Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (19 page)

“That’s absolutely true. And that’s a pretty good motive, if
you ask me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, suppose he found out about her, er, extracurricular
activities. Can you imagine how devastated he would feel?”

“True,” conceded Halshaw, dubiously.

“He’d be utterly humiliated, not just for himself, but their
children too. That’s an obvious motive for murder, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But he was at home with the kids.”

“Or so he said. And once they were asleep, he could have
slipped out for a few minutes without them noticing.”

“What if they’d woken up while he was out? They’d have
screamed the place down.”

Chase shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe he just got lucky.”

“And how could he have found out about her, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he found something in the house. A
letter, maybe? Or a phone call?”

“Or perhaps she let something slip? In conversation,
perhaps? ”

“I doubt that very much,” Chase smiled. “Here we are.
There’s a space by the kerb over there, Halshaw.”

“Before you say anything,” the silver-haired woman began,
“there are a couple of things I need to tell you.”

Chase and Halshaw looked at each other, and then back at the
face that peered around the front door of the detached bungalow.

“Firstly, if you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”

“We’re not selling anything, I can assure you, madam,”
smiled Chase. “We’re...”

“And secondly, if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, you
should know I’m a committed Roman Catholic, so you’ll have your work cut
out...”

“No, madam, it’s nothing like that, I can assure you,” said
Chase. “We’re police officers...”

“Who is it, Mummy?” boomed a distant male voice from inside
the house.

The silver-haired woman turned. “It’s the police again,
Charlie,” she called.

“I’ve told them already,” harrumphed the man, his voice
growing louder. “I’m not paying any more of Svetlana’s bloody parking
tickets...”

The door opened wider and a tall, ruddy-faced, grey-haired
man appeared.

“Mr Charles Robertson?” asked Chase.

“Yes?”

“My name is DI Allen Chase. This is my colleague, DC
Halshaw. Could we come in for a moment, please?”

Robertson hesitated. “What’s all this about?” he demanded.

“It might be better if we talked inside, sir,” said Halshaw.

“It has nothing to do with unpaid parking fines, I can
assure you of that,” added Chase.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” said Halshaw, with a regretful smile.

“OK,” sighed Robertson, stepping aside to usher them
through. “Come in, please.”

*

“Right, then,” said Robertson, placing his hands palm down
on the large glass-topped dining table. “What am I supposed to have done this
time?”

“How do you mean?” replied Chase, sweetly.

“You know exactly what I bloody mean! You lot are round here
every week, or so it seems.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about...”

“So what is it this time, anyway? Come on, let’s get it over
with.”

“We’re investigating a murder case, and...”

“Hold on a minute! Did you just say murder?”

“Yes.”

Robertson settled back contentedly in his tubular steel and
leather chair, a smile spreading across his face. “Thank Christ for that,” he
sighed. “So you’re not from the Fraud Squad?”

“No, we’re not. We’re from the Metropolitan Police, not the
City force.”

“And you’re not interested in my former career?”

“Not in the slightest. Unless you want us to be, that is...”

“No, no,” replied Robertson, quickly. He adopted a
business-like air, a half-smile playing about his lips. “Right. What can I help
you with?”

“It’s about a woman we believe you know rather well,” began
Chase.

“Who’s that?”

“Lucy Faith.”

“I’m not sure I know who you mean,” said Robertson.

“Otherwise known as My Lady Perdita,” Halshaw chipped in.

Robertson shook his head.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” sighed Chase, exasperated. “Who do you
think you are, Mr Robertson? A Mafioso?

“What?”

“Have you taken a vow of silence or something?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, Mr Robertson. We know you were one of My Lady’s
vassals. We have ample documentary proof. So stop trying to pretend otherwise.”

“But she instructed me...”

“She’s dead, sir. Murdered. We’re trying to find out who
killed her. And all this
omertà
bollocks doesn’t help one little bit.
Now. Where were you last Wednesday night?”

Robertson looked back at him, the colour slowly draining from
his face.

“She can’t be,” he said, in little more than a whisper.

“I’m afraid she is, sir.”

Robertson was silent for some while. “How did she die?” he
asked.

“Knocked senseless, then strangled. So I’ll ask you again, Mr
Robertson. About Wednesday night...”

“Who did it, Inspector? Was it one of her other vassals?”

“What makes you think that?”

Robertson shook his head. “Last Wednesday, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Mummy and I went to visit my brother Harry in Gloucester.
We had dinner at his cottage, stayed the night in the village pub, and came
back the following morning.”

“Did your wife go with you?”

“My wife?”

“Svetlana, I think you said her name was?”

“She’s not my wife, Inspector,” replied Robertson, chuckling
despite himself. “She was my mother’s housekeeper until two weeks ago, when she
was arrested and deported. Trouble was, she left a trail of parking tickets and
speeding fines behind.”

“And she was deported why?”

“Because she should never have outstayed her student visa
after she graduated. Four years ago.”

Chase nodded thoughtfully and said nothing.

“So you’re not married?” asked Halshaw.

“Not now, thank Christ. I ditched my second wife this time
last year. So,” he leered at her wolfishly, “there’s a vacancy, if you’re interested.”

Chase smiled at Halshaw’s expression of horror. “Returning
to My Lady,” he interjected quickly. “When did you last see her?”

“About ten days ago, briefly,” he replied. “She lost an
earring when she was here for my audience. I found it a day or two later, and
she called round to collect it.”

“So you have your audiences at your home?”

“Now, yes.”

“What about before you and your wife split up?” asked
Halshaw.

“I used to go to My Lady’s dungeon. Or we’d go away for a
night or two.”

“What does your mother make of it all?”

“She doesn’t know, Inspector.”

“But how do you hide it from her?”

“She doesn’t live here, Inspector. Though God knows it feels
like it sometimes.”

Chase smiled sympathetically. “How often did you have your
audiences?”

“It varied. Every three or four weeks, I suppose.”

“And how did you pay her?” asked Chase.

Halshaw noticed the flash of anger in Robertson’s eyes. “My
Lady wasn’t a hooker, Inspector. I’ve had enough of them in my time, but she
was nothing like that, I can assure you.”

“You mean, she did it purely for love?”

“Of course. Well, not love perhaps, but pleasure,
certainly.”

“Sexual pleasure, you mean, sir?” asked Halshaw.

Robertson glared at her. She looked back at him, an eyebrow
raised.

“When did you retire, Mr Robertson?” asked Chase eventually,
to break the deadlock.

“Eighteen months ago. I used to be a senior partner at a
brokerage house in the City. They got into trouble during the crash and needed
to make savings. Some people went very quickly. I hung on until they gave me a
decent payoff.”

“Very decent, I imagine,” said Chase, looking around the
room, at the Eames lounge chair and footstool, the disturbingly erotic cubist
painting above the fireplace, the crystal glasses and the collection of single
malts on the sideboard. “So, you never gave My Lady anything at all?”

“No.”

“Not even a present?”

“Certainly not!”

“So why does her file have a list of payments that you
made?”

Robertson smiled smugly. “I have absolutely no idea,
Inspector,” he replied. “No idea whatsoever.”

“Nice to see you again, sir,” said the maître d’, with an
ingratiating smile. “Table for two, is it?”

Chase didn’t return his smile. “We want to see Mr Bertrand,”
he said sternly, brandishing his warrant card.

The maître d’ switched his gaze to Halshaw, his eyes opening
wide as she produced her own warrant card. “He’s a little busy at the moment,”
he replied smoothly. “Perhaps later this afternoon...”

“Now, please,” snapped Halshaw, before Chase could draw
breath.

The maître d’ scuttled away.

Chase caught Halshaw’s eye and raised his eyebrows
ironically. In return she flashed him a smile, which vanished abruptly as she
noticed a man in a dark suit hurrying towards them, buttoning a
slightly-too-small jacket over his ample paunch.

“Hello again, sir,” said Pascal Bertrand, holding out a hand
to Chase.

“Good afternoon, Mr Bertrand,” said Chase, one hand
clutching his warrant card and the other thrust into his jacket pocket. “My
name is Detective Inspector Allen Chase, and this is Detective Constable Lauren
Halshaw. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Bertrand looked from one to the other in bewilderment, his
hand still outstretched. Then he shrugged. “This way, please,” he replied,
turning on a heel.

Chase and Halshaw followed him down the central aisle of the
restaurant, which was half full with diners finishing their lunches, and
through the swing doors into the kitchen. To one side was a walled-off cubicle,
with a large circular window set into the door. Bertrand opened the door and
ushered them both into his office. He seated himself at the chair behind the
desk, and gestured Chase towards the upright dining chair facing him. Halshaw
looked around for another chair, but failed to spot one, and settled for
perching on the corner of the desk. She observed Bertrand’s discomfort with
quiet satisfaction.

Bertrand looked at Chase, then up at Halshaw, then back to
Chase. “What’s this about, please?” he asked, his voice tremulous.

Chase glanced at Halshaw and nodded, almost imperceptibly.

She cleared her throat. “We’re here about My Lady Perdita,”
she began.

Bertrand slumped, deflated, in his seat. “My God,” he
murmured, shaking his head. “My God.”

“We understand that the two of you were close,” she
continued, her eyes searching his.

Bertrand looked up at her, his face contorted by a cocktail
of emotion. “Yes,” he croaked, the tears beginning to brim in his eyes. “Very
close.”

“When did you last see her?” she asked, gently.

“Wednesday evening,” he replied, wiping his eyes with a
tissue.

“Where?”

“Here. In the restaurant.” He turned to Chase, with a
pleading look.

Chase nodded and looked back at Halshaw.

“How long have you known her?” she asked.

“Five years at least, maybe more.”

“Where did you meet?”

“She brought a client into the restaurant one evening.”

“A vassal, you mean?”

“No. He was a business client.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. He was a tall, dark haired man. Very
handsome. She called him Chris, I think.”

“How did you come to meet her?”

“Chris had some difficulty with his credit card. She said
she would come back and pay, and persuaded me to let her leave a ring with me.
As security. I thought it was a con, you know. I didn’t think I’d ever see
either of them again. But no. The next morning she came round, and settled the
bill with her own credit card.”

“So how did you become a vassal?”

“When she came back, I made her some coffee and let her
taste some food. You know, a little ham, a little cheese, some bread, some good
oil, some wine. She was very, what’s the word?”

“Appreciative?”

“Yes.”

“Was the wine a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, by any chance?”
interjected Chase.

“But of course,” replied Bertrand, with a distant smile.

“What happened at this meeting with Ms Faith?” insisted
Halshaw.

“We talked for a long time. About many things, you know. A
few days later she ordered me to come to her dungeon for the first time.”

“And did you go?”

“Of course. She must have known I would obey.”

“And what happened?”

“It was sensational. I have never, never known anything like
it.”

“And you carried on meeting her?”

“Yes. Every month, perhaps two. I could not cope with more.”

“When was the last time you met?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“At the dungeon?”

“No. She did not like to use it any more. She used to take a
room at the White Hart instead. They had a special room she liked.”

“Why?”

“It was in an old stable, outside the main hotel. It was
very private.”

“I see.”

Chase cleared his throat. “Forgive me for asking, Mr
Bertrand, but how much did you pay My Lady for each session.”

“Nothing at all.”

“You must have repaid her somehow, surely?”

Bertrand smiled. A distant, faraway smile. “When someone is
a regular customer at your restaurant, Inspector, it is very easy.” He gave
Chase a meaningful look. “You know, Inspector.”

“I suppose so,” replied Chase, thoughtfully.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”
asked Halshaw.

Bertrand shook his head slowly.

“Did you ever meet any of her other vassals?” she asked.

“I do not know. She never spoke of them. She ate here with
different men,” another look at Chase, “but she never introduced them.”

“What were they like?”

“Businessmen, you know. With only one exception.”

“Who was that?”

“A policeman,” replied Bertrand, with an enigmatic grin.

*

“I’m sorry, all right,” said Chase. “I thought I’d told you
that I’d had dinner with her last Wednesday.”

Halshaw ground her teeth in frustration. “I thought I was on
to something there, Sir. Lucy Faith having dinner with a policeman, the night
she died. You let me rabbit on about it for a good ten minutes before I
twigged. You might have bloody said something.”

“I’m sorry,” repeated Chase. “And in the interests of full
disclosure, I should also point out that I’ve been at Chez Bertrand again
since.”

“When?”

“Last night. I was here when I picked up your text. Well, on
the pavement outside.”

“Were you here on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

Chase sighed. “It’s not important.”

Halshaw felt her anger begin to ebb. “Not a great success,
eh?”

“No,” Chase replied, with a rueful smile. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So that was why you laid into Jackie Hitchins, was it?”

“No.”

Halshaw raised her eyebrows sceptically.

“Well, indirectly, perhaps. I was very tired, very
emotional. When I got your message I was afraid something had happened to Ken.
And then, when she started casting around for someone to blame...” He rubbed
his face wearily.

Halshaw laid a sympathetic hand on Chase’s arm. “Come on,
Sir,” she said, gently. “We’ve got Peter
Upson
in a
few minutes.”

“Good thing we arranged to meet him in a coffee shop,”
sighed Chase.