An Accidental Shroud (11 page)

Carmody, who'd known people mugged and killed for the price of a packet of fags or the next fix, didn't disillusion him. He asked if it was possible that Nigel Fontenoy himself had sent the pendant for repairs to the broken clasp and forgotten to record the fact. A quick telephone call to the repairers, however, confirmed that they knew nothing about it.

'Nothing else missing?'

Matthew shook his head, then Christine gave a sudden exclamation. She'd remembered a wrapped parcel, kept at the back of the safe, its contents apparently unknown to anyone but Nigel.

'Mr Fontenoy,' Abigail turned to George. 'Have you any idea what might have been in it?'

'What? Oh, certainly not. Not at all. It was Nigel's personal property and he never said what was in it.'

'Matthew?'

'I remember the parcel, it was a nuisance, always in the way – but I never saw it opened.'

'Oh, well, he must have got rid of it, and whatever was in it.' Christine described the parcel. 'It was a box of some kind, I think, wood or metal by the feel of it. Not cardboard, I would've thought.'

'How big?'

She sketched shoebox dimensions in the air.

'And you've no idea what was inside it?'

'Papers, I suspect. Nigel used to refer to it as his retirement pension.'

'Insurances, share certificates, things like that?'

'I suppose so, but they wouldn't be much use to anyone else, would they?'

Matthew said suddenly, 'He took a parcel with him when he went to London, yesterday. It could've been the same box – it was that sort of shape and size. But he didn't get back here until after we'd closed and I'd gone home, so I don't know if he brought it back.'

'Rewind it and let's all have another listen,' Abigail said several hours later, back at Milford Road Police Station.

While Carmody fiddled about and then pressed the playback switch of Nigel Fontenoy's answering machine, now standing on a desk in the CID room, away from the frenzied activity of an incident room in the first stages of a murder inquiry, Abigail perched on the corner, skimming through her notes as she waited.

The last few days of Nigel Fontenoy's life had, it appeared, followed their normal pattern, except for the visit to London on the day he died. There, his appointment diary revealed, he'd had an appointment with a Mr Alec Macaudle, of Jermyn's, the big London-based jewellery conglomerate; further searches had brought to light a lengthy correspondence between the two men, the subject of which was the imminent takeover of Fontenoy's by Jermyn's, something

George Fontenoy insisted he knew nothing about. In a file marked 'Personal' they also found a copy of a letter to Jake Wilding, Matthew's father, the contents of which were judged promising enough to warrant following up.

Meanwhile, there was Nigel's answering machine to consider, which Carmody now fast-forwarded, bypassing the other messages, deemed to be of no interest at the moment, until he came to the one they wanted to hear again – a curt, unidentified message which merely said,
OK. see you. Same place, same time.

There was a tantalizing quality about the voice, as if it ought to be recognizable. But it showed some distortion, whether deliberate or not, and, since neither George Fontenoy, Christine nor Matthew Wilding had been able (or willing) to identify it, it was hardly surprising that none of the investigating team could either, even after listening to it several times.

Carmody finally gave up and switched it off.

Abigail said, 'Get me Jermyn's on the line. I'd better speak to this Mr Macaudle.'

But he had, it seemed, left that morning for Switzerland and would be away for the next few days. If Mr Fontenoy had left anything in the way of a parcel with Mr Macaudle, a starchy female voice informed her, he would not have failed to mention it, but she would take a look to make sure. It was a foregone conclusion, before she rang back, that her answer would be negative. Yes, she would leave a message for Mr Macaudle to ring Inspector Moon when he returned.

Gil Mayo always hoped the day might come when he had all his cases neatly stitched up before a new one materialized, but since his was not a particularly optimistic nature he had to concede that this was pie in the sky. Meanwhile, out of necessity, he'd become an expert at running several complex cases together – such as preparing airtight evidence for a prosecution on the one hand, while familiarizing himself with the details of a new investigation on the other, at the same time as keeping the facts of something else in his head. The last week had been like that, hellish, but things had improved, and today offered a bonus: the court hearing had been adjourned, leaving him free to concentrate on the Fontenoy murder with Abigail Moon.

He would have preferred to be working with Kite, but this was impossible, and there were compensations. She was prettier than Kite, for one thing, and smelled nicer. She was wearing a sharp, fresh scent, a greenish-brown suit that matched her eyes, and her bronze wavy hair shone with life and vitality. All of which he'd had plenty chance to appreciate as she drove him up to Ham Lane to talk to Jake Wilding.

The venue was at Wilding's suggestion; it was midmorning, but evidently he'd decided that business wasn't pressing enough to preclude taking time off. Or perhaps he could work from home.

An air of suppressed excitement hung around him. Was he, Mayo wondered, one of those men who were turned on by the idea of violence? His demeanour didn't suggest deep sorrow at the news of Nigel Fontenoy's death, yet when he was asked about his connections with the dead man, his reply was unsteady.

'My God, I can't believe it! We'd always been close, old Nigel and me. We were cousins, went to school together, my son worked for him – but of course, you know that, you've spoken to Matthew.'

And would need to speak to him again. However, it wasn't Matthew Wilding who was concerning Mayo at the moment, but his father. And money. There was money involved in all this ... shown by the copy letter found in Nigel Fontenoy's files, indicating that Jake Wilding was in debt for an undisclosed sum to his cousin.

Why had Wilding needed to borrow from Fontenoy? The jeweller had been comfortably off by most standards, even allowing for the fact that the jewellery trade was, understandably, one of the first to suffer in a recession, but as far as real money went, he couldn't have been in the same league as Wilding. Ah well, Carmody had said, Jake Wilding was a clever-dick builder and property developer, and everyone knew what that meant. Slippery as a bucketful of eels, not averse to turning a quick penny by cutting a few corners, adept at manipulating planning regulations, used to getting away with murder. An unscrupulous sod, with half the town council probably in his pocket. Carmody was Liverpool Irish and said he spoke from experience.

'Nice to hear strictly unbiased opinions!' Mayo commented drily. 'I shall want something better than that.'

But certainly risk and living on a financial knife-edge was the name of the game to men of Jake Wilding's sort, and even a small loan might be important to him. Inquiries had been made about him. He had reputedly started with nothing. His mother had been a Fontenoy, old George Fontenoy's sister, but any money she had brought to the marriage had soon been squandered by her husband, Jake's father, also a builder, and eventually a bankrupt. Later, by Jake's own efforts, the firm had risen, phoenix-like, from the ashes; he had by now built himself a little empire. Private sector housing was still his main business but he was said also to have a stake in a local taxi-cab and bus firm, to dabble in broadcasting and television franchises and to have a half share in the local football club. He had interests in road construction and was much in evidence where local authority building schemes were concerned.

His lifestyle was impressive. Ham Lane was a pleasant, quiet lane of substantially built, luxurious houses, all of them with large, secluded gardens backing on to a wood. Abigail and Mayo had caught a glimpse of a swimming pool through the windows of the old conservatory when they arrived, and there was a tennis court. They'd exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

The house was large and its interior was flooded with light and furnished with an expensive and clever mixture of modern furniture and antiques. The soft furnishings in richly patterned jewel colours glowed against walls the colour of clotted cream. As well as some very beautiful pictures, there were several striking modern bronze sculptures: on a small table near Abigail was a polished female nude kneeling on a sea shore, the curl of a huge wave behind her echoing the curve of a slender back. Without having to be told, knowing nothing of fine art, she looked at it and knew it was outstanding. Somebody here had style and taste.

It may have been Christine Wilding. She was something of a work of art herself, dressed today in a soft angora sweater the colour of apricots, immaculately made up, heavy topaz jewellery in an antique setting round her throat. She had supplied tea and now sat back in her chair, her shapely legs crossed, listening without comment, watching her husband as he stated that the last time he had seen Nigel Fontenoy had been at ten o'clock the previous evening.

The appointment hadn't been recorded in Nigel's meticulously kept diary, though Wilding wouldn't necessarily have known that, and Mayo said sharply, 'Did you make the appointment by telephone, or through a message on his answerphone?'

'Neither. I made a personal call at the shop earlier in the week. I don't remember what day but Matthew was there and he can probably tell you.'

'Can anybody verify this meeting last night? Did anybody see you there – Mr George Fontenoy, maybe?' Mayo asked.

'No, he'd gone to bed. He's an old man and he hasn't been well. Nigel was expecting me and let me in through the side door, so unless anybody was passing and happened to see me going in. I'm afraid there's nothing to confirm that I actually was there.'

'Wasn't it rather late for a business appointment?'

'I had a previous engagement and couldn't make it earlier. Nigel didn't mind. He said he'd be working in the shop, anyway.'

'What was the meeting about?'

Wilding shrugged. 'Nothing of any importance.'

Mayo wasn't letting him get away with that. 'Oh? Discussing the repayment of that loan he'd made to you wasn't important?'

'Loan?' That had touched a nerve. His eyes flickered. They were brown, quick dark brown, and he had rough, fairish hair that he constantly ran his fingers through. A full-lipped, sensuous mouth, a craggy face. Late forties. His body was younger than his face, and disciplined, moving like an actor's, with casual grace. There was a strong family likeness to his uncle, old George Fontenoy – strange, Abigail thought, when Fontenoy's son had borne little resemblance to his father. Funny things, genes, popping up where you least expected them.

Recovering quickly from his surprise, he smiled crookedly and said, 'It hasn't taken you long to find that out! Well, you've obviously seen a copy of the letter he sent me, so there's no point in denying it.'

Nigel Fontenoy had been a precise kind of man, where business was concerned. His papers were in apple pie order. Copies were kept. His appointment book had been clearly written up. It made their job easier.

Mayo said, 'I've seen the letter and I have to say that the tone of it didn't suggest the sort of amicable relationship you say you had with him, Mr Wilding. If anyone asked me, I'd have said the tone was peremptory.'

'Oh, that was just Nigel covering his back ... for the record,' he said, evidently thinking fast, and perhaps improvising as he went along. 'In case I reneged. The point was, until recently he'd been quite willing to let it ride until I was in a better position to repay, but then he'd found himself temporarily in difficulties and he wanted it back. Anyway, it was all sorted last night. He agreed to leave things as they were, though as it turns out, it wouldn't have been necessary.' The underlying elation Mayo had sensed when they first met was back again.

'There's been an improvement in your financial position?'

'Let's say in certain prospects,' Wilding returned with a smile that hinted at secret satisfaction. On the other side of the hearth, Christine Wilding reached forward and poured herself another cup of tea.

'Would that be because Mr Fontenoy has left his share of the business and half of what else he has to your son?' The other half, according to George Fontenoy, was to go to his sister's three children in New Zealand.

Wilding didn't like that, didn't like them knowing, and possibly not the implications either. His smile became rather more fixed, and a different element entered his manner, not so easily placeable. 'I don't see what that has to do with my situation. It's Matthew he's left it to, not me,' he said shortly.

'But it's still in the family. Might he not want to invest in your business?' Abigail suggested.

'Matthew?' He laughed shortly. 'Not likely!'

'Jake,' said Christine, quietly.

'All right, forget I said that. It's only that I'm not sure that leaving all that money to Matthew – to anybody that age, for that matter – was a wise move on Nigel's part. Matthew's barely nineteen and he hasn't yet made his mind up what he wants to do with his life – but I'm willing to bet it won't be running Cedar House Antiques for the rest of it, if that's what Nigel was hoping! More likely throwing it away on rally cars.'

Mayo well knew that these were the sort of disparaging remarks fathers might be expected to make about troublesome teenage sons – though perhaps with less bitterness. Wilding and his son evidently didn't get on, or at any rate, didn't see eye to eye. But then, both of them might be difficult to live with, in their different ways. Looking steadily at Wilding, he said, 'You do realize that you were the last person to have seen Mr Fontenoy alive?'

He was picked up sharply. '
Known
to have seen him, yes. But someone else must have seen him after I did, because I can tell you he was still very much alive when I left him. I didn't kill him. He could be an irritating bastard, but most of us can be at one time or another, I suppose.'