A Poison Tree (Time, Blood and Karma Book 3) (21 page)

30

JAMES

Jim Fosse sat in an armchair with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his ample stomach, as ‘The Harry Lime Theme’ played on the television. While
The Third Man
was not his favourite Orson Welles film – that privilege was reserved for
A Touch of Evil
– he relished the tinny soundtrack with its underscore of menace, and what is more he never tired of hearing Welles’ cynical speech about humanity being little more than ants. It chimed perfectly with his own world view.

Welles may have made some stinker films, but his broadcast of
The War of the Worlds
, which had caused panic in the USA, was a work of genius. Jim Fosse appreciated anyone who could manipulate minds, and bend them to his will.

People were sheep. Stupid, routine-driven sheep, huddling together as if so doing would protect them from the
circling wolves. And those who couldn’t be scared could always be bought.

It was so difficult to find a worthy adversary, Jim reflected, whether it was at the negotiating table
or in more personal situations. David Braddock had showed some promise in this direction, but now appeared to the American as just another mark, a source of amusement on an otherwise boring day.

Some popcorn spilled onto the floor and Jim
tutted. He no longer had Monique around to clean up spillages.

Ah, the lovely
, faithless and ultimately dim Monique
.

For a woman with a
first class degree and an MBA, she had proved to be naïve in the extreme. If most Western management consultants shared her inane predilections and inability to see danger when it was right in front of their eyes, it was hardly surprising that the markets of Europe and North America were being gobbled up by the hungry entrepreneurs of Asia.

Jim swigged a beer and
mused on how close he had come to messing up things with Laughlan Andrews.

As instructed by the Scot
sman, Jim had deposited the attaché case at the Grand Hotel desk.

“
Has Mr. Andrews checked out yet?” Jim had asked.

“Mr
. Andrews checked out early this morning, sir,” was the reply. “But he said he would be back later to collect this case.”

Jim had been unable to control his curiosity about the pick-up, and had taken a seat in the lobby, concealing himself behind that morning’s
Daily Telegraph
.

At just after eight-thirty
, a young Indian-looking man wearing a hoodie, jeans and trainers, had appeared from the street and handed over a note. The hotel employee behind the desk had nodded, checked some detail with a senior colleague then passed the case to him. The man seemed oblivious to anything going on around him, and Jim put down his paper and followed him. The courier headed for the clock tower, swinging the case casually as if it were a matter of no concern.

After Jim had walked about a hundred yards, his cell phone rang and he fished it from his pocket. He didn’t recognise the number.

“Mr. Fosse?” The voice was Andrews’.

“Yes?”

“If you insist on following the Indian gentleman, you and I will have a falling-out.”

Jim stopped and scanned the street and buildings around him. There was no sign of any person with a bright red beard. But Andrews could be anywhere. At an upstairs window, in a doorway, anywhere.

The American could feel his heart beating hard and he realised how foolish he had been. Andrews was a hit man, for God’s sake. What had he been thinking?

“I’m sorry, Mr
. Andrews,” he stammered. “I just wanted to make sure the case had been collected.”

“Well, now you have seen that
it has.” The voice was emotionless. “Everything is in order.”

The Indian man disappeared around a corner. Jim stood rooted to the spot.

“Go home, Mr. Fosse. And make sure you get on that plane tomorrow.”

“I will.” Jim
had gulped and the line went dead.

Jim stuffed popcorn into his mouth and turned up the volume on the television.

But it’s all turned out right in the end.

Andrews’
modus operandi
of having his target disappear, with no trace of the body, was efficient. But it was also inconvenient. It would take the life insurance company quite some time to pay up on Monique’s policy, Jim was sure. This was in stark contrast to the death of his first wife, where the cash had been in his bank account within weeks of the poisoned mushrooms doing their work. But in the end, Jim would get the money, and aside from the unpleasantness of having to submit to police questioning and his crass and misguided attempt at tracking the attaché case, everything was on track.

Even the Braddock matter was working out
to his satisfaction. There was more fun to be had there, doubtless, after which Jim would head east, kicking the English mud from his shoes with grateful abandon.

Tasks remained to be completed
, however, before he could contemplate his next adventure.

Orson Welles lurked in the shadows, a sardonic grin on his face.

Jim was glad real life was not like the ending of so many modern Hollywood films. In real life the bad guys could win. And often did.

When the film finished, Jim packed a case.

Eleven o’clock.

Perhaps a celebratory trip to the Gold Club might be in order? He still had time. It was a while since he had visited, and any female flesh he would be touching over the next few days in Manila would be brown, not white.

He drove
into Leicester and parked under a street lamp on the main road at Frog Island. The area was on the rough side, he considered, and he had no desire to find his car gone when he came out of the club.

Jim asked the madam if Adele was free, but was told she was not working that night. Instead he was offered an ample blonde named Leon
a. She would do nicely, he said.

They went upstairs to a room that, he noticed, had been recently redecorated.

“Do you have any lube, Leona?” Jim asked the woman.

“Yes,
darlin’,” she answered. “But I don’t usually need it. And I’m sure I won’t with you. I love Americans.”

“Not even
if I go up your ass?”

“I don’t do that,” she said,
drawing back.

Jim patted her hand. “Ah, Leona, my dear. Life is one big adventure and you know we only pass this way once. We should try everything, taste all the fruits that are laid out before us.”

Leona looked at him sideways.

“You seem unconvinced. Would another twenty
pounds persuade you otherwise?”

Leona did the math.
“I’ll get the lube.”

If they can’t be frightened, they can be bought.

31

DAVID

Bill phoned me two days after our talk to ask if I could be at his house in Sheffield that evening. DCI Banks would also be attending.

I told Claire that Bill had asked me over to discuss the possibility of having an old boys’ reunion.

“My, you’re mysterious these days, David,” she had said. “You don’t have a girlfriend in South Yorkshire you need to tell me about, do you?”

“Not unless Bill is thinking of gender reassignment.”

Bill’s wife,
Hazel, met me at the door of their home, which was on a modern, exclusive development outside the city. She showed me through to the lounge where the other men were waiting. From Hazel’s demeanour and the friendly look of the two casually-dressed policemen, I judged she was completely in the dark as to why we were there. Once she left us, the atmosphere turned serious, and Banks was introduced to me formally.

“This meeting is not official, David, but the next one will be,” Bill announced.

Banks stared at me. “I need to tell you, Mr. Braddock, I am unhappy with having an informal information-sharing session like this, but the Chief Inspector has vouched for your good character, so I am inclined to go along with it. But,” he added, “I consider it most irregular.” The DCI was a thin, careworn-looking individual. His dry, lined skin bore witness to too many cigarettes and an overly-long career in the firing line of public service. He shuffled in his chair.

“
Take it easy, Martin. David understands what we say here is confidential. It saves me time if I tell you both together what I have found out. After that, I bow out gracefully. I am sure David will offer every co-operation to your investigation.”

Banks’ expression remained one of reluctance. “This is the
only
information that will be shared with you.” This remark was directed at me. “And you will appreciate that it is not for me to disclose any details of our work on Mrs. Fosse’s disappearance. There are rules to be followed about witnesses. So as far as I am concerned, this evening never happened. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly understood,” I said. Banks
relaxed a little.

Hazel
reappeared with a pot of tea and some biscuits. Bill waited until she had once again closed the door behind her before opening the notebook that had been lying on the table.

“My friend in the NYPD came back to me much quicker than I expected. He has a colleague in
North Carolina who proved to be very helpful. And what he had to say was extremely enlightening.”

“We need to do all this officially in due course,” said Banks.

“Yes, yes,” replied Bill, with impatience. “We’ll keep your paperwork straight, Martin. I do realise this is potentially a murder investigation, you know. Now do you want to hear this, or not?”

Banks
gave a sigh of resignation.

“The officer in Greensboro knew all about our friend, Mr
. Fosse. He investigated the death of Mrs. Fosse Number One, formerly Carol Quinn, who was born and bred in Greensboro. Mrs. Fosse, as you know, David, died from eating poison mushrooms.

“
It seems Mrs. Fosse always did her shopping at the same supermarket. It was thought the mushrooms had been bought there, yet there were no other reports of poisoning in the area. The mushrooms at the supermarket were tested, and they were fine. The assumption was either Mrs. Fosse had deliberately poisoned herself or else the mushrooms in the fridge had been switched. Suicide by mushroom would seem an odd way to go.” Bill paused while he drank tea.

“Did Carol Fosse have any enemies?” asked Banks.

“No. She was a friendly, unassuming woman whose life had been unremarkable up to that point. No family secrets, no skeletons in the closet, nothing. She was a popular schoolteacher, and a regular churchgoer.”

Bank
s looked interested now. “So how about Fosse?”

“A watertight alibi. For the four weeks leading up to his wife’s death, he had been in
West Africa doing a business deal on an oil pipeline. Lots of witnesses, papers and visas checked. He never returned to the States until he was notified of her death.

“
Fosse had taken out a large insurance policy on Carol about fifteen months before. A
very
large one. That, of course, is no crime.

“The local police smelled a rat
, though. Fosse was cocky during questioning, and seemed unaffected by his wife’s death. But they had nothing at all on him. You can’t charge someone just because they show no emotion. Background checks produced nothing.” Bill nibbled a biscuit.

“That’s not the end of it, though, Bill, is it? Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked us both over this evening.”

Bill chuckled. “Just building a bit of tension,” he said. Banks’ expression turned sour again.

“Anyway,” my old friend continued, “
over the next month or so there were some curious happenings in Greensboro. Two weeks after Carol Fosse’s death, a Mrs. Vivien Taylor was shot in the head at home while she slept. Three weeks after that, her husband, Hank Taylor committed suicide. Shot himself. He left a note saying he couldn’t live with himself as he had killed his wife.”

“I don’t see the connection,” said Banks.

“Taylor couldn’t have killed his wife. He was on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico at the time.”

“Two women killed and both husbands have perfect alibis?” I could feel my pulse quicken.

“Sound familiar, David?”

“Jesus Christ, Bill.”

“The gun that killed Vivien Taylor was never found. Frank Taylor shot himself with his own gun.”

Banks looked like he wanted to start making notes. “Did Taylor and Fosse know each other?”

“They were at school together.”

“Fuck,” I exclaimed. “My wife
really is in danger.”

Banks turned to me. “Why would you think that, Mr
. Braddock? It’s not as though you killed Monique Fosse, is it?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

The two policemen studied me.

“Do I need a lawyer?” I felt like the room was closing in on me, like a zoom shot in some black and white movie.

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “Do you?”

I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket. “This is the envelope Fosse gave me. Inside it is his travel schedule.
I expect his fingerprints should be on it as well as mine. And here’s something else.” I laid a second envelope on the table while the two mean continued to observe me in silence. “Some months ago I received this anonymous note which suggests my wife was having an affair. There have been anonymous phone calls too, with the person speaking through an electronic gizmo to disguise his voice.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before, David?” Bill’s face looked grim. “
Is
your wife having an affair?”

“Yes. I hired a private detective to tail her. I’m sorry, Bill. I should have told you before. I just
… ah, shit.” My words dried up.

Bill
was unamused.

“I have evidence bags in the car,” Banks announced. “I need to put these envelopes into them.”

“I know this doesn’t look good,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Why would Fosse tell you he was going to kill your wife if you hadn’t killed Monique Fosse?” asked Banks. “That doesn’t make any sense. Unless of course, you
did
murder his wife and you’ve changed your mind about having your own wife murdered. Panicked, maybe?”

“No.”

“Perhaps your reasoning was that by getting the police involved, you would be off the hook?”

“No. I phoned Bill because I was worried about Claire.”

Bill coughed.

“
I think we should leave any further discussion for the formal interview.”

“I agree.” Banks rose to his feet. “And you will need to recall your movements during the time Monique Fosse went missing. Excuse me, I’m just going out to my car.” He left the room.

Bill looked at me and sighed.

“Who do you think sent you the anonymous letter?”

“I think it might have been an ex-employee of mine called Mark Standish.”

“We should talk to
Standish.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

Bill’s mouth fell open. “People are dropping around you like flies, David.”

“It seems like it, yes.”

Bill was pensive for a moment. Then he said, “Before DCI Banks gets back, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“You’re not having an affair with anyone, are you?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I think I’d know if I were having an affair, Bill.”

“Don’t try to be smart. You haven’t been smart so far.”

Banks returned and placed the envelopes
with care into two see-through bags.

“Where is Fosse now?” Bill asked.

“According to that schedule I’ve just given you, he’s in Manila,” I said.

Bill turned to Banks. “You didn’t pull his passport?”

Banks grimaced. “At this stage his wife is reported missing, that’s all. We couldn’t take his passport. We’d have the bloody American Embassy on the phone straight away.”

“
Fosse is out of the country for a few days. My wife is safe until then, at least.”

Banks looked like he wanted to say something, but
bit his tongue.

“You should talk to your wife, David. Come clean. Tell her what you know. You owe her that.”

“Meantime, I’d like you to report to the station tomorrow, Mr. Braddock. Let’s get all this recorded,” said Banks in a flat voice.

“I’ll give you the contact details for the States too, Martin. Your team should verify all this information.”
Bill tapped on his notebook. Both men looked down at their hands, as if unsure what to do or say next.

Should
I tell them what I knew about Monique and Max meeting at that hotel
? I reflected.
What happens if they need to check out my movements that weekend in London? Like who I slept with on the Saturday night, for instance?

Best to keep silent. Every time I opened my mouth, the hole I was standing in got
a little deeper.

Could things get any worse?

Then my cell phone rang and things did get worse. A lot worse.

And
by the time the call was over, and the two policemen had averted their eyes, I knew that I would not be making my appointment with DCI Banks the next day, nor my lunch meeting with Anna.

Death has a way of clearing your calendar.