The English Boys (23 page)

Thirty-Two

Daniel followed Carey into
the back of the cab, ga
ve the driver Hugh's Holland Park address, and then pulled out his mobile to look at the last few photos he'd taken of the happy couple at a restaurant a few days before the wedding. There was one of Hugh with his arm around Tamsyn and a few of Tamsyn alone. Daniel scrolled to look at the one of them together. In that particular image, Hugh wasn't smiling; he looked tired and perhaps somewhat bored. Tamsyn, however, looked very much her usual self. There was a secretive smile playing about her lips, a knowing look in her eyes. Daniel had thought her flirtatious at the time. Studying it now, he saw she was leaning away from Hugh rather than toward him. Of course, it was a random snap, one of a thousand moments he'd spent with the two of them in the last few months, but it brought home an uncomfortable truth: he had never really known either of them.

In the last ten years, Daniel's life had taken many unexpected turns. He had gotten an education he'd never dreamed of, embarked on what to many was a dream career, and had been best friends with one of the greatest young actors in England. It hadn't seemed extraordinary at the time, merely a series of small, incremental steps that had led him to this point in his life. What was extraordinary, he realized, was the fact that he had been friends with someone who may have been capable of brutal rape and murder. And perhaps not even once, which was difficult enough to accept, but twice.

For the first time, he wondered what had happened to Lizzie Marsden. For years after her death, he had stifled every memory of that night. The encounter itself had been brief but disturbing. He and Hugh had gone out for sushi and then returned to Hugh's house to watch a film on television, a new BBC production of Trollope's
Kept in the Dark
. Hugh had turned down the part of George Western and wanted to see if he had any regrets, though Daniel had never known him to second-guess himself about anything. They had sat down to watch it, criticizing the bland moments and the occasional miscasting, when Lizzie Marsden had knocked at the door.

Daniel didn't know which of them had been more surprised by her sudden appearance. It was clear that Hugh hadn't been expecting her. She was a little drunk, which gave her a more vulnerable quality than her usual aggressive manner, somehow softer around the edges. Her hair spray had worn off, and her blonde hair, sheared to just below her chin, was tousled perfectly, as if after a night of lovemaking. Her lipstick, which must have been put on in a taxi, was not perfectly applied, and if she hadn't been quite so beautiful or dressed in an Alexander McQueen gown, she might have seemed like a normal girl. Daniel had been aware of an attraction to her in that moment, which he'd tried to shake off. She was a barracuda who had slept with him once without batting an eye, merely to be able to say she had done it, and she would chew him up and spit him out if he let it happen again. He and Hugh had stood at the door, trying to decide what to do with her, as she thrust herself between them and walked into the room.

Hugh closed the door behind her but made no effort to follow as she walked into the sitting room and tossed her coat across the arm of the sofa, smiling. She hiked up her skirt to a dangerous level and sat, swinging her perfectly sculpted legs up onto the sofa and crossing them at the ankle. Daniel remembered looking at Hugh, who watched her without a word in that chilly aristocratic way of his, and his next thought was that perhaps he should leave. Perhaps Hugh wanted to be alone with her, although he hoped not. As far as he knew, they treaded carefully in that department. He had always thought it would be a little incestuous to sleep with the same women.

Lizzie laughed suddenly. It was a beautiful laugh, and Daniel thought it was the best part of her.

“Pleased with yourself, are you?” Hugh asked.

“I can't believe you're both here. Talk about a dream come true.” She heaved a great sigh. “Where's the vodka, boys?”

“How about a cup of coffee instead?” Daniel asked. The last thing on earth he wanted was to watch this girl get even drunker than she already was.

“Killjoy.”

“What's gotten you in such a good mood?” Hugh asked. He neither moved toward the drinks table nor any further into the room.

Lizzie stroked her leg coquettishly. “I was at Annabelle's tonight, and Chelsea Drummond walked in with Viscount Blakeley. She's gained twenty pounds since I saw her last. You should have seen her; it was all in her arse. He couldn't keep his eyes off me. Or anyone else in the room, for that matter. They'll be broken off within the month, mark my words.”

Hugh smiled. “Nothing like a wee bit of
schadenfreude
to make the day better.”

She crooked her finger at him, inviting him to sit down beside her. “You know what else makes the day better?”

“Oh, I have some idea.” Hugh still didn't move, and for a second, there was a battle of wills as they stared laser-like at each other across the room. Then she kicked off her heels and stood up in bare feet, her hands on her hips. A moment later, she walked over and kissed him. Daniel turned and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, checking it for messages in the urgent hope that he could excuse himself to make a call. He would have left already, but they stood between him and the door.

“Not so fast, Richardson,” she said. She walked over and tried to kiss him, too, but he took her hand and pushed her back. “How would you like to have the best fuck of your lives, gentlemen?”

“That's enough,” Hugh said.

She shrugged and headed for the drinks table, pulling a bottle from a silver tray. “Who else wants a drink?”

Hugh took the bottle from her and placed it back on the tray. “Not tonight, Lizzie. You need to go home and sleep this one off.”

“There's only one thing I need.” She lifted her hand and began to undo the hidden zipper in the side seam of her dress. “Anyone going to give me a hand?”

“What do you think you're doing?” Hugh asked in a patient tone.

“I think I'm going to have my way with my two favorite boys.”

“I hate to spoil a good party, but I have to go,” Daniel said, shaking his head.

“Come on!” she cried. “It will be the best time you've ever had.”

Hugh reached out and put his arms around her, startling Daniel. Then he zipped the dress and went over to get her shoes. “That's not how it works. When I want a good rogering, I decide for myself who the lucky girl will be.”

“Have you got this?” Daniel asked him, opening the door, anxious to bolt out into the cool night air.

“I'll ring for a cab,” Hugh answered. Then he turned to Lizzie. “You can stop this ridiculous display, my dear. Nobody's interested in taking advantage of a drunk girl. Or being taken advantage of, for that matter.”

Lizzie shot him a vicious look, and for a moment Daniel paused on the step, waiting to see what would happen next.

Hugh took out his mobile to make the call, never taking his eyes off Lizzie. He requested a taxi, giving his address to the party on the other end. Then he cupped his hand over the phone and looked at Daniel. “I'll be right out.”

“You're making a mistake,” Lizzie said. She slid her feet into her shoes and grabbed her handbag.

Hugh raised a brow. “I'll take my chances.”

Daniel nodded at Hugh, relieved to know the situation was in hand. As he made his way down the front steps, he noticed the couple next door returning from a black tie event. The woman, in her late forties or early fifties, wore a silver Grecian-style gown that clung to her shapely body, with a diamond necklace nestled snugly between her breasts. The man with her caught his eye, and he turned away, taking a sharp gulp of air. A couple of minutes later, Hugh stepped outside, and Daniel said good night and walked all the way home.

The following day, two constables had knocked at his door, informing him that Lizzie had drowned in the Thames. He answered questions both at his flat and later at the police station, as had Hugh, and apart from the odd remark between them now and then, the circumstances had never been mentioned again. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have stayed and put Lizzie in a cab himself, or perhaps even taken her home. He had been disgusted by the entire display, wanting only to extricate himself from the situation. Sometimes he blamed himself. If he had seen her home, there was a good chance she would not have been found dead hours later. Eventually, he reconciled it in his own mind: Lizzie Marsden had been on a collision course with death, and if she hadn't been so drunk and fallen into the river, she would have overdosed on drugs or been killed by a jealous lover. She never would have changed, and all of the regret he had that he was even remotely involved with someone on the last night of their life didn't alter the fact that sometime, somewhere, her time would have been up. It was an ugly but nevertheless true statement, if a small salve to his conscience. He had sometimes wondered how long it had taken for Hugh to bundle the girl into a cab. He'd even suspected that once he was gone, they had gone at it like rabbits. And why not, he thought. People could do as they liked. But never once had it occurred to him that Hugh had killed her.

He'd heard it said once that every murder was related to either money or sex. Now, as he sat next to Carey in the cab and pocketed his mobile, he tried to understand Lizzie's death. If it had been murder, what was the motive? The only thing he could imagine was that she might have threatened to tell someone that she'd slept with both of them that night. Personally, he would have hated that on a number of levels. It was a scandal that could have damaged both his ca
reer and Hugh's, and would even have tainted the Ashley-Hunt
family by association. If Hugh had something to do with her death, he decided, that must have been the reason why.

But what of Tamsyn's murder? he wondered. Sex could be a logical motive there too. She had been raped, but if Hugh was involved, had she blackmailed him as well? Money as motive he could understand. She was a poor girl making it on her own in London. But why would she have wanted to marry Hugh? He looked at Carey, who, judging from the look on her face, was lost in her own equally morbid thoughts.

He hoped they would find a journal or something else among Tamsyn's things to shed light on the situation. They needed to know the truth, both of them, if they were ever going to be able to put this all behind them.

The cab slid to a stop on the corner a few doors down from Hugh's house, and Daniel helped Carey out before paying the driver. It was late afternoon and sunny, but he felt no desire to wait until after dark, when they would either have to trip around in blackened rooms or turn on lights and arouse someone's suspicion.

“How will we get inside?” she asked.

“I'll see if there's a key under the urn or something,” he answered.

“Wouldn't that be a bit obvious?”

“It's worth a try.”

Carey stepped back and tried to shield him from view as he stooped down to look under the heavy urn, using his shoulder to support the weight of it and running his fingers along the bottom. He eased it back down and sighed.

“No luck.”

He narrowed his eyes and then reached up to the lintel, running his hand along the top until he came into contact with something hard and metal. He smiled as he took the key in his hand and held it out for her to see.

“I can't believe that worked,” she said.

“Come on,” he said, putting the key in the lock. “Let's see what we can find.”

Although Daniel had entered the house on innumerable occasions, it was unsettling coming in without Hugh's knowledge. He was betraying his best friend. He wondered for a second if it was even possible that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion. The clippings of Noel and Hugh were circumstantial evidence at best. Perhaps Tamsyn had seen him in the magazine and liked his face. Daniel rubbed his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache. Without a doubt, the stress was getting to him.

“We should ring Inspector Murray,” Carey said, echoing his thoughts. She stood in the center of the room, looking at him.

“We will, but we're already here. We'll look for a diary and then go. Five minutes and no more.”

He looked around the familiar room. He had last been here on the night before the wedding, having a private toast with Tamsyn and keeping her company while Hugh took care of some last-minute business before they were to leave the country the next day. At the time, he hadn't asked what sort of business it had been. He had simply been glad for some time alone with her. It was painful to admit it now, but he had harbored some small hope that she'd have a change of heart before she pledged herself to Hugh in front of everyone they knew.

“Right,” he added when Carey was silent. “You know what sort of journal she preferred.” There was little evidence of Tamsyn in the room, other than one small, heart-shaped picture frame holding a photo of Tamsyn and Hugh together that an associate producer had taken in Dorset. “We'll probably have to search upstairs.”

Daniel knew then that he would never have been able to be a detective. He had no idea how to sort through people's lives and homes, even for an urgent reason. He led Carey up the staircase to the bedroom where her sister had lived for the last few months of her life, in order to disturb what little of her there was left.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked.

“No. Tamsyn and I didn't see each other much in the last few months. I was trying to finish a difficult term. We met for coffees a few times. I should have been more involved. If I had been there for her—”

“Maybe you should wait downstairs,” he said, cutting her off before she could go any further.

“No,” Carey answered. “It can't be any easier for you.”