Murder in Mind (29 page)

Now Fern and Fiona are dead, there's only one place I can be sure of getting some information, and that's at the house. There'll be insurance people and reporters hanging around. Someone there is bound to know something.

No more disguises, though I've enjoyed using them from time to time. It's a wonder what you can buy on the Internet these days. Wigs, masks . . . even the ingredients to make the Big Bang, though I'm saving that till I can get Daddy together with the last of his women.

But for now, I need to take something to calm my nerves. This is all taking longer than I'd hoped it would. Concentrate on the next step; it would be only natural for me to have heard about the fire and so turn up to see what's going on. Yes, that's what I'll do.

That's how I'll find the Fallen Angel.

The first Mrs Hooper lived on the first floor of an exclusive block of flats round the corner from Harrods. Very quiet. Very expensive.

As was Mrs Hooper.

Taller than Ellie. Bulkier. No fool. Mid sixties? A massive head with features that reminded Ellie of a Roman emperor. Handle with care.

Mrs Hooper was wearing something from a designer's boutique in filmy black georgette over silk, with a socking great diamond brooch on her lapel. And pearls.

Ellie felt underdressed.

Mrs Hooper's hair was short and beautifully cut. She might have been a redhead once, but now she was silver grey. She was discreetly made up. There were five rings on her fingers, all of them heavy with gemstones, and her shoes were creaseless, impeccable. No glasses. Contact lenses?

The flat had been furnished with lots of money, and Ellie felt that Betsey, of Harmony in the Home, would have approved. There were some good modern drawings on the walls.

The surprise was that Mrs Hooper was a smoker. ‘You don't mind?' Taking a cigarette from a box on the table and lighting up. A gold lighter, of course.

Ellie did mind, but wasn't going to say so. She reminded herself, Handle with Care, and shook her head. ‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice.'

Mrs Hooper inclined her head. Interested, but not curious. ‘You say my ex-husband's been taken ill?'

Ellie took a deep breath. ‘I don't know how much you keep in touch?'

‘What is this about?' A narrowing of the eyes.

‘Perhaps he's told you that the police are looking into several recent deaths in the Hooper family?'

‘No. Really?' A stare as hard as the diamonds on her breast.

Ellie stumbled on. ‘I'm afraid so. They would very much like to write them off as misadventures or accidents, but three deaths are two too many.'

‘
Three
? What! Who?'

Ellie explained, adding, ‘Mr Hooper is currently under observation in hospital following a fall, and last night an arsonist set a fire which destroyed the front of his house.'

‘What? I don't believe it!' The woman got to her feet, reddening beneath her make-up.

‘Which?' Ellie was confused.

‘About the house! It's
my
house. My father's house. I was brought up in it, and I still own it.'

‘But—'

‘I didn't want to sell it to Evan. I thought that some day I might want to live there again, though as it turns out I prefer Knightsbridge. Evan rents it from me.'

Monique ground out her cigarette and took a short turn around the room. Giving herself time to assimilate the news?

Ellie could hear Monique's breathing. Hard and quick and shallow. Asthma? Ought she to be smoking?

It was growing dark already. Monique switched on a couple of side lamps. ‘Evan's all right, I suppose? Nothing serious, or you'd have said. I'll have to contact the insurers because I'm responsible for the building. What a bore. Is it still structurally sound?' She had herself well under control again.

‘It's too early to say. I think, probably, yes.'

Monique had managed to control her distress. Reseated herself. Lit another cigarette. ‘Arson, you said. Did they catch him?'

‘The police are questioning a man from Mr Hooper's office about it, a man who's under notice to quit. I don't think he was responsible.'

The woman blinked, cigarette suspended in mid-air. ‘You said Evan's in hospital. What's the prognosis?'

Ellie told her what she knew. ‘It sounds like concussion. He's in the best place, being well looked after.'

‘Thank you for letting me know. Now, if that's all?'

Ellie nerved herself. ‘I think the police may wish to question your son Philip about what's been happening.'

‘Really? How absurd!' Yet her eyelids flickered, indicating unease.

‘I can't think of anyone else who has the opportunity and the knowledge to commit these crimes.'

‘How ridiculous.' Monique had excellent control. She lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. ‘I don't know whether I am more amused or horrified. You think my son is killing off members of his own family? What nonsense! You should be careful what you say. The laws of slander are rigorous.'

‘It's a possibility, only, but one that I feel should be explored. I wanted to speak to you about it before I took my theory to the police.'

M
onique gave herself time to think by walking over to the windows to draw the curtains, which were floor length, double width, heavy damask, interlined. With her back to Ellie, she said, ‘By what right . . .? How have you come to be involved with the Hoopers?'

‘I've given sanctuary to Evan's current wife and his surviving daughter, and my own daughter is at this moment sitting beside Evan in hospital.'

‘You intend to go to the police with this ridiculous theory of yours?'

Ellie chose her words with care. ‘I have no evidence that your son is responsible for what's happening, but I believe that he is. Don't you?' A shot in the dark.

‘No, of course not. There is nothing to indicate that . . .' Her voice trailed away. She returned to her chair. ‘He does get the odd bee in his bonnet, but I take no notice.' Was Monique trying to convince herself that there was no reason to suspect Philip? Who could blame her for that?

Ellie said, ‘Have you any idea why he might be doing this?'

The smallest of hesitations. ‘No, of course not.' A lie?

‘You are not in contact with him?'

‘Yes, of course. Birthdays, Christmases. A night at the theatre, a meal at the Ivy, that sort of thing.'

‘His decision or yours to restrict contact?'

Monique fingered another cigarette. ‘Three deaths, you say? That's shocking, but nothing to do with Philip. What an imagination you have!'

‘Yet I think you know, or suspect, something?'

Monique seemed to make up her mind to be frank. ‘I was forty-three when my father took Evan Hooper into the firm and one night – somewhat to my surprise – I ended up in bed with him. Yes, it turned out that I was pregnant. I wasn't particularly pleased but we got married, my father retired and Evan was made a director. Everything went wrong when the baby was born. I was in a coma for sixteen days. They didn't think I'd live, but I did. Only, there would be no more children, and I was paralysed from the waist down.

‘Evan found a nanny, moved me to a specialist hospital. I hardly saw the baby. His nanny became his mummy. It was almost a year before I went home, walking with a frame. The boy didn't want to know me. Such a poor, pale little thing. He started at every sound. I tried to be a good mother.' A hard laugh. ‘I read books, I talked to professionals, but there was no bonding between us. Maybe I was just too old, more like his granny than his mother.

‘Evan and I tried to paper over the cracks for a couple of years though my health was still not good and we slept in different bedrooms. I wasn't particularly surprised when he found himself a playmate. He was highly sexed, and I wasn't. I pretended I knew nothing about it. When Philip was seven Evan came to me with the news that his little bit on the side, Fern – yes, the woman who became the second Mrs Hooper – was pregnant. He asked me for a divorce. He was prepared to buy me out of the business, but wanted to keep the boy and the house. I agreed, and we parted on good terms. I started up a new estate agency in South Kensington . . .'

Not South coast, but South Kensington.

‘. . . and my health gradually improved. I had other chances at marriage, but once was enough for me. Philip visited me at weekends and for odd days in the holidays, but I fear both he and I regarded these visits as a duty, rather than a pleasure. As time went on, he seemed to become more, not less, nervous. I wondered if he were being bullied at school. Evan enquired, but it seemed not. His teachers said he was a loner. I wondered if he felt neglected by Fern and his little sisters, but again, it seemed not, as his nanny had stayed on to give him some continuity in his life.

‘When he was eleven, I suggested that I took him abroad for the summer holidays, but he wanted his nanny to come, too. Ridiculous! Luckily, Evan agreed with me that it was time to cut the apron strings. There was the most almighty row, Nanny got the sack and Philip . . . Well, I'm not absolutely sure how serious about it he was, but apparently he went for Evan with a knife, tried to stab him.

‘We talked it over, Evan and I, and it was agreed the boy should go, privately, to a doctor, who recommended this and that, tranquillizers, of course, a boarding school for children who need special attention, various camps in the holiday times, all in the name of building up his confidence, developing personal skills . . . you know the sort of thing? Costs an arm and a leg and probably doesn't work.

‘Philip declared we'd ruined his life by parting us from his nanny and that he'd never forgive either of us. I don't think he ever did. He refused to see me, or communicate with me in any way, for a while, but eventually we resumed our formal outings, though I never again asked him to go away with me. I don't turn up to family functions, but I meet up with Evan every couple of months and we talk on the phone, so I've been kept updated with what Philip was doing: the college courses, the horticultural course, the voluntary work for charity. We share all the costs for our son, including the very expensive cognitive therapy treatments. We thought Philip might react badly when Evan took a third wife and they produced another little girl, but luckily he didn't seem to care.'

‘Evan has told you all about his marital ups and downs?'

A nod. ‘Including his plans to marry again. Your daughter Diana is his latest, right? As for Philip, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he told me a while ago that he'd traced his old nanny and gone to live with her.'

‘Ah, the Greenford address. What's she like?'

A frown. Another cigarette. ‘A little waif of a thing. Wispy. Not Evan's type at all. He was never interested in her physically, which I did wonder about, if that's what you're thinking. She used to hover on the edge of sight. Annoying. But there's no doubt she was devoted to Philip, and he to her. I haven't seen her for years, not since the Big Row. I wonder how she's turned out.' She pleated her skirt with beringed fingers. Undecided what to say next.

Ellie prompted her. ‘You've seen Philip recently, and he said or hinted at something which you found disturbing?'

Would Monique admit it, or would she continue to protect Philip?

Ellie pressed her point home. ‘Three deaths. Who's next, do you think?'

Monique threw up her hands. ‘I can't think that he'd ever go so far as to . . . No. Unthinkable. But he did say he'd found a new “therapist” who'd uncovered a memory he'd repressed . . . Oh, such nonsense! Have you heard about these people? Charlatans with no professional background, who latch on to vulnerable people with money and tell them all their problems in life are due to their having been abused by their fathers in early childhood?'

Ellie drew in a long breath. ‘Philip swallowed that?'

Monique flushed with anger. ‘What's more, he thinks I knew about it and covered up for Evan. I told him, absolute twaddle, no truth in it whatever. As if Evan . . .! I mean, Evan, of all people! Philip said he
remembered
it. That's how they work, these people. They put the idea into your mind that you've deliberately forgotten this dreadful thing, and that that's why you've grown up with neuroses and nightmares. Even if you refuse to believe it at first, they go on and on, saying you're in denial because it hurt so much. Finally, you begin to think it might be true, because it explains why you've never got on with your family or whatever.

‘In Philip's case, the therapist has latched on to someone who was easily persuaded that he'd been the victim of childhood abuse. He wanted me to admit that I'd helped Evan to abuse him. I laughed, which made him angry. He said that if I wasn't going to help him uncover the abuse he'd have to take steps to punish Evan himself, and everyone else whom he'd contaminated. That's the word he used, “contaminated”.

‘I said it was absolute nonsense and forbade him to mention it again. It was stupid of me, but I really thought the idea was so implausible that he'd forget it. I can make excuses: my back is playing up, I'm due an operation, I've got a lot on my plate. I suppose I ought to have phoned Evan to warn him, but I didn't. Tell me again; how many in the family have died?'

Ellie counted on her fingers. ‘Evan's second wife, Fern. His second daughter, Fiona. His third daughter, Abigail. Then there's the fall which has landed Evan in hospital. And the fire at his – your – house.'

Mrs Hooper ground out one cigarette and lit another. This time her fingers trembled though her voice remained steady. ‘You really think he's punishing . . .? By killing them? I can hardly believe it. Three deaths! You think I'm next on the list?'

Ellie shook her head. ‘If this is Philip's vendetta against Evan, then he would want to keep him alive so that he can suffer more and more each time one of his family is killed. I think Angelika, wife number three, is next.'