by Scott Hunter
‘You there, guv?’
‘Most of me, yes. Go ahead, Charlie.’
‘Well?’ Luscombe held out a full, steaming mug.
‘Thanks.’ Charlie took the mug and drew breath sharply. It was scalding hot.
‘Sorry, boiler’s only got one temperature: max.’
They were alone in the team’s small open plan. Charlie shook her head in a disparaging gesture. ‘As long as there’s caffeine, I’m happy.’ She set the mug down on her allocated desk. It looked bare, with its Eighties-style Trim phone and scattering of used biros and old, curling folders. ‘No luck with Duncan Brodie?’
‘No reply – straight to voicemail.’
‘So, switched off, or in a dead zone?’
‘Could be either. I’d recommend your team contact Sussex constabulary, get searching for him.’
Charlie considered the suggestion. ‘You’re right. I’ll set the wheels in motion.’
‘And maybe a bite to eat after that?’
Charlie collected herself, made a conscious effort to relax. Her head was aching dully, a problem she’d noticed was occurring more and more frequently during working hours, especially after interviewing. She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘That sounds like a great idea.’
‘Nice pub I know, just a few minutes drive.’
‘Perfect.’
As Luscombe directed the car out of Aviemore, Charlie rested her head and closed her eyes. The throbbing in her temple was receding, a response to either the caffeine or the two paracetamol she had taken; honestly, she didn’t much care. Luscombe had sensed that she needed an hour to unwind. Perceptive as well as good-looking. She smiled to herself.
‘What are you grinning about?’ Luscombe shot her a sideways glance.
‘Just a private thought.’
‘Fair enough.’ He turned onto the main road and accelerated. ‘Your lot get hold of Sussex?’
‘I’ve left it with George. He’ll sort it out.’
‘Good.’
‘Where are we headed?’
‘A wee place called the Boat of Garten. Ten minutes. You’ll like it.’
Luscombe’s ten minutes was spot on. He pulled into the car park of a grand stone building which announced itself as The Boat. The rain had petered out and blue patches had begun to appear in the brooding greyness. The Cairngorms rose majestically in the distance, an undulating line above the treetops. Charlie stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. The air felt clean, unused, fresh from the mountains.
I could get used to this…
‘Are you coming in, or what?’ Luscombe jangled his keys. ‘It’ll be a wait for the food, so best get the order in asap.’
‘Coming.’
The pub was half-full, lunchtime service almost ended. They found a vacant table by a picture window and Luscombe procured a menu. Charlie chose a round of avocado, hummus, spinach and cucumber sandwiches, while Luscombe went for Highland cheddar and roast ham, with leek and potato soup and a bowl of chips on the side. He went to the bar to order, and returned with a Diet Coke for Charlie and an orange juice for himself. He set the glasses down and settled in his chair.
‘So. Our friend Mrs Brodie – what’s your take?’
‘Still holding out.’ Charlie sipped her Coke. ‘There’s something not right, but we’ll have to wait for Duncan Brodie’s side of the story before we find out exactly what.’
‘OK,’ Luscombe said. ‘But d’you think he’s the kind of guy to risk all for revenge?’
Charlie shook her head. ‘I don’t know enough about him. From what I’ve seen – and that’s not much, just the odd TV interview – he seems straight enough. Self-effacing, I’d say, but you never know.’
‘He went through a hell of a time at that school,’ Luscombe said. ‘At that age, too. Resentment sticks, don’t you think?’
‘So you’re suggesting what? That he hired Connie Chan to do the deed?’
Luscombe made a face. ‘Why not? There’s every chance he knew the woman, even if Mrs Brodie denies it. Exactly how he discovered Chan’s area of expertise is less clear.’
Charlie’s phone buzzed. ‘Hold on. Sorry.’ She answered the call. ‘George, what’s up?’
George’s voice was faint. Bad connection. She jammed the phone against her ear and caught the tail-end of the first sentence. ‘…a lead on Chan. We think she bought a ticket to Billingshurst.’
‘Where the hell is Billingshurst?’
Crackle, crackle…
‘Bad line, George, can you shout?’
‘Sussex,’ George’s voice yelled faintly. ‘Three miles from Eagle Court.’
Charlie’s heart leaped. ‘Fantastic. Well done. What’s the state of play regarding Sussex back-up?’
‘Ah,’ George replied. ‘The SSU was disbanded five years ago and they’ve got manpower issues just now.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Meaning they’re not playing ball?’
‘The guv’s talking to one of their senior guys,’ George said. ‘They might be able to get uniform over to the school for a quick look, but we’ve just heard there’s been a massive shunt on the M25. Traffic’s chaotic and alternative routes are filling up nicely. Fog, they say. It’s a wee bit misty here, but you can’t see your hand in front of your face in Sussex, so they tell me.’
‘Oh, that’s just perfect.’ Charlie pushed a hand through her hair.
Soup finished, Luscombe was watching her patiently, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of sandwich.
‘We’ll sort something out, probably the best thin–’ George’s voice vanished and the phone went dead.
Charlie chucked the phone down on the table in frustration. ‘Damn.’
‘Problem?’
She prodded at her salad garnish but her appetite had vanished. She put down her cutlery, looked out on the wide landscape, arms folded, rigid with frustration. ‘She’s there. At the school, or damn close to it. Looks like she and Mr Brodie have arranged a bloody rendezvous.’
‘Seems clear cut, in that case.’ Luscombe tapped his temple. ‘They’ve known each other – in the Biblical sense – for quite some time, is my guess. Mrs Brodie reckons they’ve never met, but come on; he and Chan are in this thing together, and not just as partners in crime. The guy’s never home, always away on business. He could have been up to all sorts. I’m speculating, but you have to admit it’s plausible.’
‘And Mrs Brodie probably knows about them, or at least suspects.’ Charlie’s mind was tripping over itself with theories. ‘So Mrs Brodie tells us where he is – the school – anticipating that he’s on a meet with Chan?’
‘She’s torn. She wants to protect him, but part of her wants to bring him down, too.’
‘It makes sense.’ Charlie chewed a nail. ‘It really does.’
‘So they should pick ’em both up.’ Luscombe finished his last chip and pushed his plate away regretfully. ‘The Sussex lot.’
‘But George says they’re short on manpower. And it’s not a priority for them, is it? It’s not their problem, technically.’
‘Not their problem?’ Luscombe bristled. ‘They’d better arrest the pair of them PDQ, or my boss’ll be wanting to know why.’
Charlie bunched her fingers, covered her mouth. ‘I’ve got to get down there.’
Luscombe eyebrows arched. ‘What?’
‘I can be at Gatwick in a few hours – well, why not? The school can’t be more than thirty minutes from the airport. Does your phone have a signal? When’s the next flight?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. You can keep tabs on Mrs Brodie. Right now, Chan is the prime suspect and I want her and Duncan Brodie in custody.’
Luscombe was looking at his phone. ‘Aha. Free wifi. Hold on a sec.’
Charlie paced up and down. The pub was emptying fast, groups of tourists departing for their afternoon ambles. She felt a bolt of envy. What must it be like to be carefree, nothing on the agenda except fresh air, the beautiful Highland scenery, th
e prospect of a cozy hotel, a leisurely evening meal, a comfortable room, a long, luxurious sleep? Repeat all of the above the following day. When had she last had a holiday? She honestly couldn’t remember.
‘There’s a flight in an hour. I can get you there. If you insist.’
‘I do.’ Charlie retrieved her handbag. ‘Shall we?’
Luscombe tucked his phone away. ‘You’ll be missed,’ he said.
‘I can always come back,’ she heard herself say. ‘When this is over.’
Luscombe gave her a brief nod, took out the car keys and made for the exit.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Swan Hotel was originally a sixteenth-century building. The tar-blackened timber of its frontage proudly proclaimed that fact, as did the small leaded windows and the cantilevered second storey that overhung the entrance porch. The hotel had been privately run for many years until, eventually, the economic climate had taken its toll and The Swan passed inevitably into the hands of a hotel chain. Despite this unwelcome change, it stuck to its high standards. Many of the experienced staff were retained and the hotel continued to run smoothly and efficiently. It was the best hotel for miles around, and Petworth itself was a pleasant, if rather anonymous, town.
All good reasons, Duncan Brodie had reasoned, for booking a few extra days and taking time to ponder the wisdom of his decision. He glanced at his Rolex, tutted, picked up his phone and glasses, closed his bedroom door carefully behind him, and made his way to the lounge.
She was waiting for him by the fireplace, reclining on a two-seater settee beneath a portrait of Capability Brown – in honour, Brodie supposed, of the famous gardener’s contribution to the landscaped vistas of nearby Petworth House. As Brodie approached he was struck by two things: first her sheer beauty, and second, the stroke of favourable providence that had brought them together.
‘Hi.’ She greeted him with her perfect smile.
‘Hello yourself,’ Brodie said, bending to kiss her on the lips. As he did so he kept his face close to hers for a moment, allowing her features to fill his eyes. He recalled Dudley Moore’s film, simply entitled ‘10’, the diminutive late comedian’s score for a perfect conceptual woman. Well, this lady would score twelve, if that were possible. She was quite simply off the scale beautiful.
‘Did you order?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Tea for two with scones, cream and strawberry jam.’
‘Spot on,’ Duncan Brodie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Just what’s required.’
She laughed, a tinkling, musical sound that he found entrancing and hypnotic in equal measure. If he were a comedian, he’d make jokes all day just to get her to reprise that laugh.
‘Enjoy your morning?’ Brodie enquired, slipping into the soft cushions of the settee next to her and encircling her shoulder with his arm. ‘Sorry I couldn’t join you. Phone calls, things to organise. It never ends.’
‘I had a lovely morning,’ she replied. ‘I walked around the shops, bought a new jacket, a sandwich and a coffee for lunch at the cutest little place – you must see it – came back, had a little beauty sleep, and here we are.’
‘Good, good.’ Brodie nodded.
‘Is something bothering you?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘You seem a bit distracted, Mr Brodie.’
‘Mm? No, not really. Well, maybe a little. I apologise. It’s always the same before I commit to an investment. Have I done the right thing, you know. Is it wise? What could I do as an alternative, to make the money work better for the company? That kind of conversation bounces around in my mind. Sorry, I don’t mean to appear preoccupied.’
She took his hand. ‘You are a clever man, very wise. Look at how successful you are. I am sure that your investment is a good one. But tell me more about it. I would like to hear, really I would.’
‘Well, I don’t want to bore you.’
‘Bore me?’ The laugh came again, sent shivers of delight up and down his spine. ‘You will not bore me, Duncan Brodie. I promise.’
And yet, he hesitated to share his concerns. This wasn’t a normal purchase. This was Eagle Court, the location of his youthful traumas. But he’d survived the privations of the school’s Draconian regime, hadn’t he? He’d put it behind him. The past was the past, and best left there.
‘Uh oh.’ She nudged him teasingly. ‘I’ve really lost you now.’
‘Sorry. I’m here, honestly I am. I’m all yours.’ He smiled reassuringly.
A waiter appeared with the tea order. A minute passed in silence as the silver service was laid out and they were invited to choose from a selection of cakes from the trolley.
‘Scones and cake. I shall get fat, lose my figure.’ She opened the teapot and gave the dark liquid a stir with the provided long-handled spoon. ‘But I can’t resist these lovely English customs.’
‘Special cream tea,’ Brodie agreed. ‘One of the things us Brits do well, and this particular hotel, exceptionally well.’
He watched her small hands working with assured delicacy, applying cream and jam to the scones, first for him and then for herself, pouring the tea, arranging the plates and sugar bowl in a pleasing pattern before them on the low table. Once again he found himself marvelling at his good fortune. How had the stars aligned with such benign mathematical precision that he had found himself in the same hotel at the same time as Ms Connie Chan? And moreover, that she had been instantly attracted to him, approached his solitary table at dinner that first evening, introduced herself and, before he’d known what was happening, invited herself into his bed?
Such good fortune had been more than Duncan Brodie could have hoped for, his great wealth notwithstanding. The most pleasing thing, for him, was that she hadn’t known who he was. She’d never heard of him, being a newcomer to England. And that meant she must be genuinely attracted to him, rather than his money, or his fame. After so long with Fiona, he’d found that there’d been an outstanding question in his life, unanswered until now. That question was: ‘Am I worthy in myself? Am I an attractive personality?’
When he’d taken the first tentative steps in his entrepreneurial journey so many years ago, he now realised that he’d failed to prioritise time for personal reflection, Fiona having taken up most of his mental space during the few hours of downtime he’d allowed himself. He’d lost himself somewhere along the line. Who exactly was Duncan Brodie these days? He needed to find out. Perhaps the row he’d had with Fiona the previous week had been precipitated by just that desire; he was breaking out, finally discovering himself, cutting himself free. It was at once both frightening and exhilarating. And Eagle Court … now, of all times. It was meant to be, surely? A cathartic end and a new beginning, all rolled into one…
‘Hellooo?’ Connie Chan wiggled her fingers. ‘I’m still here, you know.’
He looked at her and grinned. ‘I know,’ he replied, ‘and I’m so glad you are.’
After a moment of silent intimacy, she raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. ’Well?’
‘Mm? Oh, the investment. If you insist, then, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you the whole thing.’ He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and began.
She listened attentively, her expression moving between fascination, concern, horror, and admiration as the story unfolded. Around them, the hotel moved into its early evening phase. Guests came and went, bellboys hurried to and fro, carrying suitcases, wheeling trolleys and sack barrows; the lounge ceiling lights burned into life and soft music crept into the room from hidden speakers. When he’d finished, she said nothing for a long time. Eventually, she stirred and said, ‘That’s quite a tale, Mr Brodie. I don’t know what to say. But the school, is it far? And it is empty – unoccupied, you say? I would very much like to see it.’
‘Of course. I’ll probably be popping over in the morning. You’re very welcome to come along.’
She frowned. ‘I’d like to see it sooner. Why not tonight?’
He was a little taken aback. ‘Well, I mean, there’s no rush. It’ll still be stand
ing tomorrow.’
She leaned across and took his hand. ‘I want to make that connection with you,’ she said earnestly. ‘I want to feel it, understand it.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, all right. I don’t see why not.’ He glanced outside. ‘It’s a little foggy, but that won’t hinder us. It’s only a twenty-minute drive. How about we pop out shortly? I’ll show you around, and then we can stop at a pub for dinner afterwards.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Connie Chan said. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Moran checked the time. Four o’clock. Mrs P would be sitting down for her habitual afternoon cup of tea. She was never out at four.
He’d arrived home the previous evening, collected Archie and told his neighbour that someone would be calling the following day to pick up the package he’d left in her care. Mrs Perkins had nodded.
‘That’ll be fine, Brendan. I’ll be in all afternoon. And how was your weekend away?’
‘Unusual, Mrs P, would be the way I’d put it. But I’m back safe and sound.’
Mrs Perkins was, Moran knew, insatiably curious, but to her credit, she rarely probed into his activities, especially the kind of activities associated with his job. For that, he was grateful. She was discreet. Also in her favour, Archie loved staying over at her house. He looked down at the excited little dog, pacing the hallway with furiously wagging tail, torn between returning to his permanent home and the prospect of extra time with his exciting friend, Mrs P, who always took him for long walks by the river or into the woods at Sulham to sniff out deer or rabbits.
‘Will you call me when it’s been collected, Mrs P?’ Moran asked as he clipped Archie to his lead.
‘I’ll be sure to.’
‘Thanks again.’
‘Think nothing of it, Brendan. There was one thing I was wondering, though.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Did you find your duck?’
