This description resulted in a smattering of laughter and derision, just as the detective had no doubt intended. Tom knew that for at least the next twenty-four hours until everybody got bored with it, each time this particular constable walked out of the room there would be loud but false laughter, and that jokes about milkmen would be rife. It kept the atmosphere light even though everybody was working hard, and he knew nobody was likely to forget this description.
‘We heard yesterday that a Chief Constable was in some way involved in Laura’s sectioning. DCS Sinclair has kindly agreed to look into this for us. Any feedback, sir?’ said Tom, showing due deference to his boss in front of the rest of the team.
From the back of the room, the Chief Superintendent stood up.
‘Yes and no. It turns out that the Chief Constable in question is Theo Hodder.’
Tom couldn’t fail to notice the looks that passed around the room. Even when he’d worked in Manchester, he’d heard of Theo Hodder. Although he wasn’t an officer in the Met, he had been the subject of several unsubstantiated rumours within the force. But nothing was ever proven against him. James Sinclair continued.
‘Unfortunately, Mr Hodder is currently on an exotic adventure holiday up the Amazon or somewhere, and is out of contact. You’d think he’d get enough excitement in his job, but apparently he’s gone on some mission to find hidden cannibal tribes. We could probably have found him something similar on our patch, if only he’d asked. So it looks like we’re either going to have to wait, or ask Lady Fletcher herself about it. But well done, everybody. You’ve got a lot of information, considering yesterday was a Sunday.’
Good old James, Tom thought. Always encouraging.
Acutely aware that there was a shortage of plausible suspects, Tom nevertheless decided they should run through the options and brainstorm any other ideas.
‘Right - Alice, can you act as scribe please.’
She jumped up and walked over to the whiteboard, pushing the photos and any other documents attached by small magnets to one side. She picked up a red marker pen.
Let’s list any and all suspects - and we’ll start with the obvious, Laura Fletcher. As yet, I’ve not come up with any specific motive, other than Hugo seems to have been responsible for having her sectioned. That was some time ago now, although revenge
is
said to be a dish best served cold. There was something strange about their relationship that I’ve yet to get to the bottom of. Any comments?’
As usual, Ajay was the first to respond.
‘Yes, boss. The guy who saw the woman leaving - if this
is
the right woman - said she looked sexy. Would that apply to Laura Fletcher, do you think?’
‘Becky said when we first met her that Laura looked like a woman who’d given up on life. I think that was the comment. But change the drab clothes, put on some makeup… I think it would have a significant impact on our perception of Lady Fletcher. However, given that she was irrefutably on a plane at the time - does anybody think this is worth pursuing?’
As Tom expected, nobody did.
‘Next, the ex-wife Annabel stroke Tina. Good motive - she thought he was about to change his will, although I suspect that she’d be financially better off with him alive than dead. She’s got no alibi, so in theory she’s possible. She’s positively scrawny, though, and I can’t imagine her looking good in a leather skirt. Her legs must be like sticks. And don’t forget that Hugo allowed this person to tie him to the bed, because there was no sign of a struggle. It also took a degree of intelligence. I don’t want to rule her out, but I really don’t think she would have done it herself. It would have been a contract job, and I don’t know of many female contract killers.’
Annabel’s name was added to the list, with an arrow pointing to her photo.
‘Same household,’ Tom continued. ‘Hannah Jacobs, the nanny. Described as a lovesick cow around Hugo, and according to Stella Kennedy she provided evidence the first time Laura was sectioned. But apparently she was in Oxfordshire with Alexa. Swimming. We need to check that out, make sure she didn’t leave Alexa with one of the other nannies.’
Tom had begun to pace, head down as he focused on everything he had learned over the past two days.
‘Then we’ve got Imogen Kennedy. She was definitely in France, but there are a few timing gaps - absolutely no clue as to motive, though, and no indication that she had ever been to Egerton Crescent. But there’s something odd going on there - and don’t let’s forget it.
‘Jessica Armstrong, his PA - huge fan of Hugo - or so she says. The right age, right shape, had easy access to the apartment. Her fingerprints were in parts of the apartment, but that may be justified. She’s given us no alibi. We can’t find a motive, other than a potential obsession with the man, but she’s not an easy one to read. We need to do some real digging, and see what we can uncover. Becky thinks she is by far the most likely candidate for a mistress.’
Alice wrote up Jessica’s name.
‘Eastern European prostitutes - rescue girls. At least one if not more are missing. They could have done this together. We don’t know what their motive might have been, but they might have been put up to it. Operation Maxim thinks that’s unlikely. Any ideas?’
Bob, one of the more experienced detectives, spoke up.
‘Given that he had all these dealings with prostitutes, both current and ex, and one of them is missing, could it be that she had become Hugo’s mistress? With Laura locked away, he may well have turned to some of his own prostitutes. Perhaps he was trading the current one in for a newer model, or something, and the discarded one didn’t like it much.’
Tom nodded.
‘Good thinking, Bob. We need to get onto it as soon as the office is opened today. The only person likely to know is Jessica, so push her as hard as you can. Call me when you’ve got something. And speaking of Jessica, does anybody think that Rosie could be involved? For those who haven’t met her, she’s the social secretary - the one who helped us to find Laura.’
Bob was first to answer again. ‘Frankly, no. I was there on Saturday when she was told about Hugo, and from her reaction I’d say it’s unlikely. We tracked her down in Harvey Nichols about three hours after the murder. According to the friend she was with, they’d been there for at least the previous two hours. You’d need some brass neck to go shopping an hour or so after you’d committed a murder.’
From what he’d seen, and from what Becky had said, there was no way that Rosie would fit into that category. Tom summed up.
‘Okay, our front-runners are the rescued girls or a mistress who is still unknown to us. Alice is checking Imogen Kennedy’s movements for the last couple of years - let’s see if we can catch her out in a lie about Hugo. Jessica is a contender, so we need to pursue that from every angle, money, boyfriends, social life, anything on her computer, etcetera. We also need to know from her if she knew anything about the visit that Danika Bojin paid to Hugo a couple of years ago, and according to Peter Gregson, again last week. Then there was the mysterious entry in his diary, which didn’t tally with his home diary. What was it again?’
‘LMF, boss.’ Ajay said. ‘We’ve still no idea what that’s about. We’ve looked through all his names and addresses both on and off the computer to see if it relates to a person or a place, but we can’t find a thing. The techies have his computer, but haven’t come up with anything significant yet.’
‘Right. Keep looking. Ask every person we interview and pray for inspiration. Anybody got anything on the liquid nicotine?’
Bob briefly held up his hand again.
‘Yep. Same old story, I’m afraid. Dig far enough on the Internet and it will tell you how to make the stuff. It’s pretty easy too. There are other options, like getting it from somebody who works for one of the companies that make nicotine patches, but the most likely and safest way is to make your own.’
‘Thanks Bob. Nothing’s sacred these days, is it? Okay folks - let’s pick up from where we were, and get together again this evening to see what else has come out of the woodwork. I’m off back to Oxfordshire in a while to see what else I can find out about Hugo’s life. Call me about the missing girls, please. Meanwhile, I’ll check with Lady Fletcher to see what she can tell me about the day that Danika called to see her.’
And try to find out why she never mentioned that she knew her, he thought to himself.
Imogen woke up very early, after a fitful sleep. She’d stopped reading after poor Laura’s first night with Hugo. The desire to read on had been strong, but somehow she felt it necessary to absorb what she’d read, and take things slowly. Laura’s dilemma was so clear to Imogen, as was her pain and disappointment.
She knew that nobody else would be up yet, so she propped herself up against the pillows and dragged the letters towards her.
***
STILL SEPTEMBER 1998!!
My dear friend
This is the final day of our honeymoon. We’re leaving Positano in about two hours. Hugo is reading the paper, and I have escaped to ‘the beach’. It’s not really a beach at this hotel, it’s a wonderful rocky outcrop with steps into the sea. You have to take a lift down through the cliff to reach it. It’s quite late in the year, of course, but the sun is shining and I thought I could at least go back with a tan. I still want to maintain the impression that I’ve had a wonderful honeymoon. What’s so sad about it is that in many ways it
has
been perfect. Hugo has been charming and attentive, and he has chosen locations just to please me, but I can’t get past the disappointment of our sex life.
Anyway, there’s no way that Hugo will disturb me down here. He was fairly appalled that I was happy to venture down to a public area, when I could have just enjoyed the terrace of our suite, so he’s certainly not going to follow me. Everything about this hotel is luxurious, though, and his snobbery means I’m safe to write to you. Sorry - that was an unnecessarily spiteful comment, but I’m afraid he
is
a bit of a snob.
Anyway, I’m going to go back to the first full day of my honeymoon and tell you all about it. Dreadful as I felt that morning - after the night before - I forced myself to get up and get dressed, although the ache of disappointment wouldn’t entirely go away.
But this was
Venice
, city of love. “La Serenissima.”
For me, this is the most romantic city on earth, with its majestic sights, stunning old palazzos and the magnificent Piazza San Marco. It’s a place known for love affairs and famous lovers; a city of contradictions - from bustling tourist sites to hushed, narrow cobbled streets that run alongside silent canals and disappear from view around a corner. I know you’ve never been, but when you get away from the crowds, you can hear the sounds of laughter, shouting and singing through open windows and closed shutters; the smells of cooking - garlic, herbs and tomatoes - drift from the houses and mingle with the musty, earthy smell of the water. There’s a sort of persistent joy about the place. Did you know that in Venice, a married woman’s lover (a cicisbeo, apparently) used to accompany her
with her husband’s blessing
to public events and even to church!
It’s a place where sexual love was always celebrated. And Hugo had chosen to take me there. Surely that must mean something?
The events of that first evening had to have been an aberration. Tiredness from the wedding and all its preparations perhaps, or dejection after the argument we’d had. It could have been any one of a hundred things, and I don’t know Hugo well enough to guess. What an admission! But to ask would be to imply criticism, and I know that to cast aspersions on a man’s performance is a sure route to disaster.
So I’ve tried to remember that he was the one who organised this perfect honeymoon and given that fact, I decided I owe it to him to make him happy. Perhaps he’s never had a loving relationship - certainly he and Annabel weren’t happy. And there’s nothing that can’t be fixed. “There’s no such thing as a problem, only a solution”, I always used to say at work. For the remainder of our stay in Venice, I was determined to do everything to make him feel good and give him the security of my love. I felt sure I could change him.
And so it was with a pleasant smile that I greeted Hugo when I walked out onto our private terrace where a delicious breakfast had been laid. I leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
‘Good morning, darling. I hope you slept well. Have you planned what we’re going to do today?’
Hugo seemed to have returned to his usual good, if rather restrained, spirits. If he was surprised to see me so apparently cheerful, he hid it well.
‘I have worked out a small itinerary, yes. Of course I’ve been here many times over the years, and it will be my pleasure to show you the best bits. Have a look and see what you think?’
I pushed my plate of fruit to one side, and pulled the guidebook with the marked pages towards me, and saw that Hugo had written in his neat hand a list of things to do on each of our days in Venice. My heart sank when I saw the sights that were on his priority list. You know I’m happy going to the odd art gallery, but I also love sitting outside cafés and watching the world go by. I wanted to relax in Piazza San Marco and listen to all the small orchestras competing with each other to attract business. I wanted us to hop on a vaporetto and find some quiet place full of locals for lunch.
But if I had learned one thing, it was that the way to success was not to find fault with anything that Hugo had planned. This was our first day and it had to be stress free. The easiest thing would be to go along with what he wanted, and then perhaps slip in a suggestion or two when he was in a mellow mood.
‘This looks brilliant, darling. I think I’d better wear some flat shoes, though, because it looks like there’s going to be quite a bit of walking.’
Hugo put down the knife he was using to butter his toast and looked at me.
‘Is that a problem for you?’
‘No, not at all. I’m just trying to think what I brought with me. I’ll go and have a look after breakfast. You helped me choose what to pack - so I’m sure it will be fine.’