Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

‘Where you, obviously, are also based. So why should the meeting take place in Manchester?’

  ‘We were up there on business, as I explained, and so was she. She had some . . . evidence to hand over and felt it might be safer than meeting nearer home.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘She’d copied the clients’ records on to a memory stick.’

  Jonathan looked intently from one man to the other, but neither betrayed prior knowledge. Which didn’t mean they didn’t know exactly what he was talking about.

  ‘And she handed this device to you that evening?’

  Stick to the truth. ‘No, she only told us about it; she posted it to us the next day. Then sadly, as you say, she was killed, and when we’d had time to study it, we realized the information it contained might have some bearing on her death. So we sent it to the Manchester police.’

  ‘Very public-spirited of you. Did you see Miss du Pré again the next day?’

  This time, he had to lie. ‘No.’ Not alive, anyway.

  ‘How did you spend that Thursday, sir?’

  ‘We’d a nine o’clock appointment with the gentleman we’d arranged to interview.’

  Again, name and address were called for.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘We caught the two thirty flight home.’

  There was a silence, and Jonathan prayed they wouldn’t probe further.

  Pennington leaned forward. ‘How well did you know this young lady, sir?’

  ‘Not well at all. As I explained—’

  ‘But you’d met her prior to Manchester?’

  ‘Only once. She was nervous of being seen talking to the press.’

  ‘And when you’d seen this memory stick, did you or your colleague take any steps to verify her suspicions?’

  ‘We made a few enquiries, but we felt the police would have more resources to look into it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Another silence, then, to Jonathan’s overwhelming relief, Newton nodded to his companion and both men stood up.

  ‘Very well, sir. That’s all for the moment, but we may need to speak to you again. Your statement will be typed out, and perhaps you’d call in at the station on Monday to sign it. In the meantime, thank you for your time, and have a good weekend.’

  Incapable of replying, Jonathan saw them to the front door. As it closed behind them, Vicky came quickly into the hall.

  ‘Jonathan!’

  He caught her to him, burying his face in her hair. ‘It’s all right, darling. At least, I think it is.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘They somehow got hold of my name in connection with Elise. God knows how.’

  She pulled back, staring into his face with horror. ‘They don’t think you killed her?’

  ‘Sh!’ Jonathan looked anxiously up the stairs, but there was no sign of the boys. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I answered their questions as honestly as I could.’ With one exception.

  ‘But suppose—?’

  ‘Let’s not suppose anything,’ Jonathan said firmly. ‘I’m going to pour myself a large whisky, and you might like to join me. After which, we can look forward to a happy family weekend. All right?

  For a moment longer she stared into his tense face. Then she gave an obedient little smile.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  TWELVE

  By the time they met on Monday, Steve had also been interviewed.

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said feelingly. ‘They must have known you’d contact me, but there was nothing they could do about it. I suppose they were hoping I’d contradict something you said.’

  ‘I hope to God you didn’t.’

  ‘There wasn’t much scope to. Everything you told them was correct, you just left out finding her.’

  ‘Quite an omission, though!’

  Steve smiled crookedly. ‘True.’

  ‘There’s no way they could prove I was in her room, is there?’ Jonathan asked, suddenly anxious.

  Steve shrugged. ‘Who knows? I still can’t imagine how they knew we’d seen her.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s what’s been bugging me! How could they possibly have got hold of my name?’

  ‘Unless,’ Steve said slowly, ‘the murderer told them.’

  Jonathan stared at him. ‘Would you care to explain that remark?’

  ‘It just occurred to me; according to press reports, the only thing known to be missing is her mobile. Why would her killer take that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘To check on who she’d been in touch with?’

  Jonathan stiffened apprehensively.

  ‘See what I’m getting at?’ Steve went on, more eagerly as his theory gained ground. ‘If he had her mobile, he could have seen your text, giving her the room number. And you’d also have been on her list of contacts, wouldn’t you?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Not had any heavy breathers on the line, have you?’

  ‘No, thank—’ Jonathan broke off, coldness washing over him. ‘Wait a minute, though; there was one call – I thought it was a wrong number.’

  ‘What did they say?’ Steve asked sharply.

  ‘Nothing. I—’

  ‘They just hung up?’

  ‘Yes, when I – oh God, when I said my name.’

  ‘Did you dial one-four-seven-one?’

  ‘No, it was early morning and I was half-asleep. I just wrote it off as a wrong number.’

  Seeing the look on his face, Steve said quickly, ‘Well, don’t worry, it still might have been.’

  ‘But it fits too neatly, doesn’t it?’ Jonathan’s voice was bitter. ‘I must have seemed the perfect scapegoat.’

  ‘Which,’ Steve said thoughtfully, ‘seems to rule out the burglar theory. For a start, any thief making a run for it would have snatched up something more valuable. According to the papers she was wearing jewellery, and her handbag was there for the taking.’

  ‘If it was a burglar, it would mean we weren’t responsible for her death.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but the more I think about it, the less likely it seems: time of day, committing murder, only the mobile taken – none of these fit the profile, let alone taking the trouble to check you out.’

  ‘So we’re back to the memory stick.’

  ‘Possibly. But don’t forget she’d already posted it, so how would he know about it?’

  ‘She was always afraid someone would get on to her. Perhaps someone did.’

  ‘If so, it must have been one of those with her, or at least someone from Mandelyns; no one else would gain by trying to suppress it. Still, why are we wasting time on this? We passed it to the police; let them deal with it, and we can get back to Perceval. Have you got those figures he gave us?’

  ‘We’re back to square one on the tip-off,’ Pringle reported to DI Fanshawe later that morning. ‘Farrell might have had it off that evening – though his colleague backed his story – but there’s no way he could have killed her. He has a watertight alibi for the time of death.’

  ‘In the form of what?’

  ‘Business appointment. They were at Percevals the other side of town from just before nine till eleven fifteen. The firm confirmed it. She was long dead by then.’

  Fanshawe sighed. ‘Back to the drawing board, then. How are Surrey and Berkshire doing with the resorts?’

  ‘Interviewing’s continuing, but there’s a lot of staff to get through. They’re concentrating on those who give treatments.’

  ‘No more women turned up dead?’

  ‘No, the count remains at five, and though we’re discreetly checking, all seem above board. I reckon we’re flogging a dead horse here, sir.’

  ‘A whole stable of them, by the sound of it. How are the tests going?’

  ‘Slowly, as always, but nothing suspicious so far.’

  ‘Could something have been added after it left the manufacturers? By someone at the resort, for instance?’

  ‘With what aim?’


  ‘To expedite the effects? Instant improvement? God knows; I’m not well up in these things.’

  ‘Well, if so, the boys down there will root it out, but frankly, if all the deaths were natural, so what? No harm seems to have come of it.’

  Wendy and George lived in a mock-Georgian house on the outskirts of Richmond, and its immaculate paintwork and graceful lines looked their best in the thick autumn sunshine. The lawn in front of it was as smooth as velvet, and the flower beds, crammed with dahlias, chrysanthemums and a few late roses, were a riot of colour.

  The gates stood open, so Anna drove in, parking behind a car already there – Lewis’s, presumably. All three of them came out to greet her, Lewis’s kiss on the cheek no more and no less effusive than those of their hosts.

  ‘How lovely, to be all together again!’ Wendy exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it’s only a month since we flew home! It seems another world!’

  Lewis looked tired, Anna thought anxiously. She’d not seen him since Sophie interrupted their evening together, and the grooves on his face seemed deeper, his eyes more sunken. This ongoing investigation must be very wearing. However, he seemed determined to put his worries behind him, and, while drinks were served, he amused them with the story of a pop star – name discreetly withheld – who had spectacularly blotted his copybook during a weekend at Woodcot.

  Lunch was served in the conservatory overlooking the back garden, the open doors letting in both the unseasonable warmth and the scent from the autumn clematis growing just outside. It consisted of a delectable salmon and prawn flan with avocado and watercress salad, followed by summer pudding and cream.

  Towards the end of the meal, George, having boasted about his grandson’s prowess on the football field, enquired after Anna’s grandchildren.

  ‘Tamsin was home last week for half-term,’ she said. ‘She’s thirteen, and my daughter was horrified when she appeared one morning wearing heavy purple eyeshadow. Sophie blames the friend who was staying with her and made them both wash it off before allowing them out of the front door.’

  ‘I bet that went down well!’ said Wendy with a laugh. ‘I remember my mother catching me at much the same age, trying on her lipsticks.’

  ‘Oh, we all experimented,’ Anna agreed, ‘which is well and good around the house, but at that age not to be encouraged outdoors.’

  Wendy glanced at Lewis. ‘Sorry about this grandparental chat!’ she apologized.

  ‘Don’t mention it. There are compensations. Remember what you said to me, George, when young Daniel was born?’

  George shook his head a little apprehensively.

  ‘That while delighted to be a grandfather, you were less pleased to be married to a grandmother!’

  ‘Charming!’ Wendy exclaimed, with mock indignation. ‘But how are your two? Any sign of wedding bells?’

  ‘No, though these days that doesn’t rule out progeny.’

  ‘True. Lydia and Oliver are pretty solid, I know, but what about Cameron? Didn’t you say there was a girl on the scene?’

  ‘There’s been a girl on the scene, as you put it, since he was sixteen, but none of them has come to anything. At thirty-seven, I’m beginning to despair of him.’

  ‘What’s the latest one like?’

  ‘Alice? I’ve never met her. My son tends to compartmentalize his life.’

  ‘But they’ve been together for a while now, surely?’

  ‘“Together” mightn’t be the best description. She doesn’t live with him; Cameron still enjoys the bachelor life in his bungalow at Foxfield.’ He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Between ourselves, I suspect that she’s married, and to someone well known. In other words, it would cause a scandal if their relationship became public.’

  ‘Intriguing, but not exactly promising.’ Wendy glanced round the table. ‘Now, if everyone’s finished, we thought you might like to see the video we shot in South Africa. Or have you had more than enough of your own photos?’

  ‘I’d love to see it!’ Anna said. ‘Moving pictures are far more evocative, and the ones I took were a disaster. I kept just missing what I was trying to photograph!’

  ‘Right, you brought it on yourself! Let’s go through to the sitting room.’

  The next hour or so was spent reliving their holiday. George had been an enthusiastic photographer, and any number of occasions that Anna had forgotten were brought back to mind, along with many of their fellow holidaymakers – Bill and Prue, young Tony, and, of course, Edda, with her selection of colourful skirts. In a general view of the group at Kruger, Wendy pointed out Anna and Lewis in the background, throwing crumbs to the blue starlings.

  However, it was the animals rather than his companions on which George had concentrated, and there were splendid shots of giraffes, lions and elephants, as well as all the less imposing but equally intriguing creatures they’d seen along the way. The final pictures were of the farewell dinner in Pretoria, laughing faces round the table. After which, Anna remembered, Lewis had come to her room. She glanced at him, saw he was watching her, and they exchanged a smile; obviously, their thoughts had been running on the same lines.

  It was only when they were leaving that George brought up the subject that had been at the back of all their minds. ‘Sorry about this trouble you’re having, old man,’ he said gruffly. ‘It must be hellish, having the police on your back like that.’

  ‘I’ve had happier experiences,’ Lewis said tightly. ‘They’re round every corner at the moment, though God knows what they’re looking for.’

  A murderer, probably, Anna thought with a shudder.

  ‘I hope it won’t interfere with the celebrations,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I don’t intend to let it.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ She turned to Anna. ‘You’ll be there, of course?’

  Anna flushed. ‘I haven’t decided yet; it’s difficult, with the family.’

  ‘God, what an infernal mess it all is!’ George exclaimed. ‘Aren’t the police making any progress at all?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ Lewis answered. ‘They’ve pursued the odd false lead, but it hasn’t got them anywhere.’

  ‘Oh?’

  But he ignored the implied question, and they moved outside. Thanks and goodbyes were exchanged, and Lewis, holding Anna’s car door for her, murmured, ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

  Then she was on her way home, but memories of the video and the day’s lively conversation were overshadowed in her mind by that last exchange. How much longer would this cloud be hanging over Lewis? And what would be the eventual outcome?

  Police are continuing to question staff at the three Mandelyns Health Resorts concerning the murder of an employee in a Manchester hotel three weeks ago. Lewis Masters, co-owner of the Group . . .

  Jonathan read the paragraph again before the full impact hit him. Even then, he couldn’t absorb it. Lewis Masters? Wasn’t that the name of Ma’s admirer? God, it couldn’t be! A potential murderer, going out with his mother?

  Oblivious of the chatter around him, he raced through the rest of the report: investigations continuing in Manchester, liaison between police forces, no new leads. But . . . Lewis Masters! He couldn’t get his head round it.

  There was no way he could use his mobile on the train; what he had to say was highly confidential, not to say slanderous. He would, in any case, be seeing Steve shortly, but they were meeting Brian Perceval, Keith’s son, and this couldn’t be discussed in front of a third party. Only then did he realize that Steve wouldn’t, in any case, understand his panic. To him, Masters was simply the owner of the Group; he knew nothing of his involvement with Anna Farrell – and nor, for that matter, did Vicky, since Jonathan hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell her.

  In fact, he realized bleakly, no one beside himself was aware of the full implications. But, hell, he had to talk to someone!

  He stared at the newspaper till the print blurred before his eyes. Not Steve, then, nor Vicky. Which left Sophie. He r
ecalled the stirring of memory when she’d first mentioned Masters’ name. He hadn’t nailed it at the time, and apparently neither had she. Knowing nothing of the memory stick and its implications, nor, he assumed, Masters’ connection with Mandelyns, she’d be blissfully ignorant of the fact that the man in the news was their mother’s lover. He wondered uneasily if he’d be able to enlighten her without revealing his own part in the drama.

  Around him, people were beginning to stand up, and he realized belatedly that they were approaching Charing Cross. Hurriedly folding his newspaper, he also headed for the door.

  Sophie was surprised by her brother’s call. She was engrossed in a new design for a jumper and resented being disturbed.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ she asked, with a touch of impatience.

  ‘No, it can’t. Look, Steve and I are meeting someone for lunch. Can I come on to you afterwards? Are you at home?’

  ‘No, I’m in the workshop, and fairly busy, actually.’

  ‘This won’t take long, but I have to speak to you.’

  She sighed. ‘All right, if you must. About three?’

  ‘Bless you, sis,’ he said, and rang off.

  Sophie frowned briefly, then dismissed the exchange and returned to her design.

  Sophie’s business premises consisted of two large rooms, one for knitting, one for stock and packaging, and a smaller one that served as her studio, where, in relative peace, she worked on her designs. The whole was fronted by a boutique offering potential customers a chance to see the finished garments, which did enough business to justify its opening from eleven to four three days a week, staffed by a couple of students.

  ‘So what’s so urgent that it’s brought you all the way out here?’ she asked, three hours later. She and Jonathan were in the minute kitchenette off the workroom, waiting for the kettle to boil. On his way through, he’d been intrigued by the six knitting machines, three of which were currently not in use.

  ‘If you only employ three women, why do you need six machines?’ he asked now.

  ‘Because they’re for different things,’ she replied. ‘One does ribbing, for instance, which you can’t do on an ordinary machine. One’s for more chunky garments, and one’s a standard gauge for fine knitting. And don’t forget I also run machine-knitting workshops, where people come to learn.’