Cold Justice (12 page)

‘I bet this place is really rammed in summer,’ said Carter.

Willis leaned forward and looked out through the windscreen. ‘Are those surfers out there?’

‘Yes, come hell or high water. I suppose they’re making the most of the storms on the other side of the Atlantic. It takes a day or two to reach us.’

‘It must be freezing in there. It’s February, for God’s sake!’

‘Yeah – you wouldn’t catch me in there. They’re a hardy bunch. Surfing takes over their lives. Can you get up Robbo’s map on the screen so we can see whereabouts people live in relation to here?’

‘Raymonds lives on the cliff side; there’s beach side and cliff side in this village. We go back up to the crossroads.’

‘It’s best to start with him if we don’t want to piss him off too much. We’ll come back here after. Let’s just go up and have a look at the Forbes-Wright house first. We’d better make sure we see Martin Stokes too; I want to know what the deal was with letting the house out, and see if he knows what Forbes-Wright was going to do with it long-term, considering it was his only asset. If we’re talking ransom then a kidnapper would know about it.’

They left the car park and drove past the shops. As they passed the café, the road rose steeply and twisted its way between high hedges on both sides as it climbed away from the sea. To the left above the shops was an area of scrubland with yellow gorse and gnarled trees. Halfway up the hill and around a sharp left-hand bend the top of the house came into view and Carter pulled the car over into the gateway.

The house had three storeys and was brick-built Victorian style with Cornish slate roof and granite gateposts. It was half-obscured by pine trees that grew to the right and left of the drive. There was parking space for five or six cars at the front. ‘Kellis House’ was written on the gate.

‘It’s a beautiful building but it looks sort of stern – unwelcoming,’ said Willis, staring at the austere building.

‘Exactly. Where are the welcoming signs? I tell you, if I’d paid two grand for a week’s holiday here in July, I’d be disappointed rocking up here at Kellis House.’

‘The price goes up another five hundred in August.’

‘You’re kidding me? We could go to Disneyland for that!’ He turned to her. ‘How do you know when this house isn’t advertised anywhere?’

‘I talked to a local letting agent, pretended I was interested in a house that had five bedrooms. That’s the going price for something this close to the beach. You could have somewhere like this in February for six hundred a week.’

‘I’d rather have one of those bright and breezy chalet-type things than this – it looks like the Munsters’ house.’

‘We can carry on up this road and circle back round to the cliff side of Penhal,’ said Willis as Carter pulled out of the gateway.

‘Okay. Let’s go pay the Sheriff a visit.’

Raymonds lived on a cul-de-sac of smart bungalows. A flag, white cross on a black background, hung from a flagpole at the corner of the bungalow. He was coming out of his garage as they parked up on the street. He stopped to watch them approach and then turned and locked up behind him. He had the upright gait of an ex-military man; no pot-belly for him. He eyed them suspiciously, stood square on to them.

Carter pushed open the black wrought-iron gate and headed up the tarmacked drive towards the watching Raymonds.

Raymonds finished scrutinizing Willis and then settled on Carter.

‘Can we have a word?’ Carter asked as they showed their warrant cards. ‘This is Detective Willis. I’m Detective Carter. Can we come in?’

Raymonds nodded; he waited for them to reach the front door then he walked in before them. They stepped into a pristine hallway; a plastic floor runner covered a beige shagpile carpet. There were small, tourist-style paintings of Penhal along the walls. Straight in front of them there was a cuckoo clock on the wall.

‘Eileen?’ Raymonds called out towards the kitchen. ‘There’s people here, we’re going in the parlour.’

His wife came out of a kitchen at the end of the hall, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She nodded. Her eyes stayed on Willis.

‘Coffee? Tea?’ asked Raymonds.

Willis shook her head, Carter nodded. ‘Love a cup of tea, please, no sugar.’ Eileen turned back into the kitchen.

‘In here.’ Raymonds held a glass-fronted door open. The place had collections of holiday souvenirs. On the wall was the painting of a raven-haired Spanish beauty. She had a flower in her hair, which fell down over her naked shoulder; a promise on her full red lips. There was a glass cabinet with knick-knacks from abroad. Willis ran her eyes over the shelves and saw a miniature
Cutty Sark
in a glass bottle on the third shelf down. When she looked back, Raymonds was staring at her.

‘Sit down.’ He pointed towards the two-seater salmon-pink sofa. ‘Where are you from, Plymouth?’ He sat in the armchair opposite them. A small glass coffee table with a driftwood base was between them.

‘We’re from London.’ Carter didn’t doubt that he knew they’d come from there.

He nodded, his face stony, waxy. ‘The Met, huh?’

‘We’re part of the Major Investigation Team.’

‘Really? What are you doing all the way down here?’

‘Jeremy Forbes-Wright?’

‘Yes?’

‘You went to his funeral?’

‘I did.’ Raymonds sat stiffly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, as if he were on a throne.

‘You and several others from this area?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘What of it?’

Eileen knocked and entered carrying a tray; her hands were shaking. Raymonds got up and took the tray from her. He set it down and she left. He nodded to Carter to help himself. His tea was in the best china.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said to Carter, though his eyes settled on Willis. She didn’t answer.

‘Not really, it took us about five hours. Not a bad run.’ Carter decided he really wasn’t going to like Raymonds. He noticed Raymonds had beady black eyes, like a small animal waiting to rip your throat out.

‘Did you drive up for the funeral or did you go on the train?’

‘Oh, I thought about training it, but I decided to drive. We have to drive to a station from here anyway and it’s such a tedious journey till you get to Exeter.’

‘In your own car?’

‘Yes, as it happens, I went in the Honda.’ Raymonds’ smirk was still there. ‘I don’t like to push my other car too hard – it’s a classic. A Ford Cortina.’

‘Nice. How many of you went up?’

‘Six in all. There were a few cars.’

‘When you left the church where did you go?’ asked Carter. Raymonds looked like he had been expecting the question, waiting for it.

‘I went into Greenwich. I wanted to see the
Cutty Sark.’
He smiled at Carter and then at Willis. ‘I bet you know that, don’t you? You have so many cameras up in London, don’t you? Always spying on people.’

‘Alone?’ asked Willis.

‘What do you mean, girly?’

‘Were you alone in the car?’

‘Now, let me see . . . I believe I gave a lift to a few others who wanted to look at the area.’

‘Did Mrs Raymonds go with you?’ Willis asked.

‘God, no. She’s never been out of Cornwall. Anyways – she’s poorly; you can see by her shakes.’

‘Who did you have in your car on the drive back to Cornwall?’

‘I was on my own. Everyone else wanted to leave later and, as there was plenty of transport back – I just left.’

‘Seems like an awful lot of effort to go to to pay your respects to a man who wasn’t even a local MP or resident full-time here,’ suggested Carter.

‘No, I don’t think it was – not really. He owned a house here.’

‘Second home,’ corrected Carter.

‘I think you’ll find this was the only house he actually owned.’

‘When was the last time Jeremy Forbes-Wright stayed in his house?’

‘I saw him at Christmas.’

‘Did he come with anyone?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘I knew him well enough to have a chat, to share a drink when I saw him. He’s been to dinner once or twice. But, he was a private man.’

‘Private? He was a man who liked to party, wasn’t he?’

Raymonds frowned.

Carter continued: ‘You mean you didn’t know? He brought escorts down here to Kellis House, he was a pretty debauched type by the sound of it. He must have brought some interesting guests with him.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Did you never hear rumours about him down here? asked Willis.

‘Pardon? I can’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘Did you ever have reason to contact him when he was back in London?’

‘Me?’ Raymonds shook his head. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Any reason why someone might want to hurt him or his family?’ asked Carter.

‘None that I know.’

‘When did you first get to know Mr Forbes-Wright?’ asked Willis.

‘Back in the mists of time.’ Raymonds looked at Carter. ‘What’s your concerns?’

‘Answer my question, please,’ Willis interrupted. Raymonds glared coldly at her. ‘How long had you known Mr Forbes-Wright?’ she repeated.

‘Well, girly, let me see. It’ll be back twenty, actually twenty-five years. When he first bought that house – that was in the early ’80s, I think.’

‘You were the sergeant here then, weren’t you?’ Carter asked.

‘I was. Over the years I saw him bring his son down.’

‘Toby?’

‘That’s the one; he’s hardly changed. He was a skinny little thing then – still is.’

‘And what were your impressions of Jeremy?’ asked Carter.

‘Good bloke, you know, for a Londoner, he was a good sort. So that’s why you’re here?’

‘We are here because, shortly after the funeral, Toby’s two-year-old son Samuel was snatched from his buggy.’

‘Get on? What the bloody hell is the world coming to? Poor little blighter.’

Carter didn’t doubt for one minute that Raymonds knew. He must have seen the news. It was all over the press.

‘Did you see the boy at the service?’ Willis asked.

‘I believe I did. The wife had him.’

‘Lauren.’ Willis was taking notes.

‘I don’t know her name.’

‘You were seen talking to Toby after the service,’ said Willis.

‘So what of it? I was showing good manners, good breeding. Paying my respects.’

‘We had a lip-reader analyse your words,’ she added.

Raymonds’ eyes lit with a cold delight at what she said and he burst out laughing.

‘Well, what a clever thing. And what did they say I said?’

‘Tell us,’ said Carter, smiling, but getting increasingly irritated. ‘We’ll see if there’s a match. Detective Willis has it written in her notebook so we’ll see which one of you gets it right.’

‘Sorry – I’d love to sit here and play your games but I really don’t remember exactly. I probably said sorry for your loss, sadly missed, hope to see you in Penhal in the house. That kind of thing.’ He looked at Willis, who looked up from her notebook and stared back but didn’t comment.

Raymonds fidgeted in his seat – riled for the first time.

Willis read from her notes: ‘You said – “you need to start answering my calls”.’

Carter made sure he wasn’t the first to blink as he stared Raymonds out.

‘What did you want to speak to him about, Mr Raymonds? What did you mean by that?’

‘It followed on from an earlier conversation in the church.’

‘Which was?’

‘I forget now – about some decision on the house. We don’t like to leave things empty. I just wanted to know if he wanted us to manage it till they had decided what to do. It may have sounded a little abrupt but it was meant well. The whole of Penhal village wishes the young family well. Of course, it’s tragic news that their son has gone missing – tragic.’

‘They’ve had an offer on the house from someone in the village. Any idea who that could be?’

‘Yes, it’s no secret, the offer is from myself and Martin Stokes.’

‘Wow.’ Carter feigned surprise. ‘I need to get transferred down here – you must have a hell of a pension?’

‘I’ve been careful, that’s all.’ Raymonds looked irritated as he repositioned himself in the chair and inhaled deeply.

‘But, why would you want it, you and your cousin?’

Raymonds didn’t flinch. ‘There’s not many houses like that in the village. It’s unique. Martin Stokes has been managing the property well up to now. No reason not to continue.’

‘They haven’t accepted your offer, have they?’ Willis said as she finished writing in her notebook and looked up.

‘They haven’t. That’s correct. There’s still hope.’

‘Can you find more cash?’ Carter asked.

‘Perhaps. Anything else you want to ask me, as I’m finding this line of questioning a bit impolite? My financial affairs are my own.’

Carter smiled and opened his palms in a gesture of apology. ‘No offence meant.’ He replaced his cup and saucer on the tray and sat forward on the edge of the sofa. ‘We found his all-in-one suit in a bin in Greenwich but we found his mittens at a service station outside Bristol, on the M5. We’re checking CCTV now.’

‘You mean the Gordano services?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. A cleaner found Samuel’s mittens in the car park.’

‘They could have gone anywhere, south, east or west, from there then.’

‘Yes, but Cornwall seems to be the place where there is a connection.’

Raymonds was watching Willis writing notes. She looked up at him, pen poised. ‘What time did you get to the services on the way home from the funeral?’

‘Eight-ish. I stopped to use the bathroom and I went in for some kind of a sandwich and a coffee.’ Willis wrote it down. The sneer on Raymonds’ face returned. ‘You’re going to ask me what kind of filling was in it in a minute, I expect?’

‘No, it’s okay.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Did you get any money from the cashpoint there?’

‘I believe I did. Twenty pounds to pay for my beverages. Maybe it was thirty, I forget.’

‘What time was that?’

‘It might have been seven thirty – I can’t be sure.’

Raymonds sat back in the armchair. He looked at Carter.

‘It’s a bit far-fetched to pin all this on a few country folk coming up for a funeral in London.’ He lost the smile a little; it was beginning to put a strain on the muscles around his mouth. His face was almost line-free: skin taut. His eyes turned cold and almost bored. ‘You can think what you like, but this abduction has nothing to do with us. It’s a ridiculous idea, made up just to keep you lot busy.’