bank statements, income tax returns, and used checkbooks, all bound casually with rubber bands.
Damien eventually joined his wife to eat breakfast. He asked how long the officers intended to be at the farm, as he was to leave later that morning to give a lecture. He was arrogant and dismissive; laughing when he saw them dismantle an old Hoover, saying it had never worked. He was only tetchy when they removed his computer, saying that he needed it for his work and that he wanted to know exactly why it was being taken. Honour tried to be equally dismissive, but didn’t like the way they were searching through all her homemade jams in the pantry.
Phil was in the bedroom, checking over the duvet and the bedclothes, beneath the bed, and behind the headboard under the mattress. He was not finding anything other than the dust that was making his eyes water. They checked every garment in the wardrobe, pocket flaps and trouser turnups. Honours clothes were not fashionable, but hippyish in style: long skirts, embroidered blouses and brightly colored waistcoats. Her husband’s suits were equally worn: tweedy, many with leather patches where they were threadbare. Riding jodhpurs, boots; nothing Phil looked at gave any hint that either was involved with their Mr. Big.
The officers searching outside were faring no better. The barns were filthy and falling down; in one, they discovered a small kiln with broken bits of pottery on an old bookshelf. The kiln didn’t appear to be in use. In the stable, the horse seemed about the only thing that wasn’t crumbling with age. The roof and the stable walls were in need of repair, as were the barns and outhouses. The henhouse had fifteen hens in dire need of a new building; the hut was about to collapse. There was a small ladder leading up to it and a lock to keep out the foxes, just as Honour had described to Anna. The loft of the farm was filled to capacity with junk: old iron bedsteads and chairs, paintings, broken umbrellas, buckets, old kitchen equipment, and, stacked against the walls, broken kitchen cabinets. They had to sift through every item, and they were all filthy.
Phil was very aware of the couple sitting in comfort at their big pine kitchen table. They chatted to each other, buttering their toast and
pouring cup after cup of wonderful-smelling fresh coffee. He couldn’t understand why they would want to live in this dump; apart from the kitchen, the whole house smelled of mildew. Damien had lit a fire, and he kept it blazing by throwing on logs. To Phil, the views and the stunning countryside surrounding the farm may have been picturesque, but the lane to the farm was a virtual bog; he reckoned that, in winter, they would be very isolated, and this isolation was abhorrent to him. The longer he searched, the more certain he became they were on the wrong track.
He walked into the library, a small room off the dank hallway, and sighed. It was filled with hundreds of books, some old and worn, others stacked in piles around the threadbare carpet like stalagmites. There were also stacks of newspapers—some brown with age, others quite recent. The thought of having to go through the room, leaving no book unturned, made him feel physically ill.Anna was also not turning up anything she felt was useful. It was frustrating, to say the least. One of the officers asked if they were to search the au pair’s bedroom. Anna hesitated, and said she’d like to look through the room. She didn’t really know why at first but, as soon as she entered the small clean bedroom, she knew what she was looking for. Recalling that the girl had said how fond of Frank she was, and had gestured to the wedding photographs, Anna hoped there might be one that Julia had not destroyed. She was disappointed; the room was devoid of anything connected to Julia or her family.Clean sweaters were stacked neady in her wardrobe alongside dresses, shoes, and coats. There were some letters from Mai Ling’s family, but in Chinese, so Anna put them aside. She opened a bedside drawer; there was a Bible and some beads, but nothing else. She sat on the bed, looking over the room, and then picked up Mai Ling’s handbag, which had been left on her bed. She found a wallet with a driving license, some receipts, and three five-pound notes. She then took out a mobile phone and skimmed through the few numbers—home, Julia’s mobile, dentist, doctor—and was about to replace it, when she clicked onto the icon for photographs.There were over fifty pictures: many of the two children, some of Mai Ling with her friends, and, lastly, wedding pictures. Anna scrolled through all the photographs: more of the children; one of Frank, cleaning Julia’s car; another of Julia; one of Mai Ling holding a bouquet and smiling; more were possibly from the wedding, but showed no bride or groom. One Anna looked at closely was rather blurred: a man, aged around fifty to sixty, with long gray hair in a ponytail, was partly hidden by a large willow tree, but was leaning toward the two children with an ice-cream cornet. It was an innocent, almost sweet photograph; Anna was unsure where it had been taken, possibly at the wedding?Anna scrolled on to the next: it was of the two children, one holding an ice cream. The man was standing beside them. All that was in shot were his jeans and his shoes. Anna stared at the photograph, trying to calculate how tall the man must have been; the eldest child didn’t even come up to his hips. The next picture was black, with a hand across the lens, as if someone had not wanted their photograph taken. Anna scrolled on to the end, finding more shots of the children, the Wimbledon house, and Mai Ling’s bedroom, but no other shots of the gray-haired man with the ponytail.
She went down the stairs and looked into the drawing room. Julia was sitting, facing the window; the two children sat by a coffee table eating their cereal. She asked for Mai Ling to join her in the kitchen.
Anna explained that she was not in any trouble: all she wanted was for her to say who was in the photographs. She eased the nervous girl into describing where and when the earlier photographs had been taken, lastly showing the tall man with the ponytail handing an ice cream to the children.
“Oh, that was taken long time ago. I never printed any of them.”
“Who is he?”
“Mrs. Brandon’s partner.”
“This is Anthony Collingwood?”
“I did not know him; I did not speak with him.”
“But he is handing one of the children an ice cream.”
“Yes, he gave it to her, but I did not speak with him.”
“Thank you. I will need to retain your phone, but it will be returned to you.”
“Thank you.”
Anna then asked the dates of the photographs featuring the man with the ponytail. None were recorded on the phone. Mai Ling thought that they had been taken before they had moved to Wimbledon.
“That would be, what, about eight or nine months ago?”
“Yes.”
“And this man just came up to the children and offered them an ice cream? Didn’t that seem odd?”
“No, Mrs. Brandon was with him.”
“Ah, thank you. Again, you have been most helpful.”
“He did not like me to take a picture; he told me not to do so.”
“And you are sure this man has never been to this house?”
“Not when I have been here.”
There was the sound of loud voices in the hallway. Simon Fagan had arrived, and was being very abusive to the officer at the front door. “What the hell is going on? I cannot believe, after what I have discussed with you—”
Anna excused Mai Ling and walked back into the hall. “Mr. Fagan, as I mentioned to you before, we are investigating the murder of Mrs. Brandon’s husband—”
“I am aware of that, for Christ’s sake, but why all this? What on earth are you looking for?”
“Evidence. If you wish to see the warrant?”
“I don’t, but I am going to make a formal complaint. You have persistently harassed Mrs. Brandon without, as far as I can ascertain, a shred of evidence that implicates her in the unfortunate and tragic events surrounding her husband’s death.” He was so pompous, and his voice so loud, that everyone could hear.
Anna asked him to join her in the kitchen to continue their conversation. Fagan refused to sit, but paced around the room. She quietly informed him that her inquiry not only focused
on Brandon’s death, but on three others they believed to be connected.
“What? And you think my client has something to do with them?”
“Please sit down, Mr. Fagan.”
He leaned against the table and glared at Anna. “My client has requested the release of her husband’s body numerous times; this has been refused. She wishes to bury him, and try to forget this horrendous situation. Now, please, what exactly are you suggesting? What other deaths are you trying to implicate my client in, because I am losing my patience?”
“I suggest you try to hold on to it! Or perhaps it is Mrs. Brandon you wish to hold on to? It appears to me that you are being overly protective—”
Anna was interrupted as he banged down a chair. “How dare you! How bloody dare you make insinuations that I have anything but a professional relationship with my client?”
“Please sit down.”
Fagan still refused. Eventually Anna stood up and showed him the photograph on Mai Ling’s mobile. “Do you know this man?”
Fagan huffed and snorted, leaning forward; he glanced at the picture then shook his head. “No, I do not.”
Anna said that she would present him and his client with a list of items they would be removing from the house. If he wished, he could join Mrs. Brandon in the drawing room but, until her officers were satisfied, the family would remain in there. Fagan stormed out, his face red with anger. Anna knew she should not have implied that he had more than a lawyer/client relationship with Julia.Phil could feel the grainy dust clinging to his hands. He had been working through the so-called library for hours, and found nothing. He was sure his allergies would kick in; he had already started sneezing. Having cleared the bookcases, he started sifting through the old newspapers. Caught between two copies of the Sunday Times was a torn scrap of paper. It listed times of a flight arriving at Heathrow Airport. It gave a flight number from Miami, British Airways; no date, just arrival time, written as if in haste, with a felt-tipped pen. It was the scrawled writing that interested him: the number seven had a European line midway across it.Phil was certain the writing matched the note found in the Mitsubishi giving directions to the farmhouse. He looked over to a stack of exam papers on a low coffee table. There was a memo on top, the writing very similar. A thin spidery scrawl; Phil presumed it had to be Damien Nolan who had written it. The memo, dated eighteen months ago, had coffee-cup stains over it. Phil removed the page and added it to the note referring to the Heathrow flight times, placing them both in a plastic evidence bag.Anna joined the officers upstairs, still dusting for prints and checking for anything that would give them a clue as to whether or not Alexander Fitzpatrick had ever been present, as she was beginning to doubt that he had. They had run a check on Julia’s previous home; it had changed hands twice even in this short period, and was in the process of being converted into flats, so it was doubtful that, if Fitzpatrick had hidden there, at this late stage they would find anything.As Anna made her way down the stairs, she paused, as she could hear raised voices. Julia Brandon was angrily asking Mai Ling about her phone and what photographs she had retained on it. Anna could not hear her reply, but as she got closer to the drawing room, she thought the girl was crying “You have no idea what you have done!”
“Now, now, Julia—calm down.“That was Fagan.
“Calm down? This stupid girl! After I have gone to so much trouble, this idiot could have jeopardized everything. She has no idea what lengths I have gone to, to protect us!”
“Why don’t you tell me why you are so upset?” Fagan continued, asking in a low quiet voice if there was anything he should know.
“I just want these police out of here. I have to bury Frank. You said you were going to arrange it, and now this! I have to have his death certificate, Simon.”
“If it’s the life insurance you are worried about, that will automatically be paid to you,” Fagan said.
“You don’t understand!”
“I am trying, Julia, but sometimes I really start to believe that you
have not told me everything. I mean, who is this man that’s making you get so hysterical?”
“You don’t understand,“Julia repeated.
By this time, Anna was directly outside the door. It was not the argumentative Julia, but the fear in her voice that alerted Anna. It felt like a good opportunity to walk in.
“Mrs. Brandon,” she said, “could I please speak with you in private?”
“I have nothing to say. I just want to be left alone.”
“If you wish for Mr. Fagan to be with you, that is your choice, but I do need to speak to you.”
Julia was twisting a tissue around and around in her hands. She suddenly seemed to deflate, slumping forward in her chair, as if exhausted. Her two children were becoming upset, and went to her side; she clasped the girls to her.
Anna suggested that Mai Ling take the children into the kitchen. Julia remained in the chair, ripping at the tissue, her hands shaking.
“Do you recognize this man?” Anna asked, showing the photograph.
Julia nodded, and then sniffed, tossing her head back. “Yes.”
“Could you please give me his name?”
“His name is Anthony Collingwood. He was my partner. You’ve asked me about him, and I have told you all I know.”
“We have been unable to trace him,” Anna said, sitting down opposite.
“Well, that’s not my problem, is it?“Julia said churlishly.
“What is your problem, Mrs. Brandon?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, you seem very upset and angry that we have obtained this photograph. Can you tell me why?”
Julia closed her eyes. Simon Fagan leaned forward. “Julia, do you want to talk to me in private?” he asked.
“No. Just go away and leave me alone! You haven’t been any help to me at all.”
Fagan was nonplussed; he looked to Anna and back to Julia. “Should I stay? Julia, do you want me to stay?”
“I don’t fucking care anymore!” She started to sob uncontrollably,
hunching forward in her seat, her arms wrapped around herself. Fagan hesitated, and then walked out.
Anna closed the door behind him. She went to the woman’s side and sat on the arm of her chair. “What is it, Julia?”
“I’m so scared. I think he will kill me, kill the children because I won’t let him have it, and now it’s such a mess.”
“Who will kill you?”
“Anthony.”
“Why would he want to hurt you and the children?”
“Money,” she wept.
Bit by bit, between long pauses and bouts of crying, Julia started to explain the complicated transactions she had done to protect her wealth.
Anna took notes as the jigsaw began to take shape. The more Julia talked, the more relieved she appeared to become, as if, by at last admitting the truth, she would be safe. She was scared that Collingwood would threaten her or take the children; she had already handed him the four million, but he was not satisfied. At no point did she admit that Collingwood and Fitzpatrick were one and the same; she continued to deny ever knowing anyone called Alexander Fitzpatrick.
Phil and his team were still searching the farmhouse and outbuildings, but were coming up empty-handed. They would not know for some time if the computer they had taken would give them any evidence or connection to Fitzpatrick. Honour had sat in the kitchen for hours, but Damien had insisted he go to college for his lecture. Phil had let him leave.
Every time Phil had passed Honour, she had asked the same thing: “What are you looking for?” He said only that they were searching for evidence connected to a murder inquiry. She had proffered tea and coffee to the officers, and then asked if she could do some baking.
Phil was seriously doubting that Fitzpatrick had ever hidden out at the farm. If he had, there was not as yet any incriminating evidence. They had evidence that the Mitsubishi had been driven into the farm’s courtya
rd, but were still merely surmising that Julius D’Anton had
inadvertently come across Fitzpatrick at the farm, drove the Mitsubishi back to London, and then was murdered.
Phil headed up the stairs to join the three officers who were searching over the couple’s bedroom and small box room. They gave Phil the thumbs-down. He checked his watch; they had been there nine hours, and all he had to show for it was two scraps of paper.
He turned to walk out, then paused, looking up. “You done the loft?” There was a pull rope attached to an old brass hook, very high up. He stood on tiptoe to release it and jerked it hard. The trapdoor to the loft opened and a ladder unfolded, but then got stuck; he had to reach up and pull it down the last few feet. It didn’t look as if anyone had used it for years, but he nevertheless climbed up slowly, step-by-step. He crawled into the loft on his hands and knees, stopped, and asked for assistance.
The far side of the loft had a camp bed, blankets, and pillows. There was an overpowering musty smell, the dust was thick, with cobwebs trailing from every corner. But the area where the camp bed was situated was clean. There were fingerprints in the dust and, beside the camp bed, a jug with a glass, shaving equipment, and a wash bag. When he gingerly eased back the sheet, there were some bloodstains. “I think we might have just got lucky,” Phil said quietly.The incident room was buzzing. The search of Julia Brandon’s home was over; the search at Honey Farm was still active, and would be continued the following day. Cunningham gathered everyone together for an update. By now, it was half-six in the evening.
Anna was first up, to disclose her findings from the Wimbledon property. There was a murmur of disappointment when she said that, after an extensive search, they had found no evidence that proved Alexander Fitzpatrick was ever there—but she was certain that, using the name Anthony Collingwood, Fitzpatrick had been a very big feature in Julia Brandon’s life.
She then opened her notebook and gave a look around at the expectant faces. “This is quite complicated but, I think, a major step in sorting out the Frank Brandon connection.”
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