A Very Private Murder (7 page)

‘What are we looking for?’ Dave asked when I handed him the list of nineteen dog owners.

‘Use your intuition,’ I said, adding: ‘There should be one of those high-pitched dog-scarer whistles at the front desk. I’d take that if I were you.’

‘Do they work against pit bulls?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘In that case I’ll settle for a .38.’

As he was pulling his jacket on Maggie shouted for me and we both strode over to her desk, where she was studying the CCTV recordings on her Lenovo laptop.

‘Have you found something, Maggie?’ I asked.

‘I think so. Look at this.’

It was timed at 00.14 on 14
^th
May 2007, in other words, early Monday morning, before the official opening. The system was set to take a snapshot every second and the camera was pointing at the raised dais area, with the curtains in front of the plaque clearly visible. Suddenly a figure appeared, striding jerkily towards the plaque in giant leaps, like someone’s early attempts at moving cinematography. He was wearing a security man’s fluorescent jacket that engulfed him, a woolly hat pulled down over his eyes and his sweatshirt hood pulled over the hat. Successive frames showed him standing in front of the plaque, then the curtains were open, then he’d painted FUC, then the curtains were closed again and he’d turned towards us, but with his head lowered to hide his face, as if he knew we were watching.

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Can you get a still off it?’

‘Um, I imagine so.’

‘Not that it shows us much.’

Maggie said: ‘No, but now that we know the time we can race through all the other disks and possibly trace laddo’s route through the Centre.’

‘Brilliant. Let me know when you have more. Meanwhile, I’ll try to placate the boss.’

Mr Wood had gone off for the day so I rang the chief constable’s office and his secretary put me through, which was a surprise. I’d been rehearsing my ‘tell him I rang’ line but instead I found myself relating all about the fingerprint and the CCTV and suggesting that we back-pedal with the investigation in the short term but keep it on the books in case we ever made a decent ID. The newspapers had been reasonably subdued in their reporting of the incident, partly due to bad news from Iraq, and it made sense to let things fade away, like snow in April, and the CC agreed with me. It wasn’t a target point, but we were off the hook and I could concentrate on catching robbers. Except that I couldn’t help feeling that there was still some unfinished business with Mayor Threadneedle and his affairs.

We’d had a warm spring and now the cherry and mayflower trees were bowing down under the weight of blossom they carried, like virgin brides in some Eastern ritual to mark the dawning of the new year. I was driving down the Parkway, away from Heckley, determined to salvage the remnants of my holiday.

The Lake District was my intended destination. I felt in need of a strenuous challenge, dragging some clean air through my coked-up lungs and the feel of a decent altitude beneath my boots. I’d spent the evening before poring over my maps and had decided that the Coledale Round, near Keswick, was worth a revisit. It was a tough walk but had the advantage of several drop-out points if it all became too much or if the weather changed. Then it would be a speciality goulash in the Dog and Gun, a couple of pints of Jennings and sleep like a zombie in my favourite B&B. Paradise. I’d had a perfunctory glance at the map for East Yorkshire, but when it comes to landscapes I prefer the wild and rugged to the pretty-pretty. I found the stately home symbol representing Curzon House and drew a circle around it. The area looked interesting, with miles of criss-crossing footpaths, but it was in the Yorkshire Wolds, not renowned for their altitude, and I decided it might be worth a visit sometime in the future. Not now, though; today we were heading for the mountains.

So why, when we reached the motorway, the car turned east instead of west, I’ll never know. I didn’t fight it or waste energy justifying the decision; I just settled down for the drive and looked forward to renewing my acquaintance with Curzon House and its surroundings.

I did a five-miler in the morning, taking in a medieval village called Low Ogglethorp, which was just a bumpy field, and a couple of churchyards, before arriving back at Curzon House, near the village of High Ogglethorpe. A painted wooden sign told me that the village was a regular finalist in the Yorkshire in Bloom competition. Near the end of the walk I called in the Boar’s Head for a ham sandwich and a pint, apparently arousing the displeasure of the landlord who was in a deep discussion with a woman sitting on a bar stool with what could have been a gin and tonic before her. It could equally have been a glass of water, although the portion was rather small for a water. She was furtively dragging on a cigarette, her enjoyment enhanced by the knowledge that in another six weeks the anti-smoking bill would come into force and she’d have to go outside for her nicotine fix.

‘Your sandwich’ll be ’ere in a couple of minutes,’ the landlord told me as he returned from placing the order with someone in a back room. He gave me my change and topped up my drink.

‘Is there a B&B in the village?’ I asked and the woman cleared her throat in readiness to speak. He beat her to it.

‘Phyllis ’ere runs one,’ he told me. ‘Don’t think she’s rushed off ’er feet at the moment, are you, Phyl?’

‘Not at the moment. Brad and Angelina only stayed the one night. It’s twenty-five pounds, if you’re interested. En suite bathroom and full English breakfast included.’ She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, pressing the butt next to her two earlier ones. A spiral of blue smoke climbed from it and I thought that the ban couldn’t come soon enough for me.

‘Sounds fine,’ I said. ‘Book me in.’

‘Just the one night?’

‘For the moment.’

‘Will you need an evening meal?’

I hesitated, but the landlord stepped in with his three pennyworths: ‘Phyl’s the best cook this side o’ Market Weighton. Her steak and kidney is worth dying for.’

I wasn’t too sure about the recommendation, but I placed my order for seven-thirty. I had a feeling that – what was the expression? – they’d
seen me coming
and ganged up on me, and I’d fallen for the
drop of York
, as my dad would have put it. Never mind, I thought, Phyllis’s cooking would no doubt be better than I’d find in a pub, and more wholesome, and I was partial to a decent steak and kidney.

‘You’re with the press?’ the landlord hit me with as I lifted my pint of Copper Dragon to my lips. I took a slow sip, considering my reply.

‘Ah, you keep a decent pint. The press? No, not me.’

‘You’re wearing good gear. A bit over the top for these parts, if you don’t mind me saying.’

I looked down at my three-season boots, my Tog 24 shirt and my rucksack leaning on the wall just inside the door. He was right: it was a warm day and I was overdressed for a summer’s lowland walk.

‘Do you get many press people in the village?’ I asked.

‘A tidy few.’

‘What’s the attraction?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘How about a certain Miss Curzon?’

‘Curzon? Curzon?’ he mused. ‘New one on me. Mean anything to you, Phyl?’

‘Never heard of her,’ she replied.

‘Your loyalty is commendable,’ I told them, knowing that their loyalty was as substantial as the blossom on the trees that lined the village and, like that blossom, would go whichever way the wind took it. I decided to play a high card. ‘I’m police,’ I said, reaching for my ID, ‘and I’m here for the walking. And the beer.’

The landlord took hold of my card and studied it. ‘A detective inspector,’ he read. ‘Detective Inspector Priest.’

I eased it from his grasp and replaced it in my pocket. ‘I’ll sit over in the corner, and …’ I nodded towards the ashtray ‘… enjoy it while you can.’

The sandwich was made from locally raised ham cut straight from the bone, which meant it was edged with a thick layer of fat. I prefer it in sanitised slices exactly the same shape as the bread. It came with a selection of chutneys, which helped it go down, but it wasn’t the culinary experience I’d hoped for.

The intention was to do another loop walk in the afternoon, but when I arrived back at the car I decided that a pot of tea in the house’s tea shop was a more attractive proposition. I’d been the first to arrive that morning, but now there were ten or fifteen cars sharing the huge parking area. Needless to say, one of them had managed to squeeze in about six inches from mine. I checked for dents, changed into my trainers and wandered off to see what was on offer.

I settled for a wedge of fruit cake with a slice of Wensleydale cheese and was dabbing up the last few crumbs when I saw a familiar figure come into the tea room, look around and head in my direction. I stood to welcome him and we shook hands.

‘Hello, Mr Curzon,’ I said. ‘Just thought I’d check out your fruit cake. It’s a weakness of mine.’

‘Toby saw you from her window. You should have rung ahead. Have you been walking?’

‘Hardly, but knowing when to quit is a sign of maturity.’

‘The least we could have done is feed you.’ He leant forward conspiratorially and added: ‘Especially at these prices.’

‘They are a bit steep,’ I agreed,
sotto voce
.

We chatted for a while about global warming, the economy, weapons of mass destruction and other lightweight topics until I asked how the girls were and the curtain came down. After a few seconds’ silence he said: ‘Come up to the house, the bit we live in, and we’ll have a chat and another pot of tea. That is … if you’re not wanting to be away.’

‘Actually,’ I began, ‘I’ve booked in to a B&B in the village, so I’m in no hurry to be off. I’m not sure if I was wise, but the deed’s done, now.’

‘Phyllis Smith’s? Phyllis will look after you. And tell you all the gossip. Take most of it with a pinch of salt – you know what villages are like. Her pies are legendary.’

We sat in the same kitchen as before, which, I learnt, had originally been meant for the staff. The main kitchen, which was elsewhere, was now a feature of the Stately Home Experience and open only to ticket holders.

‘You asked about my daughters,’ he began. ‘Toby’s not very well: having a bad day. Grizzly’s gone to see … you-know-who … her boyfriend. She was driving up to Catterick and then flying down to Sandringham. She’s certainly moving in influential circles, these days.’

I said: ‘It can’t have been easy, bringing up two girls and looking after this place.’

He smiled. ‘We had our moments. Grizzly was fourteen when her mother died but Toby was only three. We could’ve gone under but the Country Homes Association saved us. Grizzly took charge: did most of the negotiations; looked after both of us. She’s … amazing. I only hope …’ He let it hang there for a while, then went on: ‘I only hope she’s aware of what she’s doing, that she doesn’t get hurt.’

I opened my mouth to speak, then realised it would sound as if I was prying, so I closed it again. We sat in silence for a moment until he said: ‘I’m sorry. What were you going to say?’

‘I was going to say that you sound as if you disapprove, but I’m trying not to ask anything too personal. I appreciate that your daughter has a price on her head these days. Sections of the public think she’s their property. You’re living in a topsy-turvy world, can’t possibly know who you can trust and who you can’t. Let’s change the subject, eh? We’ve found a fingerprint on the paint tube the graffiti artist used, but haven’t made a match. If he steps out of line in the next sixty years, we’ll have him.’

‘Disapprove?’ he echoed. ‘Would you approve, Inspector?’

‘Probably not. And it’s Charlie.’

‘Hello, Charlie. Call me James. Sixty years? I’ve heard about the wheels of justice being ponderously slow, but that’s ridiculous.’ He was smiling as he said it.

‘We have a long memory,’ I explained.

‘On Tuesday,’ he began, ‘I believe you said you’d talked to Threadneedle. Did you happen to see his wife, Jan?’

‘Yes. I had an interesting chat with her.’

‘How is she?’

This is more like it, I thought. I’d been wondering how to steer the conversation towards Threadneedle. ‘She’s not very happy. I’d say she drinks too much and she’s discovered that he’s having an affair.’

He looked downcast. ‘The bastard,’ he said. ‘I always said she was too good for him.’

‘How well did you know them?’

‘Oh, you know. They lived near Malton and we had mutual friends. He enjoyed entertaining and our wives enjoyed comparing furnishings and suchlike. He was a bit of a pest, if the truth’s known, but Jan was delightful. She was a concert flautist, but gave it up when she married him. She played like an angel.’

It sounded as if Threadneedle had negotiated his way into the country set behind his wife’s talent, on the heels of his new money, but they hadn’t taken to him. I could imagine why. I decided to dive in with the big one. ‘She was a bit under the weather when I spoke to her, but she claimed that you and Threadneedle had shares in Shergar. Tell me that she was rambling, please.’

Curzon gave a chuckle but it came from deep down and sounded forced. ‘Shergar! I remember it well.’ The kettle boiled and he jumped up to deal with it. Moments later he returned with mugs and teapot on a tray and lowered them onto the table.

I waited until he’d done the mother thing with the teapot then reminded him that he was in the middle of telling me about Shergar, but he had little to add. He told me about the Aga Khan and the stud fees, stating that Threadneedle had wanted him to join a syndicate for a share, but there was no way he could have afforded to. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘the pleasure is in watching your horse race, not rutting someone else’s mare.’

‘Did Threadneedle go ahead with it?’

‘Of course not. We used to meet for a meal after a meeting and fantasise about winning a classic. It was my wife’s hobby, not mine. She was unwell, and I went along with things to please her. That’s all it was: juvenile fantasies. He upset a few people and moved away. To Heckley, I presume. Our loss was your gain.’