Perhaps he didn’t know his colleagues as well as he thought.
Chapter 18
The police had gone from Allerdale House by the time Graeme arrived for his meeting with Sebastian Montague-Roland, but blue and white tape remained across various gateways and windows. He parked in the lane and buzzed the intercom. He’d toyed with not coming, because it was blindingly obvious that the guy was after a liaison. There were thousands of gay men out there who you’d swear blind were straight, and it was perfectly clear that Mr Montague-Roland was hoping Graeme was one of them.
He hoped things didn’t become tricky. He’d been propositioned before: most of his girlfriends had loved cruising gay bars and nightclubs when they were at university together – they had the best ambience apparently. He hoped he hadn’t led Montague-Roland on. He had a moment of conflict, but reassured himself that he had only shown interest in a job.
The house was a fine example of Lakeland materials: wood, slate and stone. It was the first time he’d been here and he couldn’t wait to have a nosy around inside. He drove through the gate and stopped outside a huge front door just as Montague-Roland came out with an outstretched hand. Graeme shook it. ‘Mr Montague-Roland,’ he said.
‘Oh please, it’s Sebastian. Come in, I’ve put some pasties in the Aga and I’ve got a rather marvellous bottle of Chablis on the go.’ He said pasty as if it had an ‘r’ in it. Southerners stood out like sore thumbs up here.
‘I’m driving,’ Graeme said.
‘Pity. I’ll have to drink it all myself.’
Sebastian closed the huge oak door behind them. The furnishings, lighting and decor were all arresting. Graeme appreciated good design and stared around at the sumptuous interior.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Sebastian said.
Graeme nodded. ‘Perfect.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve got my own ideas and I think Grandfather will turn in his grave when I fix the place up my way.’
Graeme was examining the artwork on the walls. Every painting was an original. ‘Did you ever consider opening as a museum?’ he asked. ‘Tourists love walking round these old stately homes, and pay a fortune for it.’
‘Imagine how much they’ll pay to stay here,’ Sebastian grinned.
‘So, you said you’ve already tried some building companies? I did see some surveyors up here.’ Graeme was aware that his information could be seen as prying. ‘I sail past the beach a lot.’
‘I’ve tried several people: all unreliable. That’s where you come in; you’re local, you know the area, and you’re already a stone’s throw away.’
Graeme rubbed his chin. ‘Absolutely. I’d be happy to. When do I start?’
‘Let me share my ideas first, and you can start giving me some figures.’
As they walked through the house, Sebastian regaled Graeme with snippets of family history and stories of how certain priceless artworks had got here from all over the world. He never mentioned his grandfather unless it was to repeat a valuation or an opinion. There was no affection, no memories and no stories of a blissful childhood spent swimming in the lake.
‘Did you come here as a child?’ Graeme asked. They’d finished downstairs and Sebastian was taking him up the grand double staircase.
‘I was sent off to boarding school at the age of five. Grandfather preferred older children who could understand facts and figures. He invited me a lot later on, but by then, my tastes had changed.’
‘How many guests will you be able to accommodate?’
‘I’m thinking intimacy: probably twenty-five maximum. They’ll be paying in the region of a thousand a night, so that’ll do.’
‘Nice.’
‘Pocket money.’
Graeme had never been near money like that, and it made him uneasy.
‘How did you know George Murphy?’ he asked. It was an innocent enough question, but Sebastian’s demeanour changed.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The man who was staying here; the guy who—’
‘I know who you mean. What type of question is that?’
Graeme could see that he’d offended Sebastian, but he didn’t know how.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I didn’t see him around. No one knew he was here. If any of us had realised he was staying, we could have kept an eye on him. It’s a close community. That’s what your guests will love.’
‘I’m not sure you follow my idea. My guests won’t be little Englanders looking for a twee boat ride over to get an ice cream; they’ll have impeccable standards and will be expecting the best. In everything.’
‘Of course. There are many exclusive resorts in the Lakes, and I’m sure yours will be one of the finest. I know everybody you need to make your dream come true. The most important feature is the privacy. You can give them anything they want.’
‘Quite.’
Graeme had managed to calm his host down and dared to breathe easier for now. They carried on with the tour. He wouldn’t mention the murder victim again. But Sebastian did.
‘What do you know about George? What are people saying? I know they talk. What am I up against?’
Graeme thought very carefully about his response. It could be instrumental in him landing a lucrative position here at Allerdale House. He certainly wasn’t about to tell Sebastian about his particularly intimate knowledge of the crime, or his relationship with the detective in charge. He was in a precarious yet oddly satisfying position.
‘Very little. People are saying that it was a bungled robbery. Wrong place, wrong time. Poor man.’ He lied easily.
‘Quite.’
Sebastian led him back downstairs to the kitchen. The smell from the Aga was wondrous, but Graeme toyed with leaving right away. Did he really need the job? He decided that he did. Managing a project of this size could change his life, and that of his kids. Sebastian opened the Aga and placed a pasty on each of two plates. They sat at the kitchen table, without ceremony.
‘Let’s talk money,’ Sebastian said.
‘What’s your budget?’
‘Name your price.’
‘I’m not after your cash. I’d expect a project manager’s wage. The rest would be costs.’
‘Project managers are on a thousand a day in London, but this is Cumbria.’
Graeme wondered how a man like Sebastian would know that kind of thing. He had no clue what type of project management could possibly pay a thousand quid a day, but he chanced his arm.
‘I’d only want seven hundred.’
‘Done. I might ask your advice on other matters. I need to learn about my neighbours.’
‘Of course you do.’
They ate. The pasty was decent, but not local.
‘I’m going to London tomorrow,’ Sebastian said. ‘Here’s a key: come and go as you please. Don’t spend a penny without my say-so, and keep me informed about what’s being said about that nasty business with George, will you?’
‘Of course. I know most folk round here.’
‘You can be my eyes and ears, then.’ Sebastian held his gaze.
‘Thank you for the pasty. It was a good one. I must be getting back now. I won’t let you down.’
‘Family to go back to?’
‘Divorced.’
‘I like all sorts of pasties – meat, veg, fish… How about you?’
‘I only like the traditional ones, I’m afraid. That fancy stuff isn’t for me.’
He’d made himself clear. Sebastian smiled.
‘Perhaps I can change your mind.’
Graeme stood up. ‘God loves a trier,’ he said. Sebastian laughed. The line in the sand had been drawn.
They shook hands and Graeme left Sebastian with his bottle of wine, next to the warmth of the Aga. The same Aga where George Murphy had cooked his meals for a whole week without anyone knowing he was there. As he left by the back door and walked around the front, Graeme looked up at the smoking chimney and the lights
burning upstairs. Had George existed in the dark and not lit a fire? It was a curious set of puzzle pieces that rattled around in his head. Next time he saw Kelly Porter, he’d ask her for sure.
Chapter 19
Kelly watched the taped interviews with Emily Wilson’s husband and Mike Hudson’s wife. It was harrowing viewing. After her years of experience on the force, interrogating witnesses – some serious dead certs, others mere question marks – she knew sincerity when she saw it. The psychologist agreed. Emily Wilson’s husband had three children under the age of six to look after, and he was like a man lost inside a hell of pain and never-ending torment. His eyes were red and puffy, he looked thin and undernourished, and he was unkempt. They had stock photos to compare, and he was a shadow of his former self. He was adamant that his wife had not been having an affair with Mike Hudson, but they’d worked that out already. Whoever had staged the scene had bought time and that was all.
Mike Hudson’s wife had two teenagers. Kelly remembered her own teenage years, and how, no matter how bad the rebellion and the angst, every teenager deep down needed a loving parent. Just one would do, but these kids clearly used to have two, and now they didn’t. Mike’s wife was equally dismissive of the idea of a torrid love affair. Both Emily and Mike had been in happy marriages, albeit with their usual dramas and dips. The squash club came up again, and Kelly and Matt agreed that it was undoubtedly a code for whatever was being researched in the garage.
Neither spouse knew about the garage and what went on there.
Kelly and Matt were also coming to the conclusion that the organisation of the murder was fairly sloppy. Not forensically, but the obvious staging and effort involved indicated that several people had been involved, and they both knew that when you had a crew of criminals, they were rarely loyal. It was just a matter of finding them. They were desperate to follow up on the white van lead spotted at George’s house. It was the strongest suggestion of foul play and they needed to rule it in or out.
They sat in the staff café at Ravensword and spoke quietly. It had been a long morning, but HOLMES had been updated a total of seventeen times, and that was promising progress. Matt explained that a lot of their work in murder inquiries increasingly involved checking CCTV, and Kelly told him of her frustration at the lack of it in Cumbria. No one installed CCTV on country lanes. Matt said he’d have to come and check her operation out one day. Kelly changed the subject.
George’s neighbour who’d spotted the van hadn’t managed to get a number plate, and there were probably twenty thousand white vans cruising the streets of London, legitimately or otherwise. But they both knew it was only a matter of time. They’d already had a result from one of Alexandros’s neighbours. Alexandros’s flat had been abandoned just like his car, but this time possibly with good reason. The place had been turned over, and forensics were busy processing for fingerprints and clues as to who had been frantically and destructively searching it.
The neighbour reported that he’d actually had a chat to some workmen in a white van parked outside at around midday; the same time Alexandros was in the area but seemed to drive through. The neighbour had given some good descriptions but he hadn’t taken the number plate either: law abiding citizens rarely did. Stratford boasted many CCTV cameras, being effectively an A road through a residential area, and they got a hit from some traffic lights close to Alexandros’s address at 12.40 p.m., but it would have to be cross-referenced; they needed more sightings to follow the lead.
In all, between the hours of 11 a.m. and 1 p.m., seven white vans were recorded in the area. Four contained only a driver. Two contained a driver and a passenger, but one had three men squashed into the front. Usually the demeanour of workmen ticked one of three boxes: eating, hunched over the wheel looking tired and bored, or shouting and gesticulating at the driver in front. These three didn’t fit in any of those categories. They looked sullen and uncommunicative. The number plate was put into the ANPR, and the van came up as unregistered. However, hit after hit came back from CCTV around London, and they were able to begin to map out possible routes for the trio.
Matt tapped instructions into his iPad to send the details to the PNC for every force to be on the lookout but not to approach the vehicle or the men.
‘I’d forgotten how much of a whirlwind city investigations are,’ Kelly said.
‘What’s it like up north?’
Kelly rolled her eyes; she’d let her guard down again.
‘I’m serious, I want to know. You’re famous down here. That trafficking case was mind-blowing.’ Matt put his iPad down and sipped his coffee. He wouldn’t let it go.
‘It’s beautiful for a start, and I wish I didn’t have so much to investigate. There are obstacles – tiny single-lane roads where you can get stuck behind sheep, tortuous journeys through mountains – but local gossip is always handy. There are also a million places to hide, like the city, though instead of glass and concrete you have lakes and fells.’
She was aware that she’d become animated and was surprised by her own passion. It was curious how, now that she was away, she felt like she belonged in the Lakes. It was a moment of true comfort and she smiled to herself.
‘What are you grinning at? You look ridiculously happy, Kelly, what’s his name?’
‘God, you men! I don’t need a man, Matt.’
He sat back and feigned defence with his arms. ‘Whoa, sorry. Still a touchy subject then, Boadicea?’
Kelly got up.
‘Shit, Kelly, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make conversation. I want us to get on.’
A few people looked over at them and Kelly realised that it wouldn’t look good to make a scene. She sat down. She wasn’t ready to tell Matt about Johnny. She felt it would be some kind of betrayal to let him into her private life, and anyway, it was none of his goddamn business.
‘I’m happy there, Matt. Let’s get back to work, please.’
Matt sighed. ‘All right.’
‘I have to say that if I was in Cumbria now, and we had sightings of a white van, I’d be out in a patrol car looking for it. I think it was Mike Harding, the comedian, who called one of the roads up there the longest cul-de-sac in Britain.’
‘Good for trapping perps, then?’
‘Exactly.’
They smiled at each other and carried on their assessment of what they had learned this morning.
‘I was thinking about the men who were seen going into George’s house, and who potentially ransacked Alexandros’s flat,’ Kelly said. ‘What were they looking for? And what about Mike and Emily’s houses?’
‘Do you think it might be connected to the garage?’ Matt asked.
‘More importantly, are Emily and Mike’s families safe?’
Matt tapped his phone and spoke to somebody to check. Family liaison teams were with both families and would remain with them for the foreseeable future.
‘Find out if they had computers at home,’ Kelly whispered. Matt nodded.
Routine searches of both properties had taken place, as was normal with murder victims, but not all the items had been thoroughly processed yet. Personal computers could provide a wealth of knowledge, and if somebody wanted to gain access to what was going on at the garage, they might not stop until all the loose ends were tied up.
‘All good, apparently. The personal items, including family laptops, are being searched: nothing of interest has been found so far. If anyone’s watching the houses, they’ll know that our presence is round the clock, and we’ve got no evidence to suggest that they’re in danger at the moment. The liaison teams are used to handling situations like this. So, what else? I haven’t had any information coming through to link any of the neurocellular team to the colantropine scandal.’
‘Any news on the Cypriot authorities speaking to Alexandros?’
‘Nothing so far. I guess it’s stuck in the Home Office. Come on, let’s go and visit Philip Tooting’s secretary and see when he’s back from gallivanting aroun
d Bermuda.’
‘Do you think it’s odd that he hasn’t flown back?’
‘Odd? Yes. But you know what these corporate types are like. The thing that worries me is that George and the others kept the garage such a fierce secret, yet somebody else knew.’
‘The other thing I’ve been thinking about is funding; it’s not easy or cheap to build and run a private lab.’
Kelly’s phone buzzed with a call from Kate Umshaw in Penrith.
‘Kate. News?’
‘How’s the big smoke, guv?’
‘Crowded.’ Kelly glanced sideways at Matt. ‘What have you got?’
‘We’ve got George Murphy’s VW Touran, abandoned in the Brandelhow car park.’
‘Underneath Cat Bells?’
‘Yup. And it’s in perfect condition, almost sterile.’
‘To be expected, I suppose.’
‘But if someone was cleaning up, they missed something: a USB stick in an envelope, inside a toilet bag in the spare wheel housing. The car has been processed forensically: no prints, and the USB contents have been sent for examination. There’s something else. I’ve got a list of phone calls made to and from Allerdale House the week George was there. Several came in from Montague-Roland’s number, but there was only one outgoing call. It was to a mobile registered to one Matilda Knight. She’s a journalist.’
Chapter 20
Back at her hotel, Kelly stretched her legs and undressed. They’d been at it for eleven hours, and she needed a shower and to curl up in lazy joggers and a sweater. Emma was still not back, and Kelly knew that the young DC would probably only sleep when someone actually ordered her to. She used to be like that herself. It was different as an SIO, though, more mentally demanding. All the graphs and indices and links she had flowing around her brain made her dizzy, and there was only so much information she could retain before she needed to recharge. Philip Tooting’s secretary had been told that his presence would be helpful, and she’d finally got the message through to him. He wasn’t pleased, apparently, but he also wasn’t above the law. Not only had his neurocellular section been decimated; they were potentially running an illegal lab. The USB stick from George’s car had been sent to a sterile lab environment in Carlisle to be examined in detail. Unfortunately, they couldn’t just stick it into a computer and look for themselves, because whatever they found might not stand up in court unless certain procedures had been followed.
Bold Lies Page 10