‘According to Colin it seems pretty certain.’
‘Jack Plesance didn’t say anything about anyone else being in the house.’
‘We need another word with Mr Plesance.’
‘He’s on our list. Sooner rather than later.’
As Wesley locked the car door he looked around, surveying the scene just as the lords of that particular manor must have done
over the centuries. He could just see the strange little run-down cottage standing by the copse of trees. He hadn’t noticed
it as they’d driven up to the house but then his mind had been on other things. It still looked to him like the gingerbread
house out of a children’s fairy tale. But Sir Martin’s mother’s cousin from Zimbabwe lived there, not some wicked witch.
They made for the front door, which was opened, as before, by the housekeeper, Jane Verity. This time Wesley noticed that
she looked tired, as though something – worry perhaps – was keeping her awake at night. Her manner was still calm and capable
but a nervous twitch of her lips and her clenched fingers told him that there was some sort of emotional storm going on inside.
He wondered why this was.
‘Sir Martin’s expecting you,’ she said, sweeping up
the staircase in front of them, as though she didn’t want to make small talk. She showed them to Eva Liversedge’s office and
disappeared.
Eva stood up to greet them. She wore grey and had a businesslike expression on her face. No nonsense. She went before them
into the inner sanctum and left as soon as Sir Martin invited them to sit.
‘What can I do for you this time, gentlemen? I’ve already told you everything I know.’
‘We’d just like to clarify a few things, sir,’ said Wesley. ‘Last time we talked we told you that Nadia Lucas was missing.’
He paused. ‘But now I’m afraid we have reason to believe she was murdered.’
Wesley found it hard to tell whether the look of shock on Crace’s face was genuine or feigned. ‘I really don’t know what to
say. That’s absolutely awful. Of course I’ll do anything I can to help to bring her killer to justice. How …?’
‘A woman was murdered in Queenswear … burned alive. You might have heard about it on the news. We now know the victim was Nadia
Lucas.’ He spoke bluntly.
Crace switched immediately into sympathetic benefactor mode. ‘That’s shocking … really terrible. If her family need any help,
of course I’ll—’
‘As far as I know she has no family.’
Sir Martin bowed his head.
‘We found a notebook belonging to her and your phone number was in it.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, Inspector. She used to work here.’
‘And you kept in touch with her?’
‘No, I didn’t. Look, I’m very sorry to hear she’s dead, and in such appalling circumstances, but I really don’t see how I
can help you.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. There was something he wanted to try. ‘We’ve just heard that Ian Rowe might not be dead after all.’
There was no mistaking the shock on Sir Martin’s face, there for a split second then vanished. A shock akin to horror. ‘You
told me he’d died in a house fire.’
‘I know but we now think there’s been a case of mistaken identity. If he is alive, have you any idea where he might have gone?
He has no passport so he can’t have returned to France and we know that he intended to come here and see you.’
Sir Martin shook his head. ‘As I told you before, Inspector, I haven’t seen him since he worked for me. I’m afraid I can’t
help you.’
‘He’s been telling people you were a good friend of his mother’s.’
Suddenly Crace looked a little wary. ‘His mother worked in my parents’ shop for a short time many years ago and that’s one
reason I felt obliged to employ him. But the truth is I didn’t know her well.’
‘Is there anybody else here who was friendly with him? Someone he might have kept in touch with?’
‘I really can’t say. You’ll have to ask Eva.’
‘Rowe sent Nadia an e-mail suggesting that he knew something about you – something he needed to prove. Any idea what that
might be?’
Crace gave him a smile that was both charming and
apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea.’
Wesley began to notice small tell-tale signs – glances at his Rolex, fingers drumming on the desk – that they had begun to
try Crace’s patience. He knew they’d get nothing more out of him for the moment. He stood up and Gerry did likewise, slowly
and reluctantly. Wesley guessed that he’d been comfortable. ‘We’ll speak to Ms Liversedge. Thank you for your time.’
As they left, Wesley couldn’t help feeling they’d had a wasted journey. Only the momentary look of horror on Sir Martin’s
face when he’d found out Ian Rowe might still be alive, and the slight trace of wariness when Rowe’s mother was mentioned,
told Wesley that there might be something to discover if they had the opportunity to dig deep enough.
Their interrogation of Eva Liversedge didn’t prove any more productive but, as they were about to take their leave of her,
things started to look up.
‘So you’ve really no idea where Ian Rowe might be?’ Wesley asked, almost as an afterthought, expecting the answer to be in
the negative.
‘No but—’
Wesley leapt on the hesitation like a cat on a mouse. ‘But what? If there’s anything you know, however trivial it may seem,
you have to tell us.’
‘We’re investigating a murder, love,’ Gerry chipped in, not too helpfully in Wesley’s opinion.
There was a long pause while the PA decided how much to reveal. Eventually she spoke, her words careful and measured. ‘I don’t
wish to betray confidences or speak out of turn, Inspector, but when he
was working here I saw Rowe with Jane Verity, the housekeeper. On one occasion …’
‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted.
‘On one occasion they were kissing. I said nothing, of course. It was none of my business but …’
Wesley saw that Gerry was grinning as he stood up. ‘Thanks, love. I could give you a kiss for that.’
Eva looked horrified.
‘Thank you, Ms Liversedge. We’ll see ourselves out,’ said Wesley, rescuing the situation.
As they hurried down the stairs they saw Jane Verity crossing the entrance hall. They hadn’t expected it to be that easy.
‘Can we have a word, love?’ Gerry called out in a voice that could probably be heard at the gatehouse. ‘In private.’
Jane Verity stopped and stared at them, frozen like a statue. But after a few moments she relaxed. ‘Of course.’
She led the way through the swing door that had once separated upstairs from downstairs in the social hierarchy and they ended
up in a comfortable, if slightly old-fashioned, sitting room. The housekeeper’s room in the past and in the present. She invited
them to sit, her hands still clenched.
‘We believe you were friendly with Ian Rowe. Why did nobody tell us this before?’
‘It was a long time ago. And he’s dead, isn’t he? What’s the point of raking it all up again now he’s dead?’ She fixed her
eyes firmly on the threadbare carpet at her feet, as though she didn’t dare to meet
the policemen’s eyes in case she gave away some precious secret.
‘Tell me about Ian,’ Wesley said gently. ‘What was he like?’
A smile flickered on her lips then disappeared. ‘Full of big ideas. Big talk. He used to—’
‘Used to what?’
She turned her head away. ‘Nothing.’
‘What was his relationship with Nadia Lucas?’
‘He always used to say there was nothing between them, that I was the only one. But I didn’t believe him.’
‘Did Nadia mention anything about trying to find out what happened to her mother when she was working here?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No, but Ian said she was a bit crazy. I think her mum killed herself when she was a kid and her dad
had just died of cancer. I felt a bit sorry for her at one time if you must know. Then she went to France to get a job with
some professor and Ian stayed on for a while. Till he got caught drinking and driving.’
‘Did you love him?’ Wesley wasn’t quite sure why he asked the question.
‘I don’t really know what love is,’ she replied after a long pause. ‘We had sex. It lasted a while but, by the time he left,
it was over. End of story. Like I said, he was full of stories – mostly fiction,’ she added with a hint of bitterness.
‘Any stories you remember in particular?’
‘He said his mum was a close friend of Sir Martin’s. He never said how she knew him; just implied that she had this wonderful
relationship with the boss that
made him untouchable. Then he got sacked for drink driving so it must all have been rubbish. Ian told me his mother was ill,
but Sir Martin never went to see her or sent her anything. And he would have done if she was an old friend. He’s that sort
of man.’
‘He never told you how his mother knew Sir Martin?’
‘He might have told Nadia but he never told me.’ There was a suggestion of bitterness behind the words. Perhaps Jane Verity
had been jealous, Wesley thought to himself.
‘I think I’d better tell you that Nadia Lucas is dead,’ Gerry said bluntly. ‘She was burned to death in Queenswear.’
Jane Verity’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. I heard about it but I’d no idea it was her.’
‘She’s only just been identified.’
‘So both Ian and Nadia have died in the same way. They must be linked. Have you any idea who—?’
‘Afraid not. And there’s a possibility that Ian might still be alive,’ Wesley said, watching her reaction carefully.
Her surprise was genuine. If someone was harbouring Ian Rowe, it wasn’t Jane Verity.
As they took their leave, Jane made no attempt to show them out. She sat in her armchair, staring ahead. Perhaps she had fallen
for Rowe’s charm – she was a good ten years older than him and she would-n’t be the first plain, middle-aged woman to fall
for someone like Rowe. It had probably been happening since the Iron Age, Wesley thought to himself with a smile.
‘Who’s that?’ Gerry said as Wesley started the car.
An elderly woman with unruly grey hair was making her way down the drive. She walked with a slight limp and a baggy beige
cardigan was pulled tightly around her shoulders.
‘I wonder if it’s the woman from the cottage. Crace’s aunt from Zimbabwe. Shall we have a word with her?’ said Wesley suddenly.
‘Why?’
‘She might have seen something.’
‘Well, I’d rather find out what Ian Rowe wanted to see Sir Martin about.’
Wesley shook his head. ‘Rowe was a fantasist. He’s got nothing on Sir Martin or anyone else for that matter. I think it was
all in his head. Come on. Let’s have a word with the aunt.’
Gerry sighed. ‘OK, but let’s make it quick. There’s a load of paperwork on my desk. And I want a proper ID on that body from
the cottage. And we need to get all patrols looking out for Ian Rowe.’
Wesley got out of the car. ‘This won’t take a moment. And, who knows, Nadia and Rowe might have spent cosy afternoons at her
cottage sipping tea and sharing confidences.’
Gerry emerged slowly from the passenger seat. The cottage stood at the edge of the copse, small and cosy-looking with red-brick
walls, small-paned windows and tall chimneys. But as they drew closer they could see the flaking green paintwork and the weeds
in the tiny front garden, separated from the grounds by a low picket fence.
Wesley knocked at the cottage door.
‘She won’t know anything,’ Gerry whispered as they stood waiting for the door to open. ‘Bet you a fiver.’
‘You’re on.’ Wesley wasn’t a gambling man but at that moment he’d say anything to stop his boss moaning about the delay. Besides,
he wasn’t altogether sure he’d lose the bet.
The door opened slowly to reveal a tall woman with steel grey hair, worn longish for her age. She had taken off her cardigan
to reveal a baggy blue shirt and her only concession to any form of vanity was a colourful silk scarf tied around her neck.
Her hair flopped forward, hiding half her face in its shadow.
Wesley showed his warrant card. ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs … er …’
She stepped back further into the shadows. ‘Trent. Bertha Trent. And it’s Miss.’ Her voice was low and bore the trace of some
kind of accent. Probably that of her native Zimbabwe. And she sounded wary, possibly resentful at being disturbed.
‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions if we may,’ Wesley continued, aware of Gerry standing behind him, shifting from
foot to foot. He still couldn’t see the woman’s face properly and he suddenly wished that he could push the hair back to get
a proper look.
‘What about?’
‘Did you know a young woman called Nadia Lucas who used to work for Sir Martin?’
‘I hardly know anyone who works up there. I live a self-contained life here, Detective Inspector. I don’t bother Martin and
he doesn’t bother me.’
‘What about a man called Ian Rowe? He used to drive for Sir Martin.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
As she was about to close the front door her shirt sleeve fell back to reveal a hand that was little more than a claw, a mess
of red flesh, shiny and mottled. He lifted his eyes to her face. The sun had just emerged from behind the clouds and in the
brighter light he caught a glimpse of the side of her face she had been so careful to keep hidden behind the strands of hair.
Like the hand it was a mess.
Wesley put his hand on the door to stop her closing it. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Trent, but can you tell me about your accident?’
‘What accident?’ She sounded defensive.
‘What happened to your face … and your hand?’
She froze and he could feel the hatred in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘It was no accident and anyway, it’s none of your
business.’ She almost spat the words out and Wesley was rather taken aback by the vehemence of her reaction.
‘Please.’ He could feel Gerry’s hand nudging his back, as if to say, ‘Leave it.’
The woman took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘If you must know it was Mugabe’s thugs … the ones who call themselves war veterans.
I had a farm … a successful farm I took over from my parents. They set fire to the house with me in it and they laughed while
they did it. Three of my staff died. They burned me out of my home. Satisfied?’