The English Boys (8 page)

Eleven

The following Monday morning,
Daniel awoke with a feeling of satisfaction. In spite of a good weekend spent with Tamsyn, nothing had really changed. There was still work to be done and a professional image to foster, although, as he reminded himself occasionally, he didn't have to work in the film industry. He had squirreled money away for some indeterminate day when he might need it, which allowed him the random fantasy of pouring cappuccinos to earn his keep and living an anonymous life that would make fewer demands on him in general. In fact, he needed very little: a roof over his head, food to eat, and a relationship with Tamsyn Burke. All he had to do was tell her.

The weekend had been a success. He had managed to forget his nearly unlikable character, Dick Dewy, not to mention Thomas Hardy and work in general. His parents had been glad to see him; surprised, perhaps, that he had arrived with a girl in tow, but prepared to accept her, as he had known they would. His mother once gave him an inquiring glance, which he rebuffed with a shake of the head and a frown, indicating Tamsyn was merely a friend, though she didn't look altogether convinced. He left Tamsyn at Olivia's cottage late Sunday night, wondering what they might do together next weekend. Llandudno came to mind. He'd never been to the Welsh coast, and he wanted to see where she had grown up now that he had shown her Brighton.

It was a boring day on the set. Retakes were necessary for every scene. Everyone had taken it in stride for the first hour, but a ripple of irritation began to build on each subsequent occurrence. Unable to concentrate on a book, Daniel drank too many espressos, feeling the blood pump harder and harder through his veins until he thought they might burst. To counteract it, he drank two bottles of water over the next hour. Hugh was lucky enough to be relieved of the tedium by noon.

“Come by later,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “If they ever let you go.”

By six o'clock, Daniel had begun to wonder. Tamsyn had gone by two thirty, saying nothing but pulling pins out of her hair from thick, gelatinous layers of hair spray as she walked out of the building. The temper of the cast and crew deteriorated over the course of the afternoon. An argument broke out between the writer and director over the use of a line that was not taken directly from the book. One of the wardrobe girls complained when she had to re-hem a trouser cuff that had torn when Daniel became entangled in a knot of cords while trying to reach for a cup of tea. In the late afternoon, they filmed the bloody choral scene, and the shriek of the pipes was almost enough to drive him mad.

All day he had expected his agent to ring about another film he was eager to do, yet his mobile never vibrated in his pocket. He chafed at the general lack of action while trying not to betray his emotions to the crew. He was no dilettante. Normally, he kept a book in his pocket and his mouth shut. Things happened, often when one least wanted them to. The best and worst parts of his job were one and the same: no matter how much one loved or hated a particular job, it would end within a few weeks. Nothing lasts forever.

It was approaching seven thirty before he was finally able to leave, by which time he despised the entire project. He needed a drink. He would go to see Hugh, and talk, or rather, let Hugh talk while the alcohol numbed his mind just enough to forget the horrible day, and then after a pleasant hour had elapsed, or possibly two, he would excuse himself and ring Tamsyn. He had watched her more than usual all day. Her hair had been piled into a knot, insouciant curls escaping from every angle. She had worn a high-collared frock that was tight at the bodice and hips, and her belt had a small mother-of-pearl clasp. Brown boots were barely visible beneath her full skirt. Her ears were like two Imperial Venus shells plucked from a Jamaican beach: perfect twin bivalves, from which dangled pearl-drop earrings, obviously genuine antiques, screwed as tightly as possible onto her lobes. He couldn't decide if she looked Victorian or not. Probably not, he decided, in the end. She was far too saucy to play such a pure, if self-centered, character like Fancy, and it was shocking that Sir John hadn't realized it. Although, on reflection, perhaps he had, and merely hired her to capitulate to Hugh's whim. He wouldn't have been the first.

The evening was fine. A warm summer breeze blew around him, making him long for the beach. Tamsyn had enjoyed Brighton, as he had hoped. But now he wanted to take her to Spain or Morocco, somewhere along the Mediterranean, to stay in an enormous white hotel flanked by banana trees and desert palms stretching out toward the clouds. They would visit markets and buy fruit from wobbly stands and lie under umbrellas in the hot sand, staring for hours at the sea. Holidays in the past had been dominated by family or friends, and for once he wanted to have a companion like Tam, who could truly understand how to enjoy life. They'd drink cerveza through the night, looking at the stars overhead as though they were a newly discovered phenomenon, and dance in the moonlight to the sound of a Spanish guitar. Then, and not before, they would kiss. It would be a long-awaited moment, as their friendship, so bright and unexpected, evolved into something more. He wouldn't rush it, of course; these things had to develop naturally; but he knew from the effortlessness of their relationship and the fact that she was in no way impressed by his money or position that she was someone he could truly love. She cared for him as well. He knew it.

Daniel got into his car and sighed. Starting the engine, he looked back at the manor behind him where they had been filming all day: an enormous pile of limestone and bricks that had been built more than a century ago. One wing had sustained some damage, which was evident by a low pile of rubble left on the west side of the house, a macabre reminder they had survived the war. The house was still owned by descendants of the original owners, although it wasn't lived in; it was hired for weddings and corporate events, and the kitchen had seen an inordinate number of catering firms in the last thirty years. Several of the larger rooms had been set up for filming and, despite its grandness, he sometimes felt he was the only one immune to its attraction. It was just a house, albeit a large one; one he would be leaving in a few weeks, never to think of again. The drive was a long, graveled crescent and the tires of his car crunched as he eased down the path. Hugh's house was on the other end of the village, past the shops and greens and a minor bustle of activity on a rugby pitch. It was warm, hot even, and he put down the windows of his car to feel the breeze on his face, leaving them down as he pulled up to Hugh's house.

He got out of the car and knocked at the door. No sound could be heard from inside, but that wasn't unusual. Hugh, who rarely did anything as prosaic as reading, could often be found with headphones listening to Strauss or Grieg, as if music were a commodity that could not possibly be shared. In all of the years they had been friends, Hugh had never played music aloud. Daniel waited, and then after a while, opened the door.

The house was empty. He wondered if Hugh had asked him to meet him at the pub and then rejected the idea. He'd have a quick look round and then ring Tamsyn. The kitchen was empty, too, but to his surprise, her handbag was on the floor.

“Hugh?” he called out, without receiving a reply. He was about to open the back door when something, instinct perhaps, brought his eyes up to look through the small window, where he saw them together outside.

They were reclining in a lounge chair. Hugh lay back on thick cushions, and Tamsyn sat astride his long body, her dress clinging to her frame. It had come loose at the neck and had fallen aside to reveal a cool white shoulder dotted with freckles, and below, it was pulled up to her thighs; and though it was impossible to see what was happening, there was no mistaking the throes of passion, the pitch and thrust of their bodies together.

Daniel had never been the jealous sort who suspected every
woman he dated of infidelity. He had never really cared for anyone enough to experience jealousy. He had conducted himself, if not entirely wisely, then at least discreetly in his affairs, and attachments had never been made, at least not on his side. Sex, too, held no mystery; he had either seen or done or discussed nearly everything there was to know. He had never committed himself seriously, even for a moment. Until now.

A wave of anger crashed over him. It was a blow to realize that Hugh's having sex with this mad, improper girl could make him feel as though bricks had been dropped on his head. He stood for a moment, head tipped back against the wall with his eyes tightly closed. He was breathing harder than normal, his fists clenched as though ready for battle. But instead he composed himself, and then called Hugh's name, waiting a few seconds to give them time to spring apart with their knowing smiles, to cover themselves, and to prepare to welcome him into their little t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te as though nothing had happened at all. No one knew or even suspected the shattering of his heart.

Twelve

Autopsies were a fact
of life for any police detective, as commonplace as the ubiquitous bad coffee and bureaucratic jumbles of paperwork that plagued all investigations. Inspector Gordon Murray had seen dozens of corpses posed in the standard anatomical position awaiting the first cut of the Y incision to determine the precise cause of their deaths. Still, one never really got used it. Dr. Charles Hanson, one of the best coroners in London, had taken the Burke case, and Murray knew from experience he would be thorough. Though he didn't always personally inspect the body, something about this case troubled him more than usual. He left his office and knocked on the open door shortly after Hanson had finished.

“Photos and stats over there,” Hanson said, tipping his head toward the desk before continuing to scribble his notes. Most people used computers these days, but Hanson was of an age that would not give in to the inconvenience of learning modern customs, no matter how commonplace they had become.

Murray walked over and gave the file a cursory look.
Well-developed Caucasian female. Weight, 8.02 stone; Height, 63 inches; Body Marks: one tattoo above left ankle, one 3 cm birthmark on right buttock. Fixed Rigor Mortis.

He put down the file and turned back to the body. It was his second look at Tamsyn Burke, and what a difference twenty-four hours made. A day ago, there had still been some color in her face, and she could have passed for being unconscious. Now, however, she was as gray as if she had been dead for years. He looked at her auburn hair, which had been pulled back. It must have been quite striking with her pale complexion when she was alive. Murray walked up to the table and took a closer look. Occasionally, victims looked younger in death than they even had alive, and this one most certainly did. She had been petite, and no match for her killer. Her hands had been quite beautiful, with long pianists' fingers, small knuckles, and well-maintained nails. She had probably held them up in the days and weeks preceding the marriage and imagined her wedding band sparkling like the Hope Diamond, and looked forward to showing it off to her friends. He sighed, thinking of her parents' grief. As long as he lived, he would never understand what possessed someone to take another human life, particularly the life of an innocent like her. No matter who she was or what she may have done, she was still but a girl who needed love and protection. The sight of her decaying corpse angered him to the core.

“Only one stab wound, I see,” he said, looking at the point of entry.

“That's right,” the coroner answered, putting down his clipboard. “He got her in one thrust.”

“At precisely the right angle to end her life.”

“That's correct. The weapon went through the skin and the subcutaneous tissue, and between the left fifth and sixth rib straight into the left ventricle. The cause of death was hemorrhage from the stab wound.”

“Damn the luck. A little left or right and she might have lived.”

“Damn the luck is right. She also had a few contusions on her hands, defense wounds. She had mere seconds to react. Not long enough to stop the thrust of the knife. It's a simple wound, really. The perpetrator knew precisely where he could cause the most damage.”

“So you believe the killer is a man?”

“Not necessarily. I use the word ‘he' in a theoretical sense. Due to the close proximity of the killer, anyone could have done it had they known what they wanted to do. Surprise, not force, was the main element in this murder.”

“Reinforcing the concept that she knew the murderer.”

“It had to be someone she trusted.”

“Presumably,” Murray said, more to himself than to Hanson, “every one of the twenty-seven people in that wing was someone she trusted. Only the immediate circle had been admitted to that part of the Abbey.”

“I don't envy you that,” Hanson said, setting his pen on the counter and closing the file. “All I have to do is find the cause of death. The reason for it is a different matter altogether.”

Murray thanked him and left the office, deep in thought. The key to solving this murder was to understand the victim. Who precisely was Tamsyn Burke? Did people like her or not? Did she incite feelings of jealousy or hatred in the people she knew?

Murray himself was accustomed to being hated. One couldn't be a Detective Chief Inspector without it, he supposed, considering the type of people one had to deal with. Suspects hated the police when they were guilty, and even more so when they were innocent. Half of his subordinates were envious of his position. The public viewed the police as a necessary evil, sometimes fearing them as much as the criminals they caught.

During the course of a murder inquiry, most people, even mere witnesses, were afraid to talk in case they implicated themselves. It seemed that everyone had secrets. This case would undoubtedly prove no different, particularly because several had ties to the film industry.

Back in his office, Murray turned his attention to the reputation of the famous stage and screen actor, Noel Ashley-Hunt. He had actually seen him once in
Much Ado About Nothing
in the role of Leonato at the Old Vic, but when he had met him at Westminster Abbey, he couldn't imagine anyone less suited to play a comedy. Ashley-Hunt was a professional who took his life and career seriously. According to his résumé, he had acted with the Royal Shakespeare Company and won a number of awards, including a Tony for his portrayal of Don Quixote in
Man of La Mancha
in New York, but it wasn't until a series of popular instamatic camera commercials in the '70s that his face became recognizable in every home in England. He was known for many years for his boyish good looks, and while he had aggressively gone after but not gotten the role of James Bond, he'd played similar playboy types in both American and British films. As he matured, he took on heavier roles in World War II pictures and other epic films, once playing the dual roles of George V and his look-alike cousin, Nicholas II, in a landmark mini-series, which solidified the English love affair with the handsome actor.

Through several newspaper articles, Murray discovered that
Ashley-Hunt had been born in Yorkshire to a poor family. His mother, Mary Alice, had left his father when Noel was seven, taking the child with her to London where she sought a life on the stage. She had very modest success; she was employed enough to keep food on the table, yet never became a star. Instead of discouraging the young Ashley-Hunt, this whetted his appetite for fame. He was raised behind the scenes and had been coddled by the actresses his mother knew. He was accepted by the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art at twenty and began to carefully craft a career, one of solid roles and an excellent reputation.

At thirty, he had married a cousin of the royal family, Caroline Montgomery, and from all accounts it was a serious love match. The beautiful Mrs. Ashley-Hunt, a tall, blonde society girl, was a favorite of the tabloid photographers, even more so after marrying the dashing actor. She suffered three miscarriages before giving birth to Hugh, whose birth was heralded like royalty in the London newspapers.

When his career was established, Ashley-Hunt became a philanthropist, giving generously to various charities as well as to the British Museum. There was talk that he was soon to be awarded an Order of the British Empire, thus giving him a title as well as his wife. On paper, he was formidable; in person, even more so.

Murray looked at his watch. It was one thirty. He had a two o'clock appointment with Noel Ashley-Hunt to discuss Tamsyn Burke's murder. He picked up the phone and dialed Ennis's extension.

His sergeant picked up on the first ring. “Yes, boss?”

“I have an interview in half an hour.”

“I'll bring the car around, sir.”

“Thank you.” Murray replaced the receiver on the telephone and stood, pulling on his coat. He wasn't star-struck like most people. Men like Ashley-Hunt did not intimidate him in the least. The actor might have a distinguished reputation, but in a murder investigation he was no better or worse than anyone else. Apart from the Queen, he knew of few individuals who were better than his peers. Murray often thought if he hadn't been such a monarchist and a political conservative, he would have made a fine democrat.

Outside, it was raining, and he unfolded his umbrella as he waited for Ennis to bring round the car. It was typical May weather; sunny and warm one day, cool and drizzly the next. Today, it felt more like March than May. Rivulets of rain dripped from the nylon, and he shook it vigorously when Ennis pulled up. He slid into the passenger seat.

“The Ashley-Hunts, sir?” Ennis asked before he had a chance to tell him. Sometimes he wondered if his sergeant was clairvoyant.

“That's right. We've an appointment with the father, but I plan to have a word with the son as well. I want to talk to him about the death threat he received.”

“I've got IT working on the link to the source, sir. So far, all we know is that the email account was established two months ago on one of those free webmail sites. It'll take some tracking to see if we can find who opened the account.”

Ennis went silent, focusing on the traffic while Murray considered the case. Twenty-seven people were on the suspect list; all family, friends, or acquaintances. No one else had been seen apart from in the public areas, where guards protected the artifacts. Even though none of the twenty-seven suspects had serious criminal records or a history that pointed to murder, the killer was certainly among their number. Someone had gotten close enough to stab Tamsyn Burke without alerting her to danger.

Motive, method, and opportunity, he thought; the three factors one had to identify in every case. The method, of course, was obvious: stabbing with an ordinary knife, the likes of which was sold at Marks and Spencer and virtually dozens of other shops that traded in kitchen wares. The opportunity had presented itself in the minutes preceding the ceremony that had been about to take place. That left the infinitely more difficult part of the equation: motive. Some clue would make itself known if he looked hard enough. He pointed as Ennis pulled into Edgemore Street.

“Just there.”

Ennis pulled the car up to the curb and they opened their umbrellas against the rain. The sun was obscured by dark, charcoal clouds, and a ripple of thunder could be heard in the distance. Two men stood discreetly on either side of the door, as innocuous as the
gendarmes
outside the Palace Elysée in Paris. The first time he had seen them, Murray hadn't even realized he was passing the residence of the President of France until the cab driver mentioned it. At the moment, he was pleased to see that Ashley-Hunt had taken the threat seriously and provided a security detail for his son's benefit.

The door of the house opened as he and Ennis approached, and they were ushered inside by a housekeeper. They sheathed their umbrellas in a stand and were shown into the study where Noel Ashley-Hunt was waiting.

“Inspector Murray, won't you come in?” Ashley-Hunt said, looking up from his desk.

“Thank you for seeing us today,” Murray answered. “Will your wife be joining us?”

The man gave an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, Caroline is organizing flowers for the funeral.”

Murray knew that powerful men like Ashley-Hunt began difficult interviews with a false cordiality; in fact, the more cordial the greeting, the nastier the conclusion was likely to be. Ashley-Hunt stood and went over to the fireplace. Murray noted it had just been lit. The logs showed little sign of ash, and the room was still cool. Ashley-Hunt had set the stage in order to control the situation.

He waved them to a pair of club chairs and went to perch on the edge of his mahogany desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his arms.

He's impatient, Murray thought. Good. He took out a notebook, which he did not open, and a pen.

“How long have you known Tamsyn Burke?” Murray asked, studying Ashley-Hunt's face for any change in expression. There was none, of course.

“My wife and I met her for the first time at Christmas.”

“Here in London?”

“At our country house in Gloucestershire.”

“And when did your son meet her?”

“They met when Hugh began filming
Under the Greenwood Tree
several months ago. She was working as an extra and Hugh persuaded Sir John Hodges to consider her for the lead.”

“Did your son often recommend people for parts in his films?”

“Of course not.”

Murray sat back in his chair and folded his hands on top of his notebook. “Can you tell me what you thought of Miss Burke when you met for the first time?”

“Hugh occasionally brought friends to the house. It was not unusual. I didn't think much about it.”

“But you must have known that she was more than a friend if he brought her at Christmas, am I right, sir? Had he ever brought home a girl for Christmas before?”

“I don't recall. I am not in the habit of cataloguing my son's friends.”

“Surely a father would remember his son bringing home a serious girlfriend for the holidays.”

Ashley-Hunt's brow creased into a frown. “Then, no, I don't suppose he ever had.”

“Did you get the impression at the time that they were serious about their relationship?”

“They showed signs of being in a relationship, but I never expect these things to last. Certainly not at his age.”

“What was her behavior toward the family?”

“She was polite enough.”

“I understand she was quite different from your son, from her upbringing to her recent life.”

“Yes, she was a different sort of girl.”

“Not exactly the sort you'd choose for him yourself, then?”

“Where are you going with this, Inspector?” Ashley-Hunt growled. He stood up and walked around to sit in the chair behind the desk.