‘Who he? Nah – I mean the dodgy Moroccan guy who runs the farm next door to Nim and half of the slum properties in your Brighton.’
‘No,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The murdered man was Richard Rabbitt from the Plumpton Down Estate house.’
‘You got whoever did it?’
‘We’re working on it,’ Gilchrist said.
‘But you don’t suspect Nim, do you?’ Kip leaned in. ‘Because if it’s not the Moroccan guy that means she’s still under threat from that gangster.’
‘Why do you call him a gangster? And how do you know about the slum properties?’
‘Cos he is a gangster – blood on his hands for sure – and Nim told me about his real-estate holdings. He’s made threats. Made her life a misery. She’s all alone there, you know. Doesn’t have any man to protect her.’
‘She’s been receiving a lot of abuse?’ Heap said.
‘The least of it was a letter circulating around Plumpton saying she was broke and had put her old knickers and bras and her breast implants up for sale on eBay. There was another that the “porn star” was £25 million in debt and about to be bankrupt since when her tits sagged she lost her career. FYI – those tits have not sagged one iota and without any work on them either – certainly not implants. She’d still ace the pencil test. Miracles of nature they are.’
‘You said death threats “not for the first time”?’
‘She hasn’t played you the voicemail tapes?’
Gilchrist shook her head and saw Heap frowning.
‘Well, she picked very badly,’ Kip said. ‘You could see why – this guy had a big rep as a method actor – if you like that kind of thing: big hunk, lot of charm, lot of arrogance – like I said, that arrogance thing is something we’re both drawn to. Macho – a punching bag was an essential part of his luggage when heading anywhere. All covering up the fact he was a real psycho killer.’ She saw Gilchrist’s look. ‘Oh, not literally. At least I don’t think so, but potentially, probably. A genuine sociopath. And certainly where Nim was concerned he became obsessed. And he frequently threatened her with the most disgusting forms of torture and death. That’s the voicemails.
‘But that’s been her problem most of her life. She’s so charismatic, so beautiful, so warm and lovely in every way men just get obsessed with her. Women too. I certainly am.’
‘Did she do anything about these death threats from this man?’ Heap asked.
‘Could’ve but didn’t. Lost a lawyer she went to for help because she wouldn’t press charges for the sake of the kid. Didn’t want her son growing up knowing his dad was a total douche. Well, not just a douche. A mental case.’ Kip took a sip of her coffee. ‘I’m telling you all this because I assume you guys are like priests and lawyers – all this is confidential, right?’
Gilchrist grunted non-committally. Thinking: Kid? What kid? I’m sure Grace said she didn’t have any children.
‘How long are you here?’ Heap said.
‘I’m in London for a couple of days then I’m back to LA.’
Gilchrist handed Kip her card. ‘Please call me if you think of anything else you feel able to share.’
‘Will do. But, hey, do me a favour, will you?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Persuade her to start making movies again. And not just for my fifteen per cent.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Goodbye, Kip.’
Heap was slow coming out of the hotel. As they drove down the rest of the steep, narrow lane, Gilchrist said: ‘She has a kid?’
‘She specifically said she didn’t have kids,’ Heap said.
‘I heard that too. OK, let’s park that for the moment. Get Sylvia to check out Donald Kermode’s restraining order. In fact, we should go and see him to see if he knows anything about Red Pants.’
‘Before we see the neighbour, Said Farzi?’
‘No, let’s make Farzi our priority after we’ve called by the lake.’
The dredger had two men aboard and two men in waders working beside it in the middle of the lake when Gilchrist and Heap arrived at Beard’s Pond. They parked behind an empty police car and put on their wellingtons to walk along the path towards the island and to where Rabbitt’s body was found.
The dredger was doing a good job of disturbing the silt and releasing gases. ‘What a stink,’ Gilchrist said between clenched teeth.
Frank Bilson was standing on the island in waders. He gave a little wave but seemed subdued. Perhaps he was embarrassed by the previous morning.
‘Ahoy, Mr Bilson,’ Gilchrist called. ‘Can we come aboard?’
Bilson gestured towards a thick tree trunk laid as a bridge between the island and the main bank. There was a rope tied between a tree on the bank and a tree on the island. Grabbing hold of the rope to balance himself, Bellamy Heap crossed over nimbly to the island. Gilchrist crossed not-quite-so-nimbly.
‘Found his teeth yet, Frank?’ Gilchrist said as they approached him. He shook his head. ‘Don’t suppose they’ve found his car in there?’
‘They haven’t found anything,’ Bilson said. ‘It’s proving to be a remarkably uninteresting lake.’
Heap was standing beneath the rickety-looking tree house. ‘Have SOCO been up here, Mr Bilson?’
‘I’m sure they have but I’m not entirely sure.’
Hanging down from the tree house was a rope knotted at regular intervals. Heap grabbed it and shinned up it, hand over fist.
‘Bellamy – you Boy Scout,’ Gilchrist called. Bilson looked at her. ‘But I guess I already knew that. Are you OK, Frank?’
‘Busy. Tired. Otherwise fine.’
‘You don’t seem your normal ebullient self.’
Bilson just shrugged and turned away to look through a pile of sludge spread in front of him. Gilchrist looked up at the tree house just as Heap was coming back down the rope. ‘Anything up there, Tarzan?’ she said.
‘Interesting perspective on this wood and lake. And you can see the drive up to the big house.’ He pointed in the general direction of Plumpton Down House. ‘There’s a gap in the trees that gives a very clear view pretty much all the way down.’
‘So someone up here would be able to see Rabbitt heading down, whether he were on foot or in his car.’ Heap nodded.
Gilchrist glanced over at Bilson, who still had his back to her, then said to Heap: ‘Nothing more for us here. Shall we get on?’
Once they were in the car, she said: ‘Something is eating Bilson and he won’t admit it or say what it is.’
‘When you phoned him the other morning and he was in that odd mood, he didn’t say anything then?’
‘Not a thing. But he was out of character during that whole conversation.’
Heap thought for a moment. ‘Sometimes when someone is acting apparently out of character they are revealing their true character.’
‘To misquote a famous movie star, Bellamy: I can’t decide if that is very perceptive or stating the bleedin’ obvious.’
Heap smiled. ‘And, to misquote my answer to her: I haven’t a clue either.’
As they came round the bend at the edge of Grace’s wood and orchard below her house they saw a makeshift sign indicating the route to Said Farzi’s farm was along a newly carved out temporary road surface. They started along it but realized it petered out pretty soon.
‘Work in progress,’ Heap said as he reversed out. Gilchrist looked around but couldn’t see any signs of mechanical diggers or piles of road material.
‘Or work abandoned,’ she said.
They went up Grace’s drive and drove into the farmyard. Half a dozen men of colour were busily moving around. A strutting, slender man of uncertain ethnicity, wearing jodhpurs and riding boots and carrying a riding whip appeared before them. He introduced himself as the farm manager, Abbas. When they asked him where Said Farzi was, he replied with an affected English accent. ‘Away in Morocco tending to his business interests there and seeing family.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be bac
k?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mr Farzi keeps his own hours.’
‘Do you know when he went?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘The day Richard Rabbitt was discovered dead.’
‘Who?’
‘Your neighbour, Richard Rabbitt. The proprietor of Plumpton Down House.’
‘I don’t know him. He’s dead, you say?’
‘He died the night before Mr Farzi went to Morocco. Mr Farzi knew Richard Rabbitt.’
‘Mr Farzi may well know him. I don’t. I keep myself to myself. I have enough work to do managing the farm.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ Gilchrist indicated his riding outfit. ‘You have horses here too?’
‘Just half a dozen.’
‘So you’re twiddling your thumbs most of the time,’ Gilchrist said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The farm manager adjusted his cravat. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Well, you seem to have quite a few staff here and with only six horses to look after I would think you’re struggling to fill up your time.’
‘I never struggle to fill my time up. These are Arabian polo horses. They require a lot of attention.’
‘I believe Mr Farzi has vineyards. Do you get involved with them?’
‘I do not. He has people for that.’
Gilchrist pointed to the whitewashed roofs of two greenhouses sticking out above a crest in a rough trackway between two big barns.
‘And the greenhouses?’
‘He has plans I’m sure but at the moment they are unused.’
‘Mr Farzi doesn’t take you into his confidence about his plans?’
‘Not until they have come to fruition.’
‘How long have you worked for him?’ Heap said.
‘Ten years more or less.’
‘If I may say, you seem a fastidious dresser. Does Mr Farzi share your fastidiousness?’
‘In what way?’
‘Does he dress the part of a farm owner?’ Heap said.
‘You’d rather he wore a djellaba and a fez?’
‘Not at all.’
‘He dresses like an English gentleman with a certain station in life.’
‘Do you think we might speak to the vineyard manager?’ Gilchrist said. ‘To see if he knows any more than you?’
‘He’s not here today. He doesn’t live on site. I can give you his phone number if you wish.’
Heap handed Abbas his card. ‘When you have a moment email his details through to me.’ The farm manager nodded. ‘Just out of interest,’ Heap continued, ‘how many people do you have working here?’
‘That depends on the time of year. When it’s grape picking time there are dozens.’
‘They are day workers from the area?’
‘No, no. Students mostly. We put them up in the big barns on bunk beds. It’s quite an adventure for them.’
‘I’m sure it is. So no foreign workers provided by gang masters?’
The farm manager looked at him for a moment.
‘No, no,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘One final thing,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’m sorry to be rude but what is your full name again?’
The farm manager narrowed his eyes. ‘My name is Abbas.’
‘Excuse my ignorance but is that your first or last name?’
‘The only name I use,’ he said with a quick nod before turning away from them and strutting back across the yard.
Gilchrist and Heap drove slowly back out.
‘What do you think, Bellamy?’
‘I think he’s a gang master if ever there was one. And I bet he likes to use that whip. And I’d love to take a look in those barns. If there are bunk beds in there I’ll eat Katie’s swimming cap.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think people are kept like cattle in there. There will be stacks of mattresses.’
‘Now?’
‘At some time.’
‘Workers from the EU?’
Heap shook his head. ‘I’m guessing smuggled migrants from the Middle East plus Moroccan and North African and sub-Saharan African people. That man probably has a stack of passports locked away somewhere.’
‘We should contact customs and immigration then.’ They were driving past Nimue Grace’s property. ‘Hang on – pull over a minute. Are we going to see Ms Grace?’
Heap nodded. ‘We need to find out about this guy who threatened her years before and in what way Said Farzi has been harassing her.’
‘Let me just check with Sylvia Wade first.’ Gilchrist called her in the office. ‘Sylvia – any news on Said Farzi’s property portfolio? And did you find out from the drug squad if he has any form or is a person of interest to them?’
‘Nothing back from the drug squad. Three hundred properties. Judging by the addresses, all pretty run down.’
‘Who lives in them?’
‘That I don’t know. Yet. I’m in touch with Housing in the Council to get them to do pretend random checks with us. Looking for overcrowding, out-of-date gas safety certificates, that kind of thing. I thought we should concentrate on the apartment buildings he owns – there are about ten of those.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve actually looked up how many properties Richard Rabbitt has in Brighton?’
‘No, ma’am. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologize. Find out – and throw William Simpson into the mix while you’re at it.’
‘Ma’am.’
SEVEN
Gilchrist phoned Nimue Grace. ‘So sorry to bother you, but we have a couple more questions related to your personal safety. And about Said Farzi. Are you free this morning?’
‘Sure – come for coffee.’
‘Well, actually, we’re just outside – we paid a visit to Said Farzi’s place just now.’
‘Did you meet the creep?’
‘He’s in Morocco according to his farm manager.’
‘Abbas? He’s more than a creep. He’s a viper.’
‘Shall we come right in?’
‘I think you should. The kettle is on.’
Grace was in what seemed to be her uniform of work shirt and jeans. She was barefoot and without make-up, her vibrant hair tied up and tangled in a red scarf. She looked radiant, which made Gilchrist feel even lumpier and haggard than before.
‘I’ll make a cafetière.’ She glanced across at Gilchrist. ‘Unless you’d like hair of the dog?’
‘Coffee is fine. Welcome, in fact.’
‘Bellamy – can I trust you with the tray if I carry the mugs?’
‘You can, Ms Grace.’
‘I thought, as it’s such a lovely day, we could sit under the California poplar – it’s older than any of the buildings round here – over 500 years. It’s got an incredibly thick bark.’
‘Who would have planted it then?’ Heap said.
‘The oldest surviving place around here is Danny House, over Hurstpierpoint way, on the Danny Estate – impeccably maintained by the private owner and kind of a bookend in the west to Plumpton Down House here in the east.
‘Danny House is much older than Plumpton Down House though. Elizabethan, so the age fits for this poplar. It probably came from a tree over there. I’m guessing some bird coming over from Danny House, dropped a seed over here and – voila. And it got here from California because the Elizabethan age was the age of exploration. Somehow, someone – probably Spanish since they ruled the New World – brought a seed or a cutting of a California poplar over to Europe and it ended up in Sussex.’
‘There are roses growing out of it,’ Gilchrist declared when they sat at a round table beneath the branches.
‘Yes, they’re growing out of stumps of sawn-off branches. There are crimson ramblers round the other side. Someone told me the California poplar – they call it a black cottonwood over there – was the first tree genome to be sequenced.’ Grace turned her mouth down. ‘I know how to say those words but I haven’t a clue what they mean.
’
Heap was looking round the garden appreciatively and up at Plumpton Hill beyond. ‘You have a gardener?’
‘That’s a sore point. I did. I do it myself now, that’s why it’s looking so ragged.’
‘It’s not looking ragged,’ Heap said. ‘Big garden for one person to look after though.’
‘You a gardener, Bellamy?’ Grace said, a mischievous look in her eyes.
‘Oh, I wasn’t volunteering,’ he said quickly. ‘I was just admiring the fruit beds and those fruit trees against those outbuildings. And these alpine strawberries.’
‘You are a gardener! Is Kate too? Next time you have a day off bring your trugs and your wellies and we’re off!’
‘I’m sure we’d like that,’ Heap said, suddenly shy.
Grace looked Gilchrist up and down. ‘And don’t think you’re going to be let off lightly, leather chick city girl.’
Gilchrist grinned. ‘I always liked the idea of being a land girl actually.’
‘In Lycra,’ Heap murmured. Grace didn’t hear but Gilchrist shot him a grin.
‘Great – we’re set, then.’ Grace pointed at the beds. ‘All this stuff has been growing here for 150 years. The gardener back then died falling off a ladder. He lived here and ran the market garden next door – that creep Farzi’s place – for the big house. All those disused greenhouses and now what were fields of vegetables are planted with vines.’ She looked around. ‘I was thinking of following my neighbours into wine production but I don’t think I can be bothered. You know one of my neighbours only planted his vines three years ago and he’s going to be producing five thousand bottles this year?’
‘I hadn’t realized how many vineyards there were round here,’ Gilchrist said, unintentionally slurping at her coffee. It flustered her. ‘Do you mean Said Farzi producing all those bottles?’
‘No, not that creep. A neighbour beyond him.’
‘We are investigating him but are there other people who are now or have in the past threatened you?’ Heap said.
‘Are you asking that because of something Kip said at the party last night about violent, aggressive boyfriends?’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘And we also bumped into her this morning at Pelham House.’
The Lady of the Lake Page 11