Death Comes First (22 page)

‘Right boss,’ said Vogel, his spirits rising even though he was still none the wiser as to why Henry Tanner’s family should command special treatment.

Fourteen

Henry Tanner felt lower than ever. He was the strongest of men. His complex way of life, his predilection for keeping so much of himself and his activities secret from most of his family and those around him, or at the very least compartmentalized, had made him so. But any sort of rejection from his family, not to mention an accusation as terrible as the one his daughter had made against him, was more than he could bear.

Also he had spent the night alone in his bed, because Felicity had decided to stay over at The Firs with her daughter. Henry was used to travelling alone; Felicity never accompanied him to London or on his occasional working trips abroad. He did not believe in mixing his family life and business. So throughout his marriage he had, sometimes for a night or two, sometimes a week or more, been accustomed to sleeping alone. Because Henry never shared his bed with anyone else. He was the most faithful of husbands.

But at his family home, the Corner House, he had never spent a single night without Felicity by his side. Until now.

It felt strange. Very strange indeed.

His alarm clock went off as usual at 6.30 a.m. It didn’t wake him. He was already awake. He had hardly slept all
night. As soon as the alarm bleeped, he rose, went downstairs, put the kettle on and picked up the kitchen phone to call his wife on her mobile. Even at that hour he was sure everyone at The Firs would be up and about. In fact he doubted any of them would have had much more sleep than he’d managed. But he had no intention of calling the house phone at The Firs. He didn’t know what he would say if Joyce answered the phone. And on present form he feared she could even hang up on him.

When his daughter had launched her attack on him the previous evening Henry had felt his legs buckle. His head went cold, as if his life’s blood were draining from him. He suspected he’d turned quite grey. He’d been so shocked by Joyce’s tirade that he hadn’t even tried to defend himself when she had accused him of abducting Fred.

Afterwards he’d gone to the kitchen to join the rest of his family, along with Stephen, Janet, Monika, and Jim Grant.

Felicity had told him that Stephen had left in a taxi. Henry suspected he’d left because he was embarrassed. Henry was embarrassed too. He hated the thought of anyone seeing signs of weakness in him, so he asked Geoff to drive him home to the Corner House. He could have walked the hundred metres that separated the two houses, but he was afraid there might be reporters hovering at the end of the drive, and he didn’t want to have to walk past them. On the way in he’d noticed a dark Mercedes estate car with tinted windows parked opposite the gates to The Firs. As Geoff had used his remote to open the gates and begun to steer the Bentley through, a young woman had leapt out of the estate car. Henry was sure he had guessed correctly, that this was a lurking news team, and that a photographer was hiding behind those tinted windows with camera focused on the
entrance to The Firs. He’d wondered how they had got into Tarrant Park, and made a mental note to call security, give them a bollocking and tell them to sort out the press presence. But he just didn’t have the energy.

He had felt numb. He still felt numb.

Felicity answered on the third ring.

‘How are things, my dear? Any news?’ he asked. He had no intention of letting his wife know that he, too, was suffering. Henry equated distress with weakness, and it would never do for him to admit to such a thing.

‘No news,’ she said, then added: ‘Look, Henry, I’ve talked to Joyce. Is it true what she’s saying? Did you know about this letter from Charlie before Joyce did, and did you know what it contained?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. I had no idea that the letter existed until Stephen told me. You must believe me.’

‘I always believe you, Henry.’

For a moment it seemed to Henry there was an inflection in his wife’s voice that he didn’t recognize. Then he told himself he was imagining things.

‘Good,’ he said.

‘Look, we can’t have this going on between you and Joyce,’ Felicity continued. ‘We need all our strength. Perhaps you should pop round before you go to work
 . . . 
I assume you are going to work?’

Henry grunted.

‘Thought so,’ said Felicity. ‘Right. Hang on a minute and I’ll check with Joyce. Then I’ll call you back.’

Henry had little choice but to agree, but he felt hard done by. Didn’t anyone realize that he was upset too? He had enough self-knowledge to realize that was a damn silly question, given the effort he’d always put into concealing the
fact he was capable of being upset. He was, however, annoyed. And he reckoned he had a right to be. His daughter owed it to him to trust him no matter what anybody said. Including his son-in-law.

All right, so he’d known about the letter. But he had his reasons for not wanting Joyce so see it. Reasons that had nothing to do with Charlie’s diatribe against him.

Henry had been looking out for his family, like he always did.

He made himself tea, strong and sweet, dropping two Miles English Breakfast bags into a big china mug, adding boiling water, three sugars and a splash of milk. Then he paced up and down the kitchen, taking hurried sips of the hot liquid while waiting for his wife to call back.

He had to wait just over ten minutes. It seemed longer to Henry.

‘Joyce says it’s OK for you to call round,’ said Felicity.

Her voice sounded flat. Henry was disappointed with the tone of the message. It was OK for him to call around – what was he, a passing insurance rep? He was even more disappointed that his daughter hadn’t called herself. He assumed that meant she was still angry with him, still questioning his integrity.

He also found himself thinking how big it was of Joyce to allow her father to visit the house he had bought and presented to her as a gift.

Nonetheless he abandoned his up-market builder’s tea, pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, somehow in too much of a hurry to get dressed for work before joining his family again, and hurried down the road.

He had totally forgotten the news team waiting outside The Firs, and had failed to call security as he’d intended.
There’d been other things on his mind. The press were still there. He cursed silently. He didn’t know whether the same team had waited all night. There were two more of them now, four altogether, and a second car he didn’t recognize was parked a little further down Palladian Road. Two reporters and two photographers, it seemed. Henry had instructed Geoff the previous evening that he wanted to be picked up at 7.30 a.m. as usual to be driven to work. He wished he’d waited for his driver to arrive so that he could have dropped him at The Firs. It would have been so much easier to pass the gathered press in a vehicle than to walk through them. But that was what he had to do. Either that or turn back, which he had no intention of doing. In any case they would probably follow him.

Even though he was unshaven and out of sorts, Henry marched through the vultures with his customary composure, remaining expressionless, saying nothing except to ask them coldly if they realized they were on private property.

As he walked up the drive he used his mobile to call the head of security and deliver the bollocking he had planned the previous night. The man promised to sort the matter straight away. He sounded nervous. Well, so he should. Not only had two carloads of press managed to blag their way into the allegedly protected gated development, but security had also allowed Fred to slip through their extremely suspect net. It now seemed impossible that the boy remained anywhere within Tarrant Park.

Inside the house Joyce was polite, but cool. Henry greeted his daughter warmly, attempting to behave as if nothing untoward had occurred between them. Which, of course, was the Henry Tanner way. He stepped towards Joyce, arms out-stretched.
She dodged his embrace and merely murmured a good morning.

Confrontation was not Henry’s way. Neither was he any good at talking things through. He only hoped his daughter would come round. People did, in his experience. If you left them alone. And that suited him. It was his natural inclination.

He made a huge fuss of his granddaughter, who, unlike her mother, fell into his arms, seeking the reassurance he invariably gave, but on this occasion could not. Although he did his best.

Henry held Molly close so that she could not see his face and muttered platitudes which sounded, even to him, to be just that.

‘It will be all right, sweetheart. The police will find Fred very soon now. Granddad will see to that. Granddad will look after you.’

And so on.

Felicity, he pecked on the cheek. As always. And she gave him a peck back. As always.

Monika had left the previous night to sleep in her own home, a one-bedroomed council flat on the old sixties tower-block development near the airport. But, to the surprise of the appreciative family, she had already returned. At least Monika had good wheels. Because Tarrant Park was not served by public transport, Henry had decreed that Mark’s old Mini, which was no longer needed now that he’d been presented with a Porsche to mark his induction into the family business, should be put at her disposal. And Monika had seemed to accept that there was no such thing as a free lunch, let alone a rather good motorcar. She was invariably available when needed, and not only in a time of crisis such
as that currently engulfing the family. Not that there had ever been anything like that before.

Monika offered Henry coffee and toast. Realizing suddenly that he had eaten nothing the evening before and little the previous day, Henry accepted gratefully.

The family sat around the kitchen table together. They were all out of bed and up and about, as he had expected. Assuming any of them had been to bed. Felicity, Joyce, Mark, and Molly. Henry’s entire remaining family. But they were only physically together, Henry thought. Mentally each was in his or her own world.

And he could feel the distrust and suspicion still emanating from the daughter he so loved.

However, being Henry, he didn’t push the point.

Instead, just before nine, after he had been at The Firs for almost two hours, every minute of which had felt like a day, Henry could stand it no longer. He knew that Geoff was waiting outside in the Bentley. Henry had redirected him when his driver had phoned after arriving at the Corner House at the appointed hour to discover his boss was not at home. Henry had no intention of running the press gauntlet for a second time that morning.

‘Right,’ Henry said, addressing the entire family. ‘I’m off home to grab a quick shower and get ready for work.’

Felicity merely stared at him. She didn’t protest. Neither did she look surprised. Merely resigned. She had already made it clear that she assumed he planned to go to work. She had also somehow made it clear that she disapproved. But this had done nothing to change Henry’s mind.

Joyce was less subtle. She went for her father’s jugular again, her voice trembling with rage.

‘I can’t believe you’re going to bloody work, Dad,’ she
snapped. ‘But then, as it’s you, I suppose I can bloody believe it.’

Henry made himself appear to be as calm as ever, although he felt a rare burst of emotion bubbling up inside him.

‘You don’t want me here, Joyce, I know that,’ he said quietly. ‘I can feel it. I think it’s better that I go to the office. You know where I am if anything, uh, changes.’

‘Glad you can feel something, Dad,’ snapped Joyce.

Henry winced. ‘If only you knew, darling,’ he muttered.

He checked his phone again. He was still waiting for a call he had been half hoping for and half dreading. Perhaps he had missed it? Of course he hadn’t. His phone had been glued to him all morning. He’d held it in his hand for most of the time and was still clutching it as he left the house and climbed into the back of the Bentley. Perhaps there was never going to be any such phone call.

He told Geoff to run him back to the Corner House. There were still press outside The Firs, but two uniformed security guards were at last in attendance and were remonstrating with them. That gave Henry some satisfaction. His bidding had been reasonably swiftly done. He still couldn’t understand how the reporters and cameramen had been allowed into Tarrant Park in the first place.

It took Henry less than half an hour to shower, shave, dress in a business suit, and also to make a quick call to Stephen on his mobile to tell him he was on his way. Stephen sounded surprised.

‘Uh, I didn’t think you’d be in today, Henry,’ he said.

‘And why not?’ enquired Henry crustily.

‘Well, I thought you’d be with the family.’

Henry grunted. He had no intention of commenting on this.

‘And where are you?’ he asked.

‘Um, I’m at home. Wasn’t sure what to do
 . . . 
or where I’d be most needed.’

Stephen stumbled over his words. He sounded unsure of himself, Henry thought. After all, the younger man knew all about Henry Tanner’s work ethic. Had it honestly not occurred to Stephen Hardcastle that he would be expected to go into the office as usual that day, and that Henry would be sure to do the same?

‘Where you’re always most needed, old boy,’ said Henry sharply. ‘In the office. Where I pay you to be.’

‘Sure,’ Stephen replied easily enough. ‘I’ll get myself there straight away. But
 . . . 
are you all right, Henry?’ Stephen continued. ‘I mean, it’s so terrible about Fred. Awful for the whole family. You’re the one everyone always relies on, though. How are you?’

‘When I want you to know how I am, old boy, I’ll tell you,’ said Henry.

It was vintage Tanner. The kind of put-down that rolled automatically off Henry’s tongue.

‘I’ll see you at the office,’ he continued. ‘I’m about to leave home.’

Henry almost managed a smile then. His intention to carry on with business as usual had surprised Stephen. And Henry liked to surprise people, keep them on their toes, even people who had worked with him for many years, people such as Stephen whom he regarded as a friend as well as a member of his staff in spite of being aware that he seldom treated Stephen that way.