An Accidental Shroud Page 9

  The venue was at Wilding's suggestion; it was midmorning, but evidently he'd decided that business wasn't pressing enough to preclude taking time off. Or perhaps he could work from home.

  An air of suppressed excitement hung around him. Was he, Mayo wondered, one of those men who were turned on by the idea of violence? His demeanour didn't suggest deep sorrow at the news of Nigel Fontenoy's death, yet when he was asked about his connections with the dead man, his reply was unsteady.

  'My God, I can't believe it! We'd always been close, old Nigel and me. We were cousins, went to school together, my son worked for him – but of course, you know that, you've spoken to Matthew.'

  And would need to speak to him again. However, it wasn't Matthew Wilding who was concerning Mayo at the moment, but his father. And money. There was money involved in all this ... shown by the copy letter found in Nigel Fontenoy's files, indicating that Jake Wilding was in debt for an undisclosed sum to his cousin.

  Why had Wilding needed to borrow from Fontenoy? The jeweller had been comfortably off by most standards, even allowing for the fact that the jewellery trade was, understandably, one of the first to suffer in a recession, but as far as real money went, he couldn't have been in the same league as Wilding. Ah well, Carmody had said, Jake Wilding was a clever-dick builder and property developer, and everyone knew what that meant. Slippery as a bucketful of eels, not averse to turning a quick penny by cutting a few corners, adept at manipulating planning regulations, used to getting away with murder. An unscrupulous sod, with half the town council probably in his pocket. Carmody was Liverpool Irish and said he spoke from experience.

  'Nice to hear strictly unbiased opinions!' Mayo commented drily. 'I shall want something better than that.'

  But certainly risk and living on a financial knife-edge was the name of the game to men of Jake Wilding's sort, and even a small loan might be important to him. Inquiries had been made about him. He had reputedly started with nothing. His mother had been a Fontenoy, old George Fontenoy's sister, but any money she had brought to the marriage had soon been squandered by her husband, Jake's father, also a builder, and eventually a bankrupt. Later, by Jake's own efforts, the firm had risen, phoenix-like, from the ashes; he had by now built himself a little empire. Private sector housing was still his main business but he was said also to have a stake in a local taxi-cab and bus firm, to dabble in broadcasting and television franchises and to have a half share in the local football club. He had interests in road construction and was much in evidence where local authority building schemes were concerned.

  His lifestyle was impressive. Ham Lane was a pleasant, quiet lane of substantially built, luxurious houses, all of them with large, secluded gardens backing on to a wood. Abigail and Mayo had caught a glimpse of a swimming pool through the windows of the old conservatory when they arrived, and there was a tennis court. They'd exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

  The house was large and its interior was flooded with light and furnished with an expensive and clever mixture of modern furniture and antiques. The soft furnishings in richly patterned jewel colours glowed against walls the colour of clotted cream. As well as some very beautiful pictures, there were several striking modern bronze sculptures: on a small table near Abigail was a polished female nude kneeling on a sea shore, the curl of a huge wave behind her echoing the curve of a slender back. Without having to be told, knowing nothing of fine art, she looked at it and knew it was outstanding. Somebody here had style and taste.

  It may have been Christine Wilding. She was something of a work of art herself, dressed today in a soft angora sweater the colour of apricots, immaculately made up, heavy topaz jewellery in an antique setting round her throat. She had supplied tea and now sat back in her chair, her shapely legs crossed, listening without comment, watching her husband as he stated that the last time he had seen Nigel Fontenoy had been at ten o'clock the previous evening.

  The appointment hadn't been recorded in Nigel's meticulously kept diary, though Wilding wouldn't necessarily have known that, and Mayo said sharply, 'Did you make the appointment by telephone, or through a message on his answerphone?'

  'Neither. I made a personal call at the shop earlier in the week. I don't remember what day but Matthew was there and he can probably tell you.'

  'Can anybody verify this meeting last night? Did anybody see you there – Mr George Fontenoy, maybe?' Mayo asked.

  'No, he'd gone to bed. He's an old man and he hasn't been well. Nigel was expecting me and let me in through the side door, so unless anybody was passing and happened to see me going in. I'm afraid there's nothing to confirm that I actually was there.'

  'Wasn't it rather late for a business appointment?'

  'I had a previous engagement and couldn't make it earlier. Nigel didn't mind. He said he'd be working in the shop, anyway.'

  'What was the meeting about?'

  Wilding shrugged. 'Nothing of any importance.'

  Mayo wasn't letting him get away with that. 'Oh? Discussing the repayment of that loan he'd made to you wasn't important?'

  'Loan?' That had touched a nerve. His eyes flickered. They were brown, quick dark brown, and he had rough, fairish hair that he constantly ran his fingers through. A full-lipped, sensuous mouth, a craggy face. Late forties. His body was younger than his face, and disciplined, moving like an actor's, with casual grace. There was a strong family likeness to his uncle, old George Fontenoy – strange, Abigail thought, when Fontenoy's son had borne little resemblance to his father. Funny things, genes, popping up where you least expected them.

  Recovering quickly from his surprise, he smiled crookedly and said, 'It hasn't taken you long to find that out! Well, you've obviously seen a copy of the letter he sent me, so there's no point in denying it.'

  Nigel Fontenoy had been a precise kind of man, where business was concerned. His papers were in apple pie order. Copies were kept. His appointment book had been clearly written up. It made their job easier.

  Mayo said, 'I've seen the letter and I have to say that the tone of it didn't suggest the sort of amicable relationship you say you had with him, Mr Wilding. If anyone asked me, I'd have said the tone was peremptory.'

  'Oh, that was just Nigel covering his back ... for the record,' he said, evidently thinking fast, and perhaps improvising as he went along. 'In case I reneged. The point was, until recently he'd been quite willing to let it ride until I was in a better position to repay, but then he'd found himself temporarily in difficulties and he wanted it back. Anyway, it was all sorted last night. He agreed to leave things as they were, though as it turns out, it wouldn't have been necessary.' The underlying elation Mayo had sensed when they first met was back again.

  'There's been an improvement in your financial position?'

  'Let's say in certain prospects,' Wilding returned with a smile that hinted at secret satisfaction. On the other side of the hearth, Christine Wilding reached forward and poured herself another cup of tea.

  'Would that be because Mr Fontenoy has left his share of the business and half of what else he has to your son?' The other half, according to George Fontenoy, was to go to his sister's three children in New Zealand.

  Wilding didn't like that, didn't like them knowing, and possibly not the implications either. His smile became rather more fixed, and a different element entered his manner, not so easily placeable. 'I don't see what that has to do with my situation. It's Matthew he's left it to, not me,' he said shortly.

  'But it's still in the family. Might he not want to invest in your business?' Abigail suggested.

  'Matthew?' He laughed shortly. 'Not likely!'

  'Jake,' said Christine, quietly.

  'All right, forget I said that. It's only that I'm not sure that leaving all that money to Matthew – to anybody that age, for that matter – was a wise move on Nigel's part. Matthew's barely nineteen and he hasn't yet made his mind up what he wants to do with his life – but I'm willing to bet it won't be running Cedar House Antiques for the
rest of it, if that's what Nigel was hoping! More likely throwing it away on rally cars.'

  Mayo well knew that these were the sort of disparaging remarks fathers might be expected to make about troublesome teenage sons – though perhaps with less bitterness. Wilding and his son evidently didn't get on, or at any rate, didn't see eye to eye. But then, both of them might be difficult to live with, in their different ways. Looking steadily at Wilding, he said, 'You do realize that you were the last person to have seen Mr Fontenoy alive?'

  He was picked up sharply. 'Known to have seen him, yes. But someone else must have seen him after I did, because I can tell you he was still very much alive when I left him. I didn't kill him. He could be an irritating bastard, but most of us can be at one time or another, I suppose.'

  'Irritating? In what way, irritating?'

  'That's neither here nor there,' Wilding answered shortly, possibly with a belated realization that the remark might have been better left unsaid.

  'So you parted on good terms?'

  'I've already said as much, yes.'

  'How long did you stay with him?'

  'Just under an hour, I should think. Anyway, it was some time after eleven when I got back home. I'm not sure of the exact time.'

  'Quarter past, actually,' said Christine.

  Jake waited until the sound of the car engine had died away. His eyes stayed fixed on Christine, with an expression she found baffling. She sat waiting for him to bring the subject up and eventually he did.

  'Why did you lie to them?' he asked. 'About the time I got home?'

  Christine drew in her breath. Why did he think, for God's sake? To protect him, of course! And – well, yes, maybe herself, too. She had a lot to lose. She answered stiffly, obliquely, 'Why did you bring me those flowers today?' And wine, and delicious pâté. Almost as if in celebration, rather than mourning a death. As a bribe?

  'To cheer you up. I knew how upset you'd be about Nigel. You always did have a soft spot for him, didn't you?'

  Upset? What a word to use! What a singularly inept choice of word to describe her feelings. She felt her temper rising. 'Yes, I'm upset, but not because of what you think. I'm upset because he's dead, because the way he died is horrible.' And because I can't – I simply cannot – bear the thought that you might have been responsible. Any more than I can bear the thought of the suspicions going through your mind. But her anger evaporated as suddenly as it had threatened. She said, on a dying fall, 'There was never anything between us, Jake – except a promise, which he broke.'

  'What sort of promise?'

  Her answer was a while in coming, she was wondering how to phrase what she had to say in a way that would be acceptable to him. 'You know he was thinking of selling out?' she said, at last.

  'Selling out?' Jake's eyes snapped. No, he hadn't known that, and was put out that he hadn't been told. He always felt he had a right to know everything that was going on, to have his finger on every pulse, although Nigel's affairs could really have had very little importance for him, personally.

  'Well, he was. To Jermyn's – the big London jewellers. He's been negotiating with them for over a year. And all the time, he was promising that he'd make me a partner ...' Jake looked thunderstruck and the injustice of Nigel's behaviour struck her anew. She said bitterly, 'He wasn't ever much of a businessman, I've no need to tell you that. I could always manage things so much better and he knew it – and was glad of it. Until he had a better offer. But he still went on promising, when he knew, all the time.'

  Jake was rendered silent by all this. At last he said, 'So you married me, instead?'

  'I married you, yes, but not instead of anything! Jake, why are we quarrelling? Aren't things bad enough?'

  Jake had wanted Christine from the first moment he saw her, admiring not only her beautifully shaped body, her vibrant hair, those amazing eyes, but her smartness and the competence with which she managed Nigel's business, the way she tried to make life more comfortable for everyone. He'd laid siege to her and wasn't surprised when she accepted the glamorous invitations he was able to offer. Most women did. But then he'd gradually become aware of a continuing need for her, a desire for a longer-term relationship other than mere physical satisfaction. The fact that he'd come to love her hit him like a thunderbolt and had made him, hitherto so certain of himself, unsure. He'd scarcely been able to believe it when she agreed to be his wife.

  'Christine, Christine!' He took a step forwards and put his arms round her.

  She leaned against his strength, knowing without question now that she loved him and would be prepared to do more than merely lie for him. But she still didn't know where he'd been until nearly one o'clock that morning.

  Back in the incident room, surrounded by members of the team, the air thick with cigarette smoke, incessantly ringing telephones and the clack of printers, Abigail said, 'For what it's worth, his wife swears he was back by quarter past eleven. But I wouldn't like to bet on how much it is worth. I think she's covering for him, although if he arrived at the shop at ten, as he said, there'd be time to do all he had to do, dump the body and get back home by that time. It's not all that far from Nailers' Yard to Ham Lane, especially by car.'

  'And who's to say he didn't arrive for his appointment before ten?' a DC asked.

  'Unlikely, if he intended killing Nigel. It would've been too risky. He couldn't be sure that the old man would've been in bed by then. And there'd still be people about – he couldn't have planned on the storm keeping everyone indoors.'

  'True,' Carmody put in. 'And would he have made an appointment at all if he'd intended murder? Run the risk of having Nigel write it down in his diary, knowing how finicky he was about that sort of thing? I'll bet it was only by chance he hadn't noted it down, anyway, maybe because he was busy in the shop when Wilding called.'

  'I want to play that tape again before we send it over to the experts to see what they can do with it. See if we can make out a bit more.'

  'Let's have a bit of hush, then,' Carmody said to the room at large, slotting the tape into the machine.

  'You can buy a fun gizmo now that deliberately distorts your voice,' Farrar offered while the tape was being fast-forwarded through the Mickey Mouse squawks of the other calls on the machine, business calls which had by now been followed up, vetted, then eliminated.

  'You can also put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, or hold your nose,' added Jenny Platt drily.

  'Listen, can't you?' Carmody released the button.

  OK. See you. Same place, same time.

  Not nearly enough to go on.

  'But there is something maddeningly familiar about it,' Abigail said, nibbling her finger.

  They grouped around it, listening to the recording several times but nobody could make any constructive suggestion as to the owner of the voice. Just as the next replay began, in walked DC Deeley.

  'It's Tom Callaghan,' he said.

  Deeley was looked upon as the station beefcake, the good-humoured butt of CID ragging. Put down as a bit thick, but known for stumbling on things. Dead lucky, they said, uncharitably, not giving him the credit for the sharpness that was (admittedly well-hidden) beneath the surface, not liking it that he had an uncanny knack of being right.

  He was in this case. 'That's it – it does sound like Callaghan!' Abigail agreed, after a moment. 'Well done, Pete!'

  'Tom Callaghan? The Tom Callaghan?' asked Carmody.

  'It is him!' said Jenny, a regular viewer of his programme, though not by any means because she was a fan of his. It was always as well to know the opposition, in her opinion.

  'There's hope for you yet, Pete,' said Farrar, annoyed that he hadn't identified the voice himself.

  13

  Hands in pockets, Ted Carmody stood gazing at concrete mixers, squared-off piles of bricks and breeze-blocks covered in polythene, plus all the other untidy paraphernalia on the Wilding building site, the as yet unmade up road cutting a red, sandy swathe through the middle. Dusk was fa
lling and work had stopped for the day.

  Building had started at the top of the site and was working downhill. Only about half a dozen houses were as yet occupied, their curtains already drawn against the dark, houses and families drawn in tight to themselves. It wasn't a comfortable place to live, not yet.

  'Like I said, you'll have to come across yonder to see what I mean,' said the man Carmody was talking to, a small, wiry type with a bald head and a luxuriant moustache that tried hard to compensate. He was wearing jeans and a quilted anorak and his face was tight with suppressed anger.

  The site was otherwise deserted. Carmody had timed himself to arrive after the workmen had knocked off but before it was too dark to see properly, wanting to do some poking around. He'd often found it paid dividends. Like now, though in this case it was ma'am who'd suggested it.

  Fontenoy's car, after being thoroughly examined by Forensics, had been passed as clean. Likewise Jake Wilding's, which had also, under protest, been impounded for forensic examination.

  'But he's still the best we've got – and if he did it, he must've had access to some form of transport. Get somebody to take a look at what's on his building site, Ted,' Abigail had said. Carmody had chosen to come himself.

  He didn't think much of the site security. A locked compound with a high wire fence enclosed raw materials, but any competent burglar could have made mincemeat out of the lock in five minutes. As well as a big JCB there were sundry trucks, bulldozers and a lot of other machinery hanging around. Nice class of house, though. Upmarket prices and more spacious than you'd think, albeit the gardens were on the cramped side. Carmody reckoned himself a good judge of a house, he'd moved around enough in his time. They preferred older houses, he and Maureen, with a sizeable garden, a solid, between-the-wars job, built when labour costs were lower and land not at such a premium.

  He'd done his poking around and not come up with anything until, as he emerged from one of the almost completed houses, this man, who gave his name as Dave Hodgson, had appeared out of the growing dusk.