‘What is?’
‘They’re stupid. And every night, while I’m driving my old banger back out to my big house in the country – which has two Mercs parked in the garage – I laugh myself silly about them.’
‘What exactly was it that you want to talk to me about, Mr Morgan?’ I asked coolly.
‘Hugh,’ Morgan said. ‘Please call me Hugh.’
‘What exactly was it that you want to talk to me about, Hugh?’
‘I’m just curious,’ Morgan admitted. ‘I thought I did a pretty good job on you when I came down to Oxford.’
‘A brilliant job,’ I confessed.
‘So the fact that you didn’t talk to your uncle—’
‘My grandfather, you mean,’ I interrupted.
Morgan grinned again. ‘Yeah, that’s right, your grandfather,’ he conceded. ‘Charlie Conroy – one of the old school, upright and honest, with his hands firmly on the purse strings.’
‘You’ve done your research,’ I said.
‘In my line of business, you have to do your research,’ Morgan told me. ‘It’s the only real working capital you’ve got. Anyway, as I was saying, when I left you that day, I had you marked out as a bloke who’d do just what I wanted him to do. So where did I go wrong? How did I manage to misread the signs?’
‘I didn’t call those numbers you gave me myself,’ I said.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I hired a private detective.’
Morgan shook his head as if, once I’d said it, the answer was obvious.
‘And he saw right through the little network I’d set up to con you,’ he mused.
‘She,’ I corrected him. ‘But yes, that’s right. She did.’
‘That was smart,’ Morgan said. ‘Smarter than I’d ever have given you credit for.’
But it wasn’t really. If I hadn’t known Marie, and wanted to put work her way, I’d have fallen into the trap – just as he’d intended I should.
Now he’d learned what he wanted to know, Morgan dropped all pretence. The eyes, which had been genial before, turned to ice. The jaw, which had suggested bonhomie, jutted aggressively forward.
‘You could have bought me another six months, Mr Conroy,’ he said. ‘I could have done a lot with another six months.’
‘You mean that you could have stolen more of your partners’ money?’ I said.
‘I mean that I could have transferred more assets,’ Morgan replied. He raised his right arm and pointed his index finger at my chest. ‘By being too clever, you’ve cost me money. I don’t forget things like that easily.’
‘You’re about the lowest form of life there is,’ I told him. ‘I don’t care whether you forget or not.’
‘Oh, but you will,’ he said, starting to show signs of anger. ‘You definitely will – because I’ll find a way to pay you back. It might be tomorrow, or it might take years, but I’ll find a way.’
The taxi which was to take me to Warrington had arrived, and my case was already sitting in the boot.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this conversation you had with Morgan before?’ demanded Owen Flint, who was holding the back door of the cab open for me.
I bent over to climb into the back seat and felt a pain shoot through my bruised ribs.
‘I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,’ I said.
Owen Flint sighed. ‘A man makes a direct threat against you, and a few hours later someone sabotages the brakes of the car you’ll be riding in the next day – and you don’t think that’s worth mentioning?’
I eased my body on to the seat. ‘When Morgan said he’d find a way to pay me back, he wasn’t talking about physical violence,’ I told Flint. ‘He’s a con man, not a thug.’
‘That’s your opinion of him, is it?’
‘Yes, that’s my opinion of him.’
‘You read him completely wrong once, didn’t you?’ Flint asked.
‘Yes, but …’
‘So how do you know that you didn’t make the same mistake a second time?’
EIGHTEEN
I called Marie several times on the train journey down to Oxford, twice in the taxi from the railway station to my flat, and once before (and once after) the pre-cooked meal which I heated up in the oven, and then left largely uneaten. Each time, I got a recorded message telling me to speak after the beep.
It was the same story the following morning – I rang from my office, and a voice with a gentle Irish lilt to it said, ‘I’m not available at the moment, but if you’ll leave your number, I’ll call you back.’
Except that she hadn’t!
It seemed an eternity since the crash in that Welsh country lane, and I hadn’t spoken to her once.
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 fifteen 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’d 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 grin 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 realized 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 a 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 th
e 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 recognize. I’d chosen the Renault 19, because it gave my gammy leg more room than my Ford Granada 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?
The Company Page 17
