Authors: Anthea Fraser
Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Sudden Death, #Safaris, #Journalists, #South Africa, #Suspense Fiction, #Widows, #Safaris - South Africa
Shifting Sands (23 page)
âThanks so much, Sophie. I couldn't bear it if anything came between us.' She gave a little smile. âIt's bad enough with our daughters! I'm afraid Daisy wasn't best pleased to see Tamsin just now.'
âThe feeling was mutual. Don't worry, they'll grow out of it. In the meantime, with the girls taken care of, we've a free afternoon ahead of us, so let's enjoy it. How about a spot of retail therapy, since you're up in town, followed by a thoroughly wicked cream tea?'
âI can't think of anything better!' said Imogen.
Anna was perplexed by Jonathan's reaction to the voucher, until she remembered the press had identified the Manchester hotel victim as an employee of Mandelyns. But surely any bad publicity resulting from it would be over long before Christmas? For Lewis's sake, she certainly hoped so.
On the Wednesday morning, Wendy Salter phoned. âYou've probably forgotten all about us by now!' she began.
âOf course I haven't! Apart from anything else, you feature in quite a lot of my photos.'
âSounds ominous! Well, if you remember, I threatened to invite you to lunch, once we were back in the old routine, so I'm now carrying out that threat. We'd love to see you again.'
âThat would be great, Wendy, thanks.'
âI gather you're still seeing Lewis?'
Anna said carefully, âFrom time to time, yes.'
âI'm so glad. Poor love, he's in need of a bit of TLC at the moment, what with all this murder hoo-ha.'
âYes, it's been . . . terrible.'
âI'm hoping lunch will provide a welcome break. Now, you're in Westbridge, aren't you, and, as you know, we're in Richmond. It shouldn't take you more than half an hour or so, should it? Have you got satnav?'
âNo, but I have your address. I'll download directions from the net.'
âFine. I checked with Lewis first, because he always has so much on, but he could make either Tuesday or Wednesday next week, if that's OK with you?'
âWednesday would be fine, thank you.'
âA week today, then â super! We'll really look forward to seeing you. About twelve thirty?'
On one of his regular visits to Foxfield, Lewis had spent the morning in its boardroom, discussing marketing. When the meeting broke up, he'd strolled through the grounds to Cameron's bungalow, where they were now awaiting their lunch.
Normally, Cameron ate in the main building, but at present the atmosphere over there was heavy with unease and suspicion, and he was glad to escape it.
Not that it was much better here; he and his father had exchanged barely a word for the last ten minutes. He cast around for some way to lighten the atmosphere. âI hear you were spotted in London recently, with a lady on your arm.'
Lewis looked up with a frown. âSpotted by whom?'
âOliver, actually. Lyddie told me.'
âI'm surprised he thought it worth reporting.'
âOh, come on, Father! I'm trying to make conversation here! Who was she?'
They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Cameron opened it to take receipt of two covered trays, each bearing a steak and kidney pie, baked potato, carrots and broccoli, and a plate of cheese and biscuits. The next few minutes were taken up with transferring them to the ready-laid table, where an opened bottle of wine raised Lewis's eyebrow.
âI know the lunchtime rule,' Cameron said quickly, âbut I felt we could both do with it.' They seated themselves, and he poured the wine. âSo come on, then, spill the beans: who is she?'
âIf you must know, someone I met on holiday.'
âAnd you've kept in touch? That's not like you!'
Lewis, making a start on his lunch, didn't reply, and Cameron pressed, âName?'
âAnna. Anna Farrell.'
About to pick up his cutlery, Cameron paused. âFarrell?'
âYes, why?'
âThe name seems to ring a bell.'
âYou could be thinking of her son; he's a journalist. Sometimes writes for the nationals, I believe.'
âThat must be it,' Cameron said.
The interviews for the hypothetical articles were not going well. Comparing notes, it was clear that although the respective families were more than willing to detail their loved ones' life histories and achievements, they had never for a moment questioned the causes of their deaths.
âI've come up with congenital heart defect and purulent meningitis,' Jonathan said gloomily. âWhat about you?'
âPre-existing cerebral aneurysm, and anaphylactic shock, allegedly after eating peanuts.'
âNot, one assumes, at Mandelyns?'
Steve shook his head. âWhich only leaves the actress. It's a damn sight harder to approach her family, but the papers hinted at a virus.'
âDon't forget Elise said these symptoms could be reactions to the treatment.'
âBut how, exactly, do we prove it? Anyway, the police have a lot more resources than we do. Since we did our duty and sent them the memory stick, we might as well retire gracefully and leave them to it.'
âBut it was
our
story!' Jonathan demurred.
our
story!' Jonathan demurred.
Steve shrugged. âWin some, lose some. We'd do better to move on and concentrate on old Perceval and his factory. Might be less newsworthy, but at least it will provide our bread and butter.'
Pringle pushed the plastic-covered letter across the desk. âWhat do you make of this, Trevor?'
DS Smith reached for it, reading the large-font, bold print:
Ask journalist Jonathan Farrell why he met murder victim Elise du Pré in his hotel room the night before she was killed.
He looked up quickly, his eyes brightening. âThere is a God! First bloody lead we've had! Fits in with what the parents said, and all.'
âAbout a lover? Seems to, first confirmation we've had â if you can call an anonymous letter confirmation.' He sighed. âTime was when we could at least get
some
handle on these poison pen affairs: the newspaper the words had been cut from, handwriting analysis, typewriter with a faulty key. But with these bloody computers, it's a different ball game.'
some
handle on these poison pen affairs: the newspaper the words had been cut from, handwriting analysis, typewriter with a faulty key. But with these bloody computers, it's a different ball game.'
âSo what's the first move?' Smith asked eagerly.
âWe check the local hotels, see if anyone of that name was in town that night. It should at least give us something to go on.'
âAbout time, and all,' Smith said feelingly.
Friday evening, thank God, Jonathan thought. It hadn't been an auspicious week. He was closing down his computer, when there was a tentative tap on the study door. âYes?' he called. âCome in.'
Tom's head, wide-eyed, appeared round the door frame. âMummy says please could you come downstairs. There's two policemen waiting to speak to you.'
Jonathan stared at him, his heart setting up an uncomfortably accelerated beat. âPolicemen? Are you sure?'
âMummy said they are, but they're not wearing helmets.'
âThanks, Tom. Tell them I'll be right down.'
Tom nodded and withdrew, and Jonathan rose slowly to his feet, his mind racing. Could they have traced the memory stick to him? No, no possible way. Nor, even more importantly, could they tie him to Elise. So what the hell did they want? A parking ticket? Speeding fine? Neither of those necessitated home visits.
Bracing himself, he went downstairs. Vicky was waiting for him in the hall, her face frightened. She didn't speak, just nodded towards the sitting room. Jonathan nodded back, briefly touched her hand, and went in and closed the door.
Two men turned to face him. Plain clothes; he'd feared as much.
âSorry to disturb you, sir. DS Newton and DC Pennington, Westbridge CID.' They held up warrant cards, and Jonathan nodded.
âHow can I help you?' He waved a hand towards the sofa, and both men sat down. Jonathan seated himself on an upright chair facing them, vainly hoping the height might give him an advantage.
âJust a few questions, sir, if you wouldn't mind.' The older man's Kentish accent was misleadingly reassuring. âI take it you have no objection to our conversation being taped?'
âOf course not,' Jonathan said from a dry mouth, watching as a small recorder was set up on the coffee table.
The DC gave the time, place and names of those present, and sat back.
Newton began the interview. âCould you confirm, sir, that you spent the night of Wednesday the thirteenth of October at the Commodore Hotel in Manchester?'
Jonathan felt the colour draining from his face. Useless to deny it â somehow, they must have proof. He moistened his lips. âThat's right; my colleague and I were up there on business.'
âAnd could you also confirm that, during that evening, you entertained a young lady by the name of Elise du Pré in your room?'
The room tilted. This couldn't be happening. Blindly, instinctively, he went on the offensive. âIf you're insinuating what I think you are,' he blustered, âI most emphatically deny it!'
The detective was unperturbed. âThen I'll put it another way, sir. Did the young lady in question
visit
you in your room?'
visit
you in your room?'
There was a long pause, while Jonathan wondered frantically what to say. The two men sat patiently at their ease, making no attempt to hurry him. Eventually, he cleared his throat. âShe did pop in, yes, but my colleague will confirm he was there the whole time. I assure youâ'
âThis colleague's name and address?'
Jonathan supplied them. He must warn Steve he'd be contacted.
âWhat was the purpose of her visit?'
Jonathan took a deep breath. If he was to dispel suspicion of an affair with Elise, it seemed he'd no option but to admit to the memory stick â and God knew where that would lead.
Newton spoke into the continuing silence. âI'm sure you're aware, sir, that the young lady was unfortunately murdered the following day.' He paused. âBy person or persons unknown.'
Sickly, Jonathan nodded.
âWell, sir?'
He straightened in his chair. âWe're journalists, Sergeant, and she'd asked for our help. She was . . . worried about a matter at work and wanted us to look into it.'
âThe matter being?'
In for a penny, Jonathan thought. âIt concerned a treatment that was given at the resorts where she worked. She discovered several women had died after receiving it.'
Newton pursed his lips. âThe resorts are in the southern counties, I believe?'
Jonathan nodded.
âWhere you, obviously, are also based. So why should the meeting take place in Manchester?'
âWe were up there on business, as I explained, and so was she. She had some . . . evidence to hand over and felt it might be safer than meeting nearer home.'
âEvidence?'
âShe'd copied the clients' records on to a memory stick.'
Jonathan looked intently from one man to the other, but neither betrayed prior knowledge. Which didn't mean they didn't know exactly what he was talking about.
âAnd she handed this device to you that evening?'
Stick to the truth
. âNo, she only
told
us about it; she posted it to us the next day. Then sadly, as you say, she was killed, and when we'd had time to study it, we realized the information it contained might have some bearing on her death. So we sent it to the Manchester police.'
. âNo, she only
told
us about it; she posted it to us the next day. Then sadly, as you say, she was killed, and when we'd had time to study it, we realized the information it contained might have some bearing on her death. So we sent it to the Manchester police.'
âVery public-spirited of you. Did you see Miss du Pré again the next day?'
This time, he
had
to lie. âNo.'
Not alive, anyway.
had
to lie. âNo.'
Not alive, anyway.
âHow did you spend that Thursday, sir?'
âWe'd a nine o'clock appointment with the gentleman we'd arranged to interview.'
Again, name and address were called for.
âAnd after that?'
âWe caught the two thirty flight home.'
There was a silence, and Jonathan prayed they wouldn't probe further.
Pennington leaned forward. âHow well did you know this young lady, sir?'
âNot well at all. As I explainedâ'
âBut you'd met her prior to Manchester?'
âOnly once. She was nervous of being seen talking to the press.'
âAnd when you'd seen this memory stick, did you or your colleague take any steps to verify her suspicions?'
âWe made a few enquiries, but we felt the police would have more resources to look into it.'
âIndeed.'
Another silence, then, to Jonathan's overwhelming relief, Newton nodded to his companion and both men stood up.
âVery well, sir. That's all for the moment, but we may need to speak to you again. Your statement will be typed out, and perhaps you'd call in at the station on Monday to sign it. In the meantime, thank you for your time, and have a good weekend.'
Incapable of replying, Jonathan saw them to the front door. As it closed behind them, Vicky came quickly into the hall.
âJonathan!'
He caught her to him, burying his face in her hair. âIt's all right, darling. At least, I think it is.'
âWhat did they want?'
âThey somehow got hold of my name in connection with Elise. God knows how.'
She pulled back, staring into his face with horror. âThey don't think
you
killed her?'
you
killed her?'
âSh!' Jonathan looked anxiously up the stairs, but there was no sign of the boys. âI don't think so,' he said quietly. âI answered their questions as honestly as I could.'
With one exception.
With one exception.
âBut supposeâ?'
âLet's not suppose anything,' Jonathan said firmly. âI'm going to pour myself a large whisky, and you might like to join me. After which, we can look forward to a happy family weekend. All right?
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