Quick off the Mark

by Moody, Susan

  I inspected another headed copy invoice. Sir Nigel Inglebright of Boston, Lincs. Rang the number given at the top. ‘I’m calling on behalf of Tristan Huber Associates,’ I said. ‘Just checking that all’s going well with the restorations.’

  ‘Are you indeed? At this time of night?’ The tone was dry. ‘Shows an admirable sense of responsibility, I must say. Especially considering that the work was completed, what, two, going on three years ago?’

  Too late I copped the date. But at least Sir Nigel had sounded like a genuine customer. And he was right: it was late to be calling, if I was pretending to represent Huber Associates. I’d have to wait until the morning to telephone anyone else.

  Before I could cut the call, he added, ‘Since I read in the papers that poor Mr Huber has been murdered, what is it you really want?’

  ‘As I said, I’m from Huber Associates’ follow-up department.’

  ‘Pull the other one. Is it the Modiglianis you’re after? Because let me tell you they’re massively burglar-alarmed, and far too well known to be easily flogged, if you were to get your hands on one. Perhaps you’re aware that one went for dozens of millions just the other day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch a Modigliani,’ I said, icy as an Arctic winter. ‘Not even if you were giving them away.’ I jabbed viciously at the switch-off button.

  Moments later, my phone rang. ‘So if you’re not from Hubers, where are you from?’ Sir Nigel, for it was he, lowered his voice. ‘The Modiglianis are m’wife’s choice, not mine. Sounds as though you share my opinion of ’em. If I had my way, I would give them away.’

  ‘That’s nice to know. My name’s Quick, Alexandra Quick, and I’m perfectly respect—’

  ‘Are you talking anthologies? Helena Drummond, poor woman?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I have all your collections. Lovely stuff, a great reminder of galleries visited over the years. So what’s next?’

  I told him.

  ‘You’re a former copper aren’t you? Is that why you’re ringing re Tristan Huber?’

  I agreed that it was.

  ‘Interesting. If I, or we, can be of any assistance …’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.’ I liked the sound of Sir Nigel Inglebright.

  I logged on to my computer and found a search engine. Looked up a couple of things. It was too late to do much more: further investigation would have to wait for the morning. Meanwhile, I delved into my picture files. I wanted something bucolic: a wedding scene, The Marriage at Cana. Something like that. Something cheerful.

  My doorbell rang as I was about to pack up and head for bed. I spoke into the speakerphone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sam here.’

  ‘How nice.’ I felt myself light up like a smile.

  ‘I’ve got a bottle of Edward’s finest and something to show you.’

  I was delighted to have his company. Soothing, undemanding, he was the perfect friend. ‘Come on up.’ I took two of my very best glasses out of the cupboard, and filled a small bowl with unsalted cashew nuts, another with small cubes of the most expensive cheddar cheese from our local delicatessen. Edward’s wine deserved to be treated with respect. So no harsh olives, no over-flavoured and artificially-seasoned nibbles.

  We drank slowly, nodding our appreciation. Then Sam took a couple of books from the leather messenger bag I’d given him the previous Christmas and opened one, found a page, turned it so I could see. ‘Isn’t this just perfect for your new anthology?’ he said.

  I looked at the beruffed figures seated round a laden table, the smug expressions on their faces, the politely concealed greed with which they waited to get stuck into their plentiful meal of fish, fowl and flesh, plus a dish of cherries. Under the reproduction was its date and title: Dutch School, Patrician Family At The Table ca 1610.

  ‘Absolutely perfect, Sam,’ I said. ‘That’s definitely going in. Thank you so much.’ I leaned forward to kiss him.

  He groaned deep in his throat and pulled me towards him. ‘Alex,’ he said.

  We stared into each other’s eyes. No, I thought. This must not happen. And it so easily could. I broke away.

  Sam cleared his throat. He opened a second book. ‘Here’s another one, totally opposite. I thought it just might fit in to your concept.’ He found a page and again showed it to me. A naïve painting this time, crudely executed, of people arriving to eat at a table scattered with individual pieces of food set directly on to the tablecloth: melon slices, cooked fowl, bread, while other guests held whole fish. It was in sharp contrast to the fastidiously painted detail of the Dutch one. Bego Greeting His Guests by the primitivist Georgian painter, Pirosmani.

  ‘This is terrific, Sam,’ I said. I wished my heart would stop beating quite so fast.

  ‘How’s the detection work going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not really detecting,’ I said. ‘That’s up to the police. But of course I did know Tristan quite well, so perhaps I have a slightly different way of looking at his death. Besides, his sister more or less insisted that I did some delving as well.’

  ‘Motives?’

  ‘Haven’t come up with anything definite yet. But there are various possibilities. Look, Sam, this is strictly confidential, but the poor man was castrated. Does that say anything to you?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘How horrible. But doesn’t that lead more or less directly to a sexual motive?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So shouldn’t you be looking for a jealous husband, or an outraged lover or something?’ He poured a small amount more wine into our glasses. We didn’t want to finish it too quickly. ‘I didn’t know him at all, though I’d seen him at Chamber of Commerce dinners and the like. Very good-looking. Woman flinging themselves at him left, right and centre, I shouldn’t wonder. Men too, perhaps, though I never saw any evidence. Whichever, someone must have taken grave offense.’

  ‘Someone who was very possessive, or who felt his or her dignity or position had been attacked.’

  ‘One of his clients, perhaps?’

  ‘Or someone trying to point us towards hanky-panky as a motive in order to red herring us away from looking at the truth.’

  ‘Or,’ said Sam, ‘some sadist, or madman, or both, who had it in for Tristan.’

  ‘Here’s a funny thing. Not all the contacts he did work for were clients, in the normal sense of the word. Or rather, they were, but not in his capacity as an interior designer.’ I explained about Maurice Colby, a villain if ever I had come across one.

  ‘Interesting. So what do you think he was up to? Apart from possible extra-curricular bedroom activities?’

  ‘Could be anything.’ I outlined the possible scenarios I’d already come up with, then shook my head. ‘Drugs, theft, money laundering, you name it. But I can’t see Tristan involved in that sort of criminal enterprise.’

  ‘Which leads us straight back to jealous husbands, and cherchezing la femme.’

  ‘If that’s what’s behind this, how would we ever find out? He was off in Dubai, Singapore, Hong Kong … no way I’d ever be able to suss out every hawk-eyed Prince of the Desert or his multiple wives.’

  ‘Maybe I could go for you.’ He sounded wistfully eager. ‘Pretend to be a concerned employee of Huber Associates wanting to know how the renovations or redecorations were getting on. Or had got on.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’ I was doubtful. ‘Anyway, I would think it far more likely that the woman in question – supposing there is one – would be in England. He couldn’t go haring off to points east every time he got a hard on.’ Remembering Piper, Lady Paramore, I was suddenly thoughtful. On my visit to Rollins Park, it had seemed more than possible that Tristan and she had been having it off. If so, what would that do to Piers?

  ‘Though when you think about,’ Sam said, ‘why should the Not Impossible She even be a client?’

  ‘Good question.’ Tristan got around, had a full social life – in the past, I’d even accompanied him on so
me of it. It was just as likely to be someone he’d known for a while, or met at a dinner party or a Hunt Ball or something equally posh.

  ‘Yes, hello, I’m calling behalf of Huber Associates, to ascertain whether you’re satisfied with the work we did for you at the end of last year.’ I’d carefully sorted more recent Huber Associates invoices out of the pile I had on my desk.

  ‘Very much so, they did an excellent job for us and I’ve recommended you to all my friends.’ The answering voice was, like the previous four calls I’d made that morning, very much from an upper-class upper-income bracket.

  ‘I’m so glad. I’ll be sure to pass that on to Mr Huber.’

  ‘But …’ the voice said. ‘He’s … he’s dead. Are you an agency he employs or something? Surely you knew that.’

  ‘Of course, I did,’ I said quickly. ‘I meant the company, of course, not him personally. As you can imagine, there’s a great deal of winding up to be done.’

  ‘We’re all devastated by the news. My husband and I have known Tristan for absolute yonks, he was such a … Do you know what exactly happened?’

  Same reaction as the other calls. ‘We’ve been advised by the police not to discuss details of the case,’ I said primly. I’ve learned over the years that primness gets you through awkward situations better than most other stances.

  ‘Of course, yes, I completely understand. Poor, poor Tristan … but then of course he always did court danger, as they say.’

  ‘Court danger?’

  ‘Oh, you know. If there was some particularly tricky assignment to be done, Tristan was always first in the queue.’

  Assignment? It had an official ring to it. This was a new slant on a man I’d considered a close friend for years. ‘What kind of tricky assignment are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said again. ‘A job in some danger spot, the kind the Foreign Office warns people not to visit. Tristan was always on the next plane out. When I say job,’ she added hastily, ‘I mean an interior design thing, obviously.’

  ‘Well, anyway … thank you for your help.’ Mutual goodbyes. I rang off.

  I’d been speaking to a Mrs Yvonne Landis. I looked down at her address. Strathmore House, Alcombe, near Maidstone.

  My next assignment would have to be to find out who or what she was. Or, possibly, had been.

  ELEVEN

  I woke at three in the morning, dripping with sweat, my hands clutching the bed covers as though they were the only things which could save me from instant destruction. I’d been dreaming of Tristan being hacked to death, seeing over and over the blood and the wounds, the flies and the smashed limbs.

  Staring into the darkness, I found myself yet again wondering at the ferocity of the attack. What kind of rage could induce a person to inflict such injury on another human being? Money due, love betrayed, vengeance owed? None of these seemed to justify such an attack. There was war, of course. Extraordinary rendition. Coercive grilling. Enhanced interrogation techniques … the Bush administration’s weasel words for what was plain and simple torture. Bastards.

  And, mind now fluttering like a moth, I wondered too exactly where such an execution would take place. There’d have been a stomach-churning mess to clear up, and uninterrupted time needed. And again, to transport a body in that state any distance without leaving traces would be a problem. Plastic sheeting, bin bags, cleaning materials would be needed. Plus water, in order to clean the chest and display the word carved into it. CHEAT. And, however psychotic, surely the killer wouldn’t be able to conduct his grisly business in total silence. There’d be screams, moans, voices. Ergo, he’d need somewhere isolated – or possibly soundproofed.

  My heart had begun to slow down but it revved up again as I considered the hundreds of places which some pervert could modify for his purposes. It was a line of enquiry I would have to follow up. I eventually fell back into an uneasy sleep.

  When I awoke, a sprinkle of desiccated leaves was dancing past my windows. Always a melancholy moment, marking as it did the signs of fast approaching autumn, even though the sky was a cloudless blue and sunshine glittered across the sea.

  ‘It’s me again, Fliss,’ I said. I had my phone in my hand.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Yvonne Landis … ever heard of her?’

  ‘Landis? Landis? A bell somewhere is ringing very, very faintly,’ Fliss said. ‘Can’t remember in what context, though.’

  ‘I’ve Googled her but got nowhere. If you get on better, let me know.’

  Who was Yvonne Landis and what bearing could her newly-revealed (new to me, at least) information about Tristan’s penchant for recklessness have on his violent and cruel death? My imagination was already throwing out suggestions about her: witness protection programme, a celebrity seeking anonymity, an officer who served in the Army alongside Tristan. So where did that leave the notion that Tristan had been murdered for shagging someone else’s wife? Unless she was the wife in question. So who was Mr Landis and was he an avenue worth exploring?

  I made some notes for myself:

  Visit the Paramores again and while there, check out the painted cupola or pagoda or whatever the hell they called it, see if there were any clues there.

  Check out Todd DuBois aka Jerry Baskin.

  Go visit the Major again. I had a feeling that without realizing it he knew more than he was telling.

  Later, I pushed my work to one side, did a couple of Fiendish level Sudokus (and made a complete balls-up of them) by way of relaxation, and walked down to the High Street. As I’d hoped, I ran into the Major on his way to the saloon bar of the Fox and Hounds.

  ‘Alex, my dear,’ he said. ‘Have you got time to join me? I’m about to indulge in a half-pint or two.’

  ‘No alcohol for me this early in the day,’ I said. ‘But coffee would be good.’

  ‘Glad we met up,’ he said. ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you about.’ We sat down at the last of the empty little tables with our drinks. He pulled at his beer. ‘Remember that feller we met the other day – Brad Something, from Mississippi or somewhere similar?’

  ‘Todd? How could I forget?’

  ‘Well, I had a somewhat strange experience yesterday.’

  I had a feeling I knew what he was going to tell me. ‘Really?’

  ‘Went over to Canterbury, wanted to buy a new sweater, you see, can’t find that sort of thing here for love or money.’ He stared at the pub’s ancient wainscoating as though he had never seen it before, and murmured, ‘Doesn’t really bear thinking about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I popped into one of the hotels for a small restorative—’

  ‘As one does.’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway, I could hardly believe my eyes, there was that Brad chappie, large as life, sitting there, dressed to the nines, chatting up some woman old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Except the nines he was dressed to were sort of a caricature of the English gentleman. Striped shirt with white collar – always says something about a man, in my opinion, and none of it good – tweed jacket, Old Harrovian tie, if you please, cavalry twill trousers. He didn’t notice me so I was earwigging away, as you can imagine.’

  ‘What was he selling this time?’ Outside the lead-paned windows, people passed up and down the street, normal life carrying on as it always does.

  ‘Property, far as I could tell. Some castle he owned up north, but now that his dear mother, the Dowager, had passed into Higher Service – his phrase, not mine – he’s having to sell up. Big sigh, says it’s always been his favourite of the family residences, she revelled in doing the Church flowers, stalwart member of the local WI, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Things he knew nothing about until you mentioned them the other day. The man’s as absorbent as a sponge. What was the woman doing?’

  ‘Lapping it up. More or less drooling, not to put too fine a point on it. He had her practically whipping
out her chequebook on the spot. But the weird thing is, he looked and sounded as English as you or me.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Went over and said something along the lines of “Brad, old chap, old sport, good to see you.” So he gives me this haughty stare, says he doesn’t believe he knows me, and turns his back on me. Such impudence! Flabbergasted is the only word to describe how I felt. Especially when I remember that only a couple of weeks or so ago, I was all ready to set up a bistro with him in sunny France.’ The Major looked downcast. ‘I suppose that’s not going to happen now.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t give him any money.’

  The Major snorted. ‘Believe me, my dear, I was near as dammit about to. Luckily, at the last moment, wiser counsel prevailed.’

  ‘You do realize he’s a gifted con-artist, don’t you?’

  ‘I do now. Sad, really. He seemed like a really genuine sort of chappie, too.’

  ‘The successful ones always do.’

  The Major wiped beer froth off his moustache. Said thoughtfully, ‘Do you know, I seriously believe that beer is better now than it was when I was a young man.’

  ‘Major, last time I spoke to you, you mentioned a warehouse near to your cottage, which belonged to the Harkness person whose wife committed suicide.’

  ‘Oh that place. It’s only a sort of warehouse, more like a derelict shed, and I may have got it wrong, m’dear. Maybe it wasn’t him who owned it. Maybe he leased it from someone. Or maybe it was someone else entirely, my memory’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘How far away from your house is it?’

  ‘Oh, three or four fields. No more than that. You go down Honeypot Lane towards the main road, but before you get there, you turn left. The track’s pretty well overgrown, what with all the rain we’ve been having and the fact that nobody uses it. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from my place. Longer if you walk along the road, though the entrance is easier to find that way.’