Fatlands (23 page)

Still, I had the drive to think of something else. As stories go, it was one of my better ones. It was so tragic I was even a little ashamed of it: the surviving widow of a car crash that had sent me through the windscreen and my husband even farther into the blue yonder. Hence the message on the roses. ‘To you both.' All our friends had known about it, though not all of them had been able to make it to the funeral. And try as I might, I just couldn't put a face (and therefore an address for my thank-you card) to the name of James H.

Neither could the assistant in the shop. But then for a while she was looking in the wrong column. Because, as it turned out, the man who'd sent the flowers had gone under a different name altogether. I could have told her that, but it seemed better to let her work it out for herself.

She eventually traced him from the Barclaycard details, although when she realized the discrepancy she got just a little flustered. A case of some stories being so tall they're in danger of falling over. But by then she had the order book
in front of her. And such is my profession that although I may not have fully mastered the art of self-defence, I have become awfully good at reading upside down. Not to mention a certain talent with pseudonyms.

‘Of course. Maurice Clapton.' I smiled. ‘Beamish Drive, isn't it?'

She nodded. ‘Yes. '

‘That explains it. He's a vet, you see. And my husband was a pig farmer. He used to call Maurice James. You know, after Herriot.'

If the penny dropped, I certainly didn't hear it hit the ground. No matter. In the end I think she was glad it took so little to make an injured, bereaved woman happy. I got back to the car and wrote the address down. ‘Maurice Clapton, 23 Beamish Drive, NW10. Except when I looked it up in the A-Z, it wasn't in Golders Green at all, but about three pages north-west. All in all it had been a pretty circuitous method of ordering flowers. But then I suppose he had to take some precautions. According to the map I had a drive of about half an hour. Of course I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble and gone through the Vandamed personnel department. Or even the local Framlingham vet. But you get possessive this near the end of a story, and I needed my visit to be a surprise.

Despite its unpromising name, Beamish Drive turned out to be a smart piece of real estate, although I've never understood why people should want to pay so much money to live somewhere that's neither the city nor the country. There were lots of big detached houses with well-kept front gardens. The Claptons' was more adventurous than most—a riot of colour and fancy brick work, squares of flower beds full of tulips and late daffs and even the odd clump of wild bluebells. Someone had spent a lot of time on it. She was still spending it.

Mrs Clapton was probably in her early fifties, but
well preserved. She had black hair, which may or may not have been aided by science, cut in a neat shingle and one of those complexions that doesn't crumble to dust after the menopause. She looked homely and efficient. And quite content watching her garden grow.

I took my briefcase with me and walked smartly in through the garden gate. ‘Lovely garden. You've done wonders.'she looked up at me and her face softened with pity, but being British she assumed she hadn't let it show. ‘This must be what—only your second spring? You must have really green fingers.'

Her pleasure eclipsed her curiosity just for a moment. ‘Yes, well, they had let it go to seed rather. We put new soil in and I feed it regularly. Er … I'm sorry, do I—'

‘Gillian Porter. Vandamed personnel.' I stuck out my hand in that confident manner born of two-hundred-pounds-a-day training courses. ‘We haven't met. But I know all about you and your husband. Er … you must excuse my face. I was in a car accident recently. Lucky I'm here at all.'

‘Oh, you poor thing. But you mustn't worry. I hardly noticed it.'

‘Thank you. I'm here to see Mr. Clapton, really. Is he around?'

‘Yes, he's in the house, reading.'

‘Good. I tried to call but there's a fault at the exchange, and as I was passing near this way anyway … Well … We've started up a new pension leisure scheme, and I thought you'd both like to hear about it. There's an opening offer of a Mediterranean cruise. Special company rates. Limited places. Mr Ellroy was keen that you and Mr Clapton should have first refusal.'

‘Oh, I say, that sounds wonderful.'

‘How is he, Mrs Clapton?' I said, dropping my voice to the concerned, confidential level.

She shook her head and the halo of efficient optimism shed a little glitter. ‘Well, you know. Better than he was. But still not his old self. I think it's affected his confidence as much as his health.'

‘I understand. Well, if I could just check a few details with you before we go in, that way I won't have to bother him.' I smiled. So did she. We were getting on famously. But then I was having such a good day I just wanted to share it with everybody.

I pulled out my note pad and jotted everything down. And amid the facts it came so naturally, the odd sizzling little snippet of information. Well, you could see she was a bit lonely really, just her and the garden. They hadn't been here long enough to make friends. Only fifteen months since the heart attack, and although, as she said, he was better physically, in other ways he was a changed man, keeping himself to himself. Still, they couldn't grumble. Vandamed had been more than generous. And continued to be so. The pension was really most extraordinary. Above and beyond … and very much appreciated. Of course, it had been as much of a shock to the company as to him. Maurice had been such a healthy man. There had been some heart trouble in the family, but way back and he had always been careful. Liked his food, but watched his diet and had done a fair amount of exercise. Came with the job, really. Being a company vet meant you were always on the move. Especially since the big pig trials started. He'd been involved right from the beginning, overseeing the feed distribution, checking the animals, making sure they were healthy. Tom Shepherd's right hand man, really. An important job. Quite stressful. Maybe that had been part of the problem.

Of course, the terrible news about Mattie Shepherd and now about Tom hadn't done his recovery any good. They had been good friends till Shepherd had been promoted
to London, just after Maurice's heart attack. They had worked closely together on the trials and got on well. He used to call him James, after Herriot's vet. They would go fishing at weekends. And she had sometimes had the little girl over for tea. Didn't get on so well with the mother. Seemed a bit of an outsider, really. Sweet child though, if a little lonely. They had both missed her since they'd moved.

‘But Dr Shepherd kept in touch, didn't he?'

‘Oh, yes, yes. He visited Maurice last autumn—October I think it was. Then …'she paused. Well, so would I in her shoes.

‘What about since his daughter's death? I know he found it difficult to talk to other people. We were quite concerned about him actually, rather hoped he might get in touch with Mr Clapton, just to get it off his chest a bit. Old friends, that kind of thing …'

‘Yes, Well, yes, he did ring. Last week, I believe.'

‘I see. Do you remember when?'

‘No, well, I can't remember the exact day.' Interesting, since she clearly could. ‘I mean I answered the phone, but he didn't want to talk to me. Maurice said he was awfully depressed. He was quite worried about him. I believed he—'

‘Myra?' the front windows had been open and voices do carry in the spring air. ‘Myra? Who are you chattering to out there?'

Women caught gossiping in the sunshine. And why not? We exchanged a small conspiratorial smile. And then she led me inside.

G
iven its size the house felt surprisingly poky inside. The back windows of the lounge where Maurice was sitting reading the newspapers looked out on to a rolling garden. More lawn, fewer flowers this time, ringed by fruit trees, but still a lot of work for just one gardener. And inside the room—well, I could waste your time with a lot of description, but if you're anything like me, now we're on the move you'll be impatient for substance rather than scene setting. On the other hand Maurice Clapton may be a late arrival but he sure as hell is an important character and it might help you to know what he looks like.

Not happy to see me, that much was clear immediately. And not as gullible as his wife when it came to the Mediterranean cruise story either. But until she could be prevailed upon to get the tea, we both had to keep up some sort of pretence. Luckily I had come prepared. She padded out to the kitchen clutching a sheaf of brochures with promises of home-made jam and scones. It would only take her ten minutes. I had the time, didn't I? Well, every plot needs at least one traditional woman to keep the home fires burning. I thanked her and watched her go. Then turned my attention to him.

He was a little older than her, stocky but not fat. And he had the kind of face that might have been called upon
to play Father Christmas at children's parties. Ironic, really. I tried to imagine him and Tom Shepherd sitting in silent companionship by the river-bank waiting for the fish to bite. A friendship built on the carcasses of animals. And later of humans.

We sat staring at each other. Either he already knew everything about me, in which case I didn't stand a chance, or Vandamed had only told him what he needed to know. From the few trailing threads of the plot I had hold of, my money was on the latter. If he was who I thought he was, it would be important to them to keep him feeling safe and secure. And as far away from the action as possible. I cleared my throat. Come on, Hannah. On with the moustache and dark glasses. It's just another part of the job, pretending to be people you aren't. And in this case the better you do it the more satisfaction you'll get.

I gave him a wry smile. ‘I'm sorry for the pretence, Mr Clapton. But I needed a good excuse. Marion Ellroy sent me.' I fished out my card and flashed it at him. He glanced at it: ‘Gillian Porter, Security Supervisor, Vandamed'. Looked good. So it should, it had cost enough. ‘I used to work with Marion in Texas. He brought me over just after Mattie Shepherd's death.'so my accent wasn't perfect, but a man with his Suffolk drawl probably only had
Dallas
to go on. He also had his mind on other things. Right from the start he was nervous as a kitten. It was a pleasure to see. ‘It's just we've … er … well, we've run into a little trouble with Tom's estate.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Apparently the police have found some documents. Nothing serious. But they're obviously on the look-out for any possible animal rights tie-in and … well, we gather that one of them makes mention of certain problems with the original pig feed.'

‘I thought they said that Tom had cleared everything out of his study before he … before he died.'

‘Yes, well, that's what we believed. But something seems to have got overlooked. It was dated January last year, I gather. A week or so after you went into hospital. Marion thinks it was probably the draft of some kind of memo that never got sent. We haven't seen it yet, but obviously we'd like to know what it might have said, just to be prepared.'

He snorted. ‘Well, if it's the feed it'll be about the dust and the dangers of lung ingestion. But I don't understand why Tom should have written it then. I mean he told me he talked to Ellroy about all this the day after he saw me in hospital.'

‘Well, they may have got the date wrong. Do you think it might mention you or just the animals?'

‘My Lord, I don't know. I suppose it could do. But why should he write it at all? I mean by then it had been sorted out. He said Ellroy had promised to authorize the changes in the feed production immediately. That was the only reason that Tom agreed to leave the project and take the London job.'

Inside my shoes my toes were positively curling up with pleasure. I shrugged. ‘You don't think he might have written it for his own protection, a kind of insurance, in case anything came out later?'

Clapton shook his head. ‘He would have told me. Or sent me a copy, as he did with the other one.'

Brain orgasm. Even more exciting when you can't show you're having one. I nodded sagely. ‘Yeah, I'm sure you're right. In which case we've got nothing to worry about.'

I gave him a big smile. Corporate security regained. He, however, was still worried. In fact he looked positively distraught, not a good sign for a man with his heart condition. But did I care?

‘I don't like it,' he said. ‘I mean Marion swore to me I wouldn't be bothered again. That now Tom—well, that that was an end to it.'

‘And so it is.' I watched his face close down even further. Time for me to change shape. Not as impressive as a morphing video, but a lot cheaper. I stood up and walked to the back windows. ‘You're going to have a fine crop of roses this summer, Maurice,' I said in a voice that had never been anywhere near the Mason-Dixon line. ‘Just like the ones you sent to Mattie's funeral.' I turned. ‘Did you ask for roses specifically or did the florist choose? Actually I'm not sure that Marion Ellroy would have approved of you sending them. Bit of a give-away, really, with that message. It's the sort of thing the police check, you know, even do routine follow-up interviews. But you'll be all right. I took the card off the bouquet. So now it's just you and me who know.'

‘I don't understand … ' But, of course, when he thought about it he began to. His face went a funny colour. ‘Who are you?'

I put a hand into my left pocket and handed it across. ‘Sorry. Must have given you the wrong one earlier. Name's Hannah Wolfe. I'm investigating Mattie Shepherd's death and her father's part in the AAR cover-up.'