Fault Line - Retail (41 page)

‘Hello,’ came an echoing response, though not in Adam’s voice. A young woman wearing only a short silk bathrobe and a pair of fluffy mules ambled out into the hall from what a distant glimpse of fridge-freezer suggested was the kitchen. She held a coffee mug in one hand and a phone in the other and was texting as she walked. She spared me a fleeting glance – flashing eyes beneath a tousled fringe of dark hair – and a somewhat less fleeting smile. ‘You’re not the aerial man, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. Adam’s not getting all his satellite channels. Puts him in a bad mood.’ She stopped texting and gave me a little more attention. She was small and pretty in a girlish way. I’d have said she was still in her teens. How many like her had Adam worked his way through
over
the years, I wondered, though I didn’t really want to know the answer. ‘He just went out. If it’s him you wanted.’ She grinned. ‘He still just went out, though, come to think, even if you didn’t want him.’

‘It
was
Adam I was looking for. I’m from Intercontinental Kaolins. My name’s Kellaway. Jonathan Kellaway.’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve heard of you. But Jonathan’s not your first name.’

I smiled bemusedly. ‘I assure you it is.’

‘No. It’s Fucking. Fucking Kellaway. That’s what Adam calls you.’

I had to laugh at that. ‘Well, you’ve got me there.’

‘I’m Mad.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Short for Madeleine.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mad.’

‘You’re a friend of the family as well as one of their wage slaves, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So you must know Adam’s sister – Vivien.’

‘I do, yes.’

‘He says she’s
really
mad. Off her head. That so?’

‘No. Not so.’

‘But she’s a countess. And she lives in a caravan.’

‘A viscountess, Adam means. And technically she’s not even one of those. But she does live in a caravan.’

‘Countess; viscountess: same difference.’ Mad grimaced at the contents of her coffee mug and plonked it down on a glass-topped table, then looked thoughtfully at me. ‘Been here before?’

‘Never.’

‘What d’you think of it?’

‘What do
you
think of it?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s all right. Come on. I’ll show you what I like most about the place.’

She led the way through a large, palely decorated, modishly furnished drawing-room, followed by another room that was barely distinguishable, but might have been planned as some kind of
library,
to judge by the number of empty bookshelves lining two of the walls.

‘How long have you and Adam known each other?’ I asked as we went.

‘A few months. We met in Phuket.’

Ah yes. Thailand. Of course. ‘Were you on holiday there?’

She laughed. ‘You could say that.’

We entered a high-ceilinged corridor and headed along it. A faint smell of chlorine told me what our destination was before we reached it.

The swimming pool was as oversized as everything else in the house: a vast rectangle of deep-blue water surrounded by white marble. Tracts of lawn were visible through high windows to either side. Everything was as it might have looked in an estate agent’s brochure: lavish and empty. ‘Ace, isn’t it?’ Mad asked, glancing back at me.

‘Very nice.’

She tossed her phone into the lap of a nearby chair and kicked off her mules. ‘I like to wake up with a swim,’ she announced. Then she untied the belt of the bathrobe, shrugged it off and, letting it fall to the floor behind her, advanced to the edge of the pool.

I’d seen no outline of a swimsuit beneath the robe as I’d followed her through the house, so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that she wasn’t wearing one. Nevertheless, as she’d doubtless intended, it did. She stood where she was for several seconds, giving me the opportunity to admire her peachy little bum, then dived in.

She swam, fast and smooth, to the far end, turned and swam back, then trod water and waved me forward.

‘Why don’t you come in, Jonathan? It’s lovely.’

‘Very tempting, but … no, thanks.’

‘Adam wouldn’t have to know.’ She licked her lips. ‘If that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘When do you think he’ll be back?’

‘Oh, not for hours. He’s playing golf. Yawn, yawn.’

‘Could you tell him I called by?’

‘If you want me to.’

‘I do, yes. Ask him to phone me. He’s got my number.’

‘I know. He said so. “Fucking Kellaway. I’ve got his number.”’ She grinned up at me mischievously.

‘You’re a funny girl, Mad.’

‘I certainly like to have fun. Sure you won’t join me?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Your loss.’

‘Probably.’

‘Definitely. ’Bye, then.’ With that she turned and swam away at a leisurely pace, the water flowing sinuously around her.

I walked to the side of the pool, watching her for as long as it took me to reach a set of double doors that led out on to a terrace – and for a little longer than it took. Then I left.

During an afternoon spent fruitlessly questioning IK staff about the theft of Wren’s records, there were several times I found myself wishing I’d taken up Mad’s invitation. I resented being forced to pursue such a half-baked investigation and my patience was wearing thin.

Meeting Dick Trudgeon was undeniably worthwhile, though. And Pete was twitchily eager to set off for Mevagissey as the working day drew to a close. His mood was such a strange mixture of nervousness and joviality that I began to miss his normal heavy irony. I eventually demanded to know if something was bothering him.

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ he admitted cagily. ‘Could we talk about it on the way? I don’t want us to be late.’

Punctuality had never been one of his strengths. This alone should have forewarned me. As it was, he talked about everything
but
whatever was bothering him during the drive to Mevagissey, preferring to distract me with gossip about the proposed eco-town and the viability of the new shopping centre.

We arrived twenty minutes or so early and Pete proposed a preliminary drink at the Ship, the first pub we came to after parking the car, before we moved on to meet Trudgeon at the Fountain. The whisky chaser he ordered with his pint suggested he needed
some
Dutch courage to broach a delicate subject. And so it proved.

‘While you were out to lunch, Jon, I had a visit … from Adam Lashley.’

So, it seemed Adam hadn’t been playing golf after all. ‘You did?’

‘Yeah. He showed up shortly after you left.’

‘How shortly?’

‘Well, five minutes, maybe. Does it matter?’

‘It might.’ It occurred to me that Adam could actually have been waiting for me to leave. It was a disturbing thought. ‘What did he want?’

‘A chat. He didn’t come into the office. He phoned up from reception and asked me to join him downstairs. So, down I went. He ushered me outside and we took a turn round the car park while he … said his piece.’

‘Which amounted to what?’

Pete took a deep swallow of beer. ‘I’m doing you a big favour letting you in on this, Jon. A little more … appreciation … would be nice.’

‘Oh, I’m appreciative, Pete, believe me.’ I smiled cheesily at him. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what he wanted?’

‘On one condition, yeah.’

I sighed. Pete playing hard to get was the last thing I needed. ‘Name it.’

‘You guarantee you’ll keep me in the loop on this whole business of the missing records.’

‘Are you sure you want to be in the loop?’

‘Better in than out, I reckon.’

‘Then you have my word, Pete. You’re in.’

He paused to think about that, then said, ‘OK. So, here’s the thing. Adam made me an offer. Ten thousand quid, to be precise, cash in hand, if I’d tell anyone who wants to know that it was me who stole the records – and destroyed them.’

‘
You?
’

‘Acting, Adam suggested I say, on the instructions of a senior member of staff now pushing up the daisies. There are several to choose from. I’d say I was just following orders, without knowing
why
the orders had been given. This would’ve been years back, not long after the takeover, when I was only a dogsbody. It’d mean you could stop looking for the records and Doctor Whitworth would definitely have to make do without them. End of story.’

‘You think so?’

‘Well, it might work. It makes some kind of sense. It would explain what’s happened … without really explaining anything.’

‘And Adam thinks achieving that’s worth ten thousand pounds?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Why? I mean, why the hell should he care – to the extent of trying to bribe you?’

‘He said he was anxious Doctor Whitworth should complete her company history while his father was still alive and well enough to read it and that this would force her to get on with it.’

‘You believe that?’

‘Of course not. Adam the dutiful son? Do me a favour. He’s obviously lying. I let him think I believed him, though. I’d have been stupid not to.’

‘And what did you say to his offer?’

‘That I needed time to think about it. I pointed out I could get myself into hot water by doing what he wanted. Maybe even end up getting fired.’

‘And how did he respond to that?’

‘He said he’d make sure I wasn’t fired. And he gave me until Monday to mull it over. I got the feeling … he might go higher than ten thou if I pushed him.’

‘He must be desperate.’

‘That’s what I reckon. In fact, it’s the main reason I’m telling you any of this.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Ten thou – or more – in the back pocket’s not to be sniffed at, Jon. Don’t you think I’m tempted to take him up on his offer?’

Yes. I did. Between Adam and his girlfriend, there’d been a lot of tempting going on. ‘What stopped you?’

‘The question you asked a few minutes ago.
Why?
Why should Adam be two bits bothered about missing records, half of them
dating
from before he was born? It shouldn’t matter to him. But it does. Too much for me to overlook – whatever he’s willing to pay me. And besides … I don’t like him. I never have.’

I smiled. ‘What are you going to say to him on Monday, then?’

‘I’m hoping I won’t have to say anything to him. I’m hoping you and me will have figured out by then what he’s up to – what it is he’s trying to hide.’

‘
You and me
.’ It was an interesting choice of phrase. Pete evidently regarded us as a team. ‘Do you think Adam took the records?’ I asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

Pete shrugged. ‘He might have been following orders. Like he wants me to say I was.’

‘Whose orders?’

‘I haven’t a clue. Have you?’

‘Not yet. Let’s hope Dick Trudgeon can supply one.’

‘Yeah. Let’s hope.’ Pete glanced at the clock behind the bar and drained his whisky. ‘And let’s hope that clock’s fast. Otherwise we’re keeping him waiting.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

DICK TRUDGEON WAS AN
archetype of the policemen of our generation: tall, broad-shouldered and slowly spoken. He had white, crinkly hair and a large, crumpled nose that looked as if it had been broken by a Friday-night brawler many years in the past. His expression was a mixture of wariness and contentment. He had a seat by the front window of the Fountain and could, I realized, have seen us enter the Ship if he’d been there early enough, which the inroads he’d made into his pint of HSD suggested he might well have been.

I bought him another pint, and ten minutes of chitchat about our schooldays and subsequent careers carried us to a point where he evidently felt we should show our hand. ‘I’m sure Pete here didn’t go to all the bother of tracking me down just for the pleasure of a chinwag about old times,’ he said, eying me beadily.

‘You’re right, of course, Dick,’ I responded. ‘We’re actually hoping you’ll be able to help us clear up a minor mystery.’

‘Oh yes? And what might that be?’

What I told him was accurate as far as it went. Someone had removed from the IK archive all records relating to Wren & Co.’s dealing with his father’s haulage company and we wanted to know why.

His reaction was understandably sceptical. ‘Haven’t you boys got more urgent business to attend to?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Pete chimed in. ‘But our boss
doesn’t
like loose ends. And he pays the likes of us to tie them up for him.’

‘Your boss would be … Greville Lashley?’

‘The very same.’

‘Is he still in harness? He must be about the same age as my old dad. That’d put him in his nineties.’

‘He officially retired some years ago,’ I said. ‘But he continues to … take an interest.’

‘Good for him.’

‘What about your dad, Dick?’ Pete asked.

‘No longer with us. Nor is my brother, Mike. He was Dad’s number two in the business till it was sold to Wren’s. I was never on the payroll. Saw no future in it.’

‘Well, you judged that right,’ I said.

‘So I did, I suppose. But the Wren’s buy-out was a godsend. It funded Dad’s early retirement to Spain. And it set Mike up in a business of his own. It was a good deal for them. A very good deal.’

‘An A licence was a valuable commodity in those days,’ said Pete.

‘So I’m told.’ Trudgeon frowned thoughtfully. ‘Except that Wren’s were bought out themselves within a couple of years by CCC. So, it was money down the drain really, wasn’t it?’

‘I expect Mr Lashley hoped it would boost Wren’s profitability in the long run,’ I reasoned smilingly. ‘Unfortunately, there was no long run.’

‘That must have been how it was, yes.’ But Trudgeon’s tone suggested he was far from convinced. ‘Dad did well out of it, though. He always did well out of Wren’s. He used to say they were his best customers. Even before the buy-out.’

‘Really?’

Trudgeon nodded. ‘“Good payers; prompt payers”. That’s what he used to say about Wren’s. It was a catch-phrase of his. I was still living at home then. I remember Mike and him making a joke of it.’

‘A joke?’

‘They’d laugh about it. Mum and I couldn’t understand why it was so funny.’