‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Bentleys of Bath.’ The twenty-something girl on the other side of the marble-topped reception desk had perfect teeth and nails, and just-out-of–the-salon burnished copper hair. Her smile faltered almost imperceptibly as she took in the appearance of the visitor, but training took over and she recovered immediately. ‘Can I help you?’
Gideon could have left his helmet and gloves outside with the bike but it was no part of his plan to conform, so he dumped both on the polished marble in front of him and smiled at the girl.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Bentley, please,’ he said pleasantly.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Bentley is in a meeting.’
‘Ah, yes, I thought he might be. And, no doubt, this meeting is expected to last most of the morning.’
She relaxed a little.
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.’
‘And this afternoon?’
The wary look was back.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m in no hurry. Is the meeting expected to last all day?’
‘Um . . . I’d have to speak to his secretary, sir. I couldn’t say.’
‘All right.’ Gideon took up the attitude of someone who was prepared to wait as long as it took, and saw the girl’s eyes flicker nervously towards the two bouncers by the door.
‘Er . . . if you’d like to take a seat, sir – I’ll see if I can find out for you,’ she said then.
‘I’m fine standing,’ Gideon said helpfully. ‘I’ve been sitting all the way here. You carry on.’
Robbed of the chance to speak privately with her colleague, the receptionist reached for the phone, a tinge of pink creeping into her cheeks.
‘Janet? I’ve got a gentleman here who wants to speak to Mr Bentley . . .’
Gideon was close enough to hear the secretary ask if he had an appointment, and before the girl could relay the query, answered, ‘No, he hasn’t.’
The receptionist’s face flushed darker and the voice on the other end of the line said, ‘What is it in connection with?’
The girl looked at Gideon helplessly, and he raised his eyebrows and held out his hand for the receiver. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I talked to her?’
‘He wants to talk to you,’ she told the secretary.
‘All right, put him on,’ came the reply.
Gideon took the bronze-coloured, cordless handset.
‘My business with Sam is private, but it won’t take long,’ he informed her.
‘I’m sorry. Your name is . . .?’
‘Gideon Blake, but he may not remember me. Tell him it’s to do with Damien Daniels.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Blake. I’m afraid Mr Bentley is an extremely busy man, and doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. If you’d like to leave your name with our receptionist, with a short note explaining the nature of your business, we’ll do our best to get back to you at the earliest opportunity to arrange a mutually acceptable date.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do. You see my business is rather time-sensitive,’ Gideon declared grandly, dredging the phrase up from his subconscious and feeling rather pleased with it.
‘Mr Blake – Mr Bentley can’t be expected to drop everything without warning. His diary is completely full for the next—’
‘I’ll wait,’ Gideon cut in, and handed the receiver back to the startled receptionist while Sam Bentley’s secretary was still blustering. Picking up his helmet and gloves, he retired ten or twelve feet to where two dark leather sofas flanked a smoked-glass coffee table, laden with upmarket magazines.
The foyer was warm, and Gideon removed his jacket before sinking into the squidgy-soft upholstery. The leather smelt new and squeaked as he eased himself into a comfortable position and prepared to wait, crossing his booted feet.
The receptionist cast him a look of palpable dismay, then spoke into the phone.
‘No, he’s sitting down . . . OK.’
Replacing the receiver she began to busy herself, rather unconvincingly, with moving things around in her work area and straightening the piles of leaflets and brochures that sat on the counter.
Minutes passed and, just as it seemed as though it was going to be a waiting game, the telephone trilled and the girl picked it up.
‘Yes, he is,’ she said after a moment. ‘OK . . . OK.’
Putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone she said to Gideon, ‘You can go up now; Mr Bentley will see you.Take the lift in the corner – second floor.’
‘Oh, meeting over already?’ Gideon feigned surprise, and was rewarded with a sour look as he gathered his gear and stood up.
When the lift doors hissed softly open on the second floor, a slim blonde female in a short-skirted suit stood waiting for him on the gold carpet outside. Her eyes flickered over Gideon’s sizeable person and the motorcycle gear, but if he was not the usual sort of person to grace the polished interior of Bentleys, she was too well trained to give any sign of it.
‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Blake,’ she said coolly, and led the way at a brisk pace down a corridor between rows of cream, brass-furnished doors, her neat behind twitching from side to side provocatively.
Gideon found himself wondering if Sam Bentley was married and, if so, whether his wife had ever met his secretary.
At the end of the passage there was a door marked Private which opened onto a large, well-lit room with a desk, several filing cabinets, an L-shaped cream leather sofa, and a kitchen area in one corner. Gideon dumped his jacket, helmet and gloves on the sofa.
The secretary crossed to her desk, pressed a button and spoke into an intercom.
‘Mr Bentley will see you now,’ she said, and moments later a door slid open soundlessly just feet from where Gideon was standing.
Inclining his head calmly, as if such surroundings were his natural habitat, Gideon passed through the open doorway, hearing the faint click as it closed behind him, seconds later.
The room he’d entered was vast – more like an open-plan living space than an office – with floor-to-ceiling windows in one wall, steps up to a desk complex and a luxurious seating area built around a raised circular fireplace. Cream, gold and bronze still predominated, as did leather, marble and velvet. The whole effect was very, very expensive.
Bentley turned from looking out of the window and Gideon went forward, seeing a slightly overweight, medium-height man of about his own age, or slightly older.
‘Ah, Mr Blake – Gideon Blake, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m almost certain we have never met before – I feel sure I would have remembered that name – so tell me why on earth I should want to see you now?’ he enquired, in a voice that proclaimed a privileged upbringing and a public school education.
‘Suppose you tell me why I’m standing here. You agreed to see me,’ Gideon countered. ‘I’d say my mentioning Damien Daniels had something to do with it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, what about him?’ Bentley said with a touch of impatience.
‘How well did you know him?’
‘I didn’t, but I knew his brother. Not that it’s any business of yours.’
‘You didn’t know Damien at all?’ Gideon was puzzled.
‘I just said so, didn’t I? Look, what’s this all about?’
‘If you didn’t know him, how come you agreed to meet me on the strength of my mentioning his name? And how come he’d made a special note of your name and phone number?’
‘He had?’
‘Amongst others,’ Gideon nodded.
Bentley regarded him closely.
‘What are you, some kind of private investigator?’
‘Just a friend of the family.’
‘Did they send you here?’
‘I’m helping Damien’s sister sort a few things out.’
‘She your girlfriend?’
‘With respect, I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ Gideon told him.
Bentl
ey shrugged.
‘Well, I’ve absolutely no idea why he should have my details,’ he said, sauntering across to his desk and picking up a beautiful marquetry cigar box. Opening the box, he offered it briefly in Gideon’s direction before selecting a cigar for himself and lighting it with a match from a gold case. ‘So, what were the other names?’ he added, casually.
‘Henry Lloyd-Ellis; Garth Stephenson; Robin Tate . . .’
‘Was that all?’
‘No. Julian Norris and Adam Tetley . . .’
‘Julian’s dead,’ Bentley stated flatly, drawing on his cigar.
‘I know he is. Did you know him?’
Again the shrug.
‘A long time ago. We lost touch – you know how it is.’
‘How long ago?’
‘I don’t know . . . Ten years, maybe twelve – what does it matter? Look, I don’t really see where you’re going with this, anyway. Damien’s dead now, and whatever reason he had for writing the names down presumably died with him. I can’t help you.’
Bentley leaned over his desk and pressed a button on the intercom, but before he could speak Gideon said, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I should probably just hand the list over to the police and let them deal with it.’
Bentley paused. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the end of the cigar.
‘Now why would you want to do that? What possible interest could it be to them? I mean, it’s obviously out of date, for a start. It must have been a year ago, or more, that Julian Norris died.’
‘Somebody shot Damien Daniels,’ Gideon reminded him. ‘And the police have taken Adam Tetley in for questioning. I think they might be very interested that his name appeared on a list that Damien made, don’t you?’
That had unsettled him. A distant voice emitted from the intercom and he bent his head to say, ‘Sorry, Janet. Give me five, will you?’
He transferred his attention to Gideon and said harshly, ‘All right. What do you really want? Is it money? Is that it? How much?’
Gideon hesitated, out of his depth now.
‘How much is it worth to you?’
Bentley drew in and expelled a lungful of aromatic smoke, eyeing Gideon thoughtfully. Then he relaxed and smiled.
‘You don’t know, do you? You know nothing about this at all. You’re bluffing. Tell me – if you’re just a friend of the family – why haven’t you turned this over to the police already?’
Having lost the edge he’d held for a few short moments, Gideon saw no reason not to tell him.
‘One of the other people on the list is a friend; I wanted to find out what it was all about before I did anything.’
‘Well, tell me this, Mr Blake. If he’s a friend, why don’t you ask him, huh?’ He pressed the button on his intercom again. ‘Janet. Mr Blake is just leaving.’
Riding home, Gideon went over the conversation in his mind. On the face of it, he’d not learned an awful lot, but Bentley’s reactions had been telling. He’d said he hadn’t known the trainer, yet what other reason could he have had for agreeing to speak with Gideon if it wasn’t because of the mention of Damien’s name? And for someone who professed no interest in the whole affair, his response to Gideon’s suggestion of letting the police have the list was surely hugely significant. He’d dismissed it as of no account but suddenly he was offering to buy Gideon off, which must mean that he had a very good idea what it was all about, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
If Gideon had learned anything at all from the encounter, it was only that there was something of importance to learn. Not a lot for a round trip of more than a hundred miles, but even so, it left him feeling rather unsettled. Why should Sam Bentley have been so quick to offer him money? And what, precisely, had he been offering money for? For a list of names and phone numbers? For information? With a sense of growing unease, Gideon acknowledged the most likely reason.
To buy his silence.
The offer had been an impulsive one on Bentley’s part, just as quickly rescinded as he realised that Gideon had been bluffing about telling the police. But the mere fact that the businessman was so ready to pay out was worrying. Just what had Damien been up to? And Lloyd? What was his part in all this? It was true that Gideon didn’t like him, but that was only on a superficial level. He was honest enough to admit that he’d have been quite prepared to tolerate Lloyd’s overconfidence and occasional insensitivity if he hadn’t been Pippa’s boyfriend.
What was it all about?
Why should Damien Daniels, a racehorse trainer, have a list comprising a budding politician; the owner of a health spa; a teacher at a boarding school; a wealthy man who was ‘something in the City’ and a security consultant, now deceased? If they knew one another, they weren’t keen to reveal the fact, and the only thing they appeared to have in common was that they were successful in their chosen field. The odd man out was Adam Tetley, the security guard, now in police custody, whose life had not gone at all to plan.
The only answer that presented itself was not a comfortable one.
Blackmail.
Somehow, Damien had found something that linked the six names on the list; something they would pay to keep quiet. However out of character it might seem, it was the only explanation that fitted the few facts he had. But what could it possibly be that linked such a disparate group of people?
Gideon began to feel that he had opened the proverbial can of worms. The question was, did he press the lid down firmly and hand it all over to the authorities, whatever the consequences to Lloyd, Pippa and Damien Daniels’ family, or did he lift it a little further and see what wriggled out?
Throughout the afternoon and a ride with Pippa, Gideon pondered his next course of action. He didn’t entertain the option of inaction for long. It might be that he wouldn’t be able to get to the bottom of the mystery but having got this far, he found he couldn’t just sit back and not try. He did toy for a while with the idea of handing the paper to Rockley, as he’d threatened to do, but in spite of the inclusion of Tetley’s name, there was no reason to suspect that it had anything to do with their case, and the thought of the inevitable upset it would cause made him hesitate. What would it do to Lloyd’s political aspirations? If Gideon threw a spanner in those particular works, would Pippa ever forgive him?
So it seemed the decision had almost made itself, and when Eve texted him mid-afternoon to say that an old friend had arrived unexpectedly and was taking her out for dinner, Gideon decided to spend the evening chasing down another of the names on the list.
With Tetley currently out of the picture and Julian Norris out of it for good, that left Lloyd, Robin Tate and the schoolteacher, Garth Stephenson.
Although he realised that sooner or later he would have to face Lloyd with the list, Gideon intended to put it off as long as he could. If Lloyd’s reaction was anything like Bentley’s, it might make relations with Pippa’s boyfriend more uncomfortable than they already were and, in turn, damage his own friendship with Pippa herself.
Gideon had a feeling that ‘something in the City’ Robin Tate might not be easy to find, for he didn’t appear to be listed in the telephone directory. Although Wimborne St Giles wasn’t a big place, it had its fair share of large houses, and any attempt to ask around would understandably arouse a certain amount of suspicion in the neighbourhood. Even supposing he did find himself on the Tates’ doorstep, he thought it more likely that the door would be firmly closed in his face than that he would be invited in to chat, once he’d announced his reason for calling. He dismissed the idea, with some vague notion of furthering his contact by means of Angie Bowen, at a later date.
That left Garth Stephenson, the teacher; the problem in his case being that Gideon only had a mobile number, and no idea of the location of the boarding school he taught at.
After much deliberation, he picked up the phone and keyed in a number he hadn’t used for eighteen months or more.
The phone rang seven or eight times, during which period Gideon became incr
easingly tempted to replace the receiver and forget the idea, but, just before he did so, the dial tone was interrupted and a weary voice said, ‘Yeah. Logan here.’
‘Sorry. Did I wake you?’ Gideon said, trying to remember what PC Mark Logan had told him in the past about shift patterns.
‘A chance’d be a fine thing. I’m on lates, and I’ve had the builders at home all day, knocking down a wall.’ He paused. ‘Well, well, Gideon Blake! I wondered if I’d be hearing from you . . .’
‘You did?’
‘Your name’s come up in conversation at the nick a time or two, lately. A little matter of murder, I believe, and you’re involved. Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘It’s not by choice, I can assure you,’ Gideon told him.
‘So what can I do for you now? I presume this isn’t a social call?’
‘I, er . . . wondered if you could trace a mobile phone number for me, if I asked nicely?’
‘That depends on whether it’s pay monthly or pay as you go,’ Logan said. ‘If it’s pay as you go, and unregistered, it’s virtually impossible.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You want to know whose the phone is?’
‘No. I know his name, I need an address.’
‘Are you going to tell me why you want to know?’
‘Er . . . Not just yet,’ Gideon admitted.
‘Then why the hell should I do it, huh?’
‘For old times’ sake?’
‘That’s crap! What I remember of old times was you giving me the runaround, and me having to dig you out of the mess you got yourself into!’
‘Yeah, did I ever thank you for that?’
There was an exasperated noise at the other end of the phone.
‘What’s the number?’
Gideon gave it.
‘He’s a schoolteacher – boarding school – but I don’t know where.’
‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Damien Daniels investigation, would it?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Gideon said, with questionable honesty.
‘I don’t trust you, mister, but I should warn you. DI Rockley’s on this one – you’ve met him, I expect?’
Gideon agreed that he had.
Time to Pay Page 17
