‘So who else was in this group?’
‘Well, there’s the son, Cameron Masters. The deceased was his PA. Intense kind of guy – seemed severely shaken. He was the one who received the text.’
‘It did exist, then?’
‘Too right; I saw it myself on his mobile, timed at 09.10.’
‘What did it say, exactly?’
Pringle looked down at his notes. ‘“Please excuse me from today’s visit. I do not feel well. Elise.”’
‘Brief and to the point. Question is, did the victim send it?’
‘She could have, in which case the timing pretty well exonerates them. It certainly came from her mobile, which is missing. On the other hand, if she didn’t send it, the killer knew who to send it to, which points straight back at her colleagues.’
‘A delaying tactic?’
‘Possibly.’ He consulted his notes again. ‘Then there’s the MD, Michael Chadwick. He was in a fair old state, I can tell you – sweat pouring off him, and he contradicted himself a couple of times. Big bloke, in his forties. Wouldn’t have had any difficulty picking her up and chucking her in the bath.’
Fanshawe stirred. ‘Could a woman have done it?’
‘The official opinion is yes – no great strength required, and marks on the carpet indicate the body was dragged to the bathroom – which could be in Chadwick’s favour.’
‘Strikes me there’s no obvious motive for any of them,’ Fanshawe said disgustedly. ‘What about the women, then?’
Pringle shrugged. ‘Could be jealousy; du Pré was a good twenty years younger than either of them and a damn sight prettier. Preferential treatment, perhaps? Or a grudge could have been building up, and something happened to tip the balance.’ He glanced back at his notes. ‘Masters’ PA was the calmest of the lot, but as we know, still waters run deep. Name of Yvonne Standish, divorced, in her fifties. Pleasant manner, seemed anxious to help, but gave little away.’
‘Think she was up to it?’
‘If sufficiently motivated, yes. She’d a determined air about her.’
‘And the other?’
‘Chadwick’s PA, Tina Martin – married, late forties. Tall, well-built. Tearful under questioning, but confirmed everything the others had said.’
‘Hm.’ Fanshawe thought for a moment. ‘But the last to see du Pré alive was the hotel receptionist?’
‘Yep. She was on the morning shift, so this only emerged the next day, when she came back on duty. She says du Pré gave her a package to post, which the group insist they knew nothing about.’
‘Hm. Who was it addressed to?’
Pringle snorted. ‘She didn’t look, did she? Put it under the counter because someone was waiting to check out, and then forgot about it. She didn’t drop it in the mailbag till some time later. But she swears it had been handed in soon after she came on duty at eight thirty, so if du Pré went upstairs after leaving the dining room, she must have come straight down again. Which gives us two scenarios: either she was intending to go on the trip and came down early so no one would see her posting it – which raises interesting questions. Or she really was ill, and made a special trip downstairs – equally interesting, since she must have thought it important, for her to make the effort. But in either case, we’re faced with the same question: did she meet her killer on the way back to her room?’
‘It’s one possibility. CCTV no help?’
Pringle shook his head in disgust. ‘Haven’t got any, have they? Say it would be an infringement of their guests’ privacy.’
Fanshawe swore under his breath. ‘So what are the other options?’
‘Well, it turns out he could have let himself in. The hotel say du Pré was issued with two key cards for the double room – standard practice – and only one was found on her. Failing that, she let him in herself because she knew him. Or she didn’t know him, and he forced his way in, which would be unlikely if it were a common or garden thief. If that had been the case, you’d look for a sexual assault, but that proved negative.’
‘What was taken from the room?’
Pringle shrugged. ‘The safe was open, but we don’t know there’d been anything in it, and she was still wearing her jewellery. The only item known to be missing is her mobile.’
‘Handbag?’
‘Had been opened – possibly to remove the mobile – then kicked under the bed, but her wallet was still inside.’
‘At least we have the murder weapon – also found under the bed I gather?’
Pringle nodded with satisfaction. ‘Complete with her DNA, though wiped of fingerprints. Forensics confirmed it was a fruit knife belonging to the hotel; it had been on the table with a bowl of fruit, compliments of the management. Bet they scrap that courtesy. So, since the killer didn’t bring the weapon with him, it could have been unpremeditated.’
‘When was she found?’
‘Not till five thirty, when the chambermaid turned down the bed and checked the towels. Davis reckons that by then, she’d been dead between seven and nine hours.’
Fanshawe drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So what’s the present state of play?’
‘Well, the guests weren’t allowed out of the hotel till they’d been interviewed and had their details taken – a popular move, as you’ll appreciate. Ditto all the staff. Net result: zilch. Several people had noticed the group, because they sat together for their evening meals, but no one paid them much attention, and not a single person admits to seeing the victim on Friday morning, even though she came down to breakfast and again, later, to the reception desk. Convenient memory lapse, if you ask me.’
‘No sinister men lurking in the corridors?’
‘Afraid not, but it’s no use asking about strangers in a hotel.’ Pringle glanced at his watch. ‘The parents’ flight is due in an hour. I’ve arranged for a car to meet them.’
‘Well, at least I had my holiday,’ Fanshawe said resignedly. ‘OK, we’d better call a press conference for this afternoon. A bit of publicity won’t do any harm at this stage.’
‘How’s my handsome son, this bright Monday morning?’
Cameron sighed. ‘Hello, Mother.’
‘You don’t sound overjoyed to hear me!’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind at the moment.’
‘All the more reason to take me to lunch! It’ll help you relax, and it’s weeks since I’ve seen you.’
‘Really, Mother, it’s not a good time just now—’
‘You have to eat, darling. Today, you can eat with me.’
It was never any use trying to deflect her. ‘Very well, but I can’t spare the time to come to London.’
‘No matter, the mountain will come to Mahomet. Twelve thirty at the Stag?’
It was the hotel just down the road.
‘Very well. I’ll see you there.’
‘And try to work up some enthusiasm!’ she said.
Myrtle Page was fifty-seven, but could have passed for ten years younger. Her modelling career had taught her how to care for her skin, her hair, and her figure, lessons that had stood her in good stead over the years. Another legacy was her taste for flamboyant dressing, and she still made an entrance wherever she went.
She was seated at a table in the restaurant when Cameron arrived.
‘Darling!’ He bent to greet her, and she kissed the air in return. ‘I’ve ordered a bottle of Chablis.’
‘I hope you enjoy it, but as you know, I don’t drink at lunchtime.’
She pouted, then studied him more closely. ‘You look pretty rough, sweetie, if I may say so. I could pack for a week in the bags under your eyes. Anything wrong?’
‘Just the small matter of my PA being murdered, and Father and I chief suspects.’
She stared at him with round blue eyes. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
‘I wish it were.’
‘But tell me more. Whatever happened?’
‘It was in the papers – you must have seen it. She was stabbe
d in a Manchester hotel.’
Myrtle’s brows drew together. ‘I did see something, but there was nothing to connect it with you. What on earth were you doing in Manchester?’ She made it sound like Outer Mongolia.
‘Vetting a possible purchase. God knows if it will come off now.’
‘But your names weren’t mentioned, surely?’
‘Not initially, but now the cat’s well and truly out of the bag. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.’
She shrugged. ‘You know me, darling; I’m not interested in the news – too depressing.’
The waiter approached with the wine, and Cameron covered his glass. Myrtle performed the tasting routine, nodding her approval. They sat in silence while her glass was filled and the bottle placed in an ice bucket. As the waiter moved away, the impact of what he’d said suddenly registered.
‘Your PA, did you say? Not that little French girl?’
‘Elise, yes.’
‘But that’s terrible, darling! God, how—’
He held up a palm. ‘I’m not going to discuss it, Mother. If you want the details, read the papers.’ He straightened. ‘So – how’s Damien?’
Damien Jessop, Myrtle’s latest husband, was, at forty, only three years older than Cameron, who disliked him intensely. But his ploy had worked; his mother brightened.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? He’s landed a part in this new soap everyone’s talking about. Not one of the major characters, but he’s going to work on developing it. He says it has potential.’
With only the occasional prod, the subject of Damien and his doings lasted them through the meal. Only as they were leaving did Myrtle obliquely refer to the murder again.
‘Does Lyddie know? About . . . you know?’
‘She must do. I haven’t spoken to her, but she’s probably contacted Father.’
Myrtle nodded. ‘I think we should check, though, so she’s prepared. Would you like me to speak to her, darling? You’ve enough on your plate.’
‘Whatever you think best,’ Cameron said.
Mike Chadwick lay immobile, staring through the darkness at the invisible ceiling, his mind a churning maelstrom. The local police had descended on Beechford that morning – as if they’d not had enough grilling in Manchester! – and it had been a mammoth task trying to conceal their presence from the guests.
The murder itself was, of course, public knowledge, thanks to TV and the press, and they’d had a couple of cancellations. For the most part, though, there was a feverish air of excitement about the place that sickened him. Ghouls! he thought viciously. They’d feel very differently if they were personally involved.
Personally involved. The words echoed in his head as his thoughts veered off at a tangent; involved in the sort of events that until this week he’d only read about, never dreaming they could touch him. God! he thought, in an agony of indecision, should he, after all, keep it to himself? How, otherwise, could he protect Karen and the family?
He moved convulsively, and his wife stirred at his side. How would she react, if he told her? For that matter, how would everyone else react, if it became public? He’d wondered briefly if Tina suspected something; he’d caught her looking at him a little oddly that morning. God, he had to pull himself together, or he’d be a candidate for a heart attack
Inch by inch, he moved to the edge of the bed, lowered his feet to the floor and slowly, cautiously, stood upright. Karen stirred again, murmuring in her sleep, and he tucked the duvet round her shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t register his absence. His dressing gown hung on the back of the door. He reached for it, let himself quietly out of the room, and went barefoot down the stairs in search of a glass of whisky.
NINE
It came on the Tuesday morning. How the devil could it have taken so long? By mule train? A more realistic guess was that no one at the paper had bothered to check the mail on Saturday, and it had only surfaced in the post room yesterday.
Jonathan tore open the padded envelope and pulled out the USB device, closing his fingers convulsively round it.
‘Is that it?’
He turned. Vicky was in the kitchen doorway. Behind her, the boys were scraping their cereal bowls.
‘Yes – at long last. I’d given up hope.’
‘I was hoping it would never come,’ she said quietly.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, love, really. At least it will give us something to go on, and I promise I’ll be careful.’
Though impatient to see its contents, it made sense to run it through with Steve, and Jonathan speed-dialled him. ‘I’ve got it!’ he said triumphantly.
A moment’s pause, then an incredulous ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly. Where are you?’
‘Just finishing breakfast.’
‘Shall I come straight up to the flat, so we can go through it?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll be waiting with bated breath.’
The train journey seemed slower than usual, and Jonathan couldn’t settle to his paper. How much would be revealed, and would it point to who might have wanted to kill Elise? He should shortly know.
Steve had his laptop ready and coffee on the stove, and as soon as they were seated side by side he inserted the memory stick into the USB port. Immediately, they were presented with a selection of folders to open, folders entitled Woodcot, Foxfield and Beechford – which they’d never heard of, but which was presumably the third Mandelyns resort – another under the name of Selby & Braddock Inc. (‘The manufacturers?’ Steve hazarded), and the names of several newspapers, including, they noted wryly, UK Today.
‘Write-ups of the deaths, no doubt,’ Jonathan said. ‘She must have photocopied those separately. So – where do we start?’
‘How about Foxfield? That’s where Elise was based, and where that actress went.’
They clicked on the appropriate folder and were given the option of a number of files, one of which was labelled Maria Lang. They read it in silence. It gave the actress’s real name, her address and date of birth, the dates on which she’d visited Mandelyns, a note of her allergies and preferences, and the treatments she had received, followed by an assessment of the results. Ms Lang had run the gamut, her last treatment, Mandelyna, having been given in June. At the foot of the card, a manuscript entry had been added without comment: Date of death: 5th July 2010.
They sat back and looked at each other.
‘Close,’ Steve commented. ‘Let’s see what the papers had to say.’
There were obituaries from all the nationals. Most contented themselves with reporting that she had died ‘suddenly’ or ‘unexpectedly’, but a couple of later ones suggested a viral infection.
‘Which it might well have been,’ Jonathan said. ‘Or not, as the case might be.’
‘You do realize we’ve no option but to pass this on to the police?’ Steve said. ‘It could be crucial evidence in a murder enquiry.’
Jonathan stared at him disbelievingly. ‘You’re not saying that after all this—?’
‘No, mate, I’m not saying we don’t look into it ourselves. First, we’ll download it to our own computer, then send the drive to Manchester like honest citizens. Anonymous honest citizens. And, having performed our civic duty, we’ll be free to do our own thing.’
Jonathan nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. OK, well let’s see what else we’ve got.’
A separate file listed all the clients who’d received Mandelyna from its inception that spring, over sixty in all, and, as Elise had told them, another four names were followed by a date of death. Three were women prominent in their fields – a public-school headmistress, a judge, a member of parliament – which, of course, was why their deaths had been widely reported and first come to Elise’s notice. But her suspicions had led her to burrow further, and she’d come across a fourth – a Mrs Emily Broadbent.
Jonathan stared at the name for a full minute, trying to link two widely differing associations. Then he said in a strangled voice, ‘My God
!’
Steve turned to him, frowning. ‘What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘The name of one, anyway. I knew her, Steve – Emily Broadbent. Not well, but my sister did. She always called her Aunt Em.’
Angus poured wine into Sophie’s glass and his own, then sat down at the table. ‘Have you heard how Imogen is?’ he asked, taking the plate his wife passed him.
‘Not since the funeral. Why?’
‘Just that it was such a traumatic time for her – all the upset of her aunt’s death, and then, on top of it, Daisy bunking off school and having to be sent back kicking and screaming, metaphorically at least. It was a lot to cope with.’
Sophie said lightly, ‘Imo always has to have a crisis in her life.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not a very sympathetic remark, darling.’
‘Well, she does rather thrive on them – as long as there’s someone’s hand to hold, usually mine.’
‘All the same, it might be a kindness to give her a ring.’
Sophie helped herself to vegetables. ‘We’ll be seeing her on Thursday, don’t forget.’
Angus frowned. ‘Will . . .? Oh, of course! Roger’s birthday do.’
‘So you can set your mind at rest then, can’t you? Frankly, I’m more concerned at the moment with what I’m going to do with Tamsin and her friend during half-term next week. I really can’t afford to take time off, with the countdown to Christmas starting.’
‘You can work from home, can’t you? You say ninety per cent of your time is spent dealing with emails, and as long as someone’s in the house—’
‘Yes, but what I can’t do is be at their beck and call to drive them around. They’ll just have to amuse themselves.’
‘How long will they be here?’
‘Friday evening till a week on Sunday.’
‘There’ll be something suitable at the cinemas – there always is, at half-term. And they’re old enough to go to matinees by themselves, aren’t they, at thirteen?’
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