by Granger, Ann
Jess’s impatience turned to eagerness. ‘Yes, I do. Have you remembered?’
‘Now you want to know, don’t you?’ Tom smiled happily at her. ‘It bugged me, you see, that I couldn’t place the chap. You asked about newspapers and I knew it hadn’t been in a newspaper. Then, last night, I remembered. I went for my annual dental check-up a couple of weeks ago. I had to sit around in the waiting room for a while and, as you know, they always have piles of ancient magazines. So I started looking through them. That’s where I’d seen Taylor, in a magazine, one of those topical gossip glossies – showing us what glamorous lives some people have, unlike our humdrum daily toil. So I went back this morning first thing, straight through the door as they opened up. The receptionist thought I had an emergency tooth problem. I explained I needed to look through the magazines and might want to take one away. “Take the lot,” she said. “They’re so out of date no one wants to look at them. I’m going to put them out for recycling today.” So I had to sit down there and then and leaf through them. Blooming boring it was too, I can tell you. But I found it. Here it is.’
Tom opened the magazine in question and turned it on the desk surface so that it faced Jess right way up. ‘See? That’s him. That’s Taylor. Full of life and grinning away, I grant you, but that’s the joker I autopsied for you.’
He tapped the well-thumbed page. Jess bent over the desk to study the photograph. It had been taken in a well-known nightclub. It showed a party of revellers. They were, the text said, celebrating the success of a racehorse belonging to one of them. Certainly champagne bottles were much in evidence. The horse’s owner – and his female companion – were well enough known to the readers of this kind of gossip machine to be of interest. The caption stated the celebrity pair was having a night out ‘with friends’. One of the friends was clearly and unmistakably Jay Taylor.
Poor Jay, thought Jess. There he is, as Tom said, full of life and hobnobbing with the sort of people he wrote about and longed to be like. Also just a little flushed and the worse for drink, grinning his head off at the paparazzo who had snapped this shot. He had a proprietorial arm around the shoulders of a girl who was leaning against him. She, also, looked rather the worse for champagne. Her face shone and one strap of her party dress had slipped off her shoulder and rested on her upper arm.
‘Any use to you?’ asked Tom hopefully. ‘Probably doesn’t tell you anything you don’t already know. But I thought you’d like to see it.’
‘I would, I am interested, very much indeed,’ Jess told him. ‘Thanks for this, Tom, really very, very much! Yes, that’s Jay Taylor . . . and I know her, too, the girl he’s very pally with.’
Jess tapped the image of the girl with the slipped bodice strap. ‘Tansy Peterson! Well, well, well . . . I’m just on my way to talk to her mother. Now I need to talk to her, too, and urgently.’
But neither Bridget nor Tansy were at home when Jess reached the Old Lodge. Monty was wandering around the garden, whisky glass in hand. He looked quite happy.
‘Both gone out!’ he announced. ‘Marvellous! They left me here all alone and Bridget didn’t remember to lock the drinks cabinet.’
‘Did they say where they were going?’ Jess asked.
‘No and I didn’t ask. They didn’t go together. They went separately.’
Jess frowned. That sounded as though mother and daughter had set off in different directions.
Monty had noted her frown and interpreted it as disbelief. ‘I know it sounds potty. But first Tansy shot off in her old banger of a car and then Bridget went chasing after her in that little blue job she drives.’
So the two women may have been heading in the same direction, after all. Something had happened.
‘Monty,’ Jess said, ‘please try and remember anything at all. I must find them. What about last night? Did either of them mention last night they might be going out this morning?’
‘Oh, last night,’ returned Monty with a sniff of disapproval. ‘Last night they had a bally awful row, a real ding-dong battle. They row all the time, mind you, so it probably meant nothing.’
‘What were they rowing about?’
‘Dunno,’ mumbled Monty. ‘Tried not to listen. I was in my bedroom. I could still hear them, though, when they didn’t remember to whisper.’
‘Monty!’ Jess urged. ‘Do try! It is important. I think it’s important to Tansy. I know you don’t care about Bridget, but you do care about Tansy, don’t you?’ Jess took a plunge. ‘Is she your heir?’
Monty blinked at her, astounded. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘You’re sharp, you are. Yes, she is, for what it’s worth. I haven’t got any money. She knows that. I’ve left Balaclava to her in my will and that’s likely to be more of a burden to her than a blessing.’
‘Does she know? Have you told her you’ve left her Balaclava?’
Monty shrugged. ‘I did say something or other to her. She seemed pleased at the time, poor kid.’ He eyed Jess thoughtfully. ‘Tansy in trouble or some sort?’
‘I need to talk to her urgently, Monty, that’s all.’
‘Mm . . .’ Monty gazed into the now-empty glass in his hand. Perhaps the need to refill it before Bridget got back decided him. ‘They might have gone over to Balaclava. I think that’s what they were arguing about. You cops know who’s been using that bedroom upstairs there, don’t you? Well, it’s got Tansy’s goat that you’re not doing anything about it. Don’t explain it to me. I don’t bloody care.’
Billy Hemmings ran his business from a small first-floor office in the area of Gloucester Docks. A modest brass plate gave no indication of what kind of business it was, but presumably people who wanted to conduct it with Billy knew all about it. A secretary, a small dark woman radiating energy, presided over a cramped outer office at the top of the steep flight of stairs. She appeared to be the only staff.
‘Superintendent Carter!’ she said briskly. ‘He’s been expecting you. Go on through.’
Carter smiled wryly. The phone line between Weston St Ambrose and this office had been busy. Unfortunately, though unavoidably, Terri had had plenty of time to forewarn his husband and Billy had had plenty of time to prepare for his visit. But perhaps Billy had been waiting for this interview from the beginning . . . if he indeed had an interest in Balaclava House, that is. He must be shrewd enough to have realised the police would make a link, sooner or later. It was going to be interesting to hear him explain his lack of frankness on the subject.
The brisk receptionist/secretary was still indicating the narrow door with a frosted glazed panel in it.
‘Thank you,’ Carter said to her and ‘went through’, as directed.
Beyond it Hemmings was waiting for him with a smile fixed in place on his fleshy lips. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Hello, then, we meet again!’ he hailed his visitor with false jocularity. He was rising to his feet as he spoke and holding out his hand.
‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly,’ Carter returned, not to be outdone in the matter of civilities. He shook the proffered hand as briefly as he could.
‘Oh, well, as soon as Terri rang here to say you’d been on to her, I was waiting for your call. I’ll get Amanda to bring us in some coffee.’ He leaned forward and called into the intercom on his desk, ‘Coffee, Amanda!’ He leaned back again. ‘What can I do for you this time? Found out who did for poor old Jay yet?’
‘No, not yet, not quite yet,’ Carter admitted, lowering himself into a shiny new armchair of modern design, all tubular steel and black plastic. It looked like an ejector seat and felt about as comfortable. He was reminded of scenes in James Bond films; and wondered if Hemmings had a button under his desk to get rid of unwanted callers. They were in the former docks here, after all. Perhaps, he thought with a moment’s amusement, a trapdoor would open and he, Carter, would plummet neatly down into the water.
His suppressed smile had been noted by the other man and interpreted differently.
‘That’s a desig
ner piece,’ said Hemmings proudly, indicating the chair with a wave. ‘I paid good money for that chair. That cost me more than all the rest of the office furniture put together.’
Carter hastily murmured something to indicate he was impressed. Then he got to the subject that had brought him.
‘Actually,’ he began, ‘I’d like to talk to you about Balaclava House.’
Amanda chose that moment to appear with the coffee. From her boss’s point of view, she couldn’t have timed it better. Carter wondered if she were listening over the intercom, out there in her cubbyhole office.
‘Ah, coffee!’ Hemmings beamed, as if he hadn’t just asked for it. He opened a lower drawer in his desk and took something out. ‘Would you like a drop of something in that, Superintendent?’ He held up a brandy bottle.
‘I’m on duty, I’m afraid,’ Carter refused the offer with a smile.
‘Of course you are.’ Hemmings returned the bottle to its hiding place and sat back again. ‘Balaclava House, you say? Where Jay was found? I think I remember you telling me that.’
‘Yes, I did tell you that. Had you heard of the place before?’
For the barest second Hemmings was tempted to lie. His face didn’t tell it but his body language did. He seemed to hold his breath and stiffen. Then he relaxed.
‘Yes, I did remember – after I’d seen you – that I had heard of it before. Well, it’s local to us in Weston St Ambrose, isn’t it? Or almost.’
He had realised that if Carter were here to talk about it, the superintendent already knew or had guessed something. Now Hemmings would try to find out just how much. But two could play at that game.
‘It’s a big place, lots of land,’ Carter said conversationally, reaching for his coffee cup.
‘So I believe,’ said Hemmings, watchful.
‘House is in a terrible state, of course.’
The developer nodded. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Oh?’ Carter asked, setting down his cup. ‘Who told you?’
‘Damn!’ said Hemmings, ‘This coffee is a bit too hot for me!’ He put down his own cup hurriedly.
But not quickly enough, old son! Carter allowed himself an inner smile. It’s not burning your tongue you’re regretting, it’s falling into such an easy trap.
‘I asked around about it, after you told us about Jay being found there . . .’ Hemmings’s excuse sounded feeble and he knew it. ‘It made me curious.’
‘You haven’t been over there to visit the place, quite recently, since Jay’s death and since the owner, Monty Bickerstaffe has been staying with relatives?’
There was a silence. Hemmings stared at him moodily. ‘All right, Superintendent,’ he said at last. ‘Cards on the table.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ Carter told him.
‘You’re a man who likes to come to the point, so am I.’ Hemmings cleared his throat. ‘Jay told me about the house. He’d got to know about it. He thought there was land for development there. I’m in that line of business, so he came to me with a proposition. He knew me as a racing acquaintance. A lot of business is done, or started at least, on the social network. You meet up with someone and get chatting . . . Well, that’s what happened. He suggested he and I could develop the land together, form a partnership. My first question was, how likely was it the land and house would become available and when? You’ve got to be practical. I’ve heard people float all kinds of wild ideas to make a cartload of money – if only this or that big problem can be overcome. “First things first, Jay, old chap,” I told him. “Who owns this land and the house? Is he putting it on the market? Who else knows about it?”’
‘He told me the present owner had no plans to sell, wouldn’t want to sell it. But he was elderly and not too fit, a bit of a drinker, it seems. Circumstances could change rapidly. The next owners might think differently. If we got in now, we’d be the first. No one else was on to it. I told him I was definitely interested.’
‘You weren’t concerned you might not get planning permission?’ Carter asked him.
Hemmings had the answer to that one. ‘The house is old but it’s not listed. I checked. A sympathetic development scheme would go down well in the planning office. After all, once it’s vacant, once the present owner is – has passed on – it’ll stand empty and that’ll suit no one. It’ll soon be in a dangerous state. Already doesn’t look too safe to me at the moment. I – I made a few general enquiries of the council.’
‘It might make a hotel, or a nursing home . . .’ Carter suggested.
But Hemmings was shaking his head. ‘No, too far gone and not suitable. Believe me, the only thing you could do with Balaclava House is pull it down.’
‘You’ve seen it yourself, then. You’ve viewed the property, as they say?’
Hemmings was no longer bothering to pretend. ‘Yes, of course. First thing I did, after Jay came to me with his big idea, was go over there and take a look at it for myself. Second thing was to approach the planning department, like I told you. Balaclava House – ’ he nodded knowingly at Carter – ‘is a very good business prospect, take it from me. Ripe for development.’
‘Been over there again recently?’ Carter asked again. ‘I don’t think you quite answered that question.’
Hemmings grimaced. Then he shrugged in defeat.
‘Yes, as it happens, a couple of days ago. Just to see if there was any sign of anything happening. There wasn’t. I was pleased about that. There’s been quite a bit in the local press about the place since the – since Jay’s body was found there. Some other developer might be getting ideas. I might have to move quick.’
Hemmings’s small dark eyes flickered at him. ‘I was seen, was I? You appear to know all about it.’
‘Something like that,’ murmured Carter. ‘So, you and Taylor were about to form a business partnership to develop the land in the future – and you were prepared to wait for Mr Bickerstaffe to die for you to get ownership? That could be years. He’s only seventy-six and, far from being frail, as Taylor would have had you believe, my understanding is that he’s remarkably robust.’
‘Yeah, well, things can change fast, can’t they? It’s not like old Bickerstaffe has a car and can drive himself around. He’s isolated out there in that house, high and dry like he was on a desert island, almost. He can’t live there alone much longer, no matter how spry you reckon he is,’ said Hemmings confidently. ‘He’ll have to sell up within the next year or so – or the next owner will.’
He hesitated briefly. ‘Jay reckoned we wouldn’t have to wait for the old man to die. He thought, if the old fellow found he couldn’t live there any longer, he might gift the place to someone, a family member. It’s been in the family for over a century and a half and he’d want it to stay that way. Jay seemed sure about that.’
‘A family member? A woman, perhaps?’ Carter waited.
Hemmings considered that carefully. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said at last, ‘because I don’t know. That’s the truth. It’s a thought, though, I’ll give you that. It just seemed to me Jay might have some card up his sleeve. I’ve no idea what kind – a bird or anything else – and I could be wrong. Whether he was right to be so certain about it is another matter, and I can’t help you there, either. I was just satisfied, from my own observation of the place, that the old man couldn’t reside there himself for very much longer. That house, take it from me, is coming on the market very soon now. All the indications are there and I know how to read ’em!’
Carter put the tips of his fingers together, a gesture that seemed to dent Hemmings’s last confident statement. ‘Right, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You and Taylor would be partners. You’d oversee the development from your office here. But what would be Taylor’s input, other than telling you about the house? He didn’t have access to large amounts of cash. What would qualify him to be your partner ?’
Hemmings took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on Carter’s hands. ‘That’s why I reckoned Jay had some c
ard up his sleeve, an ace.’ Hemmings looked up, squinting at his visitor. ‘Jay had found out something; something that would help him get his hands on that land. He kept hinting heavily that if things worked out, we wouldn’t have to pay a penny for it. “You’ve got to be joking,” I said to him. But he grinned and told me to trust him. Don’t ask me any more. Jay was playing his cards very close to his chest until he was sure I’d come in with him. I don’t blame him for that. I’d do the same. You never give away any information until you have to, do you?’
Carter suspected this was an appeal to him to overlook Hemmings’s failure to tell the investigating officers any of this before now. If so, it fell on stony ground.
‘Keeping back information isn’t always a good idea. If Jay had been more open about what he’d discovered, he might be here to tell us about it himself, now.’
Hemmings looked uneasy. ‘Perhaps I should have asked him, should have made him tell me all about it. Well, I was going to, soon. We’d got to that point where I was ready to sign on the line but to do that, I would have insisted on knowing what trick he’d got tucked away – whether it was a woman, as you seem to be suggesting, or what. But I didn’t know he was going to get himself killed, did I? When you told me he’d turned up dead in that ruddy house, it gave me a helluva shock, I can tell you.’
