by Simon Brett
She hadn’t said I wasn’t to go in. And, having provided the deposit for the flat, I did feel some kind of proprietorial rights in the place. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it.
The room was absolutely full of clothes. Hanging from wheeled racks. All new clothes, maybe worn once, undoubtedly freebies Jools had accumulated from all her fashion launches.
And none of them built to last. They reminded me again of that statistic about how 300,000 tonnes of garments are burnt or buried in the UK every year.
Why they were there, I could not imagine. Did my daughter make extra cash from selling them? Did she think she’d wear them all again at some point? Or was she curating an archive of instant fashion to be gazed at in disbelief by future generations? Hanging in her spare room, at least they weren’t being burnt or buried. That was a small comfort.
But I couldn’t dispel the idea that maybe I’d got a hoarding problem nearer to home than I’d previously thought.
TWENTY-FOUR
I’d rung ahead, using the number on their mutual card, so I was expected in Primrose Hill. The house was Victorian and imposing, less than half the size of the Petworth one but, given London prices, worth many multiples of it. Two big-name journalists, all the columns and articles and books, plenty of money coming in.
Niall Connor opened the door to me. There was a rueful expression on his face, but also impudence. He looked at me with the assurance of a man who thought himself unfailingly magnetic to women. As he had in Petworth, he took it for granted that I was attracted to him. I couldn’t help remembering Ingrid’s comment that at his age the need for Viagra might limit the scope of a ‘predatory pouncer’.
‘Come through to the sitting room,’ he said.
It was at the front of the house. Grace Bellamy was sitting there, with elegant coffee essentials laid out on a low table in front of her. The décor was, of course, exquisite, ready to be photographed for colour supplements and design magazines. Which I’m sure it had been many times.
Grace was, once again, dressed to complement her stylish surroundings. Definitely London clothes rather than country clothes. Niall, once again, went for shabbier chic. Jeans, a mauve cashmere sweater draped with studied abandon over a subtly frayed blue and white striped Oxford shirt. Still no socks underneath his brown leather slip-ons.
‘You remember Grace?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘And you said you wanted to talk to me about Ingrid Richards’ death?’
‘Yes. You did ask me to let you know if I heard anything else of relevance to it.’
‘Absolutely, Ellen. And I’m very grateful to you for coming here to tell me.’ He brushed his forelock back with a practised, boyish air. ‘So, what have you heard?’
‘When we last met,’ I began, ‘we established that you knew Ingrid was writing a memoir.’
‘Yes. She crammed a lot into her life. But’ – he spread his hands wide in a gesture of philosophical resignation – ‘Ingrid Richards’ memoir is a work which now, sadly, the world will never see.’
‘True. And, Niall, were you worried about the possible contents of that memoir?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘You and Ingrid, as well as being close at times, were basically rivals. Together in a variety of war zones, in competition for getting the best stories.’
‘I don’t deny that. Back then, we were all in competition with each other, Ingrid and any number of other correspondents. Yes, we played many games of one-upmanship. That was part of the fun of what we were doing.’
‘And did you ever use underhand means to prevent a rival reporter from getting a story?’
‘“Underhand”? That’s a rather strange word to use in a journalistic context. Yes, of course we’d withhold our sources from other reporters. If one of us got a contact who promised to be useful, we wouldn’t tell all the others about him. We might even send a fellow correspondent in the opposite direction from where we knew the action was going to be. We were all looking for exclusives. But I’m not sure that qualifies as “underhand”. The history of journalism is full of such behaviour.’
‘Might you try to queer the pitch of another journalist by giving them false information?’
‘Of course we would. That was part of the game. Go for the scoop yourself and then put the other journos off the scent. Everyone was doing it. We had some unchanging rules of behaviour, the basic one being: “Don’t make stuff up.” Other than that, there were no rules. Everyone knew the score. But again, “underhand” is far too judgmental a word for what was going on.’
‘I can’t help noticing, Ellen,’ said Grace, charming as ever, ‘that, though all this is very interesting, it doesn’t seem to have much to do with Ingrid Richards’ death.’
‘I’m getting there,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she said, in a rather schoolmistressy tone.
‘I was asking Niall about Ingrid’s memoir, because I wanted to know whether he might be worried about anything she might write in it.’
He smiled blandly. ‘My back is broad. Criticism is an essential part of the journalist’s work. You can’t please all the people all of the time. And, if Ingrid had scores to settle with me’ – he shrugged – ‘then let her write about them. No skin off my nose.’
‘No? I want to ask you about the events of 1986.’
‘Fine by me. An important year in my life, perhaps the most important year.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The year your daughter was born, apart from anything else.’
He gave a mock wince and Grace, I noticed, pursed her lips ever so slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘though it was not until some years later that I knew of her existence. And I’m not going to pretend that it was news I welcomed. I don’t think her mother did, either.’
That possibly confirmed my conjecture that Ingrid, hospitalized by her shrapnel injuries, had not realized she was pregnant until it was too late for an abortion.
Niall continued, ‘Call me callous and unpaternal if you like, but I’m not going to pretend that, for me, Alex’s appearance was the most important event of that year.’ He affected an expression of boredom. ‘Do you want me once again to go through the whole story of Paul McClennan’s escape from his captors?’
‘No. I know all the details of that.’
‘Good. Then you will understand that springing a hostage in Beirut was probably the high spot of 1986 for me.’
‘Yes.’ Time to change tack. ‘Niall, do you know who I mean when I say the name Phil Dickie?’
‘Of course I do. Had a good few late-night drinking sessions with him at the Commodore. He was the cameraman with Ingrid when she was injured by the car bomb in Beirut.’
‘Yes. He was injured too.’
‘I know that.’
‘Much worse than she was.’
‘Where is all this going, Ellen?’ he asked wearily.
‘Have you seen Phil Dickie since that time?’
‘No. Why should I have done? I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
‘Oh, he is. I saw him yesterday.’
‘Really?’ For the first time, his composure was slightly diminished. He and Grace exchanged looks.
‘Phil Dickie had had a pretty rough time since he was airlifted from Beirut. He suffered from PTSD, apart from anything else.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Became a bit reclusive, certainly didn’t want to talk to the press about the events he’d witnessed.’
‘Quite a common reaction. Those experiences take a lot of people that way. Whereas it only makes proper journalists hungry for more.’
I ignored his grandstanding. ‘After he’d heard about Ingrid’s death, Phil was prepared to talk to me about what he saw.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just before the car bomb was detonated, Ingrid was about to do a piece to camera. He was setting up to record it.’
‘Not surprising. That was her job. And filming it was his job.’
<
br /> ‘The piece to camera was about the hostage Paul McClennan. Ingrid had managed to make contact with one of his captors. She’d made arrangements, she’d bribed the right people, and was preparing to spring the hostage from the apartment in Southern Beirut where he was being held. She had asked Phil Dickie if he was prepared to take the risk of going with her to film the whole process. He’d agreed. It was the kind of coup he wanted to be part of.’
There was silence in the perfect sitting room. The way Grace Bellamy was looking at her husband told me that all of this was news to her too. Niall said nothing. I went on, ‘Ingrid had put all the details of her mission, maps, passwords, names of contacts, into the leather satchel she always carried around with her.’
Still nothing from Niall. No reaction from the handsome, lived-in face.
‘When the bomb exploded, Phil was thrown forward towards Ingrid. He saw she’d been hit in the forehead by shrapnel. Blood everywhere. He thought she’d been killed. But, just before he lost consciousness, Phil Dickie saw someone step forward and take the leather satchel from around her neck. He recognized you, Niall.’
‘It isn’t true!’ This was from Grace. ‘Tell her, darling! Tell her it’s not true!’
Niall Connor smiled an infuriatingly calm smile. ‘It doesn’t make a lot of difference whether it is true or not. I rescued Paul McClennan. I sprang the hostage from where he was being held. That’s the story that was reported in the world’s press. And, of course, at the time there were people who said I couldn’t have done it. Conspiracy theorists. There wasn’t social media back then, thank God. But, even now, there are people out on Facebook and Twitter going on about Paul McClennan, saying that I didn’t rescue him, that the Hezbollah handed him over for reasons of their own. It doesn’t matter. The story’s out there. No one’s going to publish an alternative version. There’s no one who can do it … particularly now the sainted Ingrid Richards is no longer with us.’
His smile had now turned triumphant. ‘Well, Ellen, I don’t think Grace and I need to entertain you and your conspiracy theory any longer. Unless there’s some other wild accusation you want to offer us …?’
‘There’s more information I’d like to share with you,’ I said.
‘Oh? That’s very generous.’
‘I know, Niall, that you got in touch with Alexandra Richards after Ingrid’s death.’
‘Well, wasn’t that nice of me? I wanted to commiserate with her. I am the girl’s father, after all.’
‘But why this sudden appearance of paternal feeling? You hadn’t demonstrated much of it in her life up until then.’
‘What are you saying, Ellen?’ He sounded testy now. ‘Could you get to the point?’
‘All right. I think you cosied up to Alexandra because you wanted her to hide the fact that you’d been to Ingrid’s flat in Brunswick Square the evening before she died.’
He looked as if he was about to come up with some blustering denial but, after a slight head movement from Grace, he just said, ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because you thought Alexandra would be so over the moon about your suddenly taking an interest in her, that she’d do as you asked.’ A silence. ‘Which is what happened. Though, by not revealing that you’d been to Ingrid’s flat that evening, Alexandra very nearly got into trouble with the police.’
‘Did she?’ he asked drily.
‘Did you know that she’d got a boyfriend?’ I asked.
‘No. I really know nothing about the girl. But isn’t that heart-warming news?’ he said snidely. ‘It demonstrates the happy truth that there’s someone for everyone, regardless of looks, doesn’t it?’
‘The boyfriend’s name is Walt Rainbird.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘And, for reasons of his own, whose details I won’t bother you with, he followed Alexandra from Hastings to Brunswick Square that evening and, parked in his car, he watched and made a note of everyone who went in and out of Ingrid’s building.’
Niall Connor’s face went suddenly pale. ‘So he saw me?’
‘He saw you go in. And he saw you come out.’
‘Ah.’
‘So, why did you go and see Ingrid Richards that evening, Niall?’
‘Since you know about the memoir and since you’ve heard Phil Dickie’s inaccurate account of events in Beirut in 1986, I think you ought to be able to answer that for yourself, Ellen.’
‘All right.’ He was still defiant, but cracks were beginning to appear in his carapace of confidence. I knew I could take my time. ‘Then I would assume that you went to Brunswick Square to find out what Ingrid was planning to write in her memoir. Whether she was proposing to present an alternative version of the springing of Paul McClennan from captivity. In other words, to expose the fact that you’d only achieved the coup that transformed your professional life by stealing another journalist’s research, by following the plans that another journalist had set up.’
‘I see.’
I pressed on, ‘And if Ingrid was planning that kind of exposé, I’m sure you were thinking of ways to stop her memoir from ever being published.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said again. ‘You’re thinking that the fire which killed Ingrid was not an accident. That someone, knowing her habit of hoarding old newspapers, saw a way of removing her. That that someone, also knowing her drinking habits, doctored a bottle of Jameson’s with crushed-up Zopiclone and—’
‘How did you know about the Zopiclone?’ Surely he wasn’t going to fall for an old crime-fiction giveaway like that?
He wasn’t. ‘Alex told me about it,’ he said. That was believable.
‘So, Ellen …’ He let the pause extend itself. ‘You’re accusing me of murdering Ingrid, aren’t you?’
‘I’d want to hear your version of events before I did that.’
‘My version of events? My account of what happened that evening in Hove. “Hove, actually.”’ He was still determined to keep the tone light. ‘Well, you and your unknown witness are correct. I did visit Ingrid Richards in her flat that evening. And yes, I did ask what she was proposing to put in her memoir about the springing of Paul McClennan in Beirut. And – surprise, surprise – she said she was going to offer an alternative view of history. I tried to dissuade her from doing so. She remained characteristically adamant that she would do what she wanted to do. Story of Ingrid Richards’ life, really.
‘I knew there was no point in arguing with her. And I comforted myself with the thought that she was really yesterday’s news. Faces often seen on television tend to be very quickly forgotten, so I don’t think a memoir of Ingrid Richards is going to sell in its millions. And, of course,’ he grinned smugly, ‘I got the story first. My book’s been out there a long time and it’s the banner headlines the public remember. No one ever reads the small print of a correction or an apology.’ Another infuriating grin. ‘So, are you still accusing me of murder, Ellen?’
‘You haven’t given me any reason not to,’ I said doggedly.
‘Ah, but there is a reason. A very compelling reason.’
‘Oh?’
‘As your mysterious witness parked in a car in Brunswick Square would be able to tell you, I left Ingrid’s flat long before the fire started.’
‘Yes. You did.’ I turned to face Grace Bellamy. ‘You didn’t, though, did you? You got there much later.’
She turned paler than her husband had done.
‘I referred Walt Rainbird to your website, so that he’d know what you looked like, and then he confirmed that you were the woman he saw enter Ingrid Richards’ building at half-past eleven. You were carrying a bottle. A bottle of Jameson’s, I would hazard a guess. Jameson’s with a little extra ingredient. Walt saw you come out just before midnight, without the bottle.’
Niall Connor was looking with horror at Grace. He had felt confident in answering me, because he knew he had nothing to do with Ingrid Richards’ death. But it had never occurred to him that his wife might have been involved.<
br />
For once, the perfect poise gave way. The finely modulated voice cracked as Grace Bellamy shouted, ‘Can you blame me, Niall? All through our marriage, you kept talking about her. You kept comparing me to her. You kept implying that the sex you had with Ingrid was better than you ever had with me!’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Oh, I don’t think you even knew you were doing it. But she was there. Always there between us. After a time, I stopped worrying. Just as I stopped worrying about all your sordid little infidelities. Why should I be jealous of that line-up of tarts, because they all suffered from the same shortcoming as I did? They weren’t Ingrid Bloody Richards!
‘But I told myself, it’s all right, I can cope with this. I’ll come to terms with being second best. Lots of men fantasize about the lost love they had years before they ended up with reality, with their compromise wife. I could manage with that … until I found out that you were still seeing Ingrid!’
‘But I wasn’t still seeing—’
But Grace swept his question aside. ‘No? You’ve just admitted you were in her flat that evening.’
‘Yes, but that was the first time since—’
‘I don’t believe you. I know you were still seeing her, had been seeing her right through our marriage.’
‘I hadn’t. I just arranged to see her that evening to talk about the memoir. Like I said.’
‘That’s just not true, Niall!’ There was a light of paranoia in the beautifully made-up eyes. ‘I was certain you were up to something that evening, so I followed you down to Brighton. And, when we got Brunswick Square, I knew exactly where you were going.’
Of course. Grace had got Ingrid’s contact details when she’d been trying to set up an interview with her. She’d also had some research done on the veteran correspondent’s lifestyle. She knew about the piles of newspapers, the Gauloises, the Jameson’s. Hence the bottle that Walt had seen her carrying into the building on Brunswick Square.
Both of them looked utterly defeated. Grace Bellamy was beginning to realize the enormity of what her jealousy had led her to. And Niall Connor was taking on board what his wife had done. Out of sheer jealousy.
