The Woodcutter (37 page)

He flourished a digital recorder in the air.

‘Either way, Arnie, I reckon you’re fucked. Merry Christmas!’

7

‘Get a job!’

Wolf Hadda sat upright. A middle-aged woman with a laden shopping bag was scowling down at him. On the ground between Sneck’s paws someone had dropped a handful of change. Not her, he assumed.

His mobile rang.

The woman went puce with righteous indignation.

‘My stockbroker,’ said Hadda.

When he returned to the bar a few moments later, he saw that McLucky had finished his drink. But the sandwiches were still untouched.

‘So?’ he said, sitting down. ‘Happy
now
?’

‘You could have switched off, then dealt with Medler. You had an axe, for God’s sake!’

‘Little hatchet. It was Medler’s, actually. Picked it up from a storage shed in the villa garden. Anyway his hands got chopped off by the security shutter, wasn’t that what your informant said?’

‘You could have made it look that way.’

‘Clever me,’ said Hadda. ‘So you’re still not sure about me. Then why aren’t you ringing the cops?’

‘Maybe because the little gobshite was definitely in line for a good kicking after what he did to you. You’d be OK over there. These Latinos understand revenge. Provocation, you didn’t mean him to die, manslaughter.’

‘And how long do these sympathetic Latinos bang you up for that?’

‘I don’t know. You’d need to consult a lawyer.’

‘I have done,’ said Hadda, smiling. ‘He reckons three, four years, maybe, if I got lucky. Then back here to serve the rest of my current sentence.’

‘With this,’ said McLucky, holding up the recorder, ‘they’d surely quash that.’

‘Without hard evidence?’ said Hadda. ‘Parole breaker. Responsible for the death of an ex-cop. Over here they don’t make allowances for revenge. One way or another, I’d be back inside. Look, I could have gone to the Yard with this, but not now Medler’s dead.’

McLucky regarded the other man speculatively.

‘Don’t know if you’re fooling yourself, Hadda, but you don’t fool me. I think I knew from the first time we talked. All this stuff you’ve been paying me for, you’re not interested in proving your innocence, are you? You want to sort it out yourself.’

‘You doing an extension course in psychology?’

‘Maybe I should. Like I say, I’m not so easy to fool as that nice black lass that helped get you out of jail. Or is she in on this?’

Hadda shook his head.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Very positive. Meaning you’ve either got a conscience about her or you’re lying.’

‘Lying? When have I ever lied to you?’

‘How about every time I see you shuffling across a room like you couldn’t raise a sprint if a randy gorilla was chasing you across the veldt with its cock at the ready?’

‘Think your natural history might be a little rusty.’

‘That’s because I’m spending all my time on the psychology.’

‘So where do we go from here?’ said Hadda.

McLucky said, ‘I don’t know about you, but me, I can go any which way I fucking well like. I can still back away from all this shite with none of it sticking to me. What have I done? Gone to Spain, chatted to an old colleague. OK, I’ve pretended to be interested in buying your old mate’s house, but I’ve not got any financial advantage out of that, so no crime.’

‘Well, you did plant a couple of bugs so we could know what they’re saying,’ corrected Wolf. ‘But of course I’d not expect you to break the law seriously. Not for the money I’m paying.’

He smiled as he spoke.

‘Sounds like the start of a negotiation to me,’ said McLucky. ‘Listen, before I decide anything, I want to know what all this stuff about “an interest” means. What are we talking here? Whitehall? Spooks?’

Hadda shrugged.

‘God knows. Probably DTI, worried about how my trial might affect British commercial interests. I was quite important, remember?’

McLucky bared his teeth and snarled, ‘Don’t bullshit me. This guy Wesley’s no civil fucking servant. I listened to the tape, remember? The way you repeated
Wesley,
that sounded like it meant something to you. And Medler certainly thought so.’

‘Just reminded me of someone I used to know,’ said Hadda lightly.

‘Aye? Old friend or old enemy? Mind you, with old friends like you’ve got, I dread to think what your old enemies must be like!’

‘I do still have a few real friends,’ said Wolf.

‘You mean like this solicitor of yours and his guidwife? Aye, they sound like real chums to cover for you like they’re doing. Or do you just know where they buried the bodies?’

‘No, Ed and Doll are the real deal. Good people, too. I’d like you to meet them. Maybe I’ll fix that up when you go back down to London. In fact, they could put you up. Be a damn sight cheaper than these fancy hotels you keep piling on your expense sheet.’

‘Hold it there! You want someone to stay in fleapits, you should have sent that dog of yours. And who says I’m going back to London? I’ve got other clients to think of.’

‘Name three,’ said Wolf. ‘While you’re thinking, why don’t you try a sandwich?’

McLucky studied his face for a moment, then selected a sandwich, opened it, sniffed the smoked salmon and took a bite.

‘That’s agreed then,’ said Hadda. ‘Now it’s just a question of haggling over your fee and sorting out when you head back to the Smoke. That right, Davy?’

‘Davy? You thinking of paying me enough to call me Davy?’

Hadda shook his head.

‘I always call my friends by their first names, and I’d like to think that anyone I’m employing to do what I’m asking you to do was my friend.’

McLucky finished his sandwich, picked up another.

‘I’m getting used to the smoked salmon, Wolf,’ he said.

8

Mireton looked deserted but Alva felt herself observed as she drove through the village past the church to the vicarage.

Hollins came out the front door as she got out of the car.

Eager to greet her, or trying to pre-empt an encounter with his unfriendly wife?

He said, ‘Dr Ozigbo, I’m so sorry. You’ve had a wasted journey.’

‘You mean, he’s back?’

‘On his way. Like I said, I’ve left several messages on his phone. I thought I’d try him one more time just a few minutes ago, and he answered!’

‘And where is he?’ asked Alva.

‘He’s in Carlisle. Visiting his probation officer.’

‘That’s what he told you?’ she said, trying to keep the doubt out of her voice.

‘No. That’s what his probation officer told me. Mr Hadda put him on. It seems he spent Christmas in London, staying with his solicitor and his wife.’

For a second Alva thought crazily he was referring to the Estovers.

Then she said, ‘Mr Trapp, would that be?’

‘That’s it!’ Hollins looked delighted that she knew the name, as if this confirmed all was well. ‘And the arrangement had been made in advance, and Mr Cowper, that’s the probation officer, had checked it out, and Hadda was sorry not to have replied to my calls but his battery had gone flat and he hadn’t noticed till he tried to use the phone himself last night.’

It was a good story, and one so easily checked it had to be water-tight, thought Alva.

So why didn’t she feel as relieved as she ought to?

Maybe because part of her was resenting the knowledge that when Hadda had gone through the motions of pressing her to stay at Birkstane over Christmas, he had already made his other arrangements!

She really needed to get these distracting emotions sorted out. Head back to London, throw herself into her work at Parkleigh, remind herself that Hadda still legally belonged there, and of the reasons why. That should sort it.

‘He sends his regards, by the way,’ added Hollins.

‘You told him I was coming?’

‘Yes. Sorry, shouldn’t I have done? I just wanted to make it clear that going off like that without a word had caused a lot of worry. He said he was really sorry, asked after your father, and said that if you wanted a bed for the night, Birkstane was at your disposal.’

‘Big of him, but I don’t think so,’ said Alva drily, trying to conceal, not least from herself, how attractive the offer was.

‘No, of course, you’ll want to get back to your mother. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Hollins. ‘Look, why don’t you come inside and have a spot of lunch before you set off back? Willa would love to see you again.’

Was this faith at work, or just a simple clerical lie? wondered Alva.

‘Thanks, but no,’ she said. ‘But you can tell me how I get to Ulphingstone Castle.’

‘You’re going to the castle?’ he said in surprise.

‘Yes. It’s all right. I’m expected, sort of. Mrs Estover said she wants to talk to me. I can only imagine it’s something to do with her former husband, so naturally I’m curious. I hope she’s still there.’

She wasn’t certain why she was being so forthcoming with Luke Hollins. Except of course that she liked him, and liked particularly the way he had responded to the arrival of Hadda on his parochial doorstep. Vicars generally she regarded as either inadequates compensating for poor human relationship skills by claiming a special relationship with God, or social workers in drag. Hollins fitted neither of these categories. He was a nice young guy who hadn’t yet made his mind up where he wanted to be.

Perhaps his strong-willed wife would be able to steer him right.

Wasn’t that what wives were for?

She doubted if Wolf Hadda would agree with her.

He said, ‘Yes, she’s there. I rang this morning when I heard from Mr Hadda. His disappearance over Christmas seems to have got them in a bit of a flap. For all the wrong reasons, of course. So I was pleased to be able to assure them that it had all been quite legal and above board.’

She was too kind to remind him it was his own ‘flap’ about the possible wrong reasons for Hadda’s absence that had got her driving all the way here this morning. Instead she said, ‘And how did she take the news?’

‘I didn’t actually speak to Mrs Estover. One of the house guests, Mr Nikitin, answered the phone. He said that the others had all gone down to the stables to see a new foal. He himself does not care for horses, I gather. But he promised to tell Mrs Estover when she got back. That was a couple of hours ago, so she should be back by now. How long does it take to look at a foal?’

‘Depends whether you’re buying or selling, I suppose,’ said Alva. ‘This Mr Nikitin, is that a Russian name?’

‘I believe so. Some distant relative of Lady Kira, I understand.’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘I got the impression that he might be a bit stuck on Mrs Estover.’

Alva smiled at the old-fashioned phrase, which she suspected had been chosen for fear of offending her with something more modern like
got the hots for.

‘And Mrs Estover . . .?’

‘Hard to tell what she is thinking. But I only met her briefly. Now, let me give you directions . . .’

His directions were brief, as indeed was the journey, and five minutes later she was turning through the rather grandiose gateway. The drive up to the castle along an avenue of old oaks was also quite impressive, as was the line of cars she parked alongside. A Bentley Continental in burgundy, a sky-blue Mercedes and a black Range Rover – maybe there was somewhere round the back for grey Fiestas! But the building itself might have been a disappointment if Hadda’s description hadn’t prepared her for it. A substantial mansion in dark granite, with not a battlement, moat or portcullis in sight, it didn’t get anywhere close to being a castle.

For all that when she got out of her car and looked up at the forbidding three-storeyed front, she felt herself repulsed.

The main door opened as she approached and a man came out. Late seventies, early eighties, with a mane of grey hair swept back from his patrician head, he had the kind of looks a director of Roman epics would have given his script-writer’s right hand for.

Had to be Sir Leon, she thought. Unless the baronetcy went in for look-alike butlers.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Alva Ozigbo. Mrs Estover left me a message inviting me to have a chat.’

Her clever wording looked to be a wasted subtlety. The man regarded her so blankly she began to wonder if she’d misunderstood the vicar’s directions. Maybe half a mile further on there was a real castle with moat and portcullis.

She said, ‘It is Sir Leon, isn’t it?’

His name seemed to trigger awareness.

He said, ‘Ozigbo? You the psycho thingy?’

‘That’s right. Is your daughter at home?’

‘Glad to meet you,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Very glad. Imo? Think she’s around, though you never know with that girl. Was the same when she was young. Came and went at her own sweet will. Moves like a ghost.’

‘Ms Ozigbo, you got my message then. I really didn’t expect the pleasure of seeing you in person. A phone call would have done.’

Imogen, as if to prove the accuracy of her father’s simile, had materialized in the doorway. Last time Alva had seen her, she’d been wrapped up in winter walking gear. Even that hadn’t been able to disguise how attractive she was. Now in a flowered skirt and a sleeveless top, she looked ready for a glossy photo-shoot.

‘I thought it would be good to meet face to face. If you’re not too busy, that is?’

‘Not at all. Come in. Thank you, Daddy.’

Dismissing Sir Leon almost as if he
were
a look-alike butler!

Alva followed the woman into a hall that had a definite touch of the baronial about it, and up a staircase that might not have been sweeping enough for a coach and horses but could certainly have accommodated a couple of armoured knights side by side.

‘In here,’ said Imogen, opening a door.

Baronial stopped. They entered into a room that could have illustrated an article in a modern style and design magazine. Carpeted in pale ivory, with everything else in subtly varied shades of the same colour, it was a room for someone who moved like a ghost. The only strident note was sounded by the one painting, an abstract, an undulating line of bright green over a flat plane of glowing orange above another broader plane of fiery red underscored by a jagged band of pure black. Rothko, maybe? guessed Alva. What did having a Rothko on your wall indicate? Apart, of course, from a desire to say, Look at this, you peasants, and acknowledge we’re stinking rich! From what she’d gathered about Lady Kira, this might well be her style.