sat back. Gordon was sitting in an old pine chair at the table.

  “Damien said it was about Julia, the reason you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to ask you a few questions. I suppose you know why?”

  “Something to do with her husband?”

  “Yes. He was murdered.”

  “Jesus, she didn’t tell me that! When?”

  “Six days ago.”

  “Oh God, that’s awful. I mean, I didn’t know him—in fact, I never met him—but nevertheless … She must be feeling dreadful.”

  “She hasn’t called you?”

  “No. There’s no point in hiding the fact that we don’t get along. It’s not that we don’t love each other—of course we do—it’s just that we have very different opinions about the quality of life.” Her laugh was soft and gentle. “That sounded so crass. I’m sorry, but you must have met my sister, so you can obviously see for yourself that we live very different lives.”

  As she talked, Honour removed the warmed scones, saying that they only needed a few moments; the Aga was hot because she was baking bread. She buttered them and set them out on a big oval plate. She moved like a dancer around her kitchen, fetching jam, milk, and sugar, and setting out cups and saucers on the table, as she cleared the newspapers away.

  Her arms full, she gestured to Anna. “My husband! These are last Sunday’s; it takes him an entire week to wade through them all. Still, they make jolly good fire-lighters.”

  “This is really very kind of you,” Anna said.

  “Well, you’ve had a long drive; I just hope it’s not a wasted journey. That said, I can’t for the life of me think how I can help you, as I haven’t seen Julia for months.”

  “Did you go to her wedding?”

  “No. She didn’t invite me.”

  “And you never met her husband?”

  “No. As I said, we don’t get along—or, more to the point, we don’t mix in the same social circles.”

  “He was also her driver and bodyguard.”

  Honour shrugged and took a scone for herself, passing the plate to Gordon so he could take another.

  “What about Julia’s ex-husband—or partner, rather? She said they never married.

  “Honour bit into the scone, leaving a small trace of jam on her upper lip. She licked her finger to remove it. Anna noticed that her hands, unlike her sister’s, had not been near a manicurist.

  They were rather rawboned, with square-cut nails, and looked as if she needed some hand lotion on them.” I don’t think she did ever get him to put a ring on her finger; he was not the type.”

  “So you met him?”

  “I didn’t say that. Its just that I know she cared about him a lot—or, let’s say she liked the lifestyle he introduced her to. He was apparently very wealthy.”

  “Did he leave her?”

  “I think so. 1 know she said he was a lot older, but I didn’t meet him either, so I couldn’t really tell how much older. She was always jet-setting around—Barbados one minute. South of France the next. I think he had homes in Florida and Los Angeles. To be honest, I couldn’t really keep up with her postcards, not that she ever sent very many.”

  “How long was she with him?”

  “I don’t know exactly … maybe ten years? She was very young when she met him.”

  “Where did she meet him?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. As I said, we were, and are, very different creatures. 1 couldn’t stand to live in London, she couldn’t be a country girl—well, not for more than ten minutes. She hated it.”

  “So she came here?”

  “Yes, once or twice, but she was no sooner here than she wanted to leave.”

  “Do you own this property?”

  “No, we rent it. I’d like to own it but we don’t have the money. It may look rundown, but there’s a lot of land and it would cost a few-million.”

  “Your sister certainly has the finances to help you.”

  Honour reached for the teapot. “Well, maybe she does, but I would never ask her for any. I am married; my husband provides for me.”

  “You have any children?”

  She stirred her tea and then shook her head. “No. Sadly we don’t.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I’m sorry, whose name?”

  “Your sister’s ex-partner.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe my husband can remember.”

  “Did your husband meet him?”

  “No, but he has a better memory than I have. More tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Gordon was about to pass his cup across for seconds, but dropped his hand back onto the table as Anna stood up and took her teacup over to the sink.

  “Oh please, leave them. I do have a dishwasher!”

  “It’s a wonderful spot, hard to find.”

  “Yes, we don’t get many ramblers, thank God.”

  “In fact, if you didn’t know the farm was here, you’d never find it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you work?”

  “No, it takes all my time looking after the animals. I like to paint. I used to run a small antique shop in Oxford, but it was mostly junk. Unlike my sister, I have never felt the need to be materialistic.”

  Anna opened her briefcase and took out the photograph of the Mitsubishi. “Have you ever seen this jeep before?”

  Honour glanced at the photograph and shrugged. “No. We don’t have many visitors, especially ones driving that kind of vehicle—it’s hideous.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Donny Petrozzo?”

  “No.”

  “Alexander Fitzpatrick?” Anna stared at the beautiful, wide eyes.

  There was not a flicker of recognition. “No.”

  “Anthony Collingwood?”

  “No.”

  Lastly, Anna showed Frank Brandon’s photograph. “This was your sisters husband.”

  “Really? Well, as I said, I never met him.”

  Anna replaced the photographs, as Honour looked to Gordon. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Not really.”

  Honour gave a friendly laugh, then fetched a tray and began to clear away the tea things. It felt as if the interview was over, but Anna wasn’t through yet. She slipped a note to Gordon as she passed him.” Could you show me around?” she asked politely.‘Td love to see the rest of the house.”

  Honour gave a rather tight smile. “Why not? There’s not a lot to see, but please …”

  Anna followed her out into the hallway, full of Wellington boots and umbrellas, old folding chairs, and some browned prints on the shabby flocked wallpaper.

  “We keep meaning to do something out here, but we never get around to it.” Honour opened a door to a large, rather musty-smelling lounge. “We don’t even use this room much; it faces north and doesn’t get much sun.”

  Honour led Anna up the small staircase. There was a large master bedroom, with books lining the walls, but the furnishings were modern. especially the king-size bed. The other room was a small single bedroom, taken over with canvases and an easel and Honour’s painting equipment. Anna thought it was not difficult to see why her sister didn’t come to stay.

  “Th
is is where I work. I have a small kiln in one of the outhouses, as I’m trying my hand at pottery.”

  “It’s so peaceful,” Anna said, looking out from the lattice windows. She was taken by surprise as Honour moved close to her.

  “What is it you want? I mean, I really don’t understand why you are here.”

  “Just part of the inquiry into your sister’s husband’s murder; we often have to make what appear to be unconnected interviews.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you had to come such a long way.”

  “It was quite a relief to get out of the station,” Anna said as she followed Honour back toward the stairs.

  As they entered the kitchen, Gordon was sitting on the sofa.

  “What time do you expect your husband home?” asked Anna.

  “That depends. If he has lectures, he’s often quite late, as he stays in Oxford for dinner with his cronies.”

  “Is he lecturing today?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Could you call him and ask?” Honour hesitated and then shrugged. She walked back out into the hallway. Anna looked at Gordon and then sat beside him.

  “There’s a room off the side of the kitchen: an office, or what looks like it—they’ve got computers and mobile phones in there, and

  …” Anna wondered why Honour had gone into the hall and not used the room Gordon was referring to. “Any photographs?”

  “No.” This was strange—there were no photographs anywhere in the house. They remained silent as they heard Honour saying,

  “Thank you,” to someone, then she walked back into the kitchen.

  “He’s not in his office; he left about an hour ago.” “So is he on his way home?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does he have a mobile you can call?” “No, he hates them.”

  Anna stood up and looked at her watch: it was after five. She smiled and thanked Honour, and walked toward the back door. “You have a lot of barns and outhouses.” “Yes. Some we use, others are rented out to farmers who leave their tractors here occasionally. Do you want to walk around? Only it’s a bit muddy underfoot.” They heard a car pulling up. Honour said it sounded as if her husband was home. Professor Damien Nolan was a tall man, at least six foot, dressed in a tweed suit, with a checked shirt and a thick knitted tie. As he walked in, he dumped a bulging briefcase on the floor. He was a handsome man, with dark hair flecked gray at the temples and sideburns. He was tanned and looked fit, almost athletic.