In for the Kill (20 page)

Steven will be fine. Take it easy,’ I tried to reassure him.

I could hear Scarlett’s muffled tones in the background. Percy gripped my hand and stared up at me with wild frightened eyes. He was mouthing something. I bent my head closer to his lips, feeling the gentle breath on my face as he struggled to talk, but there was no sound.

Then Ruby said quite lucidly, ‘Amelia was Hugo’s wife.’

Which meant that Hugo could have a grandson or grandaughter hell bent on revenge. And I had to find out who that was and quick.

Scarlett and Ruby followed the ambulance to the hospital. I hurried along to the Windmill Hotel praying that Deeta’s father hadn’t returned to Germany. He hadn’t. I located him from Scarlett’s description: a tall, rather distinguished-looking man with fair hair swept off an aquiline face, which was etched with sorrow. He looked very much like the older version of Max in the photograph that Ruby had taken.

I joined him in a quiet corner of the bar where he was staring into a glass of red wine. My heart went out to him. He had lost a daughter. I knew how I would feel if I lost one of my sons. Now, I was more determined than ever to get Andover and seek revenge not only for my lost years but for Deeta’s too. It shouldn’t have ended for her like that.

‘Mr Weber?’

His head came up. I could hardly bear to see the pain in his eyes.

I told him I had been a friend of Deeta’s and passed on my inadequate condolences. He could shed little light on his daughter’s death but he confirmed what Percy had told me, that she had been strangled. As far as he knew there had been no diary, or photograph in her personal effects.

I said that Deeta and I had been brought together because of the friendship between Max and my grandfather.

‘I know that Max was in England until August 1940. There doesn’t seem to be any trace of him here after that date.’

‘No. He went to Switzerland. He only returned to Germany after the war.’

I wondered if that was the truth.

‘Max was Swiss German,’ Deeta’s father added.

‘He spoke excellent English and he was educated at Cambridge.’

Which explained how he came to know Hugo and my grandfather.

‘He wasn’t a Nazi. He had no sympathy with Hitler. I’ve never been exactly sure what he did in the war, and he would never talk about it, but I believe he worked for the British Government.’

Had Max in fact been working for both sides?

I didn’t mention this, or the matter of Max creaming off money bringing Jews out of Germany. I thought Deeta’s father had enough to cope with. It did however explain the fact that Max must have known his way around getting a Swiss bank account, which I guessed was where the three men had put the money from their exploits. My grandfather had taken his secret to his dusty grave in the folly, but what about Max’s grandaughter and Hugo’s descendants?

‘Did Max leave any diaries or accounts of his past?’

Deeta’s father shook his head. ‘No. He might have spoken to Deeta about it before his death. I don’t know. He worshipped her. I’m only glad he isn’t alive now. This would have destroyed him.’

He looked sad and exhausted. My heart went out to him. I left a silence. I could hear the cars outside and some laughter from the adjoining restaurant. After a moment I asked, ‘When did he die?’

‘Three years ago.’

That surprised me. Why had Deeta waited until now to come in search of her grandfather’s past?

Had Max told her anything on his deathbed about his escapades with my grandfather and Hugo? Did she know about the Jews?

‘Is your mother still alive?’

‘No. She died ten years after they were married when I was nine. My father brought me up. Mr Albury, what has this got to do with my daughter’s death?’

‘I don’t know.’ And I didn’t, but there must be a connection.

Out of politeness I chatted with him a little longer about his daughter and his home in Bad Nauheim, then I left him to his sorrow and walked home mulling over what he had told me.

If Max had told Deeta about his money gained from smuggling Jews out of Germany then why hadn’t she claimed it? There were several answers to that question: Max had already spent it; Deeta was ignorant of it, or where the money was; or she didn’t have all the information she needed to access it, which would explain her trip to the Isle of Wight, her questioning of Percy, her search of my houseboat and her eagerness to climb into bed with me, in case my grandfather had passed the secret on to me. Perhaps she had thought it was stashed away in the folly. Maybe it was. Scarlett and I had hardly searched it thoroughly. I thought it unlikely though.

But why did Deeta wait three years before coming here? The answer, of course, was quite simple. Me. Perhaps she had come here shortly after her grandfather had died only to find me in prison and my mother frail and forgetful. Perhaps Deeta had called on my mother before she had died. Of course, Deeta wasn’t the only one interested in the missing money from the Jews.

What of Hugo’s grandson? It had to be a man because Ruby had seen a man push my mother down the stairs. She had thought it was Hugo, so the likeness must be significant. Hugo’s grandson unable to find the information he was looking for in Bembridge House had perhaps threatened my mother, or had been surprised by her one day when he was in the house and had killed her. I’d make him pay for that. Had Deeta been working with him or alone?

Hastily I shut out the picture of my mother terrified. I needed a photograph of Hugo. Only Percy or Ruby would have one and I couldn’t ask either of them. I had to risk returning to my houseboat. Besides I had to pack. I threw some things into a bag. There was no sign of the police.

Once again I delved into my mother’s belongings, skimming quickly through the photographs trying to control my sorrow and feelings of guilt. Nothing. There were only a few and certainly no one I didn’t recognise. I couldn’t hang around waiting for Ruby and Scarlett to return in the vain hope that Ruby would have a photograph of Hugo. Time was running out. The police could show up at any minute.

A powerful sense of hopelessness clung to me during the forty-minute crossing of the Solent on the car ferry, and it was still there as I let myself into Miles’s apartment. If Andover was a descendant of Hugo, and had wanted revenge for my mother betraying Hugo, did he know about the money from the Jews? Was that why he had used me as a scapegoat to swindle Westnam, Couldner and Brookes out of three million pounds: a sum he thought he was entitled to? But how had Hugo’s descendant discovered that it was my mother and Percy who had betrayed his grandfather? Percy hadn’t told him and neither had my mother.

I called Gus. He didn’t answer immediately and when he did he sounded exhausted. I understood how emotional strain drained you more than physical effort.

I told him about the plans I’d made with Rowde.

‘But you don’t have the money, Alex.’

‘Rowde doesn’t know that. As soon as we’ve taken off call the Specialist Investigations Unit and ask for Detective Chief Inspector Crowder.

Tell him everything. He’ll know what you’re talking about. You got that?’

‘Yes. I could fly you there.’

‘No. I don’t want you mixed up in this. And I need you to be this end to see that Vanessa and the boys are safe.’

After a moment he agreed.

‘In case I don’t come back look after my sons.’

My voice faltered. Gus took a deep breath before he said:

‘Good luck.’

‘I’ll need it.’ I rang off. Almost immediately my phone rang. It was Miles.

‘I’ve left Steven at the hospital by his father’s side. It doesn’t look too good for the old man.’

I felt sad for Percy and sorry for Steven.

Miles said, ‘The police will call me when they’re ready to resume questioning, but Steven had already told them about you and Deeta. They want to question you.’

‘They can’t, Miles. I’ve got to stay free,’ I said desperately. And I told him about Rowde.

‘Bloody hell! And Gus?’

‘I’ve told him to lie low. He’ll alert the police as soon as we’re in the air.’

‘And you and Rowde?’

‘One of us might come back. If it’s me, I’ll need a good lawyer.’

There was silence.

I continued. ‘You mustn’t breathe a word of this to the police, Miles.’

‘They might be able to help you find them.’

‘That’s only the half of it.’ I told him about Westnam’s body being dumped on my houseboat, and that I had slept with Deeta the night before she was killed. He listened in silence. He was probably thinking how on earth he could defend me this time.

When I had finished he said: ‘You think Andover killed Deeta?’

‘Yes. To frame Steven this time, not me.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s another long story. I’ll tell you about it one day.

‘Alex, do you know who Andover is?’

‘I thought it was Gus. He was having an affair with Vanessa at the time. I thought he wanted Vanessa for himself and so set out to destroy my reputation in order to get her. Now I think it might have something to do with what happened in the war.’

‘Which one?’ Miles asked surprised.

‘The Second World War.’

Miles scoffed. I didn’t blame him.

‘I told you it was a long story. How safe am I in your apartment from the police?’

‘Safe enough.’

‘The police know you’re my lawyer and my friend, won’t they make the connection?’

‘They haven’t asked me if I know where you are, and when they do I’ll tell them I haven’t got a clue. They can’t search my apartment without a warrant, or without asking me. They know that if they do, being a lawyer, I’ll have them by the balls.’

I didn’t feel entirely comfortable about it but Miles had a point. ‘Is Steven all right alone? The police won’t try to trap him into saying anything whilst he’s vulnerable, will they?’

‘With Scarlett beside him? She’s quite a girl.’

She was. God alone knew what she thought of me. I hoped it wasn’t too awful. Her opinion of me mattered. It shouldn’t have done, but it did.

I rang off and stared across the narrow strip of water of Portsmouth Harbour to the lights twinkling in the town of Gosport opposite.

Where was Rowde keeping Vanessa and the boys?

I assumed here on the mainland but what if they were on the Island?

I moved away from the window and began to pace the living room. To get to the Island they would either have crossed on the ferry, too risky for Rowde, or been taken across by private yacht. Did Rowde have a yacht? The first time I saw him he looked as if he had just stepped off a luxury cruiser. Could they have come across on someone else’s boat? Rowde wasn’t a sailor as far as I knew and wouldn’t know anything about crossing the Solent, and I doubted if marble man could skipper a boat. So who could have taken them? No, they had to be here on the mainland.

I needed a drink. I opened one of Miles’s kitchen cabinets and began searching for something alcoholic that might numb my senses for a while and let me sleep, albeit fitfully. Miles wasn’t the tidiest of men. Things were stashed in any old how. There was nothing in the kitchen.

Perhaps I would find something in the lounge. I retrieved a bottle of Glenfiddich from a sideboard, and as I did a folder fell out. It was stashed full of photographs. I poured myself a drink and went to replace the folder in the cupboard when a couple of snapshots caught my eye. They were of a Hardy 50 motorboat and Miles was on the deck. I was surprised. I didn’t know he owned a boat. He’d never said, but then there was quite a lot I didn’t know about Miles.

As I sipped my drink I recalled our conversations over the years; they had all been about me, obviously. I knew Miles was single, hardworking, and a partner in a thriving law practice in Portsmouth. And that, I realised, was about the sum total of it.

I sat back thoughtfully, nursing my drink and staring at the photograph. It was the type of boat that could easily have taken Vanessa and the boys to the Isle of Wight. In fact it was the type of boat that could have taken them to the Channel Islands, to France or anywhere around the world.

I tossed back the whisky and rose, irritated with myself. I had no reason to think they had been transferred to a boat. They could be imprisoned in a country cottage, a council house, or a caravan for all I knew.

I pushed the folder back inside the cupboard.

It got stuck on something. Annoyed I reached in and as I did I dropped the folder.

‘Damn!’ I scooped up the snapshots until my hand froze. I was staring at a very old and very small photograph, no bigger than two inches square. With a start I recognised instantly where it had been taken: in the background was my grandfather’s folly. My pulse began to race. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Why would Miles have a picture of the folly in his apartment? I took a breath and studied the two people in the photograph. The man was about thirty, rather short, square with piercing eyes and a wide smile and beside him was a young, fair-haired woman.

With shaking hands I turned the photograph over. There was nothing written on the reverse, but that didn’t matter because I knew who I was staring at. It was Hugo and Amelia Wildern. And I also knew, without any doubt, who Hugo’s grandson was: Miles Wolverton.

I stuffed the photograph in my pocket, grabbed my bag and caught the ten o’clock car ferry back to Fishbourne. The scope of Miles’s betrayal was breathtaking. As I sat on the ferry recalling the last few years of my life I found his duplicity hard to comprehend. He had seemed so genuine.

He had defended me with such vigour. He had always been there for me, telephoned me and visited me in prison. It had all been an act. How he must have gloated and silently crowed at my downfall. He had robbed me of everything. The bastard!

Now I had confessed to him that I had found Westnam’s body and he knew about Deeta; yet more ammunition to humiliate me further. I wasn’t going to call and alert him. I wanted to have this out with him face to face. But I’d bide my time. First I needed to know if he had a house on the Island, which must be where he was keeping Vanessa and the boys. It made sense.