Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (20 page)

“How can I help you, officers?” asked Peter
Upson
, sipping his steaming espresso cautiously.

“It’s about Lucy Faith...” began Halshaw.

“Yes, I’d heard,” sighed
Upson
.
“Awful business. Awful.”

“Where were you on Wednesday night, Mr
Upson
?”
asked Chase, wiping cappuccino froth from his upper lip with a napkin.

“In Vienna. On a shoot. I only arrived back in the country
yesterday morning. I was waiting for my bag at Heathrow when you phoned.”

“How long were you there for?”

“Ten days.”

“Any witnesses?”

“A whole film crew, plus talent, costumes, make-up, local
fixers, extras. At least twenty people, I guess. Want their names?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” Chase replied. “We’re interested
in Ms Faith’s business activities, particularly anyone who might have cause to
hurt her.”

“Not me, Inspector,”
Upson
said,
quickly. “Not me.”

“Did you ever use Ms Faith as a Life Coach?”

Upson
shook his head.

“How long have you known her?”

“Six or seven years, Inspector. We met quite by chance.”

“Go on.”

“We were sitting next to each other on a train from
Liverpool to London. We got talking, and discovered that we had a great deal in
common.”

“And you kept in touch with her ever since?”

“That’s right. She used to do some props buying for me. You
know, items a man couldn’t really buy. That was why she had one of my company
credit cards, in case you wondered.”

How did we miss that? Chase wondered. “So it was purely a
business relationship, was it?” he asked.

Upson
hesitated.

“It wasn’t, was it, sir?”

Upson
sighed. “No, Inspector. It
wasn’t.”

“Go on.”

“There’s not much to say, really. You know all about her
speciality, I suppose?”

Chase and Halshaw both nodded emphatically.

“Every few weeks she’d summon me. To a hotel. The White
Hart, usually. She used to hire a suite for the afternoon.” His cocky smile
softened. “We always had the most brilliant time.”

“Sexual, was it?”

Upson
shrugged. “Partly, I
suppose. But that wasn’t the point, not really.”

“What was the point?”

He shrugged again. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try us.”

“OK. I guess she used to take me totally out of myself. For
an hour or two I was at peace. And afterwards, well, everything seemed more
bearable, somehow.” He stared into the distance for a moment, before turning to
them with a melancholy smile. “You know, I sound just like my old gran. I
remember asking her once why she went to Mass every Sunday. That’s exactly what
she said.”

Wonder if Barb would see it that way, Chase thought. “I
presume it was a commercial arrangement?” he asked.

“Sort of. I like to think she got pleasure out of it too.”

“I’m sure she did,” said Chase, kindly.

Upson
looked nonplussed and said
nothing.

“How did you pay her, sir?” asked Halshaw.

“It wasn’t like that,”
Upson
replied quickly. “Not really. She had a company credit card, for buying props,
like I said, and let’s just say I didn’t check the bills too carefully. Not
that she ever took the piss or anything, you understand. She just used it to
pay for things she needed.”

“And the suite at The White Hart? Did she charge that to
your card too?”

Upson
hesitated, and then nodded
reluctantly.

“I see,” mused Chase.

Upson
wiped a peephole in the
steamed-up window and peered out. “I’d better go,” he said, leaping to his feet
and downing the last of his espresso. “There’s a traffic warden heading this
way and I’m parked on a double yellow. So if there’s nothing else...”

“That’s fine, Mr
Upson
,” replied
Chase, but
Upson
was already heading for the door,
pulling on his black leather jacket as he went.

*

“That went better, didn’t it?”

“Better than what?”

“Well, better than Edward bloody Sinton, for starters.”

“True,” Chase conceded.  He sipped his cappuccino. “So
what do you make of all this, then?”

“I was wondering...” she faltered.

“Go on.” Chase tried to smile encouragingly.

Halshaw took a deep breath. “Do you think Lucy Faith’s
vassals paid her by some kind of a barter system, perhaps?”

He frowned.

“Maybe that was why there was nothing in her financial
records,” she continued. “Maybe they all did favours for her instead.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it would mean she could claim not to be receiving
immoral earnings, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s a point, I suppose.”

“And her clients wouldn’t have to explain the payments to
their wives....”

“Or their accountants,” Chase interjected. He thought for a
moment. “Why else would she do what she did, if not for money?”

“Some women do it purely for pleasure. Lifestyle
dominatrices, they’re called.”

He raised his eyebrows.
“Personal
experience
,
Constable
?”

“No
Sir.
Wikipedia.”

Chase chuckled. “So what could they have given? My Lady told
me she was very expensive.”

“Use of
Upson’s
company credit
card, obviously. Meals at Pascal Bertrand’s restaurant, perhaps...”

“What about Edward Sinton?”

“Maybe he helped her buy some antiques?”

“Or paintings, perhaps?” Chase mused. “Remember what her
husband said about that phone call?”

“Of course!”

“So what could her other vassals have offered her, do you
think?”

“Chris Birkdale could have helped her let or sell some
property. The flats, perhaps.”

“Could be, Halshaw. Could be. What would Bryn Lewis have to
offer?”

Halshaw’s face fell. “I’m talking crap, aren’t I, Sir? And
you’re giving me enough rope to hang myself.”

“No, Halshaw, you’re not talking crap,” Chase replied. “I
think you could very well be on to something. And even if you’re not, it’s a
good idea. Not crap at all.”

“Really?” Halshaw could feel her cheeks beginning to burn.

“Really. So come on. Let’s think. What could Lewis have
offered her? Or Robertson. Or
Lowther
, come to that?”

Halshaw thought for a moment. “
Lowther
must have put quite a bit of work her way, mustn’t he?”

Chase nodded. “OK. What about Robertson?”

“Help with investments, perhaps? A bit of insider dealing,
maybe?”

“I’ll buy that. A hot tip here, a snippet of inside info
there, and even with small investments she’d soon have made quite a bit of
money.”

“True. But I can’t think what Bryn Lewis would have been
able to offer. Can you?”

“No, I can’t. We’ll just have to ask him tomorrow, won’t
we?”

They drove along in silence for a few moments, both deep in
thought.

“Do you think any of them could have murdered her?” she
asked, eventually.

“Oh, definitely,” replied Chase. “They’re all capable of
murder. But I’m not convinced any of them did kill her.” He glanced at Halshaw
out of the corner of his eye and noticed her frown. “I mean, there was no
evidence of disputes, jealousy, or anything like that, was there?”

“I suppose not. But, I don’t know, I wouldn’t be surprised
if they weren’t telling us the whole truth. Particularly Sinton.”

Chase smiled. “He really got under your skin, didn’t he?”

“And yours, Sir.”

“That’s true, I’m afraid. Still... could you imagine Edward
Sinton smashing someone in the face with a brick?”

Halshaw winced, remembering Darren Hitchins’ wrecked face as
he lay on the gurney in the car park of The Green Parrot, and rested her head
against the cool window of the car as she waited for her nausea to subside.

Faith in oneself... is the best and safest course.

Michelangelo

Amy gripped the handlebars and pedalled furiously, her
pumping thighs keeping time with the Glitter-Band-plays-Doctor-Who stomp in her
earphones. When she next looked up, a square woman in a tracksuit was standing
in front of her, glaring.

“Nearly finished?” the woman demanded, looking pointedly at
her watch.

“Just another couple of minutes, please, Mary,” Amy panted,
wiping the sweat from her eyes.

The track-suited woman lifted her chin in assent and
departed.

Bloody hell, Amy said to herself, turning up the resistance
a notch. If those two fat women hadn’t hogged the exercise bikes, I’d have been
out of here ages ago. They’d have got more exercise going for a walk, the speed
they were going. And they’d still have been able to gossip.

She remembered walking through the chilly streets of
Edinburgh, drinking wine and cocktails in a succession of bars and clubs,
laughing and dancing with Bruce and his friends. Not to mention the steaming
hangover the following morning, and the full Scottish Kelvin prescribed as a
cure. It had been a great weekend, she thought. One of the very best. Pity it
already seemed an age ago.

She looked around the gym. Every other piece of equipment
was deserted. The track-suited woman was pottering about, picking up litter,
straightening mats, and casting the occasional baleful look at Amy.

Eventually,
Uprising
by Muse faded. Amy turned off
her iPod and pedalled frantically for another thirty seconds before coasting to
a stop. She pulled out her in-ear headphones, clambered off the exercise bike,
and did a few desultory stretches to warm down. Then she grabbed her sweatshirt
and wiped her dripping face with it, took a gulp of bottled water, and headed
for the changing room.

The changing room was in darkness when she flung the door
open, but the automatic lights soon flickered into garish life. She stripped
off her trainers, leggings, and socks, and stuffed them into her holdall, along
with her iPod and headphones. Then she retrieved her towels and toiletries from
the locker and strode into the nearest shower cubicle.

Once inside, she turned on the tap and let the shower play
all over her, enjoying the sensation of the hot water sluicing away the sweat, and
wishing she could sluice away everything else that bothered her. She poured a
generous handful of shampoo and began to rub it vigorously into her hair and
scalp, working up a thick, creamy lather.

The lights flickered.

She froze. There was no sound. The shower continued to flow
steadily. She shrugged, and went back to shampooing her hair.

The lights flickered again.

I’m not hanging about in here, she thought, hurrying to
rinse her hair.

Everything went black.

“Bugger!” she muttered, standing stock still under the
flowing water.

A second or two later the lights came back on. She finished
rinsing her hair, decided to forego the conditioner, and washed herself as
quickly as she could.

Then she heard it.

What was that? A footstep, perhaps? Mary never came into the
changing rooms while there were customers on the premises, she knew that. So
who was it?

You’re imagining things, she told herself sternly. She
turned off the shower and towelled herself down briskly. Then she wrapped her
hair in the damp towel, and wrapped another around her.

Cautiously, she opened the door of the shower cubicle. The
coast was clear. She was halfway to her locker when she saw him.

A man in a lived-in blue pinstripe suit sat on the bench in
the centre of the changing room, his back towards her. His short brown hair was
sprinkled with grey, and he was gazing intently at the screen of his mobile
phone.

Amy tried desperately to remember what she had learned at
the self-defence classes the Women’s Group at University had organised. She clenched
her fists, took several deep breaths, and stepped towards him. “Who the hell
are you?” she demanded.

The man turned around and smiled. “Good evening, Ms
Birkdale,” he said, pleasantly. “Nice to see you again.”

She started at him in astonishment. “What are you doing
here, Inspector?”

“Just wanted a chat, that’s all.”

Amy sank down on the bench next to him, trying hard to hide
her sense of relief. “What the hell were you playing at with the lights?” she
demanded.

Chase smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he replied. “It
was dark when I came into the changing room. I was groping around for the light
switch, and I suppose I must have turned them off by mistake. Sorry.”

“The lights are automatic. You’ve just got to give them a
second or two to come on.”

“Sorry,” he repeated. “Anyway, I’m glad I’ve found you at
last. You’re a hard woman to track down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Thursday
lunchtime,” said Chase. “Didn’t you get my voicemail?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then why didn’t you call me?”

She turned her blue eyes on him, then shrugged and looked
away.

“Wasn’t that why you sent me those messages?”

“What messages?”

“Text messages. One message had a photo.”

“What are you on about, Inspector?”

“This.” He handed her his phone.

Amy looked intently at the photo, then at the messages. Then
she looked up at Chase, her brow creased in perplexity.

“But I don’t understand, Inspector. I never sent you
anything.”

“That’s your phone number, though, isn’t it? Your personal
phone, I mean?”

“Yes. But I didn’t send you those messages, I promise you.
And who is she, anyway?”

“The woman in the photo? That’s Lucy Kelmarsh.”

Amy’s perfect eyebrows shot up. “Dave’s wife, you mean?”

“Yes. Don’t you recognise her?”

“I’ve never actually met her, Inspector. And I’ve seen loads
of photos of Dave’s kids, but none of her. He always complains she’s camera
shy.”

“This photo was taken just a few hours before she was
murdered.”

“Oh God! How awful! And why do they call her a whore?”

“You know the hurtful things people put in texts,” he
replied, gently.

She nodded. “Does Dave know about any of this?”

“No, he doesn’t. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention
it to him, Amy.”

“OK. I won’t. Why was she with you, anyway?”

“She was helping me with a case, that’s all.”

Amy nodded pensively. Then she stood, produced a clean pair
of white knickers from her holdall, and began to loosen the towel wrapped
tightly under her arms. Chase looked away quickly.

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “How could someone make
a message look as though it came from my phone?”

“Don’t you know? I thought you worked in IT?”

“Yes, I do, but... look, Inspector. I work in IT management.
I plan projects. I write business cases. I can negotiate a contract and deal
with stakeholders. I’m a demon with Excel and PowerPoint. But I’m not a techie.
No way. No more than you are, I bet.”

“I very much doubt that,” he said, as a damp towel landed
next to him on the bench. “Can you think of someone who is?”

“Roger in Voice Systems, perhaps,” she mused. “But he’s such
a sweetie... No, Inspector. We outsource just about all the hard core technical
stuff nowadays.”

“To India, you mean?”

“Sometimes, yes. Not necessarily.”

Chase began to turn to face her, before realising his mistake.
“So you’re telling me there are no technical people in the Group at all?” he
asked, looking away again hurriedly.

“There’s a few in the subsidiaries that still have their own
systems.”

“Like Bearing Straight, for instance?”

“Yeah.”

Amy retrieved a pair of khaki cargo pants from her locker,
and sat on the bench next to Chase to pull them on.

“What about Portage?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“So you’ve no idea who could have hacked your phone?”

She shook her head again, slipped her bare feet inside her
trainers, and bent to tie the laces.

“Just as well there’s a simpler explanation, then, isn’t
it?”

Amy looked up, relieved. “Go on,” she replied.

“You leave your phone in your handbag during the day, don’t
you?”

“Yes.”

“Under your desk?”

“Yes.”

“Switched on?”

“Usually, yeah. Why?”

Chase looked at her expectantly.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, after a few seconds’ pause. “You
mean...?”

“Yes. Someone got into your handbag while you were away from
your desk.”

“Bastard! Who was it, Inspector?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Who sits near you?”

Amy frowned as she retrieved a hairbrush from her holdall.
“Dave Kelmarsh, of course. The Sandersons team have been using the other desks,
but they’ve not been on site much the last week or two.”

“What about Dinah
Rodway
?”

“What about her?”

“Her desk is very near yours. She has access to your
electronic diary so she knows when you’re away from your desk, and when you’ll
be back.”

She shook her head. “Not Di, Inspector. I can’t believe
she’d do something like that.”

“But she would have noticed if someone was rummaging in your
handbag, wouldn’t she?”

“I guess,” Amy replied thoughtfully, as she brushed her
hair.

“You mentioned Dave Kelmarsh. How about him?”

Amy shrugged, then reached behind her head and began to pull
her damp hair into a loose plait. Chase found himself staring at her toned
biceps, at the thin fabric of her T-shirt stretched across her full breasts. He
looked away quickly.

“His wife has been murdered, Inspector,” she said,
eventually. “Poor Dave is devastated. He hasn’t been back in the office since
she died.”

“He was in on Friday. Briefly.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t, and neither was my phone. I bet you
didn’t get any texts on Friday, did you, Inspector?”

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted.

She bundled her belongings into a holdall, and pulled on an
oversized black North Face fleece. “Ready?” she asked.

“Ready for what?”

“Let’s get out of here. There’s a pub round the corner. I
think the least you can do is buy me a drink, to make up for scaring the crap
out of me just now.”

“Sounds good to me.”

At the door Amy caught sight of his bruised cheek. “What
happened to your face?” she asked.

Chase shrugged. “Oh, just an occupational hazard,” he
replied.