Dead on Cue (15 page)

‘Not so well.'

‘It has been said to me that he treated you as a gofer. Would that be correct?'

‘Yes.'

Potter interrupted. ‘Look, Oswald, why don't you tell the inspector the whole story. You're going to be here all day if you go on as slowly as this.'

Oswald gulped and his Adam's apple did a nosedive.

‘Well, what do you want to know?'

‘Tell me about the performance of Son et Lumière. It was your role to take the dummy up to the battlements, wasn't it? Now can you describe the details of what happened that night. Recount to me exactly what took place.'

‘All right. I got there early because that was what I was supposed to do. There was nobody around except for the bear. I waved at her – it was Jonquil, you see – and she waved a paw back. I went to collect the dummy from where it was lying under the arches . . .'

‘How did you know it would be thrown there?'

‘Because that was what Adam Gillow always did. He ducked down and simultaneously threw the dummy over the parapet. It landed in roughly the same place every rehearsal. Besides, it was up to Charlie Higgs to move it under the arches.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, it was there all right. So I picked it up and took it up the spiral staircase and placed it just under the parapet out of sight. Then I went back down and that is all I can tell you.'

‘And you did not go near the battlements again that night?'

‘No.'

‘Did anybody else?'

‘No.'

‘What did you wear during the performance?'

‘Black. I had some black jeans belonging to my father, a black T-shirt and some trainers that I'd put boot polish on. Why?'

It was the first question that Oswald had asked and it rather startled Tennant.

‘I just wondered what the backstage crew wore. Whether you had cloaks or anything to blend with the actors.'

‘I think there were one or two cloaks lying about. I never wore one if that's what you're asking.'

Tennant shook his head. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Souter. You've been very helpful. There's just one other thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘Did you see anybody go near the battlements or up one of the spiral staircases on the night that Gerry Harlington was murdered? In short, did you see anything out of place happen at all?'

‘I didn't see anything. I just got on with my job.'

‘Well, thank you again. Sorry to have interrupted you at college but we were saving petrol.'

Potter grinned but Oswald's face remained impassive.

‘Can I go?'

‘Certainly. We have your home address. We'll be in touch if we need anything further.'

He held the door open and Oswald marched through, sandwich box still clutched in hand.

‘Uncommunicative little bugger,' Tennant said, looking at the young man's retreating form.

‘I can't imagine him and the Wasp Man hitting it off. Not the type at all.'

‘Oh well, it takes all sorts. Come on, Potter. We've a mountain to get through today.'

They drove on to Speckled Wood and Tennant asked Potter to stop the car so that they might look at the view. It was quite indescribable with the autumn colours beginning to gleam in the foliage. To their right lay the livery stables that had once been the scene of such sadness but which now had a bright and bustling air about them. Above them lay the ancient farmhouse and the land owned by Giles Fielding on which grazed mild-mannered sheep, moving slowly over the fields as they cropped the grass. Tennant had briefly lived opposite a sheep field and had forever been nipping over the stile and pulling them out when they got their heads stuck in the hedge. When he thought about it now it seemed as if it had been in another life. He had been married, had been briefly happy before his wife had run off with her actor lover – amateur of course. He had been a different person.

Tennant turned his eyes to the distant view. There glittered that tantalizing cobalt glimpse of the sea, the woods and pastures sweeping down to it, the land the colour of sage and parsley. At this time of day, with the autumn sun low in the sky, the water in the moat of the house which Tennant had always longed to have glinted dazzlingly so that one had to shade one's eyes in order to look at it.

‘There's the house I've always fancied living in, Potter.'

‘Well you'll have to chat up the Wasp Man's missus then.'

They drove down a narrow lane, plunging into the verdant countryside, at one point the trees leaning over and forming an arch above their heads. The leaves were just beginning to turn colour so that a ripple of red and gold was visible here and there. Tennant could not help but think that autumn was one of the loveliest times of the year, a time when people settled down and took stock of their lives. He thought of Olivia's postcard and decided that as soon as she returned to England he would phone and invite her out to dinner.

The door was opened by Ekaterina Harlington looking pale but exquisite in Versace. Tennant introduced himself and Potter did likewise, following her into the glorious room that led off the hallway, the inspector looking admiringly round him. His sergeant, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off the woman they had come to interview and hardly noticed his surroundings.

‘Please sit down,' she said. ‘Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, tea, or something stronger. Which would you prefer?'

‘Coffee for me, please,' Tennant answered, while Potter – who could not take the expression of total admiration from his face – asked for tea.

‘A minute,' said Ekaterina, who rose and disappeared for a second or two.

‘Potter,' Tennant whispered, ‘remove that look for pity's sake. You're like a schoolboy watching an X film.'

‘I feel like one. What a woman!'

‘No doubt. But remember we are here on official business.'

Ekaterina returned followed by a bustling cleaning lady carrying a tray of cups and plates, followed a second or two later by a small boy bearing a teapot and a cafetière.

‘He is her son,' said Ekaterina in an undertone. Then, loudly, ‘Thank you, Callum,' when he returned bearing cakes. She turned to the inspector. ‘You have come, no doubt, about the death of my husband.'

‘Yes, madam. I don't know how to put this any other way but the fact is that Mr Harlington was deliberately pushed over the parapet. In other words, his death was not accidental.'

‘I see. Well, I am not altogether surprised.'

Potter flipped open his notebook.

‘You see, Gerry was one of those people who made enemies wherever he went. The trouble was that he suffered with an overpowering ego. He always thought that he knew best and could do things better than anyone else. The fact that one day he would be murdered was almost a foregone conclusion.'

‘You speak of it very matter-of-factly, if you don't mind my saying so.'

Ekaterina raised an exquisite shoulder. ‘How do you want me to say it? I will be honest with you. I fell out of love with him years ago and only the other day I decided on a divorce. Does that make me a suspect? I suppose it does. Do have a cake please. Mrs Wills has baked them freshly.'

Tennant smiled to himself. Working on the old who-stood-to-gain-most method Mrs Harlington had to be suspect number one. But he believed she had an alibi for that night given by Rufus Beaudegrave himself. Nevertheless, it was his duty to probe.

‘Well, Mrs Harlington, in order to eliminate you from our enquiries I am obliged to ask you a few questions.'

‘Ask away.' She sipped green tea from an expensive-looking cup.

‘Are you the dead man's only relative? Has he had any children by this or any other marriage?'

She smiled at him kindly. ‘You are trying to find out if I am going to inherit Gerry's vast fortune, I suppose. The truth is, Inspector Tennant, that he did not have one. He had blown all the money he ever earned on failed and dismal projects in the theatre. For example, his soap opera. It was completely and utterly useless. They showed it at midnight in the US. In Britain it wasn't shown at all. Then he tried an ‘I Will Make You a Star' venture which was aired on the Internet. A few pathetic black girls took their bras off and waved their goods in the faces of the cameras. He lost thousands on that project. Other than for the Wasp Man movies, Gerry was a walking disaster.'

Tennant put his cup down and stretched out his arms. ‘But this house, the cars I saw parked outside . . . they must have cost a fortune.'

Ekaterina shrugged. ‘But I bought them all.'

‘You?'

‘Yes, you see I was the late Grigori Makarichoff's only child.'

Potter spluttered into his tea cup and Tennant grew very still.

‘You mean that you were – are – the billionaire oligarch's daughter?'

‘Yes,' said Ekaterina, ‘I am. So you see I hold the purse strings.'

‘I'll say you do, by God,' answered Tennant forcefully.

I
t was evening and Nick Lawrence, attired in casual clothes he had bought off the peg whilst on holiday in Italy – hoping that they made him look debonair and sophisticated – got into his car, which he kept parked permanently in West Street as the vicarage did not run to a garage. He had bought an attractive bunch of flowers and had also carefully selected a bottle of wine, and armed with these was making his way to Oakbridge and his dinner date with Jonquil Charmwood.

He had to confess it, he found the young woman extremely attractive in an offhand sort of way. She had all the attributes that he liked: nice hair, large expressive eyes, a kindly mouth, but she was terribly brittle in the modern style of her sex. She was one of those girls who seemed to be constantly in a hurry, dashing from one thing to the next. Frankly, Nick had been terribly surprised to be invited to dinner and wondered whether he was merely making weight, had been called upon because he was that much sought-after thing – an extra male.

So he was astonished when arriving at her maisonette in a thirties house situated in a side street behind The George and Dragon, to discover that he was the only guest. His heart sank a little as he realized that the entire burden of conversation would fall on him. Then he remembered that at university he had been hailed as a wit and raconteur and gathered himself together.

He imagined that Jonquil would be upstairs putting the finishing touches to her make-up and that he would hear her light quick step come running down the staircase and the door would be opened with a flourish. But instead he could have sworn that she was hovering in the hall and had opened the door while he was still straightening his Armani jacket.

‘Oh, hello, Vicar. Do come in.'

‘Thanks, Jonquil. By the way, you must call me Nick. All my friends do.'

He produced the bouquet of flowers and gave it to her with one of his odd little bows. She smiled but he couldn't help but notice that some of her customary zest was missing.

‘Why thank you. You really shouldn't have.'

‘My pleasure. It was kind of you to ask me. I've brought some wine as well.'

‘Goodness. You are spoiling me. Come into the living room and sit down. I've got some wine cooling in there.'

The room was small and reminded Nick of many he had seen like it, a typical thirties layout, modernized by Jonquil's feminine touches. The old gas fire had been removed and in its place was an electric fire that represented blazing coals. Nick, addicted as he was to open blazes, thought that this was the next best thing.

Jonquil came into the room bearing a tray of snacks, which she began to place in various vantage points.

‘These are to keep you going until we eat,' she said cheerfully, but underneath her bonhomie Nick could have sworn that he could sense nervousness.

Jonquil took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and set about wrestling with the cork.

Nick got to his feet. ‘Here, allow me. I was known as Champagne Charlie at university.'

‘Were you really? I've never thought of you at uni somehow.'

Nick poured two glasses. ‘Well, I was. I read Medieval History. It was after I graduated that I went to study for the priesthood.'

‘I don't believe in God,' said Jonquil tactlessly.

‘A lot of people don't,' Nick answered sadly.

There was a slightly awkward silence broken by Jonquil suddenly getting to her feet and saying, ‘Excuse me, I think I can smell something burning.'

Nick stared into the phoney coals, feeling rather depressed. He had long ago given up the idea of trying to convert someone to his way of thinking. He just knew that he had not been called to take up the priesthood but rather nudged – several times – so in the end he had had no option but to apply to an ecclesiastical college. And though he often found some of the tasks he had to perform deeply distressing – sitting with the dying, comforting the bereaved – he was more than aware that the spiritual rewards were great and he enjoyed having God as his employer, he honestly did. As for the parish of Lakehurst, he felt he was one of the luckiest souls alive to dwell in such a beautiful place and to have so charming and welcoming a vicarage.

Jonquil reappeared. ‘All's well,' she said. ‘Come on, Nick, pour the champagne.'

She sat down opposite him and took the glass. He noticed that her hand was shaking and that she drained its contents as quickly as possible. Neither would she look at him, but stared at the rug as if it were an old friend.

‘What's the matter?' he asked eventually. ‘Come on. You can tell me.'

Startlingly, she went down on her knees in front of him and threw herself into his arms. Through her convulsive tears she sobbed, ‘Oh Nick, Nick, something so terrible has happened.'

‘Shush, now, there there,' he said, just as if she were a weeping child. ‘Just tell me all about it and we will try to sort it out.'