by CJ Carver
‘It’s about cousin Aleksandr. I’m afraid I’ve some really bad news.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
With Lucy heading south to investigate Aleksandr Stanton’s death, Dan had agreed with her that he would call on Justin Tripp. Like Lucy, Dan had tried ringing the lawyer to no effect. Frustrated, aware he could be wasting valuable time searching for answers to release Jenny from the safe house – he still had to talk to Jenny’s old workplace in London – he drove to the lawyer’s home, a converted mill nestled at the bottom of a deep valley in the North Yorkshire moors.
He found Tripp kneeling in a barn with his left hand clutching the wool of a ewe’s back, the other inside her uterus.
‘Your wife said I would find you here,’ Dan said.
‘Hang on, would you?’ The lawyer’s facial muscles were scrunched in concentration. ‘It’s got elbow lock. I’ve had to push the lamb slightly back to extend the legs . . . Hang on girl . . . We’re nearly there . . .’
Dan watched silently as Tripp helped the ewe give birth to what appeared to be a healthy male lamb. While the ewe made hunka-hunka noises over her new charge, Tripp swiftly gave her an injection of long-acting antibiotic.
‘Always do that after an assisted birth,’ he told Dan cheerfully. ‘Now, let me wash my hands, and then you can tell me what you’re doing here.’
Dan followed the man into a stone-walled room with a tin sink where he lathered his hands and arms, cleaning them of mucus and blood before drying them on a faded green towel hanging on a hook. Then he took off his apron and said, ‘Right. Fire away.’
‘I want to know who Nicholas Blain is. And why he’s got a photograph of me.’
Tripp stared at Dan. He said, ‘Who are you? And who is Nicholas Blain?’
Dan felt completely wrong-footed. He didn’t think the man was a good actor. He simply hadn’t a clue.
Dan said, ‘Nicholas Blain met you at Middlesbrough Police Station last Saturday. Constable Lucy Davies saw him show you a photograph of me on an iPad.’
The man’s eyes flickered to Dan and away several times, indicating he was thinking, assimilating information. Finally, recognition dawned. He’d put the photograph together with the man standing before him.
Dan said, ‘I take it Blain isn’t his real name. What is it?’
Tripp shook his head. ‘Sorry. I can’t say anything more.’
Dan stepped close to him. Tripp wasn’t very tall, maybe five six or seven, but he held his ground.
‘Perhaps if you could tell me how you found me?’ Tripp asked. ‘My private address isn’t publicly listed.’
‘Sergeant Lucy Davies gave it to me.’
‘Why don’t I ring her,’ Tripp suggested. ‘And she can explain why you’re here.’
Dan took a step back and folded his arms. ‘My name is Dan Forrester.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He didn’t appear frightened or unnerved in any way but looked at Dan, openly curious. ‘Look, I’d really like to help you, but I still can’t say anything.’ He sounded sincerely apologetic. ‘Client confidentiality is all very well, but sometimes it can be a real double-edged sword.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dan wanted to ask if he knew of Jenny, but he dreaded saying her name. He wanted to protect her, not draw attention to her.
‘Sorry . . .’ Tripp shook his head.
‘How do I find Blain?’
Tripp frowned as he thought further. ‘I suggest you go and talk to Adrian Calder.’
Dan was opening his mouth to ask another question but Tripp forestalled him. ‘I’ll give you his phone number, OK? That’s as much as I can do. He’s currently on bail but whether he’ll talk to you or not is another matter.’
‘You can’t tell me where he is?’
‘Good God, no. I might as well chuck in my job if I did that.’
Dan started punching Calder’s number into his phone. ‘Do you know a Jane Sykes? Guardian journalist? Apparently she was a friend of Polina Calder’s.’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
As Dan walked for his car, Tripp called after him, ‘Good luck.’
Adrian Calder’s phone was on voicemail so Dan put one of Bernard’s trusty bloodhounds on his trail to find out where he was. He hadn’t gone home, apparently, no doubt because the second he did the media would camp on his doorstep. Calder would have to keep the police informed of his whereabouts, so it shouldn’t take long, and not for the first time Dan wished he still worked for the Firm. It would have saved a lot of time if he could have gone to the police station, shown them his ID card and got the information first-hand.
He wasn’t sure whether to stay in the area or not, but found the financial questions concerning Jenny, Calder and Russia were chiming so loudly in his mind that he couldn’t help but be drawn back to London. The fact that Aleksandr Stanton had just died couldn’t be a coincidence. Dan wanted to follow the money trail of Melted Restaurants and Aleksandr Stanton’s envelopes of cash to Calder. Was Stanton possibly using the restaurants to launder Russian money somehow? And could Jenny have been unwittingly involved in Russian affairs when she worked for McInley and Krevingden?
His worry over Jenny was a continuous gnawing in his belly and every time he thought of her, Aimee and the baby, his breathing caught and he’d find himself momentarily unable to function. So he kept his family in a compartment in his mind that he only opened occasionally and when he knew it didn’t matter if he was distracted.
As he drove down the dual carriageway of the A19, he kept Calder’s number on re-dial, but it wasn’t until four hours later when he was driving through the outskirts of London that finally Calder picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ His voice was hesitant and quavery. He didn’t sound like the strong-looking man shown in the newspapers. He sounded a hundred years old.
‘Adrian Calder?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘My name is Dan Forrester.’
Long silence. Then Calder said, ‘I think we’d better meet. Don’t you?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lucy arrived at Great Huntingdon Hall as the sky was beginning to darken into evening and far later than she’d wanted, thanks to having to wait an extra hour for a pool car. Her Corsa was now making awful rattling noises and she knew she couldn’t trust it to do anything more than run her to the supermarket and back until she got it fixed.
A huddle of paparazzi stood by the front gate, their vehicles parked along the road, half-on, half-off the verge. Lucy wound down her window to the PC on duty and heard the whirr and click-clicking as her photograph was taken. If they managed to find out who she was – which was pretty doubtful since she was in mufti – it would give them a pretty headache trying to work out what a Middlesbrough cop was doing down here. Good luck to them. She showed her ID and the PC radioed for the gate to open. More click-clicks as she wound up her window and drove through.
Parking at the end of a row of vehicles, which included a couple of patrol cars and a forensics van, Lucy climbed out of her car and stretched. A cold wind whipped her hair across her face and she quickly grabbed a scrunchy and tied it back. She stretched again, trying to clear her mind after the four-and-a-half-hour journey. She’d spent the entire time with her head buzzing, fighting to work out why the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation was involved with Adrian Calder. Dan said he was concerned the FSB had killed Polina and her children, but why hadn’t they killed Adrian? He’d been armed with a shotgun, had he scared them off? She’d have to talk to Adrian Calder again and ask him about it.
She introduced herself to the investigating team, who’d been expecting her thanks to Mac preparing her way, and when she said, ‘He didn’t ride,’ they said, ‘Yeah, we know.’
‘So how did he die?’
‘Broken neck.’
She looked at the SIO who pulled a face. ‘We’re keeping an open mind, OK?’
Lucy walked to a field behind the stables where Aleksan
dr Stanton had been found beside a jump made out of rails. Not being part of the forensic team she couldn’t get too close, but she could still see Aleksandr’s body. He looked diminished, small and elderly and nothing like the tall and energetic man she’d met.
‘Cervical dislocation.’ She overheard the pathologist talking to the SIO and moved closer to eavesdrop. Apparently Aleksandr had lain here for a while as his body was stone cold. ‘Could have been here for six hours or twelve, hard to say.’ He went on to say that the man’s neck had been snapped either forwards or backwards, and not broken from the side as far as he could tell. As he moved away to take some more photos, Lucy puttered back to the house. Headed for the stables. She looked at the horse that had supposedly thrown its rider. It had been untacked and stood quietly in its stall, half asleep and not apparently bothered by the bustle of a police investigation.
‘What did you see?’ she asked the horse softly. ‘What happened?’
‘Do you normally talk to animals?’ A haughty woman’s voice sounded behind her.
Lucy turned to see an elderly woman in trousers and muddy leather boots. An enveloping fleece the colour of pondweed hung to her thighs.
‘Only when I wish they could talk back,’ said Lucy. She put out her hand. ‘I’m Lucy Davies. I’m with the police.’
‘I’m Margaret. Elizabeth’s mother.’
‘I’m sorry about Aleksandr.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret’s face crumpled briefly. ‘Elizabeth’s devastated. But still, she wanted me to make sure Clarence was OK.’
At Lucy’s blank look, Margaret said, ‘The horse.’ She went to the stable door and opened it, stepped inside. ‘Hey boy,’ Margaret murmured. The horse swung its head and nuzzled her palm. Lucy watched the woman move her hands over the horse’s body, from behind its ears down its neck to its shoulders.
‘Aleksandr told me he didn’t know one end of a horse from the other,’ said Lucy.
Margaret shot her a look. ‘You met him?’
‘On Wednesday.’
Margaret frowned. Before she could think any further, let alone jump to any conclusions about her visit, Lucy added, ‘I talked with him about Adrian Calder.’
‘Oh.’ The woman faltered, put a hand to her forehead. ‘Poor Adrian, accused like that. I believe he killed his family about as much as I believe he could fly to the moon. I hope you’re close to finding who did it.’
‘We’re working extremely hard.’ Lucy was careful to be neutral.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Margaret moved her hands expertly over the horse’s legs, raising each foot and inspecting the hooves.
‘If Adrian didn’t kill his family, who do you think did?’ asked Lucy.
‘Some crazy person on drugs, no doubt. It’s at times like these that I wish we still had the death penalty. There . . .’ She patted the horse briskly on the neck. ‘No harm done to you, my fellow. Elizabeth will be relieved. She bred him, you know. She adores her horses. They’re like children to her.’ The woman came out of the stable and slammed the door shut with more force than Lucy thought necessary. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but if he’d let my daughter have children she’d find them a comfort right now. But all she’s got is her horses. I like horses very well, but they’re not the same as children.’
Her voice was fierce and filled with bitterness.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy. She looked into the angular face of Elizabeth’s mother; the old skin stretched over the bones of her head like cream parchment that had been foxed by damp. Anger radiated from every pore. At not having grandchildren? Or was it something more?
‘Did they ever consider adopting?’ Lucy probed.
Margaret reared back in astonishment. ‘Why on earth would Aleks adopt when he could perfectly well have children of his own?’
Lucy stared. ‘I thought he had a low sperm count.’
The woman gave a snort. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘The lying bastard.’
Margaret started to stomp towards the house. Lucy followed her into a light, chill drizzle. What was it with this family? When she’d seen Aleksandr he’d been strangely cautious on the subject, and now his mother-in-law was here full of resentment. Normal family tribulations? Or did it go deeper?
‘Why didn’t he want children?’ Lucy asked. ‘I mean, most men would like a child to leave all this to . . .’ She swept her hand to indicate the mansion and hundreds of acres of grounds.
‘He wasn’t most men, as you call him,’ Margaret snapped. ‘He was highly unusual. Highly intelligent, highly successful. It wasn’t that he disliked children per se. He just didn’t want them himself. He was quite adamant about it. Elizabeth did fall pregnant once, you know. She thought he’d come round. He loved her so much, and she him, but . . .’ Margaret’s lips thinned. ‘He demanded she get rid of it. Can you imagine it? Your husband doing such a thing?’
They stepped around a line of tubs filled with evergreen shrubs.
‘And did she?’
‘Yes. He took her to the clinic himself.’ Margaret turned her head to look at Lucy. ‘They nearly divorced, though. They were separated for ages afterwards.’
‘But they got back together.’
‘Eventually.’
‘Perhaps he had a congenital disease he didn’t want passed on to his children,’ Lucy said, wondering if OCD was hereditary.
‘Rubbish,’ Margaret said roundly. ‘None of his relatives have anything like that. They’re all as healthy as horses. He was a selfish prick, that’s all. And now he’s dead.’ She looked darkly at Lucy. ‘Elizabeth is too old to have children now. She’s fifty-eight.’
Lucy recalled a male friend of hers who’d never wanted kids but refused to tell his fiancé before he got married, thinking they’d be fine as they were. It was only way down the line when his wife started making baby noises that he confessed. They’d split up soon afterwards. His ex-wife remarried and had a child almost immediately. Her friend was still single. He hadn’t wanted kids because of the financial burden, and because he wanted the freedom of life without them. Had Aleksandr felt the same? That he would feel trapped if he had kids?
Margaret paused on the doorstep, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You must think I am frightfully odd talking to you like this. I think it’s the shock of his death that’s made me bang on so. Elizabeth’s my only child, you see. I miss not having grandchildren terribly, and now Aleks has gone . . . well, I can see how very lonely my daughter’s going to be. Damn the man for being so selfish . . .’
‘Please, don’t worry about it,’ Lucy said, and something must have resonated in her voice – she’d known people share far stranger things after a loved one died – because Margaret looked at her and said gently, ‘You are kind.’
Since Margaret seemed to have accepted her company with equanimity, Lucy stuck by her, hoping for some more family titbits. They walked through the echoing spaces of a rear hall and scullery, a capacious kitchen, and eventually they were crossing the main hall into a drawing room. A very different room from the one where Aleksandr had talked to Lucy, this one was decorated in pale greens and pinks and was far more feminine. His and Hers rooms, obviously. At the far end a tall door led to a conservatory. Lucy’s eyes went to the woman who was in there. She looked as though she was weeping.
‘Elizabeth,’ Margaret said.
She went to her daughter, but she didn’t embrace her. Just stood close. Margaret might not be visibly distressed, but Lucy knew people responded differently in shocking situations and didn’t think anything less of Margaret for keeping her ramrod-straight posture and her emotions under lock and key.
Lucy was so absorbed in the tableau of the two women she nearly had a heart attack when a man spoke right next to her.
‘Well, well, well.’ His voice was soft and deep, like molasses. ‘If it isn’t Constable Davies.’
She turned to find herself looking
straight into a pair of murky green eyes. Strong jawline, lean body. Bad-boy good-looking.
Nicholas Blain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘What are you doing here?’ Lucy asked. Her voice sounded unnaturally high and she hurriedly cleared her throat, trying to retain her composure.
His eyes were cool on hers.
‘I’m a friend of the family.’
‘What kind of friend?’
‘A friend-friend.’ He put his head on one side and surveyed her. ‘Why? What are you doing here? This isn’t your jurisdiction, surely?’
It was none of his business but she didn’t want to alienate him. She said, ‘My boss sent me.’
‘DI Faris MacDonald.’
She nodded.
‘Found anything for him?’
Lucy held his eyes as she said, ‘Just you.’
‘Me?’ His tone was filled with mock innocence.
‘Oh, yes.’ She gazed back steadily at the man who, the last time she’d seen him, had been walking down the street outside Adrian Calder’s Melted restaurant in Newcastle. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘I can’t guarantee I’ll answer it,’ he said. ‘But I’ll try.’
‘Why do you have a photograph of Dan Forrester on your iPad?’
Blain widened his eyes. There was nothing involuntary about his expression of surprise, she realised. He wanted her to understand that he appreciated her knowledge.
‘Why do you think?’ he parried.
Since she hadn’t a clue, she was forced to make a guess. ‘Because of Adrian Calder.’
‘In other words, you don’t know.’ Amusement rose.
‘Why were you showing the photograph of Dan Forrester to Justin Tripp last Saturday?’
‘Sorry.’ He looked regretful. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Are you perhaps at liberty to tell me who Zama is?’
‘Who?’ His expression appeared genuinely mystified.
He didn’t appear to be acting, and Lucy wondered why Adrian Calder and Justin Tripp knew the name, but Nicholas Blain didn’t.
