I needn’t have worried. I’ve seen sieves that didn’t leak as quickly as Kane.
“Oh my,” he said, puffing out his cheeks. “Dear oh dear. Poison pen letters? Well I never. Oh, I knew about the fiancé’s history,” he said, his spoon chinking against the bone china teacup as he stirred the still steaming brew.
“I considered it my responsibility to review all of Olivia’s amours. She’s never been entirely worldly, you see – her nerves are rather delicate, which is understandable, when one considers the life she’s had: Her parents, and then her grandmother, quite frankly, infantilised – her. The girl has suffered from panic attacks since the accident, and is, shall we say, emotionally fragile. So I Suggested to Lady Margaret that he might not be entirely,” here he paused as though searching for the word, filled the gap by sipping the tea, and, when the cup was back in its saucer, finished: “ideal.”
“How was that advice received?” I asked.
“Well, as far as Olivia was concerned, I was Satan. Her Ladyship, on the other hand, could see my point. But what could she do? She was already ailing, and, well, Olivia could do no wrong in her grandmother’s eyes.”
“And now you’ve gotten to know Kent?” I asked.
“Oh,” James smiled, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now I’ve gotten to know Mr Benson, I consider him little more than a nasty chiselling little con artist. I shall,” he immediately added, “deny I said any of what’s just been said, if you should ever communicate it outside of these walls. But, within these walls, I’m happy to repeat it: The man’s a manipulative, scheming, conniving shit. The way he’s turned Olivia against me – oh, it’s subtle – on both of their parts: She’s still playing nice, but won’t even return my calls any more, and he’s already angling for what they’ve both called a greater degree of involvement in the management of the estate.
“Well, I can tell you this: Until Olivia’s thirtieth birthday, I have a responsibility to the Wright family estate, and he won’t be getting anywhere near those funds. Neither as a husband nor as a helpmate to the executor.”
“What about the money she was left by Lady Margaret?” Caz asked.
Kane shrugged. “That will, I’m afraid, has not yet been officially read. However, I drew it up, and entre nous, I fear that Lady Margaret may not have included as many safe guards as I’d hoped for. Basically, as soon as the probate is through, Olivia will be an even wealthier woman.”
“And, if she was to die, all the money would go to Mr Benson?”
Kane smiled softly, and shook his head. “The money – unless Olivia has arranged a will with someone else – would go to her next of kin. And, unless she marries that little con man, he will not be her next of kin.”
And someone, it seemed, wanted to ensure she never married that little con man.
“So,” I asked, “Who do you think may have sent the poison pen letters?”
Kane shrugged. “God knows. It’s not like she’s surrounded by people who have her best interests at heart. Look at the assembly the day of her grandmother’s funeral. The only people of Olivia’s age were either with the staff or were the staff.”
“There’s Jane,” Caz offered.
“The nurse?” James snorted humourlessly. “I repeat: everyone there was either with the staff or was the staff.”
“They seem friendly.”
“Listen,” James sipped from his tea again, stared reflectively into the cup, “What I’m about to say is, for the most part, public record, so all I’m about to do is save you some time on research.
“That said, and as I have previously stated, I’m aware that certain aspects of this conversation could be construed as less than professional, and so I will not only deny most of what is being said in this room, but will sue you individually and jointly for slander and defamation if you so much as breathe any of what I am about to convey outside of this room. Understood?”
We nodded, leaning in for what – from the warning we’d just received – had to be nuclear strength gossip.
“Olivia has battled with confidence issues all her life. Even, I’m told, as a small child. She was delicate, nervy, and prone to what can only be described as emotional flights. Her parents, and her brother were – along with Lady Margaret – her world, and so when a car she was passenger in plunged off a cliff in the Algarve, killing both her parents and her older brother, her world was almost completely shattered.
Olivia was left with some facial injuries as a result of the crash. Nothing serious at all, to be frank, but she became somewhat obsessed about what she saw as horrific scarring, and so finally she went to Switzerland, where she was to have some corrective surgery.
And when she returned, she had that thing with her. She’s another one who’s far too involved in Olivia’s life, that one. Tells her what to wear, what to think, what to eat, drink, and when to have it all flushed out of her system. I don’t like it, I tell you; not one little bit. She’s too controlling, and Olivia’s too easy going.”
I couldn’t help wondering if there was anyone James would approve of in Olivia’s life. It crossed my mind that, as executor of her parent’s estate, he’d been, effectively, controlling her life – or at least, had the understood role of controlling her finances – for some time, and the question of how many of his opinions were formed by the fact that these other people were pulls on Olivia’s attention.
“So,” I tried, again: “The letters? Any idea who might be sending them?”
He sipped, again, from his tea cup, draining it this time, and, having once again replaced it in the saucer, and adjusted the cup so that the handle lay just so, fixed me with his steely blue eyes. “None whatsoever,” he said, his gaze never leaving my face, “But whoever it is, I’d like to warmly shake them by the hand and share my wish that the girl will see sense before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Remind me,” Caz muttered as the door to James Kane’s office closed behind us, “To have my solicitor sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
“You have a solicitor?” I asked, wondering what on earth Caz could need with legal advice.
“Sweetness, everyone has a solicitor, surely?” She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. “I mean, who deals with, you know, the legal things in one’s life?”
“What legal things? You’ve never been arrested, as far as I know,”
“Well, there was that time that horrific Northern woman accused me of selling counterfeit Gucci on EBay,” she reminded me.
“That wasn’t arrest, Caz. That was a query email from EBay asking you to prove authenticity. It was hardly hauled-out-of-your-bed-at-three-A.M. Not that you’d be in your bed at three A.M. And she wasn’t Northern; she was from Potters Bar, if I recall.”
“And in what direction from central London is,” she shuddered at the thought of it, “Potters Bar? Anyway, Mr Ogilvie was very good and not only had EBay step down, but actually sued the lying harridan for damages. Paid for a nice new genuine Birkin for me.”
“Wait: were those Guccis fake, then?” I asked.
Caz glared at me. “The very idea! I know they were entirely genuine, because I acquired them personally from the Gucci Autumn Winter shoot.”
“So they weren’t fake; they were pinched. I take it back, you probably do need a lawyer on call.”
A cough – discrete, but distinct enough to be clearly fake, brought us back to the present, and we realised that our conversation had clearly been audible to the middle aged woman behind James Kane’s reception desk.
Caz glared at the woman, and muttered something about lawyer-client confidentiality.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “But think that only counts when it’s your lawyer, and not when it’s someone else’s lawyer’s receptionist.”
“Ipso facto,” she replied, still glaring at the now blushing woman, and speaking in tones clearly designed to be heard by the mortified receptionist, “If one word of that leaks, I sha
ll be having another handbag at someone’s expense.”
She hoiked the current handbag – another gargantuan affair that could easily have accommodated an entire Spring Summer collection or a clutch of Namibian orphans, and made to swan out of the office, with me following in her wake.
Then, in the middle of the room, she stopped dead.
I collided with her, and – above my Oof, distinctly noted the chinking tones of a couple of empty gin bottles.
“Those,” Caz stared at a designer coffee table in front of us, her French Manicure pointing directly at it, but her words definitely directed at the now almost cowering receptionist, “Are this month’s editions.”
I peered around her. On the coffee table were the expected magazines: Elle Décor, Vogue, Tatlers, Harpers Bazaar, GQ, and Yachting monthly.
Caz lifted her gaze to the Receptionist, who winced as Lady Holloway shrugged the now sliding bag back on to her shoulder, ignored the repeated chink of empty glass bottles, and stalked across the rest of the room to stand before the desk and smile – in a way that suggested the Stasi at their best – at what the sign on the desk informed us was Bridget.
“Tell me, Bridget,” she asked, the voice – as it always did, when she wished to impress the easily impressed – becoming so cut glass that her lips were basically static, “Are these the usual periodicals?”
Bridget stammered, clearly having difficulty either with the diction or the word periodical.
“The magazines,” I translated, wondering just what Caz was getting at, “are they the ones you usually have here?”
“Oh them? Yeah,” she stammered, her smile flicking on and off as Caz continued to do her best statuesque posh bird. “Yes, I mean,” she corrected, sliding into her best pronunciation. “They’re the latest ones. But we change them as soon as the new issues come out.”
Caz considered this. “And tell me, Bridget: what happens to the old issues when the new ones come in?”
“Happens to them?” The fear was back in her eyes. Perhaps – having heard our conversation – she was afraid that Caz was about to pinch them and put them on EBay.
“Yes,” Caz clarified, “When these are no longer required. Are they disposed of in the litter, or…”
“Oh,” clarity lit up her face, “No. I mean yes.”
Caz raised an eyebrow. “No and yes,” she said, and the three words spoke volumes about her view of poor Bridget’s use of the Queen’s English.
“I mean, they get chucked, mostly, in the bin. Though once or twice, Mr Kane takes ‘em home for his granddaughters. Mad on fashion, them girls are.”
“Ah,” Caz smiled – genuinely this time, and extended a hand, “Many thanks.”
Bridget, glancing at the hand, curtsied so deeply that she vanished beneath the desk, and, when she reappeared, it was to be met by Caz’s steely stare, the smile gone now.
“Thank you for your help, and remember: one word about our earlier conversation and you’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”
And so saying, Caz’s exit was completed, with me, this time, jogging to keep up with her.
“What,” I demanded, as soon as we were out on the now baking street, the heat almost leaching from the walls of the buildings, “was all that about?”
Caz slid the pair of Bulgari sunglasses down her nose only far enough for me to see her roll her eyes at me, then flipped her head back haughtily, allowing the shades to snap back into place.
“Lord,” she sighed, “what happened to the comprehensive education system in this country?”
“Caz,” I groaned through gritted teeth, “I’m hot and tired, and I want to go home. You can remind me just how superior an intellect you have when we’re somewhere air conditioned. But for now – please – what was all that about?”
“The letters,” she said, pulling a lipstick from her bag, applying it in one move, and, as she dropped the lippie back into the sack, extracting an empty bottle of Tanqueray and seamlessly crossing the pavement to deposit it in a kerbside bin.
“They were made using letters cut from magazines. And Daniel, I’ve read enough magazines in my time to recognise which ones the letters were cut from.”
“I’m guessing,” I sighed, the heat finally defeating me, “they weren’t cut from Exchange and Mart.”
“I’m not a gambling lady,” she said, though I refused for a second to believe there was a vice that she wasn’t at least passingly fond of, “but I’d lay even money that every one of those letters was cut from a Harpers Bazaar.”
Realisation dawned. “Like the ones that James Kane gets delivered every month.”
Caz nodded. “Like the ones he supposedly takes home to his fashion mad granddaughters.”
We began to walk down the street in search of a cab, the heat of the pavement actually soaking through the soles of my trainers.
“So,” Caz asked, after a moment’s silence, “Did you talk to him?”
Uh-oh. “Nick?” I tried to play it cool. “I tried; called him a couple of times, but couldn’t get through.”
“Really?” She stopped, and turned to look at me. “Only, he sent me a text to say that you’d spoken, but you’d rushed away and he was trying to get hold of you.”
“He texted you? Why the hell’s he texting you?”
“Because he knows I’ll be able to talk to you. And – he says – because every time he calls The Marq, he gets Elaine, and can’t get through. Did you tell her you didn’t want to speak to him under any circumstances?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Caz, this isn’t just a disagreement, you know. He’s married. I mean, I’ve already had Robert to deal with. He lied to me for Christ knows how long. And now, here we go again.”
“Robert,” Caz stated, staring straight in my eyes, “Was a selfish unprincipled shit. What he did was shocking only, to be honest, insofar as he didn’t do it earlier. And you know I never liked Robert; I could sense the wasn’t right for you. But Nick, Danny. Nick is right for you.”
“Once he gets rid of the wife,” I answered glumly, feeling the soles of my feet roasting slowly. “Look, Caz, there’s nothing that can be done. I’m definitely not about to become the other woman in this relationship. And even if I was, I’d have liked to have known that that’s what I was becoming at the start.”
I spotted a cab approaching from the opposite end of the street. “Anyway,” I said as I hailed it, “I’ve got too much going on right now to deal with Nick.”
“Danny, all that’s important is dealing with Nick,” Caz said, as the cab pulled up and I gave the driver the address of The Marq.
“No,” I said, “what’s important is finding out who tried to kill Anthony Taylor and ended up offing my waiter by mistake.”
Caz still wasn’t sold. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“Are you on drugs?”
“But surely there’s a more obvious victim.”
“Well as Hitler, Sadam and Bin Laden are all dead, I’m struggling to think of one…”
She sighed. “Right: You think this is a revenge killing, right? But most of the people in that room knew where Tony Taylor has been for the best part of the last decade. If they wanted revenge, they only had to get on a plane.”
I shrugged, “Most people – even the vengeful – are lazy. And forgiving.”
“Says Doctor Freud?”
“No: hear me out. I think someone hates him enough to kill him, but they don’t kill him, because, well, it’s not what you do is it? Get on a plane, fly to the other side of the world, hunt him down, and kill him in cold blood? So they forget about him; move on. Then one day, when they least expect it, he turns up again, looking fit and handsome and completely unrepentant. And they snap.”
“So what about your clients?”
“What about them?”
“You don’t think one of them might be a more likely victim?”
I made a mental note to close Caz’s bar tab. “I don’t think anyone could have mistaken
Dave Walker for Olivia.”
“No,” Caz agreed, “But they could have mistaken him for Kent Benson. Like you say, one man in black trousers and a white shirt looks pretty much the same as any other.
And if we’re talking about revenge, we already know that someone’s trying to stop the wedding to Olivia. What if that person could see that the letters weren’t working, and decided to go for more drastic action?”
“Caz,” I sighed, “How did we start with the classic one victim and a room full of suspects and end up with a room full of intended victims and no idea where to begin?”
“I guess we’re just clever,” she smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I pressed the doorbell, and had barely done so when there was a click and Anthony Taylor’s voice sounded.
“Hey,” it drawled, “C’mon up.”
There was a buzz, and the door popped open.
Caz pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway, turning her head to me, and raising a querulous eyebrow.
“Is he expecting us?” I asked.
She shrugged, “Well, he’s expecting someone.”
I followed her into the lobby, all art deco fixtures and shiny parquet, and crossed to the lift. From somewhere distant, a droning air conditioner kept the lobby and – one supposed – the entire block cool in the face of the summer onslaught outside.
Caz pressed the call button. “Are you positive about this?” she asked, as though I were Daniel about to step into a wrought iron lion’s den.
“He’s not the poison penner,” I murmured as the cage stopped with a jerk and we stepped in, “but he could be either an intended murder victim or,” Caz pressed the button for floor three, “A murderer.”
“A murderer?” She shot me a startled look.
“Well, if Kent was the intended victim, then the killer could have been Anthony,” I reasoned.
“For what possible reason?”
“Jealousy. What?” I asked, as she directed a disdainful look at me, “He might want Olivia himself. You know what these,” I stopped myself.
Death Of A Nobody Page 17
