“John’s keeping them close to him. His charming friend Steve seems to think that they could be some kind of bargaining tool. God knows how. He says the two of them are going to research the names and faces on the Internet. However, I did happen to have my cell with me, and as you know, I take a mean photograph….” As he spoke Jonathan tugged the little cell out of his pocket and brought up a series of images on the screen.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” cried Dominic, swiveling round to peer at the screen.
“Do you know just how late it is?” asked Jonathan wearily. “We have to get up again in a few short hours to go down to the police station to meet those two charming juvenile police officers. Can’t we leave our own continuing investigations until the morning?”
But Dominic had taken the cell from Jonathan’s outstretched hand and was flicking through the images. Despite being a good photographer, the task of sneaking clandestine shots of documents and photos in a nightclub appeared to be beyond even Jonathan’s skills. He had made several attempts at photographing the list of names, but the combination of a tiny screen, poor focus, and a shaky hand made it impossible for Dominic to read any of them. He flicked to the photographs and enlarged one of them on the screen, sliding it around to look at the slightly fuzzy image.
“Goodness, they are having fun, aren’t they?” he murmured as he tried to distinguish the blurry faces. There was one man—who seemed to be less involved in the group activity than the rest—Dominic felt sure he had seen before. He flicked through the images to try to get a clearer view, but the man always appeared on the edge of the frame with his face partially obscured, or he had his back to the camera.
“There’s something about this one,” he indicated to Jonathan. “I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t get a clear enough view of his face.”
“And I always thought you’d led such a sheltered life, my dear,” Jonathan whispered into his ear. “If I’d known that you were into group sex, then I’d have introduced you to some acquaintances a long time ago.”
Dominic giggled with embarrassment and nestled back into Jonathan. He held the cell above his head so that they both could see it. With his thumb he pointed at the edge of the screen.
“To be honest it’s difficult to work out whether this is group sex or a game of naked rugby in some stately home. You take a look at the chap on the far left of this photo. It’s almost like he knows where the security cameras are and is keeping out of view, but here he’s obviously got a bit distracted….”
“Probably by the cute young thing sucking his cock, I would imagine,” replied Jonathan drolly. “Lover, it really is too late to be looking at security-video porn. Let’s wait until the morning when we can transfer it onto the large computer screen.”
Jonathan gently took the cell from Dominic’s hand and put it on the table behind him. “Bedtime, my little Hercule Poirot. Unless you would like us to have our own security-video moment now.” He reached down and began to unbutton the fly of Dominic’s trousers. “Goodness, I think you do,” he exclaimed with mock surprise. “I think you’d better let me see to that now. It wouldn’t do for you to walk into Brighton police station tomorrow morning with your trousers in such a state, now would it?”
THE ALARM sounded at seven thirty the next morning. Dominic groaned, but Jonathan continued to sleep. Reaching his arm out from beneath the warm duvet into the cold air of the bedroom, Dominic fumbled for the alarm clock. He cursed Jonathan for not installing central heating in the two-hundred-year-old cottage. As he silenced the alarm, his cell began to ring on the nightstand beside the bed. Dominic considered leaving it for a moment, but curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up the call.
“Is that Mr. Dominic Delingpole?” asked a man’s voice at the other end of the line.
“Yes. Who is this?” replied Dominic warily.
“I’m Constable Locking from Thames Valley Police. I’m sorry to say that a neighbor of yours has reported a break-in at your apartment in Ash House. Miss Alexis Bunce from number three contacted us last night when she saw signs of a forced entry to your front door.”
“Last night?” interrupted Dominic. “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“Miss Bunce reported the break-in at 11:00 p.m. last night. We attended at 11:25 p.m. and, having ascertained that there was no one present in the property, we arranged for the door to be made secure,” continued the officer. He was clearly affronted by Dominic’s outburst. “We felt it was best to wait until morning before contacting you so that you might get some sleep. I’ve been on the night shift here, sir,” added Constable Locking for good measure.
“Thank you, Officer, that was thoughtful of you,” replied Dominic wearily. “Have they stolen anything?”
“That is not something we are able to ascertain, sir, and why we will need your presence at the property. Miss Bunce informed us that you might be away as a result of the incident involving your upstairs neighbor. If you would be so kind as to give us your estimated return date, then we can arrange for someone to meet you at your property to facilitate access, seeing as how the door has been sealed up to prevent further intrusions at this moment in time.”
Dominic wished that the British police force could be taught to speak normal, everyday English. As he ended the call, Jonathan stirred next to him. “Who on earth is calling at this ungodly hour?” he mumbled.
“It’s getting on for eight,” replied Dominic, shivering his way out of bed. “We’ve got to be at the police station by nine. That was the police back home. The apartment’s been burgled.”
Jonathan sat up. “Oh my God, what is going on? Have they stolen anything?”
“The police don’t know, so I’ve got to get back there as soon as I can. It never rains but it pours, does it? If the collection’s gone, I don’t think I’ll stop crying for a week.”
Dominic had amassed a considerable collection of art deco glassware over the years. There were only a few pieces of real value, but it was the beauty of the objects that he cherished more. Nagging at the back of his mind was the thought that the burglary might have something to do with the events surrounding Simon Gregory. For the moment he dismissed the thoughts from his mind as creeping paranoia. Anyway, he had more important things to worry about. There was the very real threat of being charged with withholding evidence. He was not relishing the visit to Brighton police station.
Chapter 13
WHEN JONATHAN, Dominic, and Christophe met up at the police station, they were told that neither Sergeant Dixon nor Constable Crawford were available. Instead, they were shown into an interview room by a tall, distinguished-looking officer.
“My name is Detective Inspector Scott,” he began, revealing a Highland accent to match his name. “This shouldn’t take long. Just a few formalities. Now, you were present at the incident in Old Steine last night when the gentleman was hit by a black Range Rover car. What were the three of you doing in the area at that time?”
“Oh, you know, Inspector, just passing through,” said Jonathan airily. “We were thinking of going for a sauna actually.” Dominic groaned inwardly. He would have preferred Jonathan to be a little more discreet, but perhaps honesty was a better approach.
“An interesting coincidence. It seems that the victim had just visited the Sauna Bar. Did you know the man?”
Jonathan jumped in before Dominic had a chance to answer. “No, Detective Inspector. We saw that the man was running ahead of us, and then a few moments later we heard the crash.” Dominic was briefly annoyed at Jonathan’s intervention. Although not a lie, his remarks withheld significant amounts of the truth. Dominic had prepared himself to reveal all that they knew to this officer.
“I see,” mused DI Scott. “Unfortunately we’re having difficulty identifying the man. Strangely we found no form of identification on him, and as you probably know—” He paused, looking directly at Dominic. “—the Sauna Bar is entirely anonymous. We’re running checks on
his fingerprints and dental records at the moment.”
Dominic’s heart missed several beats, and he looked across at Christophe. He was sure he had seen Christophe put the wallet back into Peter Freedman’s pocket shortly before the ambulance turned up. Why had the police not found it on the dead man? He glanced at Jonathan, whose face betrayed no hint of emotion. Dominic’s intentions to tell everything to the police now completely deserted him. The new information from DI Scott confused him, and he was relieved that Jonathan had intervened a moment earlier. His lawyer instincts encouraged him to maintain his silence, painfully aware that the police officer was still staring at him.
Detective Inspector Scott paused a moment longer before continuing, “It’s very unusual to find no identification. Usually there’s a driving license or a credit card. He didn’t even have a wallet. But I suppose men that visit those sorts of places often have things to hide.”
DI Scott continued to look squarely at Dominic with his piercing blue eyes. “You gave our officers your statements last night. Is there anything you might be able to add this morning?”
Dominic decided that, as the unappointed lawyer for the three, he should answer before Jonathan had a chance to say anything more.
“I’m afraid there’s really nothing to add. We did our best to help, but there was really not much we could do before the ambulance arrived.” He looked at Scott across the table without blinking. Under different circumstances he would have found the inspector’s blue eyes and square jaw particularly seductive. “Perhaps he’d lost his wallet or it had been stolen, Detective Inspector?”
DI Scott paused again and then said, “Well, we’ve spoken to the driver of the vehicle that hit the deceased. You met Mr. Faldon, I believe. He says that the man simply ran out into the road in front of him, and that he had no time to stop. It seems this was simply a tragic accident.”
Dominic glanced at Jonathan, who by now was industriously cleaning some gardening dirt from under his fingernails. He looked back at DI Scott, who held his gaze steadily. Finally the Detective Inspector pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for the moment. We have your contact details. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.”
He turned to leave the room and then looked around at Dominic to ask, “By the way, who made the emergency call last night? Was it you?”
“No,” replied Dominic. “It was the driver.”
“Hmm, interesting,” replied DI Scott. “Well, that will be all.” He held the door open for the three men and escorted them back to the main entrance of the police station.
STANDING OUTSIDE the police station, the cold December wind whipping their faces, Dominic turned to Christophe. “You did put that wallet back in his pocket, didn’t you? I saw you do it.”
Christophe opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Jonathan, who was wrapping his Abercrombie & Fitch jacket tightly around his body to keep out the cold. “My dear, it’s very clear. There’s some kind of conspiracy going on here, and I don’t think that even the lovely old police know what’s going on. Old Scottie dog back there was as puzzled as you or I. The wallet on that man showed he was called Peter Freedman and that he had some connection with the House of Commons. Darling Christophe certainly put the wallet back into Freedman’s pocket just as the ambulance arrived. Somewhere between the ambulance people picking up the body and the police getting involved, that wallet went missing. It wouldn’t have dropped out, so someone must have taken it. Someone who didn’t want Freedman’s identity known. This is just too exciting. Let’s go and get a drink to warm up and work out what we know.”
Dominic shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to Oxfordshire. Don’t forget that someone’s broken into the apartment. I need to find out what’s happened.” He turned to face Jonathan directly, holding his partner’s hands in his, and chose his next words carefully. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, I don’t feel your same thrill for this. You’re right to say that we’re involved in some kind of conspiracy, but I’m afraid that it could hurt us all if we’re not careful. There’s a boy unconscious in hospital, a man dead, and my apartment’s been burgled. You’ve got some bizarre pornographic images on your cell, which may or may not be a case of blackmail that’s linked into all of this, and we now know a bunch of students who could be involved in some strange drug trials.”
Without hesitation Jonathan leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. He pulled Dominic against him in an affectionate, warming embrace. As they hugged, Jonathan spoke directly into his ear.
“Lover, you’re right. I know. I’m being flippant and trivial. There’s one person who’s stuck right in the middle of this through no choice of her own. Darling Samantha is all alone at that hospital, not knowing whether her son will ever regain consciousness. For her sake, we must get to the bottom of this. I might act silly and excited, but my heart’s in the right place.”
Dominic allowed himself to relax into Jonathan’s body for a few moments before straightening up, shivering slightly in the winter wind.
“Oh, Jonathan, your heart is always in the right place. And you’re right about Samantha. She brought us here to start with, and we can’t let her down now. I need something warm before heading back to the apartment—and no, I don’t mean that,” Dominic said as Jonathan’s tongue caressed his ear. “Let’s treat ourselves to coffee and cake at the Grand Hotel on the seafront before I go. We can make a plan together. You know that always makes me happy.”
THE REVOLVING door of the Grand spun the three men into a warm foyer and the sudden hush of hotel aristocracy. A thick pile carpet led away toward a high-ceilinged dining room. Its brightly lit tables were filled with the subdued hubbub of midmorning ladies who lunched, mingling with smart-suited business executives armed with laptops and cell phones.
A liveried waiter escorted them to a white-linen-covered table in the corner. Jonathan drew some disapproving stares as he walked through the elegant room. His gardening trousers, army boots, and motorbike jacket contrasted with the sober clothing of the Grand’s clientele. Jonathan cheerfully smiled and waved at anyone who glanced in his direction. They, in turn, hastily looked away. As the three approached their table, Jonathan suddenly peeled off to greet one of the diners noisily.
“Mrs. de Valles! How absolutely wonderful to see you! How is the new pond doing this winter? Have you avoided it icing up in this dreadful weather?”
A red-haired woman in her sixties turned, and her eyes lit up when she saw Jonathan.
“Dear boy, my savior, my gardening angel!” Chatter on the tables around Mrs. de Valles hushed as several heads turned to see the incongruous meeting between the doyenne of South Downs society and what appeared to be a dispatch rider without his helmet. Mrs. de Valles turned to her dining companion.
“Cynthia, this adorable man is responsible single-handedly for the transformation of the grounds of the hall into the delightful home for my garden parties. Jonathan McFadden, this is Cynthia Palmer-Edwards. You two really must talk sometime.”
“Cynthia Palmer-Edwards of Gossip! magazine? What scurrilous stories are you digging up with poor innocent Constanza here?” Jonathan struck a dramatic pose. “I should throw myself between you to defend her honor before you wreak havoc in her genteel, reclusive life.”
A few feet away, Dominic stood patiently with Christophe, watching his partner flirt effortlessly. The women laughed at Jonathan’s harmless mischief, each touching him on the arm as he crouched down at the table between them. Dominic wished that he had the charm and chutzpah that allowed Jonathan to develop new business contacts so easily.
“Well, my dear man, perhaps I will write about you and your cavalier gardening exploits next month. Didn’t D. H. Lawrence write about someone like you in Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” Cynthia Palmer-Edwards clasped Jonathan’s bicep in her hand. “That’s not a bad idea of mine. Constanza, you must give me this delightful man’s contact details. The gard
ener’s view of Sussex society. It would work well in the spring edition. And who are these other two charming gentlemen, Mr.…?”
“Jonathan McFadden at your service, ma’am.” Jonathan gently prized her viselike grip from his upper arm and brought her hand up to his lips to kiss it.
“Allow me to introduce you to Dominic Delingpole, lawyer extraordinary and my darling partner of several years. And this is Christophe LeBatier, security consultant and man of muscle.”
A flicker of sexual disappointment betrayed itself in the eyes of Cynthia Palmer-Edwards for just a moment before she adopted a serene expression and smiled sweetly at Dominic and Christophe. “I am enchanted to meet you all, particularly you, Mr. McFadden. Here is my card. We must meet again very soon.”
The three men took seats at their own table, and Dominic leaned over to Jonathan.
“It constantly amazes me to watch you in action. You charm the birds from the trees. If she does that piece on you in Gossip! Magazine, you’ll have work coming out of your ears. Although now she’s met me, I think she’s cooled a bit.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Women like that love the company of gay men. All the fun of flirtation with none of the unpleasant follow-through. She was very quick to give me her card.” Jonathan picked up the menu. “Now, what are we all having? My treat, seeing as I may be getting a little promotion quite soon.” Jonathan grinned broadly. “Bacon sandwich and a cup of tea for me, I think. What about you, Christophe?”
The Frenchman snorted loudly. “Bread, butter, and greasy English bacon. That is not the way to eat healthily, so that is certainly not for me.”
As he was saying this, Jonathan leaned over and massaged Christophe’s pectoral muscle. “Hmm, cantaloupe and a glass of hot water for you, then, my man of muscle.” Jonathan glanced over at Dominic’s disapproving look. “Earl Grey and a large slice of lemon for you, lover?”
The Necessary Deaths Page 8
