Authors: Peter Lovesey
“Sinclair. Percy Sinclair.”
“Good to meet you, Percy. Any idea when Mr. Wefers is expected back?”
The pilot hesitated, torn between loyalty to his paymaster and submission to the law. “Couldn’t say, except he wants to be back in London before tonight, so he shouldn’t be all that long.”
“We’ll sit down then.” Diamond parked himself in
Bernie’s seat and Halliwell squeezed through to one of the passenger seats behind. “Who was the blonde with the Jeep? Do you know?”
Percy Sinclair had decided to cooperate. “She’s the one selling the land. Miss Thompson. Her father died suddenly and left everything to her. She’s an air stewardess, I believe, with no interest in farming, so she wants a quick deal.”
“She’s got guts, in addition to her other assets. I’d think twice about driving into a demo like that.”
“They have to be confident in her job, don’t they?”
“You have to be confident in yours,” Diamond said. “You landed the chopper to perfection and there was a lot to put you off. How long have you been flying for Bernie Wefers?”
“Couple of years, no more.”
A couple of years would be sufficient to get the pattern of Bernie’s trips.
“You’ve got to know his sites like the back of your hand, I’ll bet.”
“Most of them, anyway.”
“All over Britain?”
“Just about.”
“We’re from Bath. Where’s the best landing spot there?”
“Down there we always go to Castle Combe,” Sinclair said. “He picks his hotels. If they’re comfortable and have a helipad he keeps going back. Do you know the Manor House Hotel?”
“By reputation. Nine or ten miles from where we work.”
“Yes, if he visits Bath, he’ll be driven in from there.”
“Do you get to stay in the Manor House as well?”
“I do.”
“Lucky you. Have you done the trip recently?”
“Two or three weeks ago, maybe. Bristol first, then Bath.”
“Where do you stay in Bristol?”
“Some way outside. Thornbury Castle. They have the helipad there.”
“Not slumming, exactly. You say you were there recently. I expect you keep a log of your trips?”
“I do.” A cautious note had entered the pilot’s voice.
“Do you have it with you?”
He was right back in his shell now. “I can’t show it to you without Mr. Wefers’ permission. He doesn’t allow me to discuss his business.”
“We wouldn’t be doing that,” Diamond said as if he, too, thought it was an appalling liberty. “It’s just a matter of knowing who was where on a particular date last month. Where do you keep it—somewhere within reach?”
Sinclair flexed his legs and tucked his heels in.
“Under your seat?” Diamond said.
“I can’t show you.”
“I know exactly how you feel, but we have a duty here, and there’s an offence known as obstruction.”
Sinclair was tight-lipped for a few seconds as the words sank in. Then he exhaled sharply, leaned forward and felt under his seat. “You won’t tell him?”
“Percy, it’s entirely between ourselves.”
With definite misgivings, a battered notebook was handed over.
Diamond opened it at random and quickly got a sense of what the columns represented. He turned several pages in rising anticipation. “All the flights are logged here?”
“Every one.”
His finger went down the left column and up again. But there was crushing disappointment here. “That trip you mentioned to Bristol and Bath was all of four weeks ago.”
“Sorry. It seemed like less.”
“Nothing more recent? I’m interested in the week beginning the twelfth.”
“Whatever is written there is correct,” Sinclair said.
“According to this, you didn’t fly anywhere on the fifteenth.”
“There are days when I’m not needed. He tells me in advance, so I can take time off if it’s due to me. We’re often away at weekends and I make up my rest days when I can.”
Diamond exchanged a look with Halliwell. The fifteenth had been the day of the auction.
“Does he ever travel by other means?”
“Short trips, around London.”
“But if he wanted to visit Bath, he’d ask you to fly him there?”
Sinclair nodded. “He isn’t one for spending hours in a train or car.”
“On the sixteenth, you flew to Norwich.”
“Yes, he’s got a big building project there. Do you want to know where we stayed?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Diamond said in a mood of resignation. A promising line of enquiry had led nowhere. “Did you ever fly his ex-wife Monica anywhere?”
“Monica?” He blinked several times. “There were trips when she joined us. She’d visit friends or go shopping. That was way back last year. There was a serious falling out.” He stared back at Diamond. He’d finally made the connection. “Is this about her new husband getting shot?”
Diamond nodded.
“Tragic.”
“Indeed. Did you ever meet him?”
“The professor? No.” Sinclair made it obvious he wanted to end this conversation, shifting in his seat and glancing left and right as if deciding whether to open the door and leap out.
“I expect you heard about him from Bernie. He talks to you on these flights, doesn’t he?”
“Not much. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“That’s okay,” Diamond said smoothly. “You’ve been really helpful. I’ll mention it to Bernie when I speak to him.”
“Christ, no, don’t do that. He won’t be pleased at all. I could lose my job.”
“Has he got something to hide, then?”
“No, no—don’t get that idea.”
“Have
you
got something to hide?” More than just a hunch, the possibility had surfaced in Diamond’s mind when Sinclair had reacted so sharply to the mention of Monica. “Did you know about the affair before Bernie found out? A little secret between you and Monica? I’ve met her, by the way, and she talked very freely. I feel sorry for her.”
“Me, too.” He was less guarded now. “There was one time while Bernie was away in America, and a rail strike was on. I flew her to Reading, to the university there, and it didn’t go into the log. She asked me to keep it to myself. We were there overnight. I stayed with friends in Caversham. I guessed what she was up to, but I thought it was fair game. Bernie has girlfriends all over.”
“That emerged in the divorce court,” Diamond said.
“I’m not criticising. He treats me fairly. If that’s how he wants to lead his life, so be it. But I have a lot of sympathy for Monica.”
“Has he ever spoken to you about the professor being shot?”
“Not a word. None of my business.”
“Of course not.” Diamond looked out at the demonstration. Most of the protesters had given up. A police van had arrived and the reinforcements were chatting amicably among themselves. He turned to Halliwell. “Don’t get too comfortable. You and I had better move, or Percy will have some explaining to do when Bernie comes back from his business meeting.”
17
“So how shall we play this?” Ingeborg asked.
She was seated with Nathan in the rear of his black limousine, trusted enough to travel without one of the minders beside her. Another car was following with at least four heavies inside.
“Leave it to me,” Nathan said.
“That isn’t good enough. I need to know what to expect.”
Pressured, he took a deep, impatient breath and said without looking her way, “Me and my back-up will be out of sight when you meet Lily. Be natural with her and keep talking. We’ll take over when the time is right.”
“No shooting?”
“Christ no, I don’t want her getting hurt.”
“Or me, I hope.”
“You’re one of us. You have as much interest in reeling her in as I do—almost.”
Ingeborg doubted whether Lee would appreciate being “reeled in.” The runaway pop star might ultimately forgive Nathan, whose actions really did seem to be driven by his heart, but she was certain to feel betrayed by Ingeborg. This assignment had already been stripped of any glamour it had at the beginning. Going undercover, even in a worthy cause, is a dirty, demeaning trade.
And there was no way to pull out now.
Precisely what had prompted Lee’s bid for freedom was uncertain. She had said on the phone that her life had been getting impossible for reasons she wouldn’t go into. She was with a friend. The first thought had to be that the friend
was male, younger than Nathan, more attractive and less demanding. The regime in the Leigh Woods mansion must have been pretty repressive for any young woman, least of all one getting empowered by fame in the music business. She may have needed Nathan’s backing at the start of her career and now decided she was successful enough to go it alone.
Whatever the outcome of this afternoon’s adventure, it was a game changer. Posing as a journalist would get more difficult, if not impossible, when Lee turned angry and refused to cooperate.
Time for a rethink.
The obvious way forward was to work on Nathan. “Prove you’re on side,” he’d said earlier, and now he’d called Ingeborg “one of us.” By building on his confidence, she need no longer rely on Lee as her ticket into the Hazael household.
Using people like this was alien to her nature, but it had to be done.
“Will you help me with Lee?” she asked Nathan. “She’s going to feel I haven’t been honest with her.”
“Sure. I’ll talk her round. She’ll be pleased we went to all this trouble to bring her back. I’m not a total beginner with women. You all enjoy the chase.”
Dream on, she thought.
“We’ll put you down in the Grove, south of the square,” Nathan continued, with a switch to a managerial tone. “You walk up Grove Avenue and there you are. Do what she said, go to the middle, where the statue is, and talk to her. She’ll want to come to some arrangement about this thing you’re doing for the Sunday paper. Fall in with whatever she says. Put her mind at ease, okay? Don’t say a single word about me. And don’t ask who she’s with or what her plans are. When she’s ready to leave, you say goodbye, walk back to the Grove where we dropped you and wait for the car. Is that clear?”
“Where will you be?” she asked.
“Watching,” he said. “She’s right about Queen Square. It’s bloody big and she can see all around. Advantage Lily. But when the talking is done, she has to leave and we’ll see
exactly which way she goes. Advantage Nathan. We’ll be there to pick her up. Game, set and match.”
The logic was persuasive. Nathan was no beginner in the art of reeling people in.
The limo cruised sedately south of the river by the road that runs alongside it, Coronation Road. They had more than twenty minutes in hand, but getting to Queen Square early and waiting would be no hardship. A short break from present company would come as a relief. Nathan’s efforts at friendship made Ingeborg’s flesh creep.
At the major roundabout that linked with the A38, they turned left and crossed the Avon at the first opportunity, the bridge at the western limit of Redcliffe Way, and so arrived in the Grove.
Nathan turned to her before the car stopped. “Keep it simple, right?”
“I hear you.”
She got out, crossed the street and started up Grove Avenue.
Bristol has never treated its architecture with the same respect Bath has. Queen Square, one of the glories of the city, the largest Georgian square in the world, has suffered terribly over the years. In 1831, much of it was burnt down during three days of rioting over the rejection of the Reform Bill; and, in 1937, another act of violation occurred when the Inner Circuit road was thrust diagonally across it. Only in 2000 was the abuse corrected and the space restored.
The few surviving eighteenth century houses bordering the square—including the first American embassy—are along the south side where Ingeborg emerged, but her eyes were fixed ahead, on the rendezvous, the intersection of the broad walks where the equestrian statue sits on a tall plinth of Portland stone. A few people were about, and several were using the park seats facing the centre. She couldn’t tell from this distance whether Lee was among them. She was still some ten minutes early.
The sense of space here was a joy after being confined
for hours in the Leigh Woods mansion. She had no difficulty empathising with Lee. Any woman who took on Nathan was depriving herself of independence. His involvement in the criminal culture meant that he demanded control and unquestioning loyalty.
But there was a real danger of what military strategists called mission creep.
Don’t side with Lee, she rebuked herself. This is about you and the job you have to do.
She moved straight across the lawn towards the centre, mindful that space shouldn’t be confused with freedom. She knew her every step was being watched by Nathan and his henchmen, no doubt dispersed at each side of the vast square with a sightline avoiding the few mature trees.
Be vigilant. These are dangerous people.
About a minute of steady walking brought her to the centre. Nowhere could she see Lee. She circled the perimeter of the gravel area checking the people on seats: three old couples, two women with dogs and one young mother with a toddler in a stroller. There’s time, she told herself. I have a few minutes in hand.
Even so, no one resembling Lee was moving in this direction across the square.
She looked up at the statue, an idealised rendering in brass of King William III as a heroic Roman figure on a high-striding stallion—which was ironic considering William had died after a riding accident when his horse tripped on a molehill. The statue had also suffered the indignity of being shifted off-centre when the dual carriageway was put through and only returned to its original position in 2000. Blokes and their delusions of grandeur, she thought. Better watch out, King William. There could be worse to come. Brass is fetching record prices as scrap metal.
For something to do, she took out her iPhone and snapped a picture of the king.
Out of nowhere a male voice said, “Want me to take one of you?”
Get lost, buster, she thought. The last thing I want is to be picked up by some man on the make.
“That’s okay.” She made her wishes clear by returning the phone to her pocket.
“You know who I am.”
More of a statement than a question. She’d been avoiding eye contact. Now she gave him a glance, still thinking it was a try-on.