by Moody, Susan
‘You mean to do with Tristan?’
‘Of course. What else?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know …’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘My dear,’ she said, sounding like my Scottish grandmother. ‘Nothing has changed, I assure you. Nothing.’
Too much protestation. Cue instant scepticism. ‘Is that true?’
She nodded.
‘What about you closing down the rodeo show, for instance?’
‘That hasn’t happened yet.’
‘But hasn’t your father gone back to the States?’
‘He had some urgent business matters to attend to.’ Very de haut en bas.
‘Ah …’
‘And in any case, I can’t see that his temporary absence has anything to do with Mr Huber’s unfortunate death.’
To be honest, neither could I.
Frown lines paralleled across her forehead. ‘Where did you get this information, anyway?’
‘I have local friends who heard about it.’
‘Oh.’
Not a friendly monosyllable. ‘Have you talked to the police yet?’ I asked.
‘Naturally. They came here, asking questions, but we couldn’t tell them anything useful. As far we were concerned, Mr Huber had been employed to decorate Lady Anne’s Retreat and that was the extent of our relationship with the man.’ She said that as though she not only genuinely believed it, but also expected me to. ‘We certainly didn’t know anything about his private life, or what he got up to elsewhere.’
‘I see.’ I tried to look nonchalant. ‘And how long has your father gone away for?’
‘I can’t see that it has anything whatsoever to do with you, Miss … um … Quick.’ If I’d been asked to produce an identikit picture of a vicious homicidal maniac, it would have come out looking a lot like Piper did at that moment. Especially round the eyes. ‘I suppose your friends heard about that too,’ she added.
‘Actually not.’
‘So who told you?’
There was no way I was about rat out my new best friends, Luke and Duke. ‘I honestly can’t remember,’ I said. Lying through my teeth.
If Piper realized, she didn’t let on. ‘Well, I’m sorry, it’s good to see you again, but I don’t think we can be of any further help.’ She began herding me towards the door of the room in a sweep which any sheepdog would have been proud of. I had no choice but to allow myself to be shepherded into the hall – just as Sir Piers appeared, loping down the stairs, one hand in the pocket of his red chinos, his shirt open at the throat. He stopped halfway down.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You again.’ Breeding had won out over inclination last time. It didn’t now. ‘How can we help?’
‘As I’ve just explained to your wife, I was just checking up on whether there had been any further developments in the Tristan Huber case.’ I was ad-libbing at speed, to no great effect. Judging by the jut of his jaw and the bunch of his fists, this was a man who had undoubtedly been a bully at school and was one still. I didn’t want to find myself being used for target practice.
‘Isn’t that the question we should be asking you?’ he said coldly. The glance he shot sideways at Piper was very far from friendly. I hoped she wouldn’t find herself in the way if he happened to aim a lunge at someone. He came several steps further down the stairs. ‘What are you really after?’
‘Simply checking up.’
‘For a second time? We told you all we know when you were here before.’
I spread my hands. ‘I’m only—’
‘It’s not as if we had a lot to do with the fellow, Tristan Huber, though I believe my wife invited him in for a drink a couple of times to discuss the progress of his work,’ he said. ‘To be quite honest, we don’t normally hobnob with the tradespeople.’
Maybe you don’t, buster. But I bet your wife did. ‘I thought you went to school with him.’
He looked a trifle embarrassed. ‘I did. But … painting and decorating? I mean, really. Besides, people move on, choose different paths, lose any common interests they might once have shared.’
I was damn sure he didn’t normally refer to Tristan as a tradesperson. Wouldn’t dare. ‘So how come you chose him to decorate Lady Hilda’s Haven or whatever?’ I asked.
‘We were given a personal recommendation by some local friends,’ he said coldly. ‘Not that it can possibly have any bearing on his death.’
‘I agree. By the way, now that I’m here,’ I said, ‘is there any chance I could take a stroll round your park before I leave?’
He stared at me, his features heavy with disdain and disbelief. ‘What? Of course you can’t. How the hell would you feel if I turned up at your place uninvited and demanded to walk round your garden?’
Scared, was the answer. ‘I’m something of an arborealist,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard you have some really rare species of trees and shrubs.’
‘This lady seems to hear a lot of things,’ Piper said.
‘Well, whoever told her we had rare trees growing here was talking out of his backside. Giving you a lot of bull,’ Paramore said. His face assumed a sneery Lord Lucan expression as he added: ‘And I’d prefer it if you did not trespass any further on either my property or my time!’ He came down the rest of the stairs to the hall. To Piper, he said frostily, ‘I’ll be in my office if you need me.’ He gave me the briefest of nods and turned towards the rear of the house.
‘You must forgive us if my husband appears to be acting rather brusquely. He has a lot on his mind right now.’ Piper moved me onwards to the front door, which stood open as though expecting me.
About to step outside, I turned. ‘How long exactly did you and your husband spend in Hong Kong?’ I asked.
She did that flinching thing again. Feigned deafness. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your husband worked for HKSB back in the day, didn’t he?’
‘And where did you discover that fact?’ She produced one of those unconvincing laughs which are laced with menace. ‘Sounds as though you’ve been prying into our private affairs.’
‘Come on, Lady P, you’re a celebrity in these parts. Naturally people tittle-tattle about you and your family, and naturally one picks up gossip here and there.’
‘Does one indeed?’ She stepped firmly towards me so that I had no option except to move outside. ‘Anyway, thank you so much for dropping by. I do hope the police manage to solve the mystery of poor Mr Huber’s death.’
It wasn’t until I was inserting the key into the ignition that I realized she had neatly sidestepped my question. The one about the length of time they’d spent abroad. Not that it mattered, since I already knew the answer. Sixteen months in total, to be exact. The Internet is a lovesome thing, God wot. Anyway, it no longer had any real significance since I had by now more or less abandoned my foolish Triads theory.
Driving down the long avenue to the road beyond the grounds, I shivered. A riot of questions rampaged round my head. Had Luke and Duke been right? Was Rollins Park really mixed up in some kind of vile trade in women’s bodies? Had Tristan been part of it? Could there truly be abandoned sheds or empty barns dotted about the estate where helpless women were kept prisoner before being shipped off to the larger metropolises like London or Bradford or Glasgow? And if so, how old were they? What was their nationality?
I was fully aware of the obscene statistics concerning prepubertal girls whose immature bodies were highly sought after by sexual deviants and perverts. I’d seen too many of the squalid houses and conditions in which these poor women were kept. Many of them had been lured to the UK with promises of work as waitresses or hotel chambermaids, earning far more money than they would get in their own countries, then forced into prostitution once they got here. I had even busted a couple of the brothels or holding-houses during my days on the force, though unfortunately the bastard traffickers got away before we could identify and detain them. The remembrance of those powerless little girls, huddling together in sordid backrooms and basements, the m
emory of their desperate, pleading faces, was so sickening even now, that I had to stop my car and take some deep breaths.
Trafficking. A big money spinner for organized crime networks. And Tristan Huber, my friend, was obviously heavily involved, along with the Paramores, Hank Rogers … and others. Including Maurice Colby and the Landises? I felt sick at heart, as well as stomach. How would I ever find out if what I was beginning to suspect about Rollins Park was true? I couldn’t go to the police unless I could produce some kind of evidence. And it would be hard for me to search the grounds single-handedly without being spotted and immediately kicked off the estate. Especially after specifically being told I couldn’t. At least I could alert DCI Fairlight.
I drove away from the house and down to the entrance gates. Turned right, instead of left, then right again when the road finally reached a T-junction. One more right turn, and the road ran parallel to a six-foot high brick wall all along the back of what I judged to be the grounds of Rollins Park. It was impossible for me to see anything over it without the aid of a ladder. I drove on until I came to a tall wrought-iron gate, elaborately curlicued and heavily padlocked. I pulled up. This side of the estate was wooded, mainly beech and birch and heavily shrubbed. The unmade road on the other side curved off into the distance between deep stands of rhododendron. There was no sight of any buildings. I was about to switch off my engine and try to see if I could climb over the gate when a Land Rover appeared from between the bushes and drove towards me. Sir Piers was at the wheel. Two German Shepherds leaped out of the rear when he pulled to a juddering stop, just yards away from me, and started barking and snarling at the tops of their voices. Pointed teeth were bared. Drool dripped. A black paw scratched at the gate. A suggestion of rabies hovered in the air.
I was out of there.
I pulled to a stop outside Strathmore House, in Alcombe. As I rang the bell, the door opened. Yvonne Landis was standing there, wearing a beige linen jacket, a sky-blue T-shirt and dark linen trousers. One of those must-have, to-die-for handbags, worth several thousand pounds, was hanging from one arm. Another stood on the table just inside the door.
‘Miss – um – Quick,’ she said. The exclamation points had vanished.
‘Yes. I wondered if—’
She took a step forward. ‘I’m afraid I’m just on my way out.’
‘I see,’ I said. Behind her, in the hall, I could see suitcases piled up. ‘Going away?’
‘We’re taking a cruise along the Norwegian fjords. Leaving this afternoon, as a matter of fact. As soon as James gets back.’
‘I hope you enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure we will.’ Seeing that I wasn’t about to jam my foot in the doorway and force her back into the house, she relaxed slightly. ‘Did you want anything in particular?’
Only a few answers. Like why you have a triple firewall protecting your identity on the Internet. What you did, whose secrets you betrayed, what necessitated your current name change, along with all the security whistles and bells?
‘I happened to be passing,’ I said. ‘Just wondered if you might have thought of anything further which could help the police in their enquiries into Tristan Huber’s death.’
She shook her head from side to side. The rigid cap of her hair stayed in place. ‘I’m afraid not. After you left, James and I went over everything we knew about Tristan and couldn’t think of anything at all that might be of use to you.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Isn’t it, though?’ She gave me a kind smile. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a breakthrough in the case sooner or later.’
‘Me, too.’ I moved back towards my car. ‘Thank you anyway, Mrs Lockhart … sorry, I mean Landis.’ And made a dash for the driver’s seat before she could say anything further. I have to say that I regretted being so callous when I looked out of the window and saw the stricken look on her face, the hand stretched beseechingly towards me. Her cover blown … did I have to do that? Especially when I was pretty sure that the husband and wife were not responsible for Tristan’s death.
Yvonne on her own I might have been able to make a case for, if forced. But Thyroid Jim? Nah, I didn’t think so. They had been fairly up front about knowing Tristan, both when they were all in Hong Kong, and when they’d returned to the UK. Nor did I think that it was Tristan they were afraid of. They would never have asked him to organize their barn conversion, otherwise. What was remarkable about Tristan’s murder was the amount of time it must have taken. I couldn’t see the Landis/Lockharts using such a long-drawn out method of slaughter. Much more likely the quick shot from the rear window of a car, or the sudden bludgeoning on a deserted street, followed by a quick getaway and back home, miles from the scene of the crime. Mission accomplished.
But what would have been their motive? Blackmail? Exposure of some kind, such as a threat to reveal their true identities, thus bringing the vengeance of the Triads down upon them? Not a pleasant prospect. If that had been the case, I could well imagine that they might want to eliminate Tristan one way or another.
But hadn’t I abandoned the Triad possibility? Perhaps – as far as Tristan was concerned. But Mr Sook had been fairly explicit when it came to James Lockhart. Unfortunately, from what I now knew of Tristan, I could believe him capable of almost anything, including murder. But the Landises? I don’t think so.
Since I was already on the road, I decided I might as well keep going. I found myself eventually parking a few doors up from the dry-cleaning establishment belonging to Kevin Fuller’s father. There were several people inside waiting at the counter to collect or deposit items. One woman came out with a duvet shrink-wrapped into a plastic bag, reminding me that I ought to check my own bedding, as we began the summer wind down into autumn and on to winter.
When the place was finally clear, I got out of my car and walked across the pavement to push open the door. Mr Fuller was piling winter coats into one machine and at the same time yanking at the door of another one. The chemical smell was strong, and as I always did when picking up my dry-cleaning, I found it hard to believe that Health & Safety procedure permitted a worker to spend eight or more hours a day inhaling those fumes.
‘Mr Fuller,’ I said.
He looked up. Sad tired eyes set above shrunken cheeks. Visible weight loss. ‘You came before,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’ I hated to bring his son’s death up again, even though it was very clear that the trauma of Kevin’s murder never left him.
‘They still don’t have a clue as to who killed him,’ he said. His eyes watered.
‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to ask if you can remember anything at all that might have some bearing on his death. Anything odd. Unusual. Even the smallest detail can sometimes provide a breakthrough in a case.’
He looked blank, then went into the back part of the shop and lifted the kettle. ‘You’ll have a cuppa, now you’re here, won’t you?’
‘Thank you. That’d be great.’
Tea made, we sat down on either side of the table. He clasped his hands round his mug. ‘You asked about anything unusual … the only really odd thing – apart from him not being here, of course …’ He gulped, and stared down at his tea. ‘… we’ve been getting these phone calls. Late at night, or very early in the morning. A voice, always saying the same thing. Don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, could be either, but—’
Interesting. ‘“This is what it feels like”,’ I hazarded.
He stared as thought I’d produced a stoat from my pocket. ‘How did you know?’
‘Someone – probably the same person – has been making similar calls to the mother of Tristan Huber.’ If anything was guaranteed to link Tristan and Kevin’s murders, it was this. It might be interesting to check up on the family of Ned Swift.
‘I don’t understand what whoever it is means, or why they’re doing this,’ said Mr Fuller. ‘It’s not as if we aren’t suffering enough already.’
‘You should go to the police. Th
ey might find the information useful.’
‘It doesn’t really bother us,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve lost our Kev, I don’t think anything will ever bother us again.’
Oh dear.
‘And apart from that, you can’t think of any link between your son and Tristan Huber?’
‘Nothing. Apart from that committee to do with the redecoration. And I seem to remember there was some kind of end-of-term shenanigans they were both concerned with – a couple of years ago, now – though I’m not sure why that decorator fellow would have been involved, it was a university occasion, after all.’
‘Designing the streamers, or something,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps the party was themed in some way. I should think Tristan would be a good man to have aboard if you wanted to decorate a gym hall for a party or something.’
‘You’re probably right. Not that I ever met the man.’
‘By the way, does the name Ned Swift ring any bells?’
Frowning, he pondered. ‘It does, but for the life of me I couldn’t tell you why.’
‘Was it through some connection that you know of with Kevin?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Can’t remember.’
‘Didn’t you tell me that your son was involved with the university chess club?’
‘I can’t remember doing so, but yes he was. President for a while, I believe. Had the T-shirts made for club members, printed with MAKE THE RIGHT MOVES. His mother and I thought that was … was …’ He gulped again and bowed his head over the table. ‘… clever.’
Another definite link between two of the victims. I put my hand over his and squeezed. There was nothing anyone could do for the man to alleviate the agony he was feeling. There never would be.
I finished my tea. ‘Thank you, Mr Fuller. And of course, if we hear anything …’
He nodded. I let myself out.
Once in my car, I called Fliss Fairlight. ‘Quick here,’ I said. ‘Have you had complaints about anonymous calls from Ned Swift’s family?’
