The Unquiet Dead (29 page)

‘Detective Inspector Driver – luckily none of the family are at home at present, but thank you very much for showing them such concern. I assume we can all return to our daily business?’

Jessie must have looked a little confused because he quickly apologised and introduced himself. His name was Terence Vane and he was, to all extent and purposes, the butler. Of course he didn’t call himself the butler. He called himself personal valet to Mrs Scott-Somers, mistress of the house. It was
only then that Jessie recalled the death of Mr Scott-Somers about a year previously. Mrs Scott-Somers had become a very rich widow indeed.

‘Mr Vane, I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to locate Mrs Scott-Somers’ daughter. Am I right in thinking that she lives here?’

‘Quite. Though, as I said, she is not at home at this moment. May I leave her a message?’ He smiled like a TV host.

‘And she still goes by the name Scott-Somers?’

‘Yes,’ he clipped. ‘Charlotte Scott-Somers.’

‘Oh,’ said Jessie. ‘You misunderstood me. I meant Nancy.’

Terence Vane made a small fish movement with his lips, recovered himself quickly, then apologised again. ‘My mistake, I should have enquired which of Mrs Scott-Somers’ daughters you sought. With Charlotte being in residence, I naturally assumed you were seeking her.’

‘Naturally,’ said Jessie, matching the butler’s forced smile.

There was a pause.

‘So where is she – Nancy?’

‘Oh, um, I believe she is skiing at present. Yes.’

‘In Europe?’

‘Oh, no. America. Possibly Canada – you’ll have to ask Mrs Scott-Somers.’

‘And when will Mrs Scott-Somers be home?’

Jessie watched the man tick his boss’s schedule silently off on his fingers. ‘She is out for the evening. Perhaps I can pass on the message to her, she
usually answers all her mail and phone messages in the morning.’

‘Yes, if she could call me at –’ Jessie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

‘Would you excuse me?’ said Terence Vane, clicking his heels and bowing slightly. He made the same hasty beeline for the front door. All Jessie could see was the butler being passed heavily embossed shopping bags and a slim hand wrap itself around his pressed jacket sleeve.

‘Can you believe it? Sarah Klein tried to kill Timothy. I watched the whole thing from the street, it’s mayhem out there –’

‘Miss Charlotte, a pol—’

‘– She locked her daughter in the boot of her car! Terence, what is wrong with people? I bet Timothy has something to do with it, he can’t keep his hands to himself. It’s probably why the poor thing ran away. Do you remember when he came over for Christmas and tried to fondle –’

‘There is a police woman here to see you,’ said the butler more firmly.

‘There is?’

The door opened wider. A pin-thin young woman stood on the threshold. She had long blonde hair, worn tousled and free, and large dark-brown eyes. Her face looked scrubbed and clean, a look that required work over the age of twenty-one. Jessie knew that Charlotte Scott-Somers had to be at least thirty. Her clothes accentuated the adolescent image. A V-neck pink cashmere cardigan revealed
a flat chest and her wide, swirling skirt was drawn in tight round her tiny waist. On her feet were flat court shoes. She reminded Jessie of a child dressed up for a tea party.

‘I didn’t mean that – about Timothy.’

Yes you did, thought Jessie, and you were right too.

‘Is everybody in the house all right?’

Jessie nodded. ‘Everyone’s fine. I’m looking for your sister.’

‘I informed the detective that I believe Miss Nancy to be skiing,’ said the butler hurriedly, and a little too helpfully, in Jessie’s opinion.

‘Yes. Skiing. Lucky cow.’

The butler and Charlotte Scott-Somers stood side by side, smiles fixed, staring at Jessie.

‘Where is she skiing?’

‘I’m not sure. Canada, I think. Possibly the States.’

Terence nodded in agreement.

‘That doesn’t really narrow the field. Perhaps she has a mobile number I could call her on?’

‘Not Nancy – far too modern for her.’

Jessie felt the presence of an invisible brick wall rise before her.

‘When will she be back?’

‘Goodness,’ said Charlotte with a forced laugh, ‘we have so many houses, she may never be back. Isn’t that right, Terence?’

‘Yes, Ma’am. Many houses.’

‘I really do need to speak to Nancy,’ said Jessie,
in a low voice intended to convey the seriousness of the situation. But Charlotte wasn’t listening, or didn’t want to hear.

‘Why don’t you leave your details with Terence and I’ll get my mother to call if she can help.’

‘I’d appreciate it if your mother called anyway.’

‘Fine, fine – whatever. I’ll tell her to call you. Now I really have to go. I’m very late, you see – it was being caught up in the blockade outside. Must go!’ For all her persistence, Charlotte remained rooted to the floor.

‘Fine,’ Jessie replied.

A few more seconds passed before the blonde scooped up her shopping bags. Only three per cent of the British population were true blondes. Jessie didn’t think Charlotte Scott-Somers was one of them.

‘Fine,’ Charlotte repeated, then streaked through the hall and disappeared behind a set of double doors. As Jessie handed her card to the butler she thought she heard the sound of clinking glass from the next room. She hadn’t expected the staff to ask why the police were looking for Nancy Scott-Somers, that would be too indiscreet; but for her sister not to enquire could mean only one thing. Her nonchalance was as forced as her laugh. The sound Jessie had heard from the other side of those doors was the top coming off of a heavy crystal decanter. Whatever it was about Nancy that forced her sibling to turn to drink, it wasn’t ‘fine’.

Early the following morning, Jessie plugged in the security code to the station and went upstairs to her office. She placed a paper cup of take-away coffee down and looked at the five unread box files on the desk. Hearing the door swing closed behind her, she turned.

‘DCI Moore? Good morning.’

‘Sorry to startle you. I wanted to congratulate you on your handling of the situation yesterday.’

‘You’re the one who got the gun.’

‘But I would have left the engine running if it hadn’t been for your uncanny reading of the situation.’

‘What did Sarah say?’

‘That Timothy Powell had seduced her daughter while he was in the house waiting for her to get ready. Anna Maria is in pieces. She thought Powell loved her.’

‘Well,’ said Jessie, ‘at that age you’ve no reason not to believe them.’

‘You were right, she was only fifteen when they met.’

‘Poor girl. How old is he? Fifty?’

‘More like sixty. They’re animals,’ said Moore angrily. ‘The fucking lot of them.’

‘Did they have sex?’

‘Yes. It only went on for a few weeks, then he moved on to other pastures, leaving Anna Maria desperate. That was why she planned her own abduction: to get his attention. She thought he’d come running.’

But he hadn’t.

‘Why did Sarah lock her daughter in the car?’

‘She says she was too scared to leave her on her own. That it was for her own safety.’

Jessie didn’t have to point out the contradiction of that statement.

‘Two nights ago Anna Maria Klein was rushed to a private clinic to have her stomach pumped. Vodka and her mother’s Diazepam. Sarah Klein managed to keep the story out of the press.’

Probably because for once she didn’t leak it, thought Jessie.

Moore continued, ‘I believe her when she says she didn’t realise the engine was running.’

Jessie wasn’t quite so sure. ‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘Sarah is trying to convince Anna Maria to press charges against Powell. Legally, Sarah cannot do that without her daughter’s consent. Anna Maria doesn’t want to, she says she loves him.’

‘What a mess.’

‘And it’ll get messier when Sarah’s case comes to trial. Anyway, I would have brought you a drink last night, but you didn’t come to the pub with everyone else.’

‘Sorry about that; my brother is only in town for a few more days and we had a dinner planned.’

Moore looked over at Jessie’s desk. ‘So you weren’t here, burning the midnight oil?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Good. Don’t want you working too hard. Burnout is high among ambitious young detectives.’

Jessie offered Moore a drink, Moore declined. Jessie offered her a seat, Moore declined. Jessie began to wonder if this was the friendly chat it was being dressed up to be.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’ she asked.

‘There is, actually. I think you and I may have got off to a bad start. I would like to apologise for that.’ Jessie was so taken aback by these unexpected words that she was totally disarmed. It was only later, when the full purpose of the conversation revealed itself, that Jessie realised total disarmament had been DCI Moore’s intention. Jessie not only took full responsibility for the bad start, she thanked Moore for the ‘unnecessary’ apology. Hours later she was still smarting.
Unnecessary
! The woman had over-ruled her, belittled her, offended her
and
told her what to wear. At the time, however, she had apologised and her apology was accepted.

Moore fiddled with the only photo frame on Jessie’s desk. ‘Who’s that in the photograph?’ she asked, picking it up.

‘My mother.’

‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You look a lot like her.’

‘Not as beautiful.’

‘In your own way, Jessie, you are.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Take it, I don’t give them out very often.’

Jessie laughed at that. ‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘Sarcasm is not ladylike,’ said DCI Moore, though Jessie detected a hint of humour.

‘I gather you went to see Jones the other day.’

Jessie’s guard rose a couple of notches. ‘Yes.’

‘I hope it wasn’t because you don’t feel able to talk to me about things.’

‘I just wanted to know how he was.’

‘And how was he?’

Friend or foe? Goodwill or trap? ‘It takes a while to adjust to the change. I guess he’s adjusting.’

‘I’m not sure that he is,’ said Moore. ‘You probably don’t know this, but he and I go back a long way. Mutual friends inform me that he isn’t sleeping. Insomnia and depression are linked, you know.’

‘I think all his friends need to rally round him. I’ve asked Father Forrester to go and see him.’

‘Excellent idea. Jones is lucky to have your support. You and he were always close.’

‘Yes,’ said Jessie, refusing to find a hidden meaning in Moore’s words. ‘And we still are. He’s my mentor. I know every case he worked on, I’ve studied them all and I respect him enormously. I would hate to see this end badly.’

‘We won’t let that happen.’

Moore turned as if to leave. ‘One last thing: any formal ID on the body in the baths?’

‘Nothing concrete,’ Jessie replied.

‘And Mrs Romano, have you found her yet?’

‘No, she’s still missing. A definite suspect, though I haven’t ruled out her husband either.’

‘They certainly had a very good reason to want this man dead if they believed him to be responsible for their son’s death.’

‘Yes, they did.’

‘In which case you won’t need to return to the Scott-Somers’ house, will you?’

Jessie couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘The answer I need from you is no.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Jessie.

‘It’s important that you do understand. You cannot go anywhere near the Scott-Somers family. That is an order.’

‘From who?’

‘From people far higher than me, Jessie. Do not pursue that line of inquiry, or you may give DI Ward what he lost in that bet.’ Jessie frowned. ‘Yes, I know about that too. His office is yours when he returns to work – as long as you don’t do
anything stupid, that is.’ She laid a hand on the unread case notes. The name Scott-Somers stood out boldly on the label. ‘Are these all of the files?’ she asked.

Jessie nodded.

‘Luckily for you, I’m on my way down to CID admin now.’

Jessie pushed the files over. ‘My, that is convenient,’ she replied.

It took a while to track him down but eventually she did. According to personnel records, Paul Cook was living off a nominal police pension on the outskirts of South London. He’d spent the rest of his time in the Force as a DI, which told Jessie quite a lot, but not enough. She jotted down the address. A ride to the south coast would be good for her. She’d abide by DCI Moore’s rules. For now.

It started raining before Jessie even got to the river. It was going to be a long, cold, wet ride through the eternal high streets of South London before she reached the motorway. Something had gone wrong with the Scott-Somers case that had blighted his previously unblemished career. Maybe he just wasn’t as pro-establishment as higher-ranking positions required. If so, Jessie hoped he wasn’t the type to be frightened off by a warning from on high.