The Vital Chain

by Sally Spencer

  There was a pile of work on my desk. I promised myself I’d make a considerable dent in my correspondence before I rang Marie again, but even as I was making the promise, I half knew I’d never keep it, and after 15 minutes, I abandoned the pretence.

  I stepped into the outer office. Janet gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I told her. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it probably won’t be at least until late afternoon.’

  She glanced down at her diary. ‘Do you have an outside appointment I don’t know about?’ she asked, with a hint of stern disapproval in her voice.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on work this morning. I thought a breath of fresh air might do me good.’

  I put my hand in my pocket and felt my fingers brush against my mobile phone. If I took it with me, Janet would be ringing me with an enquiry from a book chain, or from the printers or from one of my authors, before I even reached the end of the street. On the other hand, if I didn’t take it with me, and Marie called …

  Marie wasn’t going to call!

  I placed the phone on Janet’s desk.

  ‘Look after this for me,’ I said.

  ‘And if anyone wants to reach you …?’

  ‘They’ll just have to wait until I’m reachable, won’t they?’ I said, more harshly than I’d intended.

  Janet looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  No, I wanted to say, I’m not all right. My brother and father are dead. I’m in danger of losing my sanity – again. And there’s a strong chance that a homicidal maniac is stalking me. All of which I could probably handle if the only woman I really cared about would show just a little concern for me.

  But I was still enough of Edward Conroy’s son – and John Conroy’s brother – not to tell her any of that, and instead I said, ‘I’m fine. It’s just that I’m finding it a little difficult to settle into work again so soon after the crash.’

  My secretary’s eyes moistened. ‘I’m so sorry, Rob,’ she said. ‘You must be going through hell.’

  I’d asked her many times to call me by my first name, but she never had, and the fact that she’d finally chosen to at that moment, both touched and terrified me.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll … I’ll see you later,’ I said, limping to the door.

  ****

  As I stood on the pavement, looking up at the converted Victorian house in which Marie lived, I wondered, perhaps for the thousandth time, why I had never been invited inside.

  What was it she was hiding behind the door of her flat that she didn’t want me to see?

  What secret could be so dark that she was not prepared to share it with someone who had become her closest friend – and wished to be a great deal more?

  I walked up the path. There were six bell pushes by the side of the front door. I pressed the one which had “Marie O’Hara” printed neatly on a card beside it.

  I waited for about half a minute, and when there was no response, I rang again.

  Nothing!

  The third time I pressed the bell, I kept my finger on it. I could hear the ringing sound coming from inside the house, and though I knew it would make no difference, I pressed even harder.

  A first floor window flew open, and a young woman with a towel wrapped around her head looked angrily down at me.

  ‘I’m trying to wash my bloody hair!’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said apologetically, ‘but I really need to see Marie.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ the woman said, and then as if further clarification were necessary she added, ‘She’s gone away.’

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Are you a client?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No, I’m a friend.’

  ‘She didn’t say where was going, but she left straight after she’d heard on the news that someone she knew had been injured in a car crash in South Wales. She seemed quite upset about it, so maybe that’s where she went.’

  If she had been upset, she hadn’t been upset enough to come and see me as Andy McBride had done, I thought bitterly. She hadn’t even been upset enough to ring – so it couldn’t have been anything more than coincidence that she left Oxford just after the crash.

  ‘If she does come back, could you say Rob Conroy called, and would like to hear from her?’ I asked.

  In an ideal world, the woman would have said, ‘Oh, you’re Rob – she never stops talking about you.’

  In the miserable world where I existed, she simply said, ‘Bob Conway – right.’

  ‘Rob Conroy,’ I said, with some emphasis.’

  ‘Got it,’ she told me. ‘Do you mind if I get back to washing my hair now?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  As I walked away, head bowed, I thought again about Andy McBride’s offer. It would be so easy for the two of us to break into the empty flat and find out just what the big secret was.

  But Marie would be bound to guess it was me, and even if she didn’t I knew I’d have to confess. Then our relationship – if we still had one – would be well and truly over.

  ****

  Detective Sergeant Matthews had been forewarned by Flint – who had been forewarned by me – that Hugh Morgan was a crook, but what he had not been prepared for was to find out just how successful a crook the man was.

  ‘Morgan’s country house isn’t quite a stately home, but it’s pretty damn close to it,’ he’d tell Flint when they eventually met up in Cheshire after the next murder. ‘You could lose my little semi-detached in a corner of its stable block.’

  It was just as Matthews was parking in front of the not-quite-stately-home that Morgan emerged through the front door. He was dressed in a heavy tweed jacket, cravat and cavalry twill trousers, as befitted a country squire, but there was nothing of the rural gentleman in the way he slammed the palm of his hand down on the roof of the sergeant’s Escort, nor in the way he leant down to the open window and said, ‘I don’t care what you’re selling, because whatever it is, I’m not buying – so you can just piss off.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything,’ Matthews said, producing his warrant card from his shirt pocket.

  Morgan stepped back, as if the car roof had suddenly given him an electric shock, and Matthews seized the opportunity to open his door and climb out.

  The two men stood facing each other.

  ‘I’m not saying anything until I’ve seen my lawyer,’ Morgan said.

  After a number of false starts in the previous couple of days, Matthews felt as if he were suddenly hitting pay dirt.

  ‘Now why should you suddenly feel the need to talk to your lawyer, Mr Morgan?’ he asked. ‘Got something to hide, have we?’

  Morgan started slightly, as if he’d been anticipating the question but still couldn’t quite hide the impact it had on him.

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Mr Morgan,’ Matthews coaxed. ‘Ever since you heard the news that the men you’d just sold your business to had been murdered, you must surely have been expecting a visit from the South Wales police.’

  And almost as if by magic, the tension, which had shrouded Morgan like a suit of armour, seemed to melt away.

  ‘Is that what this is all about?’ he asked. ‘The bloody car crash?’

  ‘What else could it be about?’

  Disconcertingly, Morgan laughed. ‘Do you mean to say that the reason you’re here is because you suspect me of killing them?’ he asked. ‘Now that’s not just funny – it’s bloody hilarious!’

  ‘You did threaten Robert Conroy,’ Matthews pointed out.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Morgan countered, ‘but if I had done, I’ve have made sure there were no witnesses around, so it would only be his word against mine. And murder simply isn’t my style. When I pay somebody back for what they’ve done to me, I like them still to be around so I can look into their eyes and see just how much they’re suffering.’
/>   ‘Where were you the night before the crash?’ Matthews asked.

  Morgan grinned. ‘There was a big do at my lodge in Bristol. After it was over, a few of us carried on drinking. We didn’t split up until about five o’clock in the morning, then I called a taxi to take me home.’

  ‘It’s a long way to go by taxi,’ Matthews mused. ‘It must have been expensive.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ Morgan told him.

  ‘What was the name of the taxi company?’ Matthews asked, expecting – or perhaps merely hoping – that the other man would say that he didn’t really remember.

  ‘It was the Downs’ Motor Service,’ Morgan replied without hesitation. ‘They’re the ones I always use. I have a monthly account with them, so they’ll have the trip logged to me.’

  ‘And these people you were with – I expect they’ll be able to provide you with an alibi, will they?’

  Morgan’s grinned widened. ‘Yes, they will, but I’m not sure you’ll believe them.’

  ‘And what makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, quite frankly, and just between ourselves, most of them are very dodgy characters.’

  ‘Dodgy characters?’ Matthews repeated, and then cursed himself as he realised that in this unwitting double act of theirs, Morgan was using him as his straight man.

  ‘Very dodgy,’ the con artist repeated with relish. ‘If I remember rightly, there were two city councillors and couple of police chief superintendents at our little gathering.’

  ‘Just because you didn’t do the job yourself, doesn’t mean you couldn’t have paid someone else to do it,’ Matthews countered, rattled.

  Morgan shook his head.

  ‘You young coppers,’ he said, with some disgust. ‘You’re always charging in headlong without getting your facts straight first. If I conducted any of my businesses the way that you conduct your investigations, I’d still be living in a grubby little house in the back streets of Cardiff.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what the facts are?’ Matthews challenged.

  ‘Like I said, I’m a businessman—’

  ‘You mean you’re a con man,’ Matthews interrupted.

  ‘You’re not the first person to call me that,’ Morgan said unconcerned. ‘It should offend me, I suppose, but then I think of how much money I’ve got sitting in the bank, and somehow your opinion of me doesn’t seem to matter much anymore.’ He reached into his jacket, took out a box of small cigars, and lit one up. ‘The point is,’ he continued, ‘what I am not is a gangster. I don’t surround myself with a team of heavies. I do know a few ex-criminals, but none who’ve been inside for committing crimes involving violence. So even if I wanted somebody to carry out a murder for me, I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’

  The problem is, Matthews thought, I believe him.

  And then he reminded himself that getting people to believe in him was Morgan’s stock-in-trade.

  The con man made great show of looking at his gold Rolex.

  ‘I think I’ve given you quite enough of my valuable time,’ he said. ‘My final advice to you is to talk to the local fuzz. They’ll tell you the same as I’ve told you. Murder just isn’t my style.’

  Watching him turn around and walk back towards the house, Matthews felt weighed down by failure. He’d had the man on the ropes at the beginning – he was sure he had – and mentioning the murders should have been enough to force him to his knees.

  Yet it hadn’t been.

  Instead it had seemed to offer him an escape.

  So just what had Morgan been worried about? Just what guilty secret was he hiding?

  Matthews had no idea, nor did Flint – and when the chief inspector told me about it, I didn’t know either.

  And so it was that Morgan’s secret would remain secret, until, that is, someone who had more street smarts than the rest of us combined eventually worked it out.

  ****

  I had approached the whole of the night’s operation with logic and forethought. I’d hired a car rather than use my own because I needed to be in a vehicle that Marie wouldn’t recognise. I’d chosen the Renault 19 because it gave my gammy leg more room than my Ford Mondeo would have done. And I’d remembered to bring a bottle of water and some sandwiches with me.

  Yet my principal thought as I sat there in the midnight darkness outside Marie’s house was not how clever I’d been, but how stupid.

  There were any number of reasons why she might not be in Oxford – she could have gone to visit her family in Ireland, or be working on a case.

  So what were the chances that her disappearance was explained by the fact that she was so frightened of meeting me that she would only sneak back to her own flat under the cover of darkness, and leave again at the crack of dawn? The answer, obviously, was practically no chance at all.

  Yet there I was – watching and waiting – because when you’re desperate, practically no chance still seems like pretty good odds.

  Sitting alone in the enclosed world of my rental car I found myself thinking about the first night we met. At the time, I’d been too grateful it had happened to worry about why it had happened, but now – for the first time – I saw just how set up I’d been.

  She’d said she knew my name because my name was well-known – but it wasn’t, not outside that tiny circle which is the publishing world.

  I’d offered to buy her a drink and she’d insisted on a meal – because that would ensure we spent more time together.

  But why had she done it?

  If she’d been looking for a friend why hadn’t she chosen someone she’d already met rather than selecting a complete stranger?

  And if she’d wanted me for my body why hadn’t she taken advantage of the numerous opportunities which had been offered to her over the previous two years? God knows, I wouldn’t have pushed her away.

  So why had she picked me up? And even more important, what had made her decide to drop me so completely now?

  I thought of Andy McBride’s offer again. We could be in and out of the flat in five minutes, he’d promised me. Five minutes! Three hundred seconds! In that short space of time I just might be able to resolve all the questions and worries which were eating away at my brain.

  I sighed and checked my watch. It was a quarter past three. I would give it till five, then go home and grab a couple of hours sleep before setting off for work.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was another chocolate-box-pretty morning in the village, and the church clock was just striking ten as Detective Chief Inspector Owen Flint walked up the High Street toward the church.

  He had just reached the stocks when the tranquillity of the morning was suddenly shattered by the sound of a powerful car engine being heavily revved. He turned in the direction of the noise, and saw a black Jaguar X-JS roaring up behind him.

  He recognised the driver immediately and was not the least surprised when the man brought the shiny new machine to a halt in front of the stocks.

  ‘That’s a nice vehicle,’ Flint said. ‘It’s very nice indeed. Had it long, have you?’

  Bill Harper shook his head. ‘I only took delivery of it last night as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You must have a very optimistic nature, Mr Harper,’ Flint commented.

  ‘Optimistic nature? I’m not sure I’m following you.’

  ‘I’m sure this is a very suitable car for a joint managing director—’

  ‘Yes, you have to keep up appearances when you’re a serious player in the business world.’

  ‘… but I would have thought it was well beyond the reach of a mere executive assistant. Yet that’s what you must have been when you ordered it – and at that time, the possibility of making the leap that you have, in fact, made must have seemed very remote.’

  Bill Harper laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at. The car wasn’t ordered for me at all – it was ordered for Tony Conroy. It was going to be his company car – and now it’s mine.’

&
nbsp; ‘There are some people who could fall into a shit heap and come up smelling of roses,’ Flint said dryly. ‘So what are you doing in the village at this time of the morning, Mr Harper? Just showing off your new wheels?’

  ‘No, of course not – that would be totally irresponsible. The fact is I needed to talk to you, and at the police station they told me that this was where I’d find you.’

  ‘And what would you like to talk to me about?’ Flint wondered.

  ‘Are you still looking for Paul Taylor?’ Harper asked.

  More than just looking for him, Flint thought. There was a general alert out. But the search lacked both the intensity and the urgency – not to mention the resources – which would been devoted to it if the object of the search had been a missing child, because Taylor wasn’t a child – and anyway, they simply didn’t have enough on him to warrant that sort of operation.

  ‘I asked you if you were still looking for him,’ Harper repeated, in a tone which said he didn’t like to kept waiting, especially by a man who probably earned a quarter of the salary he was now pulling in.

  ‘I don’t see how it’s any business of yours, sir,’ Flint said, ‘but I believe it’s fairly common knowledge that we’d appreciate the opportunity of having a few words with Mr Taylor.’

  ‘You haven’t really answered my question, you know,’ Bill Harper pointed out.

  ‘No, I haven’t, have I?’ Flint agreed.

  For a moment, it looked as if Harper would slide his new toy into gear and drive away. Then, though he gave Flint a look which showed both anger at him as a man and disappointment in him as a chief inspector, he seemed to decide not to abort his mission.

  ‘The reason I was asking about the search is that I think Paul Taylor might be much more involved in this case than you seem to imagine,’ he said. ‘I also think that you should extend your search – if indeed, since you seem to be so cagey about it, you’re actually conducting one – to the continent.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you know for certain he’s done a runner?’ Flint demanded.

  Harper smiled smugly. ‘Let us just say that I consider it a very distinct possibility.’