The Catch (18 page)

As it turned out, his mother was off in the badlands of Hastings, and of the three other full-time staff only one was present today: Indira, an attractive married woman in her mid-thirties with whom Robbie had once enjoyed a brief fling. Now the rumour was that she and her husband were trying for another baby. Robbie might have offered to help her practice, but frankly he had enough on his hands at the moment.

Still, Bree had come good, agreeing to provide an alibi. After the weirdness of the guy jumping out on them with a camera, Robbie accepted that he had to take this seriously. He had to have a plan.

****

Driving home last night, he’d nearly raised the subject of precautions: lining up an alibi, changing their appearance. But then he had thought better of it. If Dan had any sense he’d work it out himself.

Besides, it wasn’t Dan who was at risk. The BMW was registered to Compton’s, so if the mysterious photographer somehow traced the number it would lead him to Robbie.

Unless he claimed that somebody else had been using the car ...

He looked up, caught Indira’s eye and grinned. She responded with a more guarded smile; nothing that could be misconstrued. Now that he thought about it, she was rarely alone in the office with him. She hadn’t even remarked on his new hairstyle.

Not Indira, he decided. But maybe he could put one of his other colleagues in the frame.

As he pondered, his gaze was drawn to the window. The BMW was sitting in a parking bay out front, where a tall man in a decent suit was examining the vehicle with a more than casual interest.

Was this it?
Robbie wondered.
Had they found him already?

****

He did nothing for a while, just watched the man slowly circle the car, peering down to study the offside wing, the bonnet and bumper, then the nearside wing. Rising to his feet, and ignoring a quizzical look from Indira, Robbie approached the door.

The man was now at the rear of the car, hands in his pockets, an intrigued expression on his face. He was smart, well-groomed, but not slick. From a distance you might have concluded that he was soft, even slightly feminine, but close up, when you saw the look in his eyes, that image was quickly dispelled.

‘Gonna make me an offer?’ Robbie drawled.

‘Is it for sale?’

‘No, but seeing as you’re so interested ...’

The man shook his head. A warrant card was produced, just as Robbie had feared.

‘Detective Sergeant Thomsett. Would you happen to be Robert Scott?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I was speaking to your sister earlier. She didn’t tell you?’

‘No. Why?’

Thomsett seemed gratified by Robbie’s answer. Cate had dumped him in it, then.

‘I’m investigating the death of a client of yours, Hank O’Brien.’

Robbie nodded slowly. ‘I heard about that. Nasty business.’

‘It is. I understand your sister met Mr O’Brien on your behalf, just prior to his death.’

‘That’s right. Cate probably told you the details.’

Thomsett smiled, but without much humour. ‘Why don’t you give me your version of events?’

****

Robbie began by explaining that O’Brien had accepted a fee of three thousand pounds for some ‘additional services’ arising out of the property rental, but Thomsett pegged him back, asking about the role of the film company and how the opportunity had arisen in the first place.

‘Your failure to inform Mr O’Brien of these “additional services” was an oversight?’

‘Something like that. Anyway, we got it sorted, and my sister went to the pub to give him the money.’

‘Why was that?’

Robbie pretended not to understand, but Thomsett pushed him on it. ‘Why her, and not you?’

‘Hank could be a bit ... prickly. Not easy to deal with.’

‘Hence the altercation in the pub. Is it true to say he felt you’d cheated him?’

Robbie shrugged. ‘He seemed happy enough with the three grand that Cate agreed over the phone. What I heard was that he made a move on her, then got nasty when she blew him out.’

Thomsett nodded thoughtfully, as if some of this might have been news to him. Robbie realised he should have gone through it with Cate, point by point.

‘The fight was broken up by two young men at an adjacent table. Obviously we’re very keen to talk to them.’

‘You think they killed Hank?’

‘Not necessarily. But the longer we go without them coming forward, the more it suggests they have something to hide ...’ A heavy pause, then he added: ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday night?’

‘Sure. With a girlfriend.’

‘Her name?’

Robbie scowled. ‘Bree Tyler.’

‘Address?’

‘It’s complicated. She’s, uh, what you might call ...’ Robbie grinned, hoping they could share a ‘men of the world’ moment.

‘Married?’

‘That’s the word.’

Thomsett looked disgusted. ‘I’ll be as discreet as I can, sir.’ From his tone, that meant not very discreet at all.

Trying to inject some levity into his voice, Robbie said, ‘Come on, you don’t really think I was waiting outside the pub, ready to knock him down?’

Thomsett held his gaze. ‘It doesn’t sound particularly ludicrous to me.’

****

The detective took out a notebook. ‘So, your girlfriend’s address? A phone number would be useful, too.’

Robbie gave him the details, reading Bree’s number from his own phone. He watched the cop writing it down, telling himself it was a bluff.

Adding insult to injury, Thomsett was resting the notebook on the roof of the BMW. Sensing Robbie’s unease, he said, ‘I take it you own this vehicle?’

‘Yeah. Well, no.’

Thomsett slowly looked up. For a second Robbie couldn’t decide which answer was best. Did the detective somehow know they’d returned to the scene in the BMW?

‘It’s registered to the company, but I use it most of the time.’

Thomsett made another note. Robbie was determined not to be unsettled by him.

‘So what happens now?’ he asked. ‘To the three grand.’

‘Currently it forms part of the evidence in our investigation. In due course it’ll be added to Mr O’Brien’s estate.’

‘I don’t think he had much family. The ex-wife is probably rubbing her hands together. Have you asked where she was on Tuesday night?’

Thomsett declined to answer. ‘His next-of-kin is a sister, I believe. But you can be assured that we’re pursuing all relevant enquiries.’ He put the notebook away. ‘We plan to conduct some tests on the envelope that contained the money. Can you tell us who handled it prior to your sister and Mr O’Brien?’

‘Just me, as far as I recall.’ Then, for a moment, he faltered.
Dan
. Hadn’t he given it to Dan in the car?

Doesn’t matter
, he thought. Dan’s prints weren’t on file anywhere. No harm done.

He relaxed again, nodding to confirm that he stood by his answer. But he knew that Thomsett had spotted the hesitation.

‘We may need to take a sample of your fingerprints. I’ll be in touch.’ The detective thanked Robbie for his cooperation and sauntered away.

Robbie didn’t want to be caught watching him go, so he went back inside. His immediate desire was to get hold of Cate and give her hell, but there was a more important priority: Bree.

Thank Christ he had prepared the ground this morning.

Stemper experienced a quiet satisfaction when Patricia Blake called to engage his services. He was gratified to hear they had followed his advice and delighted that his hunch had proved correct. He shared her disappointment, bordering on disgust, that Jerry Conlon had failed to obtain the registration number of the car.

His landlady was close to tears when she heard he was going away, perhaps fearing he would demand a refund of the extra money he paid for food and laundry. She brightened up at the news that he had no long-term plans to leave, and he insisted on paying his rent in full even if he was absent for a week or two.

As a lodger, Stemper seemed almost too good to be true – with the emphasis on ‘almost’. He took care not to cross that line and arouse suspicion about his place in her life.

Debbie Winwood had worked in the accounts department of a major defence contractor until a dispute with her supervisor led to her resignation, amid allegations that she’d been the victim of bullying and sexual harassment. As well as launching a case for constructive dismissal, Debbie had let it be known that if she lost her case she would blow the whistle on certain financial irregularities and breaches of EU procurement rules.

The company’s owner, Robert Felton, had hired Stemper to gain her confidence and assess what degree of threat she posed. As a single parent, newly unemployed, Debbie had been forced to rent out her spare room to help with her finances. Stemper, a quiet, well-mannered professional, happy to help around the house, happier still to indulge her son and his obsession with this
Warhammer
nonsense, had been a godsend.

With a little more effort, and perhaps a few modifications to his personal appearance, Stemper knew he could make her fall in love with him. It wasn’t a prospect he relished, but if it proved necessary he would do it.

The same pragmatic approach was required for the second stage of the assignment. If Stemper concluded that she posed a credible threat to Robert Felton’s business, he would have to neutralise that threat.

He had already decided that a house fire was the ideal scenario: clean, efficient and relatively easy to stage.

For the sake of completeness the children would have to perish along with their mother. It wasn’t just that it was more tenable; a family tragedy made for a much better story.

****

That lay in the future. In the meantime, there was this pleasant diversion for the Blakes.

Stemper knew Brighton quite well, though it had been years since his last visit. This was a place where he felt comfortable, a city of many faces: busy, cosmopolitan and tourist-friendly, but also dark, seedy, dangerous.

Snarled up in traffic on the one-way system, he gazed at the familiar landmarks: St Peter’s Church, the Royal Pavilion, the blocks of magnificent Regency architecture, now interspersed with newer and, for the most part, sympathetically designed apartment buildings.

The open spaces that divided the main road were crowded with language students and feckless daytime drinkers, men and women in shabby clothes sprawled on the grass, mangy dogs lying at their feet. Stemper was visited by a memory of his father.

Gas the lot of them
.

****

A succession of traffic lights changed in sequence, a benevolent hand waving him forward, and at last the sea came into view, lying calm and quiet beyond the gaudy enticements of the pier.

Stemper had booked a room at a guest house in Kemptown, east of the city centre. He avoided larger hotels because of the preponderance of CCTV, though on this occasion he would also concede to an element of nostalgia in his decision.

He found the address and managed to park his rented Ford Focus a short distance away. He collected a briefcase and a holdall from the boot, then paused to take in his surroundings. The tight, narrow street was just as he remembered it: hemmed in by the high terraces and tilting towards the coast; the sea a distant beguiling dazzle, like a torch shone into a tunnel.

The air had a distinctive briny smell, and the squawk of a seagull could be heard clearly above all human sounds.
 
It sat on the roof of a splendid building painted in cream and terracotta. Imperiously it tracked his progress along the street, as if Stemper had no right to be there. A brutal creature, big and ugly, with a harsh unpleasant voice.

His father had liked Brighton for reasons that had never been apparent to Stemper. As a child he’d probably attributed it to the seaside, or some appreciative quality of the audiences here, but now he guessed it was more likely there was a woman involved.

****

He entered the guest house and was swiftly intercepted by the proprietor, a small, neat man wearing a pink shirt with a bold Paisley bow tie and a sleeveless pullover in dark grey. His head was slightly too large and too round, putting Stemper in mind of a clock face. There was a smear of black hair plastered to his skull. His features were small and delicate, each one marooned in an ocean of pallid skin.

‘Mr Hooper? I’m Bernard Quills. Let me take this for you.’

He was reaching for the briefcase but Stemper swung it gently beyond his grasp. ‘I can manage.’

‘Of course.’ Quills stepped back, one hand flat on his stomach, a matador’s pose. ‘Your room is on the second floor. Rather a steep climb, so do take care.’

The guest house was gloomy and overheated and smelled of wet laundry and radiator dust. From deep in the building, Stemper could hear music playing, something tinny and frivolous. The stair carpet was dark green at the edges, paler in the centre where years of tread had almost worn it away. The walls were hung with Anaglypta, painted with a brownish cream gloss. At regular intervals there were framed prints of old Brighton: the chain pier, the Volks railway, the beach at Black Rock.

A museum-piece Hoover stood sentry on the top-floor landing. Pausing, Quills gave Stemper a careful appraisal and made a clicking sound with the roof of his mouth.

‘In general I don’t offer more than b&b, but I’ve a stew in the oven, if you’re peckish at all?’

Stemper smiled. ‘Very kind of you, but I have a prior engagement.’

‘I see. Well, the offer’s there.’

Quills opened the third of four doors along the landing and showed Stemper into his room. The decor was just as tired, but the room seemed clean enough. There were fresh flowers in a vase by the bed, and bowls of potpourri on the window ledge. More historic prints on the walls. Stemper set his bags down while Quills lingered in the doorway, anxious for a verdict.