Prey to All (16 page)

So, thought Trish, Phil must get quite a lot of briefs
from George and not want to piss him off. Why didn’t he tell me?

‘I’m not,’ George said cheerfully. ‘I’ve come to collect the little woman and take her off to cook my dinner.’

Trish had to suppress a smile at the sight of Phil’s face. He’d never seen them together and had no idea of their private jokes. She was glad that George seemed to have got over the morning’s
Angst.
As she coughed, choking on the amusement, Phil looked at her in astonishment.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just George, Phil. He likes a bit of misogynist make-believe.’

‘She can get a bit up herself,’ George said confidingly. ‘Needs reminding of her proper place in the hierarchy.’

Redstone’s eyes were slowly returning to normal. ‘I can see you two play a lot of very weird games. I must go.’

‘Thank you for talking to me, Phil. Oh, just before you go?’

‘What?’

‘Did you get the doctor’s notes checked for forgery or tampering?’

He looked at her as though she was a woodlouse crawling out from under damp floorboards. ‘Of course I did, ESDA test and all. They were genuine all right.’

‘Pity. But thanks.’

‘OK. That wine’s too good for George,’ he said, pointing at the empty bottle. ‘He’s never had much of a palate.’

‘Wanker,’ Trish muttered, when he’d gone. ‘He drank most of it as though it was Ribena.’

‘What a waste! Would you like me to get another bottle or shall we go home?’

‘Let’s go.’

As they walked together over the bridge towards Southwark, he said, ‘By the way, I had a meeting today with someone from social services at Westminster.’

Trish looked at him in surprise.

‘And I asked about your protégé. Apparently he’s being fostered by one of their most experienced couples. He isn’t—’

‘My protégé?’ She was all over the place and couldn’t think what he meant.

‘The dead junkie’s child. Remember Saturday’s papers? Wake up, Trish. The two-year-old. You haven’t forgotten, have you? You were beating up such a rage about him you’d practically covered yourself in foam. I thought you’d like to know.’

She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. I suppose this means the grandparents’ DNA test proved he wasn’t theirs?’

‘Yup. But he’ll be all right with Westminster social services. They’re good people there.’

‘Thank you for bothering to ask. George, you are …’

He bent to kiss her lightly. She knew she didn’t have to tell him how much she cared these days, but sometimes she liked doing it, for herself as much as for him.

‘Did they tell you how the child is?’ she asked, as they set off again.

‘Not himself addicted, but malnourished and with various problems caused by deficiencies of one sort or another.’

‘Brain?’

‘Thought to be OK, but development may be slow. They won’t know for a year or two yet.’

‘Poor child. I wish I could help.’

‘I know. But you can’t do anything. Tearing yourself apart won’t help. Now, how’s your father?’

‘Not bad. He says he’s going back to work next Monday. I’m sure it’s too soon, but he insists his GP says it’s OK, and he’s so bored at home he says he’ll top himself if he doesn’t get out soon. Oh, God, I forgot.’

‘What?’

‘I meant to apologise to the house officer I bawled out for
letting him go home without telling me, but what with Malcolm Chaze and everything … it’s no excuse, though. Damn. I really screamed at the poor bloke.’

‘I shouldn’t worry about it, Trish. He’s probably used to relatives panicking themselves into a frenzy. And anyway, you were justified.’

Trish looked at him in amazement.

‘You were justified,’ he said again, seeing her surprise. ‘You’d asked the hospital to tell you if there was any change and left all your phone numbers. The fact that the change was for the better doesn’t let them off the hook. They should have rung you.’

In spite of the heat, she flung her arms round George’s comfortable bulk.

Later, he poured himself a glass of wine to take into the kitchen and insisted that she go upstairs to shower. Clean and changed, she was downstairs in time to answer the phone when it rang.

‘Trish? It’s Anna. I’ve been trying to get you ever since I heard about Malcolm.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I’ve been too busy to ring you back.’ Trish sat down, swinging her legs up on the sofa. The smells of George’s cooking were teasing her nostrils. There was lemon in the air, she decided as she sniffed, and maybe garlic as well as fish, and hot butter.

‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about the film now.’ There was a high, vibrating note in Anna’s voice that suggested hysteria. ‘We needed Malcolm to sell it. How could he …’

‘Anna, for God’s sake! He’s been murdered.’

‘Oh, I know. And it’s ghastly for him and his wife. But we … Oh, shit, Trish.’

‘Trish?’ George was calling from the kitchen. ‘Two more minutes.’
‘Anna, I’m going to have to go soon.’ ‘I heard.’ ‘Anna? Are you crying.’ ‘No, of course not.’ There was a distinct sniff down the phone.

‘Come on, tell me. What’s up? Were you and Malcolm …?’

‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’ She sniffed again. ‘It’s just that I
have
to get this programme commissioned.’

‘Why? Come on. Out with it.’

‘Trish, I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but it’s my last chance. The bank are going to pull the rug if I don’t sell a big one in the next month. It’s that urgent. I’m facing bankruptcy. And if that happens, I’ll lose the house. I’m forty-two, I’ll never get another one, I don’t know what’ll happen to me. I’ll …’

‘Anna, you—’

‘Trish, when I found Deb and realised she had to be innocent, I was sure I was on to a winner. Then I couldn’t find an alternative killer. The commissioning editors said they’d had so many miscarriage-of-justice cases that they wouldn’t go for it unless I could at least suggest that someone else was responsible and show why.’

‘But weren’t they worried about defamation?’

‘We didn’t get as far as that. They kept saying they needed drama, not just a kind of legal home-study lesson. So I tried. I really tried. But I don’t know enough, and I’m not a good interviewer like you, and I didn’t get anywhere. I read that bloody typescript over and over again, and I couldn’t see any gaps. In the end I thought I’d gone mad, and invested all this time – and a fair bit of money – and got the bank all excited at the idea of the project for nothing. And Malcolm, who was on my side, but didn’t seem able to do very much. So I came to you.’

‘I wish you’d told me.’

‘I thought if anyone could find the killer and save me, you could. I’ve been … desperate, Trish.’

Oh, shit, she thought. So now, as well as my own safety, my father’s health, my clients, Deborah Gibbert and her daughter, I’ve got to worry about Anna and her future. A sense of persecution battled with Trish’s instinct to take control and tell everyone how to sort out their problems.

‘Try not to get in too much of a state,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll phone Cordelia Whatlam in the morning and see her as soon as I can. She may produce something useful. Anna, hang on in there. Malcolm’s championship was important for Deb, but he wasn’t the be-all and end-all of the film. If we get some really crunchy information, the channel will go for it even without a celebrity. I promise you I’ll do my best.’

‘I know. And I know you’ll fight like a tiger for Deb and for me. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before about the bank, but it gets frightening to be so desperate. You think if people knew how bad things were, they’d put you on a lower rung, and pay no attention, just because—’

‘Anna, stop it. You’re hysterical. I’ve said I’ll do my best. I’ll ring you tomorrow evening, either way. In the meantime, hurry your researchers up with the medical stuff. We need that. Now. I’ve got to go. ’Bye.’

The fish was halibut, in fat juicy steaks, slicked with melted butter just turning brown, and studded with the murky green of capers. A bright emerald flicker of chopped parsley fell on to the fish as Trish watched, and neat yellow lemon quarters were laid at either end. She looked up at George’s serious face. He could have been a surgeon carrying out a life-or-death operation. The scents of the dish were fresh and pungent. He poured wine and cold fizzy water, then pushed forward a big dark blue bowl of salad.

Trish put away all thought of Malcolm Chaze and the army of people who were depending on her. This was
George’s time, and hers. They deserved it undiluted. She slid her silver knife into the halibut and parted one slightly veined chunk from the rest. It gave way with a satisfactory little squelch.

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ In spite of the outrage in her voice, Laura Chaze looked the picture of ease, sitting on her striped silk sofa with her legs crossed. ‘All right, so I’ve told friends I wanted Malcolm out of my life. But not like this, for Christ’s sake!’

Femur coughed, the clashing scents of her skin and the room catching in his throat. He didn’t like the house, the pot pourri, or the lacquered finish of the widow herself. And he definitely didn’t like what his officers had learned about the woman’s behaviour to her husband in the last few months, or the things she’d said about him to friends.

Some of her reported threats had been so violent that he’d had to come this morning himself to face her with the suggestion that she could have put out the contract on her husband’s life. So far her reaction hadn’t told him anything except that she was a hard-faced bitch.

The memory of Deborah Gibbert’s howling anguish made this woman’s composure even more suspicious. An empty filing cabinet would have shown more emotion. He held on to his loathing with difficulty.

‘Why did you want to be rid of him?’

Mrs Chaze raised her plucked eyebrows.

‘Come on,’ Femur said irritably. He wasn’t going to use kid gloves with a bitch like this. ‘We need to know everything about his personality and his activities in the last few months
if we’re to get anywhere. You must have known him better than most, even if you couldn’t feel any kindness for him.’

Young Steve Owler, his AMIP constable, twitched. Femur paid no attention. Owler was a good lad, but too squeamish. If this woman wanted to play hard-ball, she’d find the police could give as good as they got.

‘Very well, Chief Inspector Femur. The man I married was idealistic, on the left of his party, wanted to make a difference to the lives of the disadvantaged. Or so I thought.’

He glanced round at the richly decorated room and disliked her even more. Why should a woman who was at home in this kind of silky smartness take to a man because he planned to make a difference? Or want a room like this if she cared about ‘the disadvantaged’? Compared to her, he was one of the disadvantaged himself.

‘But once I’d got to know him, I found he was quite different: utterly vain and, under the superficial arrogance, needing the constant reassurance that only fresh batches of adorers can supply. Pathetic. And boring. I’m afraid I ran out of reassurance to offer him some time ago.’

She recrossed her legs. She had great legs and made the most of them. The rest of her was beginning to show her age: her neck had enough lines to date a tree stump, and her face was beginning to pouch around the eyes and under the chin.

Stop it, Femur, he told himself. You’ve no reason to hate her. Yet. So concentrate. What did she just say? Under the arrogance, her husband had needed reassurance.

Deborah Gibbert had talked like that, too. Interesting, Femur thought. None of the men he’d talked to so far had noticed it. Maybe it was the impression of underlying vulnerability that made Chaze so successful with women – anyway, at the beginning of his affairs. Or maybe it was the combination of that and his so-called charisma. He must ask Cally. She’d know, even though men didn’t turn her on.

Maybe a bit of weakness is what women think they’re going to want in a man. Only they don’t really. It bugs them in the end. Even Sue had been gentle with his fears when they first married; later, once she’d had the kids, he had only to express the mildest anxiety for her to round on him for being pathetic. Oh, stop it, he told himself again, weary to his soul. This woman is not Sue. And you’re here to do a job. So get on with it.

‘Did he give you any hint that he’d been worried by a stalker or any kind of verbal threat?’ She might relax enough to give them something useful if she thought they were flailing about, suspecting everyone. ‘Did you have any dodgy phone calls here, for instance?’

Owler relaxed against the sofa back.

‘No.’ Laura Chaze turned her thin wrist so she could look at her watch. Femur knew he was supposed to be impressed by how much it must have cost. He didn’t know and couldn’t give a toss anyway. ‘I have a meeting in twenty minutes,’ she said, ‘so I can’t stay much longer. I have instructed Malcolm’s secretary, Sally Hatfield, to make you free of my study upstairs, and to answer any questions you may have. She’s waiting for you there. You can look through my diary, my financial records, whatever else you want. And Malcolm’s, as far as I’m concerned. That will give you far more information than this kind of laborious question-and-answer session, which must be as boring for you as it is for me.’

‘Thank you,’ Femur said. There wasn’t much else he could say, given that he had no grounds to arrest her. Yet. And there might be something useful in her records. He’d leave Owler to comb those, send him more bodies if anything looked hopeful, and get back to the incident room himself and clear his head of his problems so that he could think straight about this. He’d like her to be the villain, but he had to be a lot more sure before he did anything stupid like dragging her out of the
house in handcuffs for all the papers to record. He could see the headlines now, ‘Another Police Blunder. Grieving Widow Bullied By Police While the Real Killer Goes Free’.

She was on her feet now, small but as charged with energy as a laser gun. ‘I can assure you that you won’t find any items in my diary about “find contract killer”, but you’ll want to check my financial records for unexplained payments.’

‘How much d’you suppose that would cost?’ Steve Owler said suddenly.

Femur hid a smile, thinking: So, not so squeamish after all. Good lad. But this lady’s probably too well insulated to shock with such a small charge.

Laura Chaze stopped half-way to the door and looked at them both with amusement, which made her face twice as lively as before. ‘I have no idea. Five hundred? Five thousand? I wouldn’t know. It doesn’t come within my area of expertise, constable. But then I would say that, wouldn’t I? Goodbye.’

‘Wait, Mrs Chaze.’ Femur was pleased to see her hesitate. He owed it to Caroline Lyalt to ask one more question: ‘Have you any idea why your husband was so ferociously antidrugs? It’s the first thing everyone mentions about him.’

Her face cleared like a white sink given a good dose of bleach. Her voice was a bit like bleach, too: smooth in itself, but scouring in its effect. ‘Like all the other issues he’s engaged with, it’s an ideal platform for an ambitious MP. Nearly everyone you need to vote for you agrees that drugs should be controlled. Even the respectable constituents who take the stuff themselves want the criminal element well policed. And the underclass are never going to vote for anyone anyway.’

‘So, it wasn’t anything personal?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She took two steps back into the room, which Femur took as a compliment. ‘His only close encounter with drugs was in his last year at school, I think. But he didn’t
like it, unlike most people who tried the stuff at the end of the sixties. So he never tried it again.’

‘Right. And you didn’t know him then?’

‘No. We met about ten years ago at a fund-raising dinner.’ She looked from Femur to his constable and back again, a cynical smile changing the shape of her lips. ‘I suppose you could say we fell in love. It seems hard to believe now.’

‘It didn’t last?’

‘No, Chief Inspector, it did not.’ There wasn’t much emotion in her voice beyond the kind of contempt for the class dummy who took twice as long as everyone else to pick up the simplest point.

‘Was he unfaithful?’

‘Surely you know that much. Of course he was.’

‘But you stayed with him?’

‘Just.’ He watched her as she realised that wasn’t enough of an answer. She took a step back towards the door. ‘He kept promising me it would be the last time, and I kept accepting it. You think I’m hard, Chief Inspector, but I was naïve enough to go on trying to believe him, trying to make our marriage work. I gave up when I realised he’d never put in the same kind of effort.’

He was too old to blush, but it did sound as though she had just cause to be angry.

‘And I can tell you that living with Malcolm would have made even Patient Griselda a trifle snappy. Now I really must go. If you need to ask more questions, phone my secretary and give me enough warning to clear my diary for you.’

‘Right.’

‘And, Chief Inspector Femur, I do hope you catch whoever sent the killer. I can’t see how you’re going to do it, but I wouldn’t want Malcolm’s death to go unavenged. Do you understand me?’

He waited for long enough to see how she dealt with the
pause. All he was offered was a picture of controlled impatience and several glances at the expensive wristwatch. ‘I think so,’ he said at last. ‘Before you go, what drug did he experiment with at school? LSD? That could have given him a bad trip.’

‘I have a feeling it was heroin, but I couldn’t swear to it.’ She was opening the door as she spoke. ‘Luckily, weak-willed though he could be, he had enough presence of mind to resist addiction to whatever it was.’

‘Heroin would have been an unusual school drug in the sixties.’

‘You’ll have a better idea of that than me. But I think that’s what he said the only time we ever talked about it.’ She stepped across the threshold, but she was still looking back over her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t interested enough to check up, I’m afraid.’

‘Right. We’ll look into it. Which school was it?’

‘St John’s, Henley. He got a scholarship.’ Now she was sounding impatient. ‘You shouldn’t have to ask me that; it’s a matter of public record. Surely your people aren’t too incompetent to have looked up
Who’s Who?’

She had gone.

‘Right. That was a pretty good waste of time. Steve, you’d better make a start upstairs. I’ll get back and put someone on to his schooldays in case there’s anything in this heroin business.’

‘Is there any point going through her papers, Guv? If she’d wanted to make a big payment, she’d have flogged a piece of jewellery, or that watch, and paid cash. A woman like that isn’t going to leave a paper trail for us to follow.’

Christ! thought Femur. Bollocked by a suspect, then by my own constable. I must be losing it. ‘I know, Steve,’ he said, more patiently than he felt. ‘We won’t find anything, but we have to go through the motions. More to the point, it’ll give
you a chance to cross-question the secretary, who’ll know a lot more about Chaze than his wife, and about their dealings with each other.’

‘Sergeant Lyalt’s already had DC Pepper …’

‘I know she has. But you’re a good-looking lad, you may get more out of her than Pepper or Lyalt could. Get on with it, will you?’

‘Sure, Guv.’ Owler still hesitated, looking sympathetic and anxious, which was unlike him. Femur shook his head. He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to hear it. ‘And, Guv, you look like shit. You ought to have some food, or sleep or something.’

‘Sod off and get on with it,’ Femur said. Odd that Owler still had to learn that sympathising with your senior officer was worse than telling him how to do his job. It would do the lad good to plough through files of domestic accounts.

For himself, Femur would get back to the incident room and tell Caroline that her intuition about the drugs could have been half right, even though she’d been giving Chaze credit for too much unselfishness. It sounded like it had been his own trauma that had driven him, not a girlfriend’s.

 

Trish was in the corridor of the Royal Courts of Justice, waiting for her case to be called and reading Malcolm Chaze’s powerful plea for justice for Deborah Gibbert. At the foot of the last column was a tiny, italic statement: ‘Anna Grayling’s film about Deborah Gibbert,
Torn from the Family,
is to be shown on television later in the year.’

There was no suggestion from the loitering ushers that the case was about to begin, so Trish signalled to her instructing solicitor that she was going to make a phone call. He nodded, quite unworried. She took her mobile round the corner into the main hall and rang Anna.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said cheerfully, a moment later. She sounded
not only unlike the woman who’d wept down the phone but almost from a different species. ‘It would have been mad to let this fantastic opportunity drop. I mean, Trish, don’t misunderstand me. I—’

‘If you’re in a hole, Anna, stop digging.’

‘OK. But face it, from the point of view of our campaign for Deb, it would have been seriously stupid not to take advantage of the publicity. And the weight of this message from a dead man is going to help her. That’s all I was trying to do.’

‘Maybe. But what’s this about “the film is to be shown?” Have they made a commitment this morning?’

‘Well, not exactly. But I’ve just been speaking to them and it’s virtually certain now that—’

‘Anna! Stop it. Let me get this right. You are using Malcolm’s murder to bounce one of the television companies into buying your film. Yes?’

‘Well, yes. And it looks as though it’s working. But, Trish, I’m fighting for my future here. And Deb’s freedom.’

‘Just so I know. Now, how are your medical researchers doing?’

There was a pause. ‘Well, Trish, the thing is, you see … actually …’

Trish felt the old lava-flow of anger beginning to stir. ‘You mean you haven’t got anyone talking to a geriatrician yet?’

‘It’s more than that actually. I can’t … I haven’t the funds yet to … Until I get a commitment, I can’t get the bank to let me have any … I’m sorry, Trish.’

‘There are no researchers. Is this what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, shit, Anna. Why didn’t you tell me?’ Trish thought of the hours she’d expended on the project, the lists of questions she’d typed and e-mailed to Anna. All to no purpose. What a waste of time! No wonder she hadn’t got all the case papers
she’d wanted. ‘Who’s been producing the few scraps you have sent me?’