THE CODEGA’S GARDEN
By Madonna Valentine, 2014
In Venice in the Middle Ages there was once a profession for a man called a codega- a fellow you hired to walk in front of you at night with a lit lantern, showing you the way, scaring off thieves and demons, bringing you confidence and protection through the dark streets.
Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
Chapter One
The past is never where you think you left it- Katherine Anne Porter
April 10, 2014
Freya lay propped on her pillows, watching Salome bat a hairbrush from the dresser onto the wood floor, where it landed with a clatter.
“Thanks Salome,” Freya patted her naked head. She considered calling Inez before the wretched Siamese spied Jennifer, her brunette wig, perched on its stand.
In hunting mode, Salome stalked through Freya’s crystal jars and perfumes. Her brown tail flicked from side to side, tanzanite eyes glowing in anticipation of a kill.
“Salome! No! I need to wear that today.”
With admirable restraint, Salome rubbed her whiskers against Jennifer’s fringe before leaping on the bed with the clumsy grace peculiar to her breed. Ignoring Freya, she twisted herself into a heavy ball, her head tucked at an impossible angle against Freya’s feet.
She attempted to prod Salome onto the floor before giving up with a tired sigh.
“That dirty beast! It should be outside.” Inez entered the room carrying a breakfast tray, which she placed on a table near the balcony doors overlooking the street. She pulled back the curtains and snapped on the floor lamp. “It’s still dark outside. Why is it always so dark in this country?”
She was dressed in a black Chanel skirt, white silk blouse and gold jewelry. Her long blonde hair was swept into a sleek ponytail. Only a hint of peach blush illuminating her angular features indicated the skilled application of makeup. Inez invariably wore a pair of designer stilettos in flamboyant colors. Freya noted today’s featured style – a cheerful Prada red suede – did not accurately reflect their owner’s mood.
“Good morning Inez.”
“I wish I could agree with you Cherie, but it’s not going to be a good morning. Why are they coming today? I told them you’re not well and they will expose you to infection. I’ll tell Dr. Singh they’re harassing you. Shoo! Shoo! Off you go! Your breakfast is downstairs!” The last comment was addressed to Salome who shot a menacing glance at the doomed Jennifer before sauntering through the door.
“I hope they don’t arrive wearing face masks, like those nurses you hired. I’ve no idea why these detectives want to see me. They contacted me weeks ago about a review of the previous investigation but they didn’t say they wanted to interview me. I called Chance Denton and he’s baffled as well. He said to call if I need a lawyer!”
Inez stopped fussing with the breakfast tray and walked to the bed. She placed a cool hand over Freya’s. “Let’s not talk about this. I want us to have a lovely breakfast together, seeing as the rest of the morning will be ruined.”
“We need to talk. We’ve got a lot to do. Before I, pop my clogs, kick the calendar, hop the twig, give up the ghost, kick the bucket, push up daisies, sprout wings, fall off the perch, wear a pine overcoat, take a dirt nap, become a root inspector, count worms, snuff it, croak.
How poorly modern society prepared its members for death, thought Freya. It was different a century ago, with Granny laid out in the parlor so relatives and neighbors could pay their respects. Freya imagined her own lifeless body artfully arranged on the dining table while the teenage boys from next door stared in horror, their skateboards tucked under chubby arms.
She snorted with laughter, earning a relieved glance from Inez.
“Good. You’re smiling. We’ll not talk about unhappy things today. See the preserves on the table? James made them with fruit from our trees. He said it was a waste, letting the birds peck away at it.”
“James? He shouldn’t have time to make jam for God’s sake! He should be running around with women of loose morals.”
“Yes. I told him this also. Now, are you sitting at the table or staying in bed?” Inez knelt to pick up the hairbrush with feigned indifference. Two weeks prior Freya was so exhausted by her treatment she could not walk to the table unassisted.
“I’ll sit at the table, as soon as I find my robe.”
“It’s on the floor. Covered in hair from that dreadful animal. I’ll get you another one.”
They ate in silence, watching middle-aged joggers bouncing to keep warm while waiting to cross the Crescent. Freya reflected how perfect the green trees looked against the stark white of the terraced houses. It was an effect she had attempted in her own bedroom, with soft green paint, bed linen and white furnishing. The effect indoors was less successful, she decided, something to do with the quality of the light. I must remember to ask Giles, she thought, as she poured her second cup of tea.
After breakfast Inez carried the tray downstairs to the kitchen, leaving Freya to dress for her unwelcome visitors. The bedroom did not have an American style walk in robe but rather a Swedish system which opened like a pop up book, full of cunning drawers, hanging space for skirts, shelves for shoes and hidey-holes for fiddly items like sunglasses and belts. She chose a plain navy dress and nude shoes with a comfortable wedge heel. Deciding the look was a little too somber; she added silver earrings and a diamond pendant.
At the dresser she applied makeup, false eyelashes and drew on eyebrows. The face staring back at her was slightly jaundiced but her deep brown eyes, full lips and firm jawline remained unchanged. Adding the short brunette wig completed her preparations.
Her illness no longer prevented her walking down the stairs to the reception area on the ground floor. If the weather continued to be fine she could direct her guests to the tiny west facing garden, like friends whiling away an afternoon with wine and canapés. Well, maybe not wine, she conceded. Policing cannot have changed enough over the years to accommodate the changing social climate that permitted alcohol to be served at the unlikeliest of events.
By the time she arrived downstairs the plain clothed detectives, a youngish man and woman, were waiting in the reception room. Neither of them noticed Freya as she paused in the hall. She could see Inez talking to the male half of the duo while pointing out something in the garden beyond the French doors.
The tall, slim woman, dressed in a charcoal pantsuit, was absorbed examining an oil painting hanging near the fireplace. It depicted an elegant young woman from the waist up, half her face enclosed in shadow. She wore a red baggy dress of heavy fabric, slashed at the armholes through which her pale arms glowed. The back of the dress hung like a cloak. Most striking was the headdress, a yellow padded turban in raw silk from which lengths of fabric hung in folds to the embroidered epaulets on her shoulders. Blue coral beads and gold loop earrings completed the exotic costume.
“We found that painting in my Grandfather’s storage unit after he died. Perhaps he bought it at the Portobello Road,” said Freya as she entered the room. “Mother was tired of it so I agreed to give the young lady a home. She’s lovely isn’t she? Turkish, I think.”
“She may be Turkish – or Armenian,” replied the Detective with a smile.
“Really? How can you tell?”
“The headdress is typically Armenian.”
“I’ll look at her with fresh eyes now. Armenian? I’d never have guessed. Anyway, you didn’t come here to discuss my family art collection, I’m Freya Bancroft.”
“Good morning Mrs. Bancroft. Thank you for seeing us. I’m Detective Inspector Groom and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Waltham,” replied the woman.
Groom and Waltham offered their hands, a formality she had not expected but found reassuring.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both, regardless of the circumstances. I see you’ve already met Inez.”
“Yes. We’ve been having a discussion about your roses,” said Waltham, glancing appreciatively at Inez. “This is a lovely room, Mrs. Bancroft. Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Thank you DS Waltham. I hired a decorator for the main rooms. The rest I did myself. Inez’s son, Giles, painted the fresco of purple roses on the far wall. They match the ones in the garden you were admiring, although the color is a little different when they’re in the morning light.”
Freya directed the detectives to sit and observed them from the safety of her armchair. Detective Inspector Groom was an attractive woman in her late 30’s. Her wavy auburn hair was cut in a flattering pageboy that accentuated her large green eyes and high cheekbones. Freya noticed she wore a simple opal ring on her right hand. Her younger male companion radiated an aura of dependability – he was the archetypal policeman any citizen hearing a bump in the night hoped to encounter. He was deeply tanned and wore his dark curly hair shorter than the current fashion. Freya guessed he was a few years younger than his superior.
Inez had put aside her disapproval at the intrusion – or harcelement policier as she called it- to provide a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Excusing herself Inez slipped through the French doors to the garden and hastily lit a cigarette, much to Freya’s despair. She had evidently forgotten the torturous months spent quitting the habit five years previously.
Freya fluttered a hand towards the table, “Please, pour some tea while it’s hot. Inez has already poured mine. The pot is still a little too heavy for me.”
“Thank you Mrs. Bancroft. We’re sorry to disturb you. Madame Guyot tells us you’ve been seriously ill,” said Detective Inspector Groom as Waltham poured their tea.
“That’s correct.” Freya watched as Waltham added milk and sugar to Groom’s tea before passing her the plate of biscuits, a gesture indicating a familiarity beyond the workplace. Perhaps the DI expected underlings to fetch her refreshments throughout the day, as shown on the police procedurals Inez enjoyed so much. Freya found herself becoming intrigued by the pair.
“I have acute myeloid leukemia and need a stem cell transplant. I don’t have any siblings and my mother isn’t a match. I’m on all the international registries but have an unusual tissue type. So far we’ve been unsuccessful finding a donor.”
“We’re sorry to hear that,” responded Detective Sergeant Waltham, his kindly face creased in concern.
“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome- Isaac Asimov. I’ve yet to make a profound discovery about my predicament. Anyway, how can I help you? I assume this is about my husband.”
Groom nodded. “I’m sure you’re aware northern England experienced severe flooding recently. One of the areas affected, a remote place, was a property near York owned by Mr. Ronald Pembury. Did you or your husband know anyone called Pembury?”
After a brief pause Freya shook her head. “I can’t recall any families called Pembury. My husband may have known him. He travelled all around England before we were married. Why do you think this Pembury is important to the investigation?” asked Freya.
“On Monday we received news from the local police in York. They’ve located what we believe to be your husband’s car in a flooded river on Mr. Pembury’s property. As members of the Cold Case Review team, DS Waltham and I are responsible for the investigation.”
“You’ve found my husband’s car after fifteen years?”
“We believe so. The Saab was discovered when Mr. Pembury’s niece, driving a Volkswagen, skidded off the bridge during heavy rain and ended up in the river. Miss Jameson managed to escape her car and climb onto the roof but was swept away. Fortunately she was able to climb onto something in the river. When she didn’t arrive in time for dinner her uncle organized a search. They found her clinging to the roof of your husband’s car.”
“Preston and that car have been missing since the 18th of November 1999, when he missed a client consultation. Six years we were married. We didn’t get to see in the new millennium together, although it seems silly to worry about something so trivial. I don’t know why I’m saying all this, I’m sure you know the details as well as I do. I assume it’s my husband’s car or you wouldn’t be here.”
“The license plate, make and model match the description of the Saab Mr. Bancroft was driving when he disappeared,” answered Groom. “I’ve brought some photographs. It would be helpful if you could identify the car.”
Freya took the photographs. “Yes. This is Preston’s car. It was a Saab 900 classic, the 1983 model sedan. The earlier models were only available in a hatchback. Preston despised hatchbacks. He loved racing around in that old thing! It was his first sports car. We spent a fortune maintaining it. Listen to me prattling on! Please continue DI Groom.” Freya sat stiffly in her chair, clutching the photographs.
“Please speak freely Mrs. Bancroft. Anything you remember could be vital to the investigation. It appears the car left the bridge and entered the river. The Saab was completely submerged and not visible from the bridge or riverbank. It’s not an area that gets a lot of traffic. No remains were found in the car. Forensic investigators are still examining the scene. Importantly, a rear window on the driver’s side was open.”
“Are you suggesting Preston escaped from the car as it was sinking? Does this mean you expect to find his remains somewhere in that river? I’m sorry to be so blunt but I’ve had a long time to prepare myself for bad news.”
Groom blinked impassively. “It’s possible. The heavier front end of the car will fill with water and sink more quickly so it makes sense to move to the backseat to escape. And the Saab 900 had a longer front end than most sports cars available in England at the time. We don’t know what happened to your husband but the discovery of his car is a major breakthrough in the investigation.”
“The longer front end on that model Saab was introduced to meet American crash safety standards, not that it’s relevant. I don’t know what to think. This news has given me a terrible shock.”
“That’s completely understandable. Did your husband have any reason to be in York around the time he disappeared?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I was visiting my mother and her husband in Radlett while I worked on my next novel. We planned for me to join him on the weekend at our apartment in Camden. I never questioned him – or considered checking up on him. Why would I?” She reached for her teacup.
“Are you unwell Mrs. Bancroft?” asked Groom. “Perhaps my colleague can call Madame Guyot to assist you?” Waltham rose from his chair and discreetly exited through the French doors.
Freya realized she had spilled hot tea down the front of her navy dress. A pink burn spread across her décolletage. She glimpsed herself reflected in one of the room’s antique mirrors; a white faced specter. Taking the table napkin offered by Groom, Freya mopped up the spilled tea.
“Thank you, you’re very kind. Please don’t worry DI Groom. My skin is still sensitive from radiation therapy. It looks worse than it is. I realize I’m not being very helpful but I don’t have anything new to add. Preston never made it to the Camden flat. Maybe he didn’t intend to go there at all. In any case, I never saw him again after I caught the train to Radlett. As far as I know, there were no reported sightings of him in York. Is that right?”
“Yes. Finding the Saab in the York area has certainly added a puzzling element to the case.”
Freya leaned forward urgently. “Tell me Detective Inspector, was I ever a serious suspect in Preston’s disappearance?”
“A good detective and a great writer have one thing in common, they never give away too much of the plot,” replied Groom, not unkindly.
Freya smiled weakly. “Vonnegut doesn’t agree with you, at least with respect to short stories- a lost art form. He argued writers should give their readers as much information as possible – to hell with suspense! Mind you, he also advises sadism. Terrible things must happen to the leading character so the reader can assess their mettle. If we’re all the leading characters in our own stories, mine suggests a capricious master at work. My greatest desire is to know what happened to Preston before I die. I miss him terribly.”
Groom nodded sympathetically but made no promises. “We won’t keep you any longer. Please don’t get up, Madame Guyot is here to show us out.
Waltham and Inez walked in through the French doors, bringing a faint whiff of tobacco and jasmine flowers. Freya guessed DS Waltham had used the opportunity of finding Inez alone to question her. She wondered how Waltham fared pitted against Inez, a seasoned expert in evasion and omission.
Freya waved away Groom’s concerns and accepted Waltham’s assistance as she rose from the deep sofa. She addressed them both as they walked to the garden gate, her finely boned hand resting on Waltham’s arm.
“I’ve never written a detective novel. Love, lust and betrayal have been my livelihood but never murder. What a fascinating occupation you have – an intriguing cast of characters and an exciting plot unfolding every minute! I do hope you can help write my final chapter before the bell tolls.”
“The bell tolls for him that thinks it does,” replied Waltham. “None of us knows when our final day will come. That’s something I’ve learned from this job.”
“Are you a fan of the Metaphysical poets DS Waltham? Marlowe is my favorite but Donne seems more appropriate today. Please call me Freya. No one calls me Mrs. Bancroft, not even my gardener.”
She waved briefly and watched Groom and Waltham as they walked down the street to find their car, parked a fair distance away. Freya decided he rather liked her detectives, as she now viewed them, despite the fact they obviously believed her guilty of murder.
Chapter 2
Think only of the past as its remembrance brings you pleasure – Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin.
As a younger woman, Freya was not content to simply kick the dust of the past from her boots- she scrubbed it off with a wire brush, hot water and Lysol. Disinterest, betrayal, and bereavement she shrugged off with the insouciance of youth. Facing a shrinking future, she indulged by contemplating happier times.
The music of Gustav Holst’s The Planets filled Freya’s bedroom. Mars the bringer of war finished and Venus, the bringer of peace swept her away to a different time and place. Holst was Preston’s favourite composer. This suite was playing on classical radio the night he proposed. They were taking refuge in the Saab eating a late supper of fish and chips after a particularly trying day at their respective occupations. Freya was a nurse in a walk –in clinic and Preston, a psychiatrist, was running his own practice.
For months after the event he strenuously argued he never planned to propose in such a mundane setting. The diamond and platinum solitaire ring, which he had taken to be re-sized, shot out of his pocket when he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his greasy hands. It landed in Freya’s lap and she accepted immediately, wearing the oversized ring for a week before finally agreeing to have it altered.
Acquaintances assumed they met through their occupations. In fact, Freya met Preston while buying groceries after he crashed into her trolley. On their honeymoon in Malta, he confessed the trolley ramming was a deliberate act of romantic subterfuge, which she had always suspected.
She was 25 when they married. He was 35, a widower and the father of 10 year- old twins, a sulky girl and an obstreperous boy safely tucked away in expensive boarding schools. Arabella (Bella) and George were not invited to the ceremony or reception. Preston waited some weeks before giving them the unhappy news about his nuptials. “I don’t want them to ruin your day,” he explained, assuming correctly Freya’s complete indifference to their dislike. The feeling is mutual, she might have said if she had bothered to think about it.
The wedding ceremony and reception was held at the country home of some distant cousin of Preston’s. It was a lovely place and of course it was kind of Ambrose to go to all the bother, but she would have preferred a more public display in a smart London hotel- maybe the Ritz, if the Ritz did weddings.
Being stuck out in the Cotswold’s made things troublesome in a variety of ways. Britney and Tayla, the colleagues she had asked to be bridesmaids, were difficult about making the trek out of London. Only the assurance they would stay in a luxury hotel and choose their own designer dresses at the couple’s expense had persuaded them. Organizing caterers, floral arrangements, tablecloths, spoons, napkins, trestle tables, chairs, covers for the chairs, cutlery, plates, glassware, candles, and the cake was beyond Freya’s ability. In despair she handed the entire mess to a bossy young blonde woman- a wedding coordinator recommended by her clinic supervisor. It would have been so much easier at a hotel- where presumably the venue already had chairs, tables, plates, spoons, food, drink and so on.
The actual day of the wedding, however, exceeded her expectations. It was a modern wedding with no grooms side or bride’s side which was fortunate because the bride’s side would have been almost empty. Freya’s youthful attitude towards family and friendship could be summed up with the phrase, there’s a reason and a season. Consequently, she shed friends and acquaintances with each change of school, college, apartment, and job.
She was moved, therefore, to see the effort Britney and Tayla made in choosing their dresses- long burgundy silk sheaths with bouquets of cream roses that matched the décor perfectly. Their hair and makeup was expertly done, both girls making an early morning visit to Great Malvern.
Her mother, Siobhan, tore herself away from her 27-year old Argentinian lover for the weekend to see her only child married. She glowed in a rose skirt suit in raw silk teamed with a retro coordinating lampshade hat. Siobhan Prajapati was a classic beauty but she wasted her youth failing to capitalize on her exceptional looks. She moved in with Freya’s alleged father, an unemployed tiller, when she was nineteen and pregnant. Gordon Reynolds had not been sighted since the day he fled under a hail of kitchen utensils six months after Freya’s birth. He was followed by a series of useless lay-abouts until a few weeks shy of her 40th birthday Siobhan had the sense to marry Dr. Nishesh Prajapati, a wealthy childless widower who had the good grace to drop dead shortly after the wedding. Freya liked her stepfather and mourned him longer than his wife, which surprised no one.
Doctor Innocent Najamo, resplendent in traditional Nigerian dress, waited to walk her down the aisle. One her few remaining childhood friends, they grew up in the same London housing estate and truanted school together, spending thrilling afternoons shoplifting on Regent Street before a harrowing experience with a security guard drove them back to afternoon classes. Innocent grinned impishly at her, no doubt recalling that same afternoon and the manner in which it led to this joyful moment.
Most, when asked about their wedding day, claim it passes in a whirl and they remember little about it. For Freya, some aspects of the day such as walking down the aisle, stumbling over the vows, the wedding waltz, standing in the reception line to receive congratulations from an endless procession of strangers, dragged interminably. Other more precious snippets of time raced by. She remembered the few minutes she and Preston snatched to dance alone in the garden, with only Maggie, Ambrose’s Old English sheepdog for company.
Everyone assured Freya the wedding was a complete success. She was lovely in her simple ivory gown with her long dark hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. Presenting her bouquet of red roses and babies’ breath to Innocent’s wife was cleverly done and avoided an undignified scramble for the prize from desperate, drunken women. Similarly it was fortunate dear Ambrose made his amusing Best Man speech before starting on the Glenfiddich and falling into the ornamental pond.
Freya wondered if she had missed any portents of doom – a dog howling in the woods, a crow perched on the house or a white cat staring into her window at night. As for luck, her wedding ensemble included something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue. Preston had not seen her on their wedding day. As far as she knew no one had spilled salt, opened an umbrella inside, left new shoes on the table, smuggled in peacock feathers, walked under a ladder or broken a mirror. Her wedding day was wonderful and she expected to live happily ever after.
And now this. Freya switched off the music, searched the room for her mobile phone and settled into her bed, leaning against a pile of pillows. She chose the first number in her contacts. Her call was not answered. She hurled the phone to the floor and snapped off the bed lamp.
“It’s started,” she whispered into the dark.
Chapter 3
The world is full of obvious things, which nobody by any chance ever observes - Arthur Conan Doyle
In a different part of London Tiffany Groom sipped a Campari and soda while Peggy Lee plaintively wondered, is that all there is to a fire?
Her boarder, Antoinette Rose, marked student papers with a comical mixture of exasperation and despair. “I don’t know where these kids get their ridiculous interpretations of Animal Farm. Why do I bother? I may as well be standing in an empty room, talking to myself- or Bogart.” At the sound of his name Bogart wagged his tail, knocking a coffee cup onto the carpet, which he examined for hidden treats.
“I met Freya Bancroft today.”
“Really? She’s wonderful- such a shame about that psychiatrist husband of hers’. He had some strange ideas. I don’t suppose he’s shown up has he?”
“I don’t think he’s going to. Freya has leukemia and needs a stem cell transplant. She hasn’t been able to find a donor. As things stand now she doesn’t have a lot of time left. Which means we only have a few months to give her closure.”
“Yes. I read about that somewhere. Such a shame! He’s probably in Costa Rica. Or Spain with some hottie tottie.”
Netta ascribed to the popular theory Preston orchestrated his own disappearance, a theory Groom found difficult to accept. She could not imagine the respected psychiatrist abandoning his wife, children and thriving medical practice. The original investigators assumed he had suffered a violent end and Groom agreed. The original Detectives DCI Rainsford and DI Alcott briefed Groom and Waltham when they took up the cold case file. Their enquiries had focused on Preston’s disturbed clients, financial affairs and personal life.
When Preston disappeared six years into their marriage, his wife had just published the acclaimed literary novel that established her reputation as one of Britain’s premier novelists. Groom read Gideon’s Folly when it was first published. It was an historical drama based around the life of the main character, a farmer named Gideon, and his desire to observe his Catholic faith during the rule of Oliver Cromwell.
Freya did not have an alibi for the afternoon her husband disappeared. Her mother had spent the afternoon at the cinema with her husband before the couple met friends for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Radlett. She could not provide her daughter with an alibi. Freya was officially a suspect but with her husband’s line of work, suspects were plentiful.
Groom opened her copy of Preston’s case file but found it difficult to concentrate on its contents. Earlier that evening she received a call from Chance Denton, Freya’s lawyer. He offered to provide background information about Freya’s financial and business interests, ostensibly to save his seriously ill client the stress of talking to the police more than necessary, although Groom suspected a personal agenda. Groom believed those volunteering information to the police usually had one of three motives: a need to confess, a secret to protect or a desire for information about the investigation. Denton, she was sure, would be no exception.
Certainly some evidence detailed in the case file suggested Preston planned to leave Britain. Back in 1999 Detectives Rainsford and Alcott were puzzled to find his Internet history revealed a search for countries yet to sign an extradition treaty with Britain. Groom believed only criminals, or potential criminals, needed a list of bolt- holes. Like Preston, she did her research. By 1999 Criminal hideouts were slowly being eliminated, including the Spanish Costa del Crime. That party was over by 1985. In 1998 Britain had extradition agreements with 105 nations including 33 European signatories of the European Convention on Extradition.
Only 33 countries did not have an extradition agreement with Britain. Politically unstable, poverty stricken nations or theocracies dominated the list. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, Ethiopia, Egypt, Iran and Saudi Arabia were not tempting propositions for an Englishman. Japan, Kuwait, South Korea and perhaps Venezuela were less daunting. Fifteen years ago Preston was not a fugitive fleeing from British justice. As far as the police were aware, Preston was not involved in any criminal activity that would prompt a flight from Britain.
Groom noted he renewed his passport – nothing suspicious for a wealthy professional who holidayed overseas. A more promising lead was a lease agreement for an apartment in Costa Rica for the months of December 1999 through to January 1998 found amongst his papers. Freya claimed ignorance. They often spent Christmas abroad and perhaps her husband was going to surprise her. Further investigation revealed the previous year they spent the holidays in Sydney Australia, staying in the home of Marius and Julia Sapphire, who confirmed they seemed a contented, well – suited couple.
Over the past 15 years Preston was spotted selling surfboards in Maui, making cocktails in Florida, guiding safaris in Tanzania and calling Bingo in Las Vegas. Groom imagined more sightings pouring in once the Saab’s discovery was reported in the media.
Preston was primarily known in the psychiatric and legal communities as an expert on paraphilic (sexual) disorders. Groom searched through the file until she found a copy of a presentation Preston had given for the British Association of Social Workers shortly before he disappeared. His presentation dealt with the complex issue of paraphilia.
The DSM names eight specific paraphilias- exhibitionism, fetishism, frotteurism, pedophilia, sexual masochism, sexual sadism, Voyeurism, and Transvestic fetishism. Plus we have another category- paraphilia otherwise not stated. Over 400 types of atypical sexual behaviors such as those involving blood, animals, feces, urine, enemas, obscene phone calls or dead people have been documented. I must stress a paraphilia is not diagnosable unless it causes distress to the individual or harm to others, however strange or repugnant their behavior may appear.
It has been suggested that one thing all individuals diagnosed with a paraphiliac disorder share is the inability to experience romantic love and the emotionally satisfying bond this creates with a partner.
Preston’s clients included numerous individuals who had come to the attention of the criminal justice or mental health systems as a result of their unusual or illegal sexual interests. They were referred to Preston for psychiatric evaluation, treatment or both.
Preston had radical views on the treatment of individuals who ran foul of the justice system as a result their sexual disorder.
Sufferers of paraphilic disorders require drug therapy to control their distressing urges. Intensive counseling and cognitive therapy for those convicted of offences is useless in preventing re-offending. Anti- libidinal drugs, sometimes referred to in the press as chemical castration, are the best treatments we have available. Patients on drug therapy report dramatically decreased sexual fantasies, arousal and disturbing urges.
Preston would be pleased, thought Groom, to know in some countries such as Poland, Russia and parts of the United States, drug therapy is mandatory for those convicted of sex offences against children. In 2007 when trials were proposed in prisons in England and Wales over 100 sex offenders volunteered for treatment.
My critics argue drug therapy violates civil liberties. I am not suggesting drug therapy be undertaken without informed consent, given the unpleasant side effects that may result.
However, I have seen first hand the devastating impact of pedophilia, the most common paraphilia, in our community. Most offenders have multiple victims and the recidivism rate is high. Pedophiles pose a great risk to public safety. Only drug therapy can provide the level of assurance needed by the public that those charged with sexual offences against children will no longer have the desire to act out their urges.
Preston campaigned against the publication of sex offenders’ names and addresses or changes to the law that required residents to be informed if an offender moved into their neighborhood, arguing the resulting vigilantism forced them into hiding, where their activities went unmonitored.
Groom agreed with Preston for different reasons. While still a Detective Sergeant she took a statement from a bashing victim who bore an unfortunate physical resemblance to a convicted pedophile. He was lucky to survive and lived for weeks under police protection as vigilantes refused to believe his innocence. He eventually emigrated, traumatised by his experience. No crime, reflected Groom, created as much loathing as pedophilia, touching as it did the natural revulsion to such despicable acts.
Her mobile phone blared Hotel California.
“Have you and Netta eaten yet? I’m at the Happy Buddha in Torch Road. I can bring you something.” It was Waltham.
“That would be great, thanks. I’ll see what Netta wants.
“Is that Isaac bringing us dinner again? Thank the Gods! I was resigning myself to grilled cheese. If he’s at the Indian I’ll have rogan josh and jasmine rice. If he’s at the Thai place I’ll have fried rice with chicken.”
“Netta will have khao phat kai and I’ll have phat thai.”
“Showoff!” laughed Waltham before ringing off.
A reluctant singleton, Waltham occasionally ate his evening meal with Groom and Netta, usually bringing food as both women preferred to reheat frozen meals in the microwave, a prospect that filled Waltham with horror. He and Groom planned to spend the evening reviewing the Bancroft case file before deciding which witnesses should be re-interviewed.
Waltham arrived within ten minutes and laughed as the women dived on the bags of food. Bogart leaped about excitedly, hoping for a share. Waltham rewarded Bogart with a handful of prawn crackers and a scratch behind his ears.
“It’s a wonder you girls aren’t as thin as fashion models. There’s never any food here,” he said, looking pointedly at Netta’s ample rump as she hung over the back of the sofa, searching for her purse in the cushions.
“Hey! I heard that! Millions of women pay to get a backside like mine,” Netta staggered to her feet and handed Waltham their share of the meal’s cost, her face red from exertion.
He grinned serenely and poured a glass of red from the open bottle on the coffee table. Waltham managed to hide his attraction for Netta most of the time but suspected he was fooling no one. At the advanced age of 27, Netta’s parents despaired of her ever meeting a nice man and settling down. The flat played host to a parade of hopefuls who, in the classic tradition, were treated mean and kept keen. Waltham had so far resisted the urge join them.
Groom had grown up in a series of foster homes from the age of ten after her young mother died from a brain aneurism. She had no family to pass comment on her personal life. Waltham and Netta had huge families, with complicated clusters of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and step versions of each. Groom had no idea who had fathered her. His name was missing from her birth certificate.
After eating, Netta announced her intention to watch the late news in her bedroom. She blew Waltham an ironic kiss before sashaying down the hallway. Bogart hovered undecidedly for a few seconds before following her. Waltham made coffee and vigorously chopped up a frozen Sara Lee carrot cake while Groom organized the case files.
“Of course,” said Waltham as he attacked his cake, “We could be led astray on this case, making false assumptions and misinterpreting the evidence. How much do we know about how that car ended up in the river and its connection to Preston’s disappearance?”
“Not much,” replied Groom. “Before you arrived I listed the assumptions I found myself making.”
“Really? Let’s hear them. I’m guessing they’re the same as mine.”
“We’ll see. Assumption one, Preston was driving the car. Assumption two, he was alone. Assumption three, he was in the car when it hit the water. Assumption four, he got out of the car. Assumption five, he died after escaping the car, either by drowning or at the hands of someone else.”
“They’re logical assumptions. But he may not have been driving the car when it went into the river. We don’t know. We’ve no witnesses. If Preston wasn’t behind the wheel he was already dead with the killer disposing of evidence by getting rid of the car.”
Groom sighed. “I think you’re right about that, Waltham.”
“Really? I was just playing devil’s advocate.”
“No. You’re right. What are the different scenarios that would account for the car being in the river with no body? An accident? He never drove without a seatbelt, according to his wife. If he’d had an accident his remains would still be in the car, held in by the seatbelt. Maybe not an entire skeleton, but forensics would have found something- bone, hair, clothing. We’ll have to see what the forensic report says, but I believe if someone was in that car, they got out.”
“So we can discount an accident.”
“Remember Melissa Jenkins? She was missing for weeks with her husband a suspect until she was found still strapped into her wrecked car. She ran off the road into thick undergrowth and plunged down a ravine. Her husband drove up and down that highway, looking for her, not knowing she was only a few hundred meters away. She died on impact, so nothing could have been done to save her. But her body was found in the car and she had obviously died from her injuries. It’s not so clear-cut for us.”
“Why not go with the other possibility? He got out of the car safely but then drowned?” asked Waltham.
“It’s feasible and fits some of the evidence. But Preston was an excellent swimmer and his remains haven’t been found. At the time he disappeared the river wasn’t in flood. If he had managed to get out the car he should have been able to swim to the riverbank and raise the alarm.”
“The other possibility is Preston managed to escape a sinking car and was then murdered. Which would be phenomenally rotten luck. Of course, I can think of other scenarios,” replied Waltham.
“Let’s see…the killer is hiding in the back seat. Shocked and frightened Preston crashes the car into the river, they escape through the window, a struggle ensues and Preston is killed. Dripping wet and exhausted from the struggle the killer manages to dispose of Preston’s body without being seen. Or perhaps the killer is the driver? If so, does the killer deliberately crash the car or can we add negligent driving to their list of crimes? Or maybe our killer is fortuitously waiting on the river bank?”
Waltham laughed. “But these different possibilities are, you know, possible. I didn’t even consider a killer hiding in the back seat scenario.”
“I misspent my youth watching too many B grade thrillers. Of course a joyrider could’ve stolen the car and crashed it, although it’s hard for kids to keep that sort of thing quiet. Freya offered a generous reward for information. Someone would’ve talked.”
“I’ve been marking places we can search on this map,” said Waltham. He passed the map to Groom who examined it with interest.
“Let’s see what we’ve got so far,” she continued. “Preston was researching places with no extradition treaty with Britain. He wasn’t suspected of any criminal activity and neither were his business associates. His financial and legal affairs were in order, wills in place, insurance- all that sort of thing. No loose ends.”
His cake finished, Waltham helped himself to a handful of prawn crackers. “Do you think Bogart licked these?” he asked. “They’re kind of wet.”
“Probably.”
He shrugged and continued eating. “Do you think it suspicious Preston’s affairs were so tidy? I’d expect a professional person to be organized. Even I have a will.”
“Do you really?” asked Groom, momentarily distracted. “Maybe I should make one. Anyway, you’d be surprised. I’ve interviewed people whose partners died suddenly, leaving them with no insurance, no will, nothing in place for the family’s protection. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, business owners, teachers- education doesn’t always make a person responsible. Some leave a real mess behind – debts, unpaid taxes, or a mistress and child tucked away. Preston was meticulous. No nasty secrets. His wife got the bulk of his estate with trusts for the children maturing when they turned 21.”
“If he did disappear of his own volition, he must have hidden money somewhere to fund his escape,” said Waltham.
“If he did, we haven’t found it,” replied Groom.
“That’s why you think he’s dead?”
“Not really. There’s lots of ways to hide money – safety deposit boxes, offshore accounts, friends. Other aspects of the case bother me. If he was in York, what was he doing there? We’ve found no connection with anyone in the area. The original investigation focused on people close to him – colleagues, family and clients. Many have an alibi for the time he went missing. It was a Thursday afternoon. Most of his clients and colleagues were at work. Of course, given his clientele, some of them were serving time.”
“Freya has no alibi for the day he disappeared,” added Waltham, “Although she claims to have been at home working on her next novel. The neighbors didn’t see her leave, but that doesn’t mean anything. What about this cousin in Great Malvern? Does he know this Pembury?” Waltham folded his tall figure deeper into the sofa and rubbed his eyes.
“York is quite a way past Worcestershire. We’ll see if they know each other. I doubt it. Preston was murdered. Now we just have to work out who, what, why, when, where and how.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all,” sighed Groom.
Chapter 4
A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.- Diane Arbus
By 8 am the following day Groom and Waltham were outside the building where Chance Denton ran his legal practice. Situated near Liverpool Station, the area housed numerous law firms occupying office blocks. Denton ran his own practice with two associates. Denton and Associates boasted an enviable list of wealthy clients, including Freya Bancroft. A statuesque red haired woman greeted them at the ground floor reception, checked their identification and showed them into the elevator, using her security pass. On the third floor Denton’s reception desk behind the glass door was empty so Groom pressed the intercom button.
A disheveled figure emerged from an office and introduced himself as Chance Denton. “I’ve been here since 4am trying to get work finished. Good to meet you both. It’s DI Groom and DS Waltham isn’t it? Good. Follow me – we’ll go to the conference room. My office is a tip. Alice will be here in a few minutes. She’s popped out to get milk.”
Denton was a tall, slightly overweight man in his early 60’s with a large head of wiry grey hair and startling blue eyes fringed with curly black lashes. Groom detected a Glaswegian accent under a voice made gruff by cigarettes and whisky.
They settled into leather armchairs clustered around a low coffee table. A narrow conference table was pushed against the wall and several office chairs faced a wall – mounted screen.
Denton followed Groom’s gaze. “The youngsters wanted all that stuff so they can Skype with clients. I wasn’t keen at first but it’s convenient for discussions with overseas clients and those I can’t stomach seeing in person.”
“Do you have many of those?” asked Waltham.
“You’d be surprised. Rich people are tricky. Although the way some of them carry on you’d think they’re a heartbeat away from the poorhouse. We do wills, estate planning, tax advice, wealth creation- no criminal or family law. My Associates have degrees in finance and law. It’s interesting work, if you put your mind to it.”
He was interrupted by the arrival of a young Asian woman carrying a tray holding a pot of hot water, tea bags, a small tin of coffee, sugar and milk. Groom estimated her to be six months pregnant. She wore a soft grey jersey dress with a matching long-line cardigan in cashmere. Donna Karan, guessed Groom.
“Thanks Alice. I’ll get that. Do we have any fruit cake left?”
“I’m sorry Chance. We finished it already. I got low fat bran muffins from the café downstairs.” She disappeared and returned with the muffins arranged on a plate.
Denton gazed at the lumpy, beige muffins in dismay.
“I’ve put skim milk in your coffee, no sugar,” continued Alice.
“You’ve been talking to Jasmine again, haven’t you,” said Denton. “Jasmine is my wife and Alice is my daughter in law. They’re convinced I’m going to drop dead of a heart attack just because my blood pressure is a little high – and I’m fat. They gang up on me.”
“The first grandchild. A girl.” Alice patted her belly. “We want her Grandpa to be around for a long time.”
“Congratulations. That’s wonderful,” replied Groom. “Have you chosen a name yet?”
“No. It’s been the subject of endless discussion in our family. What’s your first name DI Groom?” asked Alice.
“Tiffany. Tiffany Groom,” she added unnecessarily.
“Tiffany. I like that name. It’s been a pleasure to meet you both. Chance let me know if you need anything. Otherwise I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Thank you for seeing me,” began Denton. “Freya rang after your visit yesterday and asked me to give you any information about her financial and legal affairs that may be relevant to your enquiries. Of course, I know about your finding the missing car. I never met Preston Bancroft. We didn’t start doing legal work for Freya until September 2001.”
“How did you meet Mrs. Bancroft?” asked Groom. “Did she contact your firm or was it through a social connection?”
“I met Freya at Wimbledon when she accompanied Inez Guyot. It was the first day of the tournament in June 2001. Do either of you follow the tennis?”
“2001? That’s the year Ivanisevic won wasn’t it? The first Croatian, first wildcard and lowest ranked player in history to win,” replied Waltham.
“That’s right. He was ranked 125 in the world. I watched every day of the tournament and got to see him defeat Patrick Rafter in the final. If I remember correctly, it went to 5 sets. I take it you’re a tennis player DS Waltham?”
“That’s right. I played every day before joining the service. I still get out on the courts most weekends.”
“Good for you. If you’re wise you’ll keep it up. I didn’t. My sporting days are over, as you can probably guess. Anyway, Inez gave us the tickets in appreciation for some work we did setting up a trust for her son, Giles. He was a little fella then. Big brown eyes and a mop of curls. Inez Guyot comes from one of the wealthiest families in France and she’s made a fair bit of money for herself.” Denton took a swig of coffee and bit into a muffin.
“Was that your first time at Wimbledon? Or do you go every year?” asked Waltham.
“2001 was the first year I’d been to Wimbledon since 1995. I was always too busy with work. I’m sure you know how it is. My wife and I have managed to catch the odd match in the last few years.”
“Back in 2001 Ms. Guyot would have been Mrs. Bancroft’s French translator. Is that right?” prompted Groom.
“That’s how she started in the publishing business, but she’s come a long way since then. Anyway back to your original question, Freya and I got talking about finances over strawberries and cream. She didn’t have a death certificate in 2001. That wasn’t issued until after the inquest in 2003.”
“What were the terms of the will?” asked Groom.
“Generous. He left her capital of £200 000, an annuity worth £40 000 and life insurance of £200 000. They owned a flat in Camden. No mortgage. She was anxious to manage it properly. Preston made separate arrangements in the will for Bella and George. I suppose he wanted to avoid nastiness over the will. They despise Freya. It’s a mystery to me. Freya’s a fine woman. I don’t believe for a second she had anything to do with her husband’s disappearance.”
Mr. Denton, we’ve been to Mrs. Bancroft’s home in an exclusive part of Notting Hill. It’s worth at least 5 million pounds. Do you know how it was paid for?” Groom asked.
Denton discarded the muffin and added extra milk to his tea. “She didn’t use royalties from her novel, Gideon’s Folly. It’s a literary novel, high – brow. It sold well enough to make her wealthy but not rich. Freya has earned millions of pounds, all managed by our firm and increasing in value every day. The downturn barely touched her.”
“How did she make so much money?” asked Waltham.
Denton chuckled. “I can show you.” They followed him to the conference table where he logged into the computer and typed Indigo Rose into Google.
“Look at that!” said Waltham. “There must be 30 books listed here – Tango of Passion, Erotic Fire, The Wicked Garden – Freya Bancroft is Indigo Rose? The romance writer? My mother has every one of these books. She’s addicted to them.”
Denton grinned. “Romance with a bit of erotica thrown in. She’s not just a writer, you know. Freya started Nightshade Books back in 2003 with Inez’s financial backing. They publish dozens of writers, many under a nom de plume, like Freya. Some of their most popular writers are men writing under a feminine name- Hyacinth Willow for example. My wife couldn’t believe it when I told her the author of Aching Heart is a bearded colossus who started his working life on a fishing trawler. The real money is in international sales. Nightshade Books sells millions in Japan, China, Europe, the United States and Latin America. Including television rights, those women have made a fortune.”
“So these books fund her lifestyle?” asked Groom.
“That’s right. Freya used the capital Preston left her to put a deposit on the house and used the Indigo Rose royalties to fund the mortgage. It’s owned free and clear now.”
“Love, lust and betrayal have been my livelihood but never murder,” murmured Groom. “I thought Freya was talking about Gideon’s Folly but she meant these novels.”
“Were some of these books written before Gideon’s Folly and her other literary novels?” asked Waltham.
“Most were,” confirmed Denton. “She’d been writing for years, well before she met her husband but didn’t publish any of them until after he disappeared. You’d have to ask her why.”
“Did she know the books were publishable?” asked Groom.
“Freya is a smart woman. I’d say she knew exactly how profitable her books would be if she decided to publish them.”
“So she realized she could be a wealthy woman in her own right,” observed Groom. “She didn’t need a successful husband to support her.”
“Freya was happy married to Preston. She didn’t care about money, personal success or fame. I know it sounds hackneyed but she got everything she wanted when she married.”
Waltham asked, “Do you know why Inez Guyot and her son live with Ms. Bancroft? According to your information, Ms. Guyot is wealthy enough to afford her own place in London.”
“I know why Inez moved in initially. The young fella, Giles, had emotional problems. He was up all night and when he did sleep he had terrible dreams. Night terrors, they’re called. My youngest boy, my wife and I have four, had something similar. As a former psychiatric nurse Freya was good at handling him so Inez and Giles moved in. He was 13 by then. This was in 2007. It worked out well because, as the business manager for Indigo Rose, Inez traveled a lot. I guess it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement that became permanent.”
“Have either women had any relationships you know about? It would be unusual for such attractive women not to receive a fair amount of attention,” said Waltham.
“Jasmine and I have been to events where Inez or Freya have turned up with a fella. Nice looking corporate types from their social circle. It seems no matter how old you get, there’s someone to pair up with. People are being recycled out of relationships all the time, as my wife puts it.”
“Especially if the persons in question are exceptionally wealthy women?” asked Groom.
“Money helps. Certainly. I can’t deny that. It can compensate a woman for the loss of youth, with a particular type of man.”
“Toy boys?” interjected Waltham, earning a hoot of laughter from Denton.
“If they had any dalliances with toy boys, they kept them well hidden.” He chuckled to himself. “But there’s nowt queer as folk, as my Granny used to say and anything’s possible.”
“What about Inez and Freya? Are they a couple?” asked Waltham.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “You’d have to ask them.” Denton didn’t seem surprised, suggesting to Groom he had asked himself the same question.
She nodded to Waltham, who began to rise from his chair. “Thank you for your time Mr. Denton. We may need to talk to you again. We’ll let you know,” she concluded the interview.
“Sure, sure, whatever you need. Let me show you out.” Despite his polite hospitality, Denton was relieved to see them leave, his professional duties fulfilled.
An hour later Groom and Waltham were enjoying brunch at a noisy cafe whose windows afforded an excellent view of Denton’s office.
“It’s 11.30. He has to crack some time,” said Waltham.
“He will. I’m going to get a piece of that chocolate cake,” replied Groom. “Do you want some?”
“Thanks Gov. Better not. Denton has more will power than I gave him credit for. I thought he’d be scurrying out of his office by now, looking for his sugar fix.”
“He won’t be much longer. Drink your tea. And don’t call me Gov.”
“What did I lose this time?” asked Waltham.
“A mobile phone.”
He smiled his approval.
“We have movement!” exclaimed Groom.
They peered out the window as Denton’s portly figure slipped out the building and hurried across the road to a McDonalds Restaurant. He stopped a few times to look over his shoulder.
“It looks busy in McDonalds. See if he gets in the queue before you disappear to work your magic on the lovely Alice.” said Groom.
“I wish you’d stop pimping me out.”
Groom grinned at Waltham across the table.
Five minutes later Denton remained in the restaurant. Waltham hurried out. Groom had planted an old mobile phone in Denton’s conference room when he was distracted by Alice’s arrival with the muffins. She hoped that by striking up a casual conversation with Alice, Waltham would discover why Denton steered them away from his office and why he had been there all night. Groom did not believe the 4am story. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes. Despite his polite and helpful demeanor, Groom felt Denton was hiding something important to the investigation and she meant to find out what it was.
She watched the McDonalds doorway so she could warn Waltham if Denton began to head back to his office. In Groom’s experience, most people did not appreciate the sudden re-appearance of police in their workplaces.
Ten minutes passed before she saw Waltham walking across the road back to their café, looking pleased with himself and carrying the retrieved mobile. She stifled a laugh as Waltham ducked behind a white van when he saw Denton puffing along, finishing his apple pie.
“That was close,” Waltham said as he re-joined her at their café table.
“We can assume Alice will mention your return to the office.”
“I doubt she’ll get the opportunity. I’m guessing Denton will sneak past her so she doesn’t get a whiff of French fries and burger. But whatever Denton is hiding, Alice doesn’t know about it. She wasn’t put out to see me and went off quite happily to find my mobile in the conference room. You hid it well. I had a good five minutes to snoop around. Denton’s office was unlocked so I peeked in. Guess what I saw hanging on his vanity wall?”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Waltham glanced around the now crowded café and whispered dramatically, “A framed poster of the cover of Freya’s first novel, Gideon’s Folly. But that’s not all. It’s signed and dated! It says, to Chance Denton, a wonderful friend with love and gratitude, Freya Bancroft, 1999. They did know each other before 2001. The office was a tip. Drawers pulled open and documents piled on the floor. It’s going to take him ages to clean up that mess. Why didn’t he just move the poster? It’s not that large or heavy. He could have just taken it down and put it in a corner somewhere. Why would he take the risk of our seeing it? Seems silly to me.”
“Two reasons. He left the poster hanging because he didn’t have time to remove it. Lying to us about knowing Freya way back in 1999 was a last minute decision, no doubt related to whatever it was he couldn’t find in that office. It also means we won’t be able to find any other evidence of a prior association between the pair. Denton’s no fool. He wouldn’t lie unless he was sure we couldn’t discover it. We won’t find anything. No paper trail. No witnesses who will talk to the police. That poster is the only evidence and I’m guessing it will disappear later today.”
“Do we question him again? See if we can jog his memory?”
“We could. But Denton isn’t a suspect in Preston’s disappearance. He left for a working holiday in the south of France in October 1999 and didn’t return until after the New Year. Let’s leave it for the moment and see what turns up.”
“Do you think he could have a personal motive for lying?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t fit with what we know about the Bancrofts. Denton likes and respects Freya, but I didn’t get an impression of anything else going on. What about you, Waltham? What’s the male perspective?”
“Men who have affairs don’t employ female family members as personal assistants with access to their email and personal correspondence. Alice told me she’s been working with Denton for the past 10 years, which is how she met his son. He’s a family man, not a superannuated playboy.”
“I’m inclined to agree, although I’m certain he knows a lot more than he lets on. We need to dig a bit further.”
“Better get on with it then,” grinned Waltham as he summoned the waitress for their bill.
Chapter 5
The past is never dead. It’s not even past – William Faulkner
Saturday 12th April 2014
Freya woke suddenly. The travel alarm clock glowed 5am. Something woke me, thought Freya. What is it? An unsettling stink assailed her nostrils –fetid body odor, stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. Her mobile was on the bedside table, near the lamp. Slowly she reached for it, simultaneously becoming aware of a small hunched figure perched on her dressing table chair.
“Giles?” she asked uncertainly. “Is that you?”
“Don’t be stupid. Why aren’t you dead yet? Revolting old hags like you should be rotting in the ground.”
“Bella! What do you want?”
“I know they found my Dad’s car. Did you think the cops wouldn’t tell me?”
Freya sat up and switched on her bedside lamp. Bella stared impassively and lit a cigarette. Despite her long matted hair and dirty clothes, Bella’s fragile beauty remained evident.
“It’s only a matter of time before they arrest you,” said Bella through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Get out of my room. I’m calling the police.”
Bella flung a pile of papers on the floor. “Do you know what this is? It’s evidence you killed my father.”
Freya waved her mobile. “I’m giving you one chance to leave. We can talk about this later, when you’ve sobered up.”
Bella ignored her. “No one will help me. George is useless. I’m taking this evidence to the police.” Sobbing quietly she fell to the floor and began gathering up the papers.
“What is this evidence?” demanded Freya. Grimacing in pain she eased herself off the bed and knelt next to Bella on the floor. The papers were hand written letters. She picked one up and began to read:
My darling Preston, so happy to hear our plans for escaping that conniving, gold digging bitch are finally coming to fruition. Are you sure she suspects nothing? Make sure she doesn’t become suspicious. It would ruin everything…
“ What a load of stupid, clichéd nonsense,” said Freya.
“Give me that!” Bella snatched the letter. She reeled back and narrowly missed punching Freya in the face.
“Get out! I don’t pity you! He was my husband. I loved him as much as you did,” cried Freya as she fell backwards, hurting her wrist.
“No! You didn’t! You couldn’t!”
The bedroom door slammed open. “What’s going on? Is that you Bella?” It was Giles. With him was James, Freya’s gardener.
“Stay away from me!” cried Bella. Freya was shocked to see her brandishing a silver handgun.
“Where did you get that? Give it to me,” said Giles.
“Stay away. It’s loaded. I’ll kill us all.” Tears streamed down Bella’s face and her hands shook uncontrollably as she clasped them around the gun.
“That’s enough Bella,” said James. He appeared to cross the room with one step and snatched the gun from her hands. She cried out and collapsed to the floor like a ragdoll. He picked her up, tucked her under his arm and stalked out of the room.
Giles lifted Freya onto the bed and tucked a robe around her thin shoulders. “Did she hurt you?” he asked.
“Just my wrist. My joints are still sore. She didn’t hit me.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Do we have to? She’s sick. She needs help.”
“She broke in here and threatened you with a gun. We don’t have a choice. If I don’t call them, my mother will when she gets back from Marseille.”
“You can call the police as soon as I get my wig on.”
Two police cars bringing four local police officers arrived at the scene to find Bella and James drinking cocoa in the kitchen. She remained agitated, whispering urgently to James and gripping him on the forearm with a boney hand. He nodded at regular intervals and fed her pieces of toast whenever possible. It was apparent by her emaciated frame it was some weeks since she had eaten properly.
She was arrested immediately. The senior officer assured Freya the doctor on duty would medically evaluate Bella at the police station. If necessary, she would be transferred to a hospital.
DI Groom and Waltham arrived after being notified of the morning’s events and their relevance to the Preston case. Waltham put on gloves and read some of the letters before asking for them to be placed in evidence bags. Bella’s pistol was carefully examined after James gave it to one of the officers. Waltham confirmed it was not a real gun. Groom found Freya sitting alone in the living room. James had followed Bella to the police station, where he had agreed to give a statement. Giles was in the kitchen, talking to Waltham and watching the crime scene investigators attempt to discover how Bella was able to break into the house.
“They’re ridiculous letters,” said Freya to Groom. “Full of stupid clichés and spelling mistakes. Even if Preston were having an affair, which he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be interested in someone so obviously uneducated and ignorant. Anyway, I wouldn’t kill him over an affair. I’d just divorce him. Like any normal person.”
“Let’s make some tea,” replied Groom. “How do you take it?”
“White with lots of sugar. You do agree with me DI Groom?”
Groom considered her answer. She had seen all manner of perversions as a vulnerable foster child and since joining the police service. Nothing surprised her. The soap star arrested for dealing cocaine at a dogging venue, the politician arrested for curb crawling, the respectable businessman shot by his wife after she discovered his affair with the fourteen year – old babysitter were some of the cases scheduled for the courts that week. The following week would bring another sorry parade of human frailty.
“I’ll tell you what we know so far. The letters are all addressed to your husband and may have been sent to his practice. This is the address on the letters but we have no evidence he received them because we don’t have any postmarked envelopes. None of the letters are from Preston writing back to this woman. DS Waltham and I will interview your husband’s colleagues later today to see if they can suggest who may be responsible. Of course, we will need to speak to Ms. Bancroft to ascertain where she found the letters.”
Freya sighed with relief. “Of course you’re right. There’s no evidence this was anything other than a crazy, infatuated woman making up rubbish and living in a fantasy world.”
“You need to rest, Freya. You’ve given your statement to the responding officers. I would like to have an informal talk with Mr. Pearson when he gets back. DS Waltham is talking to Giles.
“Good luck with James. He’s an unusual character.”
“In what way?”
“You’ll find out,” laughed Freya as the day nurse helped her back to her bedroom.
Groom discovered what Freya meant when she found herself facing James Pearson later that morning. She was surprised to learn he had a suite of rooms on the ground floor. It was small, consisting of a bedroom, ensuite, sitting room and kitchenette. They sat companionably in his sitting room, Groom being careful to assure James he was not being formally interviewed.
“Do you like my sitting room?” he asked. “I chose everything myself.”
“Very much,” agreed Groom. “You have excellent taste.”
It was a pretty room for a 32-year-old man. A plethora of flowers and indoor plants throughout the room created a feminine aspect. The sofa cover was a riot of Sheridan yellow roses on a white background, trimmed with cream satin. The coffee held two crystal vases of white roses. Pots of maidenhair ferns, violets and begonias decorated the surfaces. His walls were covered with floral watercolors, mostly reproductions from the Victoria and Albert museum.
The beauty of its owner surpassed the beauty of the room. Like most beautiful people, James was aware of his attractiveness because barely a day passed without someone remarking on it. He took little interest in his appearance beyond regular haircuts, daily shaving and allowing Freya to supply moisturizing shower cream.
Groom stared at this dark haired Adonis, wondering how nature had contrived to produce such a perfect specimen of maleness.
“What shall we talk about?” he asked.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Arabella Bancroft, if that’s okay.”
“Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Maybe later,” smiled Groom.
James frowned. “You will tell me when you want something, won’t you? Because I won’t know unless you tell me.”
“I had tea earlier with Mrs. Preston, so please don’t worry, Mr. Pearson.
“Oh good,” James beamed his relief, showing perfect teeth. “I’m not great with people, you see. I’m better with plants.”
Groom smiled. “You showed a lot of courage today, taking a gun from an unstable woman, removing her from the scene and then calming her down. How well do you know Bella?”
“I met Bella at Christmas lunch a few times but we’re not friends. She came with George, her brother. I know George better. He gave me a book about rose breeding. You can borrow it if you want. Should I get it for you?”
Before Groom could respond James rose from his chair and pulled a hardcover book from the bookshelf where it sat among similar titles.
Groom accepted the book. “Do you know how to breed roses?” she asked as she leafed through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine a particularly spectacular variety.
“I bred the ones in the garden outside, the indigo roses. Freya named them. They look more blue than purple to me. It took seven years to create them and a lot of different crosses.”
“That’s very impressive Mr. Pearson. They’re lovely. I wish someone would breed a rose for me. Would you mind explaining why you went with Bella to the police station if you aren’t friends?”
“Love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be the sons of the Most High; for he himself is kind to ungrateful and evil men.”
“That’s from the Gospel of Luke isn’t it?” replied Groom. “So you helped Bella because it was the Christian thing to do?”
James leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “I don’t go to church. It’s very boring.”
Groom suppressed a smile. “How long have you worked for Freya?” she asked.
“Since July 18th, 2005. But I didn’t always live here. I had my own room in Regent’s Park. This furniture comes from my old house. Freya asked me to move in after the robbery.”
“When was the robbery?” Groom asked.
“The 19th July, 2013.” James evidently felt he had fully answered the question.
“Could you tell me what happened?”
“I was working in the garden late in the afternoon. It was hot. I heard Inez scream from inside the house. A young man came running out the door, carrying something under his arm. I chased after him but he jumped onto a bike and rode away. The police never found him. He climbed in through an unlocked window. I check the windows every day now. Freya and Inez were worried the man would come back so they asked me to move in.”
“Do you know what was stolen?” asked Groom.
“Freya and Inez said nothing was missing from the house.”
“What do you think he was carrying?”
“Something light. He had to ride the bike with only one hand on the handle bar while the other arm was still holding the package. I think it was a padded envelope.”
“Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Pearson. You’ve been very helpful.”
James grinned and quoted Dickens, “No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.”
Groom now had a theory about the providence of the letters. She would need to have it confirmed by Bella, when she was well enough to give an interview. Groom expected her to be admitted to a psychiatric ward, which meant she would not be interviewed for the next few days.
Groom delighted James by consenting to an orange juice and a tour of the garden, where she learned an astonishing amount about flowering shrubs and the evil genius of the aphid. I wonder how Waltham is getting along with young Giles, she thought.
