The House Sitter

by Peter Lovesey

  He took a long look up and down the street. There were parked cars in plenty, but not one appeared to be occupied. Taking Georgina’s key from his pocket, he unlocked her front door and pushed it open.

  Then he returned to the car and opened the rear door.

  “OK. Go.”

  Anna emerged with head bowed, like someone in custody going into court, and hurried across the pavement and inside.

  Diamond allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  Then she came straight out again, just as quickly, and got back into the car.

  “For Christ’s sake!” he said.

  “There’s a big white cat in there,” she said from the back seat. “I can’t stand cats.”

  “Flaming hell! I’m trying to save you from a serial killer!”

  “I’m not going in there.”

  “Get your head down. I’ll deal with it.”

  He marched into Georgina’s house and spotted Sultan reposing in a circular bed made of padded fabric. The cat heard him and fixed its blue eyes on him, ears pricked. Diamond scooped up the bed with the cat inside and carried it through the house to the patio door. “Does she put you outside sometimes?” he said aloud. “Calls of nature? I expect so.” He opened the door and set cat and bed on the paving.

  Anna was persuaded into the house with extreme reluctance.

  “What is it about you and cats-an allergy?” he asked.

  “A phobia,” she said, her arms protectively across her chest. “You’ll have to find me some other place.”

  A quick solution. His own house? No, she’d never agree to stay there. Another hotel? Too obvious. There was only one option. He said, “I’ll take the cat home with me.” The change of plan wouldn’t please Georgina one bit if she found out, but it would have to suffice.

  Anna still looked twitchy. “Are you sure there isn’t another one?”

  “Another cat? No. There’s only Sultan. I’m going to fetch your cases now. Why don’t you go through to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a coffee?”

  She said, “Sod coffee. I need a tequila. Where’s the cocktail cabinet?”

  Leaving her to go exploring, he spent the next minutes struggling with the luggage. The cases all had to go upstairs.

  He was short of breath when he finished. In the living room he grabbed the Scotch she’d poured him.

  “Whose gaff is this?” Anna asked in a calmer voice. She’d settled into one of Georgina’s armchairs, her legs dangling over one of the arms.

  “One of my female colleagues.”

  “Her taste in music sucks. Have you seen the CDs? It’s all Gilbert and Sullivan and Verdi.”

  It would be. He remembered Georgina telling him she sang in the Bath Camerata. “It’s a comfortable house,” he said, taking the chair opposite her.

  “And I’m stuck in it,” Anna said. “I was told if I came to Bath I’d be free to do those high-tone shops and restaurants. Now I discover this frigging killer is out there. How did he suss that I was in the hotel?”

  “Not from me,” Diamond stated firmly. “You’re famous. Were you recognised when you registered?”

  “Who knows? There were people around in the lobby. No one took a picture or asked for my autograph, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t spot me.”

  “That’s probably what happened, then.”

  “And you think the killer got wise to it? How?”

  “He’s a very smart operator. He knew Matthew Porter was in a safe house and he found a way of getting inside and abducting him.”

  She shuddered. “He wouldn’t know I’ve moved here… would he?”

  He shook his head and tried to think of words that would reassure. His usually brusque manner wasn’t going to work here. He could empathise with Anna’s fears. He was starting to feel quite fatherly towards her. Under her glib exterior was a frightened young girl. “Only you and I know where you are at this minute. You’ll be safe if you don’t go out.”

  With a touch of spirit he admired, she said wistfully, “No shopping today? I’ll call AmEx, tell them to relax.”

  “Some other time.”

  “Pete,” she said, “you’re not the fascist pig I first took you for. You’re doing a fine job.”

  “And you can help me find him.”

  “How?” she asked. “I don’t know the jerk.”

  “Correction. You don’t know who he is.”

  “Come again.”

  “But you may know him,” he pointed out. “There’s got to be a reason why he targeted you.”

  She said, “There are freaks out there who hate anyone who makes it big in the music industry.”

  “The others weren’t musicians.”

  “They were celebs like me.”

  “Did you ever meet Axel Summers?”

  “No.”

  “Matthew Porter?”

  She swirled her drink in the glass and took a long swig. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “Not too good, the last I heard.” He glanced across the room. Anna had her back to the patio window, which was fortunate, because she couldn’t see Sultan standing, front paws pressed to the glass, asking to be let in. “Do you do any singing at all these days?”

  “No, I called time on that. I don’t need to work any more.”

  “You’re still a name everyone knows. Do you get asked to do charity work?”

  “All the time. I cut the appearances right down after Wally, my husband, died. Financially I still have a big stake in British Metal and I wanted to contribute in the best way I could.”

  “British Metal, you said?” He was on high alert now. He’d heard of British Metal in another context.

  “Wally’s empire, one of the top ten in the country. You knew that, didn’t you? So I invented this role for myself, chairing a committee that looks at the public profile of the company. I know one hell of a lot about PR from my own career.”

  “You don’t get involved in the technical side?”

  “Jesus, no. You work to your strengths. All my experience is in the music business.”

  “Heavy metal, not British Metal.”

  She managed to laugh. “Yah. I leave the nuts and bolts stuff to the experts, the people Wally trusted.”

  “So as well as deciding which good causes to support…?”

  “We sponsor events. And celebs, if they’re big enough. The aim is to give us a higher profile in the media.”

  “You make the decisions?”

  “As chair of my committee, yes, it’s my gig, basically. It was my idea to do this properly. When Wally was alive he dealt with it all himself when things came up. He was a sweetie and clever with it, but between you and me, Pete, it was anyone’s guess who got lucky. He’d give thousands of pounds away without asking what the firm got back in publicity. A lot of it went on bursaries and sponsoring research that had nothing to do with British Metal. When I came in, I made sure the money was used for projects that put our name before the public.”

  He was deeply intrigued, his brain racing. “What sort?”

  “Don’t ask me about the nitty-gritty. My committee does all the hard work. I just use my eyes. I see the racing on TV and I’m not looking at the gee-gees. I’m checking the product placement. I go back to my committee and say I want to see British Metal in large letters along the finishing straight, and they see to it. I watch a new film on TV and I look out for the little commercial the sponsor gets in every break just before the show begins again. ”

  “So you moved into film sponsorship?” Diamond could scarcely contain his excitement at hearing things that promised at last to steer him to the origin of the mystery. “You put a large amount of finance into the film about The Ancient Mariner that Axel Summers was making.”

  “Did we? You’ve got me there,” she said, shaking her head. “We put money into loads of film projects.”

  “It’s a fact. British Metal had a big stake,” he told her. He was sure she wasn’t being obstructive. She genuin
ely didn’t know.

  “If you say so. Until the films are made, I wouldn’t remember the titles or the directors. My committee could tell you. Janet is my movie and TV lady. She looks at the proposals and does the costing. If we had dealings with Mr Summers, Janet will have spoken to him.”

  “You see the point, don’t you? This is important, Anna.”

  She raised the finely plucked eyebrows and said, “I don’t see what difference it makes, frankly. There’s still a killer out there.”

  “Yes-but you’re going to lead me to him. Here’s another question for you: do British Metal sponsor golf?”

  “I guess,” she said vaguely. “We do endorsements of sports people now. I encourage it. You only have to look at the logos a tennis player wears on his shirt. The sponsors win no matter who lifts the silverware.”

  “Golf,” he said, trying not to get exasperated. “I’m asking about golf.”

  “Christ’s sake, Pete, do I look like the sort of gal who gets off on watching some fat Spaniard poke a small ball into a tin cup? My sports person on the committee is Adrian,” she said. “He clocks the players. We only endorse the best. Ade is an anorak, the sort of guy you’d cross the street to avoid, but ace at picking future champions.”

  “If he picks the best, it’s likely he picked Matt Porter.”

  “You see?” Anna said. “I have no idea.”

  “But you could check with Adrian?”

  “Any time.”

  “Now.”

  She still couldn’t see the relevance of all this. Diamond couldn’t entirely either, except that it would be more than a slight coincidence if Porter, too, had been sponsored by British Metal.

  He picked up the cordless phone from the table in the corner and handed it to Anna. She pressed out the number.

  “Don’t tell him where you are,” Diamond warned. “Just ask him if Porter was endorsed by British Metal.”

  She got through. It soon became obvious from her end of the conversation that his guess was right.

  Diamond prompted her, “Ask him if it was a major sponsorship.”

  It was: the largest amount they’d invested in any sports star.

  “Has it been reported in the press?”

  It had, widely.

  The reason Diamond hadn’t seen it was that he only ever looked at the rugby reports.

  “Cheers, Ade,” Anna said. After she’d handed back the phone, she said to Diamond, “There you go. We sponsored the two guys who were killed. Is that a help to you?”

  “Enormous help.”

  “But nobody sponsors me. Why am I on the hit list?”

  He had no easy answer to that. He could concoct theories, and he would, but not for her to get alarmed about. The next step had to be an intensive process of deduction, the kind of mental exercise profilers took credit for, and detectives did as a matter of routine. Would Emma Tysoe, given these new facts, have seen immediately to the heart of the mystery? He doubted it. There was more to be unearthed. This, at least, was progress.

  “Did your late husband have enemies?” he asked.

  “Wally?” She shook her head. “He was the sweetest guy in the world. Everyone loved him.”

  “Rich men are envied.”

  “Maybe.” She sounded dubious.

  “He had the power to hire and fire.”

  “That’s business for you,” she said. “Anyone who was laid off was given a fair settlement, and, take it from me, lay-offs were exceptional. Even when times were hard he’d bust a gut to keep people in work.”

  “Did he lay off any in the year before he died?” Diamond persisted. The theory of the ex-employee seeking vengeance on the company was worth exploring.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Manufacturing industry is in decline. Even after the recession ended, unemployment continued.”

  “Now you’re losing me,” she said. “I don’t remember lay-offs.”

  “OK, let’s talk about something else. How did you two meet?”

  She sighed and stretched her legs out. “That’s the question everyone asks. I always feel like saying something romantic-like he came to one of my gigs and sat in the front row and fell in love with me. What really happened is we both went for the same taxi one wet night in Dean Street, Manchester. I told him the cab was mine and slagged him off. Called him a waste of space and a bullyboy. He thought it was a great laugh. We ended up sharing the cab and telling each other old people jokes. Before getting out he gave me his card and said he’d like to take me to dinner.”

  “When did you marry?”

  “Six months after. His fourth marriage, my second.”

  “He had family?”

  “No children. A sister and three ex-wives, all getting handouts. Like I say, Wally wasn’t mean to anyone.”

  “After he died, did the payments continue?”

  “Still do. It was written into the will. Those wives are on the gravy train as long as they live.” She suddenly became attentive. “What’s that noise?”

  He listened. A rustling and scraping. For a moment, he thought the Mariner was breaking in somewhere. He got up from his chair, looked across the room and then breathed more easily.

  “It’s only the cat scratching on the patio door.”

  She was not greatly reassured. “You will get rid of him?”

  “I’ll take him with me when I go.” Getting rid of Sultan might be a step too far. “You mentioned your husband’s will.”

  “Yah. Over a hundred million. The tax was unreal.”

  “To your knowledge, was anyone upset by the will?”

  “Only the pressboys. They gave me a predictable roasting. ‘His bride of six years, the former pop singer Anna Walpurgis, comes into a cool eighty-five million pounds. Not bad for a performer with maximum hype and minimal talent.’ Stuff like that can hurt. There was plenty like it.”

  “You could afford to ignore them.”

  “Sure, but I do have talent. I made it to the top before I met Wally.”

  “No question,” Diamond said. “I’m pig-ignorant about the pop scene, but I’ve heard you sing. You got there on merit.”

  “Thanks.”

  He chose his next words with care, not wanting to frighten her even more. “The sad fact is that some people believe everything they read in the papers. The person behind all this could be someone who resents the power you wield through that committee. They’ve hit at two of the people you invested big money in, and now they’re threatening you. I want you to cast your mind back and tell me if you received any kind of protest or complaint or threat about the decisions you made.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t bother with that shit. I still get a sackful of fan mail I have to deal with. That’s enough to be going on with.”

  “So what happens if someone writes to you at British Metal?”

  “About things we decide? Someone else deals with it. We have a publicity officer. She bins it, I hope.”

  “I’ll need to speak to her. It would speed things up if you made the call now, and put me through to her.”

  “Be my guest.” She reached for the phone.

  “You make it.”

  He was right to insist. A call from Ms Walpurgis was given top priority at British Metal. No listening to canned music. She was put through to the publicity officer, a Mrs Poole.

  Diamond was put on.

  Yes, Mrs Poole told him, there was a small file of letters of complaint. Every business had to deal with them. Each one was answered, and in most cases the matter ended there. A few complainers prolonged the correspondence.

  “Do you get any about sponsorships?” he asked. “In particular the money given to Axel Summers, the film man, or the golfer, Matthew Porter?”

  “I’ll check, but I can’t say I remember anything so specific,” Mrs Poole said. “Each time a sponsorship is announced, it triggers some letters from people who feel they have a more worthy cause needing money. Some of the letters are heart-rending-when it’s a
bout someone needing medical attention, for example. I try to direct them to a charity who may be in a position to help.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’m thinking of the sort of letter that carries bitterness with it, openly or between the lines. It’s written by someone so angry that he’ll carry out acts of violence.”

  “I’m sure I’d notice a letter like that, and I’m glad to say I’ve never seen one.”

  “You’ll double-check for me?”

  She sounded efficient and her memory was probably reliable. He didn’t expect to hear any more. Another theory withered and died.

  He told Anna he would arrange for someone to bring in lunch and keep her company during the afternoon.

  “Do you have to go?” she said, flicking the blond hair and then pushing a hand through it. “I was just getting to know you, and, like I told you, I still dig older men.”

  He saw the funny side. “I promised to deal with a pissed-off Persian cat. I wonder if there’s a box somewhere in this house I can put him into.”

  Keith Halliwell was the fall guy this time. He arrived with Anna’s order for lunch, a Marks and Spencer salad, an apple and some mineral water. “Doesn’t look like a lunch to me, guv,” he confided to Diamond when they met at the door.

  “This is what beautiful blondes are made of, Keith.”

  “What’s in the box?” Halliwell asked, eyeing the large carton Diamond was about to carry to his car.

  “Top secret, I’m afraid.”

  With fine timing, Sultan gave an aggrieved mew from the interior.

  Diamond sighed. “OK. Don’t mention this to anyone else. Georgina’s cat is coming home with me.”

  “Are you fond of him, guv?”

  “Not particularly. We hardly know each other. Anna will tell you about it. You’ve got plenty of time to talk. How many men do you have as a back-up?”

  “Three. They’re across the street in the unmarked Sierra.”

  “That’s not enough. I’ll have more sent up. For God’s sake be alert, Keith. The Mariner is in Bath already. He won’t wait long.”

  There was a problem still to be faced, and the problem was Raffles, his own cat, the official resident at the house in Weston. Raffles was not pure-bred like Sultan. He was a common tabby, frisky and combative. He’d never seen anything like Sultan. How Raffles would react to having this fluffy, blue-eyed lodger in his home was a cause of concern to Peter Diamond. It was essential that Sultan retained every tuft of his snow-white fur, and kept his two perfect ears intact and his pure-bred Persian face unscarred.