The Valley (22 page)

‘The police are letting you go,’ he announced. ‘They won’t search your home, your ex-wife’s home or your offices. They won’t admit to wrongful arrest, but I’ve got them to state that they have now eliminated you from their enquiries. This means that, unless they find new evidence, they can’t arrest you on the same charge, or apply for a search warrant again. They’ve also offered to drive you back to London. There’s no offer of compensation though.’

‘That’s excellent,’ I said. ‘Has Max Grainger also been released?’

‘I don’t think so. But, if they were relying on your evidence to convict him, it’s only a matter of time.’

I stood up, offering him my hand. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

Instead of taking my hand, he looked me in the eye. ‘There’s something else you should know. The police dropped the charges without a fight, so I did not get to see their evidence.’

‘They don’t have anything,’ I said, beaming.

‘I doubt that.’

I looked at him, my smile disappearing.

‘My professional opinion is that they do have evidence against you. It’s just not compelling enough to substantiate this charge at this time, so they decided not to use it. But I think it exists.’

He stood up and started packing away the folder in his attaché case. He glanced at his watch. ‘I can stay around until they let you go, if you want.’

I shook my head. Including the VAT, he must have cost me nearly four thousand pounds already.

He knocked on the door. The young police constable opened it to let him out and I was led back to my cell. It was another half hour until the constable returned to fetch me, taking me up to the charging room again. There was no sign of Davies or Joy Clarke. If I had expected an apology, I was going to be disappointed.

Two uniformed policemen gave me back my possessions and made me sign two different forms in triplicate before formally releasing me by escorting me through to the front desk, where I saw Joy Clarke, sitting casually in a chair and reading a magazine.

‘Have you waited around to say sorry?’ I said.

‘No, but I’m offering to drive you to London. Are you ready to go?’

‘I’d rather wait for Max.’

‘It could be a long wait,’ she said.

‘How long?’

‘Twenty years. Maybe fifteen if the judge is lenient.’

I glared at her and she smiled back, basking in her little victory.

‘John, even if they let Max Grainger go, it won’t be until they get the forensic results back. That won’t be until late tonight. I’m not waiting around till then. So if you want a lift, we’re leaving now. Otherwise you take the bus.’

She got to her feet and walked toward the door. ‘Coming?’ she said.

I followed her outside. Beyond the police station car park, I could see a small crowd of people gathered by the main gate.

‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘The press are taking a keen interest in your friend Mr Grainger.’

‘Should I put a blanket on my head and lie down on the backseat?’

‘Only if you want to attract attention and be followed all the way back to London. If you sit in the front seat next to me, they will assume you’re my partner.’

‘Where is your partner?’ I said.

She looked at me blankly.

‘Steve,’ I said.

‘He’s not my partner,’ she said firmly.

I recognised her car. It was the same blue Vauxhall we had driven down in. I sat in the passenger seat as she drove it out through the main gates. A few photographers half-heartedly pointed their lenses at us, but no one banged on the windows or tried to block our path.

At the end of the road, Joy turned to me. ‘How well do you know Southampton?’

‘Joy, I’m not answering any more questions.’

‘I’m only asking for directions!’ she yelled. She reached inside the glove compartment and dropped a road atlas in my lap. ‘Just get us to the M3.’

I guided her onto the motorway, keeping my directions as brief as possible. Then I stayed silent. After half an hour, I asked her if there was a radio in the car.

‘Not the sort that plays music,’ Joy said, pointing to the police RT. ‘We could try talking, although I suppose I’ll have to be very careful that I don’t say anything your new lawyer friend could construe as harassment.’

‘Yes, you will.’

‘Well, what can we talk about that is nothing to do with the case? How about your love life? Are you still seeing that girl you had dinner with – blonde, short hair, pretty?’

‘No, she…’ I nearly said ‘disappeared’, but stopped myself just in time. ‘She decided I was not the man for her.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Plenty – how about your love life?’

‘There’s not much to tell.’

‘Let me guess. You’re not married, are you?’

She did not say anything.

‘But you’ve probably got a boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Am I right?’

She smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘Long-term?’

‘About three years.’

‘Any sound of wedding bells?’

‘You’re worse than my mother,’ she said.

‘He’s not a copper, is he?’

‘Why did you say that?’

‘You don’t seem to have much respect for your fellow officers – particularly the male ones.’

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘No comment,’ she eventually said with a smile.

‘So what does your fella do? You don’t like businessmen much. Every time you talk to me it’s obvious you think we are all a bunch of spivs on the make.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘And you’re too square to go for an activist, too puritan to end up with a playboy…’

‘You talk a lot of rubbish.’

‘And way too flirty for a civil servant.’

‘I’m not flirty.’

‘You wouldn’t slum it with a manual labourer, not for three years anyway. So that leaves the professions. How about a lawyer? You’d have plenty of opportunities to meet, lots of things in common…’

‘Wrong, wrong, totally wrong,’ she said. ‘Now let’s get back to your blonde-haired girl friend. Was she –‘

‘He’s a doctor, isn’t he?’ I said.

She stayed silent.

‘I knew he was. What sort? A surgeon?’

‘Actually he’s an anaesthetist. Now tell me about Angela. What went wrong?’

‘How did you know she was called Angela?’

There was a brief hesitation, then Joy said, ‘You introduced her to me, remember. I came round to your flat and she happened to be there.’

‘You checked her out, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Did you warn her off me? Arrange a little informal briefing, woman to woman: ‘Sorry love, your boyfriend’s a murderer; better break up with him if you want to stay alive.’

Joy shook her head. ‘John, we’ve better things to do than keep track of your girlfriends. I only remembered she was called Angela because you made such a point of introducing me to her and making me talk to you in front of her.’

‘About a non-existent TV reconstruction?’

‘At the time it was a very real possibility.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘And how about today? You know perfectly well that I haven’t got murder weapons hidden away in my kids’ bedroom, so why threaten to send in your storm troopers to tear them apart?’

‘Because you’re hiding something and you’re not telling us the truth.’

We drove on in silence, Joy keeping under the speed limit and letting other cars sweep past us. As we approached the M25, the traffic ground to a halt. The car in front started moving again and we followed it, crawling along for about a hundred yards, before coming to another complete stop.

‘Can’t you drive along the hard shoulder?’

‘It’s not allowed.’

‘How about using the flashing blue lights?’

‘Getting you back to your flat is not an emergency.’

The traffic started moving again and then came to another juddering halt. For five minutes we sat in silence in a stationery car, before Joy turned to me. ‘Purely for my own interest, and totally off the record, why were you so evasive about whether you’d been on Max’s boat?’

‘Joy, I’m not answering any more questions.’

‘How about if you asked the questions?’ She said. ‘There must be one or two things you’re a bit curious about.’

I smiled. It was such an obvious ploy to get me talking. But it was also a chance to find out some answers. And I was bored of sitting in silence.

‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘There are no tape recorders and even if there were, we’d never be allowed to use it as evidence.’

‘Okay,’ I said cautiously, ‘tell me about Charlie Wall.’

She looked across at me. ‘Why?’

‘You accused me of murdering him. I’d like to know a little bit about him.’

‘He was a white South African, just like you. In the late eighties he lived in the Bristol area – just like you.’

‘In the city?’

‘No, Charlie was quite the rural type, or at least back then he was. He worked as an assistant kennel huntsman for a pack of foxhounds based in one of the neighbouring villages.’

I laughed. ‘And you really thought I’d know him from that? I’ve never been hunting in my life.’

‘I suppose it’s more Max Grainger’s sort of thing, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Actually you’re wrong again. He hates riding.’

She looked at me with real interest.

‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ I said gleefully. ‘It’s probably ruined your nice little theory of how Charlie, Max and I all met. Well, I’ll tell you something for free which you can stick in your report: Max’s mother was killed out riding when Max was seven years old and he hasn’t been near a horse since.’

The car ahead suddenly started moving again and we followed in its wake.

‘So what crimes did Charlie commit?’ I asked.

‘He had a few juvenile convictions, but nothing serious. Then he stole the hunt’s humane killer which is the gun they use to kill the animals sent to them for slaughter. It fires a retractable bolt rather than a bullet. Charlie nicked one, tried to adapt it into a conventional pistol and used it to hold up a sub-post office on pensions day. He was unlucky. There was a retired vet in the queue who spotted the gun was a humane killer. It was then a simple task for the local CID to talk to all the nearby vets, slaughterhouses and hunts and ask them to check if any of their humane killers had gone missing. The trail led straight to Charlie, who got five years for armed robbery. After he was let out, he basically became a thug for hire.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘He was shot.’

‘I guess that’s not a surprise.’

‘Actually there was something surprising about his death. He had his neck broken as well.’

I could feel Joy’s eyes watching me. My own stayed locked on the car ahead.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Why’s that strange?’

‘According to the pathologist, someone shot him at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Then they came over to him when he was obviously dying, knelt over him and broke his neck. I find that strange, don’t you?’

‘Maybe his killer had run out of ammunition?’

‘After one shot? That’s unlikely. Shotguns have two barrels. We reckon the killer is a psychopath who wants to feel his victim as they die.’

‘And that’s what you think I am – a psychopath?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But you could be helping one.’

‘You mean Max Grainger?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘Max isn’t a psychopath. I’ve had more rows with him than anyone else and I’m still alive to tell the tale.’

‘For now.’

I suddenly saw the brake lights of the car in front of us glow bright red.

‘Stop!’ I shouted.

Joy slammed on the brakes. We came to a shuddering halt with only ten yards to spare. Behind us, we heard brakes screeching.

I turned to face her. She was already looking at me. ‘You seem rather nervous,’ she said.

I ignored her and waited for the car ahead to start moving again, before asking her what was Charlie Wall’s connection to Southampton.

‘We don’t know exactly,’ Joy said. ‘But his body was found in the sea not far away. It was scooped up by a fishing trawler. It had been weighted down.’

‘What with?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘You accused me of murdering him so I might as well know how I was supposed to have done it.’

‘The body was wrapped with something heavy,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you anymore – unless you start sharing some information with us.’

‘I think we exhausted that conversation back at the police station’

‘Did we?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at me and smiled. Neither of us said another word as we drove back through the suburbs and into The Valley, eventually pulling up just outside the front door of my mansion block.

As I started to get out of the car, Joy reached out and touched my arm. ‘You know we’ll be watching you?’

She fumbled under her seat for her bag.

‘We’ll obey all the rules,’ she said, ‘so there’s no point in complaining to your lawyer friend. We won’t go into your flat or office without a warrant and we won’t harass you. Most of the time you won’t even know we’re there. But we’ll keep watching you. Remember that.’

She pulled out a card. It had an embossed Metropolitan Police logo at the top and beneath it her name and title, a phone number and an email address. She took out a pen and wrote down a mobile number as well.

‘John, one day you’ll realise you don’t want to go through the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. When that time comes, call me on this number.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I said clambering out of the car and slamming the door behind me.

But I kept her card.

The next morning I was just leaving my flat when the phone rang.

‘You could’ve told us you’d been released,’ Karen said. ‘What happened to you?’

‘They arrested me. The lawyer Nick recommended turned up, and an hour later they were backtracking like mad and apologising.’

‘Hang on a second,’ she said and I heard a shout in the background. ‘John, turn on the TV – BBC1. It’s all about Max.’

I hung up and switched on the TV, and saw the
Glen Avon
in the same marina that I had visited. Men in white overalls were swarming all over it.

The news reader said something about a live press conference, and the next thing I saw was a close-up of Max. He was clean shaven, wearing a suit and tie, and his thin fair hair had been combed into place. He looked tanned in a wealthy, weather-beaten way. But the twinkle in his eyes had vanished.

He sat on a podium, next to a rather rotund man in a pinstripe suit who spoke first.

‘My client, Mr Grainger, was arrested early yesterday morning by officers of the Hampshire police, who searched his yacht and his homes in London and Scotland.’

The camera swung towards Max who stared back into it. At first you noticed only the tiredness and sadness in his face – the bags under his eyes and the lines across his forehead – but then his droopy eyelids opened to reveal eyes that blazed defiance.

As the cameras whirled and flashbulbs popped, Max’s lawyer carried on talking in a dry monotone. ‘The arresting officers explained to Mr Grainger that they’d found the body of a man previously suspected of being involved in the abduction of his wife who is still missing. Mr Grainger insisted that he knew nothing about this man’s identity or his death. After further questioning, the police have now accepted this and late last night Mr Grainger was released without charge. He would now like to make a short statement.’

He passed the microphone to Max, triggering a new round of camera flashes and whirls. For a while Max just stared at the photographers, like a cornered lion, until their barrage died down. Then he bent down, and started talking into the microphone in an unusually quiet voice.

‘Six months ago, my wife Lucy was brutally attacked and abducted from our home whilst I was away in Spain. She has not been seen again. I hope to God that she is still alive – I pray for it every day – but I have to accept that as each day passes, this becomes less likely.’

He stopped and there was almost complete silence, broken only by a few camera clicks.

‘Yesterday, the police told me that they had discovered the body of a man they suspected of taking part in the abduction of my wife. They also reminded me of something I said six months ago.’

He looked down at a sheet of paper and read from it.

‘Back then, I said that the men who attacked Lucy deserved to burn in hell, and if necessary I would put them there.’

He looked up, as dozens of flashing cameras tried to capture his haunted stare.

‘But I did not kill this man. And I didn’t tell anyone to kill him either. The police now accept this which is why I have been released. And, in turn, I accept that the police had to detain and question me until they could be sure of this. But for the avoidance of any doubt about my intentions, let me just say one more thing.’

Even through a TV camera you could feel the tension in the room, as Max seemed to teeter on the edge of a confession. His lawyer looked up and leaned over to whisper something in Max’s ear, but Max brushed him aside and leaned closer to the microphone, speaking slowly.

‘Because this man is dead, I may never know if he killed my wife. And now I might never find out what happened to Lucy.’

Max’s voice had started to crack up. I could see him swallowing hard.

‘I can’t un-say things I have already said. But I can remind you all that I have promised a £1 million reward to anyone who gives evidence to the police that leads to my wife being found alive, or if she has been killed, to the conviction of those responsible for her murder. And let me stress that any information given to me personally will be handed over to the police, and I will neither commit, nor condone any private acts of vengeance. Thank you.’

He stood up, gave one last despairing look around the room and then marched out, with his lawyer following in his wake. Some reporters shouted out questions but these were soon drowned out by another noise: people were clapping. The TV camera swung round. The back of the room was crowded with men dressed in fleeces and wind breakers, who shared Max’s weather-beaten features and sun-bleached hair, and all of them were cheering Max.

There was an eerie silence when I arrived at PropFace just under an hour later. No one would look me in the eye as I passed them on the way to my own office. Between meetings I stayed at my desk scanning the internet for reports about the press conference. Hampshire police had so far refused to comment except to confirm that Mr Grainger had been arrested and then released from custody without being charged. This had not stopped the various columnists and bloggers from giving their opinions. Although Max had never mentioned Charlie Wall, his name was everywhere, as were details of his criminal record: assault, GBH, armed robbery, burglary. A few of the sites also mentioned he was a white South African.

Overwhelmingly, people seemed to be backing Max. The word they kept using was ‘dignified’. Some said it was outrageous that the police had even arrested him. The only criticism of him I could find was related to his job as a hedge fund manager. To most people, it seemed, working in the City was a worse crime than being a murderer, if the murder victim was someone like Charlie Wall.

When I walked to the water cooler, people nervously smiled as I approached and then looked away. And then one of the girls in the Customer Services department asked me whether I would be talking to Max Grainger soon, and before I could say anything, she added that everyone in the company was thinking of him. I mumbled. ‘Thank you,’ and fled back to my office.

I stayed there until nearly one o’clock when I saw everyone suddenly look up and stare at something just out of my line of sight. Next Hannah, our receptionist, came bouncing into my office, announcing that I had a visitor, and a second later, Max walked in.

‘Any chance of some lunch?’ he said.

‘Why not?’ I said, rising to my feet, keen to escape from the zoo as fast as possible.

We walked through the open plan section of the office to reception. If I had been escorting the queen, I would have attracted less attention. And there was not a single look of disapproval. In the end I had to hurry Max out, in case someone started clapping.

In the lift, I turned to him. ‘When you invested in us, you stipulated that your involvement in PropFace should be kept strictly confidential? Well, I’ve got news for you: everyone in the office knows about it.’

He laughed. ‘The lawyers always put that bit in. I never know why.’

The moment we got outside, Max started walking fast towards the river. As we crossed the road, I saw Steve, Joy Clarke’s sidekick, standing on the pavement, talking into a radio.

‘We are being followed,’ I said.

‘They’ve been buzzing around me like flies all morning,’ he said without turning round, or breaking his stride. Instead he spotted a taxi and hailed it, only giving the driver instructions when we were both inside and the doors were closed.

‘The Farmers’ Club’ he said. ‘Pall Mall.’

I opened my mouth to say something but Max shook his head. ‘Wait until we get there,’ he said.

When we arrived, a porter greeted Max like an old friend. Max had a quiet word with him and he disappeared into a small room, emerging ten seconds later with a stripy tie.

‘You have to put this on,’ Max said, handing it to me.

When I was suitably dressed, we were shown to a small table at one end of a large, and almost deserted, dining room. The few tables that were taken were occupied by small groups of middle-aged men wearing tweed jackets.

‘You do still like steak, don’t you?’ Max asked as a waiter handed us both a menu.

I nodded.

‘We’ll both have the fillet then,’ Max said, handing his menu back without looking at it. ‘They serve the best meat in London.’

Another waiter came over with the wine list and Max had a long discussion with him about which of the various red Burgundies in the club’s cellar were ready for drinking, before plumping for the Chambertin Grand Cru.

As the waiter backed away, I asked Max to tell me about his arrest.

‘We docked at the marina a couple of nights ago,’ he said. ‘The crew were keen to head up to London for a party, so I let them leave. At five o’clock the next morning, I’d just got up to catch the Nikkei close, when I heard the sound of boots on deck. I went up to see what was going on and ran into ten policemen. One of them was a Welsh buffoon who arrested me on the spot.’

‘Davies?’

‘Yes, that’s the fellow – complete idiot. He dragged me off to the police station, then re-appeared a couple of hours later looking very pleased with himself, and announced his forensic team had found traces of human blood in the Mess. I laughed and told him we used the place as an emergency surgery. He buggered off with his tail between his legs, then came back an hour later asking me to explain the traces of gunpowder that they had just discovered. He looked rather put out when I told him that several well known bankers and I had shot some clays off the back a few weeks before Christmas and then cleaned our guns in the Mess afterwards. Then he wanted to know why the room had been refitted with new panelling.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him to use his imagination why a man whose wife had disappeared might want to change his surroundings.’

‘Where is the old panelling?’

‘It doesn’t exist: I burnt it, although I didn’t tell them that. I liked the idea of Davies sending police constables to every boatyard in Europe to scour through their rubbish, so I gave him lots of names, mostly of ones that don’t employ any English speakers or which close for the winter.’

Max smiled and reached for the bottle, refilling our glasses.

‘And then Davies tried one last throw of the dice,’ he added, ‘arranging for you to bump into me. It couldn’t have backfired more. The moment I saw you, I knew everything was going to be all right.’

‘I didn’t.’

For a second Max thought I was joking. Then he realised I was not, and leaned forward. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we committed a murder on board that boat and the police knew that a murder had happened there.’

Max shook his head. ‘They knew nothing. They thought we’d bumped off someone called Charlie Wall.’

‘Did you?’

Max did not say anything.

‘Max, I need to know.’

‘No, you don’t,’

We sat staring at each other. The smell of roasted meat that seemed to emanate from every crevice of the club’s dining room suddenly took on a slightly sickly flavour.

‘I want to know,’ I said at last.

‘Why? You don’t need to get involved.’

‘I am involved.’’

Max picked up a piece of bread and tore it into two smaller pieces.

‘You met Gerry,’ he said. ‘Having seen him, do you think he’d be physically capable of killing Lucy and then carrying her body away from the house without some help?’

I thought about Gerry’s corpulent frame sliding down the wall after Max had shot him.

‘No.’

Max started buttering the bread. ‘And if I put a shotgun to Gerry’s head, and threatened to pull the trigger unless he told me the name of his accomplice, do you really think he’d stay silent?’

I remembered Gerry’s broken glasses, ripped shirt and swollen cheeks.

Max looked straight at me. ‘And if Gerry told me that information, do you think I’d let things rest?’

There was a long pause, and then I said, ‘How many others do you have to hunt down?’

‘None,’ he said. ‘It’s over now.’

‘You said that before.’

Max popped the bread into his mouth. ‘I said it was over for you, John – and it was. Now it’s over for me as well. The police have shot their bolt. Without new evidence, they can’t arrest me; they can’t arrest you; they can’t even set foot on the
Glen Avon
. And there is no new evidence, is there?

For a while I just stared back at him. ‘No,’ I finally said, and looked away.

The waiter came over and served our steaks. As he did so, I gazed at the paintings around the walls. They were very large, badly lit oil paintings in gaudy frames showing gentleman farmers hunting foxes in Victorian times. For a while, I wondered whether I should tell Max that the police assumed he also hunted.

Max interrupted my thoughts. ‘So how’s PropFace?’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘The funds you put in helped.’

Max’s phone was sitting on the table and it suddenly buzzed. He read a message on it, then said, ‘Do you mind, the club doesn’t approve of members using mobile phones in the dining room. I’ll be back in a second.’

Left to myself, I glanced around the dining room again. There was still no sign of Steve or Joy, or any other police officer that I recognised. But as I looked at the handful of other diners, I remembered Joy’s warning that I would be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. For Max it might have been an enjoyable game, sending policemen across Europe on a wild goose chase and dodging between private clubs and first class lounges. But for me it was not.

When he returned, he asked me about the toy boat he had given Jack.

‘He loves it,’ I said. ‘It’s his favourite Christmas present.’

‘I still want to get you all to come out on the
Glen Avon
with me.’

‘That sounds great’ I said, safe in the knowledge that until a date was attached, it was only a pretend invitation.

‘How about 12th February?’ Max suggested.

‘What?’

‘12th February, it’s a Saturday. I thought you could bring both boys and stay on the boat overnight.’

‘Oh – I can’t. I’ve got a tennis match,’ I lied.

‘The week after?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s half term.’

‘All the better,’ Max said. ‘You won’t have to hurry back.’