‘I don’t need to tell you that the eyes of the world will be on us for this one. But there’s nothing like a high profile case to test your credentials, eh Tom?’
Tom glanced around the hallway at a series of pictures he hadn’t noticed before. They were mainly framed photographs of the victim taken with various high ranking politicians and several with other famous philanthropists. It was strange, somehow, to relate the smiling man in an impeccable dinner jacket with the bound and gagged naked body on the bed.
James Sinclair followed Tom’s gaze.
‘Old Hugo may have been loved by the general public and the media, but he ruffled a lot of feathers in his time, you know, and quite frankly I’m surprised that somebody didn’t seriously beat the shit out of him before now. I understand that he had bodyguards. Where the hell were they today?’
Tom looked towards the front door.
‘This place is very well protected. I expect he thought he was safe in here, and perhaps didn’t want the bodyguards to know what he was up to. I’ll have them tracked down and see what they can tell us. I think I’ll go and check on Becky’s progress, though. With those vultures outside I’m not sure how long we can keep this to ourselves.’
Tom headed down into the basement where Becky was seated on a low sofa in what appeared to be a very pleasant staff sitting room, gently holding the hand of a person who he could only assume was the cleaning lady. Although not in any way doubting her genuine distress, Tom could see that she was making the most of the attention. A PC was making her a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchen, and what looked like a small brandy sat in front of her on a low coffee table.
Still wearing her coat and a rather odd shaped brown knitted hat the like of which Tom had never seen before, he would have put her age at about sixty. Becky was talking to her in a soothing voice. Tom decided to stay in the background and leave her to it.
‘Beryl, you’ve been incredibly helpful. I know it must have been a terrible shock for you. But we desperately need to find Lady Fletcher. Do you have any ideas?’
Tom was momentarily surprised to hear the title. He’d forgotten that Hugo Fletcher had been knighted for his charity work. He never kept up much with the Honours List though.
‘That poor Alexa. She loved her dad so much, you know.’
‘Beryl, I don’t want to nag - but we can’t tell Alexa until we’ve told Lady Fletcher.”
Becky’s pretty face was starting to go quite pink, which Tom assessed as frustration.
‘You should ask Rosie - she’ll know where she is.’
‘Who’s Rosie and how I can get hold of her?’ Becky asked, with a hint of desperation.
‘Rosie Dixon - she’s one of Sir Hugo’s secretaries and looks after all the diaries and stuff. Her number’s in the red book in the office. Try her mobile first, because if I know Rosie she’ll be in Harvey Nick’s. She spends the best part of every day there, as far as I can see. Why he puts up with her behaviour I’ll never know.’ Instantly realising her inappropriate use of the present tense, Beryl’s face fell.
There was no time to comfort her now, though, and Tom turned towards the stairs and made his way hastily back to the main office. Becky followed, leaving the PC to look after Beryl.
‘Rosie Dixon’s number - found it,’ he said a couple of minutes later. ‘Can you phone her, Becky and get her here fast. And ask if she knows where we can get in touch with Laura Fletcher urgently.’
Tom made his way to the front of the house where the DCS was talking to the policeman who had been first on the scene. Within a few minutes, a shout came from the office.
‘Result, sir!’ Becky raced out of the door waving a piece of paper. ‘Rosie’s on her way here, so we need to get somebody to talk to her. But I’ve found out where Lady Fletcher is. Rosie says she’s due back from their place in Italy this afternoon, arriving at Stansted any time soon. We need to intercept her.’
Tom stopped briefly to give the DCS a quick update, and followed Becky out of the door. ‘Okay, we can do the organising from the car - let’s get to her before the news breaks.’
Becky was doing her best to get them to the M11 as quickly as possible. She tried to concentrate on the road ahead in order to shut out the difficult conversation that her boss seemed to be having, but it was impossible. Especially as she could hear the strident voice of a very angry female on the other end of the line.
The conversation ended abruptly, and she heard DCI Douglas exhale slowly as he leaned back against the headrest. She risked a quick glance, and saw that his eyes were closed. For the first time she realised that he carried an air of sadness about him, and the skin around his eyes had a bluish tinge as if he didn’t sleep well. She felt a strange urge to grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Ridiculous notion. Telling herself to get a grip, she was wondering how to break the silence when he saved her the trouble.
‘Sorry, Becky. I would have preferred you not to hear that.’
‘That’s okay, sir. Sorry for you, really.’
‘Under the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the formalities. When we’re on our own, call me Tom. After all, you’ve just heard my ex-wife berating me and generally making me feel even more of a bastard than I did already.’
‘Ex-wife’s prerogative, sir - sorry, Tom. My mum used to scream at my dad all the time.’
Tom gave a half smile. ‘I don’t blame her for being mad, if I’m honest. I was supposed to be picking my daughter up today. She was going to stay with me overnight for the first time since I arrived in London. We were both looking forward to it.’
‘Your daughter will understand, I’m sure,’ Becky said.
‘Lucy’s only five. All she knows is that her dad can’t have her for the weekend like he promised. And do you really think that her mother will present the reason in a positive way?’
Tom gazed out of the window, obviously not expecting an answer. After a brief pause, he turned back towards Becky with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Okay, back to business,’ he said. ‘Before I got a bollocking from my ex-wife, I passed on the details of Lady Fletcher’s flight to Ajay in the office. I told him to contact the airline and ask a flight attendant to have a quiet word, and take Laura Fletcher into a private room when they land.’
Becky glanced at Tom.
‘You do realise she’s on a budget airline don’t you?
She could see that Tom didn’t appreciate the relevance.
‘There are no assigned seats - it’s like a bus. You get on and find a seat wherever you can. And with a plane load of Italians, not known for their queuing skills, I can’t imagine it’s a bundle of laughs for somebody of Laura Fletcher’s wealth and status!’
‘Christ - how the hell are they going to find her then? I suppose they’ll make an announcement. What on earth is Laura Fletcher doing using a cheap airline?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that. Given her husband’s apparent gazillions I would have thought they’d have had a their own Lear jet, or something.’
‘Well it’s intriguing, but not exactly relevant to the enquiry. Did you get anything interesting out of the cleaner, by the way?’
‘Not really, except that apparently she shouldn’t actually have been at Egerton Crescent that day. She doesn’t work Saturdays, but she’d left her purse on Friday. I had a massive long tale about an argument with her husband who wouldn’t lend her any money to take the grandchildren to McDonalds. So she had to come all the way on the bus to pick up her purse. Luckily for her, the argument made her miss the first bus, otherwise she’d have got there at about the time Sir Hugo died. She said she wouldn’t have gone upstairs normally, but she realised the alarm was off, so she assumed Sir Hugo was in the apartment. She went up to explain what she was doing there. That’s when she found the body, and she was so terrified she locked herself in the staff room for about an hour in case there was a killer still in the house. There was no phone, so she couldn’t call us.’
‘I heard her mention Alexa,’ Tom said. ‘Sir Hugo’s daughter, I presume?’
‘Yep. Lives with the ex-wife.’
Becky was about to make some tactless remark about ex-wives when fortunately her mobile rang. Fiddling briefly with the earpiece behind her left ear, she answered.
‘DS Robinson.’ Nothing. ‘DS Robinson,’ she repeated.
With an irritated tut, she pulled the offending object off her ear and flung it over her shoulder onto the back seat.
‘Sodding bluetooth headset. It never works when I want it to. When whoever it was calls back, I’ll have to put it on speaker if that’s okay.’
Almost immediately the mobile rang again and Becky pressed the speaker button.
‘DS Robinson.’
‘Yeah, Bex. Finally! It’s Ajay. You with Throb?’
Tom turned his head and looked at Becky with raised eyebrows. Becky winced.
‘Yes, Ajay. I am.’
‘Better put this on speaker then so he can hear too.’
‘Splendid idea, Ajay - if a tad too late.’
‘Oh bollocks. Sorry, sir.’
Clearly deciding it was better to get on with the message in the hope that his gaffe would be overlooked, Ajay continued.
‘I thought you might like to know that Laura Fletcher’s definitely on the flight, and has checked in a bag. No bags were unloaded for no-shows, and the flight manifest shows she’s on board. They’ll make an announcement just before they land, and they’ll call you on this number to make arrangements for you to meet up with her.’
The conversation over, Becky disconnected and glanced nervously at Tom.
‘Oops!’ She knew she was blushing, but bloody Ajay should have had more sense. They had nicknames for all the senior officers, but they usually had the nouse to keep them private.
‘Care to explain, Becky?’
Becky groaned.
‘I get all the dirty work. I’ll kill Ajay. Oh well… you know when you came for your interview? Florence in the office saw you, and she said you were a bit of a heartthrob. When you got the job you became ‘The Throb’, and it’s kind of got shortened to ‘Throb’. That’s it - simple as that.’
Tom didn’t say a word, but Becky was fundamentally incapable of being silent.
‘Mind you, Florence is about ninety and blind as a bat!’
‘Ah, that would explain it then,’ Tom responded sardonically.
The thing is, Becky thought, he really is a bit of a dish. Not her type - she preferred them a bit less contained. A bit rougher round the edges, if she was honest. But she wouldn’t chuck him out of bed, and he had quite a body on him.
Quickly changing the subject, Becky pointed to a folder on the back seat.
‘You might want to look in there. I got some photos emailed to me while you were upstairs with the body, and printed them out in the secretary’s office. The techies said it would be okay to use that computer. They make interesting viewing.’
*
Tom was grateful to get away from the subject of himself, good looks or otherwise. He didn’t know Becky well, but he suspected that the last hour or so had proved quite illuminating for both of them. He didn’t think she was a gossip, though. She was tough and ambitious, and he was pretty sure she would respect his privacy. What little he had left.
He opened the folder.
The first image he came to was of a young and vibrant woman. Long, wavy red hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was wearing a pewter grey silk evening dress, cut low at the front with wide shoulder straps, and she had a gorgeous figure. Not pencil thin, but slim with lovely curves. The thing that struck Tom the most was her amazing smile. It lit up her whole face, and she looked on top of the world. Becky glanced across.
‘Laura Fletcher. That was taken about ten years ago. She’d just met her husband, and this was their first public date together. Did you notice the red hair? I’d have thought we were on to something, other than the fact that we know Laura Fletcher was in Italy.’
Tom started looking through the rest of the photos. The odds were always on the wife in these cases, so that made her the number one suspect. But there were too many things that didn’t fit. Apart from the fact that she was apparently out of the country, the whole bedroom set up, the champagne, the silk scarves - it didn’t feel like a rendezvous with a wife, particularly as the evidence suggested she rarely stayed at the apartment. Far more like an assignation with mistress. Wife out of the country; living apart during the week - a perfect opportunity for a visit from the other woman, Tom thought.
He had now reached the last photo in the pile, and couldn’t help but utter an expletive.
‘Shit - what on earth happened?’
‘I thought that might be your reaction when you saw that one,’ Becky said. ‘The others are interesting too, though. They were taken over a period of time, but she looks different, somehow. What do you think?’
Tom studied the other photos. In none of them did Laura Fletcher shine as brightly as she did in the first one. Her clothes were undoubtedly expensive, but somehow she managed to look less sexy in each one. Still beautiful, but thinner. And in the third of the formal photos her hair was no longer red. She looked like a brunette and it suited her. But she also looked stiff and uncomfortable in a dress that came unflatteringly half way up her chest with small cap sleeves. He dragged his attention back to the last photo and turned to Becky.
‘Do you know when this was taken?’
‘About six months ago, I believe. Apparently there have been very few photos in the last four or five years. She’s stopped accompanying her husband to functions, and she’s spent a lot of time in and out of private care homes, of the psychiatric variety. At least a couple of reasonably long stays that we know of. That last photo was taken by some very opportunistic paparazzo who was actually at the hospital to visit his mother. He didn’t recognise Lady Fletcher, but he did recognise the car that was picking her up. Hugo Fletcher’s car has a very distinctive number plate.’
Tom looked again at the picture. The woman in the photo could easily pass for fifty, although he knew that Laura Fletcher was only in her mid thirties. She was wearing a pair of trousers that looked as if they were at least two sizes too big, with a baggy jumper and flat shoes. Her hair was scraped back from her face and was a dull mousy colour - not red. She looked pale and lifeless. He could only think that she must have been quite ill to have changed so dramatically. It was a sad picture, and he wondered how Hugo’s very public life had been affected by his wife’s illness. He hated to admit it, but the mistress theory was definitely looking like a very plausible scenario.