In for the Kill (11 page)

‘Of course not,’ she replied tetchily. ‘It was a charitable donation, only there was no charity.’

‘That was clumsy and rude of me. I didn’t mean to imply there was anything shady or wrong in Roger’s business or private life, I just know how these things work. A deal gets done that is OK

but not strictly legit, some past aggrieved employee gets hold of it and before you know it you’re covering your tracks and someone’s got you by the balls.’

She gave a strained smile.

‘The police caught this man though?’ I asked.

She put down her cup. ‘Yes. James Andover was the name he used. His real name was Alexander Albury. He went to prison but he wouldn’t say where the money was.’ She began fiddling with a gold bracelet, then she looked at her watch. I could tell she was regretting letting me in.

‘And did Albury say why he had picked on Roger?’

‘Because he was wealthy, I suppose.’

‘So are lots of people but they aren’t targeted.

There must be a connection, so did the police find one?’

Now she was looking at me a little suspiciously.

‘ No. Besides what does it matter? It’s over now, Albury is in prison and Roger’s dead.’

I nodded and sipped my tea. ‘I wonder if he’ll do it again when he comes out of prison? Pick on some other unsuspecting victim that is. I hope he doesn’t come back to you,’ I mused.

She looked alarmed. ‘But surely that won’t happen. He’ll have learnt his lesson.’

‘People rarely learn, and the police can’t be everywhere. If he’s that clever then maybe next time he won’t get caught.’

She rose abruptly and said, ‘I’m really sorry, Bob, but I didn’t realise how late it was. I’ve got to go out.’

‘It’s me who should be apologising for taking up so much of your time and for upsetting you.’

She ushered me out of the door quicker than a kitchen salesman. I had stirred up something and now all I had to do was sit back and see which way she ran.

It was to a house outside Tetbury, about a half hour’s drive away. I was prevented from driving up to the front door because the house was set back from the road, squatting very nicely in its own ground and reached by a sweeping gravel driveway.

I left the car in a country lane that bordered the northern side of the new golden-stone manor house and walked the two hundred yards or so around the corner to the east-facing entrance.

After gazing right and left like some furtive detective in an old black and white movie I slipped up the driveway and ran across the damp grass until I skirted the back of the house, praying that whoever owned it didn’t also own large dogs, or any dogs come to that, which would alert the occupants. But everything remained silent.

I had seen an expensive Range Rover parked at the front of the house by the double garage, beside Emma Brookes’ Saab, and as she was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t come out of the house, I guessed that whoever lived here was at home.

I walked around the house peering in at the windows. I didn’t know what reason I would give for following Emma here, if she challenged me, but I’d find one. I’d tell her the truth if I needed to.

She was in the sitting room, at the back of the house, talking to a younger version of herself.

Neither woman seemed remotely interested in what was happening in the garden. I pressed myself against the wall with my head peering around the edge of the French windows like Philip Marlowe on a job, hoping to pick up some of their conversation. The day was still warm and the French door was slightly ajar. I couldn’t quite catch everything they said but snatches of it were enough to make my heart quicken.

‘No one knows,’ hissed the younger woman, a tall, leggy blonde in her mid twenties, not unattractive but not my type.

‘If this Bob Morley is right, he could be out of prison and coming back for more.’

‘Then we must stop him.’

‘How?’

The next bit I missed as they walked away from the window. Damn. I eased myself round a little more to see what they were doing, hoping perhaps to lip-read. It was a foolish hope, but when you’re desperate hope is sometimes all you’ve got, as I knew only too well. I took a chance. They might see me but I didn’t give a toss.

‘Don’t be daft, Joanne, we can’t do that.’

‘Jamie could. Do you want to lose all this and see me in prison too?’ the daughter retorted, anger turning her fair face ugly.

Emma Brookes’ body slumped. ‘God, what a mess.’

‘Mum, it’ll be all right.’

But the look her mother gave her was one of irritation and anger.

‘That’s what you said last time and look where it’s got us. For goodness sake, Joanne, isn’t it enough that your father killed himself?’

‘You can’t blame me for that,’ Joanne said hotly.

Emma looked as if she’d like to. ‘If you hadn’t got mixed up with Jamie in the first place then none of this would have happened.’

‘Well, it did and it’s over now.’

Emma looked sceptical. ‘Is it, Joanne?’ she said quietly.

Her daughter frowned and turned away.

I leaned forward eagerly only to find my arm twisted up behind my back. With a sinking heart I was spun round expecting to find myself looking directly into the face of a uniformed police constable. Instead I was facing a man in his early thirties with a broad face, cropped fair hair, cool blue-grey eyes and very expensive designer clothes rather spoilt by his obvious colour blindness and lack of style.

‘And who the fuck are you?’ he declared hotly.

‘I rather think that ought to be my line,’ I said boldly, my gaze unwavering and hoping that my expression showed mild interest when really my mind was racing to find a way out of this and get him to relax his grip on my aching body.

‘Not when you’re trespassing on my land, it isn’t.’ He tightened his grip. Judging by the look of him he could and would add another bruise or two to my face and torso, if he thought it was required.

‘I’m Bob Morley. I followed Emma Brookes here.’ That shook him. The truth usually did.

When you need to lie always taint it with the truth.

That way the suckers will believe you
, one of Ray’s.

‘Why the fuck should you do that?’

‘To see where she went, and do you mind letting me go?’ I could see that he was tossing up whether to tell me to go soak my head or do as I ask. Then wariness crept into his suspicion.

He released his grip on me.

‘You a cop?’

‘No.’

Now his expression registered relief, which intrigued me and set my mind racing.

‘Who smashed up your face?’ he said.

‘A Mercedes. I had an accident.’ He looked as though he didn’t believe me. But then maybe he’d smashed a few faces himself and recognised the pattern. He was prevented from asking any more questions because as we’d been talking the women must have seen us and were now standing before us.

‘Jamie, I…’

‘Joanne, this…’

The daughter and thug began speaking at the same time. I smiled an apology at Emma and said, humbly, ‘I followed you.’

She started and looked nervous whilst her daughter looked livid.

‘Why the hell should you do that?’ It was Joanne who recovered first.

I addressed my answer to Emma. ‘Because you seemed upset and I wanted to know more about Roger’s death.’

‘Are you another bloody private detective?’

Joanne shouted. ‘Because if you are there’s nothing to tell you. Now piss off.’

Was she was referring to Joe Bristow? She’d given me an idea. Time for some serious lying.

‘Joanne is right. I am a private detective. Joe Bristow and I worked together on the Andover case and when Joe was killed, I decided to take over and find out why someone would want to kill him.’

They all look surprised. Jamie glared at me sceptically; I could see his brain ticking over.

‘You didn’t get that from any Mercedes.’ He pointed at my face.

‘Joe didn’t seem to think that your father’s death was suicide.’

Emma turned pale and Joanne bright red whilst Jamie simply looked confused.

‘Why wouldn’t it be suicide?’ Joanne declared petulantly.

‘You tell me.’

‘There is nothing to tell?’

‘No?’

‘My father’s dead. Now sod off and leave us alone.’

I felt like telling her that frowns that deep would only give her wrinkles.

‘Did you know that Alex Albury is out of prison? He might come back to you for more money, or tell what he knows.’

‘We can deal with him,’ Jamie said, and I had no doubts that he could. He was glaring at me as if he wished he could squash my head between two bricks and then cement it into a wall, but I’d dealt with tougher men than him.

‘We?’

‘He won’t get anything from us,’ Joanne said.

‘He did before and I’d like to know why?’

‘Look…’ Jamie stepped menacingly closer to me, but I held my ground.

I turned to Emma. ‘Albury claims he was innocent. If he decides to clear his name then he may get to the truth.’

Jamie laughed. ‘He can try, but I don’t think he’ll live very long.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Jamie, be careful,’ Emma warned, but he rounded on her.

‘Of what? He’s not a copper and it’s his word against ours. Listen, whatever your bloody name is, if Albury, or anyone else, including you, comes around stirring up trouble I don’t think he’ll be around long enough to draw his pension.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ I said lightly.

‘Why don’t you piss off?’

‘With pleasure.’

I glanced at Joanne before heading back to the car. Obviously Andover had blackmailed Brookes and it had something to do with his daughter. Joanne Brookes, from what I had seen, was about as delicate as a thistle. There was defiance and hardness in her eyes, and a cruelty around her mouth that reminded me of Rowde.

I was surprised that her father had paid Andover to keep silent about her, but then she had probably been his blue-eyed little girl.

I drove off with a last look at the manor house.

I wondered if Jamie and Joanne Brookes had somehow discovered the true identity of Andover, killed him after he refused to say where the money was, buried the body and left me to take the rap. Then another more worrying fact dawned on me. By coming here and pretending I was a private detective I had alerted them about my own release. Would Jamie, Joanne, or their friends track down Alex Albury and attempt to eliminate him? If they did could I get to the truth before they killed me? Would my death silence Rowde and save my boys? That was possible, but my boys would grow up believing I really was a crook.

I turned into the Hare and Hounds public house about half a mile from where Joanne and Jamie lived and ordered myself a non-alcoholic lager. I opened a conversation with the barmaid and, half an hour later I had the information I needed, and was driving back to Portsmouth.

I caught the last ferry to the Island. My mind was teeming with ideas that led nowhere except to more questions that I didn’t have answers for.

My head was throbbing when I stepped onto my houseboat and my chest felt tight with the knowledge that another day had passed that took me closer to my sons’ fate, and I was nowhere nearer the truth.

I flicked on the light and froze. A wave of nausea washed over me. The room swam out of focus for a moment and I closed my eyes praying that what I saw on the floor wasn’t there but was just a product of my overactive imagination.

Slowly I opened my eyes. It was there all right.

It was Westnam. He’d been strangled.

I averted my eyes and tried to catch my breath.

My heart was going like the clappers. God!

First Joe and now Westnam. Who next? I closed my eyes trying to shut out the image of Westnam’s body, but all I could see was the limp bodies of my sons lying before me, so I threw them open again and hastily descended to the kitchen where I poured myself a stiff whisky. I tossed it back and felt the warmth slide down my throat. I took some deep breaths, got myself under control and returned to Westnam.

Rowde was responsible for this, I felt sure of it. And yet Andover could have killed Westnam and planted him here to frame me again, but this time for murder. That made far more sense.

Surely Rowde wouldn’t want me behind bars when he thought he had the chance of getting three million pounds? Though it crossed my mind that Rowde could have killed Westnam as a reminder to me of what he would do to my boys if I didn’t play ball. Well, I was playing, and part of Rowde’s game, I guessed, required me to get rid of the body and erase all trace of it ever being on the houseboat. By killing Westnam, Rowde was implicating me further, building up more ammunition to manipulate me with. Yes, the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that this had Rowde’s signature on it. I told myself that later I would go to the police and tell them the truth; I didn’t have time for that now.

Moving a dead body requires an enormous amount of strength and in my pain-racked state it would require a superhuman effort. But I was strong and fit. Most of all I was desperate. I could do anything; move iron girders with my teeth if I had to in order to save my children. Not being seen was a different matter altogether. Scarlett seemed to have eyes in the back and sides of her head, a skill developed, I guessed, because of her mother’s illness. And as her mother went walk-about at all hours of the day and night I couldn’t be certain that the pair of them would be safely tucked up in bed.

It had started raining heavily. I was glad; it meant fewer people about to witness my activity.

I consulted the tide timetable. The tide was just on the turn so I had no time to lose.

I stripped Westnam, noticing he had no papers on him, and bundled up his clothes. Then I found some lines and my sailing gloves and donning the gloves I tied one rope around Westnam’s naked torso under his armpits and the other around his ankles. My hands were sweating and the perspiration was running down my face and back. I felt sick at what I was doing, but could only tell myself it was for my sons. I had no choice.

The wind was rising all the time, the last thing I wanted. I pulled on my sailing jacket and opened the patio doors. The wind and rain rushed in like Westnam’s avenging spirit; lashing at my face.