Shifting Sands (15 page)

Pringle didn't return it. ‘You're assuming, sir, that it was Ms du Pré who sent it.'

Lewis was taken aback. ‘But surely . . .?'

‘Wouldn't it have been more usual in the circumstances to have telephoned, apologized personally? More polite, even, considering she was addressing her employer?' He let Lewis take in the implications before adding, ‘A text, though, is nice and anonymous, isn't it, sir?'

Lewis said incredulously, ‘You're saying her killer sent it? That she was already dead at ten past nine?'

‘I'm saying nothing of the sort, sir,' Pringle contradicted smoothly. ‘Merely that at this stage, nothing can be ruled out. Now, let us move on to your return to the hotel this evening. What was the first you heard of her death?'

With difficulty, Lewis wrenched his mind from unconsidered possibilities. ‘As soon as we arrived back, the manager called me into his office and broke the news. A chambermaid had found her, when she went to turn down the bed. But you know all that – your men were already there.'

‘Indeed.' There was a moment's pause. ‘The safe was open and empty, so it would seem her killer was looking for something. Have you any idea what that might be?'

Lewis said drily, ‘No, but the empty safe seems to indicate that he found it.'

The detective looked up, and for a long moment the men held each other's eyes. Then, abruptly, Pringle changed tack. ‘The name and address of her next of kin, Mr Masters; presumably you can supply them?'

‘Not personally, but they'll be on file at head office.'

‘Had she any relatives in this country?'

‘Not to my knowledge.'

‘Then perhaps you'd arrange for her details to be sent to me as soon as possible. In the meantime, there's one further thing I must ask of you.'

Lewis waited.

‘Due to the lack of relatives, it will be necessary for you to identify the body.'

Lewis stared at him. ‘But there's no doubt, surely? I mean, she was found in her own room, and—'

‘It's a legal requirement, Mr Masters. It won't take long: the mortuary's just next door. DC Smith will accompany you. After that, you'll be free to leave, though I shall need to see you again in the morning.'

At his cue, the constable, who'd remained silent throughout the interview, rose and opened the door for him, and Lewis, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, had no option but to go through it.

It was on the news that night. Anna, hands clasped tightly in her lap, gazed at the screen, unable to relate the only-too-familiar sight of police tapes and men in white suits with Lewis and his colleagues. At least his name wasn't mentioned; if he'd not phoned her, she'd have had no idea of his involvement. For that matter, the girl's name, which he'd not told her, had also been withheld, presumably to give the police time to contact her family, poor souls.

A woman of twenty-five. Whoever could have wanted to kill her? And in view of her death, Anna told herself, it was unforgivably selfish of her to mind so much about not seeing Lewis tomorrow.

With a sigh, she switched off the set and went up to bed. It would have astonished her to know that her son had been watching the same report with an even more personal interest.

It was eleven o'clock, and the five of them were in Lewis's suite. While the others discussed their interviews with the police, Lewis himself was trying to dispel the image of the girl in the morgue, which had burned itself on to his retinas.

Forcing it to the back of his mind, he rose to refill their glasses. ‘The police wondered if she met someone when we got back last night,' he said. ‘Did anyone see her before dinner?'

Everyone shook their heads.

‘It would make sense,' Mike Chadwick, the Managing Director, put in. ‘If it was a date of some kind, the guy might even have come back and spent the night with her.'

‘Perhaps that's why she cried off today – to be with him,' his PA, Tina Martin, suggested. ‘Then things could have turned nasty, and he killed her.'

‘And perhaps we should rein in our imaginations,' Lewis said drily. He returned to his chair and took a sip of his drink. ‘When the police asked for details, I realized how little I know about the girl. Did she ever mention a boyfriend, Cameron?'

‘Not to me; we didn't discuss personal matters.'

‘So what do you know about her?'

‘Only that she was a damn good PA. Her home was near Paris – or at least, her parents still live there. She came over shortly before joining us, two years ago.'

‘And lived near the resort, I presume?'

‘Yes, she rented a bungalow in the village.'

‘Did she share it with anyone?'

‘I've no idea. No one from the Group, anyway. God, Father, I've been through all this with the police!'

‘Sorry.' Lewis turned from his son's drawn face to the two PAs. ‘Anything you can add?'

They both shook their heads, and he suddenly hit the arm of his chair, startling them.

‘What
bloody
timing! If she had to get herself killed, why now, for God's sake? We'll be lumbered with just the sort of publicity we don't need, and the negotiations could be seriously jeopardized. Not to mention casting a cloud over the anniversary weekend.'

He broke off, aware of their shocked faces, and wiped a hand across his own.

‘Sorry,' he muttered. ‘Put it down to stress. Obviously, I didn't mean that.'

But he had, and they knew it. Stress might account for his blurting it out, but it had been in his mind ever since the discovery of the body. He looked up, catching Yvonne Standish's eye, and she gave him a sympathetic smile.

Dear Yvonne! he thought fondly; in her fifties and divorced, she'd been his PA for over ten years, and her loyalty and efficiency were second to none. Lewis was aware she was in love with him, and the idea of sleeping with her had crossed his mind more than once. But now he'd met Anna; it was sheer bad luck that tonight, when sex would have been the ideal antidote, she was two hundred miles away.

He glanced back at Yvonne. Temptation was strong, but he suppressed it. Had Anna been one of his passing liaisons, he might have succumbed; but his relationship with her was on another plane, and he wasn't going to compromise it.

Cameron was saying, ‘How long do you think they'll keep us here?'

‘It's my son's school concert tomorrow,' Mike added. ‘I'll be for it if I'm not home in time.'

‘I shouldn't think it'll be much longer,' Yvonne said in her quiet voice. ‘They've taken our addresses, so they can contact us at home if they need to. With luck, we should get away tomorrow.'

In which case, he could still meet Anna. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Lewis stood up. ‘In the meantime, I think we should try to get some sleep. I'll see you all in the morning. Goodnight, everyone.'

As he closed the door behind them, he glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty. Too late to phone her. He'd ring first thing in the morning, ask her to hold the weekend after all. Despite the traumas of the day, something might yet be salvaged.

EIGHT

A
fter a restless night, Jonathan came awake to the ringing of his mobile, and, befuddled with sleep, fumbled to locate it before it woke Vicky. The bedside clock pointed to six thirty. Who the hell . . .?

‘Yes? . . . Hello? . . . This is Jonathan Farrell; who's calling? Do you know what time it is?'

There was silence, then a click as the line was disconnected.

‘Well, thanks a bunch!' he muttered.

‘Who was it?' Vicky asked sleepily from the bed.

‘Some insomniac, dialling the wrong number.'

‘Come back to bed, then.'

And, still grumbling, he did so.

Two hours later, he phoned the paper from Steve's flat.

‘Hi. Jonathan Farrell here. Did a letter arrive for me this morning, by any chance?'

‘If it did, it'll be forwarded,' a laconic voice told him.

‘I know that; I just want to confirm it's actually arrived?'

‘Hang on, I'll put you through.'

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder at Steve, standing rigidly behind him. ‘They're checking,' he said.

‘Sorry, mate.' Another voice. ‘Nothing here for Farrell.'

Jonathan frowned. ‘But there
must
be! It was posted yesterday morning, in Manchester.'

‘Sorry,' the voice repeated.

‘The post
has
arrived, I take it?'

‘Yep, been sorted.' A pause. ‘Perhaps it was sent second class?'

‘I very much doubt it. Look, could you check again? It might be a package rather than a letter.'

A heavy sigh came over the wire, followed by a brief pause, then: ‘Still nothing. Give us a call tomorrow.'

‘OK, thanks.'

He put down the phone and stared wordlessly at his friend.

‘Let's just think this through, before we panic,' Steve said. ‘She wouldn't have had time to go out and find a postbox, so either there was one in the hotel lobby or she handed it to the receptionist.' He paused thoughtfully. ‘Did she say she was
going
to post it, or already had?'

Jonathan clicked on Messages. ‘Her actual words were “
am posting it to you
”, which could mean either. Why?'

‘Just wondering if something – or someone – prevented her from doing so.'

‘Oh God!' Jonathan said tonelessly. ‘So we're back to the killer possibly having it.'

‘On the other hand, the hotel mail mightn't have been collected, or the receptionist forgot to post it, in which case it'll turn up eventually. What's clear, though, is that without it, our hands are tied and there's absolutely nothing we can do.'

‘And if it
doesn't
turn up, she'll have died for nothing.'

‘If that's why she was killed. For all we know, it could have been a lovers' tiff.'

‘You're surely not saying this is all one big coincidence?'

‘God, Jon, I don't know what I'm saying. I've not been mixed up in murder before, and I can't say I like it.'

‘Ought we to contact the police, do you think?'

‘And tell them what? That you found her? That's all the info you can give them, apart from the fact that you left the scene as fast as your legs could carry you, having probably removed the killer's fingerprints as well as your own.'

Jonathan groaned. ‘I never thought of that.'

They sat in gloomy silence for several minutes. Then Jonathan said urgently, ‘There must be
something
we can do. We owe her that much. Let's go over again what we know – or at least what she told us.'

‘Which boils down to very little. To wit – one: the resort was trying out a new beauty treatment, after, presumably, it had passed the required tests. Two: it was aimed at older women with plenty of money. Three: several dozen underwent the treatment, and of those possibly four or five died shortly afterwards. Four: when she mentioned her suspicions to her boss, she was given short shrift and told to keep her mouth shut. Five: she somehow obtained copies of these women's notes and copied them on to a memory stick. Which is now missing. And that's the sum total.'

‘So,' Jonathan said, ‘without the memory stick, the only evidence is at the resorts themselves. We'll have to infiltrate somehow and root around ourselves.'

‘
Infiltrate
? Are you mad? It might have escaped your notice, but neither of us is a woman of a certain age. If we start asking about beauty treatments, it'll certainly start tongues wagging!'

‘There might be another way,' Jonathan said slowly.

‘I'd be interested to know how.'

‘OK, a guy wouldn't stand much chance of snooping, but a woman might, even if she wasn't of a certain age.'

Steve frowned. ‘What are you getting at?'

‘I was wondering if perhaps Maddy—'

‘No way!' Steve interrupted. ‘You can stop right there. I'm not sending Maddy into the lion's den on a wild goose chase.'

‘Lions and geese! An interesting combination.'

‘Seriously, Jon—'

‘Look,' Jonathan interrupted in his turn, ‘I'm just thinking aloud – bear with me. Suppose Maddy goes for one of these pampering weekends, either to Woodcot, was it, or the one where Elise worked. Obviously, she wouldn't be eligible for the treatment, but she could cosy up to some elderly women and see what transpires.'

‘And suppose she arouses suspicion?'

‘Why should she? There's absolutely nothing to connect her to Elise, and I bet they gossip all the time about the treatments they're having. She could say she's read about some fantastic product – even that some elderly relative had it – and has whoever she's talking to tried it?'

‘No,' Steve said again, but less dogmatically.

‘Suppose we let Maddy decide? She might welcome a weekend at a luxury place like that – facials and massages and all the rest of it.'

‘Oh, I don't doubt she would, and if she knew there was some mystery attached, she'd be even keener. I'm the one who wouldn't be happy.'

There was a brief silence, then Jonathan said, ‘Well, of course it's up to you, but God knows what else we can do.'

‘It might still come tomorrow.'

‘No, I think we have to accept that something prevented her posting it, or it would have been there by now.' He looked at his watch. ‘In which case, it's time we stopped faffing around and got down to work on the Perceval piece.'