“Your husband may not be a killer at all. It’s possible…”
“Of course he isn’t.” Her voice was softening. “He wasn’t smart enough for any of that.” The door inched wider open. “Look, all right, if it’s so important to you. Ten minutes, no more. I have friends coming over. Cakes in the oven. If you make a mess of my baking you’ll not be forgiven.”
“I’ll be gone before your guests arrive.”
“Before the bread is done if I’ve anything to do with it. Your solemn word: when I tell you to leave, you get up and go, no protesting. No wheedling.”
“I promise,” he said, and stepped over the threshold.
She led him along a wide hallway with a low ceiling, through a reception room with a desk, stiff wooden chairs, bookcases, a telephone and a bureau in the corner, then into an expansive, airy kitchen at the back of the house with views out onto the garden and apple trees beyond.
“Beautiful house,” he said. “Wonderful location. How long have you lived here?”
“Most of my life. I was born here, raised in this house. Moved out when I married that clown of a husband, and returned when we divorced to care for my elderly mother. She’s gone now.”
“You live alone?”
“No. I have two cats. They’re more than enough company. And, unlike my ex-husband, I have friends. Have a seat.”
Capgras sat at the kitchen table while Gillian Middleton filled a solid, heavy metal kettle and set in on her Aga range cooker to heat. “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee for me.”
She set a plate of baked shortbread in front of him. “Help yourself. Have you come far?”
“London.”
“On that motorbike? It’s ancient.”
“It’s a classic. And it runs like a dream. It was my father’s.”
“You shouldn’t get sentimental about modes of transport. Getting from A to B in comfort, that’s what counts.”
“It suits me fine.”
“So what is it you want to know? I doubt I can help. I hadn’t seen him in three years, or spoken to him for twelve months at least.”
“You know anything about his business dealings?”
“Nothing. I didn’t ask him about such things even when we were married. My lawyers would know more, messy divorce and all that, though they’re not likely to be very forthcoming.”
“He self-published his last novel,” Capgras said. “Are you aware how, or why, or where the money goes now?”
“I find that hard to believe. He always took great pride in having a prestigious publisher, and a well-respected agent, people to do all the work.”
“And a ghostwriter, to create his stories?”
“Yes, well, he was less forth-coming about that, in public at least. The children still don’t know. He was insistent.”
“But you know?”
“I had him followed,” she said, with a conspiratorial smile. “Thought he was having an affair. Got a private detective to take photographs of him meeting with the Roche woman. Turned out they weren’t lovers. Which was a shame, to be honest, because I could have had my divorce through years earlier.”
“How did he react to all that?”
“The usual way: he drank a few gin and tonics and forgot all about it.”
“He wasn’t aggrieved, or angry? With you? Or her? I still don’t understand why he killed her. It makes no sense. There might be someone else involved.”
“You’re the one who pointed the finger at him. You set the police on his trail.”
“I know. But I’m not sure.”
“It’s a bit late now.”
“You don’t seem upset, if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s only a few days, and he was your husband, father of your…”
“I won’t go to the funeral, though the children will. Frankly, I don’t care what happened to him. He deserved all of it, I can assure you. But he was no killer. He didn’t have it in him. Honestly, all that business, faking suicides and blowing up hotels. He was too clumsy for any of that. Too vague in the head. And soft. We used to keep chickens but he couldn’t kill them. Couldn’t stand the sight of blood.”
“Anger does strange things to a man.”
“What did he have to be angry about?” She pushed a plate of cakes across the table. “All those people, the ones who died, they helped him. They did all the work, and he scooped up the money, the fame, the glory. A fine state of affairs. He’d never have made it on his own, you know, without the ghostwriter woman. He wasn’t very good as a novelist. No creativity. Frankly, you’ve never met a man with less imagination.”
“He lost his publishing deal,” Capgras said. “Even the agency wanted to let him go. He became bitter, so they say. Angry and shouting.”
A timer on the work-surface bleeped at her. She leapt from her chair and crossed the kitchen to check the oven. “He was always full of bluster, there’s no doubt about that. But it was all talk. And for all his faults, he was not a violent man. I don’t think he killed any of those people.”
“Will you help me find the truth?”
She crouched before her oven as though worshipping at the sacred shrine of the god of baked goods. “In what way?”
“Information. Access to his financial records, the self-publishing side of things. His books are selling, if you’ll excuse the pun, like hot cakes…”
She placed of tray of buns fresh from the oven onto a rack to cool.
“And I’d be interested to find out where the money is going,” Capgras said. “Who benefits? If I know that, then I’ll be a lot closer to the truth.”
“I don’t see how I can help.”
“Your children, perhaps. If they inherit the estate, the intellectual property.”
“I’ll ask them about the will but I can’t promise. I doubt you’re in their good books after all the things you’ve written. He was their father.”
“Anything you can do.”
“It may not be much.”
“There is one other thing. I’ve been trying to decide where he’s been all this time. Not at his flat in London. Or the house in Cornwall. Is there anywhere else?”
She stared out of the window, mulling over possibilities. “He grew up in a village in Wiltshire, but hadn’t been back for years. His parents are long gone. He liked London, these days. Or being on his boat.”
“What boat?”
“A yacht. Not big, you understand. Sleeps four at a push.”
“He could live on it, though, for a few months?”
“Maybe. Cold at this time of year. He’s a bit soft for that kind of thing but it’s possible.”
“Do you know where it’s moored?”
“Near Plymouth, last I heard. Village across the estuary. St John, I believe.”
“The name?”
“The Cordelia.”
“Ah.”
“Another Lear reference. He was obsessed. He played the part once, at University. High point of his acting career. He would go on about it so.”
“Former glories?”
“The older we become, the more the past seems to matter.”
“There’s so much more of it.”
“More than the future, yes.” She sighed and knelt once more before her sacred oven. “I must get ready for my guests. Can’t have them finding a younger man here. What would they think? Tongues will wag.”
“May I call you? For the information?”
She wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Landline only. I’m a little old fashioned.”
He thanked her, and she saw him to the door. He got onto his motorbike, started the engine and was strapping on his helmet when she called to him. She crossed the driveway and stood close so she could shout down his ear: “One thing I forgot to mention,” she yelled. “When the Leatherby woman died. It couldn’t have been him. He was with my daughter that morning. She mentioned it, said she would tell the police. Don’t think she ever had the chance.”
�
�Can I talk to her?” Capgras shouted over the engine.
She shrugged. “I’ll ask.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
She waved him off and watched him go as though he were a much-loved relative driving off into an uncertain future.
A strange woman, he thought, as he rode through the country lanes: he’d half expected her to send him away with a pack of dogs on his tail. But she had been friendly, open, honest. Kind. How had she coped, all those years, married to Arthur Middleton?
In the end, she had helped him all she could, and given him plenty to mull over – the daughter’s alibi for one and the boat in Cornwall for another. That would be worth a visit. First though, for an overdue trip to Cheltenham, to find out what had happened to a long-lost friend.
Chapter Forty-Four
Spies and Speculations
He parked the bike a modest distance from the local primary school and sauntered towards the gate. He was early, but already some of the mothers had gathered, waiting for their offspring to pour forth. There was no sign of Harriette.
The arrival of cars intensified as the minutes ticked by. Some of the women gave him suspicious glances, which he met with a smile and a wave. The display of confidence alone seemed enough to put their fears to bed.
Finally, he saw Harriette approaching. She walked right past, didn’t notice him, though they had been close friends for three years at University. They had even kissed and fumbled on a few occasions, early on, before she got properly fixed up with Doug. Capgras moved down the road, in the direction from which she had approached. No one noticed him now, as the children ran from their lessons into the arms of waiting parents and the comfort of the family estate cars and sports utility vehicles. He turned a corner, stopped and waited. Moments later, Harriette appeared, with a child clinging to either hand. He called her name, and she jumped as if a tiger had leapt at her from the neatly clipped hedgerows.
“Tom? Oh god, was that you earlier? By the school?” She looked terrified as if she expected MI5 agents to sweep around the corner at any moment and impound her children as enemies of the state.
“I’m worried about Doug. Is he in trouble? I tried to contact him weeks ago and suddenly there were people surrounding me.”
She glanced over her shoulder and kept walking, urging her young son and daughter to keep up. Capgras fell into step alongside her. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. I can’t say anything.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. Yes.”
The way she said it didn’t sound convincing. “He’s in trouble isn’t he? I can tell. Is it to do with me?”
She looked more flustered by the minute. “He’s been told not to speak to you. He has to report to them if you ever make contact. You should go. You can’t be here.”
“They can’t be following you on the school run. What’s he done?”
“Just stay clear.”
“But I need…”
“Leave him alone. Please.”
“We’re allowed to be friends. They can’t control…”
“Please.” She was almost pleading. She sounded desperate.
“He still works there?”
“Yes, but don’t contact him. Ever.”
“Tell him…”
“I will, don’t worry. Now go.”
He slowed his pace, letting her get ahead and as she turned a corner he doubled back to his motorbike. He cast suspicious glances at parked cars and hedgerows, watching for spies and cameras, worrying that the numberplate of his Norton might have already given away his presence in the town. Things were worse than he had feared and no more help would come from Douglas. If he wanted to find Middleton’s boat, or his killer, then he’d have to do it alone.
Chapter Forty-Five
And Where’s Cordelia?
Tom Capgras stood at the harbour in St John, staring out at the estuary and at Plymouth across the water, wishing, not for the first time, that Kiera Roche was still alive. He needed to find a boat and she would know how.
The village harbour was little more than a sheltered cove, with around a hundred boats floating on the tidal river moored to buoys, or anchored in the mud. He strode up and down looking for the Cordelia. He took out binoculars, part of his basic travelling kit when working, and scanned the names of yachts. No sign of her. Capgras walked back towards the village. There must be someone who might know of the boat. He asked at a ramshackle car repair place and the mechanic sent him off looking for a fellow named Bill, with a beard and a fisherman’s sweater, usually hanging around near the water, or supping beer in the Crown and Anchor.
Capgras glanced at his watch: ten past one. Start with the pub. It was an old white building set back off a quiet main road. He walked to the bar, ordered a pint and looked for a likely candidate. The man he sought wasn’t hard to find. He sat in a window seat with a group of friends, in their late fifties by the look of them. They had the air of men who like to spend their winters repairing boats so they could fritter away the summer months out on the water. Or tinkering with engines in the evening sunshine.
Capgras ordered a sandwich and sauntered over to the table. “Looking for a man named Bill, knows the craft around here I’m told. If that’s you, can you spare a moment?”
“Take a seat,” said the man with the thick beard and a chunky woollen pullover. “What sort of a boat you after?”
“One named ‘Cordelia,’ belongs to Arthur Middleton. Or it did. When he was alive.”
“We heard about poor Arthur,” Bill said. “Terrible news.”
“Some would see it that way.”
“He was liked here. Never did anyone any harm. Was he a friend of yours?”
“We shared a literary agent.”
“Ah, writer eh? Thought you might be police. Or press.”
“I was speaking with his ex-wife yesterday, trying to sort out a few things.” He wouldn’t lie to these people, but he could give an impression that would make them more likely to help him. “She and the children were wondering if the Cordelia was still here. I told her I’d find out.”
“Well, if it’s for the family, then there isn’t any harm in telling you, I guess,” Bill said.
The barman arrived and put a toasted ham sandwich on the table in front of Capgras. Tom nodded at the man in thanks.
“I was looking for the boat but can’t spot it anywhere.”
“Saw you down there,” Bill said. “Thought you was snooping.”
“In a way, I was.”
“What you gonna do when you find her?” Bill asked.
“I’ll take a look over her, see if there's any clue to what happened to him and why. And then tell the family where she’s to be found, they deserve to know and though the will hasn’t been read, she’ll belong to someone right enough.”
“Looking for clues eh? Clues to what? Man committed suicide.”
“Not everyone’s so sure. Not me at any rate. Then there’s all those murders, he still stands accused, even after his death. He might be innocent. And there’s strange goings on too, with his books. He’s still publishing, from beyond the grave.”
“How would a man do that?”
“That’s a good question. I’m looking for answers.”
“Sorry friend, but you won’t find them here. I know the Cordelia well, used to watch over her for Arthur, been out on her many a time. But she’s not here, not any more. He came down a while back and took her away.”
“Took her where?”
“Can’t say. Arthur didn’t even say hello. Funny that. Guess he had something on his mind. Had a lady friend with him, younger woman, good looking too. They sailed her out together, never returned.”
“You weren’t worried?”
“He’d said he might be moving her. Never thought much more on it, to be honest. Weather was fine, I figured he’d taken off for a few days with an attractive woman. She seemed to know her way around a boat too.”
Who was she? A possible accomplice? Or another victim? “You didn’t recognise her?”
“Didn’t see her clearly.”
“You couldn’t describe her?”
“She moved well, had a grace about her. In her late twenties I’d say, maybe a few years older. Nice figure.”
“Were they lovers, would you say? She wasn’t there…” Tom looked Bill square in the eye. “Was she there under duress? I have to ask…”
“I’d say not. Arthur led the way and she followed, a pace or two behind. Didn’t look like she’d been kidnapped, if that’s what you’re asking. And it was her that sailed out. Arthur was below decks as far as I could tell.”
“But you thought they were lovers?”
“Not for me to say. Man and a woman, small yacht.” Bill shrugged. “Who knows?”
“When was this?”
“Not sure. Month or so back.”
“Any way to find the Cordelia?”
“You could try driving round every harbour in the south west. But she might be in France. Or a boathouse somewhere.”
“No trackers on boats these days?”
“Some. Not all.”
“Not the Cordelia?”
“Not as far as I know. Pleasure boat, you see. Doesn’t have to be registered, unless you go abroad, and sometimes not even then. There are websites where we could put out a message, ask if anyone’s seen her, Facebook groups, stuff like that. Get people checking the harbours.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Where do we find you?”
Tom reached for a business card, then thought better of it. He wrote his number and first name only on a scrap of paper.
“Okay then Tom,” Bill said, emphasising the name to make the point that he’d noticed something was missing in all of this, “if we hear anything, we’ll be in touch. But you might want to try the formal channels, contact the Registrar General at Cardiff. Best of luck with that, though.”
Tom swigged down his beer. “Thanks for your help.” He pushed his chair back. “One more thing. How far could you go in a boat like that?”
“Cross the channel easily enough on a good day,” Bill said. “Cross the Atlantic, if you know what you’re doing.”
Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1) Page 21
