The Lady of the Lake

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He beat me up in a kind of a public place. The police were called and he was arrested. The police really wanted me to press charges but I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if I was pregnant with his child, I didn’t want our child growing up knowing his or her father was a douche.’

  ‘What did you do about the pregnancy?’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t pregnant. My periods had stopped because of some stupid diet I was on.’

  Gilchrist tried not to frown. She was still wondering why Kip had casually mentioned a child as if it were a fact. ‘Tell us about the trouble you’ve been having with Said Farzi.’

  ‘He owns the farm. And various properties in Brighton. He could probably give that legendarily nasty piece of work – what was he called, Rachman? – a run for his money on intimidating slum dwellers. Not to mention single female neighbours.’

  ‘He’s tried to intimidate you?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘At first it was seduction – if you can call it that. When he first moved in several years ago he invited me round and offered to buy this place. Stroked my face – yech – and said I could still live here rent free. We both knew what that meant. He assumed a single woman living next door would let him fuck her. When I wasn’t interested he took against me.’

  ‘Enough to want to kill you?’ Heap said.

  ‘Well, not just for that – I have an ego but I don’t fall for my own sex siren image. But there has been a constant bombardment.’

  Gilchrist looked at the white knuckles of Grace’s clasped hands. Her mellifluous voice had gone up half an octave.

  ‘That’s horrible – but exactly what kind of intimidation?’

  ‘Bullying ever since. That drive you came up belongs to me but he has access rights to the farm. He’s supposed to contribute to maintenance costs but when I politely asked he went ballistic.’

  Grace’s face had changed so remarkably as she spoke that she might have been a different person. Her mouth was set in an almost agonized downward grimace, her chin jutting out. It was an astounding transformation from someone who had looked so effortlessly beautiful a moment ago.

  Gilchrist stood. ‘I’m sorry to hear this. We’re going to leave you now – we have a lot of work to do today, including investigating this.’

  ‘We’re going to follow up on these things,’ Heap said. ‘We’re making rapid progress on all fronts. Be of good cheer, Ms Grace. Nobody is going to harm you.’

  Grace stood and took Gilchrist’s hand. ‘Bless you both.’

  Back in the car Gilchrist looked at Heap. ‘That was a bit of a confident statement, wasn’t it, Bellamy?’

  ‘We have to believe in ourselves more than in the system, don’t we ma’am?’

  ‘You are a good man. Now, you know what I’m going to ask you, Bellamy.’

  ‘It’s a pubic wig, ma’am.’

  ‘There are such things?’

  ‘More things in heaven and earth ma’am, than we can dream on.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d ever dream on – or even of – a pubic wig. Or, what did she call it? A merkin?’

  ‘Then you’re not a true modern Brightonian, ma’am, if I may say.’

  ‘I’m worried about Bilson. He’s unusually subdued. I’m going to call him.’ Just then her phone rang. ‘I swear that man is telepathic. Hello, Bilson. Your ears must have been burning.’

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone then:

  ‘Not as much as yours, DI Gilchrist,’ barked Chief Constable Karen Hewitt. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, ma’am,’ Gilchrist said, cursing herself for not checking who had called her.

  ‘Well, you know jurisdictional issues are sensitive between the districts in this division. Yet, according to reports, here you and DS Heap go tromping in your wellies and Barbours over the districts of Haywards Heath and Lewes as if they were your private fiefdoms. So, I repeat my question, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Investigating a murder, ma’am. As I understood it, at Lewes’s invitation. We have been seconded to Lewes district, if you recall, ma’am.’

  ‘But the investigator from Haywards Heath district is back from leave and is eager to get his teeth into this murder. It seems this crime occurred at a cross-section of jurisdictional something or other. Which puts you in the crosshairs.’

  ‘We are making good and rapid progress, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, back in your actual district, in this sleepy little town called Brighton, there is the torture and murder of a young student called Joe Jackson in a block of flats on the seafront. Do you think you can drag yourself out of the cow pats and get back to uncivilized civilization?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. Who should I liaise with in Haywards Heath?’

  ‘An experienced detective sergeant called Donald Donaldson.’

  ‘Don-Don?’ Gilchrist was worried her voice had become a screech.

  ‘Oh, yes, your paths have probably crossed since he used to be stationed in Brighton, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did,’ Gilchrist said flatly. ‘I thought he was at Gatwick failing to sort out drone attacks?’

  ‘They were sorted out and he is on secondment, I imagine. Is there a problem between you two I should know about? Anything personal?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Certainly not. Nothing.’ Except the guy was a total, steroid-using, body-building nutjob.

  ‘OK then. I’d like you to drop whatever you’re doing there right away and get down lickety-split to the crime scene here. I’d like you to come and see me at 8 a.m. tomorrow to hand over your files and notes to DS Donaldson.

  ‘This Brighton killing was uncovered because of some kind of Council Housing department raid. We don’t know yet when Jackson was killed. Frank Bilson has been summoned. There’s a worry it’s some kind of gang thing. Most of the other occupants of the apartment block are Moroccan and Sudanese. These communities have integrated really well in Brighton in the past twenty years but there is a rogue element, as there is in every community.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Gilchrist said, then realized she was talking into an empty phone. She sighed. ‘Shit.’ Her phone rang again.

  ‘It’s Sylvia Wade, ma’am. In the course of checking Said Farzi’s properties – and we have found enough irregularities to get him into court pronto – we found a young man who appeared to have been beaten to death. Some indication of torture. Name of Joe Jackson. I think you may be about to get a call from the chief constable about it.’

  ‘We already did.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you the heads up in time.’

  ‘Not your fault. Where was this?’

  ‘Nobby Court. One of those rundown apartment blocks on the seafront towards Hove. Most of the flats in the block were stuffed with mattresses piled up against walls. This flat was halfway decent. It looked like a student place judging by the posters on the wall, the dirty washing on the floor and the sink full of washing up.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this Joe Jackson?’

  ‘Not yet but his laptop and phone were there. Both cheap – he’s not an Apple kid.’

  ‘OK – thanks, Sylvia. Probably see you in a while.’

  Gilchrist looked at Heap. ‘I’m not sure how much of that you caught.’

  ‘We’ve got to go back to Brighton. But there’s a connection with Said Farzi.’

  ‘Both those things are true. But – and remember you’re driving precious cargo here when I tell you this – we have to debrief Don-Don. He’s our liaison in Haywards Heath. The chief constable wants him to take over the investigation round here for the moment.’

  ‘Sod that,’ Heap said.

  ‘Bellamy! I’ve never known you curse before – I thought only I was allowed to do that.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. But Donaldson? We can’t let him loose on Ms Grace.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ve got
your policing priorities in order there, Detective Sergeant, but I will let that pass since I know where you are coming from. However, Ms Grace has told us all she knows – she says – so he shouldn’t need to bother her, unless it turns out she’s lying.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, the minute Donaldson sees her name he is going to find an excuse to question her and probably gloat over her.’

  ‘Why don’t we see how much we can get done before we need to hand over to Donaldson? Who knows, maybe we can wrap it all up before he needs to be involved at all.’

  ‘I like the thought but, with respect, I believe it unlikely,’ Heap said.

  ‘Well, me too, Bellamy, but no need to rain on my parade.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Bellamy. If it’s of any interest, I too want to protect Ms Grace from Donaldson or, actually, anybody who wishes her harm. I like her and I think she’s a decent person. However, I don’t know where we go from here.’

  ‘We ignore Donaldson, I’d say,’ Heap said.

  ‘No offence, Bellamy, but that’s easy for you to say since I take it in the neck, not you. And incidentally, partner, never use the phrase “with respect” as you did earlier because we both know it indicates there is a total absence of respect in what you are about to say. I deserve better.’

  Heap slowed down and looked across at her.

  ‘You’re right. I’m very sorry. I was a bit discombobulated.’

  ‘Well, that would be a first.’

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. Believe me.’

  ‘Before we head to Brighton, let’s call by Plumpton Down House and see if Ms Knowles and Ms Granger have located Rabbitt’s diary. And his car.’

  EIGHT

  As they parked outside the main door of the house, Heap said: ‘DC Wade told me everybody who had been staying at the house on Sunday night has been interviewed. Nobody admits to seeing Rabbitt later than mid-afternoon, when a couple of long weekenders from Rawtenstall, wherever that is, saw him tinkering with the Lego.’

  ‘He wasn’t putting a Lego dead body in the Lego lake was he, in an act of clairvoyance?’ Gilchrist said.

  They went into the house and stopped to survey the scene in the reception hall. ‘It looks like someone else has been tinkering with the Lego,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I’d say so, ma’am.’

  The model village Rabbitt had constructed was scattered in big and small pieces all over the floor. They looked up. Rhoda Knowles was standing at the top of a flight of stairs, in front of a portrait of Richard Rabbitt. Gilchrist raised a questioning eyebrow. Rhoda Knowles shrugged and started down the stairs.

  ‘Mrs Rabbitt is back in residence,’ she said by way of explanation as she joined them. ‘She felt her place was here to comfort the children, who have been taken out of school.’ She gestured at the plastic debris. ‘She suggested to them it would be helpful for them and her to express their sorrow by destroying Rabbitt’s pride and joy, which they were never allowed to touch.’

  ‘She hasn’t had a go at his magic lantern stuff as well, has she?’

  ‘I think she has other plans for that.’

  ‘Is she in the left wing now?’

  Knowles shook her head. ‘The boys are, with a private tutor the major employs now and again. Mrs Rabbitt is in Ditchling. Doing a yoga class, I believe. Or possibly having a coffee with a friend in the museum there.’

  ‘She doesn’t strike me as the museum type,’ Heap said.

  ‘They do excellent coffee there,’ Knowles said. ‘And I think she’s hoping the museum might want to buy the magic lantern and slides.’

  ‘Is that hers to sell at this stage?’

  ‘A moot point but Tallulah is saying nothing.’

  ‘She’s back then?’

  Knowles nodded.

  ‘Any joy with the diary or the computer?’ Gilchrist said.

  Knowles shook her head. ‘Ms Granger told me of her theory that someone staying in the right wing was an opportunist thief but I’m not sure I agree. I always keep the left wing locked and Major Rabbitt was even more security aware.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he had CCTV fitted inside the house?’ Heap said.

  ‘Although he was considering it, Major Rabbitt was reluctant to enter the twenty-first century. Actually, he had not long moved into the twentieth.’

  ‘No CCTV cameras on the outside of the house?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Actually there are but they are never switched on.’

  ‘Can you remember if Major Rabbitt had any appointments in his diary for Sunday?’ Gilchrist said. ‘For lunch perhaps? Or in the evening with Ms Grace, for instance?’

  Rhoda Knowles pursed her lips. ‘As I believe I’ve already told you, he kept his weekends free from appointments. Especially Sundays. If he had an appointment with Ms Grace – which would surprise me – that would come under the heading of his social life. I’m not privy to his social life.’

  ‘You didn’t have lunch with him in the Jolly Sportsman on Sunday?’ Heap said.

  Knowles frowned. ‘No. Was he there?’

  ‘We have a report he was seen there with a woman.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. It wasn’t me. Do you have a description of the woman?’

  ‘Nothing except to say they were on very intimate terms.’

  Knowles moved her mouth and jaw as if she were trying to swallow something. ‘Were they?’ she said flatly.

  ‘They were,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Any thought about where his mobile phone might be?’ Heap said.

  ‘He didn’t have one,’ Knowles said in a monotone. ‘That’s why he needed a secretary.’

  Gilchrist nodded and looked at Heap. He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Very well then,’ Gilchrist said. ‘That’ll be all for now.’

  ‘You don’t want to speak to Ms Granger?’

  ‘Not just now.’

  As they turned to leave, Knowles called: ‘At least we have one mystery solved.’

  Gilchrist half turned. ‘We do?’

  ‘The major’s car. Mrs Rabbitt drove up in it. Though how she got it I have no idea.’

  Ditchling Museum was by the duck pond in the centre of the medieval village. It was in an L-shape, comprising a refurbished barn with an in-keeping modern extension.

  ‘What Knowles said about the coffee reminded me of an ad from way back for the V&A I read about,’ Heap said. ‘It made good coffee the litmus test of a good museum. The strap line for the ads was something like: “An ace caff with quite a nice museum attached.”’

  ‘I’m not big on museums,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Don’t see the point really. What’s past is past.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear you say that, ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘I think that both personally and generally history is crucial to our existence. Not so much that you can learn from the past but that it should be part of your present and future living.’

  ‘That’s over my head, I’m afraid, Bellamy. And, frankly, a bit New Age. I’d rather talk about the fact that, judging by her reaction to the news of Rabbitt’s rendezvous with some woman in the Jolly Sportsman, he was definitely getting his leg over Rhoda Knowles. I don’t mean to sound cynical but we should be able to take advantage of that to prise open Rabbitt’s business dealings.’

  ‘If she knows what they are,’ Heap said.

  ‘Oh, I think she knows far more than she’s letting on – or that Rabbitt realized she knew.’

  ‘Should we go to the Jolly Sportsman too?’

  ‘For sure.’

  They parked by the duck pond and walked up to the glass-fronted entrance.

  ‘It’s mostly Eric Gill stuff in here,’ Heap said, ‘but they have exhibitions of forgotten local artists from time to time.’ He paused at a poster attached to the glass door. ‘Bill Parrett at the moment.’

  ‘Who is Eric Gill?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘He gave his name to one of the most famous – and elegant – typefaces but he was also
a sculptor. He lived here back in the twenties and thirties. This museum is dedicated to him and his colleagues. He was a bit of a bastard. Obsessed with sex, including sex with his daughters, his sisters and even with the family dog. He lived at Sopers here in Ditchling and then over on Ditchling Common.’

  ‘I don’t think the Me Too movement would approve.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone should.’

  On the other side of the door there was a long foyer with books and museum gift shop stuff down either side and tables and chairs down the middle. The ticket office at the far end served as the barista counter too. Liesl Rabbitt was sitting with another woman deep in conversation at a table near the counter, coffee cups in front of them. Rabbitt looked up and saw them but continued her conversation. Her eyes never left them, however.

  Gilchrist stopped in front of her while Heap went to the counter. A smiling young woman said to him: ‘Are you here for the book signing? Just go on through to your left there.’

  ‘Book signing?’

  ‘Well, pamphlet really. About the Hassocks blockade?’ She pointed at a low pile of pamphlets beside the till. ‘The author is in the Eric Gill room signing copies. You’ve missed the talk I’m afraid – but the signing means you do get into the museum free. There’s a lovely lot of paintings to see by the late Bill Parrett too. Very English, very Sussex.’ She gestured at a postcard in front of Heap. ‘Children flying kites on Wolstonbury Hill with their mum; blustery white clouds in a pale blue sky; green, green grass. I love it.’

  ‘I love it too,’ Heap said, ‘but I’ll have to come back another time to see the exhibition.’ Heap ordered two coffees and bought the postcard and the pamphlet. By now, Gilchrist was sitting beside Mrs Rabbitt. Heap glanced at Rabbitt’s friend. Perhaps another Albanian-Greek since she had the same broad face. She too had blonde hair that looked like straw because of all the chemicals used to dye it. Her expression was hard.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few more questions,’ Gilchrist was saying to Liesl Rabbitt. ‘I don’t know if your friend could excuse us or if you’re happy to talk in front of her.’