by Clare Curzon
The name, like the face, was one that Z had to search her memory to recall, but unsuccessfully: Charles Stone, she was told. Someone important, she was almost sure. Not a politician. Not an entertainer; and yet surely it was on television she’d seen him. No more than a glimpse as she changed channels. In an interview perhaps. On some specialists’ panel? Kate had introduced him as though he required no explanation.
‘Jessica’s boss,’ Kate added.
He had risen. They shook hands.
‘How do you find your son?’ Z asked moving closer to the bed.
Kate hesitated. ‘He – I think there’s been some kind of change. His breathing seems different. More as though he’s asleep.’ She’d picked up on it, as possibly only a mother would.
The man spoke quietly. ‘Mrs Dellar will be staying with me for a few days, helping in our efforts to trace her daughter. I think you should have my address.’ He passed Z his card. She noted that he lived only ten to twelve miles away. Under his name was written simply Import-Export: no company name. So he was a businessman. That would account for her having skipped his programme. Apart from the news, she only followed TV that had a storyline.
‘I’m glad you’ve someone with you,’ she told Kate. ‘It’s no time to be on your own.’
She left them to their vigil and returned to write up her day. As she pulled into the station car park her pager sounded. The Boss wanted her upstairs. She glanced up and recognized his outline at the window. He’d been expecting her return.
‘Something’s happened?’ she demanded, knocking and entering in one movement.
‘Sir Matthew and his daughter were seriously injured last night in an RTA just a short way from their home,’ he said tersely. ‘And an anonymous caller reported a biker driving erratically at the same time a couple of miles away. We were given a partial licence number. It could belong to Gus Railton’s son Jake.
‘I want you and Beaumont to chase him up and bring him in. He could have gone to earth somewhere. He has a lot to explain. And we can’t risk any more of that family going missing.’
17
In the ICU at Windsor the bleeper sounded urgently from where Madeleine Railton lay unconscious. Gus was hustled from his wife’s bedside as the crash team raced in to resuscitate her. He sat in the corridor, head in hands while they fought to keep her alive. Despite their desperate efforts there was no response
Madeleine’s death was confirmed at 7.10pm. When Zyczynski arrived she couldn’t deny Gus was deeply shaken. There was guilt too because he hadn’t been with her when the car crashed.
‘It wouldn’t have helped,’ she tried to console him. ‘You’d have been badly injured too, sitting beside her.’
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘Maddie’s father always took the front passenger seat. Claimed his legs were too long for the back.’
In an outsize Mercedes? Z doubted it. Sir Matthew would be exercising his authority over the family. Theirs could have been an uncomfortable home, as three-generation setups often are.
‘How was it you weren’t there?’ She already guessed there’d been a family falling-out, but she was curious to hear him explain it.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to think about it now. It was my fault, only Maddie was already stirred up over something her bloody father had said and she rounded on me. She didn’t normally, but there’s only just so much you can take from a fucking – well, someone like him. He shoves everyone in the dock.’
‘Then maybe you weren’t at fault. There are times we all get pushed into silly situations.’
‘It was about locking up the stables,’ he burst out, deciding to unburden himself after all. ‘I’d let her down.’
Z listened, nodding while he explained. His usually high colour was more pronounced than usual. She thought she saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes. But tears from grief or frustration?
Later she passed all this on to Yeadings as the team met in his office, joined by Percival from the Branch.
‘How far ahead do you suppose Railton’s looking at present?’ the Boss mused. ‘Losing his wife – undoubtedly his financial stay – is going to change life fundamentally. If his father-in-law survives, can you see the three men settling down to domestic bliss together?’
‘I expect Madeleine will have covered that risk,’ Z supposed. ‘Seriously horsy people must know that accidents happen; circumstances can change overnight.’
‘Well, Railton’s learnt it now,’ Salmon put in sourly. ‘We’ll need to take a look at her will in case there’s been some fiddling with the car.’
‘So who would you pick as the potential fiddler?’ asked Yeadings mildly.
Salmon’s eyes narrowed into slits. Invited for an opinion, he stretched his stocky legs to their full extent on the carpet before him and fell into lecturing mode. His voice dropped half an octave as he tucked his chins into his chest.
‘It’s suspicious, Railton falling out at the last minute. He could have cooked something up with his son – owner of a high-speed motorbike. There’s that anonymous call-in about a crazy biker just a mile farther on. The partial licence number given could fit young Railton’s. Two other cars were involved in the pile-up. I want statements from all survivors on just how the incident occurred.’
Yeadings nodded. ‘Inspector Wright of Traffic is collating material from the scene, but apparently none of the initial statements mentions a biker. All we have on that is the anonymous caller. One major factor regarding the crash is considerable oil spillage, pre-incident, on the curve which the Mercedes was taking. Skid marks suggest it made the driver lose control. They’ve retrieved a crushed plastic container with residue of used sump oil in it. We have to leave it to the specialists to report back on the Mercedes. Meanwhile we wait for Sir Matthew’s recovery and any account he’s able to give. At present he’s barely conscious and frequently drifting. You’ll have copies of the other survivors’ statements as soon as they’re available.’
‘If Dellar dies,’ Salmon supposed with crude satisfaction, ‘we get to see his will.’ He looked round at the others. ‘No need to be mealy-mouthed about it. To my mind this is no accident. If both Dellar and his daughter had died at the scene before being found, then legally it’d be accepted that Sir Matthew died first, being older. Well, it’s happened the other way about and the old man is hanging on. Which could be less in Railton’s favour. As it stands, whatever Sir Matthew had intended leaving his daughter will go elsewhere. The Railtons will inherit only whatever Madeleine intended leaving them.’
Yeadings grunted agreement. ‘We don’t yet know the intricacies of the wills in question. But Sir Matthew’s an expert in law, and if he has a poor opinion of his daughter’s husband and stepson it’s unlikely he’d have wanted them to benefit unduly.’
He pushed his empty cup and saucer away. ‘One thing I’m pretty certain of. He’ll have everything covered to his own satisfaction. As was the case with his late wife’s will.’
‘You’ve seen that, sir?’ Beaumont interrupted.
‘I took a trip to St. Catherine’s House today,’ the Boss admitted, ‘and obtained a copy. It seems Sir Matthew married an heiress. When she died their daughter Madeleine and son Robert were left a considerable sum in trust, but Sir Matthew received the lion’s share outright. We can safely assume he’d advised her on drawing up the provisions.’
‘If – ’ Salmon pronounced, and paused. He screwed his mouth tight, then continued. ‘If the Railtons set up the car crash, we’re agreed, aren’t we, that it’s gone sour on them? Their big meal ticket’s gone, with the old diehard surviving. Not what they’d have intended at all. Let’s interview them in depth while their wounds are smarting.
‘Beaumont, get after them and find out exactly where both were at the time of the accident and an hour before and after.’
‘Say, nine to midnight?’
‘Better make it that. And then check up on any witnesses they use for an alibi.’
‘And Z
yczynski?’ Yeadings queried.
Salmon considered. ‘She can liaise with Traffic.’ He turned to her. ‘See what the Fire Service can turn up regarding the oil spill. Small ones aren’t uncommon, but it did disable two other cars after the Mercedes. I know that road. There’s a fairly irregular traffic flow at that time of evening. Since earlier vehicles weren’t affected, the spill must have just happened. Maybe a can fallen from a lorry taking the roundabout at speed. But I’d put my money on the contents being deliberately spread there. Could be by our biker.’
‘This roundabout,’ Percival muttered. ‘Is that marked on the map as Woodside? It all looks like open country round there.’
‘Country, yes. But heavily wooded. There’s a lot of cover,’ Yeadings explained. ‘The other thing about Woodside roundabout is that it isn’t round. The island’s central to a complicated intersection, elongated and shaped like a hide.’
‘Hide? You mean like a shelter for watching animals?’
‘No, hide as in an animal’s skin. Imagine a sheep’s fleece, its forelegs pointing roughly north and its back legs south.’ He sketched it roughly on his notepad and pushed it across.
‘The Mercedes, leaving Windsor Great Park, approaches it from the northeast, to come off at the second exit. The central reservation is woodland, offering plenty of cover. If I meant to set this up that’s where I’d be waiting, with a clear view up the curved approach. There’d be time enough then to identify the Mercedes and sling out the oil.’
‘Only at that time of night it’s dark, and there’s no lighting except low reflections on the road signs. There was no moon then,’ Salmon argued. ‘The traffic’s light at that hour, but it’s almost continuous. The Merc’s headlights would look much the same as any others.’
‘Except by infra-red. There’s enough curve to offer a side-on view. Night glasses are something we’ll search for when we’ve someone in the frame.’
They all considered this.
‘The car’s a wreck,’ Percival put in. ‘I’ve been to see it. The wheels were locked to the left, as if she tried to steer into the skid. But it could be she saw something to avoid on the far-side and overdid it. Perhaps a person moving on the edge of the reservation, or the oil being thrown. It would be instinctive to recoil. The first impact was on a yellow road-sign for Legoland. It probably knocked them both out. Then the next two cars piled in at the back and side. With that they hadn’t a wax cat’s chance in hell, poor sods.’
Salmon rose to his feet. ‘I’ll interview survivors from the other two cars myself; find out what they saw. If the biker’s identified as the boy Jake, then he’d be close at the right time and far enough ahead to set it all up.’
‘Good,’ Yeadings said, nodding. ‘I’ll expect to have something in writing before you all go home tonight.’ He watched them leave, then turned to his logbook. There was plenty more to add. The last entry covered a conversation with Z before the whole team met up. It referred to Kate Dellar’s being befriended by Charles Stone, her daughter’s boss. She could be contacted at his home address for the next few days.
Stone was a big fish. Could that account for Special Branch nuzzling in on this case? Nothing extraordinary for the man to query an employee’s disappearance, but why should he take such a personal interest in the widow Dellar?
Yeadings would welcome an excuse to talk to Kate again himself, and at the same time take a look round Stone’s country house.
He began to hum under his breath, recognized the tune as Coward’s Stately Homes of England, grinned and broke off. Not more than ten or twelve miles away as the crow flew. He rather fancied the trip out there. He’d get an official car laid on.
It was a little after nine-twenty when Yeadings’ driver was confronted by the closed gates to Charles Stone’s estate. ‘Find a bell or something,’ the Superintendent instructed him shortly. ‘Give it a good yank.’
The instruction proved unnecessary, as a thickset man dressed like a gamekeeper came out of the lodge to confront them, with a twelve-bore shotgun under one arm. Yeadings lowered his window and nodded across. He dangled his warrant card, giving name and rank.
‘I’ll have to speak to the house,’ the man said, unimpressed. He moved away, produced a mobile phone and spoke into it. After a short wait he growled some reply, then came across to the car. He bent and gave Yeadings’ face a searching inspection. ‘Mr Stone will see you. You can go ahead in one minute. Take the left fork and park by the front door.’
They waited while the man disappeared into the lodge, then the twin gates sighed open and they drove in. There was a single bend and the house came in sight on a grassy knoll, three storeys of warm red brick in an unpretentious William and Mary style. The left fork took them a further semicircle and up an incline to reach the ground floor. Under the white-pillared porch three people stood waiting.
Yeadings took his time getting out. It gave him a chance to form a rapid impression of the little group. Stone, slightly ahead of the other, smaller man, was easily recognized from press photographs. He was youthful-looking, tall, well built and erect, rather more handsome than in print. His Armenian ancestry showed in his sleek, blue-black hair, strong profile and assured stance. His manners were English public-school, casually correct. Beside him the woman appeared small, a slighter, younger Judi Dench, with the same short nose and determined little chin. Her hair was cut ear-length and was as fair as his was dark. They stood close. But for her being the elder, Yeadings would have taken them for a couple.
‘Superintendent,’ Stone said, ‘it’s good of you to call.’ He introduced the other two and they all shook hands. The man, Roger Beale, was described as Stone’s assistant.
Even before the superintendent could be invited indoors, Kate Dellar asked anxiously, ‘Have you any news?’
Yeadings knew she meant about her children. ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Dellar.’
‘Let’s go through,’ Stone said, and led them to a small salon off the hall. Crushed cushions on two chairs and a sofa showed where they had been sitting. Yeadings made for a spare seat. They appeared to have been drinking fruit punch. Stone indicated a half-empty glass jug on a table between them. ‘I’ll get some more. The ice has melted.’
Before Yeadings could demur, a tall woman had appeared at his side with a tumbler and fresh juice on a tray. Stone nodded but didn’t introduce her. So not the wife. She left as silently as she had come.
‘We heard about the dreadful accident last night,’ Kate Dellar said. ‘How are they both?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Yeadings told her. ‘Mrs Railton didn’t pull through. She died earlier this evening. Her father’s condition is still critical.’
Kate was shocked. The men were unsurprised. Yeadings was left to assume Stone had his own means of gathering information.
‘So much has gone wrong,’ Kate said, distressed. ‘You’d think there was a curse …’
‘An unlucky family?’ Yeadings asked softly. ‘Certainly one that seems at risk. So much has happened just lately. Where do you think it all began?’
She had shut her eyes and now all the colour left her face. She seemed unable to speak, both hands clutched tightly against her chest.
‘Michael,’ she managed to get out at last. ‘My husband. I can’t believe any more that it was random. Someone – someone is picking us off, one by one.’
Stone, his face severe, moved across to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘Kate, there could be other reasons for -’
‘He was attacked,’ she insisted, ‘on his way home. He always walked down Surrey Street to the Underground. Everybody knew …’
‘It was the Met’s case,’ Yeadings put in. He had reviewed the report, dredged up when trawling the name Dellar. ‘They would have investigated thoroughly; but without any witness coming forward they had to accept he was mugged for the money he had on him. You know that at night the Strand has derelicts sleeping in doorways. They get less and less from begging as the public tires of supporting their drug
and alcohol habits.’
‘No,’ Kate said. ‘First Michael, then Eddie and Jess. They tried to get at Jess on her boat first, remember? But she wasn’t there. So they followed her to Carlton’s and set fire to the place with us all in it. Now it’s Matthew and Maddie. This is more than coincidence. What have we done to deserve all this?’
‘Nothing,’ Stone said sharply.
‘You believe someone outside your family is carrying out a vendetta against you all?’ Yeadings questioned.
Kate’s chin came up as she faced him on it. ‘I do. I know it seems beyond belief, but I believe one of us – ’ She paused, took a breath and went on, ‘ …one of us has done something terrible to cause this indiscriminate attack on the rest.’
This was illuminating. Yeadings stared at her, then away, unwilling for her to guess what was in his mind. She thought one of the Dellars capable of provoking an irrational passion for revenge. Her anger was because she and her children, possibly her dead husband too, had been included with the others, considered guilty alongside whoever she suspected of this undefined outrage.
‘So who in the family do you think ultimately responsible?’ he asked quietly.
‘Any of them,’ she said bitterly. ‘They’re all monsters.’
This, when he reviewed it with Salmon, was meat and drink to the DI. Rather than shifting suspicion to outsiders, it gave greater credence, in his mind, to a conspiracy by the Railtons. What alternatives were there, inside the family or out? He couldn’t see an octogenarian poet proving a master criminal, even after arson at his home. He’d hardly have torched it for his own gain, since it belonged to his brother. And he could have had no hand in the car accident that killed his niece Madeleine, because he’d moved away down to Sussex.
The theory of revenge wreaked on the younger brother by some criminal he’d sentenced harshly had been followed up and led nowhere. It still seemed the best bet to Salmon that both these crimes targeted at Sir Matthew were based on personal greed. Railton, as a drifter and a possible sponger, was fortunately to hand as prime suspect. Every detail of his past would need to be investigated and analyzed. Since Kate Dellar’s reported bitter outburst, Salmon felt quite certain who were the principal ‘monsters’ she’d ranted against.
