An Accidental Shroud (23 page)

'Nothing. Well, I took the JCB back and went home.'

'And all this without seeing a soul?'

Matthew hesitated. 'No, I didn't see anybody,' he said finally.

It was the only part of his story they didn't believe.

'This may be hard for you, Matthew, but are you absolutely sure you didn't see anybody?' Mayo asked.

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Nobody at all?'

'I've said so, haven't I?'

Mayo sighed. 'Let's go over this last part again.'

But nothing would budge him.

By nine that evening, it was beginning to be apparent to Abigail that the law of diminishing returns was operating in a big way: the more work she put in, the less results she was obtaining. She rubbed her eyes, closed them and decided it was time to pack it in.

Everyone else had gone home on that floor, and Mayo saw her light shining through the opaque glass panels that separated her office from the corridor as he too left for home. He popped his head in.

'Still here, Abigail?' She jumped a mile, as guilty as if she hadn't been working thirteen hours with scarcely a break. 'Time you went home,' he said with a smile. But he sat down in the chair opposite, stretched his legs out and leaned back with his hands in his pockets.

'Matthew Wilding,' he said after a moment or two. 'It's bothering me. 1 don't see any reason for disbelieving him about knocking the house down – nobody would make up a daft story like that as an alibi, not Matthew, anyway – and if he did, and if that's what he was doing, and if Lindsay Hammond is telling the truth, it puts him out of the frame for the murder, but ...'

'You still think he saw somebody?'

'I know he did. And I think it was probably his father – which is why he won't say. Understandable. He's told us the truth about the rest of what happened, which couldn't have been easy for him, and he's guilty as hell about his dad – guilty, or scared stiff.'

'Or it could be he's frightened because he saw someone he mistook for his father in the dark. Someone who looks like him.'

'Someone like Joss Graham, for instance?' Mayo rubbed his chin.

And then Abigail told him what she had thought after their meeting with Joss Graham on the building site, and later, after seeing Naomi Graham. He sat thinking it over for a while, then stood up. 'Tom Callaghan next, then. Well, tomorrow'll do, he won't be going anywhere. Time I was off home now. You, too.'

'I was just on my way.'

Abigail closed the Fontenoy file, shuffled together a pile of reports, left for yet another day the pile of official bumf she'd sworn to get through, and went home. Bed, and sleep, seemed infinitely attractive.

Home was the cold ashes of the previous night's fire, breakfast dishes in the sink, a film of dust on the furniture, a hastily constructed sandwich eaten before the electric fire. Her mother would not have been proud of her.

Eyes closing of their own volition in the warmth of the fire, she decided that domesticity wasn't her forte and wondered vaguely, yawning her way upstairs, whether she was even suited to living alone, recalling the casual orderliness of Ben Appleyard's flat the one time she'd been there, its purposefulness and self-sufficiency, its shelves and shelves of books – and the stack of papers beside the word processor.

Bed was a cold shiver because she'd forgotten to switch the electric blanket on. Later, when the duvet she'd wrapped tightly around herself made her too hot, she woke up sweating and couldn't get to sleep again, chasing insubstantial shadows. Apart from what she'd just been discussing with Mayo – what she was sure Naomi had been going to tell her – during that visit she knew she'd seen something else she'd subconsciously registered as important, though what it was remained as stubbornly elusive as the sleep that continued to evade her.

Callaghan was located by telephone the next morning, without too much difficulty, at the TV centre.

'No, no, don't you come here,' he replied hastily when this was suggested to him. 'I'll come over to you – or better still, why don't we meet halfway – at the golf club, say, where I'm a member? I'm sure you're as pushed for time as I am.'

He wasn't the man to neglect the opportunity of being seen, but in the circumstances Mayo thought it surprising that he'd suggested such a public meeting place, unless it was to demonstrate that he had nothing to fear from being seen in such suspect company.

He was waiting for them at the entrance to the clubhouse when they drew up, and came forward with hand outstretched, expansive as if they were welcome guests at his country house rather than police officers who might be there to give him a decidedly unpleasant half hour. He ordered coffee at the bar and then took them to a quiet corner by the picture windows where three armchairs were ranged round a low table, shielded from the rest of the room by a bank of climbing plants and overlooking a fairway and thickly wooded countryside beyond.

He talked pleasantries which Mayo let him carry on with until the coffee had been brought and poured and the waitress had disappeared. 'Mr Callaghan, we're not here on a social visit. Certain information has come to light since the last time we spoke to you that we need to talk to you about.'

With a practised gesture, Callaghan signalled him to go on, at ease in his chair with his famous smile pinned on, wearing a dark navy shirt buttoned to the neck, no tie, a light jacket almost the same silver as his blow-dried hair, beautifully cut navy slacks and pale grey moccasins.

When Mayo, well aware he was being brutal, but seeing no way out of it, brought up the subject of Callaghan's daughter, the smile barely slipped, but his face froze, as if the smile were painted on to a mask. 'I don't see,' he replied through stiff lips, 'what that has to do with Nigel Fontenoy's murder.'

'Let's not prevaricate, Mr Callaghan. I'm sorry to have to broach this subject, believe me. I've no wish to open old wounds, but I think you're aware that when your daughter died there was a certain amount of talk that she'd been involved with an older man.'

'If there was, nobody passed it on to me.'

Mayo said patiently, 'I suggest we shall finish with this much quicker if you're honest with us. Nigel Fontenoy was the name mentioned ... and I've reason to believe you were well aware of this. If not at the time, as you say, then it's certainly something you've learned about during the last few weeks.'

'I find this exceedingly distasteful.'

'I'm sorry. But do you deny you met and talked with Sharon Wallace a few weeks ago? And that she gave you a bracelet which had belonged to your daughter? Which may have been given to her by Fontenoy?'

Two golfers came into view, looking like outsize children in their primary-coloured gear, dragging golfing trolleys behind them. Callaghan watched them walk the length of the fairway before he answered. Finally, he said, 'You've obviously talked to Sharon Wallace. Yes, she gave me the bracelet, and told me what Judy had said, that she'd asked her to keep it so that I wouldn't see it. I had to believe it was Nigel who gave it to her. Well, are you implying that I killed him, simply because of that?'

'No, I've no reason at this point to believe you had anything to do with his death.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Because in no way did I kill him. Not that I didn't think about it. Not that I haven't wished him dead every minute of my waking life since learning about him and Judy, but that's a very different thing from actually having the moral courage to make it happen. He took from me the one person who made my life worth living, after smirching a young and beautiful life, and I'm not ashamed to say I rejoice that he's dead. But I wasn't the instrument of his death, more's the pity.'

There was a silence after this. Mayo could find nothing to say because, though he couldn't condone, as a father he could find it in his heart to sympathize.

'I kept the bracelet Sharon gave me,' Callaghan went on. 'My first idea
was
to confront Nigel with it and then find some way of making him pay, perhaps kill him, who knows? But I couldn't do it, I was afraid that I mightn't have the guts when it came down to it. After I heard he was dead, I threw the bracelet in the river and that was the end of it.' He put his head in his hands, struggling for composure. He looked old and weary, his eyes empty, when he eventually raised his head. 'If you don't think I killed Nigel, what is it you want to talk about?'

'We need to know more about his background. You knew him since you were at school together. You and Nigel Fontenoy and Jake Wilding.'

'Oh yes, we go back a long way, the three of us.'

'What do you know of Naomi Graham?' Mayo asked abruptly, and was rewarded by seeing a spark of sudden interest warming those cold eyes.

'Naomi? Jake's ex? I haven't seen her for nearly twenty years. Not since she left Jake in the lurch with young Matthew.'

'Did you know she was back in Lavenstock? With an older son she claims is Jake Wilding's?'

'That's what she's claiming, is it? Well, it's possible, but not true. If you've spoken to Naomi, you don't need me to tell you that she's apt to confuse fact with fiction. She says what suits her at the time. And yes, the child could've been Jake's, I'll grant you that. But he wasn't.'

'He's very like him.'

'Is he? Well, I haven't seen him, so I wouldn't know. But Jake's very like his Uncle George, come to that, yet that doesn't make George his father.'

It was true, Abigail thought, you could never predict when a family likeness would appear, or when it was likely to skip a generation. Nigel Fontenoy hadn't looked much like his father, George – the requisite genes seemed to have bypassed him and yet had been passed on through him to his son. Joss bore a passing similarity to Jake Wilding, yes, but Abigail had also glimpsed a fleeting yet far stronger resemblance to someone else – to a face, stiffened in death, but recognizably of the same cast of feature as Joss Graham's. 'It was Nigel Fontenoy who was Joss's father, wasn't it?'

'Yes, Inspector Moon, it was Nigel. Definitely. He told me so himself, at the time. To do him justice, he wanted to marry her, there was nothing he wanted more than a child, but she'd have none of it. Apparently, they'd quarrelled over something or other and presumably that was how she took her revenge.'

'Do you know what their quarrel was about?'

'No, but it was more than just a tiff. When I let Nigel know she was back in town he went quite pale. And before you ask, yes, I enjoyed telling him that, quite deliberately, hoping she'd make trouble for the bastard. I live in the knowledge that I might have succeeded.'

Mayo stood up. 'Thank you, Mr Callaghan, you've been very helpful.' His voice was without expression. Abigail slipped her notebook into her bag and also stood up.

'You're welcome,' Callaghan said bleakly.

When they returned from the golf club, Abigail found a note on her desk to say that Jermyn's had telephoned and she rang them back immediately.

Alec Macaudle's first words were an apology for the length of time it had taken him to return her call. He had been out of the country and had only just returned, he told her in a prissy, Morningside accent. He was deeply shocked at the news about Mr Fontenoy and was more than willing to help, insofar as he was able.

'Yes, indeed,' he answered her first question, 'I do recall my last meeting with him, poor man – very well. We lunched together and had a very fruitful discussion.' He was deeply regretful that all the long negotiations had come to naught. He had been looking forward to a long and pleasant association, he said, well launched into what Abigail feared was going to turn into a long-winded lament. 'Perhaps his heirs and assigns –' he intimated.

Imagining Mr Macaudle as a pink little man with well-brushed grey hair and a pursy mouth, Abigail assured him that any inquiries the police were making would not interfere with any approaches Mr Macaudle might wish to make to Fontenoy's about their business deal, and then asked her second question, fully expecting to be met with further pomposity: had Mr Fontenoy, when they met, any other business to discuss with him? Such as, she suggested, requesting a second opinion on a valuable piece he had brought with him?

'Oh, you mean the Fabergé!'

Macaudle's response was immediate and unequivocal, going straight to the point, causing Abigail to revise her opinion of his digressiveness, while at the same time the name Fabergé set a small, urgent bell ringing somewhere at the back of her mind.

'What a find!' he went on. 'Well, Mr Fontenoy himself had a good idea what it might be worth and that it was genuine, but he needed expert attribution, and knowing that I was an acknowledged authority on the subject,' he asserted modestly, 'he came to me before making a decision about it. I felt privileged to be able to help, and to say that in my opinion, the piece was genuine. You realize, of course, that many imitations of Fabergé objects have found their way on to the market during the course of the years, countless copies have been made. But this was the real thing. They're very rare, you know, these flowers, and with the wonderful provenance which he said existed –'

'Would you mind, Mr Macaudle,' Abigail intervened, 'describing this er – flower – to me?'

'When I say flower, you mustn't underestimate it, Inspector. I'm talking about a very fine work of art. But have you not seen it?' There was a pause. 'Oh dear, you're not saying that it's been – stolen?'

'I don't know. But it's not where it's supposed to be. That's why I should like a description of it, please.'

'Och,' Mr Macaudle said faintly, 'what times we live in!' Then, quickly recovering, he proceeded briskly, and with total recall, to describe the piece for her in minute detail. 'Well, a catalogue description might go something like this: "A sprig of honeysuckle in gold, three flowers and berries, the flowers enamelled, with white gold filament stamens. The leaves carved in dark green nephrite, the entwined stems in red gold, the berries in rhodonite. On one flower is poised a bee in black enamel, diamonds and rubies, on another an enamelled tortoiseshell butterfly. The spray is set in a columnar-shaped vase in green gold, engraved to represent tree bark, with a foliate border round the base in red gold studded with rose diamonds. " '