Death Comes First (13 page)

But the move hadn’t been for his benefit, or even his wife’s. They had uprooted themselves from London for their beloved daughter’s sake. And as far as Vogel was concerned, when it came to Rosamund no sacrifice was too great.

The truth was that he would do anything for his daughter.

As he folded his long frame into the passenger seat of the standard-issue Ford hatchback, Dawn Saslow flashed a smile in his direction. She was small and dark with big eyes and seemed to be bursting with energy and enthusiasm. Just looking at her made Vogel feel old and weary. She was also impatient to be on her way; before he’d had time to introduce himself the squad car took off with another squeal of tyres and shot into a momentary gap in the city-centre traffic.

A local girl, Saslow knew her way round all the back-doubles, but even so it wasn’t long before they found themselves caught in a crawling snake of vehicles inching along the Bath Road.

Saslow glanced at Vogel questioningly.

‘Go on then,’ murmured the DI with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Saslow grinned as she switched on the squad car’s system of flashing lights and engaged the siren.

The procession of vehicles ahead veered to the left, as did the oncoming stream of traffic. Saslow guided the squad car at speed right down the middle.

‘Like the parting of the Red Sea,’ said Vogel, hunkering down in his seat.

‘Me Moses!’ said Saslow, flooring the accelerator.

She kept the lights flashing and the siren wailing for the rest of the journey and they seemed to reach Tarrant Park in no time.

Thanks to his morning’s research, Vogel knew that Tarrant Park was the brainchild of a Bristol-based architect who had wanted to recreate the rarefied atmosphere of the famous St George’s Hill development in Weybridge, where wealthy residents were closeted within a 900-acre estate with its own tennis club and golf course. The name, Tarrant Park, was a tribute to the man who created St George’s Hill in the early twentieth century: Surrey builder Walter George Tarrant. Mansions were built in painstaking parody of the past – mock-Tudor, Georgian, art deco, arts and crafts – each in a minimum of an acre of land, and loosely grouped together, according to their style, along leafy lanes, drawing their names from their periods of architectural inspiration. And so the Mildmay home, The Firs, stood in Palladian Close, whilst
the faux-Tudor home of Henry and Felicity Tanner dominated the corner of Drake Road and Raleigh Way. The prices might be a fraction of its Thames Valley counterpart, where properties frequently changed hands for sums in excess of ten million pounds, but Tarrant Park had become the natural habitat of the Somerset nouveau riche, who believed that just living there gave them kudos.

Vogel, who had once attended the wedding reception of an old chum of his wife’s at St Georges Hill, knew what to expect.

He checked his watch: 1.06 p.m. Fred Mildmay had been reported missing four hours and one minute earlier. But despite continuing house-to-house enquiries, the investigation was no further forward. No one had seen Fred since he climbed the stairs to bed at eight thirty the previous evening.

A uniformed security guard opened the electronic security gates to let them in. Vogel wondered whether PCs Yardley and Bolton had managed to track down the guard who’d been on duty last night. Apparently he’d gone fishing straight after his shift. CCTV coverage of the gate area was also already being studied by the specialist unit back at Kenneth Steele House. In the meantime Vogel had little interest in the guard on duty that morning, who it seemed had little interest in Vogel. He didn’t bother to approach the vehicle, let alone check their identities. The rain, which was still falling heavily, may have been responsible for his reluctance to leave the shelter of the gatehouse. Vogel supposed it was fair enough that he would merely wave them through, but all the same he couldn’t help wondering about the diligence of the estate’s security operatives. Tarrant Park was a relatively trouble-free place. Professional burglars were inclined to pick easier targets, and the gated community would not be remotely on the
radar of casual thieves or vandals. It was possible that the security guards who worked there were not as alert as they should be. They might also have been distracted by the big wedding reception which had been held at the tennis club the previous evening, resulting in a considerable number of strangers entering and leaving Tarrant Park throughout the day and evening.

PC Saslow motored slowly through the gates and Vogel began to look around him. Even though he thought he had known what to expect, he found his jaw dropping.

This was another world, an unreal world displaying little semblance to any sort of reality. Or to any sort of reality that Vogel had ever encountered. The houses were massive and imposing, each one set within a considerable expanse of land; some were not even visible from the leafy lanes which ran through the estate. Vogel felt no envy. Indeed, the thought of trying to make a home in such a closeted place filled him with horror.

‘Did you ever see that movie
Stepford Wives
?’ he enquired of PC Saslow, unknowingly echoing Joyce Mildmay’s opinion of the place.

‘No, sir,’ replied the PC.

‘No. Of course not. You’re too young.’

‘I like old movies, sir.’

‘Ummm, you should watch out for it on TV then.’

‘What’s it about, sir?’

‘It’s about a place where all the women are programmed to do as they’re told without question and to feel no emotion,’ said Vogel.

PC Saslow considered this for a moment.

‘Bit like your average police station, then,’ she said, flashing him a toothy grin.

Vogel was busy peering morosely through the rain at the street and house names. He wondered how Saslow could see to drive in the torrential downpour. The windscreen wipers could barely cope, and even though the air-conditioning was going full blast the windows were misting over.

He was just making a mental note to check whether it had been raining heavily all night, which would make it less likely that young Fred Mildmay would have run away from home voluntarily, when he spotted the sign.

‘There it is,’ he said, pointing back at the turning they had just driven past. ‘Palladian Close.’

Saslow reversed. Far too quickly, Vogel thought. Visibility was even worse through the rear window. He had become far more aware of the difficulties driving presented since he’d started taking lessons, and more and more convinced that every journey he took was likely to end in disaster. And that he would never learn to drive.

The Firs was the second property on the right. Later, when the media got wind of the boy’s disappearance, there would no doubt be crowds of reporters standing around in the rain, brandishing notebooks, microphones and cameras. For now though there was no one in sight.

The wrought-iron gates – which in Vogel’s estimation rivalled the Queen Mother memorial gates at the Park Lane entrance to Hyde Park both in size and vulgarity – opened as if by magic as they approached. The missing boy’s mother had known Vogel was on his way. She or someone in the house must have been looking out for his arrival.

The paved drive was fifty metres long and lined on either side by narrow flower beds planted with daffodils, now in the process of dying down at the end of their season. Each plant had been neatly tied. Vogel suspected that everything
about this property, and more than likely the lifestyle of its occupants, would be similarly ordered. At the top of the drive was a circular turning area, mainly gravelled, with a shrub-surrounded ornamental fountain in the middle. To the left, just off the drive before the circular area was reached, was a covered parking area in which several cars were already parked. Saslow slowed down, but Vogel gestured for her to carry on and park in front of the porticoed mock-Georgian front entrance. As they climbed out of the car Vogel noticed that the door already stood open.

A tall, good-looking black man in a well-tailored grey business suit stepped through the doorway. Ignoring the rain, he loped down the wide marble-tiled steps towards them, confidently offering an outstretched right hand to Vogel. The detective inspector, suddenly aware that his elderly corduroy jacket was so damp that it was sticking to his shoulders, shook the hand and introduced himself and PC Saslow.

‘I’m Stephen Hardcastle,’ said the man. ‘I’m the family’s solicitor.’

Vogel shot Hardcastle an enquiring glance. ‘They thought they needed a solicitor?’

Hardcastle looked momentarily startled but recovered quickly. He would, thought Vogel. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I’m also an old family friend. I was at university with Joyce, Fred’s mother, and her late husband Charlie. We’ve always been extremely close. And I’m godfather to their eldest son, Mark.’ His accent was upper-class English. His manners and easy style had clearly been public-school honed.

‘I see,’ said Vogel, who was wondering why Hardcastle felt the need to explain himself in so much detail.

‘We are all so pleased to see you, Detective Inspector,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s imperative that we find Fred quickly. His
mother is near breaking point, I fear. Please, come on in, come on in.’

The three of them hurried up the steps together. Vogel’s feet, clad in unfamiliar leather-soled shoes because he had yet to replace his recently deceased Hush Puppies, slipped on wet marble as he glanced up at the burglar alarm just below the eaves. More security which would have to have been evaded, had the Mildmay boy indeed been abducted.

At the top of the steps Stephen Hardcastle stepped aside and ushered Vogel and Saslow through the door into a large hallway, then down a black-and-white tiled corridor towards a door at the far end, which was standing ajar. Vogel paused when he reached it and glanced enquiringly at the solicitor.

‘Everybody’s in there, in the kitchen,’ said Hardcastle. He pushed the door open and waved Vogel in.

‘Major Crime Investigation Team,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps something will bloody well happen now.’ Then he glanced guiltily at Vogel and muttered an apology: ‘It’s the waiting, Detective Inspector, it’s been terribly stressful for all of us.’

Vogel inclined his head in acknowledgement. He understood. Waiting for news of a lost loved one was torment of the worst kind. Even the dreadful confirmation that there was no longer hope, the knowledge of death and the closure of learning the manner of it, could be less painful.

But it was far too early to be harbouring thoughts of that nature. Step by step, that was Vogel’s mantra. No matter how impatient, how wealthy, how influential the next of kin, he would take each step at his own pace.

Eight

Vogel strode purposefully into the kitchen. At least he hoped he looked purposeful. And authoritative. Although he never thought he did authoritative terribly well.

He again introduced himself, and PC Saslow, explaining that she was a family liaison officer who had been assigned to assist the anxious family in any way she could.

Everybody was gathered in the kitchen. It was a big room, but appeared to be full of people. And they were all staring at Vogel.

Vogel found his own eyes drawn to a woman in her early forties who was sitting at the table with her arm round a teenage girl. Both had obviously been crying and looked as if they might start again at any moment.

It was obvious that this must be the mother and sister of the missing boy.

‘Mrs Joyce Mildmay?’ enquired Vogel.

The woman nodded, wiping her eyes with one hand and struggling to pull herself together.

Vogel shifted his questioning gaze to the girl.

‘M-my daughter, Molly, Fred’s sister,’ Joyce said, confirming Vogel’s assumption.

Merely giving voice to Fred’s name caused her eyes to fill up again.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mildmay,’ said Vogel. ‘I want you to know that my team and I have one aim, and that is to do everything we can to bring your son safely home to you. In order to do so, I’m afraid I need to ask you some more questions. I know you have already given a statement to the police officers who responded to your 999 call, but I need to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything – even the smallest detail could turn out to be significant.’

Joyce Mildmay nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said in a weak, shaky voice. Her daughter stifled a sob.

‘Firstly, could you tell me the names of everyone in this room, please,’ Vogel continued, still looking at Joyce Mildmay.

Joyce tried to speak but her voice failed her. She took a moment to compose herself, then waved a hand towards the tall man leaning against the Aga at the far side of the room.

‘Th-that’s m-my father, Henry Tanner.’

Vogel studied Tanner with interest. This was some man, he thought. Thanks to his online research he knew that Henry Tanner was the undisputed patriarch of a prominent family, and chief executive of an intriguing and possibly questionable company, Tanner-Max – the family firm in which Fred Mildmay’s father Charlie had been a partner until his premature death.

In addition to its high annual turnover, Tanner-Max owned a considerable amount of valuable property in the area. As did individuals within the family; primarily Henry Tanner, but there were also properties in the names of Felicity Tanner and Joyce Mildmay.

Furthermore, from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s
own records, Vogel had discovered that over the years no less than three investigations had been launched into the activities of Tanner-Max. No specific reasons had been given, other than that the company’s financial records did not appear to match the level of business. All three investigations had been abandoned at an early stage, and there was no trace of the more detailed records which Vogel would have expected to find in the archive.

He had fired off an internal email or two enquiring about this, but had yet to learn anything of consequence.

Henry stepped towards Vogel, gesturing to his daughter that he would take charge. Vogel had expected no less.

‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘Please, let me assist.’

He pointed first to a lanky young man with a shock of unruly hair, standing awkwardly by the window. He bore a striking resemblance to the photos Vogel had found online of a young Charlie Mildmay, though the hair was not quite as long.