âAn unlucky family?' Yeadings asked softly. âCertainly
one that seems at risk. So much has happened just lately. Where do you think it all began?'
She had shut her eyes and now all the colour left her face. She seemed unable to speak, both hands clutched tightly against her chest.
âMichael,' she managed to get out at last. âMy husband. I can't believe any more that it was random. Someone â someone is picking us off, one by one.'
Stone, his face severe, moved across to sit beside her on the sofa. âKate, there could be other reasons for -'
âHe was attacked,' she insisted, âon his way home. He always walked down Surrey Street to the Underground. Everybody knew â¦'
âIt was the Met's case,' Yeadings put in. He had reviewed the report, dredged up when trawling the name Dellar. âThey would have investigated thoroughly; but without any witness coming forward they had to accept he was mugged for the money he had on him. You know that at night the Strand has derelicts sleeping in doorways. They get less and less from begging as the public tires of supporting their drug and alcohol habits.'
âNo,' Kate said. âFirst Michael, then Eddie and Jess. They tried to get at Jess on her boat first, remember? But she wasn't there. So they followed her to Carlton's and set fire to the place with us all in it. Now it's Matthew and Maddie. This is more than coincidence. What have we done to deserve all this?'
âNothing,' Stone said sharply.
âYou believe someone outside your family is carrying out a vendetta against you all?' Yeadings questioned.
Kate's chin came up as she faced him on it. âI do. I know it seems beyond belief, but I believe one of us â ' She paused, took a breath and went on, â â¦one of us has done something terrible to cause this indiscriminate attack on the rest.'
This was illuminating. Yeadings stared at her, then away, unwilling for her to guess what was in his mind. She
thought one of the Dellars capable of provoking an irrational passion for revenge. Her anger was because she and her children, possibly her dead husband too, had been included with the others, considered guilty alongside whoever she suspected of this undefined outrage.
âSo who in the family do you think ultimately responsible?' he asked quietly.
âAny of them,' she said bitterly. âThey're all monsters.'
Â
This, when he reviewed it with Salmon, was meat and drink to the DI. Rather than shifting suspicion to outsiders, it gave greater credence, in his mind, to a conspiracy by the Railtons. What alternatives were there, inside the family or out? He couldn't see an octogenarian poet proving a master criminal, even after arson at his home. He'd hardly have torched it for his own gain, since it belonged to his brother. And he could have had no hand in the car accident that killed his niece Madeleine, because he'd moved away down to Sussex.
The theory of revenge wreaked on the younger brother by some criminal he'd sentenced harshly had been followed up and led nowhere. It still seemed the best bet to Salmon that both these crimes targeted at Sir Matthew were based on personal greed. Railton, as a drifter and a possible sponger, was fortunately to hand as prime suspect. Every detail of his past would need to be investigated and analyzed. Since Kate Dellar's reported bitter outburst, Salmon felt quite certain who were the principal âmonsters' she'd ranted against.
Yeadings decided to give the DI a free rein on this. Or enough rope to hang himself. They'd know better how sound his theory was once Beaumont brought the Railtons in.
The delay was explained when the DS phoned in to say Gus was becoming increasingly anxious about his son's absence and they were going together to visit a biking friend who might have offered him a bed overnight.
While these interviews were held up, a fresh drama was enacted in the ICU at Windsor. The constable guarding the outside passage observed the arrival of the injured man's brother and sister-in-law who had driven up from Cooden Beach. Their identities were checked and a doctor admitted them to sit a while by Sir Matthew's side. A nurse was present, making up her notes at a table by the door.
Between the blind's slats the constable had idly watched the older brother seat himself and reach for the other's hand. For a while he seemed to be talking quietly to the comatose man. The constable lost interest, returning to the paperback book in his pocket.
A wild cry rang out. Startled, he sprang to his feet, turning in time to see the nurse lunge forward between the woman and the bed, obscuring his view of the patient. A metal dish fell clanging to the floor and rang on as it circled on its base.
Then he saw the injured man fighting to get out, the IV tubes tearing from his body as he struggled with the nurse. The constable hurtled through the door and caught the nurse as she was thrown aside. His legs tangled with the overturned chair where the other man had sat and he fell against the stand supporting the blood bag. The whole lot went down with him and tore apart.
Sir Matthew Dellar crouched like a caged creature on the edge of the bed, all his weight on trembling stick-like arms. âBitch!' he screamed frenetically. âMurdering bitch! You won't get away with â¦'
His words cut off with the hideous rictus of his distorted face. The feeble arms collapsed. A stream of saliva bubbled over the tangled sheets. He shuddered and collapsed.
On the floor Constable Jenks gazed up in horror. The nurse pulled herself to her feet. The others appeared petrified, Claudia Dellar's arms spread wide as if to protect her husband; he cowering against the wall, mouth agape.
A buzzer was sounding persistently. The nurse was at the monitor, shouting over her shoulder for help. She
wrestled the bedhead flat and pushed the others away. The room was suddenly crowded with staff.
To Constable Jenks it was all grotesquely familiar, even the words they were shouting at each other. He felt trapped in a sequence from
ER
. At home his wife Ethel, both hands over her mouth, would be demanding, âHe's going to die, isn't he?' And he'd be saying to reassure her, âIt's only a play. He's just an actor getting paid for it.'
But this time it was for real. He had to get himself outside and phone in a report. They'd order CID in here to find out what happened. And by the time they arrived he'd have to be clear himself about what he'd seen.
Only what exactly was that?
He'd thought he was on to a cushy break here, but what a God-awful mess it was turning into.
Samples of the oil spillage at Woodside roundabout had been sent on for analysis at the forensic lab, and DS Zyczynski could get no further on that until their report came through. At best it would be in a matter of days; longer if they needed to refer the inquiry to the research departments of individual production companies.
She was still pursuing details of the crash with Traffic Unit when summoned to report to her DI. She found Salmon in his office looking distinctly ruffled. âSir,' she prompted him, as he continued riffling through loose papers on his desk.
âI want you down at Cooden Beach. See the Dellar daughter there and get her statement on her parents' whereabouts for the past two days.'
âYou mean the Carlton Dellars?'
âOf course I bloody do.' He looked up at her, scowling. âThey suddenly turned up here to see the judge and scared the life out of him. Literally. He woke up enough to take one look at his sister-in-law, swore at her and had convulsions or something. Anyhow he had a seizure and he's dead now, so I guess that makes the car crash a double murder.'
She stared at his flushed face. Why this sudden interest in the Carlton Dellars? With this recent event he seemed to be suffering from a rush of suspects. Hadn't he already settled for a conspiracy by the Railtons?
âListen,' he said emphatically and loudly, as if to someone of limited intelligence and poor hearing, âwe've only their say-so that they came up today. It wasn't a normal reaction. The dead man went berserk at sight of the woman. He wasn't able to accuse her specifically but his reaction spoke volumes. Called her a murdering bitch. The constable on duty was a witness, and the nurse present
confirms what he says. That woman's hiding something. If she didn't do the job herself, she bloody well knows who did, and probably put them on to it.'
âWhy should she?' Z couldn't stop herself protesting. Salmon glared at her. âDon't ask me. Go and find out. I've enough to do this end interviewing them all over again. We have to go right back to the beginning on this. She was always in the best position to set up the arson. Find she lied about her alibi for this one and we've got a starting point to break her down.'
âAre you sure the daughter's not come here with them?'
âThey've only one double room booked at their hotel.'
âRight.' At least he'd checked that much. Perhaps it wasn' t a wild goose chase after all. She'd have more confidence in him if he didn't get so worked up every time something new happened. She'd agree that greed might have been Claudia Dellar's motive just as easily as for the Railtons. The milk of human kindness wasn't likely to have flowed very freely in her veins.
âHave you contacted the Sussex police?' Z reminded him.
âWe've no time for niceties. Get there and get something on them, before they think to phone through and warn the girl.'
Miranda wasn't a girl, Z reflected as she manoeuvred her car out of the station yard where a dog-van had been parked half across her exit. Miss Dellar was into her thirties: a woman, if not an especially mature one. There was something wrong there, not badly, but enough to set her apart. Probably a lonely person, unless she found other people just weren't necessary to her. Perhaps her upbringing by elderly and old-fashioned parents accounted for any strangeness. It could be interesting to find out more about her.
It was dusk by the time Z's car nosed along the double row of seashore bungalows. The sea was calm and as flat as the coastal scenery. The total lack of wind meant no sails
showed out on the water. Between the buildings a few dinghies could be glimpsed pulled up on the shingle and almost every driveway had a small powerboat mounted on a carrier. A strong smell of charcoal bricks announced the early stages of a barbecue, but there were no moving figures, no voices except an occasional snatch of television news escaping from open windows.
House numbers were clearly frowned on here. It took some time to locate
Mon Repos;
midway between
Genista
and
Shangri La.
Z guessed the choice of name wasn't the Dellars'. Perhaps retaining it had appealed to some wry appreciation of the poet's for the bourgeois awfulness of it. She guessed he must despise seaside society and the people who retired here.
This bungalow had all its windows shut, but a sound of music met her as she pulled into the driveway. It broke off abruptly as she rang the bell. There was silence for a moment, then a sound of muffled footsteps in the hall. The door opened on Miranda Dellar, embarrassed and defensive.
âHello,' Z began. âI'm Detective Sergeant Zyczynski. I came â¦'
âYes,' the overgrown girl said, meaning she remembered her.
âI wonder if I may come in. There's something I need to ask you.'
âI'm not to let anyone in.'
âBut this is a police matter.'
She considered a moment, then slowly smiled. It wasn't a welcome; more like a naughty child's pleasure at overriding a ban. She held the door wider and retreated a few steps. Z slid in and looked around.
They had plenty of space here, which was as well since the place seemed over-furnished. The L-shaped hall gave on to several rooms, three with open doorways showing equally crowded interiors.
âWas that you playing?' Z asked, glimpsing the boudoir grand piano and sheet music spilled on the floor.
âYes.' She let the policewoman precede her and bend over the keyboard.
âSchumann, wasn't it?'
Again the single breathless word of agreement.
âWould you play me some more?'
âIt's for four hands, but I've changed it.'
âThat sounds complicated.'
âNot really.' She seated herself and spread her fingers, then let them fly in a cascade of notes. She used no script. It was all in her head and she played as if charged with frenetic energy.
Amazing, Z thought. They'd said she was backward. The music went on while the light faded, and when eventually Miranda stopped she was still aware of the other woman sitting behind her in the half-dark, almost companionable. âI'm thirsty,' she said. âCan you make tea?'
âIf you show me where the things are. Don't you make drinks yourself?'
âI can, but I'm clumsy.'
Z thought of the strong, muscular fingers flashing over the keyboard. âNow whoever told you that?' she asked.
The kitchen was simply arranged, probably left the way it was when they bought the place. Elsewhere there had obviously been an attempt to turn the bungalow into something much grander. Z guessed that much of the excessive furniture had come from the old house before the fire. Which would have set light to DI Salmon's little blue touch-paper and reinforced his suspicions of arson.
Z dangled tea bags in matching mugs and started making sandwiches with sliced ham from the fridge. âWhere does your father work?' she asked, imagining a poet must have some sort of retreat.
âWork?'
âWrite his poems.'
âHe doesn't. He sits in the garden. Mother writes. Upstairs.' She shrugged towards the trap door at the back end of the hall.
âHow nice. You have an upstairs. I bet it has a ladder. Can I have a peep?'
Miranda stood stock-still. âWe don't go up.'
Z put down the tea tray and looked at her. She remembered Miranda's sly smile as she considered letting her in. âIt would be rather fun, don't you think? Let's go up. Shall we?'
The cajoling voice couldn't be resisted. Ever since morning, when Mother had had that phone call and decided to rush off, the day had been growing special; hours and hours of music and nobody to complain about it. Then this nice woman coming to listen, and just when she'd started feeling thirsty and wanting something to eat. Now they would be doing something quite awful together; exciting. âTake our picnic up there,' she whispered.
The loft room with its knock-through attic window was nothing special, cheaply furnished with a softwood workstation, computer and filing cabinet. While Miranda sipped tea, Z booted up and attempted a search of the computer files, but they weren't accessible without a password. The box files of papers she skimmed through proved that Claudia's âwriting' wasn't so much with words as with figures. The listed costings and dates made easy sense. There were also a number of yellowed sheets headed with the address of legal chambers in Middle Temple. Some had scribbled notes on; others were blank. Z remembered those had been Sir Matthew's chambers when he was a QC. It seemed curious that he should have supplied his sister-in-law with legal stationery.
By now Miranda had dared to seat herself at the workstation and had begun to âplay' the keyboard, dismayed that no sound but clicking ensued.
âWe have to get rid of that,' Z said, pointing to the gobbledygook appearing on the screen. She deleted the letters and closed the computer down. âI'd rather have a piano any day,' she said. âWouldn't you?'
âYes.' Again the breathless monosyllable. Miranda appeared to be tiring after so much excitement.
âAre your parents coming home tonight? How long have they been away?'
The double question must have been too much for her. Miranda hesitated a moment, glanced at the watch on her wrist and said, âThirteen hours and forty three minutes.'
The precision was unexpected. âThey were both here the last two nights then?' Z persisted.
âYes. Since we came down from the old house.'
So much for the DI's new suspicions, Z thought. It was back now to Square One for him, with the Railtons still in the frame.
Â
Salmon was having little success with separately interviewing Carlton Dellar and his wife. With the poet he met not so much stonewalling as having his questions returned from a sorbo surface which deadened any force of the attack. He failed to get the man talking freely about the family, particularly regarding relations with his younger brother, the judge.
âHe did appear upset when he saw your wife,' the DI was obliged to prompt, eventually coming out in the open.
âIt goes back a long way,' was all the man could offer. âClaudia and Matthew. They have no time for each other now.' He was still speaking of his brother in the present tense.
âNo love lost?' Salmon paraphrased.
At that Carlton paused open-mouthed, gave a little choking cough, then agreed, âAh, I see what you mean. No love lost indeed.' And they had had to leave it at that.
Claudia, questioned about the dead man's sudden aggression, remained tight-lipped. âI simply walked in. I never spoke,' she claimed at last. âI don't think he even saw me behind my husband. I hadn't done or said a thing.
âCarlton was trying to comfort him, to hold his attention so that he didn't slip away again. Then suddenly he seemed galvanized, and shouted out my name. I tell you, it was one of those hallucinations they sometimes get at the
end. He mistook me for someone from the past. His dead mother or such. I hadn't done or said a thing.'
âBut it was your name he called out. He was angry with
you.
Nurse Pelham said he was furious. Livid and shaking with rage.'
âHe just went mad. That's all I can tell you. Something snapping in his mind. Nothing to do with us.'
âSo what
was
in his mind? Some remembered incident he connected with you?'
âThat's highly unlikely. Is that all, inspector? â because we should get back on the road. I don't enjoy driving in the half-light and we've cancelled the hotel for tonight.'
âI need first to know where you both were two nights ago between eight and midnight.'
âAt Cooden Beach of course. Until we heard this morning about Madeleine dying, we hadn't left there since your sergeant stopped us on the way down. You should have a note of that somewhere.'
Salmon was plunged in gloom. It was much what her husband had said. There was only one ray of hope. When Zyczynski got back she might prove them both liars.
Â
Superintendent Yeadings wasn't asleep although it might have appeared so. He was watching bright colours merge and transpose themselves on the backs of his eyelids while morning sunshine poured through the office window, warming his face and detaching his thoughts to drift like flotsam. It was his version of navel-gazing, and a process he often found rewarding when some of the floating material became so persistent that he was moved to open his eyes, sit up and take note of what his subconscious had on offer.
It was a memory of Kate Dellar's voice that flooded his mind now, low and husky with anxiety. He could hear the tone, the melody, but couldn't distinguish any words. Then the pitch rose, became impassioned. Quite clearly one phrase was replayed. The mention of Surrey Street. It
remained in his mind long enough for him to question why it should be significant.