The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (17 page)

"We've been threatened by the IRA. They've implied that Granger was murdered,
and we may go the same way." Okay, poetic licence, but he was clutching at
straws.

Kemp seemed totally unmoved.

Adam considered for a moment.

"I don't believe that Granger's death was an accident."

Kemp's eyebrows rose. "You think there was foul play?"

"That or suicide under duress."

"No. Believe me you've got it wrong," insisted Kemp vehemently. "He lost control
of that car of his and it left the road, no question. Killed the best employer
I've ever had."

Adam met Kemp's eyes and held his gaze.

"Mr Kemp. I am going to find out the truth whatever it takes."

"And whatever that truth is."

"What do you mean?"

"Has it occurred to you that the truth when you find it may be totally
unpalatable?"

"I'm prepared to take that risk."

"And you don't think I'm telling the truth?"

"Mr Kemp, I know you're not telling the truth."

Kemp stood up. "Then I can't help you any more, and I think it's time you
left."

Adam and Bel started moving out into the hall, almost knocking over the umbrella
stand on the way. Adam turned to face Kemp one last time.

"Mr Kemp, what do know about John Bartlett's murder?"

Kemp stopped in his tracks as if hit by a truck. After a pause he gave a
strangled cry, staggered back into the living room and collapsed into a chair.
His glazed expression and virtually catatonic-like state gave Adam the distinct
impression this was news to him, and it hurt.

"Well I thought that went rather well."

They stood on the doorstep having satisfied themselves that Kemp wasn't going to
have a cardiac arrest.

Bel's eyebrows disagreed. "Except that you achieved nothing more than giving an
old man distressing news."

Adam looked somewhat crestfallen briefly. "I think you underestimate the
significance." He defended himself.

Bel looked at him pityingly and shook her head. "Really? Well if it makes you
feel better. But I still think we're attacking the wrong people."

Privately Adam agreed they probably were but in the circumstances his only
strategy was to keep poking the beast until it woke up.

Chapter 23

Adam's parents lived on an estate. Not the kind of estate that contains hundreds
of identical semi-detached houses in ordered rows of suburbia, but a country
estate.

Adam stopped at the gates. The imposing stone pillars and iron wrought gates,
with gatehouses either side, appeared like something out of a Georgette Heyer
Regency novel. Trees, rhododendron bushes and high walls masked the view beyond
and gave privacy a new meaning. Bel, a newcomer to this scene, was curious as to
how Adam was going to open the gates without incurring a hernia, and quashed her
disappointment heroically when he produced a credit card sized swipe card and
inserted it into a very modern piece of electronics by the roadside. The gates
swung open with a characteristic groan, so archetypal that Bel wondered if it
were coming from a loudspeaker in the bushes.

The car swung through the gates and along a bush lined gravel drive, ending in a
large courtyard surrounded by outhouses and garages. Bel was first out of the
car and stood transfixed, not by the courtyard but by the imposing country house
that rose up beyond it.

The original central section, a three storey 18th Century Georgian Manor house
had been extended over the centuries with three wings, of proportions that
almost swamped the original building. Unlike some country houses of similar
vintage the various additions had been kept in keeping with the original, giving
it a grander, more imposing appearance. To Bel, it was straight out of the
National Trust handbook.

Adam watched her, leaning on the car with a resigned look on his face.

"It's just a house that people live in. It's cold and damp and draughty." He
strode off through a large wooden door and entered the house.

Bel contemplated his back for a moment before following quickly, aware that if
she lost track of him in there she might get lost for days. The smell reminded
her of country houses her parents had forced her, as a child, to visit with them
on wet holidays.

Having entered through the servants' and tradesmen's entrance they made their
way along the long cold stone passages of the vast kitchens and countless
work-rooms at the back of the house, and into the main part of the house where
Adam started calling out for signs of life. Somewhere in the depths of the house
a clock chimed five o'clock.

Within seconds a middle aged woman in neat twin set (but no pearls) met them.
With her hair in a bun and glasses on the end of her nose, she looked as if she
was auditioning for a Brian Rix farce.

"Oh Mr Adam. I didn't hear you come in."

"Ah Mrs Daly. How are you? We came in the back way I'm afraid. Very sneaky, but
you know me." He introduced Bel to the housekeeper.

"Do you know where my mother is?"

"Yes. She's in the workroom."

Adam looked at his watch. "Of course. It's about that time."

He made off down a long corridor, Bel on his heels.

"Mrs Daly?" she enquired.

Adam turned with a grin. "Yes, and don't laugh but her husband's name really is
Arthur."

"And the workroom. Am I to expect a group of ladies doing needlework?"

Adam turned again and strode off. "Hardly."

The 'workroom' turned out to be a large panelled room with windows shuttered and
curtains drawn, which on its own would have been a surprised to Bel, even were
it not for the room's contents.

Bel later described it as a cross between Concorde's flight deck and a TV
Producer's control room. TV screens filled one wall, whilst another contained
computer monitors. Desks covered in paperwork, computer keyboards and printers
littered the floor. At one desk sat a tall elegant woman in jeans and a
tee-shirt, her back to them, oblivious to their presence but intent on a
computer screen.

Adam broke the silence. "Mum."

The figure turned around and peered at them over the top of reading glasses. An
initial frown broke into a smile that extended to the brown eyes, matching the
short-cut chestnut hair. White trainers completed the somewhat incongruous
ensemble.

"Adam my dear, how nice to see you. You should have warned me you were coming."
She took a few seconds surveying Bel, as if accessing some deep memory bank.
"And Bel my dear, it's been a long time, far too long."

She spoke with a familiarity that belied the fact that Bel had met her only once
and that was at Adam and Fran's wedding, a memory that always brought mixed
feelings.

"I did call you yesterday if you remember, to tell you I was coming." insisted
Adam.

Joan Lennox frowned. "Did you? I don't recall I'm afraid, the Dow Jones was
misbehaving yesterday," she said, as if that explained everything.

A
computer bleeped in the background and the conversation was terminated as Adam's
mother's attention returned to the wall of screens. "Sorry my dears. Tokyo's
about to open and there are some interesting things going on. Adam, your
father's at Sandown but he should be back shortly. You'll stay the night of
course, it's getting too late to go back up to London." She started typing
furiously, at which point it seemed prudent to leave.

They made their way to the front of the house, through the main hall past the
sweeping staircase and across the stone floors out into the late afternoon April
sunshine that still had some warmth in it. As they stepped outside Bel stopped
to take in the vista that opened up before her. The ground in front of the house
fell away in extensive lawns dotted occasionally by old oaks and
horse-chestnuts, surrounded by the characteristic ironworks to keep deer and
sheep at bay. In the distance an extensive lake reflected the occasional cloud
and the setting sun. To the left of them the lawns gave way to woods and a
stable block, complete with classic arched entrance and white wooden clock
tower. To the right the sweeping drive curved majestically until it disappeared
out of sight into tree-lined obscurity.

They stepped down from the grand entrance and Bel sat on one of the stone
blocks, which in days gone by would have helped riders or carriage passengers to
alight. Adam watched with mixed feelings, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets,
as she took in the scene.

Some minutes passed without a word being spoken. At last Bel turned to Adam.

"So Lennox, this is what you rebelled against."

"Yes."

"How big is it?"

"What you see plus deer park plus another five thousand acres plus three farms."
Adam replied.

"It's awesome."

Adam looked quickly at her. "It's a bloody millstone." he retorted.

They were interrupted by the arrival outside the stable block of a landrover and
two enormous horse boxes.

Adam gratefully broke the awkward moment.

"I need to speak to the old man. Don't get too lost, it's a big place." He
hesitated and sighed. "It's far too bloody big a place."

With knowledge of his father's habits, Adam waited until the race horses had
been safely stabled and his father had supervised the work schedule for the next
day, before retiring to a book-lined library with a glass of chilled white wine.
The fact that the books were not old first editions, but racing form books, gave
away Adam's father's passion for the sport, and explained to some degree Adam's
ability to spot a winner.

Their 'handshake and statutory three pats on the back hug' greeting reflected a
relationship that had had stormy moments and harsh words said, but where love
and respect still lingered, even if an understanding of differing positions and
attitudes had yet to be achieved.

Adam accepted an offered glass of wine.

"How are the horses doing?"

"What? Oh yes, doing well, holding their own, just about paying for themselves.
It's put your mother out something rotten. She likes to feel that it's necessary
for her to subsidise them. Gives her a feeling of power and control."

"And today?"

"Oh she'll be happy today. No winners, one second and a couple of also-rans."
His attention seemed to wander slightly before refocusing. "But no injuries
thank God."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Eventually Robert Lennox
('Bob' on the racecourse, 'Sir Robert' at the county show) finished processing
the days events and returned to the present. Whether he suited the role or the
role suited him was difficult to tell but the sandy hair, moustache and tweed
jacket with patched elbows was every inch the country squire.

"You said on the phone that you needed to talk about the old days. Very veiled.
Give. What's it all about."

Adam fiddled with the stem of his wineglass.

"I need to know anything you can remember about Granger Bartlett."

"Granger Bartlett." Adam's father closed his eyes, accessing the archives. To
aid the process he got up and walked across to the window before starting his
reply. A sip of wine lubricating the memory.

"The Granger Bartlett that I recall had the reputation of a ruthless bastard who
would do anything to beat a competitor to a deal."

"Including breaking the law?"

"It's possible he stayed within the law, more by luck than judgement, but he
came damn close on numerous occasions. Morality was almost an anathema to him.
He was always out to crush the other man. He took on his father's business after
the war in 1950. As you might imagine they had suffered badly during the war and
the government compensation wasn't nearly enough. Granger cut corners and made
deals to pull the company through. If he saw another company in difficulties he
would see it as an opportunity to gain. And he did gain. The company went from
strength to strength as world trade improved and stability was regained."

Adam contemplated the condensation on the wineglass.

"Did anyone in particular suffer at his hands, with the ruthless dealing?"

Adam's father rubbed his chin and then scratched the back of his neck before
replying.

"I seem to remember there were a couple of particular deals which got him
notoriety but I can't remember any details. How important is this?"

Adam hesitated. "I'm not sure. It's possible someone's life may depend on
it."

He filled in some sketchy details.

"Oh! Well let me make some phone calls. Hopefully I can get more details by
tomorrow morning."

Adam drained his glass. "What was Granger's connection with Ireland?"

Adam's father grimaced and sat back down. "I'm not sure exactly. Granger was a
supporter of the underdog against the establishment, which was ironic since he
was rapidly becoming part of it. He supported the Irish Republicans in the early
days, far more openly than people would have liked. The government tried to lean
on him but that only made things worse. Rumour had it at the time that he got in
deeper than he intended and tried to get out before it was too late."

"Did he succeed?"

"Just before the car accident the whispers were going round that something had
happened. After the accident there was a lot of conjecture that he'd tried to
get out of it. He may have been intending to spill the beans or even taking the
honourable way out."

"What do you think?"

Adam's father shook his head.

"Granger Bartlett wasn't the honourable type. Suicide wasn't in his nature. If
it wasn't an accident then I think the IRA probably saw him as too high a risk
and killed him."

The evening meal was served in a small comfortable dining room, with a log fire
in the grate, avoiding the embarrassment of the Grand Hall with its table that
sat sixty people, where you would have to call a taxi to pass the salt.

Coffee came, and a box of mints disappeared in the blink of an eye.