Ben removed his shades and said, ‘Ms Bowman?’
She opened the door a little wider and stood framed in the doorway, looking at him uncertainly. Behind her was a long airy-looking hallway, at the far end of which Ben could see a short-haired portly woman with red cheeks scurrying back and forth stowing things into boxes. The housekeeper, he guessed. A collection of expensive leather travel bags were lined up in the hallway, packed and bulging. It looked as if someone was planning a trip away, and for longer than just a few days.
‘I’m Emily Bowman. Who are you?’
‘My name is Ben Hope. I apologise for turning up unexpectedly like this, but it’s an important matter and I’d really like to speak with you, if I may.’
Ben’s well-honed spider sense suddenly told him he was being watched from behind, and he glanced quickly around to see that a white-haired man in his late sixties or early seventies had emerged from behind the cottage buildings by the house. He looked like a seasoned old countryman, a groundskeeper or an estate manager, wearing a tatty Barbour shooting jacket and a flat cap and cradling an old hammer shotgun in his arms. He moved a few steps and stopped, eyeing Ben from a distance. The message wasn’t particularly subtle. Ben wondered whether all unexpected visitors to the house were met with a loaded twelve-bore.
Emily Bowman looked cagily at Ben and asked, ‘Concerning what?’
He replied, ‘Concerning the tragic demise of your former employee, Mr Carter Duggan.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you with the police?’
Better hope I’m not, he thought, thinking about the shotgun. ‘No, and I’m not a private investigator like Mr Duggan, either. I’m just a private citizen, Ms Bowman, same as you.’ Ben slipped a Le Val business card from his pocket and held it out to her.
She hesitated, plucked the card from his fingers but barely even glanced at it and folded her arms. He’d been right: getting her to talk to him wasn’t going to be a pushover.
‘How did you know Mr Duggan worked for me?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘I don’t believe that information has been made public knowledge.’
Ben didn’t want to reveal his real source, so someone else had to take the fall. He said, ‘I spoke to someone at the Spencer and Grady letting agency yesterday. I’m afraid they let it slip that you rented the vicarage on Mr Duggan’s behalf. Which is the reason why I came here this morning.’
Emily Bowman didn’t look pleased. ‘Oh, they did, did they? Then I shall have to have a word with them.’
‘Ms Bowman, I promise you that I’m legit, and I really need your help. May I come inside? I won’t take up too much of your time.’
‘If you’re not with the police, then I don’t see why—’
‘The person accused of the murder, Jude Arundel, is my son,’ Ben cut in. All the heartfelt emotion trapped inside him came out in the tone of his voice. He was surprised at how raw it sounded. Emily Bowman blinked a couple of times and cocked her head as though trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. Her severe expression seemed to soften a little. Confusion clouded her eyes. ‘Your son? But—’
‘Different surnames, I know. Long story.’
The old man with the shotgun was still standing there like a loyal watchdog. Ben said, ‘Ms Bowman, I need to speak to you because I don’t believe that Jude killed your employee, and until someone finds out who did there’s an innocent man rotting in prison.’
‘Isn’t it the police’s job to be dealing with this?’
‘The police have already got their man, as far as their top brass are concerned. The detective who was in charge of the investigation isn’t so convinced, but his hands are tied. Please, Ms Bowman. Maybe I’m clutching at straws here, but you’re the only person involved who knew Carter Duggan alive.’
She heaved a sigh, flustered. ‘Well, all right, then. You’d better come inside. But you can’t stay long. I’m terribly busy at the moment.’
Ben thanked her and stepped into the house. It was cool and spacious and very tastefully decorated inside, but he sensed an apprehensive atmosphere hanging in the air. The portly housekeeper was still bustling about packing things. As they passed by her she looked tentatively up from her duties and said in a small voice, ‘I’m all done with the kitchenware, Ms Bowman. Did you want me to pack the things from the second wardrobe, too?’
‘Thank you, Margo. Yes, please,’ Emily Bowman replied, glancing at her watch. It was hard to tell which one of them looked more edgy.
It was clear to Ben what was going on. Emily Bowman was afraid of something; so were her housekeeper and the old guy outside, and he was certain this had to do with the mysterious black Mercedes and her call to the police two nights ago. He would have loved to ask her about it, but he’d already said too much about Tom McAllister and to probe so deep would be opening the cop up to all kinds of trouble. Ben asked casually, ‘Looks like you’re going somewhere?’
‘Just a short holiday,’ Emily Bowman replied, a little stiffly. ‘You were lucky to catch me, actually. I’ll be leaving within the next hour or two. This way, please. We can talk in here.’ She led him to a door and showed him through to a huge living room with tall windows and a view over miles of countryside. She left the door open. ‘Now, Mr, uh’ – glancing at his business card – ‘Mr Hope. What exactly is it you think I can help you with?’
‘I’m just fishing for all the information I can get,’ Ben said. ‘Any blanks you can fill in for me.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Yes, it’s true, Mr Duggan was working for me. I contacted him a couple of months ago, and asked him to come over to Britain to carry out a private investigation. It’s a personal matter, concerning my family history. I chose to employ him because of his expertise in that kind of research. He came highly recommended and he was doing a very good job until … well, we needn’t go into what happened, need we? But I don’t see of what concern the details of his investigation would be to anyone except myself. I’m certainly not willing to discuss them with anyone on the outside. That’s what I told the police, too.’
‘I understand. I don’t mean to pry.’
‘Beyond that, I really don’t know anything. I barely knew the gentleman, outside of our brief business acquaintance.’
‘What kind of man was he?’
‘Straightforward, direct, matter-of-fact. I liked his no-nonsense approach. He was the old-school type. No fancy gadgets and technology. Just good old-fashioned detective work.’
Ben asked, ‘The work he was doing for you, was it in the local area?’
She hesitated before replying. ‘I don’t mind telling you that much. No, my family were originally from London and then relocated to the north of England before I was born. Mr Duggan’s research required him to do a bit of travelling here and there, expenses I was only too happy to cover. I chose to rent accommodation for him locally so that he and I could meet regularly in person and discuss his ongoing findings. There are also some family papers that are precious to me and I keep here at the house, to which he needed access. We had a few discussions, but sadly that was the end of it.’
Ben asked, ‘During these discussions, did Mr Duggan ever say anything to you that might have struck you as odd?’
‘Not that I can think of. Odd how?’
Something flashed in Emily Bowman’s eyes as she said it. Ben was an expert at reading faces and he could see conflict in her expression, like a ripple disturbing calm waters. Something being held back. He pressed on, picking his words very carefully. ‘I mean, did you have any reason to suppose he was concerned, or that he might have been in some kind of danger?’
‘No. I understood he was killed because of some argument. With …’ She flushed, uncomfortable. ‘With your son. I have no children, but I’m sure that if I did, I wouldn’t want to believe them capable of something so dreadful. I understand your wanting to protect him. But at the same time, from what I gather, the evidence all points to his guilt. Didn’t he make a threat
against Mr Duggan’s life?’
‘The argument was over something Mr Duggan said about Jude’s past,’ Ben said. ‘Something very painful that made him lose his rag for just a moment. Jude said what he said, in the heat of the moment. I imagine we’ve all said things like that. Doesn’t make us murderers.’
‘Then … if you don’t think … who—?’
‘It wasn’t a robbery. And it’s pretty unlikely that it was someone settling an old score from back home in Canada. And random attacks by psychopathic killers don’t tend to happen much in quiet country villages. Which means there has to be another reason why someone with the appropriate skillset slipped into the house, stabbed a man to death and then disappeared without leaving a trace or a witness. There isn’t a lot to go on. That’s why I came here hoping to find out more. Because there are pieces of this puzzle that are missing, and I need to find out what they are. Anything you can tell me about Duggan, anything at all, might offer a clue.’
Emily Bowman looked perplexed. ‘I’ve already told you all I can. There really isn’t any more.’
‘And it couldn’t have anything to do with what Mr Duggan was investigating for you, about your family?’
‘Not in the least,’ she replied curtly. ‘Why would it?’
There’d been a moment earlier when Ben had thought she might tell him something, but that moment was gone and now she was closing up again. With nothing to lose, he decided to take the plunge. ‘What about you, Ms Bowman? Have you noticed anything strange or suspicious, anything that made you feel worried or threatened?’
Her face went two shades paler, the muscles around her eyes clenched like iron and she replied very quickly, ‘No. Nothing like that. Why would I?’
Liar, he thought. It couldn’t have been any clearer if she’d had it printed across her forehead.
‘Only, I wondered if maybe that was why you were taking a sudden holiday. Seems like your helper is in quite a rush to get things packed up. And your friend with the shotgun looks like he’s on the lookout for trouble.’
Her lips clamped into a tight, bloodless line. She looked at her watch and shook her head. ‘Mr Hope, I’m afraid I don’t think there’s any way I can help you. I’m very sorry for what’s happened to your family, but I really am very busy and I think it’s time for you to leave.’
And with that, the conversation was officially terminated. Ben could do nothing more. Except to leave her with something to think about after he was gone.
Looking Emily Bowman in the eye he said, ‘You know what, Ms Bowman? I believe that you’re holding something back. And if you are, then you need to understand that an innocent young man will spend the next several years in prison and his life will be destroyed, just because you didn’t have the guts to speak up. Remember that.’
She stared back at him and said nothing. A muscle in her cheek twitched.
‘I’ve written my mobile number on the back of the card I gave you,’ he told her. ‘Please, give me a call if you change your mind.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Thanks for your time, Ms Bowman. Enjoy your holiday. I can see myself out.’
The old guy with the twelve-bore was still watching the house, as though he was ready to start blasting at the first wrong move. Ben could so easily have walked over there and wrapped the barrels around his neck before he even knew what was happening, but that wouldn’t have been fair. Or else Ben might have grabbed him, dragged him back behind the row of cottages and made him spill whatever it was that Emily Bowman was so afraid of. But Ben doubted that she’d have told the old guy much, other than to be on the lookout for strange visitors to the house.
Deciding to ignore him, he walked back to the Alpina. Emily Bowman’s watchdog didn’t take his beady gaze off Ben until he was speeding out of the gate.
Ben drove away with a fierce surge of conviction that there was much more to Ms Bowman and her dealings with the late private investigator than met the eye. There was little point in trying to persuade her to reveal more. But if the secret she was obviously holding onto was the cause of her sudden and unexpected holiday, then the empty house would offer Ben the perfect opportunity to return that night and have a look for those precious family papers. If they were so important to Duggan’s research, Ben wanted to see them too.
Enough dabbling around. The time had come to find out what the hell was going on.
Chapter 14
Ben now had the remainder of the daylight hours to kill before he returned to Emily Bowman’s home, and he intended to make full use of that time. He drove back to Little Denton, but instead of entering the village he rounded its outskirts and left the car tucked among a stand of beech trees off the quiet country road, some eighth of a mile from the vicarage as the crow flew. There were too many prying eyes in that village, and what he was about to do required a little discretion.
Hopping over a ramshackle fence he scrambled down a slope knee-high in rough grass and cow parsley, and made his way into a small patch of woodland. Beyond the trees was a path, now mostly grown over, which led to an old wooden gate. It was an emotional walk for Ben, because the last time he’d been here was with Jude’s mother, Michaela Arundel, years ago on a crisp and sunny winter day when the two of them had gone for a wander through the countryside with Scruffy, the family’s adopted mongrel, running rings around them. That walk had been the last time Ben had ever been alone with his old love. Just a few hours later, she and Simeon were dead.
The gate, secured by a rusty padlock but all too easy to hop over, was the rear entrance to the Arundels’ long, sloping and now sadly overgrown back garden. It was flanked on both sides by a screen of unclipped conifers that shielded him from view of the neighbouring houses as he walked up towards the vicarage. If Ben had been an intruder planning on sneaking into the property undetected, this was the way he’d have come. And in fact he was an intruder planning on doing exactly that.
The house was still festooned with police tape, but nobody was around. Ben carefully approached the back door and examined the frame and the Yale lock. According to McAllister, the police had found no signs of forced entry, and so far Ben could find none either. Carter Duggan’s killer had either come in another way, or maybe he’d been equipped with a handy universal bump key like the one that Ben now used to defeat the lock. Seconds later, he was inside.
The vicarage was a rambling old house, built on here and there over the course of many years to create a labyrinth of rooms and passageways. The back hallway led to a utility room and scullery, from which one exit led up a backstair and the other through a recessed secondary doorway into the kitchen.
The kitchen, scene of the murder, was Ben’s first port of call. Though nobody could have guessed that just a couple of days earlier, a man had lain here stabbed to death in a pool of blood. The room had been left spotless in the wake of the forensic team and Ben could only visualise the scene and try to imagine how the whole thing had gone down. If the killer had entered the house from the rear garden, he could very easily have come into the kitchen by the same route Ben just had. Ben knew from past memory that the rear doorway into the room was very little used. While the rest of the room was brightly lit from the window, the recess in which it lay was a shady little passage eight feet deep. Ben could easily picture how the victim could have been oblivious of the intruder’s presence lurking there in the moments before the attack: Duggan standing at the counter, pottering about or brewing a pot of coffee or whatever his last actions had been, his back to the door, totally unawares until the killer struck.
But it was all guesswork, and there was little more to be learned from the kitchen. Ben slipped out of the room the way he’d come in, and used the creaky backstair to climb up to the first floor. The stairway emerged in a narrow passage with a bathroom at one end and several doors off it to the left and right: main bedroom, second and third bedrooms, study. Ben checked the study first, because if Duggan had been using it for his work he might have left behind s
ome useful clue to explain just how the hell his research might have led to his own untimely death.
Once upon a time, the place had been a clutter of Simeon’s vast collection of theology books and the desk had been all but hidden under the heaps of paperwork that came with running a busy parish. But as Ben stepped into the room he saw that the desk was clear. Checking the contents of its drawers, he found two paperclips, some dust balls and a dead moth. So much for useful clues.
Ben went from the study into the main bedroom, on the assumption that it was the one the tenant would have used. He was right. Duggan’s belongings were still in the bedroom and ensuite bathroom, presumably waiting to be shipped back to Canada by his next of kin, if he had any, but it hadn’t happened yet. Ben went through them but found nothing of any interest – the usual male toiletry items, a tube of haemorrhoid cream, a couple of issues of a Canadian outdoors and hunting magazine, a dog-eared paperback detective novel, a local newspaper from a week ago – until he opened up the double wardrobe and checked the clothes inside.
Duggan had brought a minimum of things from Canada. Some underwear and folded shirts and spare socks were arranged on a shelf, along with a spare pair of tan leather brogues. Three wooden hangers hung from a brass rail. The one on the left held a single-breasted grey suit wrapped in a plastic cover. A couple of pairs of well-creased khaki chino trousers hung from the one in the middle, their pockets empty except for a paper tissue. On the right hanger was a tweed sports jacket. The suit looked immaculate but the tweed was much used and slightly frayed, as though it was Duggan’s daily wear. Ben went through it. In the inside breast pocket was a takeaway Indian restaurant menu; the left side pocket contained two spare buttons in a plastic wrapper; and in the right side pocket Ben found a beer mat.
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