(2011) Only the Innocent (31 page)

‘Where did you go, Danika? How did you try to find her?’

‘I try first to find Sir Hugo. I cannot go to office, because the girl there is not nice to me when I go last time. I wait for him to come, but I never see him, so I try something else. I try to find out how to get job as high-class prostitute, like Mirela says. I don’t think I’m ugly. The men always say they like my body, and I speak some English. Not so good, but okay.’

Tom unfortunately knew that for some men her slight and childish body would hold great appeal.

‘Well, they tell me no. Not
ever
can I be the high class. They say that everybody knows we are dirty, and nobody will touch us. They cannot get top money for Eastern Europeans.’

‘Why would they say you are dirty, Danika?’

Danika looked down and blushed.

‘The men were allowed to go with us without protection. They say they like it better. We don’t want this, but we have no choice. But I have had all the tests. Peter has arranged this for me. I am not dirty, really I’m not.’

Tom felt a deep sense of shame that men - possibly even men that he knew - would treat such a sweet young girl so abysmally. He couldn’t help feeling some disappointment too. Until he met her, she had been top of his very short list of suspects. Hugo dies, girl goes missing. It had seemed to be too much of a coincidence.

‘I’m quite sure you’re not dirty, Danika. But does that mean that you couldn’t find any trace of Mirela?’

‘No. I even try where we used to be - but I was very frightened that I was caught again. My nice clothes that Grace bought for me were good though. Nobody knew I was prostitute before.’

Tom assumed that Grace was Peter Gregson’s wife. At least something good had happened in this girl’s young life. But if they assumed that the woman seem leaving Hugo’s London house was the murderer, there was no way that it could have been Danika. Even with lots of makeup she would never look like a woman. She had the stick thin arms of a child, and didn’t look as if she would weigh much more than five year old Lucy.

In the end he left her to be interviewed by some of his colleagues. Danika might not fit the bill, but clearly this other girl, Mirela, might.

For now, he needed to get back to Oxfordshire. There were an increasing number of questions that he had to ask Laura. And he understood that Brian Smedley, Hugo’s CFO for the property company and one of the Hugo’s executors, was due at Ashbury Park. Tom was keen to know the detail of the will, and he wanted to be around to assess Laura’s reaction to Hugo’s last wishes.

*

It was around 2.30 when he finally pulled his car up in the darkly shadowed forecourt of Ashbury Park, and mounted the steps to the imposing front door. Becky was expecting him as he had phoned en route, and she opened the door before he had time to ring the bell.

‘Did you bring me those passenger lists? I’m getting bored out of my brains here.’

‘Hi Tom, nice to see you too,’ he mocked. ‘Yes, I do have the lists, and given the number of passengers within the relevant period, you’ll soon be even more bored. Has anything happened round here?’

‘Nothing since this morning. We did all have lunch together, but Stella did most of the talking. Imogen looked as if she’d been crying, actually. Nobody will talk to me. They’re either locked in their rooms, or they’re hunting in pairs, if you know what I mean. Lots of meaningful glances - but nothing I can get a handle on. What about you?’

Tom filled her in with what had been going on back at headquarters, all the time thinking that it didn’t actually add up to much.

‘Do you think Danika had anything to do with it?’ Becky asked.

‘I’m sure she didn’t, but Mirela Tinescy is missing - and she might. I think we’re going to have to interview them all - at least the ones that Hugo’s helped in the last twelve months.
And
all the charity staff, to see if they know of anybody who might have a grudge. All the girls apparently swear to love Hugo, but they’ve had a rough time, and it’s just possible that one of them might have been tempted by a big payout. I’ve got a team setting up all the interviews, and we need to find out what we can about Mirela Tinescy. Ajay is on to that.’

‘Would old Hugo sleep with one of his prostitutes, do you think?’

‘Well, lots of men do - although personally I’ve never seen it as one of my goals in life. Maybe Hugo thought of it as a perk of the job.’

‘Tom - that’s disgusting, and despicable. I can’t believe you’re that cynical.’

He looked at Becky’s snub nose, wrinkled in displeasure. If she knew what he did about Hugo’s penchant for deviant behaviour, he reflected, she would think that sleeping with the charity’s prostitutes was practically normal. The events of the previous evening with Kate had temporarily driven the conversation with Annabel from his mind, but now it came flooding back, and it had to be significant.

Becky showed Tom into the dining room where she had set up a temporary office, with permission from Laura. The room was papered with flock wallpaper in shades of mud, as far as Tom could make out, and one wall was practically covered by a huge faded tapestry, which he imagined would possibly be quite beautiful with a bit of attention paid to it. Down the centre of the room ran the biggest dining table Tom had ever seen, which must have easily seated thirty people. There was no other furniture in the room, just a vast stone fireplace, and heavy velvet curtains. Another welcoming room then.

‘Bloody hell, Becky. Couldn’t you have found somewhere a little bit more cheerful? And why have you chosen to sit at the far end of the table? It’s a two mile hike to the door.’

‘Precisely. It means that whatever’s on my screen, I have ample opportunity to cover it up before they reach me. I don’t trust them, Tom. I
like
them - but even if they’re innocent of Hugo’s murder, they’re hiding something. Especially Imogen. She knows a lot more than she’s letting on. I can see it in her eyes.’

She was right of course, and Tom knew it. Becky had a look of a bulldog about her today, her pretty face showing determination and eagerness. He knew what she thought - he was playing it too slowly. But they had nothing to go on, and certainly nothing concrete that implicated either Laura or Imogen. It wasn’t even a case of circumstantial evidence. There was no evidence at all.

‘I can’t make any sense of it, to be honest. I need to get under their skin some more. Becky - it’s absolutely freezing in here. Is there no heating on?’

Tom had taken his jacket off to drive, and he quickly shrugged his arms back into the sleeves. He wasn’t much of a suit man, but it went with the territory and just now he needed whatever warmth it would offer.

‘You’ll get used to it. I thought you northerners were made of stronger stuff,’ Becky grinned. ‘Anyway, whilst I’ve been sitting here going out of my tiny mind, I did some research on Rohypnol. Being the youngster that I am, I assumed it had been around forever, but the first trace of it that I can find on the Internet is in 1999. It had apparently been available for a lot longer as a prescription drug, but that’s when it was first identified as a date rape drug. The serial rapist, Richard Baker, was the first recorded user in this country. He was caught following a Crime Watch appeal. Anyway, it’s the brand name of flunitrazepam and it’s ten times more potent than Valium. Commonly known as a roofie, of course. According to the Internet - and I’d better read this bit - it’s a “highly-potent hypnotic drug with powerful sedative, anxiolytic - whatever that is - amnestic, and skeletal muscle relaxant properties”. Laura said that she thought he’d used it on her as well, but not for rape purposes. You’ve got to follow that up, Tom.’

‘I will, when I think she’ll tell me the truth. She’s very good at evading questions, and bombarding her just won’t work.’

Becky gave him a fierce look. He knew she was impatient, but she wanted to attack this like she attacked a queue of traffic; without restraint and not afraid to piss a few people off along the way. He was certain this was pointless with Laura. She would not be bamboozled. He had to win her trust.

‘You’d better tell me exactly what you heard this morning,’ Tom said. ‘Let’s try and get something solid to ask them about.’

Becky grabbed her notebook from the end of the table, and sat down.

‘I wrote it down afterwards - word for word as far as possible. You should have heard them though - you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.’ Becky leaned eagerly over her scribbled notes, and recounted the bits of the conversation she’d heard.

‘Tom - the words alone don’t do it. You had to hear Laura’s tone of voice. It was so cold. It was absolutely clear to me that she hated Hugo. Almost as much as Imogen did.’

*

All talk of drugs and hatred came abruptly to an end as the front door bell rang, heralding the arrival of Brian Smedley and a lawyer. Becky took her lists off to her makeshift desk at the far end of the table, and Tom made his way into the hall where Laura was greeting the arriving guests. He couldn’t help but notice that Laura was looking better by the day. She was wearing a pair of black jeans and a scoop necked raspberry red jumper, and the cheerful colour stood out like a beacon against the dirty beige walls of the hall.

She turned towards him, and seemed startled to see him standing there.

‘Tom? I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise that you’d arrived. Have you been offered a cup of tea or coffee?’

One thing that this house didn’t seem to lack was an almost constant supply of hot beverages, but Tom expected that this was fairly normal in homes that had been ripped apart by tragedy. If nothing else, it gave people something to do.

‘I’m sorry, Laura. I should have let you know I was here. Becky let me in and I didn’t want to disturb you. Do you mind if I sit in and listen to the terms of the will? It might be useful in our investigation.’

Tom looked keenly at Laura. She had left her hair loose and wavy again. He could see the beginnings of dark roots, and wondered why anybody would dye their hair to be a shade of mouse. She had slightly more colour in her cheeks too, and her personal confidence seemed to be growing. But she did seem on edge. No doubt she was wondering what surprises Hugo had in store in his will. Given everything he’d heard over the last few hours, he didn’t blame her.

Apparently unaware of Tom’s scrutiny, Laura led the way into the drawing room, asking Mrs Bennett to prepare tea for everybody and offering a glass of something stronger to anybody that wanted it. Only the lawyer took up her offer, and Tom noticed that he looked like he needed it.

When they were all finally seated and their drinks had arrived, Brian coughed rather nervously. As executor he had drawn the short straw, and had to deliver the news. Laura gave a half-hearted a smile.

‘It’s okay, Brian. I knew Hugo very well, and anything that he’s put in the will is unlikely to surprise me. Just give me an outline, that’s all I need.’

‘Thank you, Laura,’ Brian responded. ‘As you know, Hugo was an immensely wealthy man, but had the foresight to put the vast majority of his wealth into various trusts. The trusts paid him round about a million a year for his living expenses, although of course a substantial proportion of that went in tax. But as Ashbury Park is owned by a trust, it pays all the expenses incurred in the maintenance and services for this house and the property in Egerton Crescent, so the remainder was really just for your general living expenses.’

Tom couldn’t help but wonder how they had managed to get through hundreds of thousands of pounds each year, especially as they had no bills to pay. From the look on Laura’s face, she clearly had a similar view.

‘And was that money spent each year, or was some of it saved?’

‘Your living expenses ran to about thirty thousand pounds a month. Clothes, food, travel, maintaining the house in Italy. And of course, Sir Hugo withdrew twenty thousand each month in cash.’

‘
Twenty
thousand pounds a month in cash? Are you sure it was
twenty
?’

Tom glanced questioningly at Laura, but she was looking at the two men with a puzzled frown.

‘What about maintenance for Alexa and Annabel? Was that part of it?’

‘No. When Hugo divorced Annabel, he separated up some of the trusts so that one could support Alexa for the rest of her life, and one Annabel.’

Laura still wore a baffled look, but remained silent.

‘Now, getting back to the will, he has made some provision for you, although the terms are a little complex. Basically, you will be permitted to live here until Alexa is twenty-one, at which point she becomes the legal resident of Ashbury Park. If you remain here until that time, the property in Italy will become yours - it’s currently in Hugo’s name and is being transferred to the company until that date. At that point, you can either sell it to buy yourself a home in England, or go and live there. If you decide to move from this house before Alexa is twenty-one, you forfeit the house in Italy, and you will be forbidden any further contact with Alexa. Should that happen, Annabel must strictly adhere to Hugo’s wishes in this regard. If she doesn’t, she will forfeit a considerable portion of her inheritance too. From what I know of Hugo’s ex-wife, I imagine she will be rigorous in her compliance to these terms. In the meantime, you must spend at least ten months of the year in this house, and ensure that it is suitable for Alexa to move into when the time is right.’

Tom was watching Laura’s expression closely. He had deliberately chosen a seat to one side, which allowed him to check her reactions without her noticing. But apart from her response to the monthly cash withdrawals, the stringent terms of the will seemed to neither surprise nor upset her. This was not the thoughtful will of a loving husband, and that had to be evident to everybody in the room.

‘The trust will pay all bills for the house, and you will receive an additional allowance of fifty thousand pounds a year for your living expenses, rising with inflation, provided that you adhere to the terms mentioned previously. Should you vacate the house prior to the date of Alexa’s twenty-first birthday, you will also lose your annual income. The terms of the trust are specific. The annual income can only be spent on food, clothes and occasional travel. With the trustees’ permission, you may also have additional ad hoc sums of money paid for specific items, for example a new car should that be necessary.’