‘Maybe not, but not believing you and proving you are lying are two different things. Just keep calm, George, and everything will be fine.’
‘Will it?’ snapped George. ‘I don’t think so. This is murder. And the cops never let go when they’re investigating a murder. This DI Vogel, he wants to see me again, take a formal statement. I just don’t know what I’m going to say …’
He felt as if every nerve in his body was jangling. He’d been in a few scrapes in his life, lived near the edge, always taken chances, but George Grey had probably never really experienced true fear before. So, this is how it is, he thought. This is how it is to fear life almost more than death.
The voice was speaking again.
‘Look, how long are you being kept in hospital?’
‘I don’t know. Not long, I shouldn’t think.’
‘You’re all right, then?’
‘Oh yes, great! No, I’m OK. Just about. So they say. Hurts like fuck though.’
‘Well, as long as there’s no permanent damage. We need to meet, don’t we? Soon. But I can’t come to you.’
‘I’m in hospital.’
‘Not for long, you said so. We have to talk. I will look after you, you know, and that missus of yours. I said I would, didn’t I? Whatever happened, I would make sure you were looked after.’
‘Yeah well, it doesn’t feel like it right now. I’m in fucking agony and I’ve got the filth all over me.’
‘I can sort it. But we need to meet. And you need to keep out of the way of that DI Vogel until you feel more up to dealing with him. I will guide you, you know that.’
‘All right.’
George realised he had little choice. He was already in too deep.
‘OK,’ he continued. ‘Straightaway, after I’m discharged.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘I don’t know. Tomorrow probably. Or maybe the next day. They haven’t told me.’
‘We haven’t got time to waste. If you’re OK, why don’t you discharge yourself? Just get out of the hospital, and out of Somerset. We could meet today. I owe you, don’t I?’
‘In more ways than one,’ said George.
‘I was thinking of the practical way,’ said the voice. ‘You have completed a service. I owe you a substantial payment. And, yes, probably an explanation.’
‘Yeah, both.’
‘Both will be forthcoming. And a new plan. Just get on a train. Yes?’
‘Yeah. I suppose so. Are you still in the same place?’
‘I am. Let’s meet in the pub. You’ll need a drink by the time you get here.’
‘All right.’
‘But make sure you don’t leave a paper trail. And ditch your phone. Get yourself a pay-as-you-go.’
‘All right,’ said George again.
The call ended. George Grey leaned back on his pillows and closed his eyes, shutting out the world. Just for a few seconds. He was worried. Very worried indeed.
THREE
It was quiet in the pub. Monday lunchtime. Vogel decided not to make himself known at this stage, not to the landlady or any of the other customers. He preferred to observe.
The food was good, with a reasonable vegetarian selection. Vogel noticed that there were even vegan dishes on offer. He pondered momentarily on how times had changed. Vogel had become a vegetarian as a teenager after watching a TV documentary on abattoirs. In those days UK pubs and restaurants made scant concession to what was regarded as little more than an inconvenient dietary peculiarity. And his parents had dismissed Vogel’s vegetarianism as a phase. But Vogel never touched meat again. He didn’t do phases. Not even as a boy.
They’d just ordered; crab sandwiches for Saslow and grilled goat’s cheese salad for Vogel, when Vogel’s phone rang.
It was Micky Palmer with a progress report.
‘We’ve been looking into the Fairbrother family like you asked, boss, and Sir John may have been popular in the Blackdown area, but not with his own family, it seems,’ Micky began, at once backing up what Ted Dawson had said earlier. ‘He’s been estranged from his son, Freddie, for almost twenty years apparently. His daughter, Christabella, known to everyone as Bella, is a city high flier and used to be deputy chair of Fairbrother International, number two to her father. Always regarded as a chip off the old block. But a little over a year ago now there was some sort of blazing row between them. It’s a matter of record in the press, boss. Not a huge story, but it’s there. Nobody ever knew what the row was about. She simply quit, then she joined a rival bank. That went down like a ton of bricks, as you can imagine.’
‘She’s been told of her father’s death, I presume?’
‘Yep, the Met sent a couple of wooden tops round in the early hours, got to her just before news of the fire hit the media.’
‘Have we made contact with her yet? We’ll need to talk to her as soon as possible.’
‘Of course, boss,’ replied Palmer. ‘I’ll get Polly Jenkins on to it.’
Vogel grunted his approval. Polly Jenkins was one of the brightest young coppers he knew.
‘What about the Greys?’ he asked. ‘Got anything on them yet?’
‘Well, George Grey is a Londoner, proper East Ender apparently,’ replied Micky. ‘Not many of them about now, Hackney’s very nearly the new Mayfair—’
‘Get on with it, Micky,’ interrupted Vogel, who had already gleaned what Grey’s background was, just from meeting him the once.
Everybody knew that Micky Palmer was inclined to ramble. In Vogel’s opinion it was the man’s only fault. All the same, there was a great deal of work to be done in that brief golden period following a major crime.
‘Sorry boss,’ replied Palmer, who was well aware of how much Vogel respected him, and wasn’t in the slightest offended. ‘OK, he’s known to the Met. All pretty petty stuff though. Minor robbery, handling stolen goods, that sort of thing. There was a GBH charge too, brawl in a pub. He lost it and used a glass. Did time for that. Been inside more than once. But nothing serious, and nothing lately. Latterly he ran a market stall, probably dodgy, but no evidence of that.’
‘I see. Anything on Janice Grey? Has she got any sort of record?’
‘Not that I’ve discovered so far,’ said Micky. ‘But I suspect there’s something not right there. She and George were married eight years ago, and so far I can’t find out anything about Janice before that. Almost like she didn’t exist. I’m on to it, though, boss, big time.’
Vogel smiled as he ended the call. If there was anything of relevance, anything at all in Janice Grey’s past, his money was on Micky Palmer unearthing it. Meanwhile, the DI quickly filled Saslow in on what he had just learned.
‘It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?’ remarked Vogel. ‘Why would a man like Sir John Fairbrother hire a dubious character like George Grey and his wife to take over from an apparently thoroughly respectable couple whom he’d employed for years and – if Ted Dawson’s got it right, which he probably has – trusted to damn near run his Somerset life for him?’
The food arrived. Saslow began to eat at once. She was ravenous. Vogel sat back in his seat staring unseeingly at his goat’s cheese salad.
‘It’s unthinkable that Fairbrother didn’t know the sort of man he was hiring,’ the DI mused. ‘You would expect him to have had people who checked out anyone he might be considering taking into his employ, particularly people who are going to be as close to him as the Greys were, living on his property, presumably seeing him every day when he was at the manor.’
‘I thought that,’ said Saslow through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘No. And not the only mystery, either. There’s also the matter of George Grey’s possibly rather mysterious wife.’
‘Maybe, but if there’s anything about her we should know, Micky will find it, boss,’ said Saslow, echoing Vogel’s own thoughts.
She began to turn her full attention to her crab sandwiches, but had taken only a
few bites more when her phone rang. She listened for several seconds before holding the phone away from her mouth.
‘It’s Taunton nick,’ she said. ‘Boss, you’re not going to like this.’
‘Oh, get on with it, Saslow,’ said Vogel. ‘You’re as bad as Micky.’
‘Grey’s walked out of the hospital.’
‘He’s done what?’
‘He’s walked.’
‘I thought I asked for someone to be put on duty outside his room?’
‘Yes, boss. Taunton said they didn’t have anyone available. They were working on it. But they hadn’t yet got anyone over there. The cuts and all that.’
‘The cuts?’ queried Vogel, a note of bewilderment in his voice. ‘Haven’t they heard about prioritising? How often does Taunton nick have to deal with double death in a fire that’s almost certainly arson?’
Saslow shrugged. ‘What shall I say, boss?’ she asked.
‘Tell ’em as it’s too damned late now, they can go back to concentrating on litter and parking,’ growled Vogel.
Saslow tried not to smile.
‘Oh, never mind, ask them if they have any idea where he is. Could he just have gone home?’
Saslow spoke into her phone again.
‘They say not, boss,’ she said. ‘They’ve phoned his missus. He’s not there apparently and she’s not heard from him. Sounded genuinely surprised, they say.’
‘Right, tell ’em to put Grey on missing persons straight away. We need to find him fast. If anyone knows what’s been going on, it’s this feller. He could well be the arsonist, too, I reckon.’
Saslow did as she was bid.
By the time she ended the call, Vogel was on his feet and heading towards the door, abandoning the rest of his goat’s cheese salad without a backward glance.
‘C’mon, Dawn,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I think we need to pay Mrs Grey a visit sooner rather than later. Now her husband’s gone missing that changes everything.’
Saslow was only halfway through her crab sandwiches. She was still hungry. She quickly wrapped her napkin around the remaining half and took it with her as she followed Vogel to the car park.
FOUR
At first nobody answered the door at The Gatehouse.
Vogel knocked loudly three times.
‘She might be out, boss,’ said Saslow.
Vogel glanced upwards at the bedroom window which overlooked the front door. The curtains were drawn. But there was a little chink open in the middle. He noticed, as had Tom Withey when he and the other Wellington firefighters had arrived at Blackdown Manor in the early hours, that one of the curtains seemed to move slightly.
‘I don’t think so, Saslow,’ replied Vogel. ‘I think she’s watching us from upstairs.’
He opened the letterbox, bent forwards and shouted through it at the top of his voice. ‘Mrs Grey, I am DI David Vogel of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, and I need to speak to you urgently regarding your husband.’
Vogel stood back and waited. There was still no response from inside. He waited a minute or so, then stepped forwards again and once more shouted through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Grey, please open the door. I really have to speak to you.’
Again, there was no response. Again, Vogel waited for a minute or so.
Then he called through the letterbox for the third time. This time he meant business. ‘Mrs Grey, if you don’t open this door I shall obtain a warrant to enter and search your property. Then I shall return with uniformed officers, and, your husband having alleged there were armed intruders on the premises last night, possibly an armed response unit. If you do not open this door I shall be compelled to follow these procedures, not least out of concern for your safety.’
Vogel stepped back again. This time the door opened.
A small bird-like woman stood in the doorway. Vogel thought she was probably in her early forties, about the same age as her husband, but she looked older. Her hair was grey and unkempt. Vogel reflected obliquely on how unusual it had become for women to allow their hair to go naturally grey, even when they were in their seventies and eighties. His Mary was not a vain woman, nor in any way preoccupied with physical appearance, but she had immediately chosen to have her hair highlighted as soon as the first streaks of grey began to show in her natural light brown.
Janice Grey’s opening remark was not promising.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said, standing full square in the middle of the doorway, her body language making it quite clear she had no intention of inviting the two officers in. Vogel thought she looked as if she may have been crying. Which he supposed was not surprising. In spite of that, and her small stature, she was clearly no pushover.
‘I don’t know where my George is,’ Janice Grey continued. ‘I have no idea why he walked out of hospital or where he’s gone to. So, it’s no good asking me. I didn’t know nothing about it until this woman copper from Taunton phoned me. I told her that then, and now I am telling you.’
She made a move to shut the front door. Vogel stepped forward and thrust his foot in the doorjamb. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, and found he rather enjoyed it.
He pushed against the door forcing Janice Grey back into the hall.
‘We need to come in, Mrs Grey,’ said Vogel authoritatively, stepping forward as he spoke.
With an air of resignation, the woman made way for him and Saslow to enter, and led them into the sitting room. It was a predominantly pink room, and chintzy, the soft furnishings and the floral curtains distinctly cottagey in style. Vogel wondered whether the Greys had been responsible for the décor, or the Kivels. He somehow suspected the latter. Nonetheless the place remained well cared for. Everything was neat and tidy. The restful, homely atmosphere thus created at once seemed incongruous considering the recent events at Blackdown Manor; which included arson leading to two violent deaths, a possible invasion of armed intruders, and now the disappearance of the principal witness who was also the prime suspect.
‘Look, Mrs Grey,’ Vogel began. ‘What I would like to know from you first, before we move on to the events of the last twenty-four hours, is how you and your husband came to be in the employment of Sir John Fairbrother in the first place?’
The woman sat down abruptly on an upright chair by the fireplace. She did not ask Saslow and Vogel to sit. Saslow did so anyway, perching herself on the edge of the chintzy sofa. Vogel kept standing. If he had sat on any other of the available chairs in the room he would have found himself at a lower level than Janice Grey. And Vogel would never allow that. When he was working, and particularly when conducting something as serious as a murder inquiry, Vogel was always conscious of the necessity of preventing almost anyone he encountered from taking even the hint of psychological advantage – and of never inadvertently putting himself at a disadvantage.
‘George arranged everything, I don’t know nothing about it,’ Janice Grey replied.
‘Oh, come on, Mrs Grey, I don’t believe that,’ persisted Vogel. ‘You don’t seem to me to be the sort of woman who would meekly uproot herself and move halfways across the country on the say so of her husband. Or any man, come to that. You and George are Londoners, city people. Not likely candidates at all. Leaving aside any other considerations, how did you both get this job?’
‘We applied for it,’ said Mrs Grey abruptly.
‘I think I need a little more detail than that,’ said Vogel. ‘How did you apply for it? Did you go through an agency?’
‘No, my Georgie saw an ad in the paper.’
‘Which paper?’
‘I dunno. The Standard I expect. He always used to get the Standard, did my Georgie.’
‘So, why did he apply for this job?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Mrs Grey, I’ll say it again, you and your husband are Londoners, through and through. What made George apply for a job which involved looking after a country house, miles from anywhere?’
Janice Grey shrugged. ‘We b
oth wanted a change, didn’t we?’ she said.
Vogel assumed it was a rhetorical question.
‘And what on earth does your Georgie know about gardening?’ he continued.
Janice Grey shrugged again. ‘’E only has to mow the lawns, more or less. ’E ’as one of those bloody great mowers you sit on, don’t he? He likes that. Otherwise, he would just drive the boss about, not that he ever went out much, and do little jobs around the house when he could.’
She paused.
‘He’s quite handy about the house, my George you know,’ she said somewhat defensively.
I’ll bet he is, thought Vogel, particularly when it comes to breaking into them.
‘Mrs Grey, your husband has a criminal record,’ he continued. ‘Was Sir John aware of that?’
Janice Grey frowned. ‘Might ’ave known you’d get onto that,’ she muttered.
‘Well yes, Mrs Grey, obviously we are checking out everyone close to Sir John. Two people have died and now your husband appears to have gone missing. Doesn’t look very good, does it?’
‘Not to you, I don’t suppose,’ said the woman, still muttering.
‘I’m going to ask you again, Mrs Grey,’ said Vogel. ‘Was Sir John Fairbrother aware of your husband’s criminal record?’
‘I dunno,’ replied the woman, this time a tad belligerently. ‘I told you, my Georgie dealt with all that sort of stuff.’
‘All right, Mrs Grey, moving on to last night, when were you first aware that there was a fire at the manor?’
‘When Sophia called George. Woke us both up. He told me straight away, before he went over to try to help.’
‘And you just stayed here, in The Gatehouse, is that correct?’
‘Yes. Until the explosion. Frightened the life out of me, I can tell you. I went outside then, and what a terrible sight it was. That beautiful house, just a ball of fire. One of the fireman said I should get back in, so I did. And I stayed here until a policeman came and said my George had been injured and they were taking him to hospital.’
Wheel of Fire Page 5