Big Sky Page 13

  “Hell must be quite full these days,” Ronnie said.

  “There’s always room for one more.”

  They’d had to leave the scene before any ID had been made, which was frustrating. “It must have been Man Bun’s lady of the house—Ms. Easton—surely?” Reggie mused.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Ronnie said.

  When they’d pointed out the golf club to the DI she’d peered at it speculatively before saying to no one in particular, “What’s that? A putter?”

  “‘We arrived at the premises at ten twenty-two,’” Ronnie read back from her iPad, “‘and found a Mr. Leo Parker waiting for us on the premises.’ What was the other guy called? The one in the van. I didn’t write it down.”

  Reggie consulted her notebook again. “Owen. Owen Watts.”

  When they had arrived Ronnie had puzzled over the name of the bungalow, on a sign affixed to the gate. She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Just say it out loud,” Reggie said.

  “Thisldo,” Ronnie pronounced carefully. Enlightenment dawned. “Ah. That’s a bit crap, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is,” Reggie agreed. Her stomach was rumbling like a train.

  “We can grab lunch after the next one on the list,” Ronnie said.

  Reggie consulted her notebook. “I’ve got a little list,” she said.

  “Eh?”

  “Gilbert and Sullivan. Never mind. Next is a Mr. Vincent Ives, lives in Friargate.”

  “As in chip fryer?”

  “As in monk.”

  The Final Straw

  “Mr. Ives? Mr. Vincent Ives? I’m DC Ronnie Dibicki and this is my colleague DC Reggie Chase. Can we come in?”

  Vince let them in, offered them tea. “Or coffee, but it’s only instant, I’m afraid,” he apologized. Wendy had retained custody of the Krups bean-to-cup machine.

  “That’s very kind,” the one with the Scottish accent said, “but we’re fine, thank you.”

  Had he done something that merited a visit from the police? Offhand Vince couldn’t think of anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised. The general malaise he had been experiencing recently meant that he felt vaguely guilty all the time. He looked around, tried to see the flat through the detectives’ eyes. It was a mean, scruffy place, something that wasn’t reflected in the rent.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a bit of a mess.”

  “Shall we sit?” the one who wasn’t Scottish said.

  “Sorry. Of course.” He moved some papers from the sofa, brushed the crumbs off, and gestured toward it in a way that he realized made him seem like Walter Raleigh laying a cloak over a puddle. He felt foolish, but they didn’t seem to notice. They sat down, crossing their ankles neatly, notebooks ready. They looked like keen sixth-formers doing a school project.

  “Have I done something?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. It’s okay, nothing to worry about,” the one who wasn’t Scottish said. Vince had already forgotten both their names. “You’re not suspected of anything. We’re conducting an investigation into a historic case and this is just a routine interview. We’re looking into several individuals and would like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right? We’re trying to build a picture, fill in some background details. A bit like doing a jigsaw. Your name was mentioned by someone…”

  “Who? Who mentioned my name?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not at liberty to disclose that. Are you all right? To answer some questions?”

  “Yes,” Vince said cautiously.

  “First of all, I’m going to ask you if you have heard the name Antonio or Tony Bassani?” the Scottish one said.

  “Yes. Everyone has, haven’t they?” Was this what Tommy and Andy had been talking about? That Carmody had been “naming names”? But surely not my name, Vince thought.

  “Did you ever meet Mr. Bassani?”

  “He was a member of my golf club, but that was long before I joined.”

  “Which golf club is that?”

  “The Belvedere.”

  The Scottish one was writing down everything he said in her notebook. It made him feel even more guilty somehow. Anything you say can be used in evidence against you, he thought. She was working her way through a checklist, writing his answers neatly next to each question. The other one, the not-Scottish one, was making freehand notes to supplement this. He imagined her notes were more on the descriptive side (“He said ‘yes’ warily,” or “He said he didn’t know, but looked shifty”). Vince felt like he was taking an oral exam.

  “And have you heard the name Michael—or Mick—Carmody?”

  “Yes. Again, everybody has.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Well…”

  “And have you ever met Michael Carmody?”

  “No.”

  “Not at the Belvedere Golf Club?”

  “No. He’s in jail.”

  “Yes, he is. What about Andrew Bragg? Have you heard that name?”

  “Andy?” How could Andy be mentioned in the same breath as Carmody and Bassani? “I golf with him. At the Belvedere.”

  “The Belvedere Golf Club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?” the Scottish one coaxed.

  “Well, not a friend friend.”

  “What kind of friend, then?” the not-Scottish one puzzled.

  “A golfing friend.”

  “So you don’t see him outside of the Belvedere?”

  “Well, I do,” he admitted.

  “So not just a golfing friend. How about the name Thomas—or Tommy—Holroyd? Have you heard of him?”

  Vince could feel his throat getting dry and his voice growing squeaky. Bassani and Carmody was an abuse case. Why were they asking about Tommy and Andy? That was ridiculous, they weren’t like that. Oh, dear God, he thought, do they mean me? He would never do anything like that. Vince felt an icy waterfall of fear in his insides. He’d never abused anyone! Who would say that? Wendy, probably, just to get back at him for having married her. “I haven’t done anything,” he said.

  “Not you, Mr. Ives,” the Scottish one soothed as Vince jumped agitatedly to his feet. He would have paced the room if it had been big enough for pacing. “Do sit down. Mr. Ives?” she nudged. “Thomas Holroyd?”

  “Yes. At the Belvedere. Tommy’s a member. We play together.”

  “The Belvedere Golf Club?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Mr. Bragg?”

  “Yes.”

  “A golfing friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you ever been to Mr. Holroyd’s house?” the Scottish one asked, consulting her notes. “The Haven.” She tilted her head to one side like a little bird when she asked a question. A sparrow.

  “High Haven,” he corrected. “A few times.”

  “And can you tell me, when you were at Mr. Holroyd’s house—High Haven—were there other people present?”

  “Usually.”

  “Was Mr. Bragg there?”

  “Usually.”

  “Mr. Bassani?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Carmody?”

  “No, I told you. I never met him. He was before my time.”

  Vince was beginning to feel sick. How much longer was this catechism going to go on? What were they trying to dig out of him?

  “Nearly finished, Mr. Ives,” the Scottish one said, as if reading his thoughts. She smiled sympathetically. Like a dental nurse assisting with a root canal.

  “And when you were at Mr. Holroyd’s house,” the one without the Scottish accent continued, “can you name anyone else who was present? At any time?”

  “Well, Tommy’s wife—Crystal. His son, Harry. Andy—Andy Bragg—and his wife, Rhoda. A lot of people go to his house—Christmas drinks, there was a party on bonfire night, one for Tommy’s birthday. A pool party.”

  “A pool party? Like snooker?”

  “No, like a swimming pool. They’ve got an indoor one, heated, dug into t
he basement. Tommy put it in when they bought the house. It was a party for Crystal’s birthday.” Tommy had seen to the barbecue outside, hadn’t gone into the pool. “Never learned how to swim,” Crystal said. “I think he’s a bit scared of water. It’s his—what’s it?—Achilles heel. That’s from the Greek, you know,” she said. “It’s a myth, Harry told me about it.” She was standing talking to him in a bikini so it had been quite hard to concentrate on Greek myths. She was a bit like one herself, a statuesque blond goddess who had wandered down from Olympus. The mere thought of Crystal made Vince fanciful, the way she moved through the water with her magnificent breaststroke.

  The memory of her in a bikini made him blush, the word “breaststroke” made him blush too, and he worried that the two detectives had noticed. Both detectives cocked their bird heads in unison and regarded him with curiosity. “A barbecue in the garden,” he said. “Steaks, burgers. Chicken. Chops,” he added weakly. He had to make an effort to stop himself from itemizing an entire butcher’s counter. The Scottish detective was writing it all down, like a shopping list.

  “Anyone else? That you met at his house? High Haven?”

  “Lots of people. Ellerman—that wholesale grocer guy, Pete Robinson—he runs that big hotel on the front. All kinds. A guy who’s a councilor—Brook, I think. Someone in social work. Oh, and Steve Mellors. Stephen Mellors. He’s a solicitor, he’s handling my divorce, plays at the Belvedere with us sometimes.”

  “The Belvedere Golf Club?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s your—?”

  “Solicitor. He’s my solicitor. And a friend.”

  “A friend?” the not-Scottish one said.

  “We went to school together.”

  “A friend friend, then?”

  “School friend,” he murmured. He felt like a total idiot.

  “You go back a long way, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else at all? At these parties? Anyone else associated with the legal profession?”

  “Well, a policeman. A superintendent, I think he said.”

  “A superintendent?” they said in harmony.

  “Yeah, I think he was a Scot. Like you,” he added to the Scottish detective as if she might not know what he meant by a Scot.

  The detectives both sat up straighter and looked at each other. Stared, really, as if they were communicating telepathically.

  “Can you remember his name?” the not-Scottish one asked.

  “No, sorry. I can’t even remember yours and you only told me five minutes ago.” Although it felt like hours.

  “DC Reggie Chase and DC Ronnie Dibicki,” the not-Scottish one reminded him.

  “Right. Sorry.” (Did she say “Ronnie the Biscuit”? Surely not. It sounded like a London gangster from the sixties.)

  There was a pause as if they were gathering their thoughts. The Scottish one—Reggie Chase—frowned at her notebook. The other one, the biscuit one, said, “Mr. Ives, have you ever heard the term ‘the magic circle’?”

  “Yeah, it’s magicians.”

  “Magicians?”

  “Like a magicians’ union. Not a union, like a—an organization. You have to prove you can do tricks to get in.”

  They both gazed at him. “Tricks?” the biscuit one echoed coolly, arching a surprisingly threatening eyebrow.

  Before he could say anything else the doorbell rang. All three of them looked toward the door as if something portentous was on the other side of it. Vince felt unsure, did he need permission from them to open it? The doorbell rang again and they looked at him inquiringly. “I’ll get that, shall I?” he said hastily.

  The front door opened directly into the flat, not even the luxury of a hallway. Two uniformed constables—women—were standing there. They took their hats off and showed him their IDs, their faces solemn.

  “Mr. Ives? Mr. Vincent Ives? Can we come in?”

  Oh, Jesus, Vince thought. Now what?

  Treasure Trove

  Andy Bragg knew Newcastle Airport like the back of his hand. He spent enough time there, usually hanging about in a coffee shop. His travel agency used to be about taking people out of the country, nowadays it was about bringing them in.

  The flight he was waiting for had been delayed and he was on to his third espresso, beginning to get jittery. He knew which table to sit at to get a good view of the Arrivals board. Shedloads of flights from Amsterdam in the air at this time of day, ditto Charles de Gaulle. Heathrow, Berlin, Gdansk, Tenerife, Sofia. One from Malaga that was taxiing. The one he was waiting for flashed up “Landed” so he finished his coffee and strolled toward the Arrivals hall.

  There was no hurry—they had to clear Immigration and it always took forever, even though they were on tourist visas and had an address in Quayside that they could give. Then, of course, they had to collect their luggage and they always brought massive bags. Still, he didn’t want to miss them so he took up a position behind the barrier, his iPad at the ready with their names on. Nice and professional—no barely legible writing scribbled on a bit of paper.

  After half an hour he was beginning to think they had missed the flight or hadn’t managed to clear Passport Control, but then the doors swished open and two girls—looked like sisters—stood there looking around uncertainly. Jeans and sneakers, branded, almost certainly fake. Ponytails, lots of makeup. They could have been twins. Huge suitcases, naturally. They caught sight of the iPad and he saw the look of relief on their faces.

  They trotted eagerly up to him and one of them said, “Mr. Mark?”

  “No, love, my name’s Andy. Mr. Price sent me—Mr. Mark, that is.” He put out his hand and she shook it. “Jasmine?” he hazarded, smiling. Let’s face it, they all looked alike. He’d guessed right. He hadn’t bothered with surnames, he wasn’t about to start learning how to pronounce Tagalog. (Was that really what they called their language? It sounded like the name of a kids’ TV program.) “You must be Maria, then,” he said to the other one. She gave him a big grin. She had a surprisingly firm handshake for someone so small.

  “Good flight?” They nodded. Yes. Unsure. On their application forms they had both said that they had “good” English. They’d probably lied. Most girls did.

  “Come on, then, girls,” he said, full of false cheer. “Let’s get out of here. Are you hungry?” He mimed spooning food into his mouth. They laughed at him and nodded. He grabbed the suitcase handles, one in each hand, and started dragging them behind him. Jesus, what did they have in there—bodies? They followed, free of baggage, their ponytails bouncing as they walked.

  So this is it, girls,” Andy said, opening the door to the apartment. It was a Quayside studio flat they’d bought a couple of years ago that they used a lot for one thing or another. It was on the seventh floor, clean and modern, and had a great view, if you liked views of Newcastle. Maria and Jasmine seemed impressed, which was the intention. Andy thought of it as “buttering up”—keeping them docile. He would have taken them straight to Silver Birches but neither Jason nor Vasily—Tommy’s henchmen—had been available to process them and the place was “in lockdown,” Tommy said.

  “One night only,” he warned as the girls explored. That was a song, wasn’t it? From something he’d seen with Rhoda in London. They’d had a weekend away, done all the tourist things, the London Eye, an open-top bus, a West End show—a musical. Rhoda knew London better than Andy did and he had felt a bit like a hick up from the provinces, fumbling with his Oyster card and walking around with his eyes glued to Google Maps on his phone. Still, overall they’d had a good time and the weekend had reminded Andy that most of the time he quite enjoyed being married to Rhoda, although whether Rhoda felt the same way toward him was uncertain.

  They’d left the Seashell in the hands of Wendy Ives. It was out of season and there was only one booking. They could have saved the money they paid her and put Lottie in charge for all the work that was involved. That was before the split with Vince, and Wendy was alread
y having an affair with that bloke who was on the lifeboats. Rhoda suspected that Wendy had wanted to babysit the hotel so she could have somewhere to go with her new man while her old man stayed home and walked the dog and looked like a bit of a tit for not knowing. He knew now, all right. Wendy was taking Vince to the cleaners.

  Wendy had come on to Andy once when she was drunk—well, they were both drunk, but he wouldn’t have dared even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. Rhoda was more than enough woman for him. Literally. A quarter of Rhoda would have been enough for any man. Besides which, she would kill him if she ever found out that he’d been unfaithful to her. Torture him first, probably. That was the least of his worries. He had a much bigger secret he was keeping from her, a secret that was getting bigger and more cumbersome every day.

  “Mr. Andy?”

  “Yes, Jasmine, love?” He was able to tell the difference between them now. He’d surprised himself by managing to learn their names—something he usually had difficulty with.

  “We stay here tonight?”

  “Yes, love. One night only, though.” (Dreamgirls—that was what the show was called.) “First thing tomorrow we’ll go to Silver Birches. They’re getting your room ready for you.”

  He was exhausted. He’d taken them shopping in Primark, not that they needed new clothes, those suitcases were stuffed, but he’d steered them toward some skimpy sequinned stuff that attracted them like magpies. They’d taken endless selfies. Tried to get him to pose with them. No way, he laughed, pulling away from them. He wasn’t going on anyone’s Facebook page, but nonetheless it was good that they did post a photo, then everyone back home could see they were alive and well and safely arrived in Britain and having a great time. They weren’t bar girls, they worked in a garment factory in Manila and they were coming here to be care workers. British care homes were full of Filipinos because British people couldn’t take care of anything, least of all their own families.

  They’d shopped in Sainsbury’s and he’d helped the girls choose stuff for their tea. Ready meals—there was a microwave in the Quayside flat. They ate all kinds of crap where they came from—chicken feet and fried insects and God knows what. They were excited by the supermarket. Easily excited, both of them.