by Clare Curzon
‘Thank you, no.’ She walked across to one of the leather sofas and sat squarely in the middle. ‘Would you tell me who you are and how you fit in?’
He lifted a Swedish bentwood chair from a corner of the room, carried it across and sat on it facing her. ‘I’m Justin Halliwell, Jennifer’s partner. At least I’m that if she got round to making it official. There’s a big difference, I guess.’
‘Now that Mrs Hoad’s …’
‘Dead,’ he completed. ‘God, I can’t believe it. She was so vital, lived every moment to the full. And not just dead, but – but savagely murdered.’
He was badly shaken, or a superb actor.
He sat hunched, forearms on knees, clasped hands dangling between, staring at the floor. Z was free to observe his dark curls cut close like her own, but his black while hers were a warm brown. On his face, too, the same black in his brows and the stylish, fine, bracketing line left unshaven from upper lip to chin. He was trendy, confident, took trouble with his appearance. Did that make him unusually vain? He was clearly Hilary Durham’s role model, however incompetently imitated.
‘So, if not her partner, what then?’
‘Originally her PA.’ He flashed her a wide smile. ‘That means I shadowed Jennifer, represented her when she was elsewhere. Like any good PA, I was allowed to copy her signature.’
‘I hope you can recognise the difference, especially on contracts and cheques; for when the auditors come in. I understood you were in Paris.’
‘Running our office there. Until I heard what had happened to the Hoads.’
‘When were you informed?’
‘On Monday. I’d gone down to Geneva about an order for laminates. It was on my answerphone when I got back. Hilary, weeping his heart out.’
‘And today’s Thursday.’
‘I came as soon as I could. There was stuff to attend to first.’ He was beginning to sound needled. Not impressed by a CID sergeant? Or perhaps unhappy at being interrogated by a woman? He was, in his own mind, the alpha male of his little world. In which case, Z decided, one turns the proverbial Nelson’s eye and sails on into battle.
‘Can you account for your movements on the night of last Friday?’
‘You’re not serious! How can you believe that I …?’
‘A murder inquiry, Mr Halliwell. Routine questions of all closely concerned with the victims.’
‘Not that closely.’
It was then, as the sharp denial snapped from twisted lips, that she realised: Jennifer Hoad wouldn’t have denied herself this dishy younger man as a lover. Hadn’t her own mother admitted to Beaumont that she was ‘a wanton’? And Halliwell, clearly ambitious, would have considered the benefits arising.
So – softly, softly, from now on. ‘Surely, Mr Halliwell, this isn’t too difficult? When did you set off for Geneva? And by what means? Did you travel by train or plane?’
‘I bloody drove down. Alone. Checked in at the Hotel des Anglais on Quai Wilson at a little after midnight. I’d phoned that I’d be late and they kept my room on. Does that cover the time you’re interested in?’
‘Perfectly, thank you. If we can obtain confirmation from the hotel.’
‘They’ll tell you it was a double, lakeside. My friend was already there, waiting.’ His smile was smoothly sophisticated, man of the world.
Hilary’s arrival with the two coffees interrupted them. He was clumsy opening the sealed containers to transfer the hot liquid into bone china cups, spilling some over his hands. Which perhaps accounted for the stained cuffs on his silk shirt. When he withdrew to wash himself Z turned the conversation while they drank their coffee.
‘Hilary tells me he was Mrs Hoad’s “Ideas Man”.’
‘The nutter. Actually he’s a bloody genius. I’ll be keeping him on, if she got round to signing the partnership contract. First thing I mean to do now I’m back is trot round to Walker and Lillicrap to see what the legal position is.’
‘Perhaps you’d give me their address. I need to know if they hold a will.’
Again they were interrupted. Halliwell reached in his pocket for a vibrating mobile phone.
‘Excuse me.’ He scowled at the recognised number and tapped out a text message. ‘Arrived safely. Love you too, darling,’ he drawled aloud.
He pocketed the mobile, rose and went through to the office where he wrote out the address Z required and saw her to the door. Since the phone call he was decidedly edgy and anxious for her to leave. Suspecting subterfuge, Z would have given a lot to examine the mobile.
Outside again, she walked a few doors down and stepped into a jeweller’s doorway to look back. She saw Halliwell come out, the headlights of the Porsche flashing as he operated the key, and then he was pulling out into the traffic.
Zyczynski rang the Miradec Interiors number again on her mobile. When Hilary’s practised phone-voice replied she identified herself. ‘One thing I forgot to ask you, Mr Durham. When and how did you notify Mr Halliwell of Mrs Hoad’s tragic death?’
‘I rang him at the Paris office when I saw the midday news on Saturday. But he was away. So I left a message on the answerphone.’
‘Why didn’t you use his mobile number?’
‘Because I don’t know it. He’s very cagey about who gets to contact him on that.’
Interesting. It seemed that Justin Halliwell kept two sides of his life apart. Perhaps business and personal.
Anna Plumley and her grandson were engaged in playing canasta. Very Fifties, she admitted, but a good challenge and worth bringing back in fashion. Caravan holidays were so often interrupted by downpours that she kept a stock of games to compensate Plum when deprived of his fishing.
Daniel had scorned Scrabble and wasn’t up to the demands of mah-jong. He picked up the rules quickly, was a sharp player and remembered every detail of the discard pack. A pity he became petulant if she racked up a good score. ‘Can’t we go out on one canasta?’ he demanded.
‘No. Fifty-six cards, including the four jokers, and only two players. There’s plenty of scope.’
They played on and, guessing he was holding two aces, she passed him one after freezing the pack. He fell on it avidly and melded with ninety, throwing in three eights for full measure.
Taking advantage of his temporary good humour, she murmured vaguely, ‘Met a village local a day or so ago. Ben Huggett. Ever come across him?’
Daniel grunted. ‘Bane of my Dad’s life. Poached more pheasant than ever reached our table. In the end Dad sacked our gamekeeper and learned to live with it. Where did you meet him?’
Anna explained. ‘Do you think your father knew he took part in badger-baiting?’
‘If he did he’d have blown his top. Blood sports used to get him really mad. That’s why he didn’t hunt. Never could see that poisoning or shooting vermin was dodgy; could leave them to die more slowly and painfully of gangrene.’
‘He wouldn’t have reported Huggett to the police?’
‘Not him. He’d have waded into the old rogue himself. Trapping game was bad enough, but at least it was for eating. Anyway, who told you about the badger-baiting?’
‘Nobody. I caught him with a beast he’d dug out. He’d clubbed it to keep it quiet. Persuaded him to let the thing go.’
‘You what? Grananna, you’re a bloody marvel!’
‘M’m, not one of nature’s gentlemen, is he? I fancy I’m not his favourite woman of the year.’
Daniel laid his hand of cards face down and stared at her. ‘You were asking for trouble, however you did it. Makes me wonder …’
‘Wonder what?
‘Well, if he crossed swords with the Old Man …’
‘You mean your father?’
‘Yes. Then maybe … I mean, breaking in to steal isn’t so much worse than plundering the same man’s woods, is it? Just a sort of progression. And if there really was bad blood between them …’
‘You think he might be the man the police are looking for.’
Dan
iel swallowed hard. ‘The one who blew him away and then had to kill the others, once he was discovered.’
‘It’s a notion, certainly.’
‘We should tell the police.’
‘You mean I should?’
‘They haven’t a clue otherwise.’
She smiled, drew a card, found it was a black three and went out with three of the little beggars.
‘Glad we’re not playing for money,’ said Daniel bitterly.
They had just finished reckoning the score when from the hall came the sound of a gong summoning them to lunch.
Their pate and Melba toast were already in place. When Mrs Pavitt came in with the main course her mouth was a tight line. ‘The cleaners have come,’ she announced. ‘They’re at it now.’
This was the company the police had recommended, professionals accustomed to sanitising scenes of crime.
‘Did they say how long it would take?’ Anna enquired.
‘All afternoon.’
‘In which case we might as well go out and leave them to it.’
But her attempt at discretion came too late. The housekeeper had already killed any appetite the boy had. He pushed back his chair and rose from the table, white-faced. ‘I can’t eat anything. Oh God, why do we have to stay here? Gran, you said we could go to London.’
‘I suggested a London shrink. He, or she, could have come here, but you wouldn’t hear of counselling.’
‘But a hotel, just for a while. Anything to take our minds off … what happened.’
‘The police insist we stay close. It wouldn’t be easy to avoid sympathetic neighbours if we put up at a local inn. No, you’ve broken the ice here already. I promise it won’t get any worse than it is now. Believe me, each day it will ease just a little.’
‘It’s so shitty awful. I don’t know what to do.’
‘If you can’t eat your lunch, which incidentally is really very good, why not go for a walk? Or, if you’re feeling unwell, lie down. You can join me in the van later.’
He stared resentment at her, but she continued eating. Better to appear callous than make things worse with sloppy sympathy.
When he had left she laid down her knife and fork, unable to face more. ‘No dessert, thank you, Mrs Pavitt,’ she called from the doorway.
From the gun room window she watched her grandson striding off uphill in the direction of the woods. She had never quite realised until then the physical nature of grief, the actual heaviness of heart, so much more than a poetical image. She felt her whole body ache with compassion.
At a little after three, a red Toyota swung round the corner of the house. Anna Plumley came down the caravan steps as Beaumont got out. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Gone walking. He should be back soon. Come inside and tell me what you’ve discovered.’
Perhaps Daniel had caught sight of the car from his viewpoint up among the trees. He turned up a few minutes later, eager to speak with the DS.
‘Did Gran tell you about the poacher?’ he demanded. ‘How he’s into badger-baiting, which would have made my father hopping mad.’
Beaumont listened with interest. ‘Ben Huggett, you say. We’ve a constable lives in the village. He’ll be able to tell us more about him.’
‘But don’t you see? My father could have threatened to report him, and Huggett’d know he’d get crucified in court. He’d want to get back at him.’
Beaumont regarded the young man evenly. ‘Did Huggett have a key to the house? Because there wasn’t a break-in. And your father was unlikely to open the door to him in the middle of the night, storm or no storm.’
‘Maybe that was it. He called to say a tree was down, cutting off the lane. Or a high power electric cable severed. Anything to get in.’
‘And then what? The man’s a poacher, you say. Not a mass murderer.’
Even Anna Plumley blinked at such forthrightness. It silenced Daniel.
‘Anyway,’ Beaumont said, ‘it’s another matter entirely I’m here about today. I’m sorry to say your young lady didn’t make it after all. She died during the night. So we need you to come down to the station for questioning. It could be a case for careless driving, or at worst manslaughter. A car will come for you tomorrow morning at nine-fifteen. You need to be prepared for staying on a while.’
‘If he’s charged, surely he’ll get bail,’ Anna pleaded. The sergeant was being unnecessarily brutal.
‘In the lap of the gods. Or of Crown Prosecution.’
Bitterly Daniel turned on his grandmother. ‘And you said it wouldn’t get any worse!’
That night he was too weary to barricade himself into his bedroom. Anna was woken at a quarter past two by a wild cry of terror. She switched on her light and pulled a housecoat over her pyjamas before rushing in. Daniel was huddled against his pillow, one hand clutching his upper arm tight against his chest.
‘A bad dream,’ Anna soothed.
‘No, it was real. I woke and she was there, standing over me. I was scared, lashed out at her. Pure reflex. And I’ve bloody put my shoulder out!’
Because he’d struck at thin air. Charleen was dead, and he’d been the cause of it. Small wonder he had nightmares.
Chapter Thirteen
Daniel wasn’t the only one in the house to be haunted by dreams. When Anna fell asleep again she regressed some six years to when the children were small. But at that time she had never brought them a kitten as a present, knowing the farm had feral cats enough.
In this new version of her visit little Angela had been enchanted. She bent to scoop up the white, furry bundle and held it high over her head. ‘Oh, aren’t you the prettiest little thing!’
As she swooped, the edge of her briefs had shown in relief under the stretch jeans. Anna considered the tight-packed little backside. History had been made when girls started wearing trousers. She’d been a schoolchild herself then, defying her own grandmother’s frequent disapproval. Even in the chilliest winters, with a touch of sciatica, old Granny Penfield had never overcome that early distaste. Anna, however, accepted that today girls were different and must be allowed to choose their own weekend uniforms. At least that hint of briefs had shown that Angela wasn’t bare underneath.
Anna awoke smiling. Then she remembered. That child was no more. The world had changed too much.
The sadness stayed with her. At breakfast she found herself admitting, ‘Last night I dreamt of your sister when she was little.’
‘Hard luck,’ Daniel growled, observed her surprise and added, ‘Well, she could be quite toxic.’
Was she? Anna hadn’t found her so. Impish sometimes, yes. Angela was the more daring of the two children, a tease in an attractive, elfin way. But then, as absentee grandmother, she had never seen them enough to know them well. She consoled herself that Daniel was at present feeling bad about his imminent visit to the police: it had soured the memory of his little sister.
When a patrol car with two unknown uniform officers arrived to pick them up he shied off it. ‘I’d much rather go in the Jeep, Gran,’ he pleaded, and although she picked up the reason for his distress she refused. Then, packed into the rear of the patrol car, she regretted it, sharing the feeling of being under arrest.
DS Beaumont kept them waiting ten minutes before taking them to a small interview room with four chairs and a table. As they settled, facing the detective, a second man appeared and seated himself in the fourth chair. Daniel darted him a wary glance. He was older, mid-forties, heavily built, had a lined, tanned face and mobile, dark brows like furry caterpillars.
‘Good morning, Superintendent,’ Anna greeted him.
Daniel was startled. Surely his misdemeanours couldn’t rate anyone of that rank.
Yeadings introduced himself. ‘We’re thin on the ground at present,’ he explained mildly. ‘I’m just sitting in on this.’
Beaumont began by explaining that the boy wasn’t under arrest, and asking about his relationship
with Jeff Wilmott. Daniel explained that they had met through the scout movement.
‘So you weren’t at school together?’
‘He’s seventeen now, works at a garage. I was away at boarding-school first, then I changed to Wycombe Grammar. When I joined the local scouts he was what they called a Ranger then, but he’s given up since.’
‘However, you still keep in touch?’
‘I ran into him in a caff a while back and we got talking bikes.’
There was a knock at the door and Zyczynski entered. Immediately Yeadings rose and they exchanged places. He nodded at Anna Plumley and left the room. Beaumont continued the questioning.
‘He mentioned he owned a two-stroke? Which was when you asked to borrow it?’
‘Hire it. He agreed I could have it the weekend he was away with the Territorials. He’s training with them to take an HGV licence – that’s to drive Heavy Goods Vehicles – and he wasn’t taking the bike along.’
‘So this was arranged in advance for that specific weekend, when you were due to attend a scout camp?’
‘Yeah. And I gave him an extra tenner to borrow his leathers.’
‘How much to borrow his girlfriend?’
Daniel spluttered. ‘Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Because she wasn’t exactly his girlfriend? Is that it? He boasted about this prostitute in Slough and you fancied your chances?’
‘I don’t know where you got that idea …’
‘From Wilmott himself. So did he give you her phone number and then you fixed a date?’
The boy scowled and appeared to clam up. Then, abruptly petulant, he burst out, ‘Jeff told me what pub she sometimes picked up punters in, that’s all. I was at a loose end and I thought what the hell.’
‘When was this meeting?’
‘Friday evening.’
‘You must have impressed her if she let you stay over the weekend.’
Daniel smirked. ‘She was expensive. I could afford it.’
‘And now the young lady’s dead. From a road accident. And we have only your word on what happened.’
