Cobweb (3 page)

‘I really could do with more information before I do anything.'

‘I know. I'll meet up with you somehow, or give you a ring. Keep your mobile switched on.'

He rang off before I could say any more.

‘Expenses?' I said out loud. ‘Train tickets? Conditions of employment? Or am I just on Patrick's expense account under sundries like petrol, dry cleaning and stationery?'

I did a swift mental recce around my writing plans. I had just completed reworking the screenplay for a novel I had written some years previously,
A Man Called Celeste,
and sent it off to the States. I actually had no concrete ideas for what I was going to do next, other than that it would be a crime novel set in Devon with echoes of Holmes, Dartmoor and all things dark, wild and bog-ridden. But, hey, Woodhill was probably a wild sort of place in its own way and wasn't there a thundering great forest right on the doorstep?

A few minutes later the phone rang again.

‘I've just had a call on my mobile from our Richard,' Patrick said, as though there had been no break in our conversation.

Colonel Richard Daws had been our boss in MI5 days. ‘He's found out about your new venture?' I hazarded.

‘It's better than that. He's one of those with his hands on the reins at SOCA – on the intelligence side of things. It was he who wanted me in. I should have guessed he'd be involved in a set-up like this.'

‘I thought he'd retired.'

‘I expect growing roses and writing letters to
The Times
gets tedious after a while. And, as you know, SOCA did recruit a lot of senior service people due for retirement to get the structure right.'

I also knew that this new agency was essentially an amalgamation of four others: the National Crime Squad, the National Criminal Intelligence Service and the investigations divisions of HM Customs and the Immigration Service.

‘So you'll be working for Daws?'

‘Indirectly and as long, as he put it, “as everything works out satisfactorily”. Presumably that means as long as I still have balls in the right places. It was he who insisted I call myself Lieutenant-Colonel – as he put it, “or some jack-in-office might treat you like one of the cleaners”.'

‘We didn't arrange a place where we could bump into one another.'

‘There's a pub near the park where Giddings was murdered called the Green Man. I'll be in there between eight and nine for the next few evenings.'

‘I probably won't be there tomorrow.'

‘OK.'

‘How d'you want me to be?'

‘Yourself, for the present.'

Good. I did not want to be bothered with assuming a disguise if I was to undertake research, genuinely or not, for a new novel. This was not to say that I would necessarily have to refrain from using a change of appearance at all, as Patrick had intimated. It is amazing the transformation a temporary colour-rinse and change of hairstyle, different make-up and weird and wonderful clothes can make, the latter often freely available in charity shops. With this in mind I planned to travel light.

When, after a pause, the door of my friend Maggie's flat opened and the most beautiful man I had ever clapped eyes on in my life gazed at me sleepily, I thought I had come to the wrong address.

‘You're Ingrid,' he said with a smile that turned my knees to jelly.

I prayed that I had gawped neither at him nor at his deep-violet-coloured pyjamas.

‘Maggie told me you were coming,' he went on, opening the door wide. ‘She's out right now, seeing a client, but told me to wait on you hand and foot until she comes back. I'm Julian, by the way, the lodger.'

I endeavoured to slay any suspicion of another arrangement he and my old friend might have, telling myself sternly that Maggie was in her early fifties. Sadly, I failed. Unless this gorgeous mortal before me was gay.

As I already knew, her homes always reflected Maggie's chosen career – that of interior designer – although I was also aware that she never invited her clients to where she lived, at least not since she had had a bad experience with a slightly dodgy character who had tried to steal a small but valuable item when her back was turned.

I went in. My friend had only lived in this particular apartment for a few months and had certainly had the place redecorated: the smell of paint still lingered. I do not have time to pore over home and garden magazines, but here, surely, were the latest trends imbued with her personal taste. In the living room were the ‘signature' silk-covered and hand-embroidered cushions and lampshades as well as the woven wall hangings and antique furniture that I recognized, remembering that she had inherited them from an aunt.

Julian had taken my travel bag from me without my noticing and was bearing it away, presumably in the direction of the spare bedroom. ‘Tea? Coffee?' he asked over his shoulder. ‘Or are you one of those writers who like whisky at any time of day?' – this with the kind of grin that told me two things; well, one really: he wasn't gay and was flirting with me for his own amusement.

‘Coffee, please,' I answered, adding, ‘I hope I didn't get you out of bed.'

‘You did, but I'm glad. I hadn't meant to sleep in. Rehearsals at noon.'

‘You're involved with the theatre?'

‘Dance. I'm with the Royal Ballet.'

Maggie had been saying for a while, during our periodic telephone conversations, that I must come and stay with her and see the new flat. She lived quite a way from what was to be my zone of operations, in West Hampstead, but I did not intend to inflict myself on her for very long nor return to her home every night, and would be out for most of the day.

‘I understand you're in London to research a book,' Julian said over coffee. He had changed, ready to go out, into black jeans and black roll-neck cotton top and looked good enough to eat. ‘What's it about?'

‘Murder.'

‘Don't tell Maggie – that kind of thing makes her nervous.'

It suddenly occurred to me that if our activities stirred up trouble right from the start – in other words, if Patrick and I stirred up a nest of criminal hornets – I would have to be very, very careful that I was not followed back here.

The next morning, with a slight hangover, Maggie and I having drunk far too much wine as we had yarned into the small hours, I set off for Woodhill, using the tube. This mode of travel did nothing to improve my headache and it was a decidedly grumpy novelist who arrived and headed straight into a chemist's for some kind of cure and then into Starbucks for something with which to wash it down. Part of my irritation was caused by the realization that I had behaved stupidly in not staying clear-headed, and it was unfair to blame Maggie even though she does have a bad effect on me. A general ‘What the hell?' attitude seems to rule her life. Without it I think she would be far more successful in what she does.

No more wine and late nights, then.

And no, I was none the wiser about the true status of the delectable Julian.

Slightly restored, I found the public library and read everything I could lay my hands on in back numbers of the local papers about the Giddings murder, DCI Derek Harmsworth's death, DI John Gray's misgivings about it, and then his own violent end in his own home the previous week. I made detailed notes, which took me around one and a half hours. Though I was aware that Patrick would eventually brief me with details that would not reach the press, it was at least useful to have a framework upon which to make a start.

Even knowing as little as I did, it seemed odd that Harmsworth's car had gone through the parapet of a bridge over a motorway in exactly the same spot as had a heavy goods vehicle two days previously. The damaged and missing railings had been temporarily replaced by orange tape and plastic netting by the Highways Agency. Locals, according to the letters in the papers, thought the place an accident black spot – something to do with a bend in the road just before the bridge. I decided to bring the car the next day and have a look for myself.

One had also to take into consideration that, according to Gray, Harmsworth had not been an excessive drinker – in fact had been known to hardly touch alcohol at all while working on a case. He had been a very careful driver. Another point was that he had been due to retire soon and although Gray had known his chief had been looking forward to this he had made no plans with regard to what he would do with the rest of his life. This had bothered him slightly but not depressed him. Questioned further, the DI had said he was convinced that Harmsworth really was looking forward to leaving the job and not pretending. Besides which, he had always had a very dim view of people who took their own lives.

I decided that I wanted to leave the police to investigate the murders and try to find out what had happened to Harmsworth, as that matter now appeared to be regarded as closed. Someone from officialdom, preferably someone with clout – Patrick, for example – could grill Honor Giddings and lurk near the park where her husband had died. Bitchily, perhaps, I had already cast her in the shape of a differently named lookalike – tall, thin-lipped, haughty, violent even, as she had assaulted a press photographer who had come too close – as the number one crone in my new novel.

Even more bitchily, as a stinking red herring.

The Green Man was situated at a crossroads at the western, Woodhill end of Epping Forest (the entire area being far greener than I had imagined it would be) and I had an idea it was one of those very old hostelries that had recently been modernized out of all recognition. The children's play area had one of those plastic trees that my two boys sneered at as pathetic – even Justin, who once had to be rescued by the Fire Brigade from a real one, bigger, at the age of three. This and the brightly coloured swings were bereft of little ones, though, as it was term time.

It seemed a good idea to have a look at the place, besides which it was lunch time. Julian had still been in bed and Maggie had disappeared while I was in the shower and her hospitality had not run to breakfast. I had had a tentative rummage in the kitchen, found lots of things like fresh anchovies, fillet steak, wildly expensive olive oil and kumquats, but no bread or cereal.

For some reason I could not get Derek Harmsworth out of my mind, possibly because of Gray's obvious loyalty and high regard for him. ‘One of the old school,' the DI had said. ‘As honest as the day is long. Right on the line,' clichés that somehow made the homespun integrity of both men more poignant and their deaths pure tragedy. I found myself wondering if investigating them would answer quite a lot of other questions. Gray had been killed in the same ghastly way as Giddings, but was this a copycat killing by someone hoping to draw suspicion away from themselves?

The car park at the pub was practically full and even though it was a chilly day after the unseasonably hot start to spring, some hardened souls were sitting outside at the rustic tables. From the blue smoke emanating from the chimneys I knew that inside was what I was really after: log fires. There was one at each end of the huge bar area in which I found myself and I bought myself an orange juice and gravitated to the nearest one, where there was a group of armchairs, all vacant. In so doing I walked past someone I knew, Patrick, who was leaning on the bar talking to a tall and rather beautiful redhead.

Having seated myself still within sight of him, but not her unless she moved, I studied the menu I had picked up, giving the pair an occasional glance over the top of it. My cat's whiskers had already told me that Patrick had seen me, was not chatting her up, even though in charm mode, and that they were probably talking business. She was Bill, then, and I amused myself Holmes-style by judging that she was either Scots or Irish with that hair and superb complexion, was neat, tidy and efficient. Had she worked for either Harmsworth or Gray? The annoying thing was that it did not seem I was about to find out, as himself was making no move to recognize me and in the circumstances it was out of the question for me to go over and speak to him. No matter how professional I try to become at this game I always fall at this particular fence and right now wanted to upend his pint of Old Fart – or whatever the hell he was drinking – all over him in revenge for the smile on his face. I toyed with the idea of treating Julian to dinner this evening instead.

I wandered over to a separate counter where one ordered food, again passing quite close to the pair – just to get him all of a twitch – and organized some lunch for myself. A mobile rang; it was the redhead's, and she went outside to answer it. Patrick then finished his beer, gave me a leery wink and headed off in the opposite direction to where I was standing in a short queue, and I did not see him again just then.

So be it. I would come back later.

I decided to walk around the district in order to get the lie of the land, although for the time being I intended, as requested, to stay right away from the nick. I was really regretting having left the car behind as, although one tends to notice more while on foot, a vehicle can be used as a base where one can consult maps, have a rest or even a nap. It was going to be a very long day.

The business of researching a novel had gone right out of the window; it seemed wiser to concentrate solely on the job in hand, although I intended to use it as an excuse if challenged while snooping perhaps where I should not be. Thundering great forest or no, for some reason this area held no mystery for me and if somewhere does not immediately set your imagination alight, then forget it.

As seems to be my fate, unanswered questions about some aspects of the three killings with which I had promised myself I would not get involved kept niggling away in my mind. What had Jason Giddings been doing in this area and, in particular, in the park? The local paper had been at pains to report that the park was infamous after dark as a place frequented by homosexuals. His widow had apparently been appalled when asked about this, insisting that there was no question of anything like that. However, I was recollecting a fuss generated several years previously by a gossip columnist in a tabloid rag – somehow avoiding being sued for libel – suggesting that Giddings was bisexual and had married for respectability reasons upon entering politics.