Freddie paused. He smiled confidently at Martins and Travis.
It seemed crazy, thought Martins, but he almost looked as if he were milking the moment. Martins remembered then, Freddie had been a budding actor when he’d gone off the rails all those years ago.
‘And as you will see, my father left his shares in Fairbrother International, and indeed the whole of his estate, to be divided between my sister and me,’ Freddie continued. ‘With the news of my sister’s untimely death, which I am sure has already reached you, I am the sole beneficiary. In addition, it was my father’s wish, that subject to the approval of the board, my sister should take over as chair and CEO of Fairbrother’s International, because of her boardroom experience, with myself, the sole surviving male Fairbrother, as her deputy. So, again, following my sister’s death, I feel it incumbent on me to step forward and offer myself to the board to take over that role.’
Martins was amazed. Freddie Fairbrother might not be an entirely useless erstwhile hippy after all. But, in any case, it really didn’t matter whether he was or not.
He and Travis exchanged glances. Could this be the way out they had been seeking? It was not possible, surely, that Freddie Fairbrother would be capable of effectively running a major international company under any circumstances, let alone that he could have the expertise to steer the Fairbrother ship through extremely troubled waters.
However, did they care?
There surely could not be a better scapegoat, in a situation which was becoming increasingly more precarious, than Sir John Fairbrother’s only son.
At first, as he marched across the marbled lobby floor of Fairbrother Fort, Freddie felt curiously elated. It would seem that he had pulled it off. Well, so far anyway. Certainly Martins and Travis appeared to have accepted everything he’d said at face value. Ultimately, they had merely told him that they would study the will and the other papers and get back to him.
But that was a result, wasn’t it?
He’d been asked to perform a certain task, which could be instrumental in saving Fairbrother’s, and it would seem that he had been successful.
It was only when he stepped outside that he realised he had absolutely no idea what to do next. And if his bid to take over as chair and CEO of Fairbrother’s was successful, then he would be even more lost. How could he even begin to imagine that he could run the company? It was one thing being told that he was only ever going to be a puppet, but Freddie would need his strings pulled twenty-four-seven.
He thought he would walk for a bit to clear his head.
Freddie hadn’t noticed Ali Patel hovering in the lobby and approach reception as he left the building. Nor did he notice the cab which was keeping behind him by virtue of a kind of stop-start manoeuvre in and out of the line of traffic.
However, neither did Parker, driving that cab, notice the broadly-built middle-aged man who was attempting to keep both the cab and Freddie Fairbrother in his eyeline.
After a while Freddie used his new pay-as-you-go phone to call the only number on it. He needed help. Fast.
The number rang, but there was no reply. And no message service. He tried again. Same result. Another two attempts also failed, as he had, by then, expected.
Freddie’s hands were trembling again, and the back of his neck felt clammy again. It seemed crazy that only a few minutes earlier he had been on something of a high.
What did this mean? Had he been abandoned? But that would surely serve no purpose. Surely he had been right to consider himself indispensable now. He must try to think. Which wasn’t something he was good at. But he knew he must keep calm and attempt to sort himself out, even if only temporarily. There was, of course, an argument for just giving up and going to the police. As his sister had told him that morning, was it really only that morning, his connection with all that had happened was fleeting. It was likely nothing could be proven against him, and possible that even Bella’s death hadn’t changed that.
For once in his life Freddie felt he had to make a decision. But, perhaps, not straightaway. He looked around him. There was a pub just across the road. What he needed, before he did anything, was a drink, he decided. And that was a decision he had often made before.
He ordered himself a pint of Fosters, his beer of choice, and a whisky chaser.
Outside in the street Parker pulled the surveillance cab to a halt, ignoring the hoots of impatient motorists. He contemplated abandoning the vehicle and following Fairbrother into the pub. But he was pretty sure there was no other entrance to the boozer, and considered he would be better off waiting for Freddie to emerge, ready to follow him to his next port of call. In any case, hopefully Ali Patel would not be too long making his inquiries at Fairbrother Fort, and he could go inside the pub.
The broad-shouldered man attempting solo surveillance faced no such dilemma. He knew exactly what he was going to do, and quickly, whilst Parker was still contemplating his next move, he marched straight into the pub and approached Freddie Fairbrother.
‘Evening, Freddie,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Freddie Fairbrother’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. It may have been a long time, but he recognised the other man at once. After all, he’d been a major part of his childhood.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been sent to look after you.’
‘But … but, why would … I mean, they told me you’d been sacked …’ Freddie paused as a shocking revelation occurred to him. ‘You haven’t been sacked, have you?’ he said. ‘You’ve been doing his dirty work all the time. Did you kn—’
Jack Kivel put a firm hand on Freddie’s right arm and squeezed with hard sinewy fingers.
‘No, don’t say it,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t say anything we both might regret.’
Freddie stopped talking.
‘I’m going to take you to him,’ he said. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
Freddie was no longer sure it was at all what he wanted. He was beginning to wish with all his heart that he hadn’t made that phone call in the morning, and that he’d boarded the first possible flight back to Australia, as he had told his sister he would. He’d treated his visit to Fairbrother Fort as a performance, and had almost enjoyed it. He knew he had shown talent as an actor once, long ago. Possibly the only talent he’d ever had for anything. Reality was now beginning to hit with a vengeance. His sister had been murdered. More than likely by the man standing before him, a man he thought he had once known well, but whom he clearly had never known at all. Again he wondered if he might also be in danger. He couldn’t be, though, could he? He was indispensable now, after all, wasn’t he? He just had to do what he was told. That was where Bella had gone wrong.
‘Of course,’ said Freddie.
‘Right,’ replied Jack Kivel. ‘Now, I don’t suppose for one moment you’ve noticed, but you are being followed.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Freddie.
‘So, before we go anywhere, we have to shake off your tail. Can you run?’ Kivel eyed Freddie up and down. ‘You look pretty fit considering your track record.’
Kivel grinned, as if trying to make himself appear likeable. It didn’t work.
‘I can run,’ said Freddie nervously.
‘Good. Now, there’s a cab outside that’s been tracking you, there’s a second man, too, but he was still in Fairbrother House when you came out. I’m hoping he hasn’t caught up yet—’
‘Hang on, I don’t understand why I have to run,’ interrupted Freddie. ‘Half an hour ago I was putting myself up to chair the board.’
‘Yes, and that will happen. We need things to settle a bit, one or two things need to be arranged first, and we can’t risk being followed to where I’m taking you now, can we? Look, I’ll cause a diversion, get in the cab’s way. You turn right out of the boozer, and walk normally for the first block or so, then leg it as fast as you can. St Paul’s is about three quarters of a mile away. Tuck yourself
in a doorway or something. I’ll get in a taxi and come and pick you up. Just make absolutely sure you see it’s me before you get in, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘But first, give me your phone.’
Freddie did so.
Kivel slipped it down the side of the seat of his chair.
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Freddie.
‘You are being followed, Freddie, and it would seem almost certain that you were picked up at your hotel at Heathrow,’ Jack Kivel explained patiently. ‘Therefore, there would have been people on your tail when you bought your new phone. These are top cops, for certain. Professionals. Ten to a penny they have your new number, and they’ve already pinged it. Your trail will end here.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Freddie for the second time.
He then found himself watching in amazement as Kivel reached for Freddie’s virtually untouched whisky, took a quick mouthful, and tipped the rest casually down his chin and over the front of his jacket.
‘I will leave first, be right behind me, then take off, fast as you can, yes?’ commanded Kivel, as if nothing untoward had happened.
‘Yes,’ said Freddie.
DC Parker, at the wheel of his surveillance cab, had his eyes fixed on the pub door when it swung open. Out rolled a drunk, who staggered across the pavement and into the road directly in front of the cab. In almost the same instance Parker saw Freddie Fairbrother leave the pub and walk briskly west.
Parker started his engine and prepared to move forwards in gentle pursuit. But the drunk was blocking the way. Parker blew his horn. No response. He wound down the driver’s window and stuck his head out.
‘Get out of the fucking way,’ he yelled.
The drunk was either beyond understanding or didn’t care. He certainly didn’t move. Instead he stared at Parker in a puzzled sort of way, and asked, ‘Are you for hire, my good man?’
‘Move before I fucking make you!’ yelled Parker.
Light seemed to dawn. The drunk took a step back towards the pavement, then fell over. Unless he was prepared to drive over the man, Parker’s cab was going nowhere.
Instead he climbed out and ran to try to help the drunk to his feet, or just drag him out of the way, if that proved to be all that was possible. A cloud of whisky fumes hit him in the face. The drunk seemed comatose. Like a dead weight. And he was not a small man. Parker could not move him. Not easily anyway.
Parker was almost never indecisive, but he really wasn’t sure what course of action he should take. Maybe he should just abandon his cab and try to catch up with Fairbrother on foot. He looked along the pavement. He could no longer see Freddie. But it was after dark, although the street was well lit, and there were pedestrians blocking his view. He decided to take off at a run, and weaved his way along the pavement for 100 yards or so. There was still no sign of Freddie Fairbrother. He gave up, and ran back to his cab. The drunk had gone. Disappeared.
‘Shit,’ muttered Joe Parker to himself. ‘I think I’ve just been had.’
TWENTY-FIVE
From the moment of Vogel’s road to Damascus moment concerning Jack Kivel, it took just over two and a half hours for Saslow and Vogel to reach the Kivels’ Wrangway cottage. The heavy rain which had hindered their progress along the M4, from the moment they joined the motorway heading out of London, followed them all the way west, but on the M5 the traffic was relatively light.
It was not a pleasant journey, Vogel had been impatient and unusually anxious, and his mood was not improved by receiving a phone call from Nobby Clarke in which she confessed that MIT had lost Freddie Fairbrother. He chose not to share with her his suspicions about Jack Kivel, preferring to wait until he had at least some evidence to back up what was little more than a hunch. He knew only too well what Clarke thought about hunches. And it remained possible that he and Saslow were about to learn that Jack had not been anywhere that day. Let alone popped up to London to commit a murder.
The two officers hurried from their vehicle and stood outside the front door of Moorview Cottage, huddling beneath the inadequate porch in a bid to find shelter, whilst waiting for an answer to their knock. Vogel noticed the Kivel Land Rover was parked outside, but that didn’t necessarily mean Jack was at home, he could be using another form of transport.
‘Who is it?’ called Martha, after what seemed a very long time, from behind the closed, and almost certainly locked, door.
‘Police,’ called back Vogel. ‘DI Vogel and DC Saslow. Sorry to arrive unannounced. Just something we need to check with you and your husband, Mrs Kivel.’
The door was promptly unlocked. Martha Kivel stood silhouetted in a dimly lit hall, the bright lights of the kitchen, which the Kivels’ clearly used as their main living area, behind her.
‘Jack’s not here,’ said Martha. ‘I never answer the door after dark if he’s away. Not without checking who’s there, first.’
‘Uh yes, quite right, Mrs Kivel,’ began Vogel. ‘I wonder, could we just …?’
Martha Kivel stepped back out of the doorway. ‘You must come in, of course,’ she said. ‘Come on in, the pair of ’ee. Get out of this terrible weather we’m having. Come into the kitchen where ’tis warm.’
Vogel and Saslow did so gratefully. Martha proved to be as hospitable as ever, offering tea and, once again, home-made sponge cake before even asking what the two officers wanted.
‘You said your husband isn’t here, Mrs Kivel?’ queried Vogel.
‘No. E’s away with some of ’is army buddies. They meet up every so often and relive old times, drink more than’s good for ’em, too, I shouldn’t wonder. But I don’t begrudge my Jack. He’s worked hard all ’is life, and he’s a good man.’
Vogel and Saslow involuntarily exchanged glances.
‘I’m sure he is,’ commented Vogel levelly. ‘Might I ask when he left, Mrs Kivel, and when you are expecting him back?’
‘Oh, he went this morning. He got a call from one of his mates. Short notice, but a couple of them had met by chance, somewhere up London way, wanted him to join them, if he could. I drove him to the railway station, and off he went. He won’t be back til tomorrow. They’ll make a night of it, that’s for certain. He asked me if I minded, like, and I said course I didn’t, you go and enjoy yourself.’
Martha Kivel stopped abruptly, her expression suddenly concerned. ‘Why are you asking?’ she enquired somewhat nervously. ‘Has something happened? Has something happened to my Jack—’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Vogel interrupted.
‘Is Jack in some sort of trouble?’ Martha Kivel persisted.
Vogel didn’t answer that question directly.
‘I’m sure everything’s fine, Mrs Kivel,’ he said obliquely. ‘We’d just like to talk to Jack, that’s all. I don’t suppose you know the names of any of the chaps he was meeting?’
Mrs Kivel shook her head. ‘Well no, just ’is army mates, I don’t know them, you see …’
She looked puzzled now.
‘Do you know exactly where they were meeting up?’ asked Saslow.
Mrs Kivel shook her head again.
‘Did Jack tell you where he would be staying overnight?’
‘Well no, a B &B, I expect. That’s what they usually do. I mean, I can always get ’old of ’im if I want to, can’t I? I only have to ring his mobile …’
She paused. Her face brightening. ‘Why don’t I do that? Then you can speak to him straightaway. Now …’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Where did I put my phone? It’s got to be yer somewhere …’
‘No, don’t do that, Mrs Kivel,’ said Vogel quickly. Too quickly, he suspected. He immediately sought to soften his words. He wanted to see what more information he could glean from Martha Kivel before her husband was alerted.
‘I mean, it can wait. We’ll pop back and see him tomorrow. No need to ruin his night out by interrupting him now.’
‘Oh, all right then, if that suits you …’
‘It suits me very wel
l,’ said Vogel. ‘Perhaps you’d give me his mobile number before we go, though, Mrs Kivel. I don’t think we took it the last time we were here. I might call him in the morning to make an appointment.’
He took a mouthful of sponge cake. ‘Even better than last time, Mrs Kivel,’ he gushed. ‘You must give me the recipe for my wife.’
‘Oh, I’ll write it out for you, Mr Vogel,’ said Martha, beaming. ‘I’d be delighted to. Handed down to me from my grandmother, it was.’
‘Well, it’s delicious,’ commented Vogel, trying not to think about what Mary might say to him if he brought her home a cake recipe.
‘I didn’t know Jack had been in the army, Mrs Kivel,’ he added, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘Oh yes, he went in as a boy. The Parachute Regiment. Sir John was already in. Jack followed him, really. The Kivels have worked for the Fairbrothers for generations. And Sir John and Jack was kids together, you see. Just like our kids and his two. They saw some action too. Northern Ireland, The Falklands. Goodness knows how long they’d have stayed in, but then Sir John’s father died suddenly. And that was that. Sir John had to take over the bank. That’s what Fairbrother men do. Jack followed him out like he’d followed him in, and Sir John employed him straightaway, up the manor. Course, men bond through all that sort of thing, don’t ’em?’
‘Yes, I believe they do,’ agreed Vogel.
‘That was what was so terrible, you see,’ Martha Kivel continued. ‘They was that close. My Jack worshipped Sir John. And then he dumped us, Jack and me, just like that, without a word of explanation. Jack’s never said much, he doesn’t, but I don’t reckon he’ll ever get over it, not ever.’
‘I see,’ said Vogel.
‘So what do you know about their army careers?’ he continued, trying to sound conversational.
‘Oh that’s men’s stuff, isn’t it?’ replied Martha Kivel. ‘That’s what my Jack always says. He did tell me Sir John saved his life, and he owed him everything. He said that when the old bugger chucked us out. Still wouldn’t hear a word against him.’
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