Behind her scowling countenance I could see genuine concern in her large brown eyes.
‘I’m sure she’ll turn up,’ I said gently, but she mistook my meaning.
‘Oh yes, she’ll turn up, perhaps dead on the beach, washed up by the tide. She might even turn up in the mortuary after being knocked down by a car.’
‘Look, I –’
‘Forget it. What do you care anyway?’
She stormed out and I was left feeling shocked by her sudden outburst and then angry with her.
I dismissed her and her mother from my mind, made myself something to eat and took the folder of Joe’s reports from underneath the mattress where I had stowed it. A bloody silly place, I know, and the first place Andover would have looked. I read through them again. There didn’t seem to be anything in them that Andover would be interested in.
Roger Brookes’ house was just outside a village called Wootton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire; Joe had furnished me with the address two years ago. That must have been just before Brookes had sold out to Sunglow. I jotted the details down in my notebook and lay back on the bed. The couple of whiskies I’d drunk had made me sleepy.
I was woken by a noise. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was almost ten o’clock. The noise came again; someone was trying to get in. Suddenly I was alert. I stuffed my notebook into the pocket of my trousers and crept to the door. I threw it open to find a very wet and very distressed old lady on my doorstep.
This must be Ruby.
‘Hugo!’ she cried, tumbling into my arms and pressing her soaking wet head against my chest, her body heaving with sobs; I could see her pink scalp through her wispy grey hair. Her dress was sodden and her legs and feet filthy. Disgust was my first reaction, followed swiftly by fear, not of her but of my reaction: I had wanted to push her away. I folded my arms around her frail body. It seemed to give her some comfort because the sobs eased. I wondered who Hugo was?
‘You’re safe now. Come on, sit down.’ I eased her towards the bench and prised her arms from around my back lowering her onto the seat.
‘Have you got a handkerchief in your bag?’
Her head came up and she stared at me alarmed. Clutching her handbag tight to her waist she wailed, ‘Don’t you come near me. I know what you’re after.’
I descended to the kitchen to fetch a towel and some tissues. By the time I returned she’d gone and the door was flapping open in the wind. I cursed loudly and vehemently, pulled on my sailing jacket, grabbed a torch and stepped out into the wild April night.
She was a few hundred yards down, stumbling towards Bembridge village. I needed to go after her and bring her back, but she might think I was attacking her, and before I knew it the police would be swarming all over me.
I bounded up to my neighbour’s houseboat and beat on the door. There was no answer. Of course, she’d be out looking for her mother.
Ruby had reached the café that led down onto the beach. If she stumbled onto the shore she might very well end up in the sea, as her daughter had predicted. There was nothing for it but to go after her.
I saw her turn right though, away from the shore and onto the track in front of the Pilot Boat Inn. She disappeared from sight. I sprinted after her, knowing that the path would take her past the backs of houses that overlooked the harbour, through the trees and eventually up to the windmill. It would be dark, muddy and dangerous.
A shaft of light sliced across me as the door of the pub opened and with it came the sound of laughter before it shut again. A man stared at me.
There was something familiar about him. I couldn’t place what, and I didn’t have time to ask him.
I caught up with Ruby after another five hundred yards. I almost ran into her. She was staring up at the back of a large house part shaded by the trees. It was in darkness but its sweeping lawns led down to a folly and its rear windows looked out across Bembridge Harbour and across to Portsmouth, beyond the Solent. I knew this because it had been my home, and my mother’s before her death three years ago. That lump the size of a golf ball was back in my throat. A pain gripped my heart and my breath came in painful gasps as I struggled to control my overwhelming sorrow. I should have been with her when she died. I should have been able to say goodbye.
Andover would pay for that.
I took a deep breath and pushed aside my emotions with some difficulty. Why had Ruby come here?
I stood silently beside her, as if she was an animal I didn’t want to scare off. She was obliviously to the elements that buffeted her.
After a moment she spoke with an edge of bewilderment to her voice.
‘He used to stay here.’
‘Who did?’
‘Hugo. He was so lovely. Where has he gone?
What have you done with him?’ She turned her anguished face to mine. It was smeared with pink lipstick and her thick face powder had run making it look like dirty rain on a windowpane.
Her skin was spongy and criss-crossed with lines, and her milky blue eyes sad.
So she no longer thought I was Hugo. ‘Come on, Ruby, let’s get you home,’ I said. I didn’t dare touch her. How could I get her away from here?
She was shivering and soaked.
‘He pushed her down the stairs.’
That pulled me up with a start. My heart did a somersault. ‘Do you mean Olivia Albury?’
‘Yes. She was my friend.’
So that’s why she had come here. But she was mistaken. ‘No one killed Olivia. She fell. It was an accident.’ At least that was what the police and the coroner had said. A sliver of fear ran through me.
Ruby peered at me. ‘I saw him push her.’
She was very insistent. Could she be telling the truth? But why would anyone want to kill my mother? Then again, why would anyone want to frame me? But they had.
The charity that Andover had set up had been registered at this address, and even though there had been a re-direct on the mail perhaps an item of post had got through. Had my mother discovered the identity of Andover and that’s why she had been killed? The thought startled me so much that I found myself trembling. Not without effort I pulled myself together and brought my attention back to the old lady beside me.
‘Come on, Ruby. Let’s get you home.’ How could I believe what she was saying? She was old and confused. She stepped back. Her eyes widened. I could see that at any moment she would scream.
‘You’re going to kill me too.’
‘No one’s going to hurt you, Ruby.’
She looked doubtful. I made a decision. I turned my back on her and began walking away hoping that she would follow. After a few moments I heard soft, hurrying footsteps behind me. I didn’t dare turn round in case she scuttled off again. We reached the Embankment. I was just debating what to do short of locking her on my houseboat when I saw a figure hurrying towards me. Thank goodness, it was Scarlett.
‘Mum, I’ve been searching everywhere for you.’ She took her mother’s arm and gently led her forward to their houseboat.
‘She was at the back of Bembridge House. It’s where I used to live.’
‘I know.’
‘She says my mother was pushed down the stairs. Is there any truth in that?’
‘She’s got Alzheimer’s.’
Ruby suddenly piped up. ‘I hid in Teddy’s room. I thought he might do the same to me, only he didn’t come back.’
My heart quickened. Teddy had been my grandfather. Ruby had got the geography of Bembridge House correct but my grandfather had been dead for sixty-seven years.
‘Do you know anyone called Hugo?’ I addressed Scarlett.
‘No.’
‘What did he look like, Ruby?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I need to get Mum to bed.’
And that was it. It was clear Scarlett didn’t approve of me. Well that was her problem not mine. I had enough on my mind without worrying about an old lady with dementia and a hostile daughter.
/>
I told myself that Ruby’s picture of the past had become confused with the present. Yet, as I made my way to Portsmouth the next morning to keep my appointment with Joe’s secretary, I knew I was kidding myself. If I had needed another reason to destroy Andover this was it. If Andover had killed my mother then I was going to make him suffer for it.
CHAPTER 5
Joy Hardiman wasn’t what I had expected. She was tall as me and I’m six one in my stocking feet. She wore two-inch heels. I wore loafers.
Her handshake was perfunctory but firm. She was older than I had expected, in her late forties, with cropped auburn hair, freckles on a small round face and lively green eyes. I hadn’t expected anyone so elegantly dressed either, in smart tailored chocolate-brown trousers, and an oatmeal polo neck jumper, under a brown leather jacket. But then Joe hadn’t exactly been what you might call your typical private eye, all shabby suits, dandruff and scruffy hair. Instead he had sported a crewcut of greying hair and had always been very neatly turned out in a well tailored suit and tie, or at least he had when he’d visited me in prison. This was twice, before I’d been moved from Brixton to the Isle of Wight.
‘Coffee?’
‘I’ve got one,’ she said.
‘I’ll just fetch myself one then.’
I scanned the small café on the ground floor.
A group of four young people, two girls and two boys, sat hunched over their mobile phones; a scruffy-looking middle-aged man, the frayed ends of his trousers hanging over his scuffed shoes, was reading the Independent; a large man, the colour of coal, wearing sunglasses that were too small for his bullet-shaped head, was listening to music on his headphones, and two women in colourful saris were chattering nineteen to the dozen, whilst their four children played at their feet. Then there was Joy who didn’t live up to her name as she stared down into her coffee cup.
‘It’s good of you to meet me.’ I placed my coffee on the table and took the seat opposite her.
‘Miles said it was important. That it might have something to do with Joe’s … death.’
‘I’m sorry about Joe,’ I said gently. ‘You must be very upset.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I shall miss him.’ She spoke with a slight lisp but her voice though sad was steady and I recognised a sensible woman when I saw one.
‘Was Joe working on something connected to me?’
‘The police asked me that.’
I felt a tightening in my gut but was confident that my expression hadn’t betrayed my tension.
Prison had taught me how to hide or disguise emotion. ‘A well built man with a Homburg and huge macintosh?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
So the fat man was on to me even before I arrived at Clipton’s funeral. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘The same as I’m going to tell you: Joe dropped your case ages ago.’
A couple of women entered laughing. Joy glared at them as if they had personally insulted her. I knew what she was thinking: how could they be so happy when she felt so miserable over the death of her boss?
‘Why did he drop my case?’
‘He said he would never be able to find Andover unless he decided to return to England.’
‘Joe knew he’d left the country?’ I asked, surprised.
‘He must have done. He said case closed, dead end.’
After a moment I said, ‘Did Joe believe I was innocent?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And you?’
‘If Joe said you were then you are. His word is… was good enough for me.’
Had Joe known I was innocent and that was why he had convinced Joy?
‘Joy, do you know where Clive Westnam lives or works?’
She looked puzzled for a moment until I jogged her mind about who he was.
Her expression cleared. ‘No. The last I heard he’d been ousted from his position as chief executive of Manover Plastics. It was in the newspapers but I can’t recall reading anything about where he went from there.’
‘Do you know why he got the elbow?’
‘Perhaps the results weren’t good enough for the shareholders.’
‘What about Roger Brookes? Does he still live in Gloucestershire?’
‘Haven’t you heard? He’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ That shook me. It also made my heart sink with the thought that another of Andover’s victims had taken the secret of why he was being blackmailed to his grave. That only left Westnam, and for all I knew, and from what I’d discovered so far, he too could be dead. Andover seemed to be wiping the trail clean. I felt despair beginning to settle in. Was my search hopeless?
Joy said, ‘Roger Brookes committed suicide about a year ago.’
Another surprise. ‘Why suicide?’ I voiced my thoughts aloud.
Joy shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Joe was surprised too.’ Her face clouded over again at the memory of her boss. Why hadn’t Joe, or even Miles, told me about Brookes? Perhaps Miles didn’t know.
My mind was racing. Why had Roger Brookes killed himself? Had Andover got to him again and demanded more money? Had Andover threatened to expose what he knew about Brookes? Had it really been suicide? I needed to speak to Brookes’ wife.
‘Does his widow still live in Gloucestershire?’
‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
I’d find out. It meant going there to check. I could hire a car. Having made my decision I returned to the subject of Joe’s death.
‘What cases was Joe working on?’ I asked, hoping that her answer might give me a reason as to why Joe was killed, which didn’t have anything to do with Andover or me. I was probably clutching at straws.
I could see Joy running through the files in her mind. After a moment she said, ‘There were a couple of divorces, a suspected business fraud and a child abduction case – the father has taken the little boy back to Germany and the mother wants him here in England.’
‘Anything that might have upset someone enough to kill him?’
She flinched at my choice of words; her freckled face lost its colour. ‘The police asked me that. I told them, there wasn’t. They were all the usual.’ Which, along with me showing up on the morning of Joe’s murder, would have left Crowder with the assumption that Joe’s death was connected with me. It didn’t need the brains of a professor to work that one out.
The noisy women took the table next to us and started talking about a joint acquaintance, who by all accounts, had really got up their nose by finding herself a very rich husband not six months after the old one had been laid to rest.
‘Do you mind if we get a breath of fresh air?’
Joy suddenly declared, standing up.
I was all for that. We turned out of the museum and headed east. The sun put in a fleeting appearance between racing white clouds and when it did it felt quite hot, with the promise of summer in its rays. Someone had recently cut the grass in the university grounds opposite. I breathed in the tangy smell thinking that if I could have bottled this and sold it in prison I would have made a fortune, or at least enough to have kept the weirdos and sadists off my back.
To me the smell, like that of the sand and sea, represented freedom.
‘Who found Joe?’ I asked.
‘I did, when I arrived for work.’
I snatched a glance at her. She was staring at the pavement.
‘He was lying on his back on the floor. His face was blue and there was blood around his mouth. His hands were clenched.’
A minute or so of silence followed. The traffic roared and screeched around us. We turned the corner and headed towards the seafront. ‘What was the office like?’
‘It had been ransacked, but as far as I could tell nothing was missing.’
‘What about my file?’ I held my breath.
‘That had already been archived.’
‘Where?’
‘In the big storage warehouse on the Rodney Road industri
al estate.’
‘And it’s still there?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Did the police ask you about it?’
She shook her head.
Was that because they already knew what it contained? Could Joe have copied it for them?
‘Could I see it?’ My heart was pounding; what if she said no? How could I gain access to it without her permission?
She said, ‘I’ll give them a call and tell them you’re coming.’
‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. ‘I’d like to collect it straight away.’
She pulled out her mobile. As she made the call I watched a little boy playing with his father on the common. They were trying to get a kite up. It reminded me of all the times I had played with my sons. I wanted to howl, but instead sought refuge in my anger. I pushed aside all thoughts and feelings of love and replaced them with hatred.
‘You can collect it when you’re ready,’ Joy said, signing off.
I was impatient to get my hands on it. ‘Is it all right if I go now?’
‘Of course. I think I’ll go for a walk along the seafront, clear my head a bit.’
I watched her forlorn figure stroll past a balding, scruffily dressed man who was sitting on a bench under the trees. He rose and folded his newspaper. Not another of Crowder’s men following me, I thought with exasperation.
The warehouse was the other side of Portsmouth. As soon as I could I caught a taxi, but as the warehouseman came towards me with empty hands and a mournful face, I knew at once that my file had gone.
‘It was booked out early yesterday morning,’
he announced.
‘What time?’ I cursed under my breath. I should have come sooner.
‘Nine-fifteen.’
Probably just after Joe had been killed. ‘Who signed for it?’
He peered down at the paperwork. ‘Alex Albury.’
I should have guessed. With a racing heart, I said, ‘Can I see?’
It was a forgery and not a very good one. I didn’t recognise the writing. I hadn’t really expected to, perhaps just hoped. The police had no need to fake my signature; they could simply take the file. And they wouldn’t have got to it until after Joe’s death, which would have been at least an hour or so later. But Andover? That was very different. He must have come immediately after he’d killed Joe. My heart lifted a little. If I had wanted confirmation that Andover was in England then I was getting it.
In for the Kill Page 5
