“On my way over,” André replied.
“But I’m just going out shopping,” protested Arabella. “If we’re going away so soon there’s loads to do.”
“Wait for me,” André said. “I’ll come too. I’m nearly there.”
Obviously doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him, thought Arabella ruefully. She could slip out before he arrived, but that would only confirm his suspicions and he might decide to carry out his threats. Well, she thought I’ll just have to manage with him in tow and try to get rid of him later.
André arrived within ten minutes. Arabella opened the door to his knock, and forced herself not to recoil as he kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“Ready?” he asked.
Arabella had already zipped the document envelope for the bank and her letters to post into the pocket of a large handbag; now she checked that she had her credit card and wallet and, picking up her front door keys, followed him out of the flat.
“You’re going to get awfully bored,” she remarked as they hailed a taxi and headed for Knightsbridge.
“I never get bored spending money,” André said, cheerfully, and settled back into the cab.
When they arrived at Harrods, Arabella’s first stop was in the luggage department, where she chose four matching cases in striking pink and black, ranging through the sizes down to a smart vanity case. From there she moved on to buy light summer clothes to wear in South Africa, and by the end of the morning she a great many packages and parcels waiting for her to collect.
“I’m going to the bank now,” she told André, “I’ve got to arrange enough cash for us to draw on as we go. Then, if you’re sure you’re happy with Cape Town, I’ll go home and book our tickets. Or,” she suggested mischievously, “do you want to do that bit?”
André’s expression darkened, but he said, “No, I’ve things to do. I’ll leave that to you.”
“Fine,” said Arabella. “Tomorrow evening OK? There’s a direct flight to Cape Town leaving at about nine o’clock. I’ll find us a good hotel and book us in for a week or so. Then we can explore the town for a few days and organise a safari.” Arabella was keen to keep André hooked on the destination. “What do you think?”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” André said with grudging admiration. “Can you be ready by tomorrow evening?”
Arabella thought of all she had to achieve in the intervening day. “Can’t see why not,” she said cheerfully. “If we’re going, the sooner the better. We don’t want anyone else recognising me, do we? You’d better go and get yourself sorted out,” adding with a laugh, “Don’t forget your safari suit!”
“Actually, Arab, I could do with a sub…know what I mean? To get the last few things I need.” André’s lips smiled, but there was steel in his dark eyes.
Arabella delved into her bag and extracted four fifty pound notes. She handed them to him saying with icy disdain, “Yes, André, I know what you mean. This is all the cash I’ve got until I go to the bank. You’ll have to make do.”
André stowed the folded notes into an inside pocket and grinned. “Do for now,” he said with no hint of gratitude. “I’ll pick you up at half seven tonight and we’ll go for a meal, right?” And holding her wrist for a moment in an iron grip he added, “Make sure you’re there, OK?”
“André, I’ve said I will be,” said Arabella, irritated. She jerked her arm away and rubbed her wrist. “You’ve got to trust me as much as I have to trust you, OK?”
“OK, OK. I’ll collect you at half seven.”
They hailed separate taxis and headed off in different directions. On her way home, Arabella posted her letters and then went on to the bank. Here she deposited her personal papers in a safety deposit box, and drew a substantial amount of cash to take away with her. Once back at the flat she spent the first hour of the afternoon at her computer, booking flights, hotels, a limo to take them to Heathrow. She printed out the e-tickets, the itinerary, confirmation of the booking at the Table Bay Hotel and put them all together in an envelope. She got out her passport and put it in the inside pocket of her handbag with the cash she had drawn from the bank. She made herself a hair appointment for the following day, and then spent the rest of the afternoon sorting out the clothes she would need. With everything laid out on the bed, she began to pack her cases.
By the time André came to fetch her she was as ready as she could be. All she had to do was ensure that he did not come back to spend the night with her. The thought of his hands wandering across her body used to make her shiver with anticipation, now it made her shudder with revulsion. He would know at once.
The evening passed surprisingly easily. After their showdown the previous night, Arabella had thought that things would be very awkward, but André was clearly setting out to please. She knew he could be a charming companion, but now she could see his charm for what it was, simply a ploy to get himself something he wanted, switched on and off at will. When she had first met him she had found him fascinating, charming, sexy. Now she found him none of those things. Quite the reverse. His determination to control her was a stark reminder of Roger, and her determination to escape him once and for all, kept her mind focused on how to play this evening.
It really is strange she thought as she watched him discussing his choice of wine with the wine waiter, that I could be so attracted to him one day and utterly repulsed by him the next. Still, he mustn’t suspect and the only way she could maintain her side of the charade that was this evening, was in the knowledge that if things went to plan her revenge was not far off.
As they ate their meal, she told him of the arrangements she had made. “The Table Bay is supposed to be the best hotel in Cape Town,” she said, “but if it turns out not to be, we can move somewhere else!” She drew out the picture that she had printed off the Internet, showing the hotel in all its splendour and passed it over to him, pleased that his eyes gleamed as he studied it.
“You must be at the flat by six,” she went on. “The limo is coming for us at a quarter past.”
“Limo?”
“More fun than a taxi, don’t you think?” teased Arabella. She had booked a limousine knowing it would appeal to his vanity; he needed to remain convinced by her arrangements. “I thought, if we’re going to do this we might as well do it properly.”
At last the evening ended and André took her back to Chelsea in a taxi. “I’m not asking you in,” Arabella told him firmly. “We’ve a long day tomorrow. I’m having my hair done first thing, and I’ve booked a massage and a facial, so I shall be out all morning. Come round in the afternoon if you like, but be sure you’re here by six o’clock.”
Surely that sounded casual enough. Arabella needed the morning to herself to complete her plans.
It seemed that it was. André did not insist on keeping her in his sight but left her at her front door and disappeared into the night. Arabella locked the door behind him and put up the chain. She was pretty certain he didn’t have a key, but he had had access to her key-ring and she wanted no unexpected interruptions.
She poured herself another glass of wine, sat down at the computer and within moments had logged on to British Airways.
Arabella slept only fitfully, and she was up early, ready to carry out the next part of her plan. It was still early by the time she’d eaten some breakfast, but before she left the flat she dialled André’s mobile. He picked up on the second ring answering somewhat sleepily, “Yeah?”
“André, it’s me. Are you still asleep?”
“No, not now,” André replied grumpily.
“I just rang to say don’t forget to bring your driving licence.”
“My driving licence?”
“Yes, you’ll need it when we hire a car, so don’t forget it.”
“You rang me at this hour just to tell me that?” André snapped.
“I told you I was going out for the morning,” Arabella reminded him patiently. “I wanted to catch you before I left.”
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“So, you caught me. OK, OK, I won’t forget my driving licence.” When André was taken unawares early in the morning, Arabella noticed, it was East London that spoke, not France. “Good,” she said briskly. “See you later.”
She rang off before he could complain any more, and heaved a sigh of relief. André was safely at home, not skulking round her flat keeping tabs on her. It had been on her mind much of the night as she lay awake, that if he were keeping a watch on her, it would make what she had to do this morning much more difficult.
Time to move. Arabella checked that she had the documentation she needed, grabbed her bag and one of the cases she had packed; not the ostentatious, striped one she had bought at Harrods the day before, but the small black one she had taken to Paris. Even though she was sure André had been in his flat five minutes earlier and there was no way he could be outside hers in such a short time, Arabella found herself searching the street for any sign of him before she stepped out to the kerb to hail a passing taxi.
“Heathrow,” she told the driver and having given one final glance along the almost empty street, settled back into her seat. The taxi dropped her at terminal five and loading her case onto a trolley she hurried inside. During the night, she had checked-in on-line for her flight and printed her boarding pass. Now all she had to do was deliver her suitcase to a fast bag drop and she’d be ready to depart when the time came.
Chapter 28
Inspector Crozier went to see his superior, Chief Superintendent Hughes.
“I want to charge Roger Smith with his wife’s murder,” he said.
“Evidence?” said Hughes laconically.
“There’s been no sign of her since the night of 16th April. No movement in her bank account, no use of her mobile phone. No contact with friends or neighbours. No sightings, except an alleged one by her stepdaughter, Karen Smith, which I think we can discount in the circumstances.”
“Why’s that?” asked Hughes.
“Because I am certain Karen Smith was trying to establish that her stepmother was alive. That might imply that she knows she isn’t, don’t you think?”
“Possibly. Anything else?”
“Well, there’s been no result from the appeal for her whereabouts on Crimewatch apart from the usual crank calls which led to nothing. No one has seen her or heard from her at least since 16th April, and we have several things that suggest that something has happened to her.” Crozier began to tick the points off on his fingers. “Smith’s known to have abused her on several occasions. Her blood is on the landing carpet at her home. Smith originally said that it was his own, but became confused when describing how it came to be there. When it was proved to be hers he finally admitted that she had come back to the house and there had been a fight. His car is also covered in her blood and some of his clothes are too. The car was dumped nearly a hundred miles away and then reported stolen. Mrs Smith’s watch was found in the car and that had blood on its strap, suggesting that she had been wearing it when she was injured and had not lost it months ago as Roger maintains. His daughter, Karen Smith, shopped with Pamela Smith’s debit card in an effort to make it seem that her stepmother was using it. She also says that she saw Mrs Smith in Oxford Street in London, but there is no sign of her on the CCTV in the shop where Karen says she saw her. As I said, I think Karen’s simply trying to protect her father.”
“You’ve no body, Gavin,” remarked Hughes quietly.
“I know that, sir, but everything else points to the fact that she’s disappeared in extremely suspicious circumstances. At some stage she was in the house, bleeding. The blood on the landing carpet is definitely hers. The blood in the car is definitely hers. ”
“Doesn’t mean that he killed her.”
“Then where is she, sir? As far as we can tell she hasn’t been seen by anyone since that Friday night when Roger Smith has finally admitted that she came home. He’s admitted that they had a fight.” He looked across at his chief, “Smith can be an extremely violent man, sir, look how he suddenly went for me. So, I think there was a fight and that fight got out of hand.”
“So where’s the body?” asked Hughes.
I don’t know, sir. The Belcaster lads have drawn a blank in their area, but somebody dumped his car there. It could well have been Smith.”
“If that was Smith, how did he get home again? He was back in Bristol, remember by Saturday lunchtime,” pointed out Hughes.
“His daughter could have fetched him,” Crozier answered. “She has no alibi for that Friday night. Just says she was at home.”
“Has she got a car?”
“Motor bike. If she had to go and fetch him from Belshire, it would account for them not reporting the car stolen until the Saturday afternoon, when they are telling us it was taken during Friday night. At first they said it had been stolen from the front drive by someone unknown. Now they say Pamela Smith took it, but they only came up with that one once they’d been forced to admit that she’d been in the house that Friday night.”
“Sounds to me,” said Hughes, “as if the dumped car is a blind. Something to take our investigation away from here and make us concentrate our enquiries in the wrong place. In Belshire. You say the Belshire police have come up with nothing?”
“Not yet,” Crozier admitted. “They’ve found no sign of a body. It wasn’t in the flooded quarry, and though that would have been the obvious place if it had been in the car, actually he could have dumped it anywhere. We may never find it.”
“Possibly not,” said Hughes, “but I think the answer probably lies closer to home. I think we need to be concentrating our energies in our own area.”
“Where do you suggest then, sir?” asked Crozier. “I’ve searched his house and I’ve searched his business premises in connection with his handling charges. There are no clues in either place as to Mrs Smith’s whereabouts.”
“But not his garden, Crozier. You haven’t searched his garden. I think we need some more hard evidence before we can charge him. I think you should be taking a look at the garden of 12 Cardiff Road. If we want to make this charge stick we need to find her body.”
“Not necessarily,” Crozier stuck to his guns. “There have been other cases prosecuted without a body.”
“So there have,” Hughes agreed reluctantly, “but it makes life easier if there is one. Get some men over there today and start digging. If you draw a blank there we’ll talk again.”
“It’ll be a waste of time,” Crozier said to Sergeant Grant when he was back in his own office and giving the orders for the Smiths’ garden to be dug up. “I think Smith tipped her out somewhere between here and Spar Hill, and she could be anywhere. Still the chief won’t go any further until we’ve tried. At least it’s not a very big garden. Ask that nosy woman next door it there have been any recent changes there, new stonework, planting, anything like that. Keep me posted. I’ll be here in my office.”
Grant left to gather up a workforce and Crozier sat down at his desk to get on with some paperwork. The investigation into the burglaries which had led to Roger Smith being arrested in the first place was still on-going. Gordon and Charleigh Weston had vanished. They hadn’t returned to their house, and when the police made enquiries, they discovered that their house had been rented and the Westons had done a flit owing two month’s rent. Crozier read through the reports of the investigating officers and sighed.
So the trail has gone cold, he thought. The only lead we’ve got now is Roger Smith himself, and he’s only the small fry.
Crozier had hoped that Gord would ultimately lead them to the whole ring. He knew that the burglaries were all connected, not just opportunist one-off affairs, and he wanted the man behind the operation, the man putting up the money. There had been no more such break-ins since Roger had been arrested and now Charleigh and Gord had disappeared, Crozier doubted if there would be.
Probably moved on to set up the ring somewhere else, Crozier thought ruefully, and settled down to write his own
report.
It was soon after he had come back from lunch that he had a call from the Belcaster police.
“Inspector Crozier? Howard here. I think I’ve got something for you on the disappearance of your Pamela Smith.”
Crozier was immediately alert. “Have you found her body?” he asked. “Where was it?”
“No, not her body, but we are on the trail of something, or rather someone. There is a possibility that Pamela Smith moved up here when she left home and stayed with an old school friend, one Sylvia Durston.”
“Where?”
“In a village outside Belcaster called Stone Winton.”
“Is she there now?”
“No, the house is empty. No one lives there now. Unfortunately Sylvia Durston was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago, but she had had someone staying with her previously.”
“What makes you think it was Pamela Smith?” asked Crozier.
“While the friend, whoever she was, was here, she won the lottery.”
“Won the lottery?” echoed Crozier. “You mean, as in, won the jackpot?”
Exactly. She took her ticket into a local newsagent to be checked and the girl behind the counter, Emma Wilson, ran it through the machine and told her she had won a roll-over jackpot.”
“Christ!” Crozier breathed. “But what makes you think it was Pamela Smith?”
“Our local newspaper, the Chronicle, got hold of the story and tried to find the woman concerned. No one knew who she was until Emma Wilson saw her again and recognised her. She also recognised the woman who was with her because she had taught Emma history at school.”
“Sylvia Durston?”
“Sylvia Durston. Anyway, Emma’s boyfriend works for the Chronicle, which is how they got on to the story in the first place. So, reporter’s nose twitching, he followed Sylvia Durston home one evening. Miss Durston maintained she knew nothing about any lottery winner, and said that she had no one staying in her house. The reporter, Justin Woods, didn’t believe her, so he went back the next day, whilst Sylvia Durston was at school. He didn’t go to the front door, but crept round the back and saw someone sitting in the garden. A woman. He took a photo of her with a long lens.”
A Dish Served Cold Page 29
