The Lady of the Lake

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was Major Rabbitt. But it could be anybody. It’s early days, yet.’

  ‘How is the delectable Nimue Grace, by the way?’

  ‘Will you please stop using that adjective, Mr Bilson? She seems to be a very nice, accomplished woman.’

  ‘She swims naked in that lake, I hear.’

  ‘Frank, behave for goodness sake.’

  ‘I merely meant that I admire that. I have done my share of cold-water swimming and I must say swimming with no clothes on is very liberating. You should try it.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t entice you to join me?’

  ‘Goodbye, Frank.’

  ‘At least make it au revoir, Sarah.’

  Gilchrist hung up.

  Kate Simpson arrived first at the Hotel du Vin. She settled herself on one of the sofas that ran along the wall to the left of the bar. She sipped her wine and gazed up at the rafters far above.

  Sarah Gilchrist came in soon after, dressed in her regulation uniform of jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket.

  They hugged and Gilchrist ordered a large glass of wine.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Daft question though that is.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ Kate said. ‘Mum and I never really got on. She was a cold bitch, frankly. But her suicide has really got to me.’

  ‘Suicides do that,’ Gilchrist said. ‘They leave a lot of questions and few answers.’

  Gilchrist’s wine arrived. They chinked glasses.

  ‘The main question is why did she do it?’ Kate said. ‘I mean, I would never have imagined in a million years that my mum was the suicidal type. But then again she never gave anything away. Especially after she left dad. Then she closed up even more.’

  Gilchrist thought about Kate’s father, William Simpson. Gilchrist had been badly affected by her own part as a firearms officer in the so-called Milldean Massacre – a police raid that had gone badly wrong some years earlier. Simpson, a government spin doctor at a time when the term was fashionable, had been somehow involved in it. Quite how was never satisfactorily explained and he had got away with whatever he had done while his then friend, Bob Watts, had lost his job as chief constable of Brighton thanks to Simpson’s machinations. Those machinations had involved exposing the one-night stand Gilchrist and Watts had shared at a police conference. In consequence, Gilchrist had no time for Simpson.

  ‘How is your father being?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Himself,’ Kate said. ‘With all that implies.’

  ‘Is he interfering much with whatever you’re planning for the service?’

  ‘He’s not interfering at all – far too busy. But, to be honest, I’m not sure what I’m planning for the service. I just want it over with. And that crematorium has bad memories for me so that doesn’t help.’

  Some months earlier, Gilchrist knew, Kate had been assaulted by a gang of teenage hoodlums in the cemetery beside the crematorium.

  ‘Is he paying for the burial?’

  ‘He is. At least he said so and nobody has asked me for money.’

  ‘Will there be many people coming?’

  ‘Hardly anybody. Mum really kept to herself.’

  ‘If you want to swell the numbers I’ll come – and I’ll bring a date.’

  Kate laughed. ‘If you had a date.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘What’s happening on that front?’ Kate said, clearly eager to change the subject.

  ‘Well, a strong woman in a relatively senior position who works all the hours God – or somebody – sends finds it ain’t exactly easy to find a suitable date.’

  ‘I’m sure Bob still carries a torch for you.’

  ‘Bob Watts?’ Gilchrist shook her head. ‘That ship sailed long ago. There was a time but that was then. Besides, he prefers young dolly birds these days.’

  ‘You mean that swimmer who is a business colleague of dad’s? He never pursued that.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘He tells me stuff. He’s like my uncle.’

  ‘You mean Bob’s your uncle?’ Gilchrist said, laughing uneasily. Uneasily because she knew Bob Watts actually was Kate’s uncle though Kate didn’t know it. Watts had confided it to Gilchrist once and she had urged him to tell Kate but she didn’t think he had. Bob’s father, a charismatic but nasty piece of work, had had an affair with Kate’s grandmother. The dread William Simpson and Bob Watts were half-brothers.

  ‘Bob said that woman was too young, plus he has a thing about integrity. And he didn’t think that as a hedge fund manager she could have any.’

  ‘He told you those things?’ Gilchrist said. ‘He’s probably right but I have enough trouble figuring out my overdraft – hedge funds are way beyond me.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Listen, your father’s name has come up again in a new investigation we’ve just started.’

  ‘Again? Oh, you mean after the Milldean thing.’

  ‘Well, there was that too but, no, his name came up a few months ago in the course of our investigation into those swimming murders. His business links seemed a bit dodgy but we didn’t have time to follow it up.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘You were a bit busy at the time, as I recall.’

  ‘True – for what good that did me.’

  ‘The attempt on the Channel did you a lot of good – you were so near reaching France!’

  Kate shrugged. ‘But now you do have time to follow it up.’

  ‘Well, something else has come up that we might need to move on. This is just a heads up to you really. I thought it would be easier if I told you rather than Bellamy.’

  ‘Can you say what you’re working on?’

  ‘Death of a businessman over Plumpton racecourse way. Richard Rabbitt. Excuse me: Major Richard Rabbitt. Did you ever meet him?’

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘No bells going off. And the death was suspicious?’

  ‘The businessman was found in Nimue Grace’s lake with his throat cut.’

  ‘Jesus. That sounds pretty suspicious. But it also sounds like the start of a movie. You mean Nimue Grace, the movie star, right? Did you meet her?’ Gilchrist nodded. ‘How did she look?’

  ‘Sickeningly beautiful, even dressed down and without any make-up.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Exactly. Interesting though.’

  ‘Really? I always assumed she was one of those women who define themselves by their breasts. You know: I have great tits, therefore I am.’

  ‘Me too, but she’s not like that.’

  ‘Does she still act in films?’

  ‘Apparently not. I read she turned her back on all that but nobody knows why.’

  They sat in silence for a moment but Kate clearly couldn’t settle.

  ‘So what has my dad done this time?’

  ‘Not sure yet but he’s in business with the murder victim.’

  Kate sighed and leaned forward over her drink. ‘The funeral’s Thursday. Do bring a date.’

  THREE

  ‘What about paying a visit to Rhoda Knowles in Plumpton Green?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Gilchrist said. Just then her phone rang.

  ‘Ms Grace? Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Grace said. ‘Listen, why don’t you two come over for lunch. There is other stuff I need to tell you that may or may not be relevant but you said you have to cast your net wide, right?’

  ‘Perhaps a more formal interview – lunch isn’t necessary.’

  ‘But you’ve got to eat, surely? Or is it sandwiches in the car usually?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘All the more reason to have a proper meal when it’s offered. You can caution me or whatever you do, if that makes it feel more normal.’

  Gilchrist laughed. ‘That won’t be necessary. OK, then. Around 12.30?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Ms Grace – do you know Richard Rab
bitt’s secretary, Rhoda Knowles?’

  ‘Met her a couple of times. Nice enough woman but not much to say for herself. I always assumed he was shtupping her.’

  Plumpton Green was a long straggly village on the east side of the Lewes–London railway track. Plumpton racecourse lay on the west side and the gentle slopes of the Downs were vividly etched against the blue sky in the south.

  ‘You a race-goer, Bellamy?’

  ‘Not me, ma’am. Though I came to a huge car boot fair on the racetrack here once.’

  ‘Get anything good?’

  ‘Couple of cockney spivs selling bootleg DVDs.’

  ‘Ah, those days before streaming and Netflix.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Rhoda Knowles lived across the road from the village shop and sub-post office in a small, 1950s cottage behind a high, neatly tended privet hedge. It was hard to tell if the bell worked as they couldn’t hear it ring in the house. Even so, a bright-faced woman in her early thirties answered the door in jeans and a fleece. Bright-faced but with puffy eyes and downturned mouth.

  ‘Rhoda Knowles?’ Gilchrist said then introduced herself and Bellamy Heap. ‘It’s about Richard Rabbitt. May we come in?’

  ‘Major Rabbitt,’ Knowles said, stepping aside. She ushered them into her small cluttered living room. Cluttered mostly with soft toys of all kinds and sizes. Knowles shifted three cats and a teddy bear off the sofa for them. As they sat she stood before them, hugging the soft toys.

  ‘I can’t have cats,’ she said. ‘I’m allergic.’

  Gilchrist nodded.

  ‘Major Rabbitt’s death has hit you hard, I can see,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Was he a good employer?’

  ‘He was good to me,’ Knowles almost whispered. She was still standing over them, hugging the soft toys.

  ‘Please – sit, Ms Knowles,’ Heap said gently.

  Knowles kind of backed into an armchair, still holding onto the soft toys.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘The day before his body was found,’ Knowles said. ‘At the end of my working day.’

  ‘What exactly did you do for Major Rabbitt?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Knowles said, suddenly indignant.

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘Exactly what I asked. What were your duties?’

  ‘I was his secretary. I performed secretarial and clerical duties. Arranging appointments, typing up his correspondence – all the usual stuff.’

  ‘Was he a very busy man?’ Heap said.

  ‘Very,’ Knowles said. ‘But he always found time for a kind word.’

  Gilchrist tried not to raise an eyebrow. If Rabbitt wasn’t shtupping Knowles, Knowles certainly wanted him to.

  ‘Fingers in a lot of pies?’ Heap said.

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘Does that mean he could make enemies?’ Gilchrist said.

  Knowles thought for a moment. ‘He might have had enemies but they weren’t necessarily of his own making.’

  ‘Did he have enemies?’ Heap said.

  ‘As I said, he might have,’ Knowles said carefully.

  ‘Would you know if he had?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Knowles said.

  ‘You can see why we’re asking the question?’ Heap said.

  Knowles nodded. ‘I just don’t know the answer.’

  ‘You’re sounding a little evasive, if I may say,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘You’re the police, you may say anything you like with impunity.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘You’ve had a bad experience with the police?’

  ‘No more than most people,’ Knowles said.

  ‘We’re sorry you have that view of us,’ Heap said. ‘We’re just trying to find out who murdered your boss.’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘But you can’t think of anyone who might wish him harm? He hadn’t had a recent falling out with anybody?’

  Knowles sighed. ‘There were people he didn’t get on with, naturally. That’s normal. But usually it was because they were trying to destroy the environment he cared so much about.’

  ‘He was an environmentalist?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘No – I mean, yes, he was, of course. But I was referring to his immediate environment. He had a vision for the estate, for restoring it to its original beauty, but he was constantly frustrated by the plans of his neighbours.’

  ‘They had their own ideas?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Telephone masts for mobile phones,’ Knowles muttered. ‘Ostriches …’

  ‘There is an ostrich farm nearby?’ Heap said.

  ‘You mean you haven’t seen the stupid creatures wandering around?’ She snorted then seemed to address the teddy bear in her arms. ‘A flightless bird – what is the point of that, eh?’

  ‘So no enemies you can think of,’ Gilchrist said. ‘No one who might wish him harm?’

  Knowles was still looking at the teddy bear.

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘Do you have his diary?’ Gilchrist said. ‘It didn’t seem to be in his office when we went there earlier today. We need to see his appointments for the day before his death – and, indeed, the day of his death.’

  ‘I haven’t got it. It should be in the desk in the office. But there would be nothing in there for the day before – that was a Sunday and he only did social things on a Sunday.’

  ‘His computer isn’t there either.’

  ‘I don’t know why that would be. It was on his desk when I left work yesterday.’

  ‘Do you know where Tallulah Granger is?’ Heap said.

  ‘I have very little to do with her.’

  ‘What about the Airbnb she administers for the major? Does that not overlap with your work?’

  ‘Completely separate. The major just lets her get on with it. He disapproves of it actually but recognizes it is a valuable revenue stream.’

  ‘He makes a tidy profit, I would imagine,’ Heap said.

  ‘Well, it is his house,’ Knowles said tartly.

  ‘Did you see Tallulah Granger yesterday?’ Heap said.

  ‘Briefly. Passing in the hall kind of thing.’

  ‘Can you think where she might be?’ Heap persisted.

  ‘Perhaps at her flat in Oxford? She rents it out but I think she’s between tenants.’

  ‘Do you think she might have removed the computer?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that,’ Knowles said, ‘except to say that I have no idea. She has full access to the left wing if she needs it.’

  ‘You have the address of her Oxford flat?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find it in the office.’

  ‘Ms Knowles, can you think of a reason Major Rabbitt might have been down at Nimue Grace’s lake.’

  ‘Where is his car?’ Knowles said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Was his car parked by the lake?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware there was no car parked by the lake,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Then I don’t know why he was by the lake. I thought he might have been driving by and seen something that made him get out of the car.’

  ‘Are you also suggesting his car isn’t parked at the house?’ Heap said.

  ‘Exactly right,’ Knowles said. ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Give us the details of it before we leave and we will follow that up,’ Heap said. ‘Thank you for that information.’

  ‘Are there particular business partners we should be talking to?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ Knowles said.

  ‘Ms Granger mentioned a Said Farzi?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘A charming man, though I’ve only met him a couple of times. Moroccan, I believe. Speaks perfect French – better than his English, actually. I think they were going to invest in property in Brighton together. I wouldn’t be involved in that kind of business. Major Rabbitt kept some things to himself.’

  ‘
And William Simpson?’

  Knowles thought for a moment. ‘I’m not familiar with that name.’

  Gilchrist and Heap left shortly afterwards. At the door Knowles gave them Rabbitt’s car details.

  ‘Have you had a chance to do any research on Said Farzi, Bellamy?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I put Sylvia Wade onto it, ma’am. You think he might be involved – or you hope he might be involved?’

  ‘Well, yes, I don’t think this is coincidence.’

  ‘I’m willing to believe he’s not above board,’ Heap said. ‘You know how it works, ma’am, with any newly arrived immigrant community. Criminals arrive too and they feed off the other immigrants – protection rackets and so on – before they expand into making everyone else’s lives a misery after they’ve got into conflict with home-grown villains who’ve done their share of feeding off their neighbours. And Said Farzi may well be one of these. First he will have started exploiting his fellow Moroccans, then he would work out from there.’

  ‘So we need to talk to Rabbitt’s sister – if we can track her down – about that business arrangement with her brother. And Nimue Grace about her neighbour. What do you think about Nimue Grace?’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like her,’ Heap said.

  ‘I don’t think any of us have. She got to you?’

  ‘Not in that obvious way. But yes. Didn’t she get to you?’

  Gilchrist looked out of the window. ‘Yes,’ she finally said. ‘As discussed. I found myself telling her all kinds of private things.’

  ‘Well, I want to do right by her if she is innocent of any crime but this somehow washes up at her door. I hate the way the tabloids work. And they are going to be onto this story any time now.’

  ‘Don’t we all, Bellamy? But can we be certain yet that she is innocent of any crime?’

  ‘As discussed, ma’am.’ Heap tilted his head. ‘Did you notice that bit of puckering by her left ear?’

  ‘I did but I thought not plastic surgery?’

  ‘I agree, ma’am. Scarring though, for sure.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the lake. The dredger is supposed to have arrived by now.’

  DC Sylvia Wade phoned with Tallulah Granger’s Oxford address as Gilchrist and Heap were watching the small dredger being winched off the back of a lorry. ‘It’s just behind Oxford station, ma’am, so you might want to let the train take the strain.’