Cherringham--Blade in the Water (7 page)

Sarah stepped outside into the bright sunshine.

“Thanks for your help, Donna,” she said. “If we get anywhere with ViaVita, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good luck,” said Donna. “And mind how you go. They’re into more than just vitamins, you know.”

Sarah’s heart jumped — and she turned back to Donna instantly.

“What do you mean?”

“They do some really bad stuff,” said Donna. “Didn’t you come across that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Illegal drugs. Kind you get online. Performance enhancers, pain killers, steroids, fitness stuff. All done on the quiet, of course.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I was offered it, by their associates,” said Donna. “More like hints …”

“Go on.”

“They said they had other — ‘products’ — they called them, things that could bring in enough cash to turn things round for me.”

“But you said no?”

“Too right. God, I’m in enough trouble as it is. Don’t you think?”

Sarah nodded and smiled.

“Okay. I’m definitely going to get Tony to come round — sound all right?”

“Maybe when Carl’s not here, eh?”

“Good idea,” said Sarah. “You’ve been brilliant Donna. Keep going. We’ll get them.”

“Yeah.”

She watched Donna give her a blank look — a look without hope — then headed back to her car.

She doesn’t believe me,
thought Sarah.
But I
will
get these guys.

She got in the car, turned it round and headed back to Cherringham.

The sudden appearance of Carl had unnerved her. And it had also been a warning. A reminder. Investigating a murder could be dangerous. And if you let your guard drop, if you stopped concentrating, if you made assumptions …

The results could be fatal.

Jack walked down the terraced lawns of Magnusson’s house towards the river and took in the gorgeous view.

The sun shining brilliantly, the Thames below sparkling as it flowed.

In the fields along its banks bright flags fluttered from white marquees. On either side of the Magnusson estate he could see ancient woodland stretching down to the water.

The whole scene would have been perfect …

Had it not been for the two tall men in sunglasses and dark suits who accompanied him as he walked.

They’d been waiting for him in the lobby of the house when he arrived. Not threatening, just the right side of intimidating.

But sending a signal nevertheless.

He’d phoned ahead to make an appointment — when he’d described his business as ‘urgent and confidential’ the male voice at the other end of the phone had agreed to the meeting with his boss.

Although there had been the warning: “Mr. Magnusson is a
very
busy man and you will have twenty minutes of his time only, Mr. Brennan.”

So here Jack was, still in his jeans, but with his best Banana Republic tan jacket just to show a little respect for the occasion …

“Don’t see you fellas in Cherringham much,” said Jack cheerily to his two bodyguards.

There was no response — not a flicker.

“You know, you should check out Huffington’s at least — they make these amazing little cookies—”

The bodyguards stopped in their tracks so Jack stopped too.

“If you could wait on the jetty, sir; Mr. Magnusson will be with you shortly,” said the bodyguard on the left, gesturing down to the river. Jack could see a short jetty that jutted out into the Thames next to a smart white clapboard boathouse.

The bodyguards didn’t intend to come with him, so Jack smiled nicely and walked the last few yards alone. There was a small bench so he sat down. He looked back up the lawn at the house. The place was immense — must be ten or twenty bedrooms, he thought. God knows how many bathrooms.

The interior had been all wood floors and big modern art. Nice in a gallery — not Jack’s taste in a home, that was for sure.

Apart from the two guards, who now stood motionless twenty yards apart on the lawn, there was no sign of life in the house that he could see.

He guessed Mr. Magnusson would join him eventually. That ticker might be running already on his twenty minutes, so he hoped it would be soon.

He turned his attention back to the river. There were boats everywhere scurrying back and forth, somehow avoiding each other. Rowing boats, cruisers, yachts, barges.

One boat caught his eye.

A single scull, bright yellow, a couple of hundred yards away, but coming in his direction fast. The guy rowing was tall, blond — and Jack suddenly realised — was almost certainly Mr. Magnusson …

A fine rower too. Back in the States Jack had rowed a little in college but he quickly knew his limitations and switched to track. He’d seen guys who were destined to be international oarsmen though, and admired their technique.

And Magnusson had the technique down. Rhythm, power, control, precision — the scull flying towards the jetty like an arrow.

At what seemed to Jack like the last minute, Magnusson stopped rowing and deftly used the blades to slow the boat, then perfectly spin it sideways on to the jetty.

Instinctively Jack got up from the bench and went across to secure the scull.

From the boathouse a young man in polo shirt and shorts joined them to steady the other end of the boat. As Magnusson stepped out onto the jetty, the young man handed him a folded white towel.

Jack watched as Magnusson wiped his face, head and shoulders, then turned to Jack and nodded a greeting.

If there was such a magazine as
Scandinavian Sportsman
— then Magnusson would be on the cover every week: blond hair, big grin, broad shoulders. Six foot six for sure …

“Mr. Brennan. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

“No problem,” said Jack. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’ll go up to the house,” said Magnusson setting off immediately.

Jack noticed that he didn’t even check the boat was secure: he clearly expected the young guy to be doing his job. No questions asked.

Jack caught up with Magnusson and the two bodyguards joined them as they walked back up the lawn.

“Good of you to find the time to meet, at such short notice,” said Jack.

“Lucky I’m here at all,” said Magnusson. “But I intend to race tomorrow.”

“Single sculls huh? You good?”

“I’m not in the habit of losing.”

I bet you’re not,
thought Jack.

“I’m intrigued that an ex New York cop with a line in amateur detecting should have any business with me,” said Magnusson, turning to Jack as they walked.

So the guy’s been doing his homework,
thought Jack.

“Intrigued, Mr. Brennan — but also alarmed.”

“Oh, nothing to be alarmed about, I’m sure,” said Jack.

They reached the rear entrance to the house and Magnusson stopped.

“I must shower,” he said.

Jack thinking …
is my timer running?

Then over his shoulder he called to the guards.

“Take Mr. Brennan to the conservatory.”

Jack watched him disappear inside the house then looked at the two guards. They gestured to a path that ran beside the house.

What Mr. Magnusson wants,
thought Jack,
Mr. Magnusson gets …

*

Jack sat in the conservatory. A white marble bust looked directly at him from atop a black grand piano.

Someone Roman,
Jack thought.

One of the slain Caesars perhaps?

The room, with glass doors that opened to a rear garden, looked meticulously maintained. A mahogany coffee table was artfully dotted with over-sized books on sailing, competitive rowing, and boats.

For reference, a giant globe stood on a stand in a nearby corner.

The room’s colour scheme — muted greens, blues, with a large plush area rug nearly covering the gleaming wood floor.

Tasteful.

Doesn’t quite feel ‘English’ though, Jack thought.

No books, save for the carefully stacked books on sailing; more décor than reading material, he guessed.

Maybe there was an actual library somewhere? Or — more likely — Magnusson wasn’t much of a reader.

Jack dug out his phone.

He had put it on mute but he saw a new text message.

‘
Met Donna Woods. Interesting and sad story. Meet up later?’

Jack texted back; ‘
Sure. At Magnusson’s. Nothing to report from here yet.’

He hit send, which is when Anders Magnusson walked into the sunlit room.

His singlet replaced with tennis shoes, and matching whites — the afternoon activity, perhaps.

“Mr. Brennan, so sorry for the delay. Needed to get that practice in.” He smiled. “Like to make a good showing at the Regatta. The English think they own the crewing event. Good to show them otherwise, hmm?”

Jack nodded. “Glad you could make the time for me.”

Magnusson clapped his hands together. “How about a drink? G&T, beer, wine—”

“Bit early for me. Cup of tea?”

As if a sixth sense cued him, a classically dressed butler with upraised chin and hooded eyes entered the room.

“Pot of tea, James.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler said, performing a military turn on his heels and leaving.

Then Magnusson sat down one of the other easy chairs.

“You mentioned business, Mr. Brennan …?”

Magnusson was flashing a brilliant smile. Obviously the word ‘business’ made him very happy.

“Well, kind of …”

Jack guessed he best tread carefully here.

With the black suited goons not far away, probably wouldn’t take much to get a quick escort out of the manse, and off the property.

Questions unanswered.

“I’ve been, well, been looking into the matter of your … business associate … Martin Kent and his runaway boat?”

The smiled faded. Though not completely gone, Jack guessed he would soon see it disappear.

“Apparently he came here, to visit you, the day before his boat ran aground. Then, well—”

Magnusson put up a hand, the gesture of someone used to doing such a move and silencing the room with a gesture.

“Jack. Mr. Kent — Martin — is CEO of our company.”

“ViaVita.”

The word gave Magnusson pause. “Yes. And he often boats down here. Visit. He travels extensively. So yes, he did visit two nights ago. But as to—”

Then, expecting James with a tea tray, Jack looked up to see what — back in the day — he would have described as a ‘blonde bombshell’ walk into the room.

“Ah, Viola—”

Kent’s wife. Here …

Interesting.

“Just chatting here with Mr. Brennan … about Martin.”

Said — Jack thought — as if a warning.

Viola held a glass in her hand, ice cubes rattling against the side as she walked over, her blue eyes locked on Jack.

She managed the steps on towering stilettos without a problem.

And with her eyes on Jack, he felt more like a prey, especially sitting in the over-sized easy chair, trapped in it pillowy cushions.

“The American,” she said. She extended a hand, and Jack got up and shook it.

The woman smiled. “A … New
Yawker,”
she added.

“
Guilty as charged,” he said.

Viola sailed to the couch with her drink, adopting a pose that — if she wasn’t just a bit frightening — Jack would have to admit was pretty, um, distracting.

Legs crossed, an early cocktail party in session.

“Oh,” Magnusson said. “You are wondering why Viola … Martin’s wife is here?”

“That thought did occur to me,” Jack said.

“Martin and I have parted ways,” Viola said. “And Anders and I have become close. We three
always
travelled together.”

Jack nodded.

“Your husband, Mrs. Kent, appears to be missing. Would you have any idea where—”

Again, Magnusson jumped in to fill in the gap.

“I was explaining, sweetheart, that Martin often visits here. We saw him a few evenings ago when he boated down. But other than that …”

Mrs. Kent nodded, as if getting the message.

So far no goons had appeared to escort him out, so Jack continued.

“Was he upset that night? I mean, about your relationship, anything …?”

“No,” Magnusson said emphatically. “I mean, we discussed a few company things, the upcoming Regatta. But,” he shot a look at Viola who — as far as Jack could tell — had not taken her eyes off him.

Quite disconcerting …

“Yes. Martin accepts things — between V and me — as they are. And we are still all quite friendly.”

Jack smiled.

He wasn’t buying any of that.

Something happened that night, he’d bet. But the chance of getting exactly what that was, from these two, seemed to be slim to none.

“Good to hear,” Jack said. “So you last saw him here — two nights ago?”

“We had dinner together,” said Magnusson. “Delightful meal, wasn’t it, my dear?”

“Wonderful. Al fresco,” said Viola.

The Italian for outdoor dining rolled off the woman’s tongue as if it was the name of some hitman.

“And then Mr. Kent left?”

“Cast off into the beautiful evening,” said Magnusson.

“We waved him away from the jetty,” said Viola.

Jack pictured the charming scene, three friends together in the moonlight — and didn’t believe a word.

“And that’s the last you saw of him?”

“Martin was — is — a very experienced sailor,” said Magnusson. “He often goes a bit walkabout. Likes his little … adventures.”

At this, Viola rolled her eyes. “Does he ever.”

“Unfortunate about his boat. But I’m sure he’ll show up soon. Have you tried his mobile? Though he often has that off. Hates to have work interfere with pleasure.”

“Believe the police may have tried …”

At the ‘p’ word, Jack felt the two of them pause. The duo turning into a still life in this large, tasteful room.

Then Magnusson nodded.

“I’m afraid I do have some business to attend to …”

The butler showed up with tea.

Magnusson looked from Jack to his servant.