The English Boys (22 page)

Thirty

“Do you still want
the car?” Ennis asked, as he retrieved a stack of discarded files from Murray's desk.

It had been pouring all morning, a hard, driving rain that flooded gutters and streamed down windows, reducing the visibility to naught. Murray had spent two hours sifting through records, trying to come up with something new as he waited for the weather to abate. It would be a shame to ruin a new pair of leather brogues without a very good reason. His mackintosh hung in a small closet behind his desk and a hat lay on the shelf above it. His good umbrella stood in the stand next to the door, a Classics City umbrella from James Smith and Sons in New Oxford Street. It was the finest money could buy and one couldn't ask for anything sturdier in a downpour, but he hated using it in the worst sort of weather.

“I think not,” he said. It was a disappointment to plan a day in the field only to have to delay it.

When Ennis walked out, Murray stood behind his desk. He stretched, aware he had been sitting too long. Glancing at the notes he had written during the last hour and a half, he decided to pursue the possibility of a connection between Daniel Richardson and a deceased socialite named Lizzie Marsden. He opened the door to speak to Ennis, but found the sergeant, efficient to a fault, had already left
to return the files. Murray walked out into the outer office and went to stand by his sergeant's desk. A hum of noise hung in the air as work went on all around him. Secretaries were making copies in the copy room; clerks filed and typed forms; DI Patel and Sergeant Morrissey were laughing over something in a magazine and drinking the tepid coffee that kept the office smelling rancid. No matter how many notices were put up, people continued to pour the last cup of coffee and put the glass pot back on the burner, where the remains burned until the stench clung to the very walls. Even if he had not preferred tea, Murray wouldn't have dared touch the coffee in this office.

Sighing, he went down the corridor and looked into the small library where Rachel Quinn could usually be found. His favorite clerk stood in a corner, her reading glasses pushed halfway down her nose, pulling a copy of
Blackstone's Civil Law
from an upper shelf.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Inspector Murray?” she asked. Her voice was unusually pleasant. It held just the right timbre of lightness and professionalism he admired in well-spoken women.

“Have you seen Detective Sergeant Ennis?” he asked.

“No, I'm afraid I've been searching for a few things the Superintendent needs this morning. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, no, it's quite all right. He'll turn up again in a few minutes.”

Murray didn't want to admit that he had come to the library with the express purpose of finding her, although now that he had, he wasn't quite certain what to say.
How about a drink after work?
sounded nothing less than crass. He had enjoyed the luxury of being pursued by Ingrid when he was younger, which had taken the pressure off him so that he could enjoy the budding relationship. Even though women occasionally tried to get his attention, he found it so off-putting that he was not even tempted to take advantage of the opportunity. They weren't Ingrid, that was for certain.

He went back down the hall and into his office, pulling a file from his desk. Then he turned to his computer, where he typed in an image search for Lizzie Marsden. Dozens of pictures of a beautiful girl stepping in and out of nightclubs and limousines leapt onto the screen. She was exactly the sort of girl
Hello!
magazine kept popular with a constant stream of full-page photographs. Every few years, it propelled a face into the public arena until someone more outrageous came along. Elizabeth Marsden fit the criteria perfectly: a socialite who was known for nothing more than looks and style and the impressive list of famous men she'd dated. That she had died under mysterious circumstances six years earlier made her story all the more thrilling, he was sure. Flipping through the file, he saw with some surprise that both Daniel Richardson and Hugh Ashley-Hunt had been questioned by the police the day after her body was found, having been the last two people known to have seen her alive.

Newspaper reports suggested suicide. The
Sun
's headline, “
Heiress Had Nothing to Live For
,” and the
Daily Mail'
s, “
Lizzie Marsden Suicide Heartbreak
,” surely convinced the public that this privileged young woman with her questionable moral compass had tired of her life of parties, drugs, and men. Somehow, it didn't quite ring true. As much as the public would like to believe it, a life of parties and spoiling oneself did not inevitably lead to regret, and if it did, a week spent helping orphans in tent cities in the Philippines with cameramen in tow soon put things to rights. Murray stared at the enigmatic face on the screen, searching her features for clues.

Turning to the file, he read Richardson's report first. It appeared straightforward enough. During the investigation, both men had offered their full and complete cooperation. Marsden had shown up uninvited at Ashley-Hunt's house the night of her death and tried to get them to go with her to a party in Mayfair, which they had both refused. Ashley-Hunt called for a taxi for Marsden, while Richardson, as witnessed by several local residents, left on foot to go home. Although the toxicology report showed both illegal and prescription drugs in Marsden's system, neither of the men had been doing drugs and none were found in their possession. A quick check of the records showed that Ashley-Hunt had made two calls to a cab company in West London that night, although the driver did not remember the girl later. Ashley-Hunt, according to his file, gave the same information as Richardson, and also stated that his second call to the cab company was to hire a ride to a restaurant a few miles away for a late meal. There were no holes in the story, no reason to question its veracity.

However, looking again at the high cheekbones of the well-born Marsden, who had, like Ashley-Hunt, enjoyed a childhood of wealth and ease, Murray could ill imagine a life of self-loathing. No, indeed
,
he thought, narrowing his eyes. She had the look of a narcissist, one who loved the attention she received. If that were true, she was not a candidate for suicide at all, which left only two options: either her death was a tragic accident or a staged murder.

Her body had been found in the Thames, two miles or more from Ashley-Hunt's house. Of course it was possible, in fact probable, that the effects of the drugs found in her system had impaired her judgment and actions. It did not escape his notice that Richardson and Ashley-Hunt, being actors, might be able to lie in a somewhat more convincing manner than someone without their training. If that was true, then discovering a motive would be the next step.

He worked at his desk for the rest of the day, thinking over the details of Marsden's death and staring from time to time at the rain. It was one of those days for thinking rather than for concentrating on paperwork. He knew it, yet he still made an effort to make sense of the notes before him.

Shortly after six o'clock, he let himself into his house with a feeling of relief. Brooks, the Springer, leapt toward his trouser leg as he came through the door. He reached down and scratched the pup between the ears, murmuring in an attempt to calm him down. He had to admit that sitting in a chair after dinner with a book in hand and Brooks lying at his feet brought him a sense of satisfaction that few things had in recent years. There had been a few problems, mostly with chewing, particularly an incident with a book he had left on a low stool where the dog had been able to get it, as well as the antique barley-leg table in the front room. He noticed it every time he went in there and promised himself he would fix it, but hadn't gotten around to it yet.

Murray walked into the kitchen and was pleased to find that Josefine had made a shepherd's pie. He helped himself to a slice, eating at the same table where she had peeled the potatoes a couple of hours before, and then cut another slice. Afterwards, he wrapped cling film around the pan and put it in the refrigerator so he could reheat it the following day. Filling the kettle, he picked up his book,
The Master of Ballantrae
, and waited for the tea to boil. He filled the brown betty he'd had for decades with the tea and water hot from the Aga and then took the book and tea and went to sit down, Brooks at his heels.

The Master of Ballantrae
was an old favorite, and though he did not admit it to himself, it was often pulled from the shelves when he needed the familiarity of a favorite book to read during troublesome cases. He tried, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on the page where the Master had returned to Durrisdeer under the alias “Mr. Bally,” and then closed the book and set it upon the table. It was a rare evening when he couldn't take his mind off the events of his day or the case on which he was working. He reached down and pulled Brooks onto his lap for a moment, and the puppy lavished kisses upon his face for the attention.

“All right, all right,” he said, stroking the silky hair about the pup's snout. He got up, carried the dog into the kitchen, and put a little of the shepherd's pie in a saucer, watching as Brooks lapped it up. Then, rinsing the teapot and the dish, he righted the kitchen, turning out the light behind him as he left. Upstairs, he changed into walking shoes and telephoned for a cab.

It took fourteen minutes for the taxi to arrive. He had been surprised. He rarely went out in the evenings, and if he did, he took his car. London was quiet; the glow from the windows all around him in the darkness indicating that most people had settled in for the night.

Fourteen minutes
,
he thought, his brow furrowing as he bent his head to get into the cab. What might have happened in the time it took for the taxi that Ashley-Hunt had summoned to arrive at his house? Richardson, he was certain, was not involved. There were witnesses who had seen him, good, solid witnesses that included the barrister next door and his wife, who had arrived home as Richardson was leaving. That left Hugh Ashley-Hunt. The girl had had drugs in her system, likely before she'd even arrived at his house.

“Where to?” the driver asked, and Murray gave him Ashley-Hunt's address in Holland Park. He wasn't certain if the posh address was a result of the young man's success in his chosen career or if it had been provided by his wealthy parents. Either way, Ashley-Hunt was living a very privileged life.

Murray sat back in the seat, looking for signs of activity. The main thoroughfares were still busy, though the shops were for the most part closed. Restaurants seemed to be doing brisk business, and he was certain that the theatre district was easily filling seats on such a pleasant evening. In Holland Park, he instructed the driver to stop the car some distance away, paid him, and got out of the vehicle.

The moon was high and the stars burned red and gold against the cloudless sky. He walked past Ashley-Hunt's home, to the end of the road, and back again. He was surprised that it appeared empty. Perhaps Hugh's parents had insisted that he stay longer in Mayfair, in light of the circumstances. Taking a left into Earl's Court Road, Murray followed it until it turned into Redcliffe Gardens, and then into Edith Grove. From the house to the Thames was nearly a mile's walk, and Lizzie Marsden's body had been found over half a mile farther down, on the Chelsea Embankment.

Of course, it was possible a cab had been rung for but paid off when it arrived. But why, he wondered, would Ashley-Hunt do something like that? Richardson had already seen Marsden at the house. Murray didn't like it. The young woman couldn't possibly have staggered that far on foot while under the influence of drugs. If she hadn't gotten into the cab, someone else had to have driven her closer to the river. Years had passed since then, though; too many for it to be realistic for Ashley-Hunt to still be driving the same car. Otherwise, he might have asked for a warrant to search it.

Thirty-One

Every case Gordon Murray
had ever successfully completed had been solved by the process of elimination. Prove someone couldn't do it, and the number of suspects who could became that much smaller. In spite of all the large and even famous personalities involved in the Tamsyn Burke murder, the cold, hard facts remained the same. Men were more likely than women to stab, and although women used knives in rare cases of self-defense, me
n
were more prone to use them. Also, relatives and friends who had traveled a long distance to be at the wedding were less likely suspects than someone who had been close to the victim recently, and the likelihood of Tamsyn knowing the person who killed her approached nearly one hundred percent.

Therefore, the killer was a man who was close to her, someone whom she knew well. Though there had been other men present that morning, men who could excite some interest in a police inquiry for their past histories, their unlikable natures, or their reticence to cooperate with the police, it had come down, in Murray's mind, to two main suspects: Daniel Richardson and Hugh Ashley-Hunt.

Murray tapped his pencil on the desk, thinking. Of the two, Daniel Richardson seemed less likely. He had been something of a lapdog of Tamsyn's, though lapdogs had sometimes been known to bite. Murray had the strong suspicion that Richardson was in love with her and would have done anything for her. In his conversations with him, he had got the feeling Daniel had been pained to watch the budding relationship between Tamsyn and his best friend. On the other hand, Murray had heard no account of a true, deep love between Ashley-Hunt and the murder victim, and his demeanor on the occasion of their meeting indicated a man with no emotional attachment. Ashley-Hunt was a calculating sort of man, and the last person it seemed he would ever entertain the notion of marrying was precisely the girl he intended to marry. Therefore, there was the possibility that these two young people had not been marrying for passion, but for other motives. Perhaps they had brokered one of those private deals one hears about in Hollywood: a marriage of convenience for limited duration with a cash settlement afterward. If so, something had scotched the plan.

Blackmail crossed Murray's mind. If Tamsyn Burke had known something about Ashley-Hunt, something about Lizzie Marsden, perhaps, she could have negotiated for money. An actual marriage between them was more difficult to understand. Blackmailers generally wanted huge sums of cash, which would have been easy enough to obtain from someone as wealthy as Ashley-Hunt, but the status she might have gotten through marrying him didn't seem at all the sort of thing she would go after. Choosing marriage over money was a far more dangerous game, one that kept her in the constant company of a man who probably had murdered at least once before.

Then again, Tamsyn might not have known about Elizabeth Marsden, in which case there had to have been another reason to get involved with Hugh. She may have seen a marriage to him as a way to reach her ambition to act on a national or even international level more quickly. However, from his research, it seemed clear that she had happened into the opportunity for the Hodges' film by chance.

Ennis had uncovered only one unusual fact about Tamsyn Burke: that she had been raped ten years earlier by two English boys in Wales. No identification of the boys had ever been made. The initial police report said that the victim could provide little or no help in finding her assailants, merely that there were two, and they had driven a black car. She had been young and traumatized; an innocent casualty of a violent crime, who had become pregnant and had given birth to the child instead of having an abortion. It had changed her life in more ways than one.

What did Hugh know about Tamsyn's past? Murray doubted the girl would have been forthcoming after an incident like that. And perhaps her parents, who were raising the child, didn't want anyone to know it wasn't their own.

Ever since seeing Tamsyn's corpse on the slab in the morgue, he had itched to bring the killer to justice. He couldn't bring the girl back, but he would see that justice was done. Another interview with Hugh Ashley-Hunt was now a certainty.

After that, Murray resolved, he would get about the business of putting his personal life in order. At home on his desk were two tickets to the Royal Ballet for the following week. All he had to do was pluck up the courage to ask Rachel Quinn to go with him. Though there was some work to be done on his part, to woo and win her, there was hope, after all, that he wasn't to be a single man forever.

His phone rang as he mulled the situation. “DCI Murray.”

“Sir, this is Constable Jay Langley. I've been assigned to surveillance on the Ashley-Hunt home, and for the last two nights, Hugh Ashley-Hunt has left by the back door and gone for a short walk in the park nearby. I thought you'd like to know.”

“Yes, certainly,” Murray said, his attention piqued. He had never met Langley but had heard of him after he'd been wounded during a robbery a couple of months earlier. It had been in all the papers and was the talk of Scotland Yard. “You were right to call. Did he leave at the same time both nights?”

“Eleven o'clock sharp, sir, both nights.”

“Who's watching the house tonight?”

“I'll be there with Constable Grisham at the usual time, ten o'clock.”

“Thank you for letting me know.”

What reason could Ashley-Hunt have for leaving the safety of his
parents
' house, which was nothing less than a fortress with its gates and armed bodyguards? Was he feeling so confined that he would risk being seen by the press or even harmed by a misguided fan?

Whatever the reason, Murray would be there to follow him that night. If nothing else, it would provide material for his interview. He worked at his desk until six o'clock, and then took his coat from the hook and locked his office door.

Traffic was average for this time of day, and Murray threaded through it, considering his next move. As far as he was concerned, Hugh's behavior was a red flag. How the young man had evaded the press, he had no idea, but he would find out.

When he reached his house, he went inside to find out what Josefine had made for supper. There were lamb chops in the oven. He wasn't fond of lamb chops, but Brooks was certain to appreciate the scraps. He unwrapped the meal and took it to the table. The dog followed, lying patiently at his feet. He knew that if he waited long enough, he wouldn't be forgotten. Murray likened the quality to being a good detective. Watch and wait, and sooner or later, the reward would come. After the meal, he cut the trimmings off the meat and put it on a saucer for the dog. Then he took him outside one last time. It was a good night for reconnaissance. The sky was clear, the ground dry, and there was no wind to interfere with proper detection. He brought the dog back into the house and locked the door behind him. Then he went upstairs to change.

It was always difficult getting information from a suspect, but he had a particularly bad feeling about Ashley-Hunt. If he was correct, the man had murdered that girl in cold blood, a crime that had been premeditated and planned to the last detail. Ashley-Hunt had wanted to see the look on Tamsyn Burke's face, to see whether she showed surprise or shock or fear. Later, after the funeral, he had stood with her parents as her body was buried deep in the plowed earth, his arm around her mother. It was a contemptible move, no mistake.

The street was empty, the sky dark. Murray got into his car and started the engine, but before he could put the car into gear, a rope was snaked around his neck, pinning him to the headrest. Looking up at the rearview mirror, he could see Ashley-Hunt behind him.

The rope was so tight about his throat he couldn't speak. He grasped it with his hands, desperate for air, but Ashley-Hunt had wrapped each end around his fists securely.

“Inspector Murray,” he said in his ear. “I decided to pay you a visit. Or perhaps I should say that ‘Constable Jay Langley' did.”

Constable Langley. Ashley-Hunt must have read his name in the paper and impersonated him on the phone. It was clever, Murray had to admit. The man loosened the rope just enough for Murray to cough and try to speak.

“Tamsyn Burke,” he rasped. He tried to wedge his fingers between the rope and his throat, but there was no room.

There was a moment's hesitation. There was no sound but the distant rumble of cars in the next street, which felt worlds away.

“Tamsyn Burke,” Ashley-Hunt repeated after a moment. “God, I'm bloody sick to death of hearing about Tamsyn Burke.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Who wouldn't want to kill her? She was the world's most infuriating human being.”

“Blackmail?” Murray asked, keeping his eye on him. If Ashley-Hunt started talking, he might be able to pull away quickly enough to reach his gun, though he felt his fingers going numb.

“No,” Ashley-Hunt said, shaking his head. “She was going to kill me.”

“Kill you? Why?” he asked. “Had she figured out about Lizzie Marsden?”

“Lizzie Marsden?” Hugh asked with an incredulous laugh. “Actually, I was surprised you made the connection.”

“A better question is, how did you know I was on to you?”

“I had someone watching my house. You were followed all the way to the Thames. There was only one thing you could be thinking to do something like that.”

“What did Tamsyn want from you?”

“Well, for one thing, she was still pissed about what happened when we were young.”

The light began to dawn. “The rape?” Murray asked, hoarsely. “Were you one of the boys who raped Tamsyn in Wales?”

Ashley-Hunt's eyes narrowed before he spoke. “Well, you can't really prove rape, can you? A couple of underage kids having a lark; that's not a crime.”

“Why did she go after you?” Murray asked.

“The virgin's wrath, I suppose. She was probably saving herself for some disreputable little bugger at school.”

Murray was stunned. Tamsyn Burke had been no ordinary victim. She had gotten close to a man who'd raped her to exact some sort of revenge of her own.

What had really happened between them, after all?

Ashley-Hunt laughed in his ear. “She fooled you, didn't she, Inspector? Did you really take the side of the poor little dead girl?”

For a moment, Murray thought of Ingrid. She had been supportive of his career, but nonetheless had feared for him in certain circumstances. Although he was careful not to take too many calculated risks, occasionally they were unavoidable. This situation had to be taken in hand. He hadn't expected to face a sociopath in his own vehicle. He should never have believed a call from someone he hadn't even seen before.

The rope was tight and he was running out of time. Murray pulled forward with all his might and reached for his gun, but Ashley-Hunt jerked the rope tighter, pinning him to the seat and cutting off his windpipe. He'd heard dozens of stories from policemen recounting tales of being shot, but he had never considered that he might be strangled. After a couple of moments, black spots began to appear before his eyes, and the man leaned closer, watching him.

Murray tried to move, but he was losing consciousness. He took one last look at Ashley-Hunt in the mirror, with the same wonder that Tamsyn Burke must have felt. Everything felt disconnected; his arms and legs were suddenly too heavy to move. He thought again of Rachel Quinn; of the tickets and the ballet and the lost opportunity. He had wasted so much time. Pain shot through his body, a pain unlike anything he had ever felt before. For a moment, he thought he heard Ingrid's voice calling him, and he strained to hear it. He closed his eyes, listening for the voice that had been so dear. She was waiting, he knew. Well, he thought. Perhaps there would be ballet after all.