Laura stood and walked over to the window, staring out across her Japanese garden and lit yet another cigarette. Turning back, she blew out a lungful of smoke and said, “Sex games.”
Crane caught Derek’s eye. That was a new one on him and also on Derek by the look on his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“Janey and Clive belong to a private club in Mayfair. It’s near their London home.”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us about this yesterday?”
“Because no one was supposed to know. I don’t think Clive knows that I know. It was a secret, because of who she was, I mean is.”
“But couldn’t one of the, um, clientele, leak the information to the press,” said Crane.
“No, no one would dare. Everyone who goes there has one reason or another for keeping their activities secret.”
“So they’re all rich.” Crane shook his head, having had past experience of those with power and money who think they can do what they want, when they want and to whom they want, without any comeback at all.
“Very. You can’t get if in you’re not. Do you think someone there might have, might have…?” tears filled Laura’s eyes and Crane saw through her hardness and glimpsed the feelings she had for her friend beneath the hardened face she presented to the world.
“We don’t know, but it’s a start,” said Anderson. “Right, I need the name of the club and what were you saying about a London house?”
It hadn’t taken Crane and Anderson long to drive from Reading to Farnham. They’d considered phoning Major Cunningham beforehand, but Crane much preferred to see the look on his face when he realised that they knew all about his dirty little secret activities. And Crane wasn’t disappointed. The Major had been all bluff and bluster when they confronted him with their knowledge of their membership of the sex club in Mayfair.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” was his retort. “Look, have you nothing better to do than listen to gossip? My wife has been missing for nearly 48 hours and I’ve heard little in the way of progress from either of you. And now you have the temerity to accuse me, a Major in the British Army, of belonging to some sort of sordid club. I’ve a good mind to report you both to your superiors.”
“You can stop that now, Major,” said Crane.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said you can stop that. Pulling rank won’t work with us. I couldn’t give a toss what your rank is and to be honest I couldn’t give a toss about you. But what I do care about is finding your wife.”
“You can’t get away with speaking to me like this!” Clearly the Major hadn’t come across anyone like Crane before. His face turned puce and his fists clenched at his side.
“Major, I can speak to you however I wish. You’re the one that has been obstructing our enquiries by withholding what could turn out to be vital information.”
Major Cunningham stared at Anderson, the flush of anger still visible on his face and neck. “What are you going to do about him?” he demanded, pointing at Crane. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
“Yes,” replied Anderson. “Sgt Major Crane here is quite right in his assertions. So, tell us all about this club you and your wife belong to, Major Cunningham. Oh, and while you’re at it, we need the address of your property in London and the keys. You know, the house you also forgot to mention. I really would advise co-operation, Major.”
Cunningham stared at the two men for a moment, before sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands.
15
…Once his real identity was cloaked in anonymity and his ill-gotten gains at a suitable level, he vacated his housing association flat. Not wanting to take with him anything of his former life, he left the flat fully furnished. As he closed the front door for the final time, he grabbed a passing kid and paid him to deliver an envelope to the offices of the association. He never did know who opened the envelope which contained nothing more than a key with a tag on it. Written on that tag was the address of the property. He’d checked a few months later, watching his old home from a safe distance and was pleased to discover a new tenant living there. His bridges had been burned. No one would find him now.
Under a carefully constructed false identity he had purchased a secluded house in the area near Hampstead Heath in London, from an on-line colleague who had fallen on hard times. The price was laughably low, but then that was the way of the world. Money makes money and he was only too happy to take advantage of the man’s fall onto hard times, paying less than 50% of its true worth. His colleague needed money quickly and he had it. It was a doddle to arrange payment and he used an on-line firm of solicitors to handle the legalities.
Once he’d settled in, his investigations into his mother’s life were ramped up. He firstly gathered as much historical information on her as he could, from her fairy tale beginning when she was spotted whilst out shopping with friends, to her current modelling assignments and her marriage to a Major in the British Army.
Janey Carlton, super model. His mother.
As he turned over in his mind his options, he decided it was best to bide his time, while he watched her. Sometimes this was from afar, via the internet and television, whilst at other times he was near enough to touch her, as he watched from the crowd lining the red carpet at a film premier. He was waiting for a suitable opening so he could inveigle himself into her life. But it would have to be a subtle and natural meeting.
If he was going to move in those rarefied circles he needed a lifestyle that would give the impression that he was one of them. One of the beautiful people who appeared to have no worries other than how to fill their leisure hours. How to keep raising the bar on excitement, so as not to get bored, jaded and become yesterday’s news.
In order to attain those lofty heights, he ramped up his on-line activities. Some hackers were in it for the notoriety, not the money, wanting to be known as the man or woman who hacked into GCHQ or the Pentagon. That was, to him, a waste of talent and a waste of time. By all means hack into difficult targets, but for goodness sake once in there, steal something that someone wants and then sell it to the highest bidder. Or hack to order. But never, never, do it for jollies. That path was for the stupid geeks who couldn’t see further than their keyboard and were trapped in their bedsitting rooms. They were like vampires, only venturing out at night and then only when it was absolutely necessary. After a few audacious hacks, which he never publicised or told anyone about, he had amassed enough money to project the illusion he was seeking.
He had kept up his pursuit of the perfect body and now had enviable pecks and abs, beautifully tailored clothes and a suitably trendy, not to mention very expensive, haircut. It was a carefully arranged shaggy cut that gave him a smouldering look; his dark eyes and dark hair presumably a gift from his unknown father. A tangled relationship with some airhead girl was the last thing he wanted, but he needed someone on his arm, so he paid for escorts to accompany him, as he began to appear at the restaurants and clubs frequented by Janey and her husband. He took holidays when and where they did. When they were comfortable seeing him as part of their social set, he would be ready to make his move.
16
Notting Hill was not an area Crane was familiar with. He and Anderson had gone directly from Farnham and wound their way along the M3 and M4 motorways before heading into Central London. A ride around the outskirts of Hyde Park brought them to the an area of London famous for the Notting Hill Carnival, which was a huge street party held over two days in August, with the focus being on a celebration of all things Caribbean. As a result, Crane wasn’t prepared for what he saw. He’d expected a seedy area, but instead saw clean bright streets with elegant rows of Georgian houses fronted by porticos and columns, three and four storeys high. In some streets they were painted bright, deep colours. Terracotta, blue and green hues dominated the rows of houses around Portobello Market, but as they turned into the street they
were looking for Crane was relieved to see pastel coloured buildings, which were more pleasing to the eye, interspersed with the original white.
Anderson managed to park the car in a tight space and after feeding the parking meter, they walked a few doors down to number 53. Crane took a few steps back to stand against the edge of the pavement in order to view the full house. Including the basement, it was five storeys high, an imposing sight in anyone’s book. He wondered at the cost of such a property, a whole house mind, not broken up into flats, and realised it must be in the millions. He suspected that the property had been in the family for years. If not, running a large estate in the country must be a very profitable venture indeed.
As they walked up to the front door, Crane fished the keys out of his pocket, but Anderson touched Crane’s arm to stop him putting the key into the lock.
“We ought to make sure there’s no one in first,” he said.
Crane nodded and proceeded to jingle them in his hand, while they waited for an answer to their knock on the door.
Crane was itching to get inside and was just about to give up and open the door anyway, when they heard the sound of locks being undone behind the door. It opened to reveal an older man, with a military bearing, immaculately groomed. Crane was just about to ask if he was Lord Garford, when he took a closer look at how the man was dressed. He was in dark trousers with matching waistcoat over a white shirt and muted tie. Not much different to Crane’s attire really, but Crane was no one’s servant, which is what he suspected the man in front of them was.
“Good afternoon,” Crane said. “Is Lord Garford in?”
The man said, “Who shall I say is calling?”
“DI Anderson and Sgt Major Crane, SIB,” and Crane held up his ID and nudged Derek to do the same.
“Very well, sirs, please follow me,” and they walked behind him into a cool hallway, with a beautiful original tiled floor, something Crane had in his Victorian terraced house in Aldershot, which was currently rented out. Only this hallway was substantially bigger, with more rooms off the long corridor and a much, much bigger stairway leading upstairs. They were shown into what appeared to be a study and asked to wait while Lord Garford was summoned.
“How do we play this?” Crane asked Anderson after the manservant had left.
“Carefully,” Anderson said. “You might not like the aristocracy, but trust me, life will be a lot more pleasant for us if we don’t step on his toes. Just try and be polite, even if you can’t be deferential.”
“You have a very low opinion of me, Derek,” Crane said.
“Born of knowing you well,” Anderson grinned. “So behave yourself.”
“Yes, Detective Inspector,” Crane quipped and had to suffer a thump on the arm from Anderson in retaliation.
It was then that the door opened and the person Crane presumed to be Lord Garford entered the room. He was dressed remarkably similar to his son, Major Cunningham. Both had that studied casual way of dressing that was anything but. He wore buff coloured trousers without a wrinkle to be seen in them, a soft cotton chequered shirt and muddy coloured tie. He walked towards them without speaking and moved to sit behind his desk. He indicated the two vacant chairs in front of it and Crane and Anderson sat. Personally Crane thought it extremely rude of the man not to introduce himself and to shake their hands and he wanted to wipe the stare of disdain he was having to endure from Lord Garford, off the man’s smug soft-jawed face. Garford’s small chin was becoming lost in jowls that hung around his neck. His piggy eyes and thinning hair completed the undesirable looking face.
“Good afternoon, sir,” began Anderson. “As you may know, Sgt Major Crane and I are investigating the disappearance of your daughter in law, Janey Cunningham.”
Lord Garford nodded his head and said, “My son rang me to tell me you were on your way. Although I don’t see what you expect to find in my house that would help your investigation.”
Anderson ignored the implied question and said, “We understand that your son and his wife stay here when they are in London, which is quite often.”
“They do. But I still fail to see why you are here.”
“Are you aware that your son has given his permission for us to look through the house, to see if we could find anything that would help our investigation?”
“Do you have a search warrant?”
“Not at this stage, sir. As I said, your son has given us permission to be here.”
Lord Garford looked at them for a moment, then said, “Very well, but I will only permit you to look in his rooms.”
“His rooms?” Crane asked. He’d been expecting the Cunninghams to use one of the bedrooms in the house, of which he was sure there were many.
“Yes, they use the basement when they stay here. You’ll find that the keys he gave you are for the front door of the basement flat, so I’ll thank you to come with me and pursue your investigation downstairs.”
Lord Garford walked out of the study with the air of a man who was used to being followed and led them back out of the front door and proceeded down the stone steps to the basement. Standing aside, he let Anderson faff about with the keys, until he found the correct one and opened the door. Lord Garford followed them in.
Crane was about to ask Lord Garford to wait for them outside, when he saw the steely look of determination on the old man’s face. So instead he said, “Perhaps you’d like to wait here, sir,” he said, indicating a settee in the large lounge area they’d walked into.
The apartment, instead of being dark and gloomy as Crane perceived a basement to be, was filled with light. The large lounge area led into a dining area, with a large black glass table that seated eight. Beyond that was the kitchen, with black gloss cupboards, white tiles on the wall and on the floor. The impression was one of style, comfort and screamed money. A bank of glass curtains showcased a beautiful cottage type garden, furnished with the obligatory outdoor settees, coffee tables and sun loungers.
One wall of the dining area was arched and through that arch Crane found two bedrooms with a bathroom between them. Crane took the bedrooms and Anderson the lounge. Crane felt it was safer that Anderson poke about in front of Lord Garford, for Crane couldn’t guarantee to keep his mouth shut if his Lordship decided to interfere.
One bedroom was in the front of the house and clearly set out as a guest bedroom. All the cupboards and drawers were empty. There was nothing under the huge bed and nothing hidden in the pile of pillows and cushions that adorned the top of it. Crane was careful to put them back as he’d found them. The second bedroom, which backed onto the garden, was far more interesting. It was clearly Major and Mrs Cunningham’s bedroom, as this time the cupboards were full of clothes and shoes. Nothing there was of any interest, even though Crane went through all the handbags and shoe boxes Janey Cunningham had accumulated. Crane wondered how many handbags and shoes a woman needed, especially as this was a second home. It was clear to him that she needed the trappings of wealth to validate her as a person, which was really sad. But he guessed it went with the nervous traits of not eating much and smoking too much, that Laura Battle had told them about.
When Crane reached the bedside cabinets, things got more interesting. For they were both locked. Finding Anderson sorting through the kitchen cupboards, he grabbed the keys from him and went back to unlock what he hoped were the secrets of Janey Cunningham’s life.
17
Crane walked back into lounge with a couple of pieces of papers in his hand and showed them to Anderson. Whilst Anderson was reading them, Lord Garford said, “What it is? What have you found?”
Crane didn’t reply, just watched Anderson read the two pieces of paper. When Anderson had finished, he raised his head and said, “I’m not sure this information should be shared at the moment, sir.”
“Well I’m bloody sure it should. You’re in my house. You found the papers in my house. Now tell me what they say.”
Lord Garford had stood up and was clearly expe
cting Anderson to comply his with request. Well, to be fair it was more of a demand, really. Crane kept his own counsel and waited as well.
“Very well, sir, perhaps you be good enough to sit down.”
Mollified, Lord Garford complied, never taking his eyes off Anderson, as though frightened the policeman would change his mind.
“This one,” Anderson held one sheet of paper aloft, “is confirmation that your son and his wife are members of the Mayfair Club.”
As the colour drained out of the old man’s face, it was clear he understood what that meant. “That can’t be right,” he said.
“I’m afraid it is, sir, here,” and Anderson handed the paper to the man who suddenly looked like the old man he was, not a peer of the realm.
“I take it you understand what this means, sir,” Crane said. “According to the literature I found, it seems the Mayfair Club is for ‘swingers’ for want of a better description.”
Lord Garford nodded his reply. He cleared his throat and said, “I know, Crane. Not that I ever joined, but, well, I know of people who did. It’s been going for quite some years now. I never thought Clive and Janey would be into any of that, though,” and he closed his eyes against the words on the paper. “I always thought they were happily married. That they each gave the other all they needed, but it appears not.” After a moment’s pause he said, “What’s on the other one?”
Anderson duly passed the paper over. “It seems Mrs Cunningham has a bank account that no one knows about. The balance, when it was opened, was several thousand pounds, but that was over three years ago, so at the moment I’ve no idea what this means.”
“Where did you find it?” Lord Garford looked at Crane.
“Hidden in a false cupboard in the bathroom, so it was clearly something Janey didn’t want anyone to know about.”
Solid Proof: A dark, disturbing, detective mystery (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Book 8) Page 5
