Charley saw a stockily built woman with short uncombed black hair, wide mouth, watchful gray eyes, not a trace of makeup, wearing a loose off-white top, beige fatigues, and black trainers.
Dyke? she wondered. Maybe I should have gone downstairs!
“The Parkers…are they friends?” said Novello.
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Just, not your age group. I wondered…”
“Yeah? The police are institutionally ageist as well as everything else, are they?”
Novello smiled. It changed her face completely for a moment.
“Student,” she said. “Either still at it or just finished, right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“If you press the button and get a Twix, it’s a chocolate bar machine,” said Novello, smiling again.
This time Charley smiled back.
“Okay, you got me.”
“Studying what?”
“Psychology.”
“Oh my. Need to watch you then.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
The atmosphere was growing more relaxed. Both of them noted it, and noted the other noting it.
“Look, sorry to drag you back to the barbecue, but I do need a statement and I gather you were one of the first on the scene. Don’t start there, go back to when you arrived at the hall, anything you can remember, people, events—doesn’t matter how trivial—times.”
Charley rose from the bed and went to the window. The storm had cleared, the evening sky had a fresh-washed look, and though there was still enough wind to give the waves whitecaps, they were dancing toward the shore rather than roaring in like an invading army.
She said, “The party started at two, I think. Funny time, neither lunch nor evening meal, but once you get to the back end of August it can start getting chilly after five and no one really likes that kind of English do when you’re all standing around the barbecue pit, trying to keep warm…”
Her voice tailed off. Novello thought it was because the image of the dead woman’s body in the metal roasting basket had returned to her, but when Charley turned to face her, it was irritation not pain that showed in her face.
“This is stupid,” she said. “I’m really trying, but I can hardly remember a thing. It’s crazy, I came back here afterward—Mary wanted to get the kids away from there as quickly as possible; you can’t blame her—and after we’d got them sorted, I headed straight up here, and I sat down at my laptop and e-mailed my sister, I just had to talk to someone, not talk, you understand, but get it all out to someone close. Cass, that’s my sister, and me always told each other everything when we were kids, and we still do, even though she’s a nurse in Africa. So I spilled it all out to Cass and it’s like that’s what really happened, I spilled it all out of myself and that’s got rid of it and I don’t have it in my head anymore! Does that sound crazy?”
“You’re the psychologist,” said Novello. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. If you’ve written it all down in an e-mail, all we’ve got to do is read the e-mail.”
The sharp brown eyes fixed her unblinkingly and the woman said, “We?” in a tone cold enough to make an early swallow wonder if this had been such a good idea.
“Sorry,” said Novello, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Don’t want to go prying into your private stuff. All I meant was you could read it over, right? Refresh your memory about what you saw.”
“I suppose so.”
Novello stood up to let Charley sit at the dressing table. She raised the laptop screen and brought up the list of Sent E-mail. Novello, without making it obvious, clocked that most of the recent ones were addressed to cassie@natterjack. Charlotte clicked on the latest of these, regarded it for a moment, then stood up.
“I’m being silly,” she said. “That poor woman’s dead and I’m worried about protecting my privacy. Here, you read it yourself. Best you do anyway, you’re more likely to see the gaps you’d like filled.”
“Are you sure?” said Novello, but she was already slipping back onto the chair as she asked the question.
She read quickly, said, “Wow.”
“What?”
“Those two banging in the cave. They would be…?”
“Teddy Denham, that’s Sir Edward, Lady D’s nephew. And Clara Brereton, her cousin, who lives at the hall. You don’t have to start digging around there, do you?”
She sounded alarmed.
“Not if it’s not relevant,” Novello assured her, thinking, Two close relations in close relations? Wait till we see the will!
Something else had caught her attention.
“This guy in the wheelchair. Franny Roote. He a local or what?”
“No, definitely not, though he seems to have been living here a little while. I think he may have had some treatment at the Avalon, that’s the clinic just outside the town.”
Franny Roote. Novello remembered a Franny Roote—Pascoe’s Franny Roote, as she thought of him. Could this be the same guy? And did the DCI know he was here in Sandytown? Brownie points perhaps for bringing the news! Except, of course, the name would be on the guest list in Wield’s possession and certainly would not have escaped those sharp eyes. Anyway, could be Pascoe would regard Roote’s presence as bad news, and you didn’t win prizes for bringing that.
She asked a lot more questions and made notes. In the process she got the story of how Heywood had come to be in Sandytown, and also became aware that the same cast of mind that had made the woman opt for psychology rendered her a sharp and slightly nosy observer of human behavior. Not only an observer, maybe a recorder too?
She said, “Charley…now we’re on e-mail terms, okay if I call you Charley?”
“Do I get to call you Shirl?”
“Only if you can pronounce it with a split lip.”
They shared a laugh, then Novello went on, “I couldn’t help noticing that there were quite a lot of e-mails to your sister. I’d guess you’ve been filling her in with your impressions of this place over the past few days, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Any chance of getting to see those earlier messages? My impression is not a lot gets past you, and there might be something there that could help. We can ask questions till the cows come home without getting anywhere near an on-the-spot insider’s view.”
Charley shook her head vigorously.
“There’s private stuff in there. Not just my privacy, it’s my sister’s too.”
“I understand that,” said Novello. “Maybe you could print your messages out, do a bit of editing with a black marker if you like. I wouldn’t ask, only, from what I’ve seen, you’re good at taking things in and you’ve got a real gift for expressing it.”
“I’m nebby and gabby, you mean,” said Charley.
“That’s it exactly,” said Novello. “Like me. Only I didn’t have the Latin, so that’s why I became a cop instead of a psychologist.”
She could see she was nearly there and was wise enough not to push.
Charley said hesitantly, “And you’d be the only one to read them?”
Novello smiled reassuringly and said, “You can rely on me. Of course if I spotted anything I thought might be useful, I’d need to pass it on to my boss. I mean, there’d be no point else, would there? Probably won’t arise, but in a case as serious as this, we’ve got to cover every eventuality.”
If the Church ever admits females to the priesthood, I reckon I’ll be first in line for the Jesuits, she told herself.
“Okay,” said the woman with sudden decision. “Tom’s got a printer in his study…I’m sure he won’t mind me using it…”
“Great! While you’re running them off, I’ll get my notes organized. I’ve got this sergeant who likes everything squared off with hospital corners, or he sends you to bed without any supper.”
Which was a slander on Edgar Wield, of course, but she’d seen him in the gym pressing weights that made her eyes water just looking at them, so his shoul
ders were broad enough to bear it.
3
Hat Bowler’s smile had not been the subtle attempt at misdirection that Novello suspected.
He’d been the first of the three DCs to arrive at Sandytown Hall. Wield, looking as if he’d been there for hours, was already setting up the incident room. He filled the new arrival in with his customary pellucid economy, then sent him up to the main house with instructions to pick up a guest list which Miss Brereton, the victim’s cousin and companion, was printing out.
“And go easy with her, lad,” said the sergeant. “She was first on the scene. Mr. Pascoe will want to talk to her when he gets here. I’ve asked her to start working on a full account of the party, the run-up to it and all. See how she’s getting on with that and tell her I’m particularly interested in the order the guests arrived, precise times and all.”
“You on to something, Sarge?” asked Bowler eagerly.
“Don’t be daft. I’ve only been here two minutes. I just want to keep the lass busy. Once she stops being busy, likely she’ll fall apart and then she’ll be no use to any bugger.”
Is it just me, wondered the young DC as he walked away, or have both Wield and the DCI taken on a harder edge since the Super’s been away?
To his relief, Miss Brereton still seemed a long way from falling apart, and what he took for signs of grief—dark shadows beneath her eyes, hair trailing unchecked over her pale face—merely accentuated her good looks. Mindful of Wield’s warning and fearful that gentleness might dissolve whatever barriers she’d put up, he passed on the sergeant’s message rather brusquely, received the list, glanced down at it, saw that it was headed by a clutch of Parkers, and said, “Not in alphabetical order then?”
“No. Mr. Wield said he’d like it in the order that I put it in when I was working out the list with my…with Lady…”
Her voice choked and he said quickly, “So, order of priority then? These Parkers must be important.”
His diversionary tactic worked. Clearly not much got by her, and by the time he returned to Wield he had a pretty good grasp of the relationship between each of the Parkers and the dead woman. Naturally he passed on the gist to Wield, but he saw no reason to add to the sergeant’s even gistier digest to Seymour when he instructed the senior DC to organize the witness interviews. Hat could see why Novello went for the local Parkers, but he wasn’t at all displeased to be left with the visitors. Nor did he linger long over his choice. Clara Brereton had indicated that Sidney at the hotel was a kind of financial adviser to Lady Denham. She’d only met the sister in Seaview Terrace once, and all she could say about her, without actually saying it, was that she was rather odd.
So no problem for a bright young detective. Oddity could sometimes be sufficient motive for murder, but it was money that made the world go round.
As Hat drove toward the Beresford Manor Hotel, his mind was completely focused on the task ahead.
Then as he turned into the car park, that focus was blurred and diffused by a vision of heart-stopping beauty.
Before him, like a bird of paradise in a rookery, stood a bright red Maserati coupé, worth sixty K of anyone’s money, bugger the emissions.
It felt a sacrilege to park his blue Suzuki Swift alongside it.
There was a time, not too long ago, when Bowler had driven a much-loved MG of almost the same color as the Maz. But he’d wrecked it, and it had never felt the same after the repairs. Or perhaps it was him that never felt the same. Then Wield had suggested someone in his line of work might be well advised to drive a less conspicuous car, which struck him as a bit odd, coming from a guy who roared around town on an old Triumph Thunderbird, but he knew better than to argue. The Swift had been a compromise, great little car to drive, reasonable performance, and it didn’t draw too much attention to itself.
But now…
He got out and walked slowly round the beautiful red creature, taking in its elegant lines, its promissory power, before coming to a halt directly in front of it.
So rapt was he that he started when a voice said, “You like the look of her, or are you checking my tax disk?”
Turning, he looked at the speaker. In his thirties, wearing the kind of sweatshirt and slacks that are too expensive to need a visible designer label, he had the easy assurance of a man born to drive a Maserati rather than a wannabe trying to impress.
For a moment the reference to the tax disk made Hat think he’d been clocked, but the smile on the guy’s face didn’t look like the kind of smile people gave cops.
“She’s great,” he said. “What’s she like to drive?”
“A pussycat. Electronic damping control, paddle shift, all the power you could ask for. I’ve had her up to one fifty with plenty in reserve. Like to look inside?”
It was tempting, but there was work to do. And besides, he’d already heard the guy admit one motoring offense and had no desire to lure him into more.
He said, “Love to, but I don’t have the time just now. Thanks.”
He set off toward the hotel. The man fell into step beside him and said, “You staying here? If you’ve got time later and I’m around, just give me a wave. Sidney Parker, by the way.”
He held out his hand.
Hat thought, Oh shit.
His recrimination was aimed wholly at himself for making assumptions. He’d been looking for a provincial accountant, not the next James Bond.
He didn’t take the hand but instead reached into his pocket for his ID.
He said, “Mr. Parker, it’s you I’ve come to see. Detective Constable Bowler, Mid-Yorkshire CID. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you back there.”
The smile didn’t flicker for a millisec nor did the hand drop, so Hat shook it.
“No need to apologize,” said Parker. “I didn’t spot you for a policeman. That must be useful in your line of work.”
Then his expression turned grave and he went on, “This is about that dreadful business at the hall, right?”
“That’s right, sir. Just a few questions.”
“Of course. Let’s go inside. My room, if that’s all right, then we won’t be interrupted.”
A couple of minutes later they were sitting in Parker’s room, which turned out to be a luxurious suite about twice the size of Hat’s flat.
“So what’s your line of business, Mr. Parker?” said Hat, looking round.
“You mean, what do I have to do to drive a car like that and stay in rooms like this?” said Parker, smiling once more.
“Just for the record, sir,” said Hat, keeping it formal.
“I work for Harpagon’s in the City. Here’s my business card, and my private card. Just for the record.”
“Harpagon’s,” said Hat, looking at the card, which gave no information other than the name and address. “Doesn’t say here what they do.”
“Sorry. It’s not anticipated we’ll be handing out cards to anyone who doesn’t know. We’re a finance house. I suppose the easiest way to think of us is as a private bank.”
“Yes. Are you here in Sandytown professionally, or is it a social visit?”
“Bit of both, I suppose. It’s home territory for me—the Parkers are old-established Sandytonians—so naturally I like to get back here whenever I can to visit my brother, Tom, and his family at Kyoto House. There is, however, a professional element, insomuch as I act as a financial consultant to Tom. Also to Lady Denham. And to them jointly in their role as cofounders of the Sandytown Development Consortium. But I’m sure a bright young detective like yourself will know all this already.”
This was said with such a pleasant smile that Hat had to work hard to resist returning it.
“Is this consulting stuff a private arrangement, sir, or are you acting as an executive of Harpagon’s?” he asked stiffly.
“It’s more of a personal arrangement than a private one. It’s not the kind of area that Harpagon’s gets involved in—rather small beer for them—but naturally I keep them informed of all m
y activities and they have no objection to my using my professional sources and contacts.”
Hat wasn’t sure if this was an answer or not.
“So this was why you were invited to the barbecue?”
“Part of the reason, I suppose. Though even without the professional link, the fact that I’m Tom’s brother and our family has long connections with this area would probably have merited an invitation—if I were in the area, that is. I admire your thoroughness, Mr. Bowler, but can’t quite see how this relates to your inquiries into this ghastly affair.”
Hat looked at the elegant figure relaxing in a deep sofa, a long glass filled with some sparkling liquid in his hand. He himself was perched on the edge of an armchair that felt as if it could be very comfortable indeed if he sank back into it. He’d also refused the offer of a drink. In his place, he guessed Dalziel would have downed at least two by now and probably be lying at full stretch on the sofa. Pascoe and Wield he wasn’t so sure of.
Didn’t matter. He’d learned the hard way that DCs needed to tread carefully if they weren’t to sink without a trace. Time enough for eccentricity when he’d got the rank to support it.
He said, “Just clearing the ground, sir. Now, I’d like you to take me through the events at the barbecue so far as you remember them.”
Twenty minutes later he was done. Sidney Parker’s account of the party as he saw it was clear and succinct. Nothing in it, so far as Hat could see, was of any positive use to the investigation. His last sighting of Lady Denham had been as early as two thirty.
“After that our paths just didn’t cross,” he said. “I daresay from time to time I heard her booming away in the background—she has…she had a very positive way of speaking—but I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and swear to it. I suggest you look to Dr. Feldenhammer from the Avalon for a closer account of her movements.”
“Why Dr. Feldenhammer in particular?” asked Hat.
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