With that, she walked past me without a backward glance and out through the double doors.
I just stood and watched her leave. There was no suitable response to this, and there was really no time to ponder as Simon came chasing after me to drag me to the dance floor.
The rest of the night passed in a blur - but I remember thinking that my life was about to change forever.
*
I know that by the time you read this, you will know all about the award - so sorry to be boring. But it all somehow fits together, so it was important to capture the whole atmosphere of the evening and my swirling emotions!
Predictably the next day was not a good day for working in the TV production office. Nobody had made it to bed much before 4 am, and our heads were throbbing. I, however, was still smiling. I actually didn’t mind the headache and the mild feeling of nausea.
I’m not sure if it was the hangover or not, but I kept seeing images of the previous night flash before my eyes in technicolor. Flash : a sea of faces as I look down from the stage, clutching my precious crystal pyramid. Flash : a single face; the face of a man, offering me just a suggestion of a private smile.
Strangely, the second of these two occurred with rather more frequency than the first.
My past performance with men hasn’t really been that great, has it? It’s been so different for you, with Will. But I’ve never had a really serious relationship. Everybody just seems to want casual sex these days. Some men think they just need to buy you a quick beer in the pub, and then it’s back to your place. I know I sound cynical, but I need to make some connection with a man I’m going to have sex with. And I’ve never met anybody who makes me feel the way you do about Will. Certainly no man has constantly intruded on my thoughts. Until Hugo Fletcher.
I was dying to ask Simon about him, but he didn’t make it into the office until 3 o’clock! One of the privileges of being the boss, I suppose. Of course, everybody wanted a verbal rerun of the previous night’s events - but strangely enough, I just wanted to get Simon on his own, so I could pick his brains. Finally, I managed to corner him.
‘Laura, I don’t miss much, you know. You want to talk to me about Hugo Fletcher, don’t you? He couldn’t take his eyes off you all night, darling.’ (TV speak - please don’t let me slip into that - I love Simon, but I even heard him call the electrician ‘darling’ the other day.)
Anyway, this was music to my ears, and I sat there entranced as Simon told me everything he knew about the man, his charity, his business, his investments… and his wife!
Why had it never occurred to me that he’s married? And I just don’t do married men. Never - at least knowingly - would I become a party to the inevitable misery. Somebody always suffers, and I’ve seen enough of it in my life to recognise this. I know you’ll understand that.
I was getting a bit ahead of myself, though. We’d only exchanged a few words! But there was such a spark, or at least, that’s how it felt to me.
Having just about decided that I wouldn’t follow up on his offer of lunch, Simon surprised me.
‘I think you should meet him. You should flirt with him a little. I know that’s as far as you’ll let it go, because you are who you are. But he’s important to us. He’s very wealthy, but also he’s never allowed anybody to make a documentary about his charity, and it would be a major coup. You have to learn to use your assets, darling. You underestimate how gorgeous you are, and if it’s okay to win business by brains, why not by beauty?’
What do you think of that, Imo? I wasn’t quite sure if he was suggesting that I didn’t have a brain, but I don’t think so.
*
It might have been a dangerous decision to make, but I finally arranged a lunch date with Hugo. I’d put off making the call, but I’d thought of little else. So it had to be done.
I wanted to look perfect - business-like, but attractive - so I’d splashed out on a Donna Karan suit, and a gorgeous pair of long grey suede boots. I decided to leave my hair in its natural waves, and I felt good.
The taxi driver was droning on about Arsenal and Manchester United fighting for the top of some league or other. I feigned interest, as you do, but I really just wanted to tune out and focus on the hours ahead. We turned into Egerton Crescent and what a charming place it is, with the beautiful white painted houses all looking pristine even in the grey February weather.
I did feel a few butterflies as I ran up the path to get out of the rain, and the young woman who opened the door somehow managed to make me feel like a country hick, even in my smart new suit. She had that look of class that comes with years of shopping in the right places. Wearing what was unmistakably Chanel, I felt that I had altogether missed the mark. But I wasn’t going to turn tail and run, so I gave her my brightest smile.
‘Hello, I’m Laura Kennedy. I have an appointment with Sir Hugo Fletcher,’ I said, putting out my hand to shake hers.
A rather limp hand was extended. I never know what to do with people who just let their hands drop into yours, do you? Are you supposed to squeeze them reassuringly, pump them frenetically, or match like with like and let both hands hang lifelessly together for a few seconds? I opted for a gentle squeeze and a mild shake, and hoped that would do. Obviously I was being judged, and I suspect found wanting, by this rather po-faced girl. She didn’t quite look me up and down with a sneer on her face, but it was a close thing!
‘Good morning, Ms Kennedy. I’m Jessica Armstrong, Sir Hugo’s personal assistant. He’s expecting you. Please come in.’
I was shown into Hugo’s private office where he rose to meet me from behind his desk. It was like no office I’d ever been in, with dark green walls covered in classical art, and walnut furniture which was clearly antique. The desk itself was enormous, and was devoid of a scrap of paper. There was a large blotter, unmarked by ink or doodles (which shows enormous restraint) and a Mont Blanc silver fountain pen was lying perfectly straight against the upper edge. The only other thing on the desk was a huge leather bound diary, with the current year stamped in gold on the front. Thank God I didn’t invite him to my office, which is the exact opposite to this in every way possible.
Hugo moved around the desk. ‘Welcome, Laura. You don’t mind if I call you Laura, I hope?’
Rather bemused at what else he might want to call me, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘It’s good to be here finally, and I’d be delighted if you would call me Laura. I have to admit, though, that I haven’t a clue what I should call you!’ God, how crass! Why does this man make me feel so edgy?
He smiled at me benignly.
‘I hope we’re going to be good friends, Laura, so please call me Hugo. Do have a seat. Jessica will be bringing some coffee through, and we have an hour to talk business before I have the pleasure of taking you to lunch.’
He told me all about his charity, and he’s so passionate about it! It was wonderful to just sit and listen. Apparently he inherited a “rather considerable sum” from his father, mainly in property, which is managed by his company in Canary Wharf. But Hugo prefers to focus as much of his time as possible on a charitable foundation that he set up, which helps young prostitutes who end up on the streets through no fault of their own. Isn’t that an amazingly good cause? I asked him why he had chosen this type of charity, and it’s the most incredible story so I asked permission to tape him as research for a programme. He said I could record it, but he wasn’t sure if he would let me use it. Anyway, this is what he told me.
‘A bit of rather embarrassing family history came to light some years ago. The wealth of the family is inherited, of course - but it turns out that the family fortune was built on slavery back in the 19th century. My great great grandfather failed to adhere to the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in the early part of the century, and continued trading in various areas of the British Empire until well into the middle of the century. He invested his ill gotten gains in property. There was some talk of my great grandfather - his s
on - also doing rather well out of prostitution, although we haven’t been able to prove that. But most of the working girls in that era were considered of a lower class, and he’s reputed to have founded a few clubs with ‘clean’ girls for his rich friends. I can’t find any evidence to that effect, but apparently there was one prostitute to every twelve adult males in London in his time, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Now that would make rather a good subject for a documentary!’
‘So that’s why you chose to help prostitutes?’ I asked.
‘Well, I could hardly help slaves, and as this all came to light when my father was alive, he thought of the idea and I’ve developed it from there. I called it the Allium Foundation.’
I love alliums. Then Hugo told me that they are part of the onion family. Did you know that?
‘I like the analogy,’ he said. ‘What starts off as a rather pungent, multi-layered bulb forces its way out through the ground with a strong and straight stem, culminating in a glorious and complex flower. I like the parallel with the girls’ families - what’s beneath the surface is not very sweet, but given some appropriate cultivation it has the potential for a beautiful result.’
I can only conclude from everything that he said that he is not only charming, but he is sensitive and compassionate. At this point, I was beginning to feel that I really shouldn’t have come. It was dangerous.
We set off for the restaurant, and it was all that I thought it would be; discreet, sophisticated and subtly decorated in relaxing stone colours. We were shown to our table, and Hugo quietly moved the waiter aside so that he could personally pull my chair out, making sure I was comfortably settled before he sat down himself. The waiter came back to the table with menus, but Hugo waved them away.
‘Tell me what you like, Laura? What sort of food gives you pleasure, and what wine do you enjoy the most?’
Nobody’s ever asked me this before, and I didn’t know where to start.
‘All right, why don’t you tell me any types of food that you don’t like?’
That’s a pretty short list, as you know, but as I talked I felt that Hugo was really interested in me. So I told him about the meals I’d eaten that I’d enjoyed the most. He prompted me from time to time with ideas, and after about ten minutes he called the waiter over and placed an order - without further reference to the menu. Really impressive stuff. I was bowled over.
‘I’m glad you let me order for you, Laura. I consider it an honour to look after a lady, particularly one as beautiful as you are. I find these days that there are fewer and fewer women who are prepared to relinquish control.’
I have to admit that the idea of him controlling me flashed through my mind in rather lurid detail. Then I brought myself up short when he mentioned the dreaded two words…
‘My wife - and I am sure you are aware that I am married - considers it a personal insult to allow me any sort of influence over her decisions, and will disagree with me on principle solely to provoke me.’ He gave a slight smile.
Then he told me his secret, and it’s the reason that I can’t tell anybody - not even you. He’s getting a divorce, but he doesn’t want it to be public knowledge. He’s got a little girl called Alexa who he obviously adores, but the soon-to-be ex has agreed to joint custody. He’s already moved out. His mother died recently so he’s been able to return to the family home.
I didn’t know whether to appear sympathetic for the loss of his mother or regretful for the failure of his marriage. I did know, however, that I should try to hide the rush of excitement I was feeling. But his next words made it impossible for me to disguise my feelings.
‘I’m telling you this, Laura, because although we have only just met I feel very drawn to you. I was dazzled by you at the awards dinner, and you look absolutely beautiful today. I love your hair like that.’
I just looked into his eyes (dark blue, as I predicted) and I felt as if bubbles were racing through my veins. I didn’t speak. Obviously I’d stopped recording him as soon as we’d moved on from talk of the charity, but I think I can remember every word he said. At least, those that were about “us”. I think they’re etched onto my brain!
‘I would like to continue to see you, Laura, if you would permit it. Our meetings would have to be private, and it would have to be just between us for the time being, until the situation is a little less sensitive. But please be assured that I will treat you with the utmost respect and consideration.’
So that’s why I can’t send you this, Imo. Maybe you’ll never get to read it - it all depends what happens next - but I can tell you that for the first time in my life, I would have been happy to take a man home after our very first date!
With love, as always
Laura
***
Imogen reached the end of Laura’s letter.
She’d known all the facts, of course. She knew when and how they met, and she knew that Laura had been completely besotted with Hugo. But it was all so long ago, and so much had happened since. She was glad Laura had let her read this letter first, because it put everything that happened later into perspective.
For the moment, though, she didn’t want to read any more. She just wanted to sit back; to remember and to think. About the past, about Laura, about Will - but most of all, about Hugo.
CHAPTER 7
There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that the body in the mortuary was indeed that of Hugo Fletcher, but the formalities had to be adhered to. Laura had quietly done as she had been asked, with no outward display of emotion. Having confirmed what they already knew, Tom had suggested that she come back to headquarters with him for a while before making the return trip to Oxfordshire. It seemed callous to send her away without so much as a hot drink.
Tom gently guided her into the shoebox that passed as his office, and took a seat facing her on the other side of his relatively tidy desk. There was a quiet knock on the door.
‘Ah, here’s the tea. It’s not particularly wonderful tea, I’m afraid, but it’s hot and wet. We do need to ask you some questions, but I’m sure you’d like some time to yourself so I’ll leave you in peace. DS Robinson, who you met last night, will come and take some background from you in a while. I’ll need to ask some more in-depth questions, but we’ll arrange a car back to Oxfordshire for you, and we’ll follow on later today, if that’s okay.’
Laura spoke quietly.
‘Could we start the questions now, please? I’d rather get it over with, if you can spare the time.’
‘Unfortunately, I have something else that I need to do at 8 o’clock and I’ll be a couple of hours.’
Tom was surprised at the directness of the gaze that Laura Fletcher gave him. Although wearing glasses today, Tom could see her eyes were no longer red from weeping, and whilst she was still quietly spoken there seemed to be a new determination in her demeanour.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, as you appear to have about fifteen minutes before you must leave - I presume to attend my husband’s post-mortem - do you think we could spend that time going through what you already know, please? I was too shocked last night to respond, and I want to help in any way I can.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t want a few minutes alone, Lady Fletcher?’
‘No, thank you. What I’d really like is for this all to be over as quickly as possible, and if you don’t mind I would prefer it if you would call me Laura. I never really wanted a title, and now that Hugo’s dead I’d really like to rid myself of the formality of it all. Not too many years ago, everybody called me Laura - from the milkman to my clients. Now it’s the most difficult thing in the world to get past the bloody title.’
Slightly surprised by Laura’s tone of voice, Tom decided to give her some time whether she believed she needed it or not. Why was she so different today? he wondered. He could only imagine it was because she wanted to get any questions out of the way to give herself space to grieve.
‘Okay, Laura it is. Please call me Tom. I’ll go and find DS
Robinson - Becky - and we’ll spend the next ten or fifteen minutes filling in some gaps. Excuse me for a moment.’ He left her with her cup of tea and went to have a quick word with Becky to discuss interview tactics, but also to alert her to the change in Laura’s manner.
But by the time he returned to the office with Becky, Laura’s veneer of determination had seeped away, and she seemed to have retreated into herself once again. She was sitting perfectly still, gazing at nothing, her mind clearly miles away. Tom moved around to the other side of the desk and took his seat, while Becky pulled up a chair to the side. Laura turned to look at Tom, and for a moment seemed surprised that there was anybody else in the room. She appeared to mentally shake herself, straighten her back and square her shoulders, as if to do battle.
‘Okay, Laura. I’m going to bring you up to date with what we know at the moment, and please feel free to interrupt. When we come to Oxfordshire we’ll need to look through Sir Hugo’s things, and try to see if there is anything that would point to a motive.’
‘That’s fine - but please just refer to him as Hugo. He would hate it; titles were something of a family obsession. But he’s not here to know any different, is he?’
If he thought she was difficult to read last night, today it was impossible. It was as if she’d built a wall around her grief, which she determinedly reassembled each time it started to crumble. And now she was using antagonism against her dead husband to strengthen her defences. But anger against the deceased was a natural reaction in the early stages of grief, and Tom was more than happy to drop all formalities if that made her more comfortable.
‘We know that Beryl Stubbs found your husband - Hugo - at about 12.45. That’s an approximation, but she was too upset and shocked to phone it in until about 1.45. The local police arrived on the scene just before 2 pm. We estimate the time of death to be between 11.30 and 12. Mrs Stubbs probably arrived less than an hour after your husband died, and if she hadn’t missed the first bus because of an argument with her husband, she would probably have interrupted the scene.’
(2011) Only the Innocent Page 6
