Death of a Dancer

by Anthony Litton

  The food, and its accompanying wine, fed into their tiredness and, feeling both mellow and increasingly drowsy, they were heading for an early night, when Calderwood’s mobile rang.

  ‘Yes, Colin,’ he said, seeing his DS’s name on the display ‘No, that’s not a problem,’ he added in response to an apology for the late call. ‘Go on. Really?’ he said sharply after a few moments, his sleepiness rapidly evaporating. ‘You were right to ring; we’ll get on it first thing. Yes, definitely say we’re interested; very interested. Yes, good idea, say that too. No, I’ll travel directly there – and tell John and the team well done,’ he ended, as he disconnected his mobile and looked across the table at Cerian, his eyes now alive with excitement. ‘They’ve found the boat!’ he grinned.

  Chapter 52

  ‘Already?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Yes. While the team were getting lists of marinas and so on, Colin also went and contacted all the Special Branches, with particular emphasis on the South-West set-up.’

  Cerian nodded, appreciatively. She knew that if ever the average member of the general public thought about Special Branch, it was as it having something to do with the Metropolitan Police. In reality, though, every county force that she knew of, had its own S. Branch, either individually, or, as in the South-West, as a regional grouping. Though each Branch’s main focus was intelligence gathering for fighting terrorism or major or organised crime, the widespread nature of those intelligence-gathering operations often produced information that was useful not just within their own major remit, but for other, unrelated, police enquiries, or, as in this case, a mixture of both.

  ‘Yes, it also appears that the “Aria” has been on the local SB radar for some time as has its registered owner, a Mr Eamonn Pemberton. He’s suspected of some possible small-scale drug-running and people smuggling. They’re suspicions only at the moment, though, as he’s only recently popped up as someone worth watching,’ he continued.

  ‘Eamonn Pemberton? So DeLancy has got rid of it!’ she said, her disappointment fighting with her puzzlement at Calderwood’s relaxed smile.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been registered at the marina under that name for fifteen or more years, so the odds are good that it’s Renick under a different identity. The set up’s just outside Bristol incidentally, so the west country link was right.’

  ‘You think it is him, Gerald DeLancy?’

  ‘There’s a high probability it is, yes. Certainly it’s worth my driving down there, particularly as the boat’s now up for sale; for a cool £40,000, incidentally!’

  ‘That much!’ she exclaimed. ‘But, why would he be selling it now?’ she went on.

  ‘I suspect he’s finally realised it’s his one weak link; the one way he could be run to earth. He’s obviously in something of a hurry,’ he continued, ‘as it’s being advertised as a cash sale, so Colin is flagging me up as very keen to view and happy and able to pay cash immediately. It’s unlikely, but, with it being a cash transaction, it’s just possible, that Renick himself will be there, but, if he’s not, with that amount of money involved, he’ll not be far away.’

  ‘A cash sale will knock the value a bit, won’t it, if people think he’s keen to sell?’

  ‘Indeed it may. That’s not his only problem, though. Whether he’s DeLancy or not, he and the marina’s owner could face some very searching questions if it’s deemed it’s a way of their moving cash around unlawfully,’ he responded grimly.

  Chapter 53

  Increasingly tired though he was, he had one more phone call to make. Within an hour of making it he, in turn, received the call he’d been expecting.

  Adams, with his usual indifference to courtesy, brusquely informed him that a member of his, Adams’s, own team, already working in North Wales, would be joining him the next day; would require meeting at 8 o’clock at the railway station; would travel down with him and would sit in on any interview, ostensibly as his detective sergeant. With a terse reminder about what was required of Calderwood himself, he hung up.

  The DI had, in broad terms, briefed his team about the national security issues now impinging on the case, so, whoever was at the marina, Cerian knew she’d not be involved in the interview. Any disappointment turned into sharp curiosity the next morning, when Calderwood dropped her off at the station to return to Estwich. About to find the right platform, she turned to wave goodbye, just as a woman approached him. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in the relaxed casualness of the new arrival’s outfit – the result of Calderwood’s one interjection in the previous evening’s conversation with Adams. The Welsh girl’s eye took in the cream three-quarter length, coat, stylish and obviously expensive, worn over an equally expensive and very elegant-looking pale green trouser suit; none of which could disguise the shapeliness of the figure they contained. Neither could the demure ponytail the newcomer’s hair was pulled back into, entirely hide its luxuriantly rich Titian colouring – rather gingerish, Cerian thought, with a sudden flash of irritation – or the attractiveness of the face below it.

  ‘Inspector Calderwood?’ the new arrival asked, her soft voice washing over him.

  ‘Indeed. And you are?’ he asked, smiling down at her.

  ‘For today, I am Detective Sergeant Williams, Jennifer Williams,’ she replied with an answering smile, as she showed him appropriate ID. ‘How do you plan on playing it this morning?’ she asked quietly, as they left the station and walked to where he’d parked his car.

  ‘Initially, as innocent buyers, which will give us a little time to assess what exactly it is we’re walking into,’ he responded. ‘Then, once we’re certain that it’s either DeLancy, or, whoever it is can at least lead us to him, keep it, as nearly as possible, to a normal police interview,’ he added, as they arrived at his car and he looked across the top of it at her. ‘Which means you then acting like a DS and taking copious notes. Hopefully you’ve not lost the knack!’ he added with a smile, absolutely certain she was considerably higher in the pecking order than a DS.

  ‘Indeed, I’ve not – guv,’ she returned with her own smile. ‘I’ll sit down quietly and take pages of notes; fade into the background, so to speak! You’ll scarcely know I’m there,’ she added.

  His raised eyebrows eloquently said how unlikely he thought that would be.

  As, they entered the marina’s office, later that morning, hunched against the near-gale now coming in from the sea, they saw it contained two men. One, nervous-looking and bird-like, was seated at a small table and going fussily through some papers. The other, frail and thin-featured, who had been staring intently out of the window at the wind-lashed waters of the marina, turned and looked at them. Obviously once tall, his height was now reduced by a pronounced stoop. His hands trembled slightly as, his eyes, cloudy with age, peered over at them.

  For one heart-stopping moment, Calderwood thought it was Gerald DeLancy and so his disappointment was all the more acute when he took in the faded grey of the watery eyes and then, as they shook hands, heard the man’s lilting Irish accent as he introduced himself as Eamonn Pemberton.

  Chapter 54

  He was dressed smartly, if datedly, in cavalry twill trousers, sports jacket and cravat, all showing considerable signs of wear. Which perhaps, Calderwood realised suddenly, hinted at another reason behind the speed of the projected sale. The elderly man nodded casually towards the twittering sparrow, whose pinstripe suit, polished briefcase and slight air of wishing he was elsewhere, had him clearly identified as a solicitor, even without his client’s offhand introduction.

  It was only his years of training that stopped Calderwood’s jaw dropping as he half-turned to his temporary colleague, as he introduced them both, leaving out their ranks. It seemed his new DS had meant it literally about fading into the background! She seemed to have aged almost ten years and the shapeliness of her body had somehow disappeared. Even her hair appeared to have lost some of its shine. The biggest change, though was in her face. Gone was the a
lert intelligence of earlier and in its place was an almost placid look which, somehow, made her look plainer, less interesting.

  ‘I thought we’d have coffee before we looked at my boat,’ Pemberton said politely, nodding towards an elegant Thermos flask flanked with four china cup and saucers. ‘Or rather, you look at it. My legs these days are, alas, too unsteady for me to accompany you in weather like this,’ he added, looking out of the window, with a rueful smile.

  ‘Coffee would be very welcome, thank you,’ Calderwood said politely.

  The elderly man nodded as, despite a slight tremor, he elegantly poured out the coffee with one hand, while with the other he rubbed absently at his eyes.

  Watching him, Calderwood suddenly found an image flashing into his head and his own words echoing in his mind It’s often the little things, John, often the little things. On impulse, and acting entirely on instinct, he reached inside his jacket pocket and, wordlessly, laid a photograph in front of the other man.

  Caught completely unawares, the man’s hand holding the coffee flask jerked, spilling coffee over the table, and his eyes flashed up to Calderwood’s face, shock and anger flaring out of them. Recovering swiftly, however, he quickly adopted a puzzled air. ‘A pretty girl, who is she?’ he asked calmly, setting down the jug and handing them their coffees.

  But he was too late. His reaction had told Calderwood very clearly that he knew exactly who she was – Ariana. With its wild, swirling hair, the body-moulding shift and the smouldering sensuality flaring in her eyes, the image was so unlike those issued to the press, where she was demurely restrained in a formal ballet pose, that it looked like a different girl – but, crucially, only to someone who hadn’t known her previously.

  ‘I believe you know, sir, and it’s why we’re here,’ he responded quietly. His hunch confirmed, he decided to move straight into a formal interview. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Calderwood and this is Detective Sergeant Williams,’ he continued, turning towards his temporary colleague. ‘We’d like to talk to you about certain events,’ he continued, ‘which we believe you may...’

  ‘Police! What are you doing here? I’ve not seen you before!’ cut in the little man, sounding affronted. ‘ I know all the local officers. Are you new here?’

  ‘No, sir, as I was about to say, we are not from the local force. We’re here because we think that a recent incident in North Wales may be linked to our murder investigation in a town called Estwich,’ he replied, watching the suspect closely, who now sat with an enigmatic smile on his face.

  ‘Murder!’ almost blurted the solicitor, his shock making it very clear that he was unused to such deep waters. ‘But...’ he trailed off, as he looked helplessly down at some papers, which they could see were a contract of sale for the boat.

  ‘You don’t seem as surprised as your solicitor, Mr... Pemberton,’ Calderwood remarked coolly, refocusing his attention on the other man.

  ‘My only surprise, Inspector,’ the older man replied, after the briefest of pauses, his accent now posh English and with ice on every word, ‘is that you all got your act together as quickly as you obviously have. Don’t bother,’ he added, turning to his solicitor, who tried to intervene. ‘In fact, you can go. They’re clearly not here to buy my boat, so there’s little point in my paying you now. Is there, Inspector?’ he asked sardonically, turning back to Calderwood.

  ‘That’s entirely up to you, sir. My own advice would be that you have representation with you; the issues we wish to discuss could scarcely be more serious,’ the DI replied formally.

  ‘No, the man can go,’ the elderly man replied, waving dismissively at the solicitor; much as one would swat away a fly, thought Calderwood briefly, as the affronted little man hurriedly left the office.

  ‘Very well, sir. You can, of course, recall him, at any time, should you change your mind,’ the DI replied formally. ‘Now, Mr Pemberton, or should I address you as Mr Renick... or Mr DeLancy?’ he continued politely.

  ‘DeLancy! Now there’s a name I’ve scarcely thought about in fifty years!’ replied the other man, with a small smile. ‘We’ll go with “Renick”, I think. After all, it served me well for many years! At least, now, I can get rid of these blasted things,’ he added feelingly. His hands went up to his eyes and came away with contact lenses, grey-tinted contact lenses, exposing his black eyes; eyes which were now clear, very focused and in complete contrast to their previous milky greyness.

  ‘What gave me away?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing of substance, Mr Renick, more a hunch,’ responded Calderwood, truthfully, if vaguely, reflecting on how a mix of his own words with an image of a young man rubbing his eyes, watering heavily due to very new contact lenses, had led to that hunch. ‘From your earlier remarks, sir,’ he continued, ‘I assume that you know why we’re here?’

  ‘I do indeed, Inspector. You do realise, though,’ he went on conversationally, ‘that you have nothing to actually link me to what happened either in The Dolphin, or... to anyone else, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you really believe that, sir? After all, we are sitting here talking to you,’ Calderwood remarked quietly, even as he noticed a slight twitching start in the other man’s features, curiously at odds with the relaxed tone of his voice.

  ‘Yes, I do believe that, Inspector, I really do,’ responded Renick, with a curious note in his voice.

  ‘Well, sir, a great deal of time and effort have already been put into this case, and, rest assured, will continue to be, for as long as is necessary,’ Calderwood responded calmly.

  Renick nodded. Then, after a long pause, spoke quietly. ‘No. You’ll not need to do anything further, Inspector. I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  Chapter 55

  For a moment, his voice held all the extreme tiredness of someone who’d carried a heavy burden for far, far too long.

  ‘And,’ his voice suddenly changed, again becoming relaxed, ‘you’ll not be able to actually prosecute me; as you well know,’ he added, his eyes flashing with sudden mockery.

  ‘Oh, I think we will, sir,’ Calderwood assured him. His voice was confident though, privately, he tended to agree. Even so, he saw the old man’s options as considerably more limited than he himself apparently did.

  ‘We’ll see,’ responded Renick, enigmatically.

  ‘From what you say, sir,’ Calderwood continued, ‘you’re quite clear that we wish to talk to you about your involvement in the deaths of Ariana Kujenikov, Daniel DeLancy and Arabelle DeLancy. An involvement, we believe, which extended to your actually committing the murders of the former two.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Ariana! I couldn’t! I loved her, for God’s sake!’ he spat, rearing back in his chair, seemingly genuinely horrified.

  ‘And yet we believe that you did kill her and then encased her in plastic sheathing,’ responded Calderwood flatly.

  The silence was total for the time it took the elderly man to draw a deep and shuddering breath.

  ‘I didn’t kill her! She... she was alive, sleeping; drugged but alive... when we... a friend and I, placed her in gently, very gently.’ He said the word ‘alive’ with a precise and terrible emphasis. ‘And it was her bower, her last resting place, not a sheath!’ he added angrily.

  ‘However you describe it, your very deliberate actions led directly to the death of an innocent girl. She was virtually still a child, for heaven’s sake!’

  Renick nodded. ‘Yes, she was,’ he agreed, surprising both officers. ‘I would have made allowances for that, once we were married, of course I would. It wouldn’t have been right not to,’ he added with weird sincerity. ‘She led me on, though,’ he continued, his voice suddenly speeding up, ‘and then said she didn’t love me after all! She led me on!’ he repeated. ‘Women do, you know; they’re naturally deceitful,’ he continued, more slowly, almost conversationally, ‘say one thing, when they really mean another.’

  What a warped old man you are, thought Calderwood dispassionately. ‘Why did you d
ecide to... do what you did?’ he asked quietly, content for the moment to play along with the other man’s choice of words.

  ‘When I realised that she was saying one thing to me and behaving in quite a different way with... someone else,’ he replied coldly.

  ‘With your nephew, Daniel?’

  ‘Yes!’ Renick spat, his face contorting with a rankling fury, obviously still as vicious and all-consuming as it had been five decades previously.

  ‘When did you discover that her... affections... lay elsewhere?’

  ‘Not until almost the very end! That’s what I mean by deceitful!’

  Calderwood nodded. He realised how deep the old man’s delusions ran. He didn’t need his own instincts to tell him that they were delusions, that the girl had never encouraged him. Ariana herself had said so, only hours before she died. Amongst the items Mrs Timpson had given Bulmer were the six gifts Gerald had given the young dancer – and a letter. Though clearly from a shy, unworldly young girl, its tone, though apologetic and grateful, was quite clear, and obviously the latest of several attempts, both to return the gifts and to explain that, though she felt honoured by his attentions, she didn’t return his feelings.

  But, he knew, telling Renick any of this would achieve nothing and risked losing sight of the interview’s main objectives.

  ‘Why choose the method you did?’ he asked, moving on.

  ‘There was no other way,’ Renick replied. ‘Although I knew she deserved to die, I couldn’t bear the thought of destroying her beauty, her grace, her loveliness. I wanted – had to – preserve it all. Whatever you may think, I’m not a barbarian,’ he added sanctimoniously.