‘Did you know George Murphy?’ she asked.
‘Yes, madam, I did. He’d been coming here for years, but not so much since Lord Allerdale’s death, rest his soul.’
‘How did the club mark the passing of a distinguished member who was so close to the previous owner?’
The bursar’s voice dropped. ‘Well that’s the thing. They didn’t. I think it was a tricky subject. I heard he was murdered; it would be terrible publicity for the club.’
‘And do you think the late Lord Allerdale would have agreed?’
There was a pause.
‘No, madam, I don’t.’
‘Thank you.’
The bursar was as good as his word, and an email came through ten minutes later. Kelly stared at the guest list and shook her head. George’s name was crossed out; he’d been due to sit at the same table as her band of merry men, led by Sebastian Montague-Roland (who didn’t row, and hadn’t attended Cambridge). She tapped her foot on the chair leg and wrote some notes on a diagram. HOLMES used a very similar methodology: a series of spider diagrams with connections and patterns in different colours. Kelly preferred to draw her own models. They usually ended up the same as the HOLMES ones, but that wasn’t the point. She wasn’t doing it to see if she was right; she was doing it to visualise all the moving parts, to commit them to the part of her brain that took notice of what her hands did. To understand the information, one first had to own it, and it was very difficult to get excited about something that had been churned out by a computer. Christopher Slater was on Sebastian’s table, as well as a serving colonel called Benjamin Dansford. She’d heard the name before but she couldn’t place when or in what context. She wondered if he’d come up in one of Johnny’s tales.
Matt called again and she toyed with ignoring him: the thought was childish but totally understandable, given his behaviour. She answered curtly.
‘Kelly, I’ve just had a call from the military police at Dhekelia garrison. Whoever you spoke to at the MoD did as you asked and sent somebody to Alexandros’s address, but there was no one home and they’ve tried several times.’
‘He told Tilly that he was going to the mountains, to a villa; can they get hold of any relatives who might know where that is? Whose jurisdiction is it?’
‘Local Cypriot. The military police are merely offering help because he was wanted for questioning here.’
‘I wonder where Colonel Dansford is stationed currently, and if he ever served in Cyprus. If so, he might have some old pals still there.’
Chapter 41
The Montague Club was quiet, but then it usually was unless there was an event taking place. It was the type of place that could cater for lots of people without seeming to ever be crowded. There were busy parts to it: mainly the rooftop bar, frequented by celebrities. But if one wanted solitude, it was readily available.
Philip Tooting mulled over the information he’d been given on Kelly Porter. She was like a terrier: fierce and loyal. She had a reputation for not giving up. But she also suffered the malfunctions of the midget canine: rashness and stubbornness born from a romantic sense of entitlement. He’d had several terriers himself, and they were good pets. He had come to the conclusion that Kelly Porter would fight to the death, but she’d also probably be stupidly brave. She could be tricked.
His heels clacked on the tiles as he was shown to a private dining room. Slater and Dansford were waiting for him, and the Colonel looked as though he was inebriated already, despite it being only mid-morning. Christopher rolled his eyes.
‘Gentlemen. We have a problem.’ Philip didn’t even sit down before beginning to speak. He nodded to a waiter, who scuttled off to fetch a cigar and his favourite brandy; if Churchill could do it, then so could he. He couldn’t smoke the cigar inside the room, but the balcony was welcoming and comfortable. No one complained if a whiff of smoke came in with a breeze. Things had been much easier when Alan was alive: George would do anything for him. But with the old man out of the way, George had been left vulnerable.
‘This is getting too hot for me, Philip,’ Christopher interrupted. ‘I never signed up to be exposed to this level of invasion. I’ve had the Permanent Under-Secretary asking me about my membership. It’s technically none of her business, but when pushed on how the information came to her attention, she was cagey and evasive. Someone’s talking and I don’t know if it’s the police or Sebastian himself. If your buffoon of a soldier had handled things better, Benji, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’
The Colonel took a large sip from the glass of red wine that had arrived on a silver platter. ‘Now, now, gentlemen, we can all point the finger. Yes, Cumbria was handled badly, but that can’t be undone. Using scum always has its disadvantages, but we also know that our options are limited when dealing with the matter of dirtying one’s hands. We had a problem and that was eliminated. Unfortunately it was messy and one got away. It simply means that we now have another problem, but it’s not insurmountable. The stakes just got higher. I want to talk about making life difficult for a few members of the police force.’
‘You can’t play that game, Philip,’ Slater said, the colour draining from his face. ‘We should cut our losses, tie up the loose ends, tidy up after ourselves and get a good solicitor. This will be my last time at the club. I have to put some distance between myself and certain familiar faces. I’m withdrawing. I’ve always made absolutely sure that nothing leads to me directly.’
‘I know, Christopher, and that’s why you can’t bail out now. Besides, your salvation is what you have on the dame. You could put her away for years, though she’d still squeal. If you didn’t want to be muddied, you really should have found a different line of work by now, my friend. Even you leave a trail.’
Slater looked at Tooting, and beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.
‘Besides, how will you explain to your wife that you can’t go to Barbados this year? I’ve always got on so well with your family, Christopher. It would be with a heavy heart that I would have to explain your role in the messy deaths of some employees of mine. But I’m sure I could arrange some personal support for them.’ He smiled and picked his teeth with a wooden pick from the silver pot that sat on a low table, next to olives, peanuts and some sort of sweet crisp.
‘You are going to blackmail me?’ Slater’s eyes widened.
‘Oh Christopher. Your hands are so dirty, you’d better be careful wiping the tears away; you might catch a nasty illness. Benji, are you still awake?’
‘Yes, Philip.’
‘I want you to find someone we can rely on; not one of your washed-up soldiers but someone who costs a little more. Get to the little scrapper and shut him up. Those holding cells can be violent places if one has to share with someone volatile with a desperate family on the outside.’
The Colonel fiddled with his tie. Slater paced up and down.
‘What about Cyprus, Benji?’ Tooting asked.
‘I’m on it. I’ve got a few favours owed there. It hasn’t been confirmed yet.’
‘Well bloody hurry it along, man! I suggest we give the investigation somebody closer to the deceased to toy with. After all, Sebastian harboured a virulent jealousy towards George, especially once he found out that he was to look after his money until he proved himself capable of fucking a woman and providing heirs of his own. He’s tried to slow the solicitors down, but I think we should do the opposite.’ Everybody knew that Sebastian was beholden to Philip until he could get his hands on his grandfather’s money. But then perhaps he’d be a liability.
‘That’s it. That’s what we go with.’ Slater was animated. Philip found it amusing that only a minute ago he’d been threatening to walk out on them. Now he was back on board simply because a fall guy had been provided to cover for him.
Philip nodded. ‘What about the journalist. Why can’t we find her?’
‘She’s vanished. She was snooping around asking questions. We had eyes on her but she got spooked. She was wi
th a man. Graeme Millar. The same one who found George’s body.’
‘What? I’m not going to ask about your sources, Christopher, but are they accurate?’
‘Watertight, Philip. Benji knows the guy.’
All eyes fell on the Colonel, who had got up to smoke a cigarette on the balcony. He stopped when the name came up, and turned to face his co-conspirators.
‘The link is tenuous. I served for five minutes with him in the same garrison when I first met Brown.’
‘Before or after Brown shagged your daughter?’
‘Fuck off, Christopher.’ The Colonel turned back to Philip. ‘I don’t know what he’s doing in Cumbria. He was a fine soldier but not a career one. He was Brown’s platoon commander.’
‘I’m not feeling this,’ Philip said. ‘It’s a little convenient, isn’t it? How much do you trust Brown? I think he’s set you up, Benji.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘No chance. It’s pure coincidence. And he won’t have given the police anything. Same for Auntie Brenda – she’s got balls bigger than Churchill’s.’
‘You seem remarkably calm, I’ll give you that. And no result in Cyprus either? Who are you hiring, monkeys?’
‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. They’ll find him.’
‘Splendid. Make sure they do. Is the journalist talking to police?’
‘We don’t know,’ Slater replied.
‘Why not?’
‘She’s not on the system.’
‘But you had her computer checked?’
‘It’s theorising mostly, no names.’
‘Good. Let’s eat. I’m ravenous.’ Philip ended the conversation as waiters carrying silver platters came into the intimate dining room and began setting places and removing lids. He had ordered a lavish brunch of smoked salmon, toasted rolls, cold meats, kippers and fruit. There were jugs of freshly squeezed juice, and champagne should anyone wish to partake. It was a banquet fit for three conspiring males intent on getting away with murder. Philip slapped butter on a roll and layered it with smoked salmon. The noises of men eating greedily filled the room and they all stopped talking.
By the time they’d finished, a good forty-five minutes later, sentient acknowledgement of what they contemplated had been side-lined. The Colonel and Philip went on to the balcony to smoke, and Benji swayed a little.
‘Why can’t we just have this fellow Millar followed?’ Philip asked.
‘I am.’
‘Good man. Who are you using?’
‘Sebastian told me about a private detective who works out of Lancaster. I contacted him and gave him the details. He informed me that Millar drove well out of his way to visit a cottage in the middle of nowhere three times in as many days. Each time he went in, he had a thorough look about first.’
‘Your man must be good.’
‘Apparently Sebastian used him to check out a few things after his grandfather died, and he impressed him.’
‘What does it take to get past an army man, Benji?’
‘Millar only served for a few years; he’s gone soft.’
Philip puffed on a £40 Arturo Fuente Opus X cigar. He kept a box of Gurkha Black Dragons at the club for special occasions only; today wasn’t one of those. He glanced at the Colonel, who looked green.
‘Good God, man, cut down on the Malbec, will you? You’re no use to me when you’re a gibbering piece of jelly. Sort yourself out.’
‘Yes, Philip. I wanted to thank you for the lawyers. Both those rape charges have been dropped.’
‘Marvellous.’
Philip contemplated the Colonel. He knew that if push came to shove, Slater would squeal like a girl should he be caught red-handed, but Benji would go to his grave with his secrets. And that was exactly what he was relying on. He needed a slick operation. A pool of reliable people, like the one who’d taken care of Professor Cooper: speedy, sanitary and meticulous. He’d already prepared the necessary documents to entrap Slater, who wouldn’t work for DEFRA for much longer, that was for sure. Benji was a more personal attachment, like one of his dogs.
‘It’s fantastic up here, Philip.’
Philip looked beyond the balcony and wondered what his friend was referring to. The London skyline was unimpressive from this side of the city, and little could be made out apart from rooftops and the honks of traffic. Perhaps he meant the whiff of luxury coming up from the streets of Mayfair, somewhere he could never envisage gracing as a mere colonel. He might expect the odd invitation to a reunion at the Cavalry and Guards Club, but that was about it.
‘Do me a favour, old chap.’ Benji always talked like the public schoolboy he was.
‘What’s that?’
‘Look after my family.’
‘Now, now, we’ll have none of that talk, Benji. Go and sleep it off; some of us have work to do. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, old man. There’s always a solution. Get your man up north to see if he can find the journalist, sort out Cyprus, and then we’re all done. I’ll make sure the detective doesn’t get too close.’
The Colonel tottered drunkenly towards the balcony door. He swayed past Christopher Slater, who rolled his eyes again, and out into the hallway, where he made his way towards his room. Philip came back in.
‘Fucking liability. I always said that, Philip.’
‘All right, Christopher, calm down, you’ll give yourself a nose bleed. Will you ask your damned contact to find out something personal about this detective? Let me down and I’ll know it was lack of effort, do you understand? Meanwhile, I’ll sort the solicitors.’
‘Of course, Philip. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Philip left the room and headed straight to the car waiting outside to take him to his flat in central London. He’d had enough of the club. He’d speak to Sebastian in good time.
Chapter 42
Leo Brown stared at his hands, then sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’d been left alone and was being brought a coffee. He was trying to keep still, because he knew he was being recorded. He didn’t want to give away anything through his body language that could incriminate him later. He had a story and so far he’d had the balls to stick to it. They were going easy on him: he was a professional police interviewee and knew these things. They were waiting to pounce, he could feel it. He intended to give them a few nuggets and play their game. Auntie Brenda would have said nothing apart from ‘no comment’.
He was being interviewed by two coppers and they took turns asking him the same questions over and over again, but in different and sometimes conflicting ways. He knew they were trying to catch him out, and it was a clever tool. Lies took effort and were very complicated to get right, whereas the truth was easy to remember because it was indisputable. But he hadn’t given them enough to pull apart. Yet. He was getting tired and thirsty, and he longed to lie down. He was also desperate for a smoke. A joint or a puff of a pipe would hit the spot.
Over the years, he’d been questioned hundreds of times about various misdemeanours, and he’d grown to despise the police. They were just ordinary men and women with a job to do, hopeful that the people they dragged in to question and intimidate were scared of the law. He was no longer scared of the law. In fact, he actually quite liked prison. It was like the army: it required no effort and zero responsibility, and he could easily get his smack. He’d read somewhere recently that soldiers who’d been kicked out for drugs offences were being let back in; they must be desperate. The idea that anyone could be expected to do what he’d had to do in Northern Ireland and not snort coke was a fucking joke. He also didn’t fancy running any more. The people he worked for on and off were scarier than a little piece of ass in a black and white uniform. He yawned. They couldn’t get him in here.
The dynamic duo came back in and resumed their tedious questions. They switched on the microphone, giving mundane administrative details first.
‘Leo, do you recognise this vehicle? For the purposes of the tape, suspect is being shown evidence number
LB/01.’
Leo looked at the photo of the white van.
‘I think I want a lawyer.’
* * *
The detectives sighed. Time was of the essence in any interview, because they had only a limited period of time to hold somebody before they had to let them go. Anything not forensic, or not corroborated by a witness, counted as merely circumstantial, so they either needed a suspect to crack or for the lab results to arrive quickly. As somebody who’d been on the wrong side of the law, Leo Brown would know this, as well as their limits concerning interview protocol.
The vehicle in question still hadn’t been located. By now, it could have easily been stripped of its plates and spray-painted, or even torched in some field. The plates caught on CCTV were different to those that Graeme Millar had reported on the van parked in Portinscale, but Millar had remembered one small detail that linked the two: the graffiti scrawled in the filth on the back. It matched what one of George Murphy’s neighbours had reported about the van parked outside his house. The graffiti was memorable; it read: I wish my wife was this dirty. Then underneath, in a different style: She was last night.
One of the detectives read the words out to Leo, who smirked back at them.
‘Leo, the ballistics team have come back to us, and the Glock found at your aunt’s place matches the murder weapon used to kill George Murphy. For the purposes of the tape, the suspect is being shown evidence number LB/02.’ It was a photograph of the Glock, next to a crushed slug. Leo wondered if the pellet had stayed in George’s brain. If it had, it was bad luck.
Bold Lies Page 21