The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  'Do you ski then?' she asked.

  'Did once,' he said, 'but the old dodgy knee put paid to that. Rugger injury of course.' It sounded convincing, but there was just something in the tone that caused her to doubt it. It wouldn't be cheap to be a member of the St Moritz set. But whatever, the state of his finances wasn't really any of her business.

  'But coming back to Lotti,' he continued. 'I do feel a bit guilty of course, but she was very keen to work in London to broaden her experience so the arrangement suits as both.'

  'She's very beautiful, isn't she?' Maggie said, grinning. 'I guess that must have helped with her application.'

  He shrugged. 'She is beautiful, but I agreed to take her on before I had even met her.'

  'So you must have been pleased when you did get to meet her in the flesh so to speak.'

  'Well of course. In our business although it is quite important to know about art of course, it's mainly about relationships, forming a bond with the client.'

  And she wouldn't have any problem in that department, would she, thought Maggie. Especially bonding with billionaires with an interest in modern art.

  After that, she relaxed into the evening, aided by the wine and the amiable company. It all felt so natural, stirring feelings she hadn't felt for a very long time. They decided against dessert, electing instead to share the cheese platter. And then all too soon for her, the lovely evening wound to a close. Or maybe not.

  She watched as he took a credit card from his wallet and signalled the waiter to bring the bill.

  'Perhaps skip coffee? We can have it at my place if you like, it's just around the corner.'

  'Yes, that would be lovely,' she said, unsure of what she was agreeing to and not caring either. And at least he hadn't suggested they split the tab.

  ◆◆◆

  Personal protection was more his thing, so this wasn't his normal line of work. Not that he was too bothered about that. If that's what the boss wanted him to do, then that was fine by him, and besides, three hundred and fifty quid cash in hand was not to be sniffed at. Keep your eye on him for a couple of days, see what he's up to, that was the instruction. So that's what he did, hanging around that poxy gallery of his, watching all the comings and goings, then following him round the corner to his fancy flat in Bedford Gardens at the end of the working day. Last night, Trelawney hadn't gone out at all and so he had called it a day around nine. But this evening it was different. Tonight, he'd closed up the gallery at 6pm prompt and then walked home at pace, in fact he'd broke into a jog at one point. Big night in prospect by the look of things. And then half an hour later out he comes, all dressed up with somewhere to go. Round another couple of corners until he arrived at an Italian place. Fazolli's. For a date, with a fit-looking bird he hadn't seen before. Absolute gold-dust.

  They didn't have a table for one, so they said, but he was good at persuasion and a few words in the ear of the poncey head waiter soon put that right. A quiet spot tucked up against the wall, barely illuminated. About three of four tables back from theirs, his seat facing the woman. Smart looking, forty-ish but when he got a better look at her, a bit mumsy for his tastes. It wasn't hard to sneak a couple of pictures and then he could relax a bit and enjoy his lasagne. Made sure he was done before them so he could settle down outside and wait for them to leave.

  Ten minutes later he sees them leaving, all giggles and kisses. It was pretty obvious that the evening was only going to end one way, and fair play to the boy, he wouldn't have minded himself. But he followed them the couple of blocks back to his place to make sure, then hung about outside for about an hour just for insurance. In case she had second thoughts. But she didn't. Great. Tomorrow morning he'd be back outside at six-thirty prompt and snap her coming out wearing the same clothes she wore last night. As he said, absolute gold-dust. The boss was going to be pleased, no doubt about it.

  Chapter 10

  Frank had never been to Oxford before, as far as he could recall. He'd seen it on telly plenty of times of course, mainly down to Morse and its multiple successors, but never had any reason to visit until now. It made a change from the capital though and he was very much looking forward to it, especially given the news that he'd got from Ronnie French last night.

  He was just about to ask Yvonne if she'd ever been to the town when he remembered, causing him to change tack.

  'Did you enjoy your time at Oxford then? Quite a place to be a student I imagine, with all that history and the like.'

  They were on the M40, the mid-morning traffic light on the northbound carriageway. Across the central reservation the London-bound businessmen and women weren't so lucky, a lorry breakdown in the Stokenchurch cutting causing a tailback that already stretched for six miles.

  'Glad we're not going that way,' she said. 'Yeah, I enjoyed my time at uni sir. But actually I was at Cambridge, the other place. The light blues.'

  He glanced at her, mystified.

  'Sorry, the colour our sports teams wear. As opposed to the dark blue, which is Oxford. Before I went I thought everyone would be terribly posh and everything but they weren't all like that.' Aye, just most of them, he thought.

  'So this Sophie woman we're meeting,' Frank said. 'You can just tell what she's going to be like don't you, with a name like that. She'll be posh, and tall and skinny too. And good looking, a bit like the Duchess of Cambridge. They always are.'

  Yvonne laughed. 'Tut- tut sir, that's awful. Haven't you been on the unconscious bias course?'

  'Unconscious bias? Believe me, my bias is never unconscious. But no, I haven't been on the course 'cos I don't need it. I'm never wrong on these things.'

  'If you say so sir. But honestly, you should go on it. It's really good. It makes you think.'

  'Aye, well we'll see who's right soon enough. Mark my words, I won't be far wrong.'

  And he wasn't far wrong, because Sophie Fitzwilliam did turn out to be very much as he expected, tall and slim and very attractive and effortlessly posh. Except, unlike the Duchess, she was distinctly and unarguably black. He saw Yvonne smirk at him as Ms Fitzwilliam came to collect them from the reception area. It had been Pete Burnside's suggestion that the young intern should accompany him on the visit and he was happy enough to acquiesce. In truth, he suspected they were struggling to find anything for her to do and a wee trip up to Oxford would fill one of the days of her four-week assignment. But he was glad of the company, and she was sweet and funny and, he had decided before they had even left London, way too smart to be a copper.

  They were led through to a plush meeting room, with a polished solid oak floor, the walls a light violet pastel. Dotted around the room hung a series of framed photographs, posed shots of self-assured looking youngsters that Frank assumed to be some of the agency's past clients, if that's how they should be described.

  'Welcome to The Oxbridge Agency Inspector. I do hope we can be of assistance to you.' Her tone was smooth and measured but Frank couldn't help notice the wary look.

  'Aye, I hope so too. By the way, this is Yvonne Sharp. She's with us for a few weeks on an internship. Trying to decide whether to be a cop or a robber. I mean lawyer.'

  'Well, I know which I would choose Yvonne,' Fitzwilliam said pleasantly. 'But I think I'll let you make up your own mind on that.'

  'Aye, that's probably a good idea,' Frank said. 'But anyway, I mentioned on the phone the reason we're here.'

  'You did. Very sad and completely devastating for the agency as you can imagine. But I'm not sure I understand why the police have to be involved after all this time.'

  After all this time. It had only been a few months since Chardonnay Clark had died. He could just about understand her desire to put it all behind her, but surely that was a bit premature. But soon she would find out that this investigation was not going away any time soon.

  'Her parents are really shattered as you can imagine. Nice people. Don't you think you've let them down?'

  Her expression hardened. 'I really feel for them o
f course, but I can assure you we bear no responsibility for what happened to either of these young people. However, be in no doubt that the welfare of our interns is and always had been our greatest concern.' It sounded exactly like the corporate speak it was.

  Frank smiled. 'Aye, well that's good to hear. But anyway, let me give you a bit of background. I work for Department 12B, a wee backwater of the Met. They shove us tiddly cases that might turn into bigger cases. You know, where there are suspicions but no real evidence, stuff like that. And you've got to admit when two kids who are working for the same intern agency decide to commit suicide within a few months of one another, some people might see that as suspicious.'

  Fitzwilliam shook her head. 'Of course, it was a terrible tragedy and a traumatic period for us, but we looked carefully at all our processes and procedures and it was quite clear that we were not to blame in any way. Care and concern for our people is at the heart of our HR operation, and I can assure you that if we had known that these young people were at risk in any way then naturally we would have stepped in.'

  And that of course was the heart of the whole affair, because neither of these youngsters had given the slightest hint that they had been intending to take their own lives. Except for the after-the-fact virtual suicide notes, which in a blinding flash of clarity, Frank recognised for what they were. Almost certainly fake. Must be. Perhaps, or even probably, this agency had nothing to do with any of it, but he needed to know more before he could be sure.

  'So maybe you can tell me how the agency works. How you select your interns, that kind of thing. And how you make your money.'

  She seemed to relax, happy to be able to leave the uncomfortable subject matter behind.

  'Our business thrives because there is great competition for entry-level places with the top-end organisations. I set up the business to service this demand.'

  'Aye, and I see you've got some amazing customers. HBB Bank, Superfare Supermarkets, Alexia Life. Big names.'

  She smiled. 'Yes, they are indeed big names, amongst the biggest. But you misunderstand our business model Inspector. These organisations are not our customers. They are our suppliers. They supply the intern opportunities that our young people crave. No, our customers are our young graduates, or to be more accurate, their parents.'

  Yvonne gave him a knowing look. 'You see sir, it's all about money. All these rich mummies and daddies paying a fortune to buy their precious little darlings onto the first rung of the ladder.'

  Frank raised an eyebrow. 'Is Yvonne right Miss Fitzwilliam. Is that how it works?'

  She smiled. 'It's Mrs. And yes, that's how it works, and why should I deny it, I'm proud of our business. We simply satisfy a demand like any other.'

  'And how much are we talking, money-wise?' Frank asked. 'To get on this ladder?'

  Yvonne leapt in before she could answer. 'They charge about twenty-five grand sir. Now you can see why I didn't get a place.'

  He grimaced. 'Bloody hell, that's steep. And how much do you pay the organisations - sorry, your suppliers - to take one of your interns?'

  Fitzwilliam gave him a cold look. 'That's company confidential.'

  'But not as much as twenty-five grand I assume.'

  'It's a win-win for all parties,' she said smoothly. 'No-one complains about our fees. As I said, we are simply satisfying a demand that exists. If we didn't do it, someone else would.'

  Which was no doubt true, he could see that. If you were the sort of parent who had paid a few hundred grand to send your kid to private schools for ten years or more, and then stumped up thousands more to get them through university, another twenty-five grand was probably neither here nor there. And as for The Oxbridge Agency, even if they had to slip their supplier organisations ten grand to take one of their interns, there was still a very tidy profit being made. Nice work if you could get it. But the thing was, the two kids who had died had been in a completely different boat. Socio-economic class C3. They didn't have parents who could afford twenty-five thousand quid.

  'Aye, I don't doubt there's a big demand,' Frank said, 'but what about the two kids we're interested in? They weren't from well-off backgrounds, were they?'

  Fitzwilliam smiled. 'No they weren't, and that's why they came in on our scholarship programme.'

  Frank looked puzzled. 'So what's that all about?'

  'Look, we recognise the privileged position that most of our interns are in. It's a simple fact of life and we can't change it. But what we can do is give a helping hand to talented young people from less favoured backgrounds. So each year, we fund a small handful of scholarship places, selected solely on merit. Naturally, they don't have to pay the fee and we also provide them with a nominal salary whilst they are on deployment.'

  Frank raised an eyebrow. 'So that's a lot different from your normal business model. Must cost you a bit of money.'

  Her reply sounded rehearsed. 'We like to give something back. It's a fundamental part of our corporate ethos. Luke Brown was the perfect case in point. A boy from a very deprived background. It was our privilege and pleasure to help him.'

  'Tell me about him,' Frank said, smiling. 'And without the corporate bull if you don't mind. No offence.'

  She gave him a hard look but made no reference to his barb. 'He was brought up in care from the age of eleven. His father abandoned the family and his mother had a breakdown and drunk herself to death. With nothing but absolute determination to better himself, Luke overcame all obstacles to win a place at Oxford. Of all our scholarship beneficiaries, he is possibly the one I'm proudest of. But then we are proud of everyone who has benefited from the scheme. You can find everything about it on our website, and we also have a glossy brochure I can let you have.'

  'Aye that would be great,' he said.

  'Actually sir, I've got it here,' Yvonne said, showing him her phone. 'All about the Oxbridge Scholarship. Is this it Mrs Fitzwilliam?'

  'Yes that's it,' she said, her tone betraying suspicion.

  Frank took the phone from her. The slick website was stuffed with more corporate speak about levelling playing fields and rewarding exceptional talent and providing opportunities for everyone, regardless of background. All very dull and worthy and no doubt excellent for the agency's image. But that wasn't what caught his eye.

  'Pardon me for asking, but is it a model agency you're running here?'

  She gave him a sharp look. 'What do you mean?'

  'Well it's just all these guys and girls. I'm no expert, but they're all bloody good-looking aren't they? What's that all about?'

  She smiled. 'You may not like it Inspector, but it is one of life's truisms that attractive people generally do better in life. We all have to use the talents we are given, and one's looks are no different. And so yes, it is a factor when we decide to whom we award our scholarships. We are looking for young people who will make an immediate impression.' Was he imagining it, or did her look say and so you'd have no chance of getting one pal? Probably. And it almost certainly explained why they hadn't taken on Yvonne Sharp. She was a lovely girl, but there was no getting away from the fact that she was of plain appearance. Their loss, the Met's gain as far as he was concerned.

  'Aye, but the thing is Miss Fitzwilliam...'

  'It's Mrs..'

  'Aye, sorry I forgot, but the thing is, the two young people in question, Chardonnay and Luke, they haven't ended up doing better in life, have they? Why do you think that was?'

  He could see her expression harden. 'I hope you are not implying it had anything to do with the agency. Because that would be a very serious accusation.'

  'I'm not accusing you or the agency of anything. But so far your agency is the only connection we have between them, so it's my job to look into it.' Whether you like it or not, Mrs. la-di-dah Fitzwilliam.

  Out of the blue Yvonne said, 'Would it be ok if I asked a question sir? Sorry if it's one you were going to ask yourself.'

  He nodded. 'No, go ahead.' He noticed Fitzwilliam glancing at he
r watch. 'And don't worry, we'll not be taking up much more of your time. On you go Yvonne.'

  'Thank you sir. My question is, how you decide which intern goes where? So for example, how did Chardonnay end up at HBB Bank and how did Luke go to Alexia Life?'

  Fitzwilliam's eyes narrowed. 'That's an interesting question. So we find out the sectors that our young people are interested in and see if we can find a match with our suppliers. I can only assume Chardonnay must have been attracted to HBB because she was interested in a career in banking or finance. Similarly with Luke Brown too. But of course, I personally am not involved in arranging assignments. We have a team who are responsible for that. Our account managers.'

  'Aye, that makes sense,' Frank said. 'And once they're assigned, I presume you get some feedback on how they're doing?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, of course. Our account managers will speak with the organisations once a month, to find out how they are progressing. And they speak with the interns too of course.'

  'And there weren’t any concerns raised about any of these two kids?' Frank asked. 'Nothing that might give any hint about what they were planning to do to themselves?'

  She spat out the reply. 'No of course not.'

  'But Luke Brown was sacked wasn't he? Just two days before supposedly taking his own life. What did you do when you found out about that?'

  She hesitated before answering. 'Well the truth is I didn't do anything about it because it was not something that was brought to my personal attention at the time, and there was no reason why it should have been. As I said, the day to day supervision of the intern cohort is in the hands of the account management team.' The tone was confident, but there was just something in her voice that gave it away. Frank knew she was lying.

  'But after he died, you would have looked into it then, surely?'

  'Yes, I did ask some questions, of course. But there was no big drama as far as I could see. Occasionally these assignments don't work out, and this was just one of these occasions. I think in fact it coincided with some organisational reviews in the business and they did not have an ongoing need for him.' She fidgeted with her necklace, her discomfort plain to see. Frank smiled to himself. So his hunch had been right. There was something going on here. Time to apply the screw. By letting her stew for a week or so.