by Ann Granger
Sergeant Mullins regained confidence and stepped forward, warrant card held up for her to see. The other two police officers scrabbled to produce their police IDs. Loveday shuffled to one side, out of range of her accusatory glare, dissociating himself from the forces of law and order.
‘Police, ma’am, not bailiffs,’ said Mullins in his genial way. ‘We are here on official business.’
She walked right up to them, scrutinised their photographs and checked each against the officers’ faces. Carter suddenly felt himself in the office of the headmistress of his primary school, hauled up with fellow offenders for making an icy slide in the school playground one winter. He could even remember Miss Duckworth’s lecture, particularly the bit about broken legs and cracked skulls. They’d all been interested in that aspect and had discussed it eagerly afterwards. They even went back to their slide to see if anyone had come a cropper and was lying there with broken limbs. But all they found was the janitor with a bucket of salt.
Perhaps because he was studying her with interest, she honed in on him. ‘You’re a bit senior to be doing this sort of snooping, aren’t you, Superintendent?’
‘I’m in charge of this investigation. May I know your name?’ he asked politely. He hoped he didn’t sound defensive. ‘What are you doing here?’
She flushed. ‘Natalie Adam,’ she said. ‘I’m a friend of Carl’s, and I called by to see him on spec. Where is he? Why are you all here? What investigation? And why Gloucestershire police?’ Her assurance had been slipping as she piled up her questions. ‘Something’s happened. What?’
‘I’m very sorry, Ms Adam, but I have to tell you that Carl Finch is dead,’ he said gently.
‘He can’t be!’ she challenged. ‘What did he die of? Was he in a car crash?’
‘No, I am afraid Mr Finch has been murdered.’
‘Here?’ she yelled, full force.
Loveday scuttled past them all. ‘I’ll wait downstairs in my car,’ he told them, and fled.
‘Perhaps you’d better sit down, love,’ suggested Mullins, ushering her to a nearby chair. She had suddenly turned grey-white, even her lips emptying of colour.
She sat down with a bump. ‘Here?’ she repeated, and looked wildly round the room.
‘No, Ms Adam. He was away from home in Gloucestershire at the time the incident occurred,’ Jess told her. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
Natalie gestured away the offer. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘You two belong to the Gloucestershire police, I should have known.’ Colour flooded back into her face and, as quickly as she had folded, she rallied. ‘Don’t tell me!’ she snapped. ‘He went down to that wretched house, that Old Nunnery, to see his tight-fisted sister and her scheming husband! What happened?’
‘Mr Finch’s body was discovered in some woodland, a few miles from the house you mention. He had been shot.’
Her voice crackled with emotion. ‘Did one of them shoot him? Did they finally decide to get rid of him once and for all? I wouldn’t put it past them, either of them. Poor Carl . . .’
She clenched her fists. There were tears in her eyes, but Jess knew she wouldn’t weep, not in front of them. She’d wait until she was alone, then it would all pour out, together with screams and imprecations and probably some breakages.
‘I told him not to go,’ she muttered. ‘I warned him he couldn’t trust that couple.’
‘He told you he had planned this trip?’ Carter asked quickly.
‘I knew it was in his mind. He talked about going. We even argued a bit about it. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t tell me the exact date. That’s why I came here today, expecting to find him. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but he doesn’t – didn’t – answer his mobile or reply to any text messages or emails. I’ve been getting worried.’ She suddenly scrabbled in the Birkin handbag and pulled out a small mirror and a tissue. She inspected her face, dabbed away a film of moisture on her lower eyelids, put tissue and mirror away and was outwardly calm again.
‘Did he have a particular reason, that you know of, for visiting his stepsister at this time?’ Carter added, ‘We already understand he was in the habit of asking Mrs Kingsley for money.’
‘He only wanted what was rightfully his!’ she retorted. ‘You needn’t make it sound as if he was scrounging or begging, because he wasn’t! His stepfather would have left him far more than he did, if the other two hadn’t persuaded the old man to change his will when he was very ill and vulnerable. The poor old chap didn’t understand what he was doing.’
‘Finch told you this?’ Carter asked.
‘Yes, of course he did! Look, are you going to try and tell me Carl lied to me? Because I know him better . . .’ She bit off her words and her facial muscles twitched as she fought to control them. ‘I knew him better. He wouldn’t tell me an untruth.’
‘But you have no other evidence for it? No one else corroborated the story, about the influence?’ Carter said gently.
She flung back her head and her mane of hair and fixed him defiantly with her eyes. ‘Who else was there? It was a dirty, sneaky business, and you can’t expect everyone to know! But Carl knew.’
Carter suggested, ‘The solicitor who drew up the will would have known if he were suddenly called in to make a major change.’
‘The solicitor?’ Natalie gave a snort of derision. ‘He was an old family friend and Harriet’s godfather, for crying out loud! Of course he was in league with Harriet and her husband, Guy – have you met Guy?’
‘I have,’ said Carter. ‘Am I to understand you’ve met him, too?’
‘Yes!’ Her mouth twisted into an angry sneer. ‘He turned up here, out of the blue, early one evening. Carl and I were celebrating. I’d brought off a successful deal at work – I’m in investment banking. So I brought over a bottle of champagne and we were discussing where to go out to dinner when, suddenly, the doorbell rang. It gave us both quite a start because we – he – wasn’t expecting anyone. Carl went to the intercom. There was the usual distant squawk as the caller identified himself. Then Carl shouted into it, “What’s happened to Harriet?”
‘My heart sank, because I knew the score, and I thought, if she’s had a serious accident or worse, Carl would lose any chance of getting what he was owed. But when he came back he said it was his sister’s husband. He hadn’t expected him. The man had never come before. He was sure something serious must have happened to Harriet, so he released the downstairs catch to let Guy come up.
‘I’d never met any of the family, although Carl had told me all about them, so I was really curious. Then in strode Guy Kingsley himself, very much the ex-officer and gentleman, cavalry twill trousers and green tweed jacket. Doesn’t time ever move on for those people? He was really put out at finding me here. Or he was at first. He said he’d been in town on business and had decided to take the opportunity to call. He assured Carl that Harriet was fine, but he wanted to discuss what he called a family matter.
‘Guy gave me a look when he said this. I should take the hint and go, it meant. I didn’t trust him, so I said I wanted to stay. Carl said that was fine by him. I ought to hear for myself what he was up against. Then Guy gave a really nasty smirk and said perhaps I should hear it. He started telling Carl that he would have to stand on his own feet. He wouldn’t allow Harriet to give Carl any money and, as for the old man changing his will, that was utter rubbish, and just hadn’t happened. Carl must be cracked if he thought it had. The old chap had been perfectly clear in his mind until the last breath.
‘After that, he, Guy, turned to me and said, “He’s penniless, my dear, and he always will be. So, unless you’re prepared to support him for the rest of your days, now is the time to cut and run.” How dare he?’
Natalie reddened at the memory. ‘Talking to me as if I was some dimwit. I know – knew – Carl had financial troubles. Everyone does, from time to time. If he could have got help from his sister, he could have got everything sorted out.’
; She stopped speaking. Carter prompted, ‘And what happened then?’
‘There was a bit of a scrap,’ she said. ‘Nothing much. No blood, just a tussle and a chair or two knocked over, a bit of shouting. Carl is – was – a big chap and, although Guy looked fit and, obviously, the army had taught him to look after himself, Carl did manage to push him out of the door. I thought they might both fall down the stairs. That did worry me, I admit. I ran after them. But they got to the bottom of the stairs somehow intact, and Carl pushed Guy outside. That was that. We tidied up the flat and went out to dinner.’
‘Who threw the first punch?’
She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I think they just sort of went for each other at the same time. Honestly, I nearly took a swing at Guy myself! He was so arrogant, so superior . . . You couldn’t expect Carl to put up with that!’
‘What date was this? Can you remember?’ Carter asked her.
‘It was last September. We didn’t talk of it again, Carl and I, because he knew I understood how it was. I told him he’d never have to explain things to me, because I’d seen for myself that Guy Kingsley was a shit.’
‘You never met Harriet?’
She shook her head. ‘But I imagine she and Kingsley are well matched. If you want to know who killed Carl, go and arrest them. Either one of them did it, or arranged for someone else to do it.’
‘Ms Adam,’ Carter said seriously, ‘was Finch in any other trouble or dispute, other than with his stepsister and her husband?’
She hesitated. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you, but you’ll find out anyway. Don’t ask me for details. I don’t have them. There was, still is, a plan to create a luxury holiday complex on an island in the Caribbean, a top-of-the-market, exclusive place. The island, Carl said, is mostly privately owned by one family, whose spokesperson is a formidable widow. Carl was sort of acting as her agent, getting people to invest. But there have been problems. Carl never wanted to discuss the details with me, but I know he was worried at the delays. He’d been really optimistic at first, excited about the possibilities. These projects often run into problems, don’t they? I told Carl not to worry, things would sort themselves out.’
She stopped speaking to stare at them thoughtfully, as if assessing their worthiness of any further confidence. When she began to speak again it was rapidly, in staccato bursts. ‘I don’t know if this is anything to do with that, or something else entirely. But I know he went to Oxford recently, to see an old chap called Alcott – Edgar Alcott. He’s some sort of an antiques collector, Carl told me. He’d known him quite a while. I . . .’
She swivelled on her heel and took a short turn up and down the room. ‘Look,’ she went on, coming to a halt before them. ‘I never really understood that friendship. I don’t think Carl really liked Alcott. He used to go and see him from time to time, but he didn’t like being pressed for too much explanation. I got the feeling that he felt some kind of an obligation towards Alcott. Or that Alcott had some sort of hold on him. I suspected it might have to do with the island development plan. Perhaps he’d persuaded Alcott to invest. But I really don’t know.
‘But it was after Carl came back from his last visit to Oxford that he began talking about visiting his sister again. I thought it would be a serious waste of time, having met Guy. But since his return from Oxford, Carl had been quite tetchy and nervy, so I didn’t say too much. I should have said more,’ Natalie added suddenly. ‘I should have talked him out of it. He might be alive now!’
She began to scrabble in the depths of her designer bag, shielding her face from them. Then she withdrew her business card and scribbled her private phone number on the reverse. She handed it to Carter. ‘I want to know the minute you’ve got him!’ she ordered.
Carter appreciated her confidence that they would get Finch’s murderer soon. He hoped so, too, but wished he could feel more sure of it. Finch probably had a network of acquaintances he had talked into supporting this island project. Possibly, he’d done the same sort of thing before, with some other ‘can’t fail’ project. Some investors would never get their money back. Plenty of people might have borne him a grudge. Natalie Adam probably didn’t know half of it.
Finch’s flat yielded up little more information, and they left, taking with them the victim’s computer. Mr Loveday was visibly relieved on being told there was no indication it was a scene of crime, and that he could switch off the heating and lock the place up again.
‘When—?’ he began.
‘We can’t release the flat yet, I’m afraid, Mr Loveday,’ Carter told him.
Loveday’s features twisted in misery. ‘When I get back to the office, they’ll demand—’
‘We’ll let you know!’ said Jess.
It had started to rain, so they took a brisk farewell of Sergeant Mullins, expressing their thanks, and set out for Paddington station and home.
‘Half an hour to wait,’ observed Carter, staring up at the departures screen. ‘I’ll get us a coffee, or would you prefer tea?’
‘Coffee would be fine. I’ll park myself on that bench over there before someone else does.’
On his return, carrying two plastic tubs and handing one of them to her, Carter said, ‘That young woman, Natalie, she’s a tough cookie. You wouldn’t think she’d be gullible, would you?’ He seated himself as he spoke.
‘I’d like to think I wouldn’t have been taken in by Finch’s stories,’ Jess told him. ‘Gosh, this is hot! Thanks.’ She prised the lid from the coffee tub with caution. ‘But he obviously convinced Natalie of that load of tripe about his stepfather being persuaded to write him out of a larger share in the estate. What surprises me is that Natalie didn’t disappear over the horizon after Guy’s visit. Guy spelled it out to her. Whether or not Carl was right about the will, clearly he was unlikely to get his hands on any more money.’
Carter, sipping cautiously, suggested, ‘Perhaps Guy went the wrong way about it, just telling her point-blank. In a head-on confrontation, I think Ms Adam’s instinct is to stick to her guns.’ He set down his coffee on the seat beside him. ‘We’re all capable of losing our grip on commonsense when we’re in love, anyway. We all think we’ve met Mr or Miss Right, and it’s a shock when it turns out we’ve met Mr or Miss Wrong.’
Jess cast him a startled look, but he was gazing at a bedraggled pigeon marching flat-footedly up and down in a search for scraps. Carter often spoke about his daughter but had never mentioned the trauma of the break-up of his marriage. ‘So, where do we go next?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I think a trip to Oxford is next on the books, don’t you? Tomorrow, if possible. I’m curious to meet Edgar Alcott, the antiques collector. But I’ll take Phil Morton with me, if you don’t mind. I have my suspicions about Finch’s reasons for visiting Oxford, and I think a couple of heavyweights like myself and Phil might make Alcott realise we mean business. You could ask Guy Kingsley about that scrap in Finch’s flat, by the way. I wonder if he’s ever told his wife about it.’
He re-covered his coffee and went on: ‘Since we haven’t found Finch’s car, we still don’t know where he was killed. That flat will have to be searched for forensic traces. It looks neat and tidy now, no gunshot marks on the walls. But he could have died there. It’s highly unlikely, mind you, because a blast from a shotgun would have peppered the walls and the noise wouldn’t pass unnoticed in that mews. He was much more likely to have died in the woods, or in the general vicinity.’
‘It is possible to sketch another scenario,’ suggested Jess. ‘One putting the murder at that flat. Didn’t Loveday boast how thick the party walls are in those properties?’
Carter looked doubtful. ‘It would mean dragging the body downstairs and into the garage, stuffing it into a car. Whose car?’
‘Finch’s car is missing.’
‘So what happened to the murderer’s car? Did he leave it parked up there all day while he drove Finch’s Renault, with the body in the boot or under a blanket on the back seat, all the way to t
he West Country?’
‘He parked it in Finch’s garage and came back for it later,’ was Jess’s explanation. ‘Dr Melton’s report finds that the body was moved.’
Carter was shaking his head, unconvinced. ‘There wouldn’t be time, given the condition of the body, between the killing and the discovery, to drive the victim from that flat in London all the way to those woods. Rigor mortis would have been far more advanced. And where is the car now? If the killer left the Renault down in Gloucestershire, how did he get from the woods to, say, a railway station, miles away? He had to get back to base somehow.’
‘Why? He might live in the general area of the woods. He could have arranged to meet Carl in London and made his way to that flat by public transport.’ Jess’s voice gained in enthusiasm as she warmed to her theory. ‘He kills Finch, puts the body in the Renault, as we said, drives to the woods, leaves Finch there, hides the Renault away somewhere and leaves the scene. Perhaps he only has a reasonably short distance to go before he’s home.’ Jess grew even more enthusiastic. ‘Didn’t Tom see a bicycle chained up in the car park of the woods? It had gone by the time we looked for it.’
To her surprise, Carter burst into laughter. ‘Sorry, Jess!’ he apologised, ‘I’m not laughing at you, or your theory. It’s ingenious, I agree, although I still don’t think anyone could have fired off a shotgun in that flat without attracting any attention. Or doing any damage to the surroundings, come to that. Where are the bloodstains, the damaged walls? What tickles me is the picture of the murderer, having done all that, pedalling sedately away on a bike! Going off home for a cup of tea and to put his feet up after all his exertions.’
‘All right,’ Jess conceded regretfully. ‘But don’t tell me stranger things haven’t happened!’
‘True, we’ve both known cases where the murderer has done the deed and then gone off to a family gathering, cool as a cucumber.’ There was a silence while both drank their coffee. ‘We have to find that Renault,’ Carter muttered. ‘If the killer drove it away somewhere, where is it? Give me your cup. I’ll drop them in that bin over there.’
