The Malcontenta (38 page)

‘I steer well clear of all that,’ Bromley said stoutly.

‘Do you, Ben? Well … And what about the dark side of his personality, were you aware of that?’

‘Can’t say I was, David. There was something … racy about him. Bit of a devil, I’d guess. Nothing sinister.’

‘Really? A devil …’ Brock was studying Bromley’s face closely as he replied, his mood suddenly serious. ‘So you saw him as an asset to the clinic?’

Bromley shrugged. ‘Sure. He was popular with the punters. That was good enough for me.’

‘No, there was more to it than that,’ Brock said flatly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Petrou could attract the punters all right, sniff out their predilections - he had a talent for it. He wasn’t just an asset, he was a resource. On his own he was merely an opportunist, didn’t really appreciate how things work, although he had a nice instinct. But to be really effective he needed a
manager,
someone to organize things for him, keep the Beamish-Newells off his back, line up the punters, give him advice, feed his ambition. He needed you, Ben. Together you created an alternative clinic within the alternative clinic - a neat idea. You had your own special patients and your own special programme, a bit more indulgent than Stanhope’s, and almost invisible inside the respectable setting it provided.

‘I’m not suggesting that you didn’t steer well clear of his sexuality. You must have been about the only one around here who wasn’t fascinated by it. Your interests were more practical. Where there’s muck there’s brass. The invisible clinic had its own fees and profit line and cash flow and investment portfolio too, didn’t it?’

Bromley half rose out of his seat in protest, but Brock waved him down. ‘I’m not much interested, really. I could turn it over to the Fraud Squad and they would get to the bottom of it. They know how to track down cash transactions. They don’t look for records that are there so much as those that aren’t, if you follow me - like looking for the invisible clinic. You know, you buy a pony for one of the girls, and there’s no record in your cheque or credit-card accounts, so where did the cash come from? It’s a tedious process looking for records that aren’t there. Very expensive and very intrusive. The only satisfaction is that we get you twice - once when we discover how you made the money, and then again when we hand you over to the Inland Revenue for tax evasion.

‘As I say, it’s not the sort of thing I’m much interested in. If the members of your little club were daft enough to pay you good money for arranging some discreet hanky-panky with Mr Petrou, good luck to you. I’m only interested in who killed him. And if it was one of your club members and you try to obstruct me, then God help you, Mr Bromley.’

Ben Bromley had gone very pale. The coffee stood cold in the cup on the desk in front of him, and he found it difficult to break free of Brock’s gaze.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘What I was trying to find in your computer was the record of who was actually here at Stanhope at the time of Petrou’s death. I had discovered that Norman de Loynes was here, although his name never appeared in the records given to Sergeant Kolla. That was your doing, wasn’t it, Ben?’

‘Maybe …’ Bromley whispered speculatively, ‘maybe I should get a solicitor or something.’

‘Be my guest.’ Brock indicated the phone. ‘Perhaps Sir Peter Maples would organize one for you.’

At the mention of his boss’s name, Bromley felt a flush of nausea rise up his throat. He fumbled his antacid tablets out of his pocket while he tried to think straight, but his head still felt fuzzy from being woken in the middle of the night. ‘De Loynes went for a walk after breakfast that morning,’ he said at last. ‘He spotted the police car sitting out there at the end of the drive that goes past the cottages. He came back here in a tizz wanting to know what was going on. It took me a little while before I managed to get hold of Stephen Beamish-Newell, who told me that Petrou had been found hanged in the temple. I was stunned, as you’d imagine. I went up to the private lounge that the Friends use, and found two of them there.’

‘Who?’ Brock interrupted.

‘Norman de Loynes and a bloke called Mortimer, Simon Mortimer. I told them what had happened, and how Beamish-Newell had told me that the police had asked that no one leave the clinic without their say-so. The two of them went into a blind panic at that. De Loynes had told his family he was somewhere else that weekend, and Mortimer had had a run-in with the police some time in the past, and neither wanted to get involved. They swore they had nothing useful to tell the police anyway. Apparently, they’d last seen Petrou on the Friday night, and neither had seen him on the Sunday. They more or less demanded that I keep them out of it.’

‘What did you do?’

I came back downstairs and found that Jay had started preparing a list of everyone who was there for Beamish-Newell to give to the police. I sent her off to make my coffee, and removed de Loynes’s and Mortimer’s names while she was away.’

‘Were they the only ones you removed?’

‘Yes. The only other Friend there was Mr Long, but I hadn’t seen him. Anyway, I didn’t think he’d need my help.’

‘Go on.’

‘I could see more police beginning to arrive, so I went upstairs again and told de Loynes and Mortimer that they’d just have to sit tight for the day until the police left. There was a good chance they’d get overlooked provided they never showed their faces, and that’s exactly what happened. I called them a taxi about nine that night, after the last of the coppers had left.’

‘Had you any way of knowing what the two of them had been doing on the Sunday?’

Bromley shook his head. ‘I wasn’t here on the Sunday at all.’

‘So their claim that they hadn’t seen Petrou on that day could have been false.’

‘Yes, but they …’ he hesitated.

‘What?’

‘Oh,’ Bromley sighed. ‘They just seemed convincing. They told me about this party that Petrou had organized for them in the gym on the Friday night, and they swore blind that they hadn’t seen him since. In fact de Loynes said he’d arranged to see Petrou again on the Sunday evening and he’d been annoyed because he never showed up.’

‘What kind of party was it on the Friday?’

‘Don’t ask, squire. / didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Petrou got a couple of lads in from Edenham, or something.’

Brock sat back in the thickly padded chair and considered Bromley in silence. There was a kind of underlying swagger to the man’s manner, an impudent gleam that he couldn’t keep out of his eye, that tended to make you distrust him, even if he was only giving the time of day.

‘Look,’ Bromley said, feeling a need to fill the silence, ‘the amounts were chicken shit, let’s face it - I mean, compared to what you’d call real money these days. It was just a bit on the side, that’s all, an appreciation for services rendered.’

Brock lowered his eyes and didn’t respond, increasing the tension.

‘It wasn’t as if I invented him, for God’s sake. One day, there he was. He already had it pretty well worked out. He made it clear that he had people looking after him. It was noticeable how Beamish-Newell let him have his way, and he more or less told me that he had you lot on side. I just lent a hand to make it all happen as unobtrusively as possible.’

‘What do you mean, that he had us lot on side?’ Brock asked.

‘Well, Mr Long. He was Mr Long’s favourite, right from the start.’

Brock nodded. ‘This Mortimer, was he here when Rose was killed too?’

Bromley shook his head. ‘No, he hasn’t been back since Petrou copped it. Frightened him off, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘But de Loynes was here on both occasions. And you’re absolutely certain, Ben, that he is the only one of your Friends who was? I want you to think for a moment before you answer. I don’t want there to be any mistake about this.’

Bromley nodded, then seemed to take in the implication of the question.

‘Oh, but look, bloody hellfire. He didn’t have anything to do with it!’

‘How do you know?’

‘Rose died sometime between two and three that afternoon, right?’

Brock nodded.

‘Well, de Loynes was with me in this room throughout that time. I told that to your bloke who took my statement. De Loynes is investing in this time-share set-up in the south of Spain, and I was helping him with the paperwork that afternoon. You blokes should talk to each other, for God’s sake!’ There was an edge of panic in Bromley’s voice.

Brock gave a little smile and got abruptly to his feet. ‘All right, Ben. Now, I want you to stay here and make yourself a fresh cup of coffee and I’ll be right back.’

Brock returned fifteen minutes later, accompanied by Kathy.

‘Hello, Ben,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Got any new jokes for us?’

He regarded her sourly over the rim of his cup. ‘Why does it take six premenstrual women to change one light bulb?’ he said grumpily.

‘Heard it,’ Kathy smiled. ‘Put your cup down now, Ben. We want you to come down to Division with us. We’d like you to make a new statement. OK?’

‘You realize this is the middle of the effing night. Doesn’t the United Nations have rules about this sort of thing?’

But he did as they said, going outside with them into the cold night and settling himself in the back seat of their car.

After a few miles he said to Kathy, who was driving, ‘Where the hell are you going? This isn’t the way to Crowbridge.’

Brock turned and spoke over his shoulder.

‘We’re just going to pick somebody else up on the way, Ben. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

It took another twenty minutes along empty country lanes before they reached a crossroads by a deserted village green. Brock consulted the map on his lap and pointed forward. Soon they came to a row of oaks, and behind them the dark outline of a large house. The headlights picked up two white gateposts marking the entrance, and Kathy turned the car up the drive.

It took Bernard Long an age to answer the doorbell. Eventually the porch light came on and the oak front door opened a crack.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice was muffled and indistinct. Kathy answered, it’s DS Kolla, sir, with DCI Brock. We’d like a word.’

‘Brock?’ The door opened more fully and the Deputy Chief Constable stared out at them. He was wearing a scuffed pair of leather slippers, and the collar of his dressing gown was half turned in at the neck. It wasn’t the white monogrammed outfit he’d had at Stanhope, but an old tartan item that was coming close to being recycled in the dog’s basket.

‘What the devil?’ He coughed, his throat gummed up with sleep. He adjusted a pair of gold half-rimmed glasses on the beak of his nose and stared at them each in turn in the pool of light cast by the reproduction coach lantern hanging overhead, then past them to the car.

Kathy spoke. ‘We’d like you to get dressed and come with us to Division, if you don’t mind.’

‘What time -?’

The question was interrupted by a woman calling from inside the house. ‘Who is it, Bernard?’ The voice managed to sound both imperious and frail.

He turned and called back, it’s police officers, Dorothy. Go back to sleep, darling.’

‘Don’t be long.’

He turned back to them. ‘You’d better come in.’ They followed him into a study off the panelled hall, distracted by the way he shuffled because his slippers were too loose. It was only when they were seated in the light that Kathy noticed the tremor in his hand.

‘Who was that in the car?’ he asked, looking at Brock.

Kathy replied. ‘Mr Bromley from Stanhope Clinic, sir. He’s also accompanying us to Division to make a statement. We’ve just come from the clinic. Dr and Mrs Beamish-Newell have been helping us with our inquiries into the murders of Alex Petrou and Rose Duggan.’ She watched the worry lines which had formed around the angles of his face stretch into a taut, pale mask.

Long stared across the room for a moment, then seemed to rally himself. He took a sharp breath and straightened his back. ‘I see.’ He turned to face Brock, and said, ‘You’re not saying anything, David?’

Brock shrugged, without taking his eyes off him. ‘This is a County matter, Bernard. I shall be giving Sergeant Kolla a statement myself in due course.’

Long nodded. ‘I’d better get dressed. Give me ten minutes.’

They sat in silence for a while until Kathy said, ‘In the temple this evening, Laura asked the same thing - for me to give her ten minutes.’

Brock looked at her sharply, and then a muffled crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet.

The thick carpet pile absorbed the sound of their running feet. At the top landing Kathy hesitated, uncertain which door to try. The one in front of her opened abruptly and they were faced by a grey-haired woman, surprisingly large for the reedy tone of her voice. ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘Where did that noise come from?’ Kathy demanded.

‘The bathroom …’ Her head turned towards a door at the far end of a short corridor.

Locked. It gave on the third heave of Brock’s shoulder. He stood back, nursing his upper arm with an oath, and Kathy went in.

Long was sprawled absurdly across the edge of the large, cast-iron bath, a collapsed scarecrow in pyjamas. From a knot around his neck, the cord of his old dressing gown looped up to the frame of a shower curtain, which his weight had brought down from the ceiling. The tiled floor of the bathroom was scattered with fragments of ceiling plaster and screws and plugs from the inadequate scaffold, and blood was smeared on his leg, where he had scraped his shin on the edge of the bath. There was a startled look on his face as he gazed up at Kathy.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘I …’ he gulped, i don’t think I can move.’

‘Not the practical type, are you?’ She went forward to help him, then paused as Mrs Long appeared in the doorway. She stared down at her husband for a moment, eyes wide, taking everything in. Then she said, in a voice brimming with contempt, ‘Do you really think I didn’t know?’ She turned on her heel and they heard the bedroom door click shut behind her.

Brock advised that there be more than one witness for Long’s interview at Division, so they got hold of Penny Elliot, because she was the only one Kathy trusted, and on Penny’s recommendation Detective Sergeant McGregor from Serious Crime. They came into the building from the basement car park, using the stairs and avoiding the front entrance, and met in the conference room on the fifth floor, next to Long’s secretary’s office. It was 4.15 a.m. when Kathy began by formally cautioning the Deputy Chief Constable.