by Sarah Rayne
Without preamble, he said, ‘This must be a nightmare for you. I’m very sorry about it.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s been any picnic for you,’ said Lucy, and saw him smile.
‘Francesca’s here,’ he said. ‘Francesca Holland. Did you know?’
‘No.’ Lucy did not like to ask why Francesca was here; perhaps she was somehow linked up with Michael, or in the process of getting linked up with him. They had seemed quite friendly at Quondam that afternoon.
‘She’s just gone to get some coffee – Inspector Fletcher said you’d probably get here about this time.’
Francesca came in as he said this, carrying a tray. She smiled at Lucy. ‘Hello. I’m glad I timed the coffee so well. Did you have a good journey or did you have to fight through the rush hour?’
Lucy accepted the coffee gratefully, said the journey had been like traversing one of the minor outposts of hell, and asked if there were any new developments.
‘I don’t think Fane’s turned up yet,’ said Michael. He hesitated, and then said, ‘But Fletcher’s people went out to the house with a warrant about an hour ago.’
Then they’re taking the accusation seriously, thought Lucy. She tried to quell a swift unpleasant image of Edmund’s fury if the police broke into his house in his absence, and by way of explanation for her own presence, said, ‘I thought Edmund oughtn’t to be left to face this on his own. I thought he might like someone here who was prepared to bat on his side. Family.’
‘Family,’ said Michael softly, and Lucy saw him exchange a look with Francesca. She thought Francesca nodded very slightly, as if Michael had asked a silent question, and she thought she had been right about them linking up. They already had that rare mental closeness you occasionally encountered in couples.
Michael said, ‘Lucy, it’s odd you should use the word family, because—’ He broke off as Francesca leaned forward to look through the window to the White Hart’s little car park at the front of the building.
‘What is it?’ said Lucy.
‘It’s Inspector Fletcher,’ said Francesca. ‘But it looks as if she’s on her own.’ She glanced at Michael. ‘That means they didn’t find Edmund, I should think.’
‘I should think you’re right.’
Lucy did not know whether to be sorry or glad.
‘We’ve been in the house,’ said Jennie Fletcher, who looked tired but as if she still had plenty of energy in reserve. ‘Fane wasn’t there and his car had definitely gone.’
‘You broke in? You mean you really did break the door down?’
‘We levered the lock off one door, Miss Trent. But it’s a neat job of levering and it’s easily repairable. We did get a warrant before we did it.’
Lucy guessed that in view of Edmund’s standing as a respectable local solicitor the police were not cutting any corners. ‘Did you – find anything in the house? Any clues as to where he might be?’
‘We’ve contacted his office now, and it seems he left a message on the answerphone last evening to say he was going out to take some measurements of a piece of land before going in to the office today – something to do with a boundary dispute. The call was made at a quarter to eight last night, and it was made from Edmund Fane’s home phone.’
‘Well, couldn’t it be true about the boundary dispute?’
‘It could, except the client concerned – a local farmer – hasn’t seen Mr Fane and wasn’t expecting him. We’ve also spent quite a long time at Deborah Fane’s house, and the evidence so far bears out your statement,’ she said to Michael. ‘We found the window you smashed; it’s clearly been broken from the inside.’
‘It was broken from the inside,’ said Michael politely.
‘We found a couple of things in Edmund Fane’s house, that are – well, curious.’ Fletcher delved into her pocket and brought out a mobile phone. ‘This is yours, isn’t it, Mr Sallis?’
‘Yes. Then Fane did have it,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder if he took it deliberately – to prevent me calling for help – or whether it was just absent-mindedness. Can I have it back, or d’you need it for evidence or anything?’
‘You can probably have it later,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve looked at the calls made from it in the last twenty-four hours, and they’re all perfectly innocent – oh, except that there’s no record of any call to the White Hart.’
‘There should be,’ said Michael. ‘He did phone them. As far as I can remember it was around half past four, and he said they hadn’t a room.’
‘And yet when you got here last night there were several,’ said Fletcher.
‘Are you saying Edmund faked a phone call?’ For some reason Lucy found this almost more bizarre than the attempted murder accusation.
‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘You said there were a couple of things that were odd,’ put in Francesca.
‘The other thing is a letter that seems to have arrived by yesterday’s post. It was on the dining-table, and it’s dated the day before yesterday, so it’s a fairly safe bet that it was delivered yesterday – the postal authorities are confirming that later. But we think Mr Fane got home last evening around half past six, found the letter, and made the call to his office at quarter to eight that night.’
‘And then went batting off somewhere at crack of dawn next morning?’
‘It’s a reasonable assumption, Miss Trent. The milk was still on the step – it’s delivered about quarter past seven apparently, so it looks as if Mr Fane left the house before it arrived. I don’t think he’d have left the milk on the step, do you?’
‘No,’ said Lucy rather shortly.
‘What was the letter?’ asked Michael.
‘It’s from HM Land Registry. It’s addressed to Edmund Fane’s home, and it’s a reply to a request he made about some land. We’ve contacted them, and they confirm that they do provide a search service for the title to property or land. There’s a small fee, but it’s a standard service to anyone who writes in.’
‘And being a solicitor, Fane would know all that,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He’d know it would be an unremarkable request to make as well. Well? What did Edmund Fane want to know?’
‘The name of Ashwood Studios’ owner,’ said Jennie Fletcher.
‘Ah. And did they give him the name?’
‘They did.’
There was a shuttered look to Michael’s eyes, but when he spoke he sounded quite calm. ‘How about an address?’
‘Yes.’ She was watching Michael very intently. ‘Yes, they gave an address for the owner.’
This time Michael turned so white that for a moment Lucy thought he was going to faint, and she was aware of Francesca making an involuntary movement and then sinking back into her chair.
‘Mr Sallis?’ said Jennie Fletcher sharply.
Michael was already reaching for his jacket. He said, ‘I know where Edmund Fane’s gone, and it’s desperately important that we head him off.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s coming up to eleven o’clock now, and it’s probably about an hour’s drive from here. Fane’s got a three or four hour start, but I can phone ahead.’
He reached for the mobile phone, and Francesca said, ‘Michael, if you’re thinking of driving it’s out of the question. Even if your car was repaired – which it isn’t – your hand isn’t up to a long journey.’
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten the car.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ said Fran. ‘To – wherever it is.’
‘I’ll come too if you want,’ offered Lucy. ‘We could share the driving.’
‘Nobody’s going to be sharing any driving, and if anyone’s going anywhere it’ll be in a police car – two police cars,’ said Jennie sharply. She frowned, and then said, ‘All right, I’ll trust you a bit further, Mr Sallis. We can leave someone stationed at Edmund Fane’s house, and you can give my sergeant directions as we go.’
‘Can Francesca and Lucy come as well?’
‘Certainly not.�
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‘We could follow you,’ said Lucy.
‘You can’t stop us doing that,’ added Fran.
‘Oh, for—All right,’ said Fletcher in exasperation. ‘But when we get to – to wherever we’re going, you’re both to stay well out of the way, is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ they said in unison.
‘You’ll never keep up with the police cars,’ said Michael to Fran. ‘Where’s something to write on – thanks, that’ll do.’ He scribbled an address and what looked like brief directions on the back of one of the paper napkins from the coffee tray. ‘Can you read my writing?’
‘I think so.’
‘Mr Sallis, you’ll have to do some fast talking on the journey,’ said the inspector as they went out. ‘There are a great many unanswered questions in this affair.’
‘We can take my car if you prefer,’ said Lucy, as she and Francesca sprinted across the car park. ‘I don’t mind driving.’
‘You’ve already driven a couple of hundred miles,’ said Fran. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘So have you.’
‘Yes, but I’ve had a break since then, and something to eat.’ Fran settled the matter by opening the door of her car and getting in. ‘But I might ask you to take over for a spell – it depends how far it is. Michael said about an hour.’
‘He was right about us not keeping up with the police cars,’ said Lucy, as Fran drove off the White Hart’s car park as fast as she dared.
‘Yes, they’re out of sight already. But we’ve got directions of a kind and I’ve got a road atlas in the glove compartment.’
‘Then I’ll map-read as we go,’ offered Lucy, propping Michael’s scribbled notes on the dashboard.
For several miles neither of them spoke except when Lucy gave directions, but once they had joined the motorway, she said, ‘Francesca – I’d appreciate knowing what this is about. It’s clear that there’s quite a lot going on under the surface, and it’s also clear that you know more about it than I do.’
Fran hesitated, and then said, ‘I don’t know why we’re going to this place, whatever it is, but I do know some things from Michael. But not everything.’ As Lucy glanced at her, she said firmly, ‘It isn’t my story to tell. I think when you do hear it, it’s got to be from Michael. And apart from any other consideration, it isn’t a story to tell while we’re belting along a motorway at eighty miles an hour.’
‘Fair enough. How are we doing for time?’
‘It’s just coming up to half past eleven.’
‘I think we’re going to be too late,’ said Lucy, and thought: but too late for what?
Edmund was beginning to wonder if the Land Registry could have given him the wrong information, because he had not been expecting to find himself driving into such rural isolation. Still, there was a growing trend for companies to have a country house for sales conferences, or for overworked executives to recuperate. And in the last few years ugly, severely functional industrial estates had sprung up on the outskirts of most towns and cities. He might go round a curve in the road and come to just such an estate at any minute.
He did, in fact, go round several curves in the road, and one of them turned out to be a wrong turning, wasting several miles and time he did not really have. Fortunately he realized his mistake and was able to pull on to the side of the road to check the map. Ah, that was where he had gone wrong – that big traffic island. He should have taken the second exit, not the third. It was infuriating when local authorities did not display clear road signs. He drove back to the island, quelling a stab of concern at how late it was getting.
Left, and then right, and left again at some crossroads. He passed several farms, looking as if they had been dropped down from the sky at random. The road was bumpier now, and narrower, and there were fields with the deep lines of drainage ditches in places. In the dull morning they looked like wounds in the earth.
Edmund drove on, through a couple of villages that interlocked with one another; the houses fronted on to the street and had low-browed windows and the wavy look of extreme age. Then came a village pub and a small village church. Yes, this was the right place; he drove into the shadow of the trees surrounding the church and switched off the engine. He was almost at his destination, and he had better decide what he was going to do.
As he sat in the car he was aware of Crispin strongly with him, and presently a plan began to form in his mind. Crispin’s plan was it? It did not matter. Edmund would find the house, and to whoever opened the door he would say he had a client interested in buying odd parcels of land in the south-east, and that he was retained by the man to keep his ear to the ground. After seeing the neglected condition of the Ashwood site, it had occurred to him to find out who the owner was. No, he had not wanted to make an official inquiry through Liam Devlin; he had wanted to keep the thing very discreet, very lowkey, in case there was no mileage in it.
And so he had obtained the name and address of the present owner via a standard Land Registry Search, and when a business journey had brought him to this part of England, he had made a spur-of-the-moment decision to call, to see if there was a possibility of negotiations being opened. He rehearsed this several times over, trying out different ways of presenting it, and when he thought he had it as right as he could get, he started the car again and drove along the little street, looking for the address he wanted and then at last seeing the sign that took him out of the village again, and along a hedge-fringed lane.
And then he was there.
His misgivings increased at once. The house was completely unremarkable; it was the kind of house that might have originally belonged to an estate worker in the days when there were lords of the manor. You saw dozens of similar properties the length and breadth of England, often nicely converted but sometimes crumbling into ruin. This one seemed to have been quite well looked after, but…
But surely this could not be right. Had he got the address wrong after all, or did the owner of the legendary Ashwood Studios really live in this ordinary house, in this remote Lincolnshire village? Perhaps it was some elderly recluse, or an eccentric industrialist whose private retreat this was. Yes, that was a possibility, and it might explain Ashwood’s own dereliction as well. But clearly his carefully rehearsed plan about a client and land purchase was not going to work.
It’s all right, said Crispin. This is clearly a private house, but just remember that Michael Sallis has the phone number, so he must know whoever lives here…
After a moment Edmund got out of the car, and went through the gate and along the little path. The house, seen closer to, was neat and clean, and the gardens were tidy. But there was a quiet feeling to it; the feeling you got from a house that had been empty for a long time, or that had only had one inhabitant for several years. Nothing stirred as Edmund went through the gate and down the path to the front door.
He plied the old-fashioned door-knocker and waited. For several minutes nothing happened and another possibility occurred to him. Perhaps the owners had moved out, and the Land Registry had given him out-of-date information. That would explain a good deal. But then there was a flurry of footsteps from within, and the door was opened.
A plump, no-nonsense lady with short hair and weatherbeaten skin, but with the faint tilt of the cheekbones that suggested a dash of Eastern European ancestry, stood in the doorway, looking enquiringly at Edmund.
She was dressed plainly in a skirt and sweater but there was just the suggestion of hospital starch about her, and of thermometers and stainless steel bowls. A nurse? No, but something close to it. At once the plan that had been shifting its contours in Edmund’s mind dropped into place, and he saw his way forward.
‘I’m sorry I was a few minutes coming to the door,’ said the brisk lady. ‘Can I help you at all?’ She spoke English smoothly, but there was a slight inflection that emphasized the faint foreign air.
Edmund’s whole body was thrumming with nervous anticipation, but he smiled Crispin’s
smile, and introduced himself as Mr Edwards, apologizing for intruding. A business journey from London to a place just north of Rotherham, he said, and he happened to have mentioned it to his good friend, Michael Sallis, earlier in the week. Michael had suggested he might break his journey here since it was only a few miles out of his way. And, said Edmund, he understood that visitors were always welcome.
‘Oh, how very nice,’ said the woman. ‘I always like to see a new face. Mr Sallis comes up about once a month, but of course he phones as well, just to see if there’s any news.’
‘So I believe,’ said Edmund, picking his way carefully, but thankful that he seemed to be striking the right note.
‘A bit of company always helps as well,’ said the woman. ‘Come along in. There’s very little change, of course, but we stay positive. Would you like a cup of coffee? – I was just thinking I would make some for myself.’
‘That would be very kind.’
‘We’ve converted one of the downstairs rooms,’ said the woman, leading Edmund along the hall. ‘Friendlier, somehow, than being tucked away upstairs. And it’s at the back of the house, so we can open the French windows on to the garden in summer. I’ll take you through.’
It was a large room, and in the summer it would be filled with sunshine from the garden beyond. But on a dark autumnal day the shadows clustered everywhere, and there was a feeling of immense quietness, as if hardly anything had happened here for a very long time. A high, narrow, hospital-type bed stood near the window.
Edmund paused just inside the door, waiting for the woman’s footsteps to die away. Had she gone back to the kitchen? Yes, that was the sound of a door opening and closing. Then he was on his own for a brief space.
Except that he was not on his own at all. There was someone lying in the high narrow bed. Someone who lay very still, and whose light papery breathing barely stirred the covers. As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he began to make out colours, shapes, features…
