Vicious Circle (10 page)

He drove to the hospital first, and spent half an hour in the registrar’s office going through all the procedures for the issue of Hazel’s death certificate and Catherine’s birth certificate, which entailed the production of his own passport. From what Hazel had written in her last letter to him, he was going to need these documents if he were to get the full attention of the trustees of the Henry Bannock Family Trust.

From the registrar’s office he returned to the maternity section, where already the nurses knew him and his tragic circumstances well. Between themselves they had given him the nickname of ‘Daddy Heart Throb’, or DHT for short.

‘It’s not visiting hour yet,’ one of them told him sternly, and then her tone mellowed. ‘But for you we can make an exception, Mr Cross.’

She led him through a door marked ‘No Entry. Strictly Private.’ Then she fitted him with a gauze mask that covered his mouth and nose and took him into the nursery proper. Only three of the cots were occupied. From the middle cot she lifted a blanket-wrapped bundle and placed it in his arms.

‘Ten minutes, no more. Then I am coming back to evict you,’ she warned him.

His conversation with Catherine was predictably one-sided. He tried out his own version of baby talk on her, to which she responded by blowing bubbles and falling asleep. He rocked her in his arms and studied her face while she slept. When the nurse returned he relinquished her reluctantly.

At ten minutes to six he went out into the car park and waited until Sister Bonnie Hepworth drove up in an elderly Mini Cooper with faded British racing green paintwork and Formula One stripes. As she parked he opened the car door for her. She looked startled, until she recognized him.

‘May I talk to you for a few minutes, Sister?’ he asked.

‘My pleasure I’m sure, Mr Cross.’

‘Do you have children of your own to look after?’ he asked seriously.

‘I wish I did, but I don’t.’

‘Then perhaps we can arrange that. I want to offer you a job,’ he said.

‘I already have a job,’ she replied, and then she back-tracked. ‘What job?’

‘Head nurse to my daughter, Catherine. I know you are very experienced and good with babies. I think my Catherine likes you already. You will have two other younger nurses working under you.’

‘But, but I already have a job,’ she repeated. She flapped her hands in confusion.

‘How much are they paying you here?’ he insisted.

‘Forty thousand a year.’

‘I’ll make that one hundred and twenty thousand,’ he said, and she gulped.

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. ‘What about my pension?’

‘How much is it?’

‘Around about one hundred thou paid up with twenty-three years to term.’

‘I’ll double that and make it open ended. No retrenchment because of age. You can stay with us as long as you like. Think about it, Bonnie. You can tell me your decision tomorrow when I come to visit Catherine.’

He turned away and walked to his silver Bentley parked at the end of the row. He sensed Bonnie’s eyes on him as he opened the door.

‘Mr Cross,’ she called after him urgently, ‘I’ve thought about it.’

He looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘And?’ he asked.

‘You have got yourself a deal.’

He turned back to face her. ‘You had better give me your number.’ She recited the number and he committed it to memory. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘We can work out the details. In the meantime you had best give in your notice here.’ He gave her a quick firm handshake. ‘Welcome on board, Sister Bonnie.’ He went back to the Bentley and drove down to police headquarters.

*

Detective Inspector Harlow was fortyish, overweight and balding. His eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were a washed-out brown, world weary and wise. He stood up and came around his desk to shake Hector’s hand.

‘My commiserations on your loss, sir. Please be seated. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee. Black. No sugar.’

Harlow obliged and Hector sipped the foul-tasting brew.

‘Are you ready to begin?’ Harlow asked. Hector set the mug aside and Harlow led him through a detailed description of the events leading up to the murderous attack on Hazel, his own efforts to ward off the assailants and his subsequent actions up until the chance meeting with Sergeant Evans in the patrol car.

Hector omitted only a detailed description of the driver of the French van that had dropped bricks on the road to head him off. When Harlow pressed him, Hector told him, ‘He was wearing a rubber mask, and I only saw him for a second as he drove past me.’

‘You couldn’t tell his nationality?’

‘His bare arm was black. That is all I could be sure of. Sorry, but it was just a fleeting glance.’ To himself he mused,
If anybody gets to question that buckaroo it’s going to be me and Paddy O’Quinn. There’ll be no due process, nor reading him his rights when we begin to take him apart.

At last Harlow was satisfied. ‘Yes. That all fits in with what we found at the scene.’

Hector read through the statement Harlow handed him and signed it. ‘I heard from Sergeant Evans that the two perpetrators were dead when you found them,’ he said.

‘That is correct, Mr Cross,’ Harlow confirmed.

‘Have you managed to identify them, Inspector?’

‘Yes. We had an immediate match on their fingerprints. Both of them have criminal records.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a thin sheaf of papers. He passed them one at a time across the desk to Hector. The first was a police mugshot. Hector recognized it at once.

‘Yes! He was the driver of the motorcycle.’

Harlow dropped his eyes to the papers in his hand and read aloud. ‘His name was Victor Emmanuel Dadu. Twenty-four years old. British citizen. Born in Birmingham. Both parents emigrated from Kenya in 1981. No fixed address. Three criminal convictions. Served six months in 2004 in Feltham Young Offenders Institution for car theft; three months in 2009 for aggravated robbery; three months in 2011 for public violence, mixed up in the 2011 summer riots. In all other respects a nice sweet boy.’ He turned over the next sheet of paper and passed it to Hector.

‘Yes.’ Hector glanced at the photograph. ‘That’s the shooter, the filthy little swine who murdered my wife.’

Harlow frowned at the outburst but went on reading from the papers in his hand. ‘He was Ayan Brightboy Daimar. Age twenty-three years. Born in Mogadishu, Somalia. Illegal immigrant. Served one year in 2009 for housebreaking and burglary. Appealed against deportation and was granted refugee status in 2010.’

Hector nodded noncommittally, pleased that his first appraisal had been confirmed.
Somalia. Another pointer towards the Tippoo Tip clan. It’s starting to come together neatly,
he thought, and looked across at Harlow.

‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’ he asked.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Cross. If I need to speak to you again I have your contact details. If we are able to apprehend the driver of the French van we will need you to give evidence at his trial. Once again, my deepest condolences on the death of your wife. Please rest assured that we will leave no stone unturned to find all those involved in this dreadful business.’

On the way back to Brandon Hall Hector stopped at the Flag and Bear at Smallbridge. He finished half a serving of greasy cottage pie and less than half a pint of warm draught beer before the bold stares and pointed remarks of two heavily made-up young ladies seated at the bar began to annoy him. He drove back to the Hall, took a couple of Melatonin and fell into the big double bed.

He woke in the dawn to the sense of something terribly wrong. He lay and listened for her breathing. The silence was complete. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her but the sheets on her side of the bed were cold. He opened his eyes and turned his head and saw that she was truly gone. Then the pain began again, like a deep-rooted cancer, unrelenting and scarcely endurable.

*

He had to have a focus for his anger and his hatred. He jumped out of the bed and went to the bathroom. As soon as he had showered he went down to his study. He switched on his desktop computer. Even though he knew it was much too soon, he hoped that Paddy had something for him already. However, as soon as he opened his email account he saw that his inbox was overloaded. He skimmed through the first few email messages and saw they were all messages of condolence. He realized what had happened.

The rabid dogs of the press had the story. How had they got on to it so quickly?

Against his better judgement, he opened the home page of the
Sun,
one of Rupert Murdoch’s notorious rags. Above a photograph of Hazel in furs and diamonds descending from her Rolls with Hector in the background the headline blared out at him: ‘Billionairess gunned down on country road – Kills two of her attackers before she dies.’

It was a mangled piece of reportage. The only part of it that was correct was that Hazel was dead. There was no mention of Catherine’s birth.

‘Give thanks for small mercies.’ He worked through all the other websites. Every major paper had the story.
The Times
’ report was dignified and reserved, those of the
Mail
and the
Telegraph
were less so, but none of them reported Catherine’s birth. He was mightily relieved.

I have to get her out of that bloody hospital sharpish. The news hounds obviously have it staked out.
His blood was up again, and he was ready to take on the day. There was nothing from Paddy, but he knew it was too soon to expect anything.

John Bigelow had sent a long email. On behalf of all the other directors of Bannock Oil he expressed his shock and horror at Hazel’s murder. He had already made arrangements for a memorial service to be held for her in Houston, and he went on,

I would like to have your permission to arrange a similar service in London, where Hazel had so many friends and business associates. I have asked the US Ambassador to the Court of St James, who is an old friend of mine, to use his good offices to reserve the Church of St Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square for the purpose. I have suggested a date two weeks from now to give those who wish to attend, and there will be many of these, the opportunity to arrange their travel plans.

I do hope that you are not contemplating resigning from the board of Bannock Oil because of this tragic business. You are highly thought of by all your fellow directors, and your contributions are valuable and important.

‘You are not going to get rid of me that easily, Biggles. I need you as much as you say you need me,’ he said to himself. The Bannock infrastructure would give him the clout and wherewithal to enable him to take down all the bastards who’d done this to Hazel.

He replied to the company vice-president thanking him, accepting his offer and assuring him of his wish to remain on the Bannock Oil board. He told him that he considered it his duty to the memory of Hazel to continue the work that she had devoted so much of her life to.

He worked quickly down the column of emails and deleted great swathes of them. Then one caught his eye, and he opened it. It was from Ronald Bunter, the chief trustee of the Henry Bannock Family Trust.

Dear Mr Cross,

I was deeply saddened to receive your email. I would like you to accept my condolences on the death of your wife, Mrs Hazel Bannock-Cross. She was a beautiful lady of great presence and stature. She was also highly intelligent. I personally held her in the utmost respect and admiration.

Most fortunately, I happen to be in London on business at this very time. I am staying at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly until Saturday. The telephone number of the switchboard is 0207 493 8181 and my suite number is 1101.

As you are the executor of your wife’s last will and testament, I believe it is of the utmost importance that we should meet at your very earliest convenience. Please telephone me to arrange a meeting.

Yours very sincerely,

Ronald Bunter

Hector reached for the telephone and dialled the number. The switchboard operator answered him almost immediately and transferred him to Suite 1101. His call was answered by a woman’s voice.

‘Good morning. This is Jo Stanley, legal assistant to Mr Ronald Bunter. How may I assist you?’ The accent was mid-Atlantic, the modulation was crisp and controlled.

‘May I speak to Mr Ronald Bunter, please?’

‘Who may I say is calling?’

‘My name is Hector Cross.’

‘Oh, goodness gracious. Mr Bunter is expecting your call. Please hold on.’

He smiled at the old-fashioned expression ‘Goodness gracious!’ The only other person he had ever heard use it was his own mother.

Within a minute Bunter came on the line. His voice was thin and precise; a priggish old maid’s voice.

‘Mr Cross, it’s so good of you to call.’

‘Mr Bunter, when and where can we meet?’

‘I will be free after six o’clock this afternoon. I understand that you live out of town. Unfortunately I am without transport…’

‘I can come to you at the Ritz.’

‘Yes, that would be very convenient.’

He worked all the rest of the day, making phone calls and receiving them; clearing up all the paperwork on his desk. A few minutes after one o’clock he went down to the wet room and slipped on his waders, then picked up his fly rod from the rack and went out to the river. There was a good fish rising under the trailing willow branches in Honeymoon Pool, which Hazel had named while they sat on the bank holding hands.

The fish was in a difficult position to reach with a cast from this bank. But Hector tied on a Daddy Longlegs dry, and with his third cast he achieved a perfect drift over the trout’s lie. It came up in a flashing roll, all silver and crimson, and he set the hook. For fifteen minutes he thought of nothing but the fish as it charged wildly about the pool. When at last he had it laid out on the bank he knelt over it for a moment admiring its elegant lines and shimmering beauty, then he put it to rest with a sharp blow of the priest, the small stag-horn club with which the angler administers the last rites. The chef grilled it with wild mushrooms, and Hector ate lunch on the terrace.