by Marjorie Orr
For a moment she thought he was about to march out, but he walked up the office to collect an oak dining room chair from the far end, carried it back and after nudging the flimsy one aside, dropped it and sat down.
‘That’s better. Now, what’s today’s game plan? Are you going out? That seems to get the surveillance on the move, which means I can follow them.’
‘Like a moving target?’ she said, scratching her cheek. ‘Lovely.’
‘Bob can drive you. Charlie has borrowed a couple of bikes, so we can be hanging around behind, with helmets and gear on, so unrecognisable. I want to find out where they come from.’
‘Give me a moment.’ She held up one hand as her mobile rang, scrabbling on the desk with the other and unearthed a business card. Sebastian Crumley. She winked at Herk.
‘Mr Crumley, I’m in a meeting, I’m afraid.’
He prattled on, apologising for being offhand at the funeral. Could they meet for a drink to allow him to make up for his behaviour? She bared her teeth at Herk.
‘I’m pretty jammed this week, apart from tonight. What about a week on Thursday? It would be nice to reminisce about Erica.’
‘Caprice? Tonight? Well,’ she paused for ten seconds, ‘I suppose since you’re practically a friend, why not? 7.30 would be OK.’
Herk picked up her coffee mug and chuckled quietly towards the kitchen.
‘What a prize jerk.’ She followed him through. ‘I cannot believe Erica fell for that smartass. Still, he may know more about Paul Stone and he’s got a twinge of guilt about something. I’ll prise it out of him before he discovers he’s not getting me into bed.’
‘Not Mata Hari, then?’
She poked him hard in the ribs. ‘I have never sold my body for information, I’ll have you know.’ She cocked her head to one side as he washed the mugs at the sink. ‘Well, unless I fancied him.’
His expression was serious when he turned round, which she thought for a moment was disapproval. But he had switched back to his question. ‘What else today?’
‘Publishers’ meeting in Holborn at 3 pm and I might just rouse Dunstan to give him back Erica’s case notes. I’ll see if I can fit him in after. Give me an excuse to get away. This morning is desk tidying.’
‘Don’t go out unless you ring me first.’ Her salute went unnoticed as he left.
Back at her desk she gloomily contemplated the afternoon rendezvous with the book editor who wanted, according to her agent, minor rewrites on the Sanchez Killing for a Living story. Her hackles had risen at the thought. She was used enough as a journalist to have her material worked over by sub-editors. Since she never read the end result, she was unfussed if they changed the punctuation or cut out chunks to fit the space available. In this case, however, she feared a fight ahead if the publishers were trying to change the slant of the book, to make it, in their favourite phrase, more reader-friendly.
She had no time, and less inclination, to add or subtract bloody details according to their whim. They could like it or lump it, she thought crossly, although no doubt her agent’s diplomatic skills would be brought to bear on her uncompromising ‘No’, which would mutate through a reluctant maybe to a grumpy acceptance of the bare minimum of alterations. Team work was not her forte.
The landline rang, with a London number showing. She laid her cigarette in the ashtray and answered it.
‘Miss Thane?’ a softly spoken voice asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m David Lewis from Harper & James, solicitors. I have sent you several emails. It’s about your father’s estate.’
She stiffened and picked up her cigarette, answering cautiously, her breathing shallow.
‘What about it?’ she said slowly.
‘I should explain,’ he continued briskly. ‘Eighteen months ago we took over Fennington & Fulsome after the sole surviving partner died. We have been clearing out their archives and came across papers pertaining to yourself and your family. I wondered whether you would like us to keep them or you would prefer to have them.’
Her brain froze and her heart punched back into her chest. The old feeling of shame trickled down her spine. Outside the window, a grey heron slowly flapped its way from a morning’s foraging in the pond at Buckingham Palace, heading north to its nesting colony in Regents Park. She watched the powerful wing beats, drumming through the grey sky.
‘Miss Thane?’
Taking a deep breath, she forced the words out: ‘Why don’t you send them over.’ He checked the address and rang off.
A voice in her head screamed ‘NO’. She did not want anything connected to her father. More than three decades of her life had been spent trying to blot him out. He had murdered her mother, spent ten years in prison, tainted her childhood. The money that paid for her boarding school and clothes, and later came as income from shares, she had accepted grudgingly. It was just money left over from a useless life, a feeble attempt to make up for the damage he had caused. She had persuaded herself that accepting it was an act of revenge since she had no intention of ever forgiving him. In recent years she had refused to spend the income on herself, immediately handing it on to Médecins Sans Frontières.
When the bulky packet of papers arrived by courier an hour later, she threw it unopened into the bottom of an office cupboard and shut the door.
Her morning unsettled, she found a Whitney Houston album that had sustained her through bleak moments in her teens, although her attempt to fuse the pop lyrics of ‘I Have Nothing’ with Jean-Paul Sartre and Nietzsche in one holiday essay had so infuriated the English teacher she had been forced to write another. She had reproduced her bird-watching diary in sixty densely packed pages, one for each day of the two-month vacation.
‘Didn’t you see anyone or go anywhere?’ Miss Potts had demanded, her long nose and thin lips twitching with incredulity and concern.
‘No, Miss. I walked three miles to the cliffs every day. Saw maybe two hundred thousand birds,’ Tire answered with a defiant glare, omitting to mention the evenings spent with Donny on his fishing boat. She smiled at the memory. Half a lifetime ago.
The brick wall of the building across the road, rising blankly up to the level of her window, was more oppressive than usual. Why do I live in a city, she thought, for the umpteenth time? It was an old dilemma, but was getting more pressing since she had stopped travelling so much. Work and theatres was her flip answer. The reality was that city life gave her the pretence of being among people, even if she connected with very few. Going to live on an island was a comforting dream, but she’d knew the isolation would consume her.
Her depression was kept at bay by packing her schedule with several running projects, ensuring she was always moving forward. But she hadn’t felt the panic the phone call threatened to set loose in a long time. It made her feel as if she was falling through an empty universe and about to explode at the same time. Clamping her jaw, she forced the unwanted feelings down and slammed the trapdoor shut.
Go somewhere, do something. But she was trapped inside the apartment till Herk returned. Cursing herself for being weak-minded, she heard his rough Scottish voice in her head. ‘Keep your focus steady.’ A thought struck her and she phoned Trevor at Cerigo. He was surprised but delighted when she suggested she come with a photographer to their Emporda resort on the Costa Brava.
‘I’ll have to check obviously with Mr Harman, but there will be room in about three weeks’ time.’ Her heart sank.
‘Nothing sooner?’ she said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.
His response was cautious. ‘We close for two weeks from next Wednesday for the poor children’s holiday. Mr Harman likes them to be left undisturbed. I know, since journalists have asked in the past.’
‘Before next Wednesday might be possible? It would suit me better.’ Why was she pushing and pleading?
‘Let me ask Mr H. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Then I will need your passport details to fix plane tickets and a car to pick you up
from Barcelona. What a pleasure it will be to welcome you, Ms Haddington.’
Is this going to be a mistake or at least a waste of time she wondered, aware that her decision had more to do with running away from what she didn’t want to face, than any pressing reason to check out Harman Stone on home ground.
CHAPTER 22
The meeting with her new book editor had been easier than she expected, with only a few points raised that could be tidied up in a morning’s work. She had dispensed with driver Bob’s services against his resistance. So the mile walk from Holborn across to Farringdon Road to meet Simon Dunstan filled in the half an hour she had to spare. Arriving first at the coffee shop, she ordered an espresso and watched the passers-by without really seeing them: a moving wallpaper of anonymous people going about their business. Dunstan arrived fifteen minutes late, his collar awry, ginger hair plastered with sweat above an unpleasantly shiny face. Tire managed a reassuring smile, and didn’t offer her hand, as he stammered out a nervous apology.
‘Sorry, no time to stay. I must be back in the office in twenty minutes,’ he said.
She hesitated, not sure how to extract information out of him over what was clearly going to be a rapid cup of coffee.
He continued: ‘But I did want to contact you. Erica left you her jewellery, books and paintings.’
‘She did?’ Tire’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Her money is going to various charities. Very thoughtful of her,’ he remarked, not meeting her eye. ‘But there are her possessions. Her flat was rented and the owner has agreed to break the contract if it’s cleared by the end of this week. No furniture, obviously, just clothes and... things... ’ He tailed off, looking at her sideways. ‘Wondered if you could manage? Know it’s a distasteful business. But has to be done. Sorry for the short notice. Keep anything you find, it won’t matter for the estate.’
For once, Tire was almost speechless, as the prospect of getting access to Erica’s papers fought a battle with her sense of loss.
He slid a set of keys across the table with an address label attached. ‘Just above Belsize village, you know. Easy to find. My cousin lives there,’ he added inconsequentially. Then looked flustered and muttered, ‘but of course you’d know being a close friend, sorry.’ Not that close or that long a friend, she thought with a stab of sadness, to be the only one to get a mention in her will.. She tightened her jaw to keep her face expressionless and handed him Erica’s Greengate folder from the prison.
‘Aah, I wondered where that had got to,’ he said, brushing his hair back anxiously and reversing away from her as if he was scared she might embrace him. ‘No harm done. He’s gone down for a long stretch and that’s all closed now.’ Then he shambled off.
Her inclination was to find a cab and go immediately until she noticed Bob’s BMW sitting across the road. Her phone rang, displaying Herk’s number.
‘We had an arrangement. Having security means you do as they tell you. We had to follow you on foot, which is not ideal. Now get in the car. You’ll need time to change for dinner.’ He rang off.
The walls were closing in again, but he was right. She gave Bob an apologetic smile and climbed in.
Back at the flat, Herk was hoovering the kitchen floor, an open bottle of beer on the counter top. He grunted when she walked in, so she collected a can from the fridge and waited till he had finished and switched the machine off. His expression when he turned round was inquiring, but not angry. Bless him, she thought, he doesn’t go in for recriminations.
Erica’s keys dangled from her finger. ‘Tomorrow first thing I’ll… we’ll go through Erica’s flat. There might be documents there.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere until I’ve had a recce. You’ve no idea who might be watching.’
‘Am I to spend my life getting paranoid about stalkers?’ She looked at him exasperated, nearly slopping diet Coke on the floor.
‘If you’re intent on hurtling into hornets’ nests, always best in my experience to check how big the beasts are in advance,’ he responded with an offhand wave. ‘What else from today?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve agreed we’ll go to Spain to the Cerigo resort maybe in three days to check it out.’
‘And this is worth it why?’ It wasn’t a criticism, more a straight query for information. She couldn’t, wouldn’t tell him the real reason she’d made the instant decision.
‘It’ll only take a couple of days. They’ll pay for flights and pick us up.’ She rotated one shoulder blade. ‘I just think there’s something odd about the Stones. Giving deprived kids a free holiday doesn’t square with the feeling I get from either of them.’
He looked doubtful, but surprised her by saying: ‘Why are they fixing transport?’
‘Just standard. I do a write-up and it gives them publicity. So they sort out a free trip. Though I’ll have to explain I’m not Ms Haddington since they want passports, which is a pain.’
‘No chance,’ he said, decisively. ‘We’ll drive.’
‘To the Costa Brava? That’s a helluva stretch.’
‘It’s only fourteen hours. You rely on them and you’re trapped. If we go, we’re going to have an escape route. Bob’s wife is going into hospital so the BMW will be free. You can make an excuse about doing another job on the way back. Toulouse or Montpellier or somewhere. And you keep your name to yourself – and mine.’
CHAPTER 23
Stepping out of the shower, she realised she had forgotten to ask if Herk had made progress with tracking the motorcycles to source, or whether Momo had come up with any information on Greengate’s case. No doubt he’d tell her when he was good and ready. Leave it till tomorrow and concentrate on nailing Crumley tonight.
Black suited her mood, so she pulled on velvet pants and jacket with a black silk blouse, polished silver earrings and a long, matching, heavy chain and art deco pendant. The car was at the front entrance when she left at 7.30 pm for the five-minute drive to Caprice, with Herk behind the wheel in a suit.
Sebastian Crumley was already seated when she arrived, with a glass of white wine in front of him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and said: ‘Very smart, and you’ve dressed to match the décor, I see.’
Tire looked around at the black and chrome art deco interior and laughed. ‘Promise I’m not turning into a chameleon. Just what first came to hand.’
Accepting a glass of Macon, she viewed him across the table. He was undoubtedly handsome with dark eyes the colour of melted chocolate, a classical nose, full lips and abundant blondish-brown hair worn long enough to brush his collar. Pity he wasn’t her type. His lightly mocking smile was honed to break the ice of conversations. She expected he wore it fifteen hours a day. They skirted and danced through a non-conversation about the David Bailey photographs on the wall, which he pronounced ‘just impeccable’ while she murmured a grudging ‘talented, just the wrong subjects’.
He looked astonished. ‘They’re all famous celebrities,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not too fond of portraits myself. I prefer my shots without anyone in them.’
‘Not people-friendly, then?’ he said, leaning towards her coquettishly as she gritted her teeth.
Over the first course of seared scallops she brought up the subject of Erica. He looked at his plate and shrugged with a look of what could have passed for wistfulness on his face. Plunging in, she asked if he had thought more about what she had been doing in Hammersmith in the early hours of the morning.
‘Beats me. No idea, I’m afraid.’
‘Was she having problems from any of her other cases?’
‘Trouble?’
‘For heaven’s sake. She wasn’t where she was supposed to be, tucked up in bed. She’s dead, there must be something behind it. A vengeful client, disgruntled relative, a human rights case that trampled on the wrong corns?’
’You do have an active imagination,’ he drawled. ‘I told you before, she never mentioned any threat
s to me and her human rights work was out of chambers, so off my radar. Anyway, the police clearly think... well, I don’t know whether think is too strong a word for them. But they’re not pursuing any leads at all, as far as I’ve heard.’
She stared at her remaining scallop marooned on an algae-green sauce on the square plate, wondering what the best tactic to use on him was. The distressed feminine. How did actresses turn on tears? And he was Leo, so ladle in a few compliments.
‘It’s just,’ she said, putting a hand on his arm, ‘I thought you would be the best person to turn to. I feel so guilty.’ She sniffed, hoping it wasn’t too melodramatic. ‘Maybe if I had asked her to stay that night she would still be here. Or if she’d been with you.’
His wine glass clinked against the side plate as his hand jerked. There was a spasm of what on his face? Guilt? Shame? His eyes hooded over as he stared at the damp patch on the tablecloth. Then the moment passed. His recovery was seamless as he smiled and reached across to pat her hand.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to jibe at you. I have no idea is the honest truth. We all have cases that go wrong, but mostly we survive to retirement. Sounds implausible, frankly, that it’d be deliberate.’
‘So what was she doing out there at that time of night?’
‘Hmm, got me there.’
‘You were out overnight with a client.’
His brows furrowed. ‘How do you know that?’
The shadow was back in his eyes. What was he ashamed of?
‘Police told me,’ she said, snapping a bread stick.
‘Yeah, not that it matters. A surprise late meeting, too much excellent cognac consumed. Not a client directly and not even sure what the purpose of it was. Had a terrible head next morning, was late in the office and then heard about Erica. It wasn’t a good day.’
He sat back as her chicken Milanese and his calf’s liver were set down and a bottle of red Bourgogne Pinot Noir appeared.
‘Dunstan,’ he said. ‘He got hold of you, I gather. She obviously thought highly of you. No one else got a mention in her will.’ His eyes drifted off to a neighbouring table, his lips drawn tight.
