Villa plot counterplot, p.13
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 13
Feeling braver now, he climbed out of the pool and gingerly retraced his steps towards the French window. The crack of light was still there. He hovered about uncertainly but there was no movement, no sound.
The front door was open, revealing an empty hall. He went in. The kitchen door was wide open. It too was empty. He paused outside the living-room, uncertain as to what he would find.
Forcing himself to do so, he pushed the door wider and was hit by the warm smell of the room. It was a mixture of wood-smoke, pizza and cigarettes, reminiscent of an Italian restaurant in Bath. But there was another smell. Death, fear, hatred charged the atmosphere and the sight of the two bodies, strapped into the chairs, lashed an indelible scar across Harper’s memory. The tiled and rush-matted floor was thick with blood from Bellamy’s chest. There was nothing he could do to help. He looked round the room. A glance told him there was no telephone. He went into the bedroom. No phone there. Just the confusion of clothing and empty drawers. On the bed lay a couple of Passports. He returned to the living-room, full only of the dead. He avoided looking at the bodies but, in doing so, caught sight of the book lying on the table by the window. He was intrigued and was irresistibly drawn to it. He crossed the room, picked it up and, in doing so, immediately noticed a slight lumpiness within the dustsheet. Money he guessed.
Without a second thought he grabbed the book and made for the hall; but, in doing so, slipped in the blood on the tiled floor. Only by grabbing Bellamy’s blood-soaked pullover did he avoid falling. Aghast at what he had done, his nerve cracked.
He ran, ran uncontrollably, stumbling, faltering but never looking back.
PROVENCE—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
“You drive.” The instruction surprised Maitrise. “I want to think. Head for Nice.”
Wernhorst pulled out the details of Bellamy’s account, which he had kept and compared to the letter of authority. It tallied perfectly, as he had known it would.
Priorities. There were two. The transfer from Liechtenstein had to be made before the Bank knew their customer was dead. But first there was Scotch Annie. She had to be silenced. Tonight. Unfortunate, but she was a danger.
He glanced across at Maitrise. He too was a problem. More than that, he was a nightmare; a sick man, gentle at heart, out of his depth. For Christ’s sake, Maitrise could get him the death sentence! Even the click of the lighter, as Kurt lit a cigarette, made the driver jump. So tomorrow the money would be in Frankfurt. Then the share out. But what then? He would disappear. But Maitrise? He’d be caught. Hadn’t the stomach to fight for survival. And if he talked . . .
Wernhorst drew hard on his filter tip. There was a solution. Not ideal, but certainly effective. His finger played with the gun in his pocket. Possible. And yes! Bellamy’s authority would send all the money to Frankfurt.
The more he thought about it, the more he saw it was the only answer. Better still, with all the money in his Frankfurt account, there would be no need to divide it with Maitrise. He looked across at the driver, who gripped the wheel with nervous intensity. A pathetic little figure whom the world would never miss.
AIX-EN-PROVENCE—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
Harper stumbled into Aix Police Headquarters just before midnight and found himself greeted with the type of suspicion reserved exclusively for foreigners. He cut a curious picture, anyway; his leather jacket and grey flannels were ruined by the green slime from the empty pool. His hands were scraped and tinged red and green by his experiences of the evening.
Harper had expected a hero’s welcome but Superintendent Guy Le Gac, a squat, curly-headed Breton, was surly, morose and sceptical. Only when he had seen the bodies for himself did he take Harper’s story seriously.
By 1.00 a.m. the night sky was full of flashing lights and the raucous echo of sirens, winding up the hillside, as a full-scale murder enquiry got under way.
Le Gac’s assistant, who spoke a little English, helped Harper prepare a statement. Thinking ahead of the boost to his public bar trade, he played down the terrified wait at the foot of the swimming pool. He played up the drama of his involvement and pointed the finger most forcibly at the driver of the Ford Capri. “Edward Coate. He was after Bellamy. And I saw his car in Aix.”
At 2.15 a.m. Le Gac appeared, the greyness of his cheeks turning black with unshaven stubble. He looked his fifty-three years. “You ’ave eat?” he enquired before sitting down to face the Englishman. “I ’ave many questions.”
FOLKESTONE—13th MARCH
THURSDAY
“Have a seat, Mr Westby.” Det. Con. Flaske pointed to a chair. The two men had met on the Docks only an hour previously, when the ferry had docked. Folkestone wasn’t the only port being watched. Every port, every airport had someone watching the passengers filtering through. Each one was briefed to stop any man in his mid-forties, balding, thin-faced with a scarred forehead. Could be called Coate, but the name was irrelevant. Probably driving a blue Ford Capri.
“What’s this all about? You’ve taken a bloody liberty bringing me here.” The London accent rang round the room. Westby knew his rights well.
“The Chief’ll be down in a moment. He’ll explain.”
A young-looking man aged perhaps forty-two, dapper, immaculate and business-like entered the room. Det. Chief Supt. Julian had always been a rising star.
“Where have you come from, Mr Westby?” he enquired without ceremony.
“France.”
“Which part?”
“Just France. Look. What’s all this about?”
“And Spain, I believe.”
“So what. Been on holiday, haven’t I?”
“Called yourself Edward Coate.”
“No.”
“Drove a Ford Capri, blue?”
“No.”
“Been to Aix as well.”
For a moment Lloyd Westby’s face looked shaken. “Aix? Never heard of it.”
“You left Benidorm on Tuesday. Went to Aix yesterday.”
“Wrong. Look, I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. I don’t have to.”
“I’m sure you know your rights . . . well.” Julian fixed the man with a steady gaze. “And when you were in Aix you murdered Patrick Bellamy and his mistress.”
“Patrick who? Never heard of him.”
“We’ll see. Where were you last night?”
“France.”
“Where did you spend the night?”
“Le Morin at Avallon. Just off the Autoroute.”
“Got a receipt?” The voice was cynical
“Yes.” Westby produced a hotel invoice from his pocket.
“What time did you arrive there?”
“About 10.00 p.m. last night.”
Julian turned to the detective constable. “Get through to the Police at Aix. Check that out.”
LONDON—13th MARCH
THURSDAY
Halkett stubbed out his seventeeth cigarette of the day. He hadn’t enjoyed it, hadn’t even noticed he was smoking. Every day the over-full ashtray came as a surprise. Today his mind was on the statements in front of him. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in. Hello, Keith,” he said to the newly arrived detective. “I’ve got it all worked out. With these new statements it all falls into place. Bellamy was a dealer in Spain. Grummett bought one of the properties. He never told us that, but then we never asked him. Several people have put his name on their statement as being a member of one of the parties who visited Calpe.”
“And then?”
“Bellamy killed Grummett. Probably killed the wrong one.” He pointed at the freshly arrived report from France. “Bellamy and his mistress, Mandy Williams, are dead. Murdered last night. Folkestone Police have a suspect, picked up on a tip from France, given to them by Aix Police, who had got it from a publican called Martin Harper. Harper’s in Aix now. The suspect’s called Westby but he also uses the name Coate.”
“Where does he fit in?”
“Not a buyer. That’s for sure. No one mentions that name.”
“Then acting on behalf of someone.”
“That’s my guess. Grummett getting revenge.”
“So you’ll go to visit Grummett.”
“Yes. And I’ve already checked Westby’s record. He’s been inside for G.B.H. Protection work. His reputation is he’ll do anything for money.”
“Well done, sir.” The young policeman’s face bore the same enthusiasm as the day he’d first signed on.
“I think we’ve cracked it. Fix up an interview with Grummett. 7.30 p.m. this evening.” Halkett went off to the canteen.
No sooner had Halkett settled down to cod, peas and chips than he was interrupted. Most urgent, he was told.
When he returned to the plate of wilted chips and cold peas his mood had changed. He pushed the food aside and lit a cigarette. Perfect alibi. And the French Police were expecting to prefer a charge against Martin Harper although, officially, he was still simply helping with enquiries.
BRISTOL—14th MARCH
FRIDAY
Last night’s office party was still written large on Alistair Duncan’s face at 10.30. His tweed suit was rumpled and creased like a relief map. It looked as though it had been slept in. It had. He’d collapsed on the hotel bed, after a nightcap prepared by the articled clerk. Damn him! Damn his Kangaroo Cocktail, made from Pernod, Rum and Benedictine. Blackness had descended like a mantle over a budgie’s cage. But this morning he was going to give the young man a kangaroo’s boot up the backside. Lucy arrived with a cup of coffee, appearing none the worse for seeing off the boastful, ribald fantasies of the office boy.
“No appointments, are there?” he groaned. Somehow his left arm was keeping his head off the desk.
“None till after lunch. I remember last year’s party.”
“Clever girl. Enjoy yourself?”
“Of course. You?”
“It was so bad that I loved it! Especially Miss Evans singing ‘We’ll keep a welcome in the Valleys’, whilst wearing that incredible plunge neckline. Humourless lot the Welsh! She couldn’t see the joke, could she? Do you reckon she practises down in the cellar when she’s filing?. I’d always put the funny noises down to the plumbing! By the way . . .” he was interrupted by the telephone.
“Martin! How are you getting on? Did you find the cottage?” He paused to listen. “You what?” and then “bloody Hell!” and “when was all this?” Lucy strained to hear. “Alright then. Of course. Don’t run away. No! Of course, you can’t. The Hotel Splendide at Aix? I’ll be there today. Don’t worry, Martin! I have it on the authority of Madame Defarge that the guillotine doesn’t hurt!”
He stared at the inlaid leather on his desk. The pattern was still dancing. Lucy was agog.
“Well? What’s he done now?”
“Bellamy and some woman, presumably Mandy, have been murdered. The French Police think Harper did it. He’s not under arrest but they’ve taken away his passport.”
“You head for Heathrow. I’ll book you on a flight. To where?”
“Marseilles. You’ll have to cancel all appointments for the next few days. I dont know where this’ll end up. But first I must ring the agent chappie in Spain.”
Getting through to Spain was easier than he’d expected. “Hello. Alistair Duncan here. Is that Simon Harcourt? It is! That’s the best thing that’s happened to me today.”
“Nice of you to phone, old boy. How are you, my dear chap? Saved me the cost of a call. I found out what you need to know.”
“So it’s the Warner Stand at Lords then? Delighted.” Duncan’s enthusiasm was genuine.
“My dear chap. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I must confess I need the details urgently. My client’s under suspicion of murder.”
“I say. Not too fussy what sort of clients you take on, eh? Take my tip. Move your practice over Cheltenham way. Much better type of client there. Trusts. Conveyancing. We always see our solicitor over a glass of sherry.”
Duncan laughed. “But I happen to like a bit of blood.”
“Well, I suppose someone has to look after the working classes,” replied Harcourt doubtfully.
AIX - 14th MARCH
FRIDAY
“Not much sign of the Entente Cordiale out there,” commented Alistair Duncan, as he pushed the bedroom door shut behind him. “Worse than a Common Market meeting.” Outside a horde of French journalists could be heard baying for a story.
“That’s nothing. The bad boy is this Superintendent Le Gac. He’s the one who’s put them up to it.”
“You’ve seen the papers?” Duncan produced a random selection. “Hardly the low profile that we’d planned, is it? Your photo appears in every one. There are suggestions that you murdered them; that you’ll be charged soon; that you were involved in a ménage à trois and so on. One of them even suggests that you were in the Secret Service. The usual crap.”
Duncan poured a large whisky, before collapsing into the only chair in the room. Outside, the fountains at the foot of the Cours Mirabeau could just be seen, surrounded by the usual throng of traffic.
“Did you do it?” Duncan opened a tin of duty-free tobacco.
“No.”
Duncan removed his jacket and undid his tie. “Who did?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was a chap I met in Benidorm called Coate. He was looking for Bellamy and I gave him the address of the cottage. Then he said he was going straight back to England. But I could have sworn that I saw his car parked just down the road. But the Police tell me that he has an alibi for the time of death.” Harper crunched noisily on a crisp. “So I just don’t know.”
“So, why does Le Gac think you did it?”
“Ask him. I don’t know.”
“Tell me all about it.” Duncan swung his long legs onto the end of the bed.
“It’s a long story.”
“You’ve got till the end of this bottle of Scotch. Judging by the way you’ve been hitting it today, that won’t be long.”
Duncan heard the story in an hour and a half and two pipe refills later. He was a good listener and said little until his client had finished. Then he spoke. “I’d better tell Le Gac about the man who was smashing the notice board at Calpe. He also ought to know about the attack on Charlie Wilkinson at Tring. At a guess I can also put names to each of those men.”
He got through to Police Headquarters and spoke to Le Gac. “My name is Alistair Duncan. I’m an English solicitor, representing Mr Harper and I’m at the Hôtel Splendide. Could I have a meeting, please?” Since his affair with Hélène, his French had improved no end.
“I’m busy.”
“I’ve got some useful information.”
“Go back to England.” growled the detective. “We’ve got enough lawyers over here without any more.”
Duncan ignored the insult. “Have you caught anyone yet?” There was a sardonic, dismissive laugh in reply.
“No. Of course not.”
“So, you still blame Mr Harper?” He paused. “You’re shutting your mind, Superintendent.”
“And you’re shutting your mouth!” There was no good-bye. Just the sound of Le Gac’s phone being slammed down.
“Ignorant bastard, but I’ll get him. He used the Press. Now it’s our turn. The French Press are notorious. Without a quick arrest, they’ll turn just as quickly the other way.” Duncan stood up. “I’ve had a long day. I suggest we try the Menu Gastronomique and then deal with the Press afterwards.”
Duncan was able to make a pact with the journalists: no interruptions over dinner on the promise of a Press Conference and drinks afterwards.
“Look,” he opened, clutching a brandy after dinner, “forget Le Gac’s views. I just ask you to assume that my client’s innocent. You all assumed his guilt. And why? Sheer circumstance and speculation.” Duncan used the ploy of lighting his pipe to watch the reaction of the thirty or more journalists crammed into the Hotel Lounge. Then he continued. “You should be seeking out the dead man’s associates, finding other victims of the fraud, making enquiries at Calpe, Tring and Benidorm. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Monsieur Duncan,” enquired a radio interviewer. “Any significance in the damage to your face?”
“Yes. Superintendent Le Gac refused to speak to me, otherwise I’d have told him. I got this at Calpe last weekend, trying to stop a man, who was acting suspiciously on the sites which Bellamy was selling. Gentlemen, I think you should be looking for two murderers, one of them a German.”
“Two men?” exclaimed an English reporter.
“Yes. There were two men.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think it was impossible for one man to tie up the two victims. More importantly, Mr Harper is certain that he heard the slam of two car doors after the shooting. Previously, he assumed it was the same door being slammed twice.”
“And why a German?”
“Because a German was looking for Bellamy as recently as last Sunday.”
“And the other man?”
“Previously, I’d have said Spanish. But having seen so many southern French, since I arrived here, I’d say the other man, whom I saw in Calpe, could be French. I’m not saying they’re the murderers but, if I were investigating this matter, I’d be looking for a Frenchman called Alain Maitrise, a German called Kurt Wernhorst.” The solicitor produced the two names, given to him by Simon Harcourt, as being signatories when the Werdoma site was sold to the Dutch syndicate.
AIX—15th MARCH
SATURDAY
“You’ve turned the Press,” said Harper, over breakfast on the verandah. The air was full of the gentlest of Spring smells from the sunlit garden.
“Looks like it. But I’ll tell you this for free—and a lawyer doesn’t often say that—it won’t be so easy to turn Le Gac. He’s up against it now.” Duncan’s face lit up at the challenge.
