Murder in Mind (27 page)

No one took any notice of him as he parked the car, slotting it carefully out of sight between a huge, spotless 4x4 and a pink van that bore the legend 'Marcell's Event Catering' and promised – rather ambiguously, he thought – 'Party food you'll remember!'

Trying to look as though he had every reason to be there, Matt locked the car and made his way towards the marquee, where he encountered the first sign of security in the form of a beefy-looking individual in worn jeans and a black tee shirt, the short sleeves of which strained round a pair of powerful, tattooed biceps. He had frizzy gingerish hair dragged back into a ponytail and small, steely-grey eyes that Matt felt uncomfortably sure had singled him out as an impostor the moment they had spotted him.

He sauntered up, producing what he hoped was a relaxed smile, but was met with no answering gleam. Although the gingery one wasn't actually physically blocking the tent opening, he was standing close enough to leave would-be unauthorised entrants in no doubt that they would be repelled.

Matt rethought his initial plan of keeping his head down and following someone else through and walked straight up to the big man.

'Is Joe inside?'

Ginger looked him up and down from his extra six inches or so.

'Who wants to know?'

'Friend of a friend,' Matt said mendaciously.

The piggy eyes narrowed still further.

'Mr Wintermann don't want to see no journalists till later. Come back at six o'clock.'

'I'm not a journalist,' Matt began, but, before he could say anything more, a new player erupted upon the scene in the person of a middle-aged man in skintight leather trousers and a white polo-neck jumper. He appeared in the marquee entrance wearing shades – even though the day wasn't bright – and with his unconvincingly black curls partially hidden under a red baseball cap.

'At last!' he cried, beckoning to Matt with a clipboard. 'You certainly took your time. I was just going to ring the agency again. Come along in.'

Unwilling to pass up this fortuitous chance, Matt smiled again at Ginger and followed the clipboard man into the subdued light of the tent.

Walking slightly sideways, the man looked back at Matt and kept up a continuous chatter as he led the way towards the catwalk, which was laid out in an elongated T shape from a stage at one end of the tent.

'Shouldn't you be taller? I specifically asked for over six foot. Joseph's designs cry out for height. Honestly, these people are imbeciles! It's hardly rocket science, is it? Six foot or over, I said, and they send me – what are you? Five nine, five ten?'

Matt nodded, a little bemused. 'Five nine,' he confirmed.

The man stopped in his tracks and, close up, Matt could see that, despite the youthful style of dressing, he was well into his fifties if he was a day.

'There, what did I say? Why don't they just say if they can't fulfil the fucking brief? What are we supposed to do? Take all the clothes up? I mean, it would spoil the lines completely – even if we had time, which we don't. Not that you haven't got the look . . .' He put out a hand and caught Matt's chin, turning his face to profile. 'Mm. You might do for our summer range, I suppose. Shame you didn't grow a bit more,' he said, his tone leaving Matt in no doubt that his lack of inches was entirely his own fault.

The man shook his head, tutted, and led the way forward again.

'It's no good. I shall have to get onto the agency again. You'll stick out like a sore thumb. Fucking hell! If it wasn't enough having Joseph in floods of tears every five minutes . . . He's had a row with his boyfriend, you see,' he confided, over his shoulder. 'I expect it'll all come out all right in the end, but it's lousy timing.'

In the corner they were approaching, a table and chairs were set up out of the way of the bustling crew. On the table were a laptop computer, several more clipboards, and a couple of mugs half full of tea or coffee with skin forming on the top.

A young man sat on one of the chairs, but, to Matt's disappointment, it wasn't Wintermann. This man had chin-length platinum blond hair, angular features, a pencil-slim body, and a sulky
whatever
expression that made it a fair guess that he was a model.

'This is Juno,' Matt's companion said, waving a hand. 'And you are – what did you say your name was?'

'Er – Luke,' he said, giving his brother's name.

'Luke . . . ?' The clipboard man waited, expectantly.

'Yes, that's right,' Matt said unhelpfully. 'Actually, I'm not from the agency, I was looking for Joe.'

'Not a model?'

Matt shook his head.

'You're not a journalist?' he said, lowering his voice suspiciously.

'No, I'm a friend of Niall's.'

'But Joseph's not here. I thought he was meeting Niall – he said he was.'

'Oh, damn. I must have just missed him then,' Matt said. 'Look, if I give you my number, could you get him to ring me? It's rather important. But tell him it would be better if he didn't mention me to Niall. I don't want to cause any more problems – especially with all this going on. Er . . . have you got a piece of paper . . . ?'

The clipboard man favoured him with a narrow-eyed look and then gestured to an A4 pad on the table.

'You can write it down there. They're all things he's got to sort out when he gets here – if he's got time, that is. I can't believe he's not here now, after all the work we've put in to get this thing up and running. Here, use my pen,' he added, passing Matt a cheap blue biro which bore signs of having been extensively chewed.

Drawing a line under the previous memo, Matt wrote down his alias followed by his mobile number, and then, in brackets, 'Niall's friend'. Whether the gamble would pay off, he wasn't sure, but, hopefully, the idea that the mysterious Luke had links with Joe's lover would be tantalising enough to do the trick.

His failure to speak to Delafield's boyfriend left Matt feeling some disappointment, but a far larger measure of relief. His plan, such as it was, had been to bluff Wintermann that he knew more than he did, hoping to frighten the highly strung designer into betraying something. With that opportunity taken away from him, he didn't really know which way to turn, and he doubted that Wintermann would phone him, even if the message didn't get lost in the flurry of preparations for the show.

By the time he'd reached home, Matt had decided that, if he didn't hear anything by the following day, he would contact Bartholomew, lay before him all the facts he had gathered, and wash his hands of the whole business, trusting that, in the end, justice would be done. Whether it would prove to be in time to save his relationship or his job at Rockfield, only time would tell.

He wandered into the new kitchen and stood looking unexcitedly at the paint pots and piles of sandpaper for several minutes, before turning his back on it all and shutting the door. Plugging in his laptop for the first time in days, he logged on to check his e-mail and found, to his surprise, one from Sophie's flatmate, Tara Goodwin. He vaguely remembered having given her his address, in case she thought of anything new, but he hadn't really expected her to make use of it.

The text read simply:
Some photos arrived for
Sophie today. She must have taken them on holiday with one of those throwaway cameras. I've passed them on to the police, but I've scanned a couple I thought you might want to see. Don't know if this is Mosie . . . Love to Kendra. X

Matt scrolled down to find three very amateurish photographs, two shot at the pool-side of a towering white hotel that could have been located in one of several hundred resorts, and one in a hotel room. The two outside ones featured Sophie herself, wearing a barely-there bikini and lounging on a sunbed next to an older man. The inside one was blurred, as if the camera hadn't been held steady, but showed the same man decked out in a woman's black and red negligee set, complete with suspenders and love hearts on the knickers and bra. He had put his hand forward in an attempt to block the lens, but, even so, there was no mistaking the lean features of Matt's nemesis, Lord Kenning.

After sending Tara a heartfelt electronic thank you for the photos, printing off copies, and shutting the computer down, Matt found the prospect of DIY even less attractive. His head was buzzing with the implications of this new information, so he pulled on boots and a coat and took the dogs for a good long walk.

What occupied Matt's mind was not so much what the photos revealed, because the suspicion had been there for some time, but more what to do with the information, now he had proof. Or could he actually do anything? After all, Tara had said that she was turning the originals over to the police, so, presumably, Bartholomew would be having further words with Kenning about his relationship with the dead girl.

Another session on the golf course? Matt wondered. It was hard to imagine how the conversation would go. With irreverent amusement, he pictured Kenning and the DI strolling down the fairway, and Bartholomew asking, 'So where
did
you get that lingerie? Would they have it in my size, do you think?'

For his own part, he couldn't see how to make use of the knowledge, but it occurred to him that there was one person who might, and so, when he returned to the cottage, he scribbled a note and put it, with the prints, into an envelope to post.

After Matt had done the evening rounds of feeding horses and dogs, he found himself standing in front of the fridge with the door open, completely devoid of any inspiration as to what to have for his own meal. Part of the trouble, he knew, was that he wasn't looking forward to spending another evening alone. If Kendra had been away on holiday or out with friends, he would have settled down, quite happily self-sufficient, with the dogs for company, but the knowledge that they were separated by emotional issues made it much harder to accept.

'Sod it!' he muttered aloud, slamming the fridge door. They were both missing each other – why should they be apart? If Charlie Brewer didn't want Matt at Birchwood, he would take Kendra out for dinner – somewhere romantic, with candlelight and music.

He lifted the telephone receiver and selected the phonebook entry for Birchwood Hall.

'Hello, Matt.'

It was Grace. Damn!

'Hi, Grace. Can I speak to Kendra?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. I don't think she wants to speak to you at the moment.'

Her tone was apologetic, but it didn't occur to Matt for an instant that it was sincere. He gritted his teeth.

'Well, could you at least ask her?'

'She's in the bath at the moment. I'll ask her when she gets out, but it won't do any good.'

'Just ask her, OK?'

'Of course.'

Matt put the phone down feeling even more unsettled than he had before. There was no way he was going to sit down to a solitary supper now. He wasn't too worried about what Grace had said, because he knew her for a troublemaker, but it rankled that she should get away with interfering in their relationship. Had her father encouraged her to do so? he wondered. Charlie's readiness to try and break Kendra's bond with Matt had, quite frankly, surprised him. Although Matt had always known the businessman didn't think he was good enough for his daughter, as Matt's career had taken off, Brewer had seemed to become reconciled to their relationship.

He looked at his watch.

Half past six. Dinner at Birchwood Hall was normally at eight, so Kendra wouldn't have eaten yet. If he changed and set off straight away, he could ask her out in person. Immediately feeling more positive, Matt headed upstairs.

Having taken a little time to smarten up, it was nearly half past seven when Matt parked the MR2 in front of the Hall, and he was in a thoughtful mood. Thinking about Brewer's animosity of late, it had occurred to him that, having frightened Kendra away from Spinney Cottage, the mystery caller had not repeated his threats. Had the separation been his goal? Surely it couldn't have been Charlie Brewer's doing, could it? Matt well knew the businessman's colossal determination when he set his mind on something, but why the sudden resolve to ruin Matt's life? Arrogant he could certainly be, but Matt had never suspected him of being cruel or vindictive.

Greening answered the front door promptly, and Matt thought he looked a little surprised at the identity of the visitor – as well he might, Matt thought, on reflection. As a long-term employee, he would be just as aware of the goings-on in the household as anyone else. However, the butler recovered his calm composure, returning Matt's greeting, but adding the unwelcome information that all three girls had gone out.

'Oh.' Matt felt a stab of disappointment. 'When?'

'About half an hour ago, sir.'

'For the evening, would you think?'

'They
were
all dressed up.' Greening hesitated, then ventured the information that he had heard mention of a fashion show.

'Ah.' Kelsey Grange, perhaps. Ironic. 'Did Mrs Brewer go too?'

'I think Mrs Brewer is in her workshop, sir.'

'OK, I'll go and find her, then. Thanks, Greening.'

Turning away, Matt descended the steps and set off along the front of the building. In the yard, he found the doors to the Brewers' huge garage standing open, and a glance into its lighted interior showed him that several of the cars were missing. It seemed that the girls weren't the only ones out tonight. Suppressing the urge to switch the light off, he turned his back on it and headed for the Hattery. The house had had lights glowing behind almost every window, too – typical of a family who had presumably never had to worry about the electricity bill. It had taken him several weeks to train Kendra out of the habit at the cottage.

Knocking softly on the showroom door, Matt let himself in. He could see Joy bending over her bench in the workshop beyond, apparently not having heard him.

'Hi,' he called.

Joy started and looked up quickly, a length of stiff blue ribbon in her hands and a couple of pins between her lips. She was wearing a red guernsey jumper and a Puffa waistcoat, her blonde hair caught up in a loose knot at the back of her head. Seeing her visitor, she removed the pins.

'Hello, Matt.'

After her initial surprise, she seemed almost disappointed, he thought.

'Were you expecting someone else?'

'No – that is – I wasn't expecting anyone. You startled me a bit, that's all. I'm afraid Kendra's not here. They've all gone to a fashion show at Kelsey Grange.'

'Yes, Greening said he thought they had. I'm surprised to find you here. I would have thought Joseph Wintermann would be right up your street.'

'You've heard of him, then?'

'Saw it in the paper.'

'Well, I probably would have gone, but I've got an order to finish for a wedding at the weekend.'

Matt leaned one hip on the bench and watched her quick fingers at work.

'Do you enjoy doing that?'

'Sorry?'

'Hat-making – millinery.'

'Oh, sorry. Yes I do – when I'm not under pressure.'

Picking one of the ornamental hatpins out of the ceramic vase, Matt examined it absent-mindedly.

'I rang earlier. Grace said Kendra didn't want to talk to me . . .'

Joy didn't answer, and, after a moment, Matt glanced at her. She appeared lost in her work.

'Has she said anything to you?' he asked.

'Who?'

'Kendra. Grace said she didn't want to speak to me.'

'Oh, you know what Grace's like. I shouldn't say it of my own child, but she's a troublemaker. I don't know why she's got like that, unless it's jealousy.'

'Jealousy?' Matt stabbed the pin into an offcut of polystyrene foam.

'Yes. Of you and Kendra. Grace has never been very good at relationships – mainly because she goes into them for the wrong reasons.'

'For status?'

'Yes. She takes after Charlie in that. In fact, that's part of the problem. She's always trying to win her father's approval; I think she thinks Kendra's his favourite. But, anyway, I wouldn't worry too much about what she says.' She finished arranging the ribbon and selected a silk flower from a pile on the bench.

'I wouldn't, normally,' Matt said. 'It's just that things are so weird at the moment, I don't know what to think.' He jabbed at the foam extra vigorously, enjoying the texture of it.

'It'll be all right, Matt. I'm sure of it. You have to remember that her hormones are all over the place with the baby, and, of course, there's been a lot happening lately. It's not surprising that she found it all too much and ran for the family home. She's still young and she's had a fairly sheltered life until now. Just be patient and I'm sure things will turn out fine.' Joy gave him an encouraging smile and, for the first time, he noticed that she was looking tired. For once she actually looked her age. He wondered whether she had problems of her own. Maybe Charlie's uncharacteristic behaviour of late had its roots in some deeper crisis.

'Joy, is everything OK?'

She looked up sharply.

'Why shouldn't it be?'

Matt shook his head.

'No reason, I just wondered.' He picked the polystyrene up on the end of the pin and looked at it. 'Actually, I thought you seemed a little stressed . . .'

'Just working too hard, I expect,' Joy said lightly. After several attempts, with fingers that shook slightly, she threaded a needle with blue thread and began to sew the flower onto the hat, next to the blue ribbon bow.

There was silence for a short while as she worked, and Matt slid the foam off the pin and began to perforate the other side, his mind drifting. He supposed he'd better call it a day and return to the cottage – maybe pick up a takeaway en route. He'd worry about working off the excess calories in the morning.

'Oh, for God's sake, stop doing that!' Joy snapped suddenly, then rubbed a hand over her face. 'Sorry, I'm tired.'

'No,
I'm
sorry.' Contrite and a little taken aback, Matt removed the hatpin from the foam and put it back in the vase with the others. 'I didn't realise – I mean, I thought it was just an offcut.'

'It is; it's just – you kept stabbing it with that bloody pin and it reminded me . . .'

Watching her closely, Matt saw her eyes begin to fill with tears. He straightened up and put out a hand to touch her arm, deeply concerned.

'Something
is
wrong, isn't it? What did it remind you of?'

Joy shook her head, shrugging his hand off and bending over her work again.

'Nothing – just leave it, please Matt.'

'No. You can't tell me it's nothing. You're all on edge. What's the matter?'

After a moment's silence, Joy gave in.

'It's Deacon's cat. Did Kennie tell you about that?'

Matt nodded. 'She said it was run over.'

'Well, it wasn't. It was killed with one of those – a hatpin. Someone stuck one right through it. But you can't say anything,' she said, rushing on.
'
Please
Matt – you won't, will you? No one's supposed to know.'

'Why? What's going on, Joy? Who did it?' Matt's mind was racing through the possibilities. 'Oh no . . . not Deacon?'

Joy's expression confirmed his fears.

'Oh, Joy . . .'

'How did you guess? Did he say something?'

'No, I had no idea. But I did know Frances was worried about him – Kendra told me the other night. I didn't think any more of it, to tell the truth.'

Joy nodded.

'I wondered how long it would be before Frannie guessed the truth, but, to be honest, the way Deacon's been lately, someone was bound to start asking questions. I told Charlie we needed more help, but he wouldn't hear of it.'

'So what's actually wrong with him?'

Joy looked down at the worktop.

'I shouldn't be telling you . . .'

'But you've already admitted something's wrong. You can't stop there.'

Joy took a steadying breath, then looked Matt full in the eyes.

'Deacon has schizophrenia.'

He'd been expecting something of the sort, but the confirmation was still shocking.

'When? I mean, how long has he had it? When did you find out?'

'About nine months. It started while he was at university. We were getting reports that he was having problems concentrating and seemed increasingly withdrawn and depressed. The doctor on campus was worried about him, and eventually his roommates admitted that they'd been experimenting with drugs a time or two. I don't suppose it was anything more than a bit of grass, but it may just have been enough to trigger it. Apparently it can happen that way, sometimes.'

'I didn't know.'

'Nor did I. I don't suppose many people do. Deke was just unlucky. We brought him home and consulted a specialist. When he made the diagnosis, Charlie was devastated. At first he didn't believe it – didn't want to believe it, really. He's our only son, Matt, and Charlie had such plans for him. He took Deacon abroad to a special clinic so no one would know. We invented the story that there'd been kidnap threats and that he'd gone to stay with friends. It took a while to get his medication right. Deacon was gone for three months or more and, when he came back, Niall Delafield was with him.'

'Delafield's a
doctor
?'

'Not exactly. But he was an army medic, once upon a time. I'm not entirely sure where Charlie found him – someone's recommendation, I think – but he's been a godsend. On the surface a security man and minder, but also a nurse. You see, the problem is that, when Deacon's on his medication, he feels fine, and, before long, he becomes convinced he no longer needs it – schizophrenics
can
recover, you know. And, anyway, they aren't normally violent. A lot of sufferers don't have psychotic episodes at all.'

'But not Deke.'

'No.' Joy shook her head sadly. 'The trouble is, it's such a fine balance. The medication has a sedative effect and, when he's on it, he tends to be dreamy and lethargic; he seems to have no real motivation and, some days, he gets the shakes. He hates taking it but, when he doesn't, the symptoms come back.'

'What happens then?'

'Well, mostly he's very withdrawn and depressed. He'll sit for hours, apparently doing nothing except muttering to himself or rocking to and fro. But then he can become jumpy and unpredictable, and, just occasionally, he has flashes of temper. It's scary, Matt – like dealing with a stranger. He's my own child and I feel I don't know him at all. Worse still, I can see that he's in torment and I can't help him – just can't help him at all.' Her eyes filled with tears and she stood staring sightlessly at the hat in her hands.