Murder in the Title (22 page)

‘I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast now.' Mimi gathered her green candlewick about her, preparatory to rising. ‘Most of my gentlemen want a really big breakfast after the sort of night you've just had.'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Oh, they do. I remember when one of my gentlemen was having an affair with the hairdresser in Raleigh Street . . . Big secret it was, but he told Mimi, because he knew I'd be discreet. Anyway, he'd be out all night and come in so hungry you'd –'

‘No, really, thanks. I had a very good breakfast at the Rugland Spa Hotel.'

‘Rugland Spa Hotel,' Mimi repeated, and Charles cursed himself for giving her even the smallest solid fact. He knew it would be filed away and provide anecdote-fodder to which some other poor gentleman would be subjected.

‘I've heard the Rugland Spa Hotel breakfasts are very stingy.'

‘No, it was fine.'

‘Because it's a matter of moments for me to rustle up some scrambled eggs for you.'

‘No. Really.'

‘I mean, there's nothing like home cooking.' She made it sound like an accusation.

‘No.'

She subsided back into her folds of candlewick, and looked at Charles with ill-disguised disapproval. ‘I'm surprised you haven't gone off to rehearsal yet.'

‘Not called till later.' He didn't want to go into all the circumstances which had caused
Shove It
's rehearsal schedule to be suspended. Though Mimi probably knew anyway. ‘And also I'm vaguely expecting a phone call.'

‘Oh.' Mimi digested this information for a moment, and then said casually, ‘Someone did ring for you just before you come in.'

‘Why on earth didn't you tell me?'

‘I told him you was out on the razzle,' she continued, ignoring his question.

‘Who was it?'

‘Somebody Venables.'

Mimi said no, she didn't mind him using her phone, but it was clear that her sitting there eavesdropping was part of the deal. Still, if Gerald had an appointment at eleven, there wasn't time to go anywhere else.

‘Oh, morning, Charles,' said the solicitor when he got through. ‘Gather you've been being a naughty boy again.'

‘Ha. Ha.'

‘Another nice little actress? Don't worry, I won't tell Frances – though I suppose we don't have to worry about that any more.'

Charles did not wish to pursue the ironies of that particular line of conversation and asked brusquely, ‘Did you get anything on Schlenter?'

‘A bit. Nothing very criminal. Just basic background.'

‘I'd be glad to hear it. There might be something.'

‘Okay then. Here's a quick history: Schlenter and Schlenter – two brothers, I think – started as ordinary estate agents in the sixties, North London . . . Highbury, Islington, that area. Did very well in the property boom of the late sixties, early seventies. Just residential then – you know, that was an area where a lot of the old terraces were being gentrified – old tenants died off, plenty of grants available to tart up the properties – there was a killing to be made and Schlenter and Schlenter were right in the middle of it. If you're looking for anything criminal, that's the time you should be concentrating on.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It was the hey-day of the “winkler”. A lot of the property companies had them, to winkle out sitting tenants in premises they had bought.'

‘How did it work?'

‘Variety of ways. Little old lady sitting in her little flat, feeling secure – smooth young man from estate agent comes round with cheque-book, offers her something to get out. Not much, but probably more money than most of the little old ladies had ever seen, so a few accepted. Those who didn't remained sitting in their little flats, feeling a little less secure. Next time maybe the smooth young man has a big growling Alsatian with him when he comes round. Or builders arrive saying the garden wall's not safe, needs replacing. They knock it down, cover the debris with a tatty tarpaulin and disappear for a few months. Or pipes get broken, or essential repairs don't get done. Usually the little old ladies reach some sort of breaking point and get out.'

‘Leaving a property with vacant possession?'

‘Exactly. Worth a great deal more money.'

‘And the Schlenters were right into all that?'

Gerald Venables' professional caution stepped in. ‘No, I didn't say that. All I said was that a lot of that sort of thing went on in the area where Schlenter and Schlenter had their operation.'

‘Okay.'

‘And it's not the sort of allegation to flash around carelessly. They are now extremely respectable and quick on the draw with writs.'

‘I will be very circumspect. How did they become so respectable?'

‘That started round 1970. They were coining it from the residential property and starting to buy up other local estate agents . . . Ringling and Sons, Spielberg, Pugh and Fosco, Dutters . . . and a few more. Then they incorporated the lot into Schlenter Estates and started to diversify into bigger projects . . . you know, hotels, town centre developments, that sort of scale.'

‘Any evidence of corruption?'

‘Oh, I'm sure all the usual things went on. A few local councillors suddenly might appear with new cars, the odd inconvenient building might burn down, small stores might find they were having difficulty getting their deliveries through . . . But all very discreet, nothing you could ever make stick. Just normal business practice, if you like.'

‘Where were their town centre developments?'

‘All over. Good few in Wales, traditionally the centre of local council corruption. But they weren't just operating in England. Expanding abroad during those boom years . . . Africa, Australia, Hong Kong, even further afield. God,' said Gerald with wistful respect, ‘they must have made a lot of money.'

‘Then what happened?'

‘Well, the property boom really peaked in '72. Then whatever you did made money. But the crash came, inevitably. '74, '75 were probably the worst. A lot of people got their fingers burned. A lot of property companies went out of business. Schlenter Estates were particularly vulnerable. They'd expanded so quickly, they'd got all these developments stretched all over the world, and suddenly there wasn't any money to be made in property.'

‘But they didn't fold. They're still around.'

‘Yes. But they very nearly went under. Round 1975 I think both of the original Schlenters died, and it looked like the end. But then they got taken over.'

‘By Fowler Rose Stillman?'

‘Ye-es, but not directly. They were actually absorbed by Clarton Investments, which is a subsidiary of FRS.'

‘Oh, I see. But Fowler Rose Stillman is the top of the pyramid?'

‘By no means. Everything, it seems, is owned by someone else. The average member of the public would have a fit if it was actually spelled out to them how few companies own almost everything in this country. No, Fowler Rose Stillman was taken over a couple of years back by Polycopius . . .'

‘The hotel chain?'

‘Hotels, television, record companies, films, you name it. Anyway, Polycopius merged eighteen months ago with Carker Glyde Securities.'

‘So Schlenter Estates are actually owned by Carker Glyde?'

‘Yes. Or were at the end of trading on Friday. And you can't get more respectable than that. Long established in the City, high international reputation, half the House of Lords on their Board . . .'

‘Really? Like who?'

‘What, you want their names?' asked Gerald in bewilderment.

‘If you've got them.'

‘Just a sec. I've got their annual report somewhere. Ah, here we are. And you want me to read out the list of directors?'

‘Please.'

Charles could visualize his friend shrugging as he began to read. But the actor felt insanely confident, and when the name came up, he asked Gerald to stop and repeat it.

‘Lord Kitestone.'

‘Thank you. And you say the take-over was eighteen months ago?'

‘Give or take a month.'

‘Thank you very much.'

‘Charles, what are you on about?' But before he could be answered, Gerald was interrupted, apparently by someone entering his office. ‘What, Polly? Oh yes. Great. Send him in. Listen, Charles, Bill Walsingham's arrived, so I'm going to have to find out the rest later.'

‘That's fine. I've got what I wanted. I'll –'

‘Bill, how are you? Great to see you! How was Australia? Just a sec. Talk later, Charles. Okay?'

‘Fine. ‘Bye, Gerald. And thank you.'

Inchbald Haulage Co. was a little way out of Rugland Spa on the London Road. The main gates opened on to a large yard, in which three yellow articulated lorries boasted their owner's name in red letters. The office was a low cedar-clad one-storey building with a lot of windows. The secretary's room was animated with displays of plastic flowers. Everything was neat and tidy, reflecting a well-run and probably profitable business, but it was not the setting in which one expected to find a member of Blake's Club.

‘My name's Charles Paris. To see Mr Inchbald. I rang earlier.'

‘Yes, of course. Mr Inchbald, Mr Paris has arrived,' she breathed into the intercom.

‘Send him in!'

Herbie Inchbald's office was as neat and prosperous as the rest of the outfit. Its furniture was low and Scandinavian. On the walls fluorescent paintings on black velvet and framed cars made of clock-parts once again made Charles wonder about the Councillor's artistic standards.

‘Come in, Mr Paris. Sit down. Would you care for a coffee?'

‘No, thank you.' Charles thought the confrontation might become ugly, and didn't want to start it on too cosy a level.

‘When you rang, you said it was something about Tony Wensleigh's death.'

‘Yes.'

‘Terrible tragedy, that.'

‘It was. But it's just one in a sequence of things that have been going wrong at the Regent.'

‘What, you mean Gordon Tremlett's accident? Oh, I wouldn't call that a sequence.'

‘Not just that. I mean, the way the artistic standards had been slipping.'

‘Did you really think they were?' The little man ran his fingers through his mane of hair as he reflected on this idea. ‘Well, maybe Tony was getting a bit past it. Perhaps, though it's an awful way for it to happen, having to bring in a new man may be the saving of the the-ettah.'

‘I wonder whether the theatre
can
still be saved.'

Herbie Inchbald looked very affronted. ‘What on earth do you mean?'

Charles stared straight at him. ‘It's my belief that someone very closely connected with the theatre has actually been trying to sabotage it, to ensure that it's in such a bad state when the Maugham Cross development is next discussed that nobody will be able to argue persuasively enough to save it.'

‘That's a rather extreme allegation, Mr Paris.'

Charles shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I think it is the case. I think Tony knew too, and I think it was fighting against the pressure of that sabotage that drove him to suicide.'

‘But who would possibly want the theatre to close?'

‘Schlenter Estates would, for a start.'

‘Yes, obviously, but –'

‘I wouldn't think it would be long before they come in with another offer for the whole Maugham Cross site.'

Herbie Inchbald coloured. ‘Well, er . . .'

‘You mean they already have?'

He nodded. ‘Just heard this morning. Bigger offer, quite a bit bigger.' He looked miserable.

‘Quick off the mark. They're shrewd operators. And what kind of luck do you think you'll have this time persuading the Council that the Regent is a hyper-efficient bastion of culture that must be preserved at all costs? What have we had in the last three weeks – disastrous production of a disastrous play, public demonstration about the next production, one near-fatal accident and the suicide of the Artistic Director under something of a cloud over his handling of the theatre's funds? What do you reckon your chances are this time, Mr Inchbald?'

The head sagged forward. ‘Low,' came the reply. ‘Very low.'

‘Okay, it could just he a sequence of bad luck. I think there's more to it. I think it's been organized.'

‘But who by?' The Councillor now looked shifty, cornered.

‘Ultimately by Schlenter Estates, but I think a few other people have been used on the way. People who are not above bribery.'

The Councillor bridled. ‘If that remark's aimed to me, I'd advise you to withdraw it. I have never accepted a bribe in my life. Schlenter tried it on with me, I don't deny it. They made some very attractive offers to me – cars, holiday homes, you name it. But I am proud to say I turned down every one of them. I'm not the kind of man to be bought that way.'

‘No. I agree. Not that way.'

‘I resent your tone, Mr Paris.'

‘You wouldn't be bought by a direct offer of a gift, nor by any material inducement. No, somebody who wanted to buy you would have to appeal to your snobbery.'

Herbie Inchbald rose from his seat to his full height, which wasn't very high. ‘Get out of my office!'

‘Not yet. I want to ask you about your friendship with Lord Kitestone.'

‘What of it?'

‘You've seen a lot of him in the last few years.'

‘So what? Who the hell do you think you are – asking me about my friendships? Lord Kitestone has been a friend since I asked him to be Patron of the Regent. We hit it off very well together, as it happens.'

‘And you were great friends right from the start, right from when you asked him to be Patron?'

‘Well, no, we took a bit of time to get to know each other. And he was very tied up at the time, problems with the estate and that, thought he was going to have to sell up, in fact. But in the last year or so, we've seen a lot more of each other, built up a great deal of mutual respect . . .'