Fatal Legacy (27 page)

Fenwick returned to his office and asked Cooper to join him at once. His secretary, Anne, brought in two fresh mugs of coffee, remembering that Cooper liked milk and extra sugar, and Fenwick diverted his calls.

‘How are you doing on the investigation into Sally’s
background
?’

‘DC Nightingale is going to do it, sir, once she gets back from Brighton.’

‘Alexander’s will?’

‘No joy. We’re going to have to ask him for it – do you want me to?’

‘Not just yet. I don’t want it to seem important to him. An opportunity should come up to meet him again in the next few days; we can do it then.’

‘Where do you put Alexander in all of this, sir: lucky dupe or accomplice?’

‘Could be either; he’s a hard man to read. He could even be the next victim.’

Cooper couldn’t work out whether the DCI was joking or not.

‘Maybe she genuinely loves him.’

Fenwick merely raised his eyebrows, but the look he gave Cooper silenced any further conversation. It was clear that he thought Sally incapable of any affection and Cooper wasn’t about to argue with him. Talking to the DCI on matters of the heart was dicey enough at the best of times but right now, with him in this sort of mood, it just wasn’t worth it.

‘I want Nightingale to dig into Sally’s background as a high priority.’

‘I’ll put her on to it as soon as she’s back.’

Cooper levered himself up out of the chair, bearing his empty coffee mug with him. Fenwick watched him go with a frown on his face. The next day he was due to see Miles Cator in London. He knew it was the right thing to do, but he begrudged the time away from Harlden. Cooper and Gould were excellent officers and he trusted them completely. Blite was a different matter,
but at least he wanted a result as badly as Fenwick. Yet none of them had the fierce intensity and passion for results that he believed to be so essential.

He was driven by a burning desire, which he told himself was for justice, though deep down he knew that it was also for success. He was compelled to win at all costs, and he just couldn’t see that same hunger when he looked into the eyes of his three senior officers. With a small start of surprise, he realised that the only person in whom he had seen an answering spark of determination was DC Nightingale. The thought filled him with new hope as he returned his attention to his crowded desk and overflowing in-tray.

Anne interrupted Fenwick just as he had finally rediscovered the wood of his desk.

‘You have a visitor, Chief Inspector. She doesn’t have an appointment and they’ve asked her to wait in Interview Room Two. It’s Mrs Wainwright-Smith.’

‘How long has she been waiting?’

‘Only five minutes. I told her I didn’t know when you’d be free, but she said she didn’t mind waiting.’

Fenwick took the stairs back down the two flights to the ground floor, distracted and deep in thought. Since Graham’s death, Sally had made a point of joining him whenever he had visited Wainwright Hall to meet DI Blite. She was like an unwelcome shadow he couldn’t shake off, and her obvious curiosity was disconcerting and suspicious. Now she had decided to visit him on his own territory, away from the Wainwright seat of power, and for no reason that he could fathom.

‘Chief Inspector! Oh, thank you. I am sorry to trouble you, but I needed to see you.’

‘No problem, Mrs Wainwright-Smith. Please sit down, there’s no need to stand up for me.’

She disturbed him, increasingly so. She was slight and willowy, tall but not so tall as to detract from the impression of fragility she created. Despite himself and a deliberate
defensiveness
that he found he maintained in her presence, he could understand the pull of her attraction. She had a porcelain-perfect
face and a demeanour that seemed to cry out for protection, and yet she was sexy too. There was something in the sway of her hips and in her gestures that seemed to caress the air. It appealed to the masculine within him. She reminded him by her very presence that he lived without female companionship, and at the same time she radiated a need of her own.

‘Mrs Wainwright-Smith,’ he ignored her obvious attempt to flirt, ‘why do you need to see me?’

‘I can tell that you’re busy, so I’ll come straight to the point. It’s Jenny, Chief Inspector. She worries me.’

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t precisely know. It’s as if she doesn’t care about Graham. I’m going to have to ask her to leave the Hall and go to a hotel whilst we wait for the inquest to adjourn, because she’s hovering around as if she owns it. And she keeps returning to that tree as if she’s fascinated by it. But she doesn’t appear in the least upset by his death – just look at her clothes! She says she doesn’t believe in wearing mourning black, but really!’

Fenwick took a moment to study the blue-grey cashmere twinset Sally was wearing, the single strand of heavy pearls, the black trousers and delicate and obviously expensive black suede shoes. For once he let his true feelings show on his face, and she responded at once.

‘I can see that you think I’m overreacting, but she really is behaving very strangely indeed.’

Rather as you are, he thought, but said nothing.

‘Well?’ Sally had clearly expected him to take her concerns seriously. Perhaps she thought that Jenny had no alibi for the time of Graham’s death, but Fenwick knew otherwise. She had stayed the night with friends in Scotland before travelling down to Harlden for the dinner party, and they had confirmed the time of her train. He was suddenly irritated by Sally wasting his time and stood up, making it clear the conversation was over.

‘She’s young and unconventional, but that doesn’t make her a suspect. Naturally I will make a note of this conversation and bear it in mind.’ That was completely true; all Sally had done by coming to see him was to increase his suspicions of her further.

‘Of course I know that, but I thought you ought to hear my concerns.’

‘Well, I appreciate you sharing them with me, Mrs Wainwright-Smith, but if that’s all, the constable will show you out.’

Sally drove fast on her return to the Hall, cutting corners, jumping lights, swerving around cyclists at the last minute without braking. There was a growing sense of frustration inside her; she felt as if she was only just hanging on to control, and she hated that feeling. Ever since childhood she had been the mistress of her environment. She had decided who was allowed to enter her domain and why, but now, with these clumsy police oafs plodding around
her
house,
her
gardens,
her
life
, she could feel that precious control slipping away, and that made her angry.

Sally’s anger was a strange creature; it had no visible symptoms and often disappeared with the suddenness of a light being switched off. But now each time it came back it was stronger, less predictable, and more dangerous. She could feel it there inside her in the way her foot reached for the accelerator rather than the brake, and in her absolute disregard for the curses and raised fists that accompanied her passage home. She didn’t care; other people had ceased to be of any consequence. What mattered now was managing a return to control as quickly as possible.

She swung the car into the drive in front of the Hall with a screech that destroyed the gravel finish her part-time gardener had slaved over. Irene was just leaving.

‘What are you doing using the front entrance? How many times do I have to tell you?’

Irene had just about had enough of Miss Hoity-Toity’s airs and graces, and she was about to tell her so when she saw the expression in Sally’s eyes. The sight made her shiver and, as she said to her husband when she got home, ‘There was murder there, Stan, I tell you, pure murder.’ She phoned in her notice that evening.

Sally waited patiently for Alex to finish pouring the tea.

‘Biscuit?’

‘No thanks, Sal. Not hungry.’

‘Alex, we need to talk.’

He looked at her with something approaching dread, but said calmly enough: ‘Go on.’

‘I’m worried about Jenny. I don’t begrudge her the house room, but it’s not right for her to mope around like this. She’ll never get over Graham this way. I want her to go to a hotel.’

‘Sally! He’s not even buried yet, and the poor girl has no relatives to talk to. Her mum and stepfather are in South Africa and she’s an only child.’

‘She has friends. She should be mixing with them, not sitting like a ghost at the feast each night.’

‘She doesn’t. Most evenings she has her meal in her room.’

Sally smiled at him sweetly, but her eyes were hard.

‘You’re too soft, Alex. I want you to talk to her, find out what her plans are. Take her out for a drink this evening; it would do her good.’

‘I’ll see.’ He drank his tea in silence, but Sally was relaxed. She’d made her point and he hadn’t really argued, which meant that he was likely to follow her suggestion. Perhaps he would be as pleased to see the back of Jenny as she would be.

A ring at the front door made them both look up, startled. They weren’t expecting visitors.

‘I’ll go.’ Sally was on her feet before Alexander could stop her.

It was James FitzGerald; standing huddled out of a brief rain shower in the stone porch, framed by two massive gargoyles.

‘Come in. The sitting room’s warm.’ Then, in a softer voice, ‘Alex is here.’

Alexander joined his wife and their unexpected visitor in front of the small fire that he’d lit to cheer the house, despite Sally’s reservations about the waste.

The two men shook hands cautiously. They hadn’t met since FitzGerald had told Wainwright-Smith the little family secret, before Graham’s death. James was obviously weighing Alexander up and the younger man didn’t appreciate the scrutiny.

‘You’re an unexpected visitor.’ At one time he would have been polite, but his months as managing director had already changed him. Apart from his wife nobody was able to impose
on him any more. He could feel FitzGerald’s surprise at the resistance he found in his returned stare, just as he had felt first Jeremy Kemp’s and then Neil Yarrell’s.

‘Unexpected! Hardly, after what’s happened this last week. Another Wainwright’s bitten the dust and the police are crawling all over the company. It’s not what I’d call ideal management, Alexander. Your uncle ran the business for nearly thirty years without a whiff of trouble. You’re in charge for a couple of months and “bang” – the whole bloody lot starts to fall apart!’

Alexander and Sally merely raised their eyebrows in
synchronised
surprise. It was obvious that they didn’t know about Fish’s papers yet and FitzGerald wasn’t about to tell them.

‘Naturally, we are all very upset by my cousin’s death.’ Alexander’s voice was flat and unyielding. ‘But so far, the police have found nothing to connect it to the family or the business, nor will they. There is no connection; it was an unfortunate accident.’

FitzGerald looked at him with open disbelief.

‘I don’t give a fuck what it was, it was clumsy and very bad timing. Your uncle may not have told you this, but I’ve been the shareholders’ unofficial representative for a number of years. Behind those Trusts is a group of very powerful and private men. They have a lot of money invested in the company, and they will not appreciate all this police interest, I can assure you. If things go on as they are, they’ll look to me to, ah, sort things out.’

‘Thank you for letting us know, James. I’ll remember that – should the need arise.’ Alexander started to walk to the door, keen to show his unwanted guest out before his displeasure took hold.

‘You haven’t quite got it yet, have you? The need
has
arisen. They’ve asked me to stop by, to see what has to be done. Whatever I say will happen, I can assure you.’

‘I see. Well you can tell them that things are under control. There will be no more deaths and the police are running around all over the place, in a complete mess. Give it a month or so and things will calm down.’

FitzGerald looked appraisingly round the comfortable sitting
room, at the new décor and original antiques. He stared hard at the portrait of Alexander’s great-great-grandmother over the fireplace and waved his hand towards it.

‘A hundred years ago the Wainwrights owned this house, the company and the souls of every single person for miles. They were virtually the only employer of any size around here, and their word was law. Your grandfather continued the tradition but he was unlucky between the wars and never did make the fortune that some of his contemporaries did. And then your uncle, dear old Alan, well …’ he smiled, deliberately unpleasant. ‘What an absolute wanker.’

Sally drew breath sharply; Alexander opened his mouth to protest, but FitzGerald waved him down with a bored gesture.

‘I know, I know, shouldn’t speak like that in front of ladies, but she,’ he gestured towards the painting, ‘can’t hear us, and I don’t see any other lady present.’

‘Now look here …’ Alexander was tall and well built, details that people tended to forget when they were dealing with him. Sally went to stand by him and laid a restraining hand on his arm. Her eyes were cold, her expression just as calculating as FitzGerald’s as she spoke to her husband.

‘Don’t. He’s trying to provoke you and he doesn’t deserve a response. I’m not offended. I have to respect someone before I care about their remarks.’

FitzGerald chuckled. ‘You are a cool one. Kemp said you were, and he was right.’ He saw the expression of surprise on Sally’s face and went on: ‘Yes, I
know
you trusted him to keep his mouth shut, but you should have known better. Anyway, I’ve said what I came to say. Remember, any more trouble and you can be sure that I’ll be around.’

He left without another word. Sally and Alexander stared at each other, briefly united by concern.

‘That was a threat.’ Sally’s voice was pensive.

‘I know. Is he involved, d’you think, with all the …?’

‘Deaths? Who knows.’ She was dismissive. She needed Alex out of the house so that she could think straight. Her feigned disregard for James FitzGerald had taken more out of her than she cared to admit, and she was having to fight a suffocating sense of being overwhelmed by events cascading out of control.
She needed space and time to think and plan. In a voice virtually devoid of emotion, she carried on talking to her husband as if nothing else mattered.