Fatal Legacy (40 page)

FitzGerald drove at the speed limit all the way to Wainwright Hall. It wasn’t far, and he needed time to think. He was going to be late because it had taken him longer than he’d expected to shake off the police tail they had put on him. He didn’t trust Sally Wainwright-Smith, and he had proof that she was capable of murder. Yet here he was, calmly driving to meet her in the early hours of the morning, on his own. His left hand fumbled in the glove compartment where he normally left his gun, and his fingers eventually closed around its cool metal. If she tried anything, he’d be ready.

She still had no idea that he knew who she was and what she had been. It was ironic that one of Amanda’s little whores should end up married to the managing director of Wainwright’s, the legitimate company that had laundered money for over
twenty-five
years. Ironic but not entirely unlikely. Many of the senior management at Wainwright’s had been encouraged into liaisons with women that Amanda had saved for them. It had become an expected perk and had meant that he always had enough information to keep them in line should their consciences ever trouble them.

Was that how Sally had first learnt of the Wainwright fortune and gained a sense of the money that was available if only she could smarten up her act and redefine her past? He shook his head as he drove steadily through darkened country lanes. No, Sally was ruthless and cunning, but he doubted the bitch was capable of that degree of planning. Of course, she had turned herself legitimate; a few of the brighter, tougher girls always managed to do that. It must have been a lucky break for her to hook Alan. He’d always had a peculiar sexual appetite, one that
would be hard to satisfy in a normal relationship. Sally must have come as a great relief to him. And once she’d come so close to his fortune, the smell of money would be sufficient aphrodisiac for her to play her part well.

When he reached the ornate wrought-iron gates that stood open at the entrance to the drive to Wainwright Hall, FitzGerald slowed to a gentle stop. She had said on the phone that she had the first instalment ready, which came as no surprise. It wasn’t like Sally to be in possession of a fortune and not have at least some of it accessible. He could imagine her sitting up at nights, counting it and growing excited. There was no doubt in his mind that the only thing in life Sally really loved was the security of money, which was why he had been so sure she would have plenty to hand in the safe at the Hall.

Once he had the first instalment of his money, he could start to make arrangements for a more luxurious and earlier
retirement
than he had envisaged being possible. At the right moment sometime in the future, he would find a way of ensuring that the police received all the surveillance photographs he had of Sally and Graham Wainwright on the morning of Graham’s death. She’d end up in prison and Alex would be able to go on running the family firm that so successfully channelled the money he and others in the West Sussex criminal community made into legitimate investments.

Gravel crunched under his tyres as he approached the house. In the fiftul moonlight on this windy May night, it looked like something out of a horror movie. On the ground floor a single light was burning to the left of the massive front doors, in what he knew to be the sitting room. Up above, all the bedroom lights were on, slicing into the dark from uncurtained windows. The shadow of the grey stone tower stretched out to meet him, elongated by the gargoyles on its roof, which reached out like grasping fingers over the bone-white gravel. They were
everywhere
, these gaping stone monstrosities, concave ribcages, folded bat-like wings, taloned claws holding heraldic shields. He slowed to a stop and stepped out into the chill of the night.

Sally opened the door before he could knock, and stood back to let him pass. She was dressed in a midnight-blue evening gown with a halter top that had been cut low between her
breasts and left her back bare. She had ridiculously high stiletto shoes on, which raised her to his height. Her skin shone like marble and the diamonds caught the low light and sparkled like raindrops as she breathed. He was reminded for an instant of a graveside stone angel, and he shuddered involuntarily at the image. She had swept her pale blonde hair up into a smooth pleat, leaving her long neck clear for its heavy wreath of cut stones. The woman before him could not be described as angelic, yet there was such an aura of death about her tonight that the air resonated with it and his fantasy image held. The contrast with the street whore Amanda had rescued could not be more absolute.

‘James, thank you for coming at such an ungodly hour. Go on through to the sitting room and warm yourself by the fire.’

‘I’m not cold and I don’t want to stay. Just give me the money and I’ll go.’

He noticed her eyes narrow at his refusal to go through, and he became aware of a peculiar tension about her, as if she was waiting for something to happen. Instinctively, he looked around the entrance hall and into the dark of the two passages that led to the grand hall and staircase behind. Without meaning to, he took a few steps towards the right-hand passage, his hand lying loosely on the gun in his pocket.

‘Where’s Alex?’

‘Away. Where are you going?’

He ignored her and took a few more paces, curious to find out what her reaction would be.

‘I asked where you were going. There’s nothing there and it’s better we talk in the sitting room.’

Why was she so nervous when she could be as poised as a cat? Intrigued, he walked on and had reached the passage before she caught up with him and grasped his arm. He looked down at her in surprise and watched as she struggled to control her expression and form a smile.

‘Really, you know, you are the most unusual man. Here I am trying to encourage you into a comfortable chair in the warm, and you go prowling off into the dark.’

‘I’m curious by nature, dear; you of all people should know that. But you’re right, it is dark down here. Aren’t you scared all
by yourself?’ He was pushing her deliberately, wanting to test her mood.

She laughed, a little silvery giggle that irritated him.

‘Oh, you are sweet. Yes, sometimes it’s a little spooky, but I’m used to it.’

‘Just the same, as I’m here, I’ll take a quick look around to make sure everything’s all right.’

The hall clock chimed the three-quarter hour and he noticed Sally frown at the passing of time.

‘You don’t need to. Everything’s securely locked up and I’m OK.’

‘I wouldn’t want you worried in any way,’ he said with a rare smile that obviously confused her. He lifted her hand away from his arm, found switches and waited a moment as light flooded the great hall and galleried landing above. He didn’t doubt that the house was secure, nor did he have the slightest concern for her safety, but he was determined to unsettle her.

He climbed the grand wooden staircase, conscious of her eyes on him as he reached the half-landing and paused, deciding whether to go left or right. He turned to his right and mounted the next flight to the main landing. She was at his side in a moment.

‘I don’t know, James, I really don’t, but if you are going to insist on a patrol of my house, the least I can do is accompany you.’

She chatted on, her voice overloud in the silence of the house. He walked into every bedroom one by one and checked the walk-in cupboards and en-suite bathrooms. He didn’t notice that all the doors had been wedged open until he was leaving the third bedroom and had to kick the door stop out of the way to close the door behind him. Sally saw his surprised frown.

‘I’m airing all the rooms. There’s such a smell of glue and paint left over from the decorators that I can’t shift it.’

He didn’t reply, but carried on his steady checks of the fifteen bedrooms and seven bathrooms. Then he walked up to the next floor and checked each of the attic bedrooms, whilst Sally waited with growing impatience on the landing below still talking about nothing in a penetrating voice that was getting on his nerves. Without her by his side, he paused to stare out of
the windows into the moonlit grounds below. The wind was buffeting the trees that bordered the drive, casting weird, constantly changing shadows. He thought he saw a shape move in the dark pool beneath an oak tree, but when he looked again there was nothing there. He worried for a moment about the police, and then dismissed the idea.

In the next room he looked out again, and this time he was almost sure he saw a movement away to his right in the shadow thrown by the east wing of the house. He felt the skin between his shoulder blades crawl as he waited for the motion to come again. It didn’t, and he left to return downstairs feeling discomfited.

Something about her manner tonight had put him on alert and he felt the need to be extra cautious.

‘Satisfied?’

‘You’re right, it stinks of paint and paste up there, but it’s no wonder with all the materials your decorators left behind. It’s a fire hazard apart from anything else.’

She shivered and he realised that she’d been standing there in the chill of an unheated house in a backless dress.

He started to walk back down the stairs. Then:

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘That thumping? I heard a noise, definitely. It was coming from the tower.’

‘Don’t be silly. There’s only us here. It must have been the wind in the roof. Come on.’

She linked her arm through his.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to check? There! I heard it again, a knocking, I’m sure of it.’

‘All I can hear is the wind and the call of a glass of whisky in front of the fire.’

She shivered again, melodramatically, and FitzGerald
reluctantly
turned his back on the tower and went with her down to the great hall.

‘Let’s get on with it, I want my money.’

‘Ah yes, that money.’

Sally laughed, but the silver had run out of it, leaving a hollow, mirthless sound he distrusted even more.

The moon was nearing the western horizon as Nightingale drove Fenwick down the centre of a deserted road at nearly ninety miles an hour, judging each bump and bend as if she were in a race. The team was to rendezvous at 0200 hours in the woods half a mile east of the main gates to the Hall. Firearms had been authorised. The Superintendent had approved Fenwick’s
involvement
, realising that the only way he would be able to stop him attending would be to lock him up.

She risked a glance at the clock on the dashboard; one fifty. They were almost there, and Nightingale killed the headlights, barely slowing as their eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The copse loomed in front of them and she swung in and slowed down. There was a patch of dense cover to one side, and she pulled into it.

Fenwick was surprised to see so many officers. A dozen were gathered around the man who had been put in charge of the investigation into Bess’s abduction. His name was Boyd, and he was attached to a specialist team at the Met which handled high-profile and sensitive abductions. He appeared competent and alert, and Fenwick relaxed infinitesimally for the first time in ten hours.

‘Chief Inspector.’ Boyd offered his hand and then pulled Fenwick into the centre of the briefing. ‘We need to know as much as possible about the layout of the Hall and where Sally Wainwright-Smith might be holding your daughter, if indeed she is there. Inspector Blite has already given us a full briefing, but you may be able to help us on details.’ He spoke in a low, confident voice tinged with a Yorkshire accent.

Fenwick described the layout of the Hall; the kitchens and work rooms at the back, the front hall with sitting room to the left, small study to the right and twin passages leading through to the great hall, flanked by dining room and library. He could recall every detail of the large staircase that led from it, dividing in two to reach the galleried landing above. In the north corner of the first landing there was a spiral staircase leading to the tower which was blocked by a stout oak door from the landing, with a further one at the top of the stairs.

Fenwick managed to keep his voice calm and dispassionate,
with no trace of fear, but he had to pause and take a deep breath to maintain his tone as he concluded.

‘If Bess is there, my guess is that she would have her in the tower. There are plenty of outbuildings and some estate cottages, but there would always be the risk that Bess might escape from those. The tower is secure and remote from any visitors but still right under Sally’s nose.’

A radio squawked into life and Boyd was called to receive a message from Superintendent Quinlan in the operations centre, leaving Fenwick a prisoner of his own thoughts again. His whole body was charged with a sickening mixture of adrenaline and overwhelming fear. He so distrusted the idea of hope that he refused to let it take root within him. He had a superstitious dread of wanting something so much, believing that the strength of his desire alone could turn the balance of probability against him. Even so, he found that he was offering up to God ludicrous bargains of good works, personal sacrifice, church attendance and baptism for the children, if only He would let Bess be returned to him unharmed. He had worked through his mental offerings to the point of presenting his own life in exchange for hers when Boyd returned to the group.

‘Does the name FitzGerald mean anything to you?’

Fenwick nodded and turned to look for Nightingale, whom he thought of as the team’s expert on FitzGerald. She was hovering at the edge of the tight knot of officers and he beckoned her over to hear what Boyd had to say.

‘Apparently FitzGerald left his home an hour ago, spent fifteen minutes losing the tail you had put on him and has driven off somewhere. The report came through to the operations centre some time ago, but they’ve only just considered it potentially significant. Is it?’

Fenwick answered as Nightingale nodded her head
thoughtfully
.

‘It might be. There’s a confirmed connection between FitzGerald and Wainwright Enterprises.’