by Clare Curzon
The fridge door slammed. Walter came hurrying through with something in his hands. Ben caught the glint of a plastic bag with redness inside and lumbered to his feet to follow.
In the driveway he saw the Mercedes had been reversed and stood again opposite the entrance. Walter was bending over a smashed headlight and appeared to be wiping something into the rims and through the twisted grill.
Walter always claimed he was the brains of the partnership, which consisted, to Ben’s slower mind, of thinking up twisty ways of doing things the big man had been taught as a child were wrong. But it made Walter feel superior, even though physically he was the runt of an unhealthy litter.
The first time he’d shouted, ‘Come on, Carter, get carting!’ it had struck Ben as clever, but by now he was tired of it, hearing the contempt behind what wasn’t a real joke.
He watched Walter straighten, looking pleased with himself. When he half-turned and saw Ben there he attempted to cover up what he was holding. Obligingly Ben looked away. ‘You want me to get it repaired?’
‘You’re not to touch it. I’ll take it in myself.’
Ben nodded slowly, wondering why there was a cloth over the steering wheel. Walter was careful sometimes about wiping his fingerprints off things he’d touched. But now he seemed to have forgotten to remove the duster.
Walter followed the direction of his gaze, flicked the cloth off, slammed the driving door, locked it and pocketed Sir Arthur’s keys. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘is another day.’
Back at Knollhurst the phone rang. Charles Hadfield lowered his newspaper and stared at Janey over it. ‘Hadn’t you better answer the thing?’
It continued to ring. ‘Aidan went off in a taxi, and Chloe’s gone walking.’
‘I’d better then. But it’s probably from some newspaper.’ The caller was a man apologizing for ringing after hours. His, Janey supposed; because she functioned for twenty-four.
‘I’m calling from Pettifer and Jolly, Mrs Knightley. Well, actually from home, but on the firm’s business.’
He gave a little high-pitched bark of laughter. Janey started to explain that she wasn’t who he supposed her to be, but he was off again at full steam.
‘Now it’s short notice I know, but I have a very promising offer here and I’d like to bring the client round to view tomorrow at eleven if that suits you. Otherwise he could make it at 2.30pm.’
‘To view?’ Janey echoed faintly.
‘Yes. Knollhurst. I assured your husband it would meet with a lot of interest at the new price, and I was right. Now, is 11am suitable, Mrs Knightley?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
She stood there gripping the handset after the man rang off. ‘Charles,’ she said faintly, ‘that dreadful man has put this house on the market. The children’s home. And Leila not buried yet. That was an agent wanting an appointment to view.’
Hadfield roared and hobbled across. ‘Ring him back,’ he ordered. Janey obtained the number from 1471 and pressed 3. She handed the phone across but Hadfield shook his head. ‘Tell him he can’t come. And ask the fellow the price.’
She spoke, listened and made a face at him. ‘That’s thirty thousand less than he paid.’
‘And the date it went on the market?’
‘Thank you,’ Janey said to the man on the end of the line. She was pale when she faced Charles again. ‘Last Friday, the second.’
‘That’s the day Leila was killed.’
‘Yes.’
Aidan Knightley returned home to meet judgmental stares. The three of them faced him out about his intention to sell, although Chloe alone was silent, hunched in her chair as though she had stomach cramps.
He was taken aback that they knew, but specious as ever. He claimed he was under no necessity to answer to them for his actions, but must take stock and look to new requirements under changed circumstances.
‘What circumstances?’ Charles thundered.
‘In view of being widowed,’ he pointed out stiffly.
The date of his decision hung unspoken in the air between them. ‘You said,’ Janey whispered, ‘that you didn’t know Leila was dead until you arrived back here on Sunday.’
He saw at once the mistake he’d made and began to bluster. ‘It was a decision I’d already come to. Neither of us found the place came up to standard.’
They had no sympathy for him. Had he expected any? Janey demanded. What sensitivity were they to expect of him when he acted so precipitately, without consulting wife or children? Where were they to set up home again, and who was to look after Eddie and Chloë?
‘I have had unexpected expenses,’ Knightley ploughed on.
‘It is a question of husbanding my resources to do the best for us all. For them in particular. One must be forward-looking.’
‘Resources,’ Hadfield barked at him. ‘Husbanding resources! When did you ever properly husband Leila? Or is that too far past? Who do you intend to husband in future?’
‘Nobody if I can help it!’ The words came out of themselves in a vicious burst of frustration. He flushed with anger. ‘I am not answerable to you. It is for me to decide what I do, where my children shall live.’
‘Don’t, don’t!’ pleaded Chloe. ‘Please stop. All of you.’ Janey put her arms round the girl. ‘At least give yourself breathing space,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘This is not the right time to make fresh decisions. Let a little time go by, for things to settle.’
Settle, he thought bitterly. That’s something I’ll not be able to do, unless I release the house value to get Piggott off my back. Those bloody horses. They’re as perverse as women.
Chapter 23
Yeadings took one look at his DI when they assembled next morning and knew that Mott’s engagement to Paula was off. Intensive work being the best remedy he knew for anguish, he threw all decisions for that day on to the younger man’s shoulders, opting out of active policing himself to catch up with paperwork. It irked him to need to, because he felt in his bones that they were nearing a solution, or at least some recognition of the tangled web of deception that had been set up.
Mott waded in hard-mouthed, assigning duties, setting priorities: Z to accompany him on the immediate pursuit of the dead woman’s presumed lover, one Pascal Gregory, British citizen with a Swiss mother, and owner of a green Alfa Romeo tourer, present year’s registration.
Beaumont was smarting at being sidelined into chasing up the car that had run down Hetty Chadwick. He felt it the more keenly because there’d been a rumour flashing round the canteen over breakfast that Mott was considering an offer to go as an instructor on this international police-training malarky in Bosnia. That would leave a gap at DI level, with himself and Z as candidates in line for promotion.
A few years back there’d have been nothing in it. He had seniority by length of service. But Z was a woman and PC — political-bloody-correctness as well as Police Constabulary — had ordained that sexual equality should be interpreted with a hefty advantage granted to the weaker sex. Which, to add to the overloading of top ranks with academics, social scientists and blacks, already resulted in poorer performance in thief-taking and proactive policing. He was certain that if Z got the leg-up, instead of the leg-over she needed, he wouldn’t be staying on in Yeadings’ team.
Sourly then he delegated to DC Silver the task of checking through owners of all light-coloured Mercedes in Berks, Bucks and Oxon, while the other two departed on what looked like a promising trail. Leaving Silver to liaise with Traffic on the computer check he set off at once to take a look at Piggott’s car. He found it parked much where he had seen it before, this time backing on to the rear wall of the betting shop, its front resplendent in gleaming, pristine glory. Which seemed, on the face of it, to eliminate the car from suspicion.
But there had been time since Sunday for a well-rewarded mechanic to make any necessary repairs to the bodywork. Although there was no visible evidence of it he was considering having it hauled in for forensic exami
nation (thereby incurring the wrath of the almighty budget-keepers if the result was negative) when Walter Pimm appeared at the shop’s back door, a wet cigarette stub attached to his bottom lip.
‘Admiring the boss’s motor?’ he asked matily.
‘It’s not yours then?’
‘I should be so lucky! Get to drive it though. Old Piggott likes to lord it on the back seat.’
‘Is he a decent boss? Plenty of perks?’
‘He sees I’m all right. Like he should, seeing we was at school together.’ Walter was bragging. ‘Stinker, we used to call him. His dad owned the fish and chip shop, and they lived over the top. There wasn’t no way you could sit next him for the stench of rancid fat.’
‘He’s come up in the world since then. Nice line in pearl grey mohair suiting,’ Beaumont tempted.
‘Yeah. Flashy, for all that his flat’s like a pigsty. One thing he could do was Maths. Him and me, we was always top of the class for figuring. Real quick he was. His dad was a mug, went bust over the gee-gees. Didn’t take young Jeffrey any time to see where the real money was. With the touts, not the punters. So he got hisself apprenticed to a bookie down Epsom way. When he’d made some dibs he set up here and of course he remembered me.’
‘So now you’re his manager here, and well on the way up yourself?’
Pimm closed his eyes, looked sneaky. ‘I’ll do bloody better than him before I’m through.’
‘Actually,’ Beaumont confessed, deciding to risk all on reading the man’s features, ‘I’m checking on Mercs at the moment. For crash damage.’
He’d have sworn there was no flicker of reaction, and yet the man’s mean little features looked suddenly sleeker, as though his ears had lain back like a nag’s when nervous.
‘Check here all you want. This old girl’s fine. Not a dent, not a smear. In tip-top condition.’
Now who said anything about smears? Beaumont asked himself. Maybe Walter had over-played himself there. ‘You polish her?’
‘Nuh. We have muscle for that. Have to find something to justify Ben Carter’s wages.’
‘Ah. The big guy.’
‘A bit simple but he’s handy. Thinks he’s Jeffrey’s bodyguard. Especially -’ Walter’s voice took on a spiteful edge. ‘-since your lot run the boss in for carrying a knife. Shoulda turned a blind eye. Get a lot of nasty threats from the lowlife when you set up as a turf accountant.’
‘Guess so. Where is Ben, by the way?’
Maybe he’d sounded too innocent. Walter’s ratty eyes narrowed. ‘Sent off on a job somewhere. Carter by name, eh?’ He ended on a leer.
Not a great partner to work alongside, Beaumont decided. He wandered off, took a tour to satisfy himself that Ben wasn’t in the vicinity and settled in his car to consult by phone with Silver.
He learned there were no less than seven Mercedes in the near neighbourhood, three of them white.
While Z drove his Saab, Mott called the number for Pascal Gregory’s cottage. On the third ring a man’s voice answered. ‘Gregory.’
It couldn’t have been simpler. He agreed to stay at home and put himself at their disposal. He sounded more curious than alarmed. When he opened the door to them, however, he seemed at least cautious.
‘We’re making inquiries,’ Mott said after they’d shown their IDs, ‘into the new people who’ve moved into Knollhurst, along the road from you. No doubt you’ve heard that the lady of the house was found murdered about half a mile away.’
‘I read it in the papers, yes. And there was a mention on Crimewatch last night. It’s terrible.’
‘Had you met the family?’
‘A number of them, yes. Briefly.’
‘One of them less briefly?’
‘Leila.’ His breath came out unevenly. He left his seat and went to stand by the window, looking out. ‘It was totally unexpected. I meant only to get to know her because of Chloe. I thought she might be what one hears of stepmothers, neglectful, perhaps worse, although Chloë implied she was fond of her.’
‘But - ?” Mott insisted.
‘She was delightful. Natural, warm, sympathetic. I - found her very attractive.’
Mott scowled at him. From the man’s manner he could only suppose that they’d begun an affair. ‘Were you lovers?’
Pascal turned back to face him. ‘Yes. It seemed inevitable. She was not a happy woman, Inspector. I wanted to give her everything. I’m not inexperienced, but no one had made me feel like that before.’
Mott’s mouth twisted. Z, watching him, thought he looked bitter. ‘Did you kill her, Mr Gregory?’
The man was appalled, shattered by the brutality of it. Z was dismissed to the kitchen to make hot drinks while the other two spoke together. She could barely hear the low voices, one hesitant, the other pressing him further. She wanted to believe that the one questioned was being open and genuinely as broken as he seemed.
When she carried the tray through they seemed to have reached some kind of truce. Mott had removed his tie and loosened his shirt. She wondered for the second time that morning whether he was sickening for something.
‘You said at first,’ Mott reminded the other, ‘that you were curious to meet her because of Chloe, her stepdaughter. How did you come to meet her?’
‘In a rainstorm. You remember the deluge that night some weeks ago? A cloudburst, and she was out in it with her bike. We were both caught and she was in a bad way. My sister Morgan was staying over that night, a nurse, and she insisted Chloe should shower and borrow some dry clothes. Then we started to talk.’
‘Wasn’t that intervention unnecessary, since she lived only a few doors away?’
‘Chloë was in a strange mood, reluctant - almost afraid - to go home. It made us curious, especially as —’
He stopped and they waited for him to continue. He picked up his cup and drank before going on. Choosing what not to say, Z thought.
It was an incredible story, or would have been if they hadn’t so much experience of similar incidents. The reason Pascal knew so much of it was because his sister, Morgan, had been on hand at the time, although Chloe hadn’t recognized her out of uniform.
A few days earlier, the girl Beryl Ryder, whom they took to be Knightley’s girlfriend, had taken Chloe out drinking. Unused to alcohol she was deceived by the innocent flavour of the passion fruit concoction. But at the house they’d stopped off at later, something else had happened of which Chloe had only partial and fleeting recall. Morgan believed that some other substance had been used on the girl; something like Midazolam or Rohypnol the ‘date-rape’ drug. But being unsure and not knowing who was responsible, Morgan had simply given her an emetic to reduce the effect.
The Ryder girl had phoned Chloë’s home and by then the father had returned. He left at once to collect her, promising she should be taken straight to A&E at High Wycombe hospital. Which, it seemed, she wasn’t.
‘Your sister will need to confirm all this. It’s useless as hearsay.’
‘Useless in court maybe, but it should put you on the right path. Morgan hoped it could all be settled at family level, without scandal to innocent parties.’
‘It doesn’t sound,’ Mott said witheringly, ‘as if there are any innocent parties. Your sister, for instance; how did she become involved? I’ll need the address of this house and to know who - ’
He was interrupted by the house phone ringing. Gregory stared at him and raised his shoulders expressively. ‘Answer if you wish. It may be for you. No one would expect me to be here after 10am.’
Mott strode across and lifted the receiver. Without waiting for acceptance a woman’s voice rushed at him. ‘Pascal, thank God you’re there. I’ve tried everywhere else. Listen, we’ll have to talk to the police. There was a Crimewatch programme last night …’
Mott crashed through. ‘Am I speaking to Miss Morgan Gregory? This is Detective-Inspector Angus Mott, Thames Valley Police. Can you come to your brother’s cottage at once? We have a lot to straighten out between
you both.’
She couldn’t, being on duty and involved in arrangements for an unexpected funeral. She sounded almost distraught.
Mott’s reaction was electric. ‘Then we will come to you. Will you give me the address? Yes. Havelock House, Stonor, near Henley-on-Thames. Has your local police station been advised of the sudden death? Right. Please ask the coroner’s officer to wait there for us.’
‘Who’s died? Do you want me to come?’ Gregory asked when Mott had hung up.
As Mott hesitated he said, ‘I want to. Morgan may need my support.’
‘In that case my sergeant will accompany you in your car.’
Beaumont had run Ben Carter to earth at last. The big man was in the cellar at the Three Tuns organising a spirits, wine and beer order. It was impressive the effortless way he lifted full barrels around. Bill Preston, licensee, stood at the top of the stairs to ensure the detective took no liberties with his stock once he’d let him go down.
‘I just want a word,’ Beaumont began, squatting on a metal barrel and finding it struck a chill through his terylene pants. Ben Carter wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘What about, Mr Beaumont?’
‘Jeffrey Piggott’s car. You keep it all smart and shiny, don’t you?’
‘He’s got two.’
‘It’s the Merc I’m interested in. You clean it, yes?’
‘Most times. He likes it kept nice.’
‘It looked great when I saw it this morning. When did you last do it over?’
‘Friday. He wanted it next day to take the two kids to Brighton.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. That’s a long time for it to stay so spotless. Today’s Wednesday. You must use something special on it.’
Ben looked puzzled. ‘No, it must be real mucky. Always gets spotty at the seaside. It’s the salt, see? Then it got left in London, wheel-clamped, on Sunday and I haven’t seen it since.’
