Fatal Legacy (13 page)

‘The second group is drugs-related; usually that includes the new arrivals in town. A bloke they think is their white knight picks them up and gets them hooked on drugs, then they start scoring tricks to please him and feed their habit. It’s organised and territorial, and it involves boys as well as girls. The more successful pimps go on to back clubs or local bands but they’ll be earning their serious money from prostitution and drugs.’

‘What happens to the girls?’

‘Essentially they die young. By the time they are in their early thirties they look fifty and have lost their appeal. Their pimps dump them and they spend the rest of their days sliding further down the social ladder until they are homeless and destitute. Like I told DS Pink this morning, your Tracie Grey was in this group. The flat she was found in was one of half a dozen owned by her pimp, and judging from her age, she wouldn’t have had it for much longer.’

Nightingale stared at him in astonishment. Why couldn’t Pink have found out the name of Tracie Grey’s pimp at once, rather than have Nightingale and others still out walking the streets, facing daily humiliation and failure? She swallowed her anger at his inept handling of the case so far and tried to concentrate on the rest of the conversation.

‘At the very top end you have the escort agencies and specialised services. These are usually run by syndicates, highly organised and very lucrative. They aim their services at wealthy men – businessmen, public servants – who can later find themselves compromised into doing favours for people they would rather not know.’

‘So it’s part of organised crime and there’s blackmail involved?’

‘It’s always organised, yes, but the blackmail is selective. These days, prostitution probably only accounts for about a quarter of earnings. The rest is smuggling, car rackets, grand larceny.’

‘And Amanda Bennett?’

‘Until she was murdered I would have put money on her being a survivor. We knew her quite well; I even arrested her myself once. She had a record but somehow managed to work her way out of the low end of the business. She did time for
living off immoral earning a few years ago: she ran a house of young girls – none underage, she made sure of that, but still young enough to be the daughters of most of her clients. And she catered for very particular tastes.’

‘So which syndicate did she belong to?’

‘Very good question. We never did find out, and that’s one of the reasons she did so much time. She insisted she was in it alone, and we couldn’t prove otherwise.’

‘Could I see the file?’

‘Don’t see why not. Ask DS Pink – he has it.’

Nightingale finished her coffee with difficulty and thanked the DC for his help, neatly side-stepping his suggestion that they meet for a drink later. She only had two more days to go until she could return to Harlden, and the thought helped to ease the intense indignation she felt.

Later, at the station, Pink heard what she had done, who she had seen and what she had learnt on her own initiative. As he stared at her neat head, bowed over her keyboard as she typed up her report, his face showed a rapid series of expressions from fury through embarrassment to a grudging respect, but he said nothing. He did, however, allow Nightingale to spend her remaining two days tidying loose ends before returning at last to Harlden.

‘We’ve been invited to dinner again by Alex and Sally on the twenty-eighth.’

‘We only saw them last month, Graham.’

‘I know, but Sally called and pressed me hard, and I said yes.’

‘That’s next Friday. I thought you didn’t like their company.’

‘Alex is all right in small doses, and there are some matters of business I need to discuss down south anyway. I’ll go a couple of days early to sort things out, and you can join me there.’

Graham sounded casual but Jenny could see the tension in his shoulders and it worried her. He had been so withdrawn in the last few days.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No!’ His tone was sharp and Jenny was taken aback.

‘What is it, Graham? What’s worrying you? Why don’t you let me come with you; some company would do you good.’

‘I don’t want you involved, darling. There’s some plain talking to be done and I’ll be better off doing it on my own. Come on, don’t look like that. After the dinner we can go to London and I’ll buy you a present.’

‘I don’t need presents, Graham. I just want to be with you.’

‘Ah, but this will be a very special present, one I have never bought for anyone before. I’ll only be gone for a couple of days and then we’ll be together again.’

He tried to hug her but Jenny resisted his embrace in a rare show of pique that caught them both off guard.

‘This isn’t like you.’

‘I know, Graham,’ her voice was tearful, ‘but you’re so
preoccupied these days. We came up here to Scotland in such a hurry it made me think you were running away from something, and you’ve hired beaters you don’t need who stand around doing nothing and look more like security guards. Every time you think I’m not looking, you seem worried half to death.’

He put his wiry arms around her and this time she didn’t resist.

‘I’m sorry. There’s no way I wanted to worry you, darling. You’re right, I am uptight. Something’s not right and I’ve got proof now from the private detective.’

‘I thought he was following Sally?’

‘He was.’ Graham looked grim and Jenny felt scared all over again. ‘I’ve got all I need now on Sally; that’s not the problem. Finding out about her has just led me into a bigger mess.’

‘Tell me about it, I’d like to help.’

He squeezed her tight.

‘No, Jenny, you’re too special. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. I love you.’

The suddenness of his declaration shocked her into silence. He had never said it before and when they had started living together he had made a point of explaining that love wasn’t part of the bargain. Something had changed in the past few weeks, and the realisation made her feel happy yet also incredibly vulnerable.

‘I love you too, Graham, so much.’

She kissed him fiercely and started to lead him towards the bedroom. The sound of the telephone on the landing stopped them in their tracks. Graham picked up the receiver. A minute later he replaced it, having barely spoken a word. He looked grey.

‘That was George Ward. Arthur Fish is dead. George has just returned from a golfing holiday and found out that he was murdered on Thursday night. I shouldn’t have run away. Perhaps if I’d sorted this out sooner, he’d still be alive.’

‘Surely you don’t think it’s connected to your father or the business?’

Graham shook his head, sat down heavily on the top stair and rested his head in his hands. Jenny wrapped her arms around his shoulders, unable to think of anything to say. She was
worried sick that Graham – idealistic and without an ounce of business acumen – was becoming embroiled in something dangerous, and that was now being played for stakes high enough to perhaps even cost a man his life.

‘I’ll set off on Wednesday.’ Graham stood up abruptly and helped her to her feet. He saw the expression on her face. ‘I’m going alone, Jenny. I’ll meet you at the Hall on the
twenty-eighth
.’

‘Be careful, Graham, please. I couldn’t bear to lose you, not now. Not when it’s all starting to work out between us. I don’t know what it is that’s worrying you, but please watch yourself. Two people who worked for your family’s firm have died and it’s obvious you don’t think it is a coincidence. I know that I didn’t share your concerns about your father’s death, but perhaps I was wrong. If you know something, or even suspect it, please go to the police.’ The raw pleading in her voice made him hold her tight and stroke her hair. He whispered into her ear.

‘I will, sweetheart, after the dinner, but I have to be sure first. I won’t take any unnecessary risks, I promise.’

Graham squeezed her hand and led her slowly along the landing towards the bedroom.

On the Saturday night two days after Fish’s murder, Fenwick arrived home from the station just in time to read his children a story before bedtime. Cooper called him an hour later. Even though the forensic laboratory had been able to lift a whole handprint from the shoulder of Arthur Fish’s jacket, it had taken them a painstaking four hours to match the fingerprints conclusively to those on the bloody ticket found at Burgess Hill, and a full day before these were run successfully against the national criminal fingerprint index.

‘We’ve got a match, sir. The prints lifted from the scene all belong to one Francis Fielding, who is well known to Brighton Division. He has a string of convictions, starting with
delinquency
as a minor and then three drugs-related, one of procurement and two for GBH. He did nine months for the last one and was released four months ago.’

‘So it could be a mugging after all. Have you let Brighton know yet?’

‘No, I called you first. Do you want me to?’

‘Yes, but ask DS Gould to do it. He knows them well and we need to be absolutely sure they don’t cock it up. Come and collect me now and we’ll make our way there. They don’t need to wait for us unless they have doubts about proceeding. Get the officer in charge to call me on my mobile to confirm where we’ll meet.’

As he replaced the receiver, Fenwick could feel his pulse thumping in his throat. This was the break they needed. Within hours he could close the case, with one of the strongest chains of evidence he had ever had. It would be an incredible result for him personally, and for Harlden. He was in the car with Cooper,
less than a mile from the suspect’s address, when the call came through from Brighton that shattered his hopes. Cooper
answered
his phone.

‘Brighton, sir. They’ve found Fielding. He’s dead.’

The scene of death was brightly lit by the bare hundred-watt bulb that swung from the ceiling in the unheated one-room flat. The body lay face down on the bed and the pathologist estimated that he had been dead over twenty-four hours. Rigor had left the upper body and was present now only in the legs. A scene-
of-crime
technician had already found a used hypodermic and a bag of what seemed to be heroin. Fenwick waited for the local officer in charge to make the introductions and ask the questions.

The pathologist was clipped and professional in her replies.

‘Looks like he died as a result of a massive heroin overdose. There’s classic pinpoint contraction of the pupils, but I’ll need to wait for toxicology to confirm. Time of death is within the last thirty-six hours and at least twenty-four hours ago. So far as I can tell at this stage, he died here on his bed and hasn’t been moved.’

DS Winters nodded, his body language territorial.

‘As soon as he’s been identified, give me a call and I’ll join you. It looks fairly conclusive, though. Judging by the amount of heroin we’ve recovered, he must have come into a lot of cash suddenly, got overexcited and fried his brains.’

Fenwick looked around the grubby kitchen. Plates still showing scraps of food were stacked in the sink. Two clean coffee mugs had been placed in the remaining space on the draining board, next to a jar of instant coffee powder and a stale carton of milk.

‘Looks like he was expecting a visitor.’

DS Winters shrugged but otherwise ignored the comment.

‘We’re interviewing neighbours and known acquaintances, so I’ll keep you in the picture, Chief Inspector.’ Winters was polite but clearly didn’t feel that Fenwick would add a lot to his inquiry.

‘That’s fine. If you find any further connections that might link him to the murder of Arthur Fish, or your two prostitutes
here, let us know. We’re interested to know how he got his hands on so much money. And if you find a knife, could you send it to our lab as soon as possible? It could be the murder weapon we’re looking for.’

With the death of Fielding, Fenwick immediately came under immense pressure to close the case. DS Winters found a flick knife that was proven to be the murder weapon and the ACC argued that it was the final evidence they needed. Fenwick didn’t agree, but not even all his powers of persuasion could convince the ACC and Superintendent Quinlan to give him Sergeant Gould and his officers for one more week. Then the Brighton team discovered two thousand pounds in cash in a brown paper bag hidden beneath Fielding’s floorboards, and Fenwick argued that this could be evidence of a contract killing. Despite his addiction to drugs, Fielding hadn’t been anything other than a minor pusher on the local scene and there was no explanation as to how he had come by so much cash
immediately
before his death. Grudgingly Harper-Brown gave in and Fenwick was granted his precious week.

He briefed DS Gould immediately. He was to try and trace the money found in Fielding’s flat; probe whether there was any link between Arthur Fish and Amanda Bennett or Tracie Grey; and generally be alert for any hint of a motive that linked the killing back to Wainwright’s. It was a tough assignment but Gould was a diligent officer. Fenwick had every confidence that if he was right and this wasn’t a simple mugging, then this sergeant would find the connections they needed.

Fires had been lit throughout the Hall, in the hall, sitting room, drawing room and main dining room. The refurbished rooms glowed in the light of the flames. Everything was perfect. Alexander and Sally were determined to welcome the family to their new home with a style they had always thought had been lacking under its previous owner.

The fire in the main drawing room was devouring dry pine logs with hungry tongues of flame, spitting embers against the fireguard. Pockets of cold air huddled stubbornly in corners and against windows. The drawing room was bigger than the whole of the downstairs of their previous house, and Alexander had never known it to be warm enough. Sally had turned the central heating down almost as soon as they had moved in and he knew it wouldn’t go up again until November – it was one of her rules.

They were expecting seven guests: Jeremy Kemp and his wife; Graham and Jenny; Julia and Colin and their daughter Lucy. Sally had prepared for the event with an awesome precision, and Alexander’s only responsibility now was to keep the fires blazing obediently. Outside an early dusk had fallen and a dull grey mist surrounded the house.

The telephone rang.

‘Alexander? Hi, it’s Jenny. Could I speak to Graham, please?’

Her voice carried over the unmistakable static of a mobile phone.

‘He’s not here yet, Jenny.’

‘But he was due with you on Wednesday. He said he had an early meeting or something. It’s not like him to go off and not tell me where he is. I’m worried about him, Alexander. He was
in such a state when he left. Has he called you at all?’

‘No, but I can check with Sally if you like.’

Alexander rang off and went in search of his wife. The kitchen was the most obvious place to start looking, but she wasn’t there. In the dining room, all the candles had been lit. Two thick waxy altar candles graced flower arrangements in the centre of the mahogany table, and Victorian ruby wine glasses caught and held the light so that the table appeared to be bathed in an ethereal fairy glow. His uncle’s solid silver cutlery had been polished to an intense lustre that caught and held the candlelight. There was still no sign of Sally, then Alexander remembered the flower room. As he walked down the back corridor her voice reached him.

‘Now, Irene, that’s for Julia and Colin’s room, you know, the Oriental Room. Take it carefully! Don’t spill it and make sure you set it down on a mat. I don’t want to find water marks on any of the furniture. And hurry back, this last one’s for Graham’s room. Our guests could be here any minute.’

Irene, one of their daily helps pressed into service for the evening, squeezed past him, both hands clutching a tall, gangly arrangement that looked vaguely Japanese.

Sally was concentrating so hard on the final touches to the last arrangement that she didn’t hear him arrive. A large plastic apron, tied loosely at the back, protected the evening clothes she was already wearing. She’d chosen a pink silk trousersuit with a long-sleeved tunic top tied with an ivory sash about her tiny waist. The trousers clung to her, flattering her slender figure and making her alluring yet somehow fragile. The pink and ivory set off her complexion perfectly. She had put her hair up for the evening, and the smooth chignon looked almost too heavy for her long, slender neck. The diamond and pearl drops in her ears had been his aunt’s but they had never looked so perfect and appropriate as they did on Sally, like fresh dew on an immaculate rose, setting off its velvety perfection.

‘Hi.’

He said it softly but it still made her jump.

‘Oh! It’s you. You startled me. Are the fires all right?’

She went back to her arrangement. The bronze and oyster of
the chrysanthemums clashed horribly with her dress, and the bowl of flowers she was so delicately adjusting reminded him of a funeral wreath.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she went on. ‘I couldn’t fasten the safety chain on my watch. Could you do it for me?’

‘This is beautiful. When did you get it?’ Alexander stared in awe at the elegant gold and diamond-set dial and the pink crocodile-skin strap.

‘It was a present from your uncle last Christmas. It’s a Patek Philippe; very sweet of him.’

She held out a too-thin wrist from which the loose gold safety chain dangled. He closed the clasp up tight and tried to fix the chain. A sharp slither of gold, part of a sheared link, slid into the tender nail bed of his thumb.

‘Ow! Damn thing pricked me.’

‘Mind the blood! Don’t get it on my sleeve. Here, wash it off under the tap.’

Alexander rinsed off the blood and gently pulled the spike of gold from under his nail.

‘The chain’s broken.’

‘Never mind, it’ll be OK. Did you want something?’

‘Jenny’s just rung, asking for Graham. She thought he’d already be here, but he didn’t say he was coming early, did he?’

Sally took a pair of fine long-bladed scissors and snipped off a recalcitrant bud that was refusing to do her bidding.

‘No. Not as far as I know.’

‘That’s what I told her. She sounded worried.’

‘Oh, you know Graham, he’s a law unto himself. He’s probably found another Jenny somewhere and sneaked a day with her.’

Irene bustled back into the room and squeezed her generous figure past Alexander. Sally thrust the flowers at her roughly.

‘Here, take these! Don’t spill the water, you stupid girl! Now look what you’ve done!’

A slow puddle of water spread across the tiled floor. Alexander grabbed a cloth and bent to mop it up as Irene inched past him on tiptoe, her hands full.

‘She’ll have to go,’ hissed Sally.

‘Come on, Sal, it was an accident, no big deal.’

‘Not because of that, idiot! She’s pregnant again, any fool can see. And she’s only nineteen.’

Alexander squeezed the cloth out in the sink as his wife carefully removed her apron. One of the girls would tidy the flower room the next day; they could forget it for now. Their guests were due at seven o’clock. Sally hurried off to the kitchen, and Alexander went in search of his uncle’s grand piano and one last moment of calm.

The music room was cold. He turned on the lights and at once the evening outside the windows grew dark. The mist was thicker now, an indiscriminate fog that blanketed the green of the lawns and the delicacy of the borders in a grey monotone.

He lifted the solid cover of the Steinway and started to play. Chopin’s E-flat minor nocturne flowed automatically to his fingertips and he closed his eyes, willing the steady Andante to surge through him. It was a brief piece but it blotted out his thoughts about Sally. Something about his wife made people scared, and it was starting to worry him.

‘Alex? There you are! Come on, our guests are here. The butler’s taking their coats. Do hurry up.’

Downstairs in the drawing room the fire had inexplicably decided to sulk. It had been blazing only minutes before but now the logs smouldered, sending out thick woody smoke. Sally glared at Alex. It was unforgivable that he should spoil the grand entrance. Everything else was perfect.

The butler took the bellows to the fire, and after a few puffs it started to flicker and glow. Sally was showing her guests the changes she had introduced in the room, unaware of – or perhaps simply ignoring – the jealousy and suppressed anger in her audience. After a moment Lucy detached herself from her parents and joined Alexander by the fire, accepting a glass of champagne on her way.

‘Alexander, I have a favour to ask. Today’s my boyfriend’s birthday and we had planned to celebrate together, only I’ve had to come here. Not that I mind, I always like seeing you, but …’

‘Why didn’t you call? We could easily have accommodated another.’

‘Mummy said it was out of the question, but I did tell Ryan
I’d ask you, and he could be here in twenty minutes.’

Alexander laughed. ‘Go on then, call him. There’s a phone in the hall.’

‘It’s all right, I have my mobile. Thanks, Alexander!’ She planted a kiss on his cheek.

They had all drunk at least two glasses of champagne before Jenny arrived by taxi from the station. She was dressed as if to go clubbing; her black lacy mini-dress was transparent enough to reveal a matching bra. As soon as she walked into the room she looked around expectantly for Graham.

‘He’s still not here?’

‘No, dear, but don’t worry, he’s bound to turn up soon. I bet he’s hanging around somewhere, oblivious of the time.’ Sally air-kissed Jenny casually as she made the empty attempt to reassure her.

‘But it’s not like him. He hasn’t called in two days, and he’s never done that before.’

A knowing look was exchanged behind Jenny’s back as Sally and Julia shared an unspoken thought ‘
so he’s tired of her at last – about time
.’

Jenny’s concern was eclipsed by the arrival of the Kemps, followed closely by Ryan, much to Lucy’s delight and her mother’s annoyance.

‘Will he be staying the night?’ Sally asked Lucy coolly, pointedly ignoring her husband.

Ryan answered her directly, saving Lucy the embarrassment.

‘No thanks. I don’t drink, so I can drive back later.’

The smoked salmon canapés circulated, and still Graham hadn’t arrived. More champagne was served, the clock struck eight and an uncomfortable break developed in the conversation

The butler saved them by announcing in a grand voice: ‘Dinner is served.’

His pomposity made Lucy giggle, which upset her mother further. Sally suggested they start without Graham or the dinner would spoil. Muriel Kemp had to coax Jenny from her chair by the window, and Ryan asked Alexander loudly whether he’d inherited the butler with the house. So it was with a fragile, insubstantial attempt at conversation that they made their way through the great hall to the dining room.

Alexander had chosen the wines wisely from his uncle’s cellar and even Colin was impressed, going into rhapsodies about the Gevrey-Chambertin when it was served. At the other end of the table Sally glowed and sparkled with pleasure as her guests started to relax. Each compliment was taken with
self-effacing
grace, but Alexander could see how much they meant to her. Jeremy Kemp sat to her right, in Graham’s intended place, and she charmed and cajoled him to such an extent that it was obvious he was besotted with her.

Alexander laughed inside as he watched his wife gently resist the solicitor’s overaffectionate pats and hugs. To his right, Jenny sat in virtual silence, pecking at her food. Alexander and Ryan worked diligently throughout the long meal to try and lift her spirits, but it was to no avail. Her concern was almost palpable now, and they all felt its contagion.

After coffee, in an attempt to take Jenny’s mind off Graham, Alexander suggested they move to the music room, which was at the front of the house, over the hall.

He was still in the mood for Chopin and played the E-flat minor first, before moving on to one of his favourite études. He was part-way through another nocturne when he noticed Lucy waving to him. ‘We’re going for a walk,’ she mouthed, and pointed towards the door.

When the music concluded, the whole group, minus Lucy and Ryan, returned to the drawing room to sip coffee and armagnac. Apart from Ryan, they were all staying overnight, and no one was in a hurry to go to bed. The music’s magic had finally worked on them all except Jenny, who remained frantic and tearful with worry. Around midnight some of them started a game of cards.

‘What was that?’ Julia looked up sharply.

‘What?’

‘That noise, like a cry.’

‘Probably a fox, that’s all.’ Sally was dismissive but they waited silently in case it came again.

‘There! Did you hear it?’

They all nodded. The shrieking cry could be heard clearly now, although the mist formed an impenetrable veil around the house.

‘Where’s Lucy?’ Julia’s voice was sharp with concern.

‘She went for a walk with Ryan almost an hour ago.’

Alexander wasn’t too worried. True, the Hall was miles from anywhere, but the two lovers would be together.

‘Colin, go and find your daughter. She shouldn’t be out there on her own.’ Julia looked accusingly at her husband.

Colin obligingly lumbered to his feet, his face pink and sweating, and weaved from side to side as he tried to find the door.

‘I’ll go too.’ Alexander was on his feet and into the front hall before anyone could disagree. Apart from Jenny, he was the only one who seemed completely sober.

Outside the air was chill and damp and he regretted not stopping to put on a jacket. Where to start? He could hardly see more than five feet ahead. The cry came again and the hair rose on his arms and neck. It sounded so human – a terrified, panicky bleat. Instinctively he moved towards it, calling out Lucy’s name.

‘Lucy? Ryan? Where are you?’ He could hear sobbing now. That was no animal. He started running but then made himself slow down, fearful of missing whoever it was in the night.

‘Lucy! I’m over here. Lucy!’

A shambling form came at him from the mist, two-headed, arms waving. It was Lucy and Ryan, clinging on to each other, faces ghostly white, mouths hanging open. They both looked petrified.

‘It’s all right. I’m here, come on.’ He threw his arms wide around them both. Lucy was sobbing uncontrollably now, shaking in his arms. Ryan rested his head on Alexander’s shoulder, breathing heavily. Alexander could smell the sharp, sour taint of fear on his breath each time he exhaled.

‘It’s OK, you’re safe now. Come on back to the house.’

He imagined them lost and confused in the mist, baffled by the night and the trees to the extent that they had become disorientated and frightened. They were only young, and it was a night fit to create demons of the shadows in even the most prosaic mind.

‘You don’t understand.’ Ryan’s voice was husky still with fear.

‘What don’t I understand?’

‘It’s … we … he …’ Whatever it was, Ryan couldn’t bring himself to speak of it.

Lucy took two deep, ragged breaths.

‘It’s Graham, Alexander. We found Graham. I think he’s dead.’