Cobweb (4 page)

Another thing that was bothering me was that no one had appeared to take DI John Gray's concerns seriously – about which, strictly speaking, he should not have gone public. A Superintendent Fred Knightly's name had been mentioned in the papers and I seemed to remember seeing among the many others a photograph of a balding man with a heavily lined face holding a press conference.

It occurred to me after I had finished my lunch that fishing for possible insider knowledge from my old friend DCI James Carrick of Bath CID might be a good idea.

Unusually, Carrick, now fully recovered from a near-fatal shooting just under six months previously, had a little time on his hands, probably on account of having recently been given more personnel. After the usual pleasantries I brought him up to date with our news.

‘SOCA!' he exclaimed.

‘Our old MI5 boss wanted Patrick,' I explained. ‘Anything on the grapevine about this affair in Woodhill?'

‘I've met Richard Daws,' he recollected. ‘So you're in on it too?'

‘In a strictly advisory role.'

He chuckled.

‘Well?' I asked bullishly.

At this he laughed outright. ‘Were you in an advisory capacity when you dealt with half a dozen drug-squad blokes who'd been ordered to rough up that man of yours in the Gents' of a Bristol pub? What did Patrick say about it at the time? “Ingrid's really evil with a bog brush.”' He hooted with laughter again.

‘Women get very angry when their menfolk are attacked,' I said, on reflection, primly.

‘Most run like hell,' he told me soberly, adding, ‘The boys in Bristol have never lived it down.'

‘Woodhill?' I prompted gently.

‘I honestly don't think I can help you. I'd never met either of the men who died even when I was in the Met.'

‘What about the Super, though – Knightly?'

‘Nope.'

‘There's a tall redhead I've just seen Patrick with who may or may not be involved.'

‘That fits the description of DS Erin Melrose. I know because there was a bit about her in the
Bath Evening Chronicle
. Her parents have retired to Gurney Slade and are worried about her. I can't say I blame them after what's happened.'

‘Did she work for Harmsworth? No, come to think of it, that was Bowles.'

‘She was Gray's assistant. Tell Patrick to keep an eye on the girl. I reckon there's a nutter in that neck of the woods who hates cops.'

‘W
ell, he would be concerned about her, wouldn't he?'

Patrick said. ‘She's a compatriot of his, from Crieff. And, yes, the loud smell of smouldering coming from your direction at lunch time was noted.'

‘I'm hoping for all insider and official information about these cases,' I told him.

‘Of course. I'll copy all the important stuff for you.'

‘To be honest, I'd much rather find out what really happened to Derek Harmsworth first – if he was involved in a genuine accident or not. Otherwise I'll be replicating police work and, frankly, it'll be a waste of my time.'

Patrick looked thoughtful. ‘I wasn't planning on your working in an independent way at all, actually,' he said quietly.

I took a sip of wine, good intentions regarding abstaining having, predictably, vanished. Very hungry, I had waited for almost an hour for him in the Green Man and it was now seven fifty.

‘I've given this a lot of thought today and come to a couple of decisions,' I said. ‘I'm not dogsbodying. I'd rather go home and be your oracle, adviser and Devon landlady. I have no intention of undertaking work that bona fide cops should be doing and probably already have done. And I'm certainly not hanging around in that park – it's not a good place to be.'

‘I wasn't suggesting that you should go there after dark.'

‘I'm not talking to the Giddings widow either. She's a poisonous bag. Besides which, I've no real authority.'

His face was now wearing its stubborn look. ‘I thought you already had good cover – the author researching a new book and all that.'

‘The woman isn't stupid. She'll smell a rat. And that's the whole point: I
am
an author and I don't want my name in the papers because she's had me arrested and I'm associated with that kind of crappy falsehood. She would too – she's already thumped a press photographer. No, sorry.'

He was staring at me in most unfriendly fashion.

I stared back and then said, ‘Delete that last word and substitute “balls”.'

Patrick sighed. ‘Dinner. Hot nosh cures all, even wives.'

I snatched up two menus from a holder on the bar and slapped one down in front of him.

He was quite correct in one respect, though: we both needed a hot meal.

‘Right, then,' Patrick said when we had eaten, and having drained his coffee cup. ‘You want a rethink.'

I said, ‘Sorry, but I'm of the opinion that the thinking wasn't all that sound in the first place.'

‘OK, tell me what you want.'

‘Firstly, we owe it to DI Gray to investigate his suspicions. Actually, it's a basic requirement – everything else might hang on it.'

‘Look, there
was
a PM. Harmsworth had sufficient alcohol in his blood for it to have impaired his driving ability. His body actually smelt of booze. He suffered multiple injuries when the vehicle crashed down on to the motorway below the bridge. Death must have been instantaneous. Who knows? Perhaps he was celebrating something or other and for once broke all his own rules about drinking. Perhaps another car was involved that nobody knows about and it was that driver's fault. The police appealed for witnesses to the accident but no one's come forward.'

‘We could sit here and suppose all night,' I commented waspishly. ‘What have you been asked to do?'

‘Work independently of other police personnel. Find out if there's any connection between Giddings's and Gray's deaths, given the ghastly way they both died, and, most important of all, discover if there's a further risk to police officers.'

‘And who do you take orders from?'

‘SOCA, of course. A bloke called Michael Greenway. He's ex-MI5 too. Daws is his boss.'

‘Carrick may be right and DS Melrose could be at risk. Has she been working with you?'

‘No. I really am independent. But, obviously, she's been briefing me and that's what I've been working on: building up a picture of events. No, Erin's deliberately been given other things to work on. I have to say, though, she's not at all happy about it.'

There was a short silence, which I broke by saying, ‘I think you know how I feel now.'

‘You're saying that if I want you to stay and help me you'll need bona fides – in other words, some kind of warrant card or written authority. And you don't fancy going down into the Essex woods alone. Ingrid, the whole time you worked for MI5 you didn't have an ID card because it was decided you were safer without it.'

‘Sort of. But this is different – it's the police. What I'm really asking for is those same working conditions. I'm quite happy for you to refer to me as your assistant. Besides, we'd get far better results working undercover.'

There was a longer silence while he thought about it.

‘OK,' he said slowly at last. ‘You do have a good point – several actually. I agree, but on condition that we go in openly until we've exhausted possibilities in that fashion and then change tactics if necessary. We'll hold hands in the park and you can man – nay woman, the cannon loaded with grapeshot while I interview the grieving widow. How's that?'

Despite the coffee cups, a cream jug, a tea light in a glass holder and a small vase of flowers, I leaned over and kissed him.

I had, of course, well and truly scuppered Patrick's plan of action. Later that evening, though, when he had obviously had a rethink, we discussed it again and agreed that, for a short while longer, perhaps a couple of days, he would go his own way, at the same time soaking up as much information as possible. With my concerns in mind, he would question DS Melrose again about Gray and try to discover what the DI had been doing immediately prior to his death, especially any investigations he had made with regard to Harmsworth's death that had been on an unofficial basis.

I, meanwhile, in exchange for a sympathetic reception to my ideas, would undertake a little research into Theodore du Norde, who was, like Maggie, an interior designer, and Jason Giddings's stepson. Patrick gave me his address. There was a possibility, he thought, that Maggie might have heard of him and she
was
a terrible old gossip, wasn't she? Fair enough, I thought, and that was quite enough time spent in Woodhill for one day.

‘Never heard of him,' Maggie declared for the second time that night. ‘I've already said so, haven't I?'

I had caught the note of scorn in her voice at the first time of asking. ‘No?' I queried.

‘No. Don't you believe me? Look, duckie, there are thousands of us in London.'

I had not said where he lived and she only called me that when she was annoyed with me. Regrettably, it was very late and we were on the wine again, but this time it was a deliberate ploy on my part. ‘Lying cow,' I said with a big grin on my face.

‘Why do you ask, anyway?'

‘Patrick wondered if you knew him.'

She sprawled back in her chair, crossed her long legs and took a big swig from her glass. ‘You know, I never thought you'd stay married to that man – it being the second time around for you and all that.'

‘Divorced people do remarry,' I pointed out, determined not to be sidetracked.

‘Yeah, they do, but not usually to the same folk all over again. Mind you, he's got something going for him. Is he good in bed?'

‘Mind-blowingly so,' I answered smugly. ‘And you do know something about Theodore du Norde. I can tell.'

After a pause Maggie said, ‘OK, he's a complete shit. He once rubbished me to a client and I lost a big commission.' When I did not comment, she snapped, ‘I just didn't want to be reminded of him, that's all. What's he done?'

‘Nothing, probably. Patrick's just making enquiries about a case.'

‘Oh, he'll be involved in there somewhere, honey. I tell you, slime drips from the tips of his fingers.'

‘How did he get to know about your possible commission?'

‘The woman lived in the same block of apartments as he does; they met in the lift and she gushed all over him, bragging about how much money she intended spending. She didn't know then that he was into design too. Thick as cold glue, mind.'

‘And …?'

Shrugging lightly, Maggie said, ‘And what? Nothing. That was it. He got the job.'

‘Look, I simply can't believe that she dropped you there and then just because of what some bloke said to her in a lift.'

‘As I said: thick.'

I sat there, gazing at her fixedly, waiting.

‘All right!' Maggie said furiously after a few seconds. ‘He took her to see someone he knew who hadn't been too pleased with what I'd done for him – a real geek who'd upset just about everyone who'd worked on his house-restoration in Richmond. Naturally, he didn't mention that bit.'

I was sure there was more to tell, but this wasn't the Spanish Inquisition.

‘I'm not the only one who's had him stick his nose in my business either,' Maggie added.

Did that mean he was completely ruthless or merely highly professional? Had he actually threatened her to back off? ‘Is he any good?' I asked.

‘Mediocre. That's why he has to poach.'

‘But, bragging thickos in lifts apart, how does he find out what's going on?'

‘God knows,' Maggie drawled. ‘Bloody, isn't it?'

‘How can I contact him?'

‘My advice is don't, Ingrid.'

You never get anywhere by taking advice from the nervous.

This was a genuine opportunity to wear my writer's hat and undertake some research into interior design that could be filed away both in my head and on the computer. You learn more from talking to people than from books and I had tried several times to get Maggie to tell me about her work, but she never wants to talk shop and hasn't the patience to sit down and explain even the basics.

The number Maggie had reluctantly given me rang for quite a long time, but no answering machine cut in. Then it was picked up.

‘Du Norde.'

I introduced myself, explained what I wanted and asked for an interview.

‘Who put you on to me?' he enquired, the voice patronizing, bored-sounding.

‘A friend of a friend who had a house-conversion done in Richmond,' I replied. ‘I'm afraid I can't remember his name.'

There was a short silence and then he said, ‘I'm a busy man and expect a fee from other professionals. I take it you are a professional writer – I can't say I've heard of you.'

My hide can rival that of a fossilized elephant if necessary. We agreed a quite ridiculous amount of money – promising myself grimly I would put half on Patrick's expenses – and he informed me that he had one vacant slot that afternoon between two and three or it would have to be put off until the following week. Deciding that he was a liar as well as probably quite a few other unsavoury things, I said that would be fine.

He then had the bloody cheek to tell me not to be late.

Mediocre or no he was either rich or clever enough to have an address in Holland Park, a stone's throw from the park itself. It was one of those places where there are copper artworks that double as water-features set on emerald-green lawns on both sides of the curving drive that no child or pet cat or dog has ever stepped on for the simple reason that, here, both are banned.

I rode up to the sixth floor in one of the four lifts. Utter silence prevailed: I could have been in a museum. There were stairs, too, in white Italian marble, tasteful pictures on the walls, discreet light fittings, very expensive plants in even more pricy containers on each landing – one of those places where, regrettably, I yearn to lean over the balustrade and shriek ‘Yeee-haaa!'