Authors: Stella Rimington
“I suppose they are, in their own way,” said Whitten. “I’ve met them a few times, and she’s much better value than he is. She’s quite a laugh, actually. He’s more your standard bow-your-head-and-tug-your-forelock aristocrat.”
“Any form?” Liz asked hopefully.
Goss smiled. “That’d be too good to be true, wouldn’t it?”
“So what’s their connection with Gunter again?” asked Liz.
“He kept his fishing boats on their strip of waterfront,” said Whitten. “That’s as much as I know.”
The three of them were standing beneath a vaulted stone porch outside Headland Hall, and to Liz the place looked even more grimly institutional than it had that morning. Its setting against the mudflats and the glitter of the sea spoke of Dickensian pitilessness, of vast sums of money made and hoarded at the expense of others.
“This certainly won’t be the house I’ll be buying when I win that ten million rollover,” murmured Goss, eyeing the heavy oak front door. “What about you, Guv?”
“Nope. I’ll trade in the wife for Foxy Deacon and buy a little place in the Seychelles,” said Whitten.
“Who’s Foxy Deacon?” asked Goss.
“The blonde one from Mink Parfait.”
“They’re splitting up,” said Liz. “I heard it on the car radio this morning.”
“There you are, then.” Flipping his cigarette butt into the wet bushes, Whitten reached for the enamelled bell-push. There was a distant ringing sound.
It was answered by a tall, thin-faced woman in a lovat tweed skirt and a quilted waistcoat that looked as if it had lost an argument with a rosebush. On seeing the two of them, she exposed a mouthful of long teeth.
“Superintendent Whitten, isn’t it?”
“Detective Superintendent, ma’am, yes. And this is Detective Sergeant Goss and a colleague from London.”
The toothy smile switched directions. Behind the upper-class good manners a shrewd concern was apparent. She knows I’m not police, thought Liz. She knows our presence means trouble.
“You’ve come about this awful business with Ray Gunter.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Whitten. “We’re speaking to everyone who knew him, and might have had an idea of his movements.”
“Of course. Why don’t you all come in and sit down?”
They followed her down a long corridor floored with patterned tiles. The walls were hung with foxes’ masks, sporting prints and unprepossessing ancestral portraits. Some of these were in near darkness, others were palely illuminated by the high Gothic-arched windows.
Peregrine Lakeby was reading the
Financial Times
before a log fire in a tall room furnished with books. Many of these, Liz saw, were bound editions of magazines—
Horse and Hound, The Field, The Shooting Times
—and there was an entire bookcase of Wisden’s cricket almanacs. He stood as the others came into the room and were seated by his wife, and then, sitting down again, folded the newspaper with an air of courteous forbearance. “You’re here, I assume, about poor Mr. Gunter?”
He was a good-looking man for his age, Liz thought, but unfortunately he was very much aware of the fact. There was a mocking, faintly supercilious quality to the grey-blue gaze. He probably considered himself a bit of a devil with the women.
Whitten, who was leafing through a notebook, fielded the question. “Yes, sir. We just have to make some routine enquiries. As I explained to Mrs. Lakeby, we’re speaking to everyone who knew Gunter.”
Anne Lakeby’s brow knitted. “The truth is that we didn’t actually
know
him terribly well. Not in the strict sense of the word. I mean, he came and went, and so on, and one saw him around, but . . .”
Her husband stood, moved to the fire, and stabbed at it languidly with an ancient steel bayonet. “Anne, why don’t you go and make us all a nice pot of coffee. I’m sure we’d . . .” He turned to Whitten and Goss. “Or would you prefer tea?”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Lakeby,” said Whitten. “I’ll do without.”
“Me too,” said Goss.
“Miss . . .”
“Nothing for me, thanks, either.”
In fact Liz would very much have liked a cup of strong coffee, but felt she should show solidarity with the others. She had noticed how Lakeby had avoided using the men’s names—a subtle but unmistakable putting of them into their place. Or what Lakeby imagined to be their place.
“Just for me then,” said Peregrine airily. “And if we’ve got some Jaffa Cakes, you might sling a few on to a plate.”
Anne Lakeby’s smile tightened for a moment, and then she left the room.
When she had gone, Peregrine leaned back in his chair. “So, tell me, what actually happened? I heard the poor bugger had been shot, of all things. Is that true?”
“It looks like it, sir, yes,” said Whitten.
“Do you have any idea why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain right now. Can you tell me how you knew Mr. Gunter?”
“Well, basically, like his father and grandfather did before him, he kept a couple of boats on our beach. Paid us a peppercorn sum in return and offered us first refusal on his catches—not that they’ve amounted to a great deal in recent years.”
“Were you in favour of this arrangement?”
“I saw no reason to discontinue it. Ben Gunter, Ray’s father, was a very decent old boy.”
“And Ray wasn’t . . . so decent?”
“Ray was a rather rougher diamond. There were a couple of incidents relating to alcohol, which I’m sure you’re aware of. That said, we never had any trouble with him. And I certainly can’t imagine why anyone would want to go to the bother of killing him.”
“Do you know when Gunter last went out fishing? Or out to sea for any other purpose?”
The languid smile remained in place but the grey-blue gaze sharpened. “What d’you mean, exactly? What other purpose could there be?”
Whitten smiled benignly. “I’ve no idea, sir. I’m not a boating man.”
“The answer is no, I have no idea when he last went out to sea, or why. He had his own key to the grounds, and came and went as he pleased.”
“Is there anyone who would know?”
“The fishmonger in Brancaster probably would. His name is . . . Anne’ll know.”
Whitten nodded and made a note in his book.
“When he went fishing, what time did he usually go out?”
Peregrine inflated his cheeks and exhaled thoughtfully. You’re lying, thought Liz. You’ve been lying all along. Hiding something. Why?
“That depended on the tide, but usually at first light. Then he’d run the catch into Brancaster during the morning.”
“Did you buy fish off him?”
“Occasionally. He had a permit for half a dozen lobster pots, and if we were having people for dinner we might take a couple of lobsters off him. Or bass, if he had any big enough—which in recent years wasn’t often.”
“So he was just a fisherman? That was the only way he made his money?”
“As far as I know. He inherited a house over by the church and I think he mortgaged it at some point, but he certainly didn’t have any other job.”
“So why do you think someone found it necessary to shoot him?”
Lakeby extended his arms proprietorially along the back of the sofa. “Do you want to know what I think? I think the whole thing was a horrible mistake. Ray Gunter was . . . well, he wasn’t a very sophisticated chap. He probably had one too many at the Trafalgar or that ghastly place in Dersthorpe and . . . who knows? Picked a fight with the wrong man.”
“Any idea why he might have been at the Fairmile Café in the early hours of the morning?”
“None whatsoever. I’ve always thought that place was an eyesore. On top of which, as you probably know, it’s got a reputation as a queers’ pick-up joint.”
“Might that have been what Gunter was doing there? Looking for a male pick-up?”
Lakeby barked mirthlessly. “Well, I suppose it might have been. I must confess I’d never thought of him in that light. He was no Helen of Troy, as I expect you’ve observed . . . Anne, would you have said Ray Gunter was a bugger?”
With a faint rattle, his wife lowered the oriental-patterned tray to a table in front of the fire. “I wouldn’t have said so, personally—especially since he’s been seeing Cherisse Hogan.”
“For God’s sake—who on earth is Cherisse Hogan?”
“Elsie Hogan’s daughter. You remember Elsie? Our cleaner? Left the house half an hour ago.”
“I didn’t know her name was Hogan. Or that she was married.”
“She isn’t married. She produced Cherisse when she was at school. That’s how she got that council place in Dersthorpe.”
“Was this a regular thing?” enquired Whitten. “This . . . ‘seeing’?”
“Not as regular as Ray Gunter would have liked,” said Anne. “Cherisse has quite a few admirers, and what one used to call a roving eye.”
“So where might I find this young lady?”
“She’s behind the bar at the Trafalgar most days.”
Liz glanced surreptitiously at Goss, but the Special Branch man was impassive. Peregrine Lakeby, however, leaned forward in surprise. “The fat girl?” he asked.
Anne raised her eyebrows. “Peregrine! That’s not very gallant.”
“How long had she and Gunter been an item?” Whitten cut across her.
“Well,” Anne replied, “it wasn’t the untroubled romance he’d have liked it to be. According to Elsie, Cherisse had her sights fixed on bigger game.”
“Namely?” enquired Goss.
“The publican. Mr. Badger.”
Peregrine stared. “Clive Badger? He’s treasurer of the golf club. He’s got children at university and a heart condition.”
“That’s as may be, but according to Elsie there have been tender glances exchanged behind the pumps.”
“You didn’t tell me any of this,” said Lakeby.
“You didn’t ask,” smiled Anne. “It’s Gomorrah-on-Sea up here if you keep your ear to the ground. Much better than television.”
Peregrine drained his coffee with an air of finality. “Well, all I can say is: I hope Badger’s got life insurance.” Replacing his cup and saucer on the tray he stretched and looked meaningfully at his watch. “Was there anything else? Because if not I might just . . . press on with various things.”
“Nothing,” said Whitten, remaining resolutely seated. “Thank you very much for your time.” He turned to Anne. “I wonder if, before we go, I might perhaps just ask Mrs. Lakeby a few more questions?”
Anne Lakeby showed her teeth again. “Certainly. Go on, Perry, off you push.”
Lakeby hesitated, rose to his feet, and, with the tight-lipped air of one unreasonably evicted, left the room. As his footsteps rang out on the tiled floor of the hall, Anne Lakeby drew a long white goose feather from her quilted waistcoat and turned it in her fingers.
“To be perfectly frank with you,” she said, “I couldn’t stand Ray Gunter, and I couldn’t stand having him around. He’d rear up out of the mist like a ghost, smelling of old fish, and then disappear again, without a word. Just last week I told Perry that I wanted him off the estate for good, but . . .”
“But?”
“But Perry’s got some incomprehensible attachment to him. Partly loyalty to old Ben Gunter, I suppose, even though he died years ago, and partly . . . Put it this way: if there was a court case, and we lost . . .”
“Things would have been much worse?”
“Quite. In every sense of the word. But that said, and whatever the legal ramifications, Ray Gunter was certainly up to something.”
“Up to what, do you think?” asked Whitten.
“I don’t know. I’d hear things in the night. Trucks, moving about on the side road. People talking.”
“Surely that’s what you’d expect to hear, given that he had a sack of fish to get into town.”
“At three a.m.? Look, maybe I’m just being a batty old fool, and I certainly wouldn’t have said anything if Ray was still around, but . . .” She shook her head and fell silent.
“Did your husband ever hear these noises?”
“Not once.” She shrugged cheerfully. “Which of course makes me sound even more bonkers, senile, and generally ready for the scrap heap.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Whitten drily. “Tell me, could we possibly have a look at the garden and the place Gunter kept his boats?”
“Certainly you may. It’s a bit blowy today, but if you don’t mind that . . .”
The four of them proceeded through the house to the garden entrance. This was a stone-floored area housing a rack of Wellington boots and hung with gardening and shooting clothes. The garden itself, Liz saw, was much more attractive than the house’s austere Victorian front suggested. A long rectangular lawn flanked by flower beds and trees unrolled towards a stand of tall grasses, and presumably some sort of descent to the sea. Through the trees to either side she could see the mudflats, now half submerged by the incoming tide.
“As you probably know, the thing about the Hall is that it’s got the only halfway decent landing place for a couple of miles in either direction,” Anne Lakeby explained. “Which is why, obviously, there have always been boats there. The sailing club’s got a tidal inlet, but it’s not much good for anything bigger or heavier than a Firefly.”
“Is that a boat?” asked Whitten.
“Yes, one of those little yachty things that people learn to sail on. Come and have a look at the beach.”
A couple of minutes later they were standing amongst the tall sedges and grasses, looking down at the shingle and the sea.
“It’s really very private, isn’t it?” said Liz.
“The trees and the walls are there as a windbreak as much as anything else,” said Anne. “But yes, you’re right. It is very private.”
“Has anyone been on the beach today?”
“Only me. This morning.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
Anne frowned. “Not that I can remember,” she said.
“Which way did Gunter come and go?”
Anne pointed to a low door set into the garden’s right-hand wall. “Through there. It leads out to the lane which runs up the side of the house. He had a key.”
Whitten nodded. “I might get a couple of our blokes to give the place a quick look, if that’s all right.”
Anne nodded. “Mr. Whitten, do you think Ray Gunter was involved in anything illegal? I mean, drugs or anything?”
“It’s too early to say,” said Whitten. “It’s not impossible.”
Anne looked thoughtful. Worried, even.