by Julia Thomas
Thirty-Three
Beneath the foothills of the Sierra de la Ventana mountains, six hours southwest of Buenos Aires, the Campo de Polo stretched across the secluded grasslands for miles. Its remote location was of particular interest to Hugh, who had wanted to visit the polo camp for several years. It was founded in 1910 and trained both beginner and intermediate riders to play. He did not aspire to be a professional—one could hardly remain undetected even in Argentina if one were to participate in a nationally or globally televised sport—but it had the feel of a good spa about it. It would do him good after all he had gone through.
He had always loved riding and knew he would train as an intermediate, at least. The accommodations, small private cabanas, were humbler than he preferred, but it would suit his purposes. There were regulation polo fields on perfect Bermuda grass, and even an indoor arena for practice on rainy days. Purebred racing ponies were raised on the ranch, and there was a fine selection from which to choose. He had spent hours comparing the mounts available. He favored a sinewy brown thoroughbred named Sultan, and hoped the horse would still be available by the time he arrived. Polo wasn’t the only diversion that the Campo de Polo offered. After chukkas, cocktails and empanadas were served on the verandah each evening. There was an enormous pool where he would take a swim before retiring for the night. The physical demands of polo would keep his mind off everything that had happened, and when he tired of it after a season or two, he would take the train to Buenos Aires and find a flat.
Buenos Aires would be most stimulating. There was a surging ex-pat population there, escaping hectic city life and careers in favor of the inexpensive lifestyle and slower pace. He’d considered other locations, like Bangkok or Portugal, but dismissed them after doing his research. Bangkok would be an amusing diversion at first, but he couldn’t see himself living in Asia for the rest of his life. The culture was too different, and he knew he would long for England after a year or two. Portugal, while more familiar, was simply too close to Britain, and he would have a far greater chance of being discovered there. Argentina was not only on the other side of the world but in a different hemisphere. It had the romantic allure of Spain, with the added virtue of complete and total anonymity.
His bag was already packed. The passport tucked in the pocket of his coat bore the name Richard Marquardt. He’d had it made after Lizzie Marsden’s death in case it ever became necessary to leave the country. That day had now arrived. Arrangements had been made. Tonight, he would take the ferry from Liverpool to Dublin and fly Aer Lingus to Puerto Rico before flying south to Argentina. He would travel light, bringing only one bag. Clothes could be bought, flats rented. He hated the thought of leaving his house, but there was no other choice. For the last several months, since Tamsyn had been back in his life, he had been moving money into an overseas account in anticipation of just such a move. Then DCI Murray had honed in on him. He could have gotten away with Tamsyn’s murder, but killing Murray was a bridge too far.
He sat in his parents’ brick-walled garden with a cup of coffee, looking at the arbor of climbing roses his mother had worked so long to achieve. Although she employed a gardener, she labored here every day. It was a full, mature garden twenty years in the making, and she was enormously proud of it. Dinner parties were held under the stars, with twinkling lights twined on the pergola that dripped with ivy and honeysuckle. It was quiet now, for the middle of the day. He sat back, looking at the pavers that led into the more formal areas of the garden, with small, discreet cherubs gracing the path. The parterre, with its symmetrical box hedges and gravel paths, was small but entrancing. Many days he had walked those paths, often after a fight with his father, to escape the anger in the house. It calmed him. He resolved to find gardens in Argentina. They would remind him of his mother and all that was right in the world.
It was hard to imagine that it would be his last day here, and for all he knew, the last time he would ever see his parents. The thought brought conflicting emotions. His father’s gruff demeanor was more than a veneer. Noel had never gotten over his modest upbringing by a single mother or the poverty and the deprivation of life without a father or proper home. He was driven to leave a legacy, a dynasty even, and he had been harder on his son than anyone else. No matter what Hugh did, his father never seemed to approve. No role was great enough, no film would gross as much as his father’s had. Hugh was competitive and would have liked to best him, but so far it hadn’t happened, and now it was too late.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket and studied it. He wanted to talk to Daniel one more time. When he disappeared, he couldn’t look back. He tried not to imagine it. Much easier, he thought, to focus on polo and days spent working up a sweat on the back of a sleek thoroughbred. Still, he wanted to talk to him. He dialed the number, mumbling a curse as it rang to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He pocketed the mobile and lifted the cup to his lips just as his mother stepped out of the house.
“What a nice afternoon,” she said, walking over to him. She pulled her hat forward to shade her eyes from the sun. “May I join you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
She set her gardening shears on the table in front of him and sat down, pulling off her gloves. “I was going to cut some roses for the table. The boxwoods need trimming, but Wilkins would never forgive me if I touched them. You remember what happened last time.”
“It looked a bit wobbly there for a bit, didn’t it?” he answered. “You wouldn’t want to incur his wrath.”
“Again,” she said, smiling. “Once was enough.”
“Well, it’s all recovered now. Your membership in the Royal Horticultural Society is in good standing.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do you know, the Simpsons have box blight? Everything’s been infected. Their garden may take years to recover.”
He felt a catch in his throat that the greatest rumor she could impart was the state of the Simpsons’ garden. How would she feel when his crimes were revealed to the entire country? She would never get over it.
She didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t answered and sat back, changing the subject. “Listen, darling. I wanted to talk to you about something. Your father and I were thinking of taking two or three weeks in Avignon. The Smythes have offered us the use of their farmhouse.” She patted him on the arm. “You’re welcome to come with us, of course. You could use some sun.”
“I’d rather stay in London, but I think you should go,” he replied, relieved. With his parents safely off to France, he wouldn’t be missed for at least three weeks. It was an unexpected good turn of events, at a time when things had been going very poorly indeed. “It would be good for you to get away. This has been a strain on you too.”
“I don’t like to leave you at a time like this.”
“You know as well as anyone that there’s really nothing to be done. It’s a process. And everyone grieves in their own way.”
She paused, looking up at the house for a moment as though someone might be listening. She was like that when she was trying to tell him something important, making certain his father wasn’t within earshot. “I haven’t wanted to say anything, and forgive me if I am overstepping, dear, but I felt that perhaps you didn’t love her.”
Hugh looked up into her eyes and saw something he didn’t want to see. He tried to come up with a coherent response, settling on a bland, meaningless sentiment. “Love is different for each person.”
“I even wondered if she was holding something over you,” she ventured.
“Like what?” he asked before he could stop himself. When his mother didn’t reply, he answered for her. “She wasn’t pregnant, if that’s what you were thinking. Besides, people aren’t bothered by things like that these days, you know.”
“I wasn’t thinking of a pregnancy.”
He flinched. Could she possibly have any idea of what had happened between
him and Tamsyn? Or, for that matter, Lizzie Marsden? But that was impossible. There had been no clues left behind. He’d made certain of that.
“There’s nothing,” he said. “I just haven’t wanted to talk about it.”
“Of course, of course,” she replied.
She wouldn’t bring it up again, and while that in itself was a relief, he was going to swan off to Argentina and she would be left behind to deal with the fallout for years. He hadn’t realized the extent to which his actions would have an impact on everyone. He didn’t particularly care if his father was infuriated by the whole business, but his mother was another matter. It would kill her.
Hugh took a gulp of air. How had everything turned out like this, anyway? He thought back to that night in Wales, which he remembered in great detail. Marc had been reluctant, but he had wanted to prove something, though he wasn’t sure what. He had wanted to seize control of something, and Tamsyn had been the nearest target. If it hadn’t been her, would it have been someone else? He had never forced anyone again, but the desire for power continued to consume him. He had funneled that desire into appropriate channels, like building his career and working on his house, but at his core, he was restless, unfulfilled, and angry. Lizzie Marsden had been sucked into the vortex the night she died. If she had shown up at his door on any other night, there might have been an entirely different result. Hugh lived with the fear that something like that might happen again, but the situation hadn’t presented itself until Tamsyn burst into his life and forced his hand.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.
He reached out and took her hand, glad at least that she couldn’t see his desperate thoughts. He wanted to fold her in his arms, but of course she would know something was wrong. She probably already knew it. He released her hand, and, in that moment, he gave her up forever.
“I’m going to ring Daniel,” he said.
He gave her the briefest smile, which was no indication of how emotional he was beginning to feel, and then went inside the house. His father was probably at the club, and his mother wandered into the back of the garden. He went up the staircase, his shoes making no sound on the carpeted steps. Once in his bedroom, he shut the door. He couldn’t leave England without hearing Daniel’s voice one more time. If it weren’t impossible, if he could have spoken freely without judgment or shame, the one thing he would have wanted to tell him was that he didn’t kill Tamsyn. Not really. She’d been leading him on a death march, and no one could survive that. Not him, and certainly not Tamsyn Burke.
Suddenly, he heard a commotion in the street below. He avoided looking out of the windows at all costs, knowing if he did it would be on the BBC within the half hour. He refused to give the press more fodder for their sensationalist stories; however, the mild roar outside convinced him that something out of the ordinary was happening. He lifted back the curtain just enough to see Daniel fighting his way through the crowd.
Hugh let the curtain fall back into place. He should have been pleased. Daniel was exactly the person he wanted to talk to, but this was a bad sign. Either he had figured out what had happened or he thought he had. Even Inspector Murray had gotten it wrong. He sighed, slipping the mobile back into his pocket. He had wanted to talk to him on the phone; a final, remote goodbye, leaving their relationship intact and preserving, at least in his mind, the friendship they had shared for so long. Seeing him in person made everything so much harder. And if Daniel knew anything even close to the truth, all hell was about to break loose.
Thirty-Four
Daniel stepped out of the taxi down the road from the Ashley-Hunts’ house, not because he didn’t want Hugh to know he was coming but because the paparazzi were camped about, trying to get a glimpse of the film star or one of his famous parents during their time of grief. It seemed the longer Hugh avoided them, the more frenzied they’d become. Daniel had barely taken three steps before someone shouted his name and the focus turned toward him. Undeterred, he muscled his way through the crowd, impeded by microphones thrust in his face and reporters stepping in front of him trying to get an exclusive interview or even a short remark. He shook his head, saying only, “Excuse me,” and made his way over cables and cords, enduring flashes by the dozens. He’d had no idea that the press were so thoroughly encamped around the house. It was yet another downside to acting. One’s life simply wasn’t one’s own.
Once Daniel had fended off questions and shouts, he opened the gate, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. It was an unseasonably warm day and he wondered if the curiosity seekers were as faithful on rainy ones. A long minute passed before the door finally opened.
A man, obviously a plainclothes guard, answered the door. He had a gun strapped to his belt and appraised Daniel thoroughly. “Yes?”
“I’m Daniel Richardson, a friend of Hugh’s.”
“No one is scheduled to visit today.”
“He’ll see me.”
As he replied, Hugh came walking down the stairs. “It’s all right, Finch.”
“Go back upstairs, sir. He’ll be allowed up after I’ve checked him.”
“Send him to my father’s study when you’re done.”
Finch closed the front door and then looked at Daniel. “Raise your arms, please.”
Daniel hesitated before complying with his request. The security guard patted under his arms, then ran his hands down to Daniel’s waist, feeling around it before brushing the back of his hand down his chest in a smooth, long movement. He checked his pockets and ran his hand down his legs and ankles, probing for a hidden gun or knife. Of course, there was none. He had never carried a weapon in his life.
Finch nodded and stepped aside, and Daniel went up the stairs. He had always loved coming to this house for family suppers and parties, for nights spent watching television or playing video games when they were younger, and to pick Hugh up when they were older and went on the town. It had always been something he had enjoyed. Now, every step was torture. Hugh had killed Tamsyn, and probably even Lizzie Marsden.
Daniel didn’t know what he was going to say to him, but it didn’t matter. It was time to clear the air and he wouldn’t leave until he did.
Hugh was nowhere in sight as he approached the study. He went forward, palms sweating, to the open door at the end of the corridor. He stepped into the familiar room, where he had drunk wine and chatted with Hugh’s father not two months before. The desk dominated the center of the room, and everything was in its place. Behind the desk, the French doors were open to the balcony. The Persian rug, a deep claret red with a swirling mass of whirls, made him feel dizzy and disoriented.
This was the first time he had been alone in this room. He moved away from the doorway, wanting to keep some space between himself and Hugh when his friend arrived. Glancing up to be certain he was alone, he walked over to the desk and stood behind it. The old walnut shined as if it had been freshly polished. There were a few volumes stacked on one corner, and a chestnut leather diary lay open to reveal pristine white pages of that precise week. None of the days had entries. On both sides of the desk there were three drawers, and Daniel reached for the one on the top right and slid it open without a sound. Nothing of particular importance was inside. There were papers, on top of which sat a silver magnifying glass. Hearing footsteps in the hall, he slid it shut again and walked over to stand in front of the desk.
Hugh walked up to the doorway and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You’re looking grim.”
“We need to talk,” Daniel said, feeling his nerves pulsing in his body. He wasn’t the sort to confront anyone, least of all about murder. Yet he had loved Tamsyn, and she had been brave enough to face Hugh head-on when she died. He could do no less.
“Want to sit?” Hugh asked.
“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “I want to talk. I want you to tell me everything.�
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Hugh gave a small smile and walked into the room, settling himself in one of the leather chairs. A breeze blew in through the French doors, ruffling the light, sheer curtain.
“‘Everything’ would include a very broad scope of topics, old chap. What exactly do you want me to tell you?”
“Let’s start with the truth.”
Hugh tapped one of his shoes lightly upon the floor. “The truth is a difficult thing, Daniel. And let’s be honest. Sometimes you’re better off not knowing it.”
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Of course you do. I’m the one you grew up with. I’m the one who gave you the shot at having a better life. I’m the one who’s closer than a brother.”
“I may have done Alex a disservice.”
“Well, you might be a bit hasty there. And frankly, I’d be careful if I were you, because whatever you say in this room cannot be taken back.”
Daniel suddenly realized he was shaking. “You killed Tamsyn!” he said. “I just want to fucking know why.”
“It’s not as if I wanted to, you know,” Hugh replied. “I didn’t go looking for her. And in case you’ve forgotten, it was the other way round. She became a threat I had to deal with.”
Daniel was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Hugh to admit it so quickly. He’d thought he would have to cudgel him over the head with facts and drag the truth out of him.
“How did you find out?” Hugh asked.
“I went to Wales with Carey,” Daniel said. “She took me to the lighthouse and told me that Tamsyn had been raped by two English boys. Later, I found newspaper clippings of you and your father in Tamsyn’s room. They’d been there for years. She recognized you the night of the rape and decided that one day, she would do something about it.”
Hugh raised a brow. “Did you find out about the child, too?”
