Fatal Act (16 page)

‘Imagine if he’s been had up for attempted murder!’ Sam whispered. ‘This could be it, Geraldine. We could be on the point of wrapping it up.’

Geraldine smiled. Although it was sometimes misplaced, she appreciated her sergeant’s enthusiasm. She hoped fervently that Sam was right. Meanwhile, Piers was in the custody suite, and they had work to do.

R
EG
M
ILTON
DECIDED
TO
interview Piers himself.

‘He’ll find it more difficult to stand up to a man.’

Geraldine doubted if Reg’s badgering style would intimidate this suspect. If anything, she suspected the director would have been more likely to let his guard down to a woman. Nevertheless, for once she was happy to finish her day’s work and leave on time. This was the first evening she had taken off in six days, and she was planning a quiet evening in, with a long soak in the bath followed by an early night or perhaps a film on the television. Sometimes it helped to take a short break when she was finding herself bogged down in an investigation. If she could empty her head of the suspects, she might be able to think more clearly in the morning. So she was irritated when her mobile rang shortly before she reached home.

E
xpecting to speak to Celia, she was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of her former colleague, Ian Peterson. He invited her to meet up for a drink one evening, if she had time. There was something uncharacteristically strained in her old friend’s voice. On impulse, Geraldine said she was free that evening. If she had been at home in her slippers, she wouldn’t have considered going out again. As it was, she was still in the car and could easily turn round and head off to Kent. In light traffic she might get there in an hour and a half.

‘But I can’t get there for a couple of hours.’

‘Perfect!’

He sounded so pleased, she was swept along with his eagerness and agreed to meet him later on, without stopping to think how tired she was. A moment before, she had been desperate to get home and put her feet up. Now she was heading off to Kent for a drink. It was daft. After she hung up, she couldn’t believe she had agreed to drive all that way to see him. But she had said she would go, and she wouldn’t let him down.

T
hey met in a quiet pub they used to frequent when they had worked together in the Kent constabulary. Ian was standing at the bar watching the door, as though uncertain whether she would turn up. His expression changed as soon as he saw her. His face broke into a grin. Geraldine had thought he had sounded strained on the phone, an impression borne out by his appearance. He looked older than when she had last seen him, and very tired. There were small pouches under his eyes, as though he hadn’t been sleeping, and his bulky shoulders drooped in the posture of an older man. She wondered if he had been ill as she returned his smile, and joined him at the bar. He ordered her a drink without pausing to ask her what she wanted. There was a comfort in such undemanding familiarity.

‘We’ll just make it a quick one,’ he said as they sat down, ‘or I’ll be in trouble.’

He laughed loudly.

G
eraldine sat beside him. Close up, she was even more shocked than she had been on first catching sight of him from the door.

‘Are you keeping well?’ he asked, scrutinising her face in his turn. ‘How’s London treating you? Are they looking after you there?’

He barked a rapid series of questions. She understood he didn’t want to talk about himself.

‘Enough about me,’ she said at last. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m fine,’ he replied, although she could see that wasn’t true.

‘How’s married life?’

He shrugged and took a gulp of his pint before answering that it was fine. It would be insensitive to tell him she didn’t believe him.

‘But let’s not talk about me,’ he went on quickly. ‘You’re the one who’s getting on with your life and doing something exciting. Tell me all about London.’

There was a wistfulness in his expression that she couldn’t fail to notice.

S
he leaned towards him.

‘Ian, what’s wrong?’

‘Well, my new DI’s a shit.’

‘I’m a hard act to follow,’ she laughed.

He didn’t join in her laughter. Instead he glanced nervously at his watch.

‘I can’t stay long,’ he muttered, ‘or I’ll get it in the neck.’

Geraldine understood that Ian hadn’t told his wife about their meeting. Bev had been unnecessarily suspicious of the intimacy that had arisen between them when they had been working together. It wasn’t unusual for two officers on the same team to develop an instinctive mutual understanding. She watched him when he went back over to the bar for just one more pint, the way his head hung forwards.

‘H
ow’s Bev?’ she asked directly when he returned with two beers.

His smile didn’t reach his tired eyes.

‘Bev’s great.’

She wondered if he realised she knew he was lying.

‘Ian, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

She didn’t press him, although he looked so miserable it was almost unbearable. When she had worked with him he had always been robustly cheerful. She was struck by a sudden impulse to comfort him, like a child, and pulled herself up sharply. He had probably just had a row with his wife. Whatever the reason for his miserable mood, it was none of her business, unless he chose to share it with her.

T
hey talked about London, and life back in Kent, for a while, but she couldn’t help feeling concerned.

‘You know you can always talk to me – about anything you want. We are friends as well as ex-colleagues,’ she hazarded at last, unable to ignore his despondency any longer. She didn’t add that he was the closest friend she had.

He didn’t answer.

‘Have you got time for another one?’ she asked.

He looked at his watch and shook his head.

‘I’d better go.’

Hurriedly he gulped down the last of his pint and stood up.

‘We must do this again soon. It was really good to see you.’

He placed his hand on her shoulder for a second before he left. With an irrepressible pang she watched him slip away without a backward glance, hurrying back to his wife. After he had gone she sat quite still for a moment, remembering the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. It was a long time since a man had touched her.

At last she stood up, and set off on the long drive back to her empty flat.

L
EAVING
THE
POLICE
STATION
the following morning, Piers issued a stream of futile threats.

‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,’ he fumed, pointing an accusatory finger at the officer in charge. ‘You haven’t heard the end of this yet.’

The custody sergeant took no notice. He had heard tirades like that many times over. They both knew it was just so much hot air.

‘I’ll be talking to the media about my wrongful arrest,’ he blustered.

‘You have that right, sir,’ the sergeant responded stolidly.

T
wo hours later, showered and pristine, Piers was sitting at home savouring the aroma of freshly ground coffee. No one brewed coffee as well as Maria. He had found his dumpy little housekeeper over ten years ago on a film set where she had been working as a cleaner. Observing how industrious she was he had recruited her to work for him, and she had been with him ever since, progressing from cleaning to running the entire household. Now she was in charge of a cleaner who came in two mornings a week.

H
is morning cafetiere was one of the things Piers had missed most when he had been banged up. The memory of that night still made him feel sick. He wondered how anyone could survive being locked up, night after night, in a bare cell stinking of piss and antiseptic. It was disgraceful that a man in his position should be subjected to such barbaric treatment. He shuddered at the memory. Glancing at one of the tabloids, he set his cup carefully down on the table and stared at a grainy picture of Bethany hanging onto his arm under a headline: ‘In Bed with Suspected Killer.’ Piers swore aloud. The little cow had got wind of his visit to the police station, and blabbed to the papers. Everyone must have read about it by now. The police had released him, but he remained a suspect in a murder investigation.

H
e could hardly bear to read what the paper had published about him. His face twisted in disgust as he read what Bethany had said. With a sigh, he helped himself to another cup of coffee before reading through the article again, slowly.

‘When glamour model and actress, Bethany Marsden (22), was seduced by an older man, she had no idea he would soon be helping the police with an enquiry into the death of another one of his conquests. Blonde bombshell Bethany said, ‘I was shocked when I heard the police wanted to talk to him. I had no idea Piers was two timing me.’

‘60-year-old Piers Trevelyan is being questioned by the police as part of an ongoing investigation into the brutal murder of Anna Porter (20), star of the small screen, playing the part of Dorothy in Down and Out.’

P
iers slapped the paper down on the table, making the crumbs on his plate jump. The reporter described Bethany as a ‘glamour model and actress’. That was as good as calling her a sex worker. His frown relaxed slightly. At least the paper had knocked four years off his age. As for the lying bitch who had sold her story, that kind of tawdry publicity would do her no favours. Once his name was cleared no one in the industry would touch her. She had branded herself as toxic. All the same, her name was on the front page of the papers. By the time his innocence was established a lot of people would have forgotten the details of the case, but they would remember her name. All in all, the article was likely to further her career, unless he stepped in to scupper it. He bit thoughtfully into a slice of brown toast, planning how to make sure she never worked again.

T
he shrilling of his mobile phone startled him out of his reverie.

‘Dad?’

‘Hello Zak.’

‘Dad, have you seen the papers?’

Zak’s agitation had a calming effect on Piers.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘It answers the question.’

‘Hardly. Have you seen the crap they’re printing about you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dad!’

‘Anna’s dead. I have no control over what the papers say about it. Now control yourself and don’t make a drama out of the situation.’

‘They’re saying you killed her –’

‘Because she was driven into by a van belonging to me. But I’m not the only person who had a key to the van.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you trying to frighten me now? Because you know that hasn’t worked since I was in short trousers. You don’t scare me.’

‘O
h, grow up, for Christ’s sake. I’m warning you. You do know they’re going to come after you once they’ve finished with me. You need to be prepared, that’s all I’m saying. You know what these reporters are like, not to mention the police.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing we can do other than tell them the truth, that we had nothing to do with Anna’s death. But whatever you do, don’t say a word to the papers. Anything you say will be misquoted or twisted to big up their “story”.’

‘But –’

‘Ignore it, Zak. All this will soon blow over, believe me.’

‘How can I ignore it? Everyone’s going to see the papers. They’ll all be talking about it. How will I be able to look anyone in the eye ever again?’

‘Stop that, Zak. Calm down.’

P
iers felt a wave of resentment. After all he had done for his son, the boy was concerned only about the impact of his father’s problems on his own life.

‘But what am I supposed to do now?’ the boy was burbling.

‘Carry on with your life. There’s nothing else you can do. And stop fussing. This will all die down soon enough. It’s of no consequence. Believe me, son, I’ve had far worse stories circulated about me, all lies, and no one even remembers them a week later. It’s just part of the media circus. And anyway, this isn’t about you. It’s about me. Stop behaving like a hysterical narcissist and grow up for fuck’s sake.’

Having issued that piece of fatherly advice, Piers hung up.

P
IERS
’
NEIGHBOUR
WAS
A
prosperous solicitor who worked for the London office of an international law firm, which was located near Baker Street. Leaving the station, Geraldine made her way north, away from Regents Park. The pavements were crowded and traffic crawled along the busy roads. After walking for about ten minutes she reached Marylebone House, a tall brick and glass block of offices. The woman on the central reception desk directed her to the fourth floor where she found Garnett’s secretary in a small smart office. The secretary looked up enquiringly as Geraldine entered the room.

‘I’m here to see Mr Garnett.’

‘Anthony or Gerald?’

‘Anthony.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

Geraldine explained she had telephoned earlier and showed her identity card. With a perfunctory nod the secretary asked her to take a seat.

‘Mr Garnett will see you soon,’ she added politely, as though Geraldine was a client.

A
nthony was a portly man in his mid-fifties. His greying hair was thinning on top, white above his small flat ears. He looked a model of respectability in a pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt and sober tie. He sat very upright, diminutive behind his large polished wooden desk, and greeted Geraldine in a formal tone.

‘How can I be of assistance?’

He raised his eyebrows when she explained the reason for her visit.

‘My next door neighbour?’ he repeated. He sounded faintly exasperated. ‘What has he been saying about me now? Frankly I’m surprised at the police, spending so much time on what is essentially a disagreement between neighbours. I take it you are aware there’s a long running dispute between us, and I’ve had occasion to lodge a complaint on more than one occasion about the behaviour of his latest companion. His late companion, I should say. Do you know she was almost the same age as his own son?’