A Very Private Murder (17 page)

‘Probably. How did he pitch the sale? Did he try to impress you with his successes so far? I’m trying to find any members of the syndicate, but nobody’s admitting it.’

‘Well you wouldn’t, would you? Family and friends; that’s who snake oil salesmen approach first. He did tell me one name – thought it would impress me.’

‘Which was?’

‘Hmm, I’ve forgotten. Owned a stately home over that way. The faded gentry, down on his uppers like the rest of them.’

‘Try Curzon for size.’

‘That’s him: Lord Curzon.’

We spun Threadneedle’s house without finding anything incriminating. Unless you call a wad of calling cards for young ladies who taught French while dressed as maids incriminating. There was an office and we found lists of names and numbers but our fraud people couldn’t make any sense of them. He had secrets, but he kept them well buried. His company offices were in Halifax and we turned them, too. He had a small staff but they were the legitimate front of his activities. The general picture was that he could do quite nicely within the accepted business practices of palm greasing and ‘entertainment’ without overtly breaking the law. I gave the cards to Maggie and told her to look one or two of them up, see what they could tell us. I wasn’t hopeful: you don’t bite the hand that fondles you.

Janet Threadneedle was our
numero uno
suspect, much as it pained me to admit it. She had motive aplenty and might even sail a manslaughter rap if she confessed. She had opportunity and she may have had a gun. Trouble was, what did she do with it? And with her clothes? The boffins assured me that they’d be spattered with bits of Arthur George, but where were they?

We drew routes from the house to the supermarket and back, and searched every dumpster, litter bin and hedge bottom within shouting distance. We had the mounties on the towpath, the underwater search unit frolicking in the canal and the task force on their knees in the park, all to no avail. We found enough used condoms to rubberise an airship, several dead animals, a Honda C90 and the statue of Buddha that vanished from outside the Bamboo Curtain in about 1995. No gun, no bloodstained shoes, no outer clothing. I began to think about other suspects.

Friday morning it rained, and the shorts and tees that had predominated gave way to umbrellas and rain hats. Office girls who’d had a week of clacking about in flip-flops with exposed midriffs were suddenly clad in oilskins and sou’westers, like Whitby lifeboat crew. I sat in the car at the traffic lights, wipers slapping to and fro, and wondered how they did it.

Most of the team were in the office, doing reports to leave the weekend clear. I hung my wet jacket up and joined them, after checking the kettle. It was empty, as usual.

‘I’ll get it,’ Serena said, rising to her feet.

‘It’s OK,’ I told her, and went to fill it.

We had tea, regular coffee, decaffeinated coffee and a couple of sachets of hot chocolate. I made myself a hot chocolate, because I deserved it, and tipped a spoonful of creamer into it, purely for the vitamins and trace elements it contained. I watched the clouds it made swirl and fold for a few seconds, wishing I could capture the moment on canvas, then carried it to the chair Dave had shoved my way.

‘So what have we got?’ I asked, sitting down.

‘You’re invited to Frankie & Benny’s tomorrow afternoon,’ Dave told me. ‘It’s Dan’s birthday. We were hoping to have a barbecue but the forecast’s terrible, so we asked him where he wanted to go and he said Frankie & Benny’s.’

Dan is Dave’s teenage son and a pal of mine. ‘Who are Frankie and Benny?’ I asked.

‘No idea. Just two blokes who started a restaurant, I suppose. In America, of course.’

Brendan said: ‘Maybe they were a couple of celebrities, like the film stars who started Planet Hollywood.’

‘You mean, like, it could be Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman?’

‘Exactly.’

Jeff said: ‘Sammy Davis Junior and Ella Fitzgerald were the first to open a celebrity restaurant.’

‘Gerraway.’

‘Yeah. It didn’t do very well, though, but what did they expect with a name like Sam ’n’ Ella’s?’

We tried not to laugh but it was difficult. The ringing of the phone saved me. Dave picked it up and caught my eye as he listened.

‘I’ll put him on. James Curzon, for DI Priest,’ he said, proffering the handset.

‘Hello, James,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Hello, Charlie. I’m sorry to ring you at work but I’m trying to find out about restorative justice. Do you know if there’s a scheme in East Yorkshire?’

‘Umm, I’m not sure. The probation service is the place to ask. Can you tell me about it?’

‘Yes. It’s Toby. She’s been arrested for stealing.’ 

I sometimes see myself as a salesman. Or a sales manager. Make that an
executive
. I fly about all over the country, taking orders, finding new markets, spreading goodwill. Then I call in the troops to do the dirty work, stack the shelves, take the flak. I wasn’t sure where keeping a precocious
thirteen-year
-old out of the juvenile court fitted into the template, but there was some leverage in it, that was for sure. I told Curzon that I’d be over about ten the next day, which was Saturday.

He’d filled me in over the phone. The Country Homes Association ran the commercial side of Curzon House and now owned most of the furniture and stately home trappings that went with it, including a collection of egg cups.

‘Egg cups?’ I’d queried, before remembering that he’d been making a display unit for them when I saw him in his workshop. He told me that the history of the decorated egg cup was the history of the nation. In the days before satirical television the subversives in our fair land resorted to any means available to promote their views, of which the humble egg cup was just one avenue.

‘It’s still going on,’ Curzon told me. ‘Even today,’ he said, ‘a certain sector of the population like to start the day by bashing in the prime minister’s skull.’

‘I’ll believe you,’ I’d said. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, perhaps I am overselling them a little,’ he’d replied. ‘But when we handed over to the CHA there was a modest collection, which they have built up to be one of the biggest in the country. We didn’t have Chippendales in every room, or a Harrison clock – had to make do with what we had.’

An antiques dealer in Scarborough had bought five egg cups over the previous weeks from a youth who’d called in his shop with them. Recently, the dealer had paid a visit to Curzon House, seen the collection and guessed that it was the origin of his egg cups. He’d reported to the security staff and the police were informed. CCTV was rigged up and yesterday Toby was filmed palming one from the collection.

‘What does she say?’ I asked.

‘She’s upset and shamefaced, but defiant. Hasn’t said anything. She can be a proper little madam when it suits her. I’ll be grateful for any help you can offer, Charlie. She looks up to you. I’m just her stupid old dad; you’re a figure of authority. I’m not asking you to pull any strings. I could do that myself but she’ll have to have what’s coming to her. I was hoping you might have a word with her, point her in the right direction … Oh, I don’t know what I wanted. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m wasting your time.’

‘What does Grizzly think you should do?’

‘She’s down at Sandringham again, doesn’t know about it.’

‘How old is Toby?’

‘Thirteen. She’s older than she looks.’

‘OK. The worst scenario is that she’ll be given a reprimand. If she’s contrite, and considering that it was once her own home, we’d probably prefer to forget the whole thing. A reprimand is not a criminal record, but it might stay on the file until she’s about eighteen. It’s a while since I was in uniform and dealt cautions out, and they keep changing the rules.’

‘I don’t want her to think she’s got away with it, and what about the youth who she stole them for?’

‘She won’t say who he is?’

‘No.’

* * *

Which was why, lunchtime Saturday, I was parking as near as I could get to my usual place in front of Curzon House. The overnight downpour had slowed to a steady drizzle and the blossom that had laden the trees for the previous few days was now drifting across the roads, clogging the gutters and lying in sodden, swirled heaps where the streams of water had deposited it. What had been a source of beauty was now an eyesore.

‘Is that Ghislaine’s car outside?’ I asked Curzon as we clumped up a wooden staircase, its threadbare carpet held in place with brass stair rods.

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened to Sandringham?’

‘Cancelled at short notice. His royal nibs has been called to an exercise on Salisbury Plain, playing cowboys and Indians in tanks and helicopters. I think she’s a bit disappointed, but she knows that’s one of the prices she has to pay.’

We were there. Curzon knocked on her bedroom door and pushed it open. ‘Inspector Priest to see you,’ he announced.

Toby was sitting in a rocking chair near the window, polishing her spectacles, the latest
Harry Potter
on her knee. Her father was carrying a tray that held two mugs of coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Toby had been grounded since the offence, sentenced to eat in her room, but had not touched any of her meals.

‘It’s “Inspector” today, Toby,’ I told her. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘Oh.’

Her father placed the tray on a low table and backed out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, reluctantly, unsure if he was doing the right thing.

I looked around the room before sitting near the table, across the window from Toby. Apart from being the size of a small country’s airport terminal it was much like any other child’s room that I’d been in, and that was quite a few. Posters on the walls that contrasted oddly with each other: a sweaty Rafael Nadal facing Winnie the Pooh; a boy band – McFly – next to Munch’s
The
Scream
; the inevitable teddy bears and good ol’ Bart Simpson on his skateboard. Not many bears; just enough to remind you that it was the room of a young person at the crossroads. A painting of a seabird with sheer white cliffs in the background hung on the wall behind her bed. I thought about the owners of those other rooms I’d been in. Most of them were never seen alive again. I chose a sandwich and bit into it. Smoked salmon and cream cheese, very nice.

‘So what would you like to tell me?’ I asked between mouthfuls, waving the uneaten portion at her.

‘Just that I’m very sorry for what I did and won’t let it happen again.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I … I … They used to belong to us. It’s not fair. I only took what I thought was ours. Daddy used to own all this, once. I did it for the badgers. It costs money to look after them. I didn’t keep any money for myself.’

‘What did you do with the egg cups?’ I took another sandwich. Chicken and mayonnaise this time.

Long silence, then: ‘I gave them away.’

I told her that technically it was thieving and wrong: the egg cups belonged to someone else. A few nights ago I’d caught her with a shotgun, threatening to shoot someone, and now she’d been caught stealing. If she went to court she’d be branded a criminal and that would stay with her for the rest of her life. I was upset, I told her, because I thought we were friends, but I was a cop and had to be careful about my friends. And what about her daddy? He loved her but was worried stiff that she’d get into serious trouble. He wanted to be proud of her, not ashamed. We all did. It was good that she cared about the badgers, and there were some cruel people about, but the law should be left to deal with them.

I don’t know how much she took in. When your life expectancy is thirty-seven it probably colours your outlook. The next sandwich was rather tasty beef, sliced very thinly, with horseradish.

‘They break their jaws,’ she protested, ‘then set the dogs on them. Or they pull their claws out and chain their legs so they can’t fight properly. They don’t stand a chance.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘There are some wicked people out there, but there are laws to deal with them. You’ve got to decide which side of the law you want to be on: inside or outside. You can’t take them on all by yourself, Toby. Tell what you know to the professionals and leave it to them.’

She sat back in her chair and rocked it to and fro, the light from the window reflecting off her spectacles so I couldn’t see her eyes. ‘Did you do the painting?’ I asked, nodding towards it.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s very good. A puffin, isn’t it?’

‘Thank you. Yes, they’re my favourites. Daddy was going to take me to see them at Bempton, but I don’t suppose he will, now.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve a feeling you can twist him round your little finger.’ That was why he’d called me in: to represent the stern face of the law, but I was failing miserably. I tried again: ‘Whose idea was it for you to steal the egg cups?’ I asked, through a mouthful of sarnie.

‘It was mine,’ she replied, head down, hardly audible.

‘But someone encouraged you?’

‘They were only stupid egg cups.’

‘They belonged to someone else.’

‘We needed the money.’

‘The badger protection group?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What’s the group called?’

‘We don’t have a name. Newt … our leader … says names only make it easy for people to label us.’

‘Do individuals have names?’

‘No, not proper ones.’

‘How do you address each other?’

‘We have
noms de guerre
.’

‘War names. Is that how you see it, as a war?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So what’s your leader’s war name?’ She didn’t answer, sat looking down at the carpet. ‘It’s decision time, Toby,’ I said. ‘What’s his name? I need to know that you’ve broken away from the group, that you are sincere when you say you’re sorry.’

‘He’s called Newt.’

‘As in Newton?’

‘No. As in
Triturus vulgaris
, the common newt.’

‘Latin,’ I said. ‘I only know one Latin name for anything.’