With good reason, I thought. I also wondered if that was the first ounce of truth she had told me for a while. I wasn’t at all sure that I believed her account of how Bill died.
“Did Peter say how he managed to shoot Bill in the mouth?” I asked.
“Peter said that when he pulled out the gun, Bill was absolutely terrified of him,” she said. “He was pleased about that and he has talked about it over and over again since. Peter says Bill was scared shitless. Apparently, Bill just sat there shaking, with his mouth open, so Peter just shot him through it.”
“So what happened next?” I prompted.
“I was in a complete panic, but Peter was dead calm,” she said. “I don’t know why, but he kept saying he wanted to fire another shot so that it looked like Bill had killed himself, but there had to be no second bullet found. He wanted to fire it out the window but I thought he might hit one of the horses in the stables.”
Her love of the horses was clearly deeper than her love for her boss.
“I suggested firing it into one of the fire buckets,” she went on, “so I went to get one from the yard.” She looked up at me almost with pleading eyes. “I know I shouldn’t have done that. I am really sorry …” She tailed off and began to cry. “I didn’t mean for Bill to get killed, I promise.”
Did I believe her? Did it matter? It was a jury who would ultimately decide if she were telling the truth or not.
“So what did you do then?” I asked.
“Peter drove himself home and I just sat here in the kitchen all night,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking I should call the police, but I was worried they would want to know why I had been at the house in the middle of the night, in order to find Bill, so I waited until it was the time I usually came to work in the mornings and then I phoned them.”
I remembered the shocked condition that Juliet had been in when I’d arrived at the house that morning. She had clearly been working herself up into that state for quite a while. I also remembered her saying, “How could he have done such a thing?” At the time, I had thought she had meant Bill; now I knew she had been talking about Peter.
“But why did you target Marina?” I said.
“Peter said it was no good attacking you to get you to stop. He said that you wouldn’t be put off by a bit of violence. I said that perhaps he should kill you.”
Thanks, I thought. For that, I would not try too hard to keep her out of prison.
“Why didn’t he?” I said.
“Peter said that would defeat the object. Then the police would know for sure that Bill’s death wasn’t suicide.”
Good old Peter.
“He said the way to you was through your girlfriend.”
It nearly was.
“Peter is not very bright,” I said.
“He’s cleverer than you,” she said, loyal to the last.
“If he was,” I said, “he would have killed you before you had the chance to tell me what you have.”
“But he loves me,” said Juliet. “He wouldn’t harm me.”
She wasn’t very bright, either.
“As you like.” I said. “But if I were you, I’d watch your back. You can’t testify against him if you’re dead.”
She sat there looking at me. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but I had sown a seed of doubt.
I jerked my head at Chris to come out with me into the hall. I removed the key from my pocket and unlocked the door. Juliet remained sitting in the chair, looking at her hands. I wondered if she was beginning to regret talking to us. As an afterthought, I took the video camera and the tapes out into the hall with me.
“I simply can’t believe this!” exclaimed Chris as I shut the door of the den behind us. “How the hell did you work it all out? And what now?”
“First, you had better get on and write your piece,” I said. “If Juliet is charged, you won’t be able to publish. It will be sub judice.”
“Blimey,” said Chris, “you’re so right. What will you do with her now?”
“I’d like to strangle the little bitch,” I said.
“You can’t,” he said. “You’ve only got one hand.”
I smiled at him. It had broken the tension.
“I suppose I’ll give these to the police,” I said, indicating the tapes. “Then I’ll let them get on with it.”
“What’s on those tapes will surely be inadmissible in a court,” he said.
“Probably, but I reckon the police will be able to get the same information from Juliet as I have done. Even if they don’t do the same deal.”
“Well, don’t give it to them until my piece has appeared in print,” he said.
“Your article might prejudice a court case,” I said.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I want to expose Peter Enstone as the bastard he is. And I also want to make his upstart father squirm with front-page headlines.”
I wanted it, too.
20
* * *
In the end, Juliet accepted an invitation from Chris Beecher to be put up in a swish hotel for a night or two. He made out that it was for her own safety, but he and I both knew that really it was to allow time for him to write his piece and get it published before the police or the courts stuck their noses in and put a stop on the story.
I went back to London to relieve Charles from his guard duties in Ebury Street and found him snoring on the sofa.
“Right little Cerberus, aren’t we?” I said to him, shaking his foot. I was not pleased. “I thought I left you on guard and you’re bloody asleep.”
“What?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Never mind.”
All appeared well, however, and there was no point in making a fuss. And I had offered him my bottle of single malt for lunch, so what did I expect?
Marina was in the bedroom, resting her leg as instructed and watching an afternoon game show on television. A huge basket arrangement of pink and white carnations sat on her dressing table.
“Lovely flowers,” I said.
“Yes, aren’t they? Colleagues at the Institute sent them,” she said. “Rosie probably organized it.”
“And how do you feel?” I asked.
“Bored but mending,” she said. “Did your plan work well?”
“Yes,” I said, and told her all about my little chat with Juliet.
“So, Peter Enstone shot me,” Marina said finally.
“Yes, I think he did. Unless he organized someone else to do it and that’s very unlikely.”
“And where exactly is the little swine now?” she asked.
“According to the Racing Post, he was in Scotland, riding at Kelso races this afternoon. That’s why I was so keen to talk to Juliet today, while he was out of the way. I don’t know where he will go from there. I think he lives in London somewhere.”
Marina shivered. “I don’t want him coming here.”
“He won’t get past security downstairs, even if he does,” I said. “And I’m not having you left alone, anyway.”
“Sid,” Charles called from the hallway. He put his head around the door. “I think I’ll go to my club now, if that’s all right.”
I felt guilty for having been angry with him.
“Of course, Charles,” I said. “And thank you so much for coming over and spending the time with Marina this afternoon.”
“Humph,” he muttered. He was not greatly soothed. “See you, then.”
His head disappeared for a moment but then came back around the door. “I forgot,” he said. “Jenny asked me to ask you, Marina, if you would be up to going out for lunch with her tomorrow? If yes, she said that she’d pick you up from here at twelve-thirty in the car.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I was worried about what reaction the next day’s edition of The Pump might produce.
“I’d love to,” said Marina. “I’ll be fine. Don’t fuss.”
“OK,” I said, “but I am going to organize a security guar
d to go with you, and no arguments. He will sit quietly in the corner of the restaurant and not disturb you and I would be happier.”
“Fine,” said Marina. “Charles, tell Jenny that would be lovely and I will see her tomorrow at twelve-thirty.”
“Right,” he said, and disappeared again.
I went out to see him off and make my peace with his wounded pride.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound so cross when I found you asleep.”
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “It is me who should be sorry. During the First World War, soldiers in the British Army could be executed for falling asleep on guard duty.”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” I said.
“Not at all. One dozing sentry could have allowed a surprise attack that might have killed hundreds.”
“Thankfully, nothing like that happened here.”
We shook hands warmly and I walked him to the elevator.
“I’ll pop round tomorrow,” said Charles, “to see the girls when they get back from lunch.”
“That would be great,” I said. “But take care. Mount Vesuvius has nothing on the eruption that’s going to occur tomorrow morning when The Pump comes out. Don’t get in the way of the molten lava. It might be dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “I’ve dodged more than my share of molten metal in my life.” He had been a junior officer on HMS Amethyst during the Yangtze incident.
I decided that, as much as I loved him, I should no longer place Marina’s security in the hands of a septuagenarian retired naval admiral with a penchant for single malt whisky, so I called a fellow private sleuth who worked for a firm that had a bodyguard department and asked for their help.
Certainly, Mr. Halley, they said, they would happily provide a bodyguard for Miss Marina van der Meer, starting at eight o’clock the next morning, until further notice. Great, I said, and gave them the address.
As I put the phone down, I began to wish I had asked for their help immediately. I could imagine the presses at The Pump busy churning out tomorrow’s copy with its banner headlines. Poking a stick into a hornet’s nest had nothing on this. I shivered. Too late now.
And tomorrow’s newspaper would be available at about eleven that evening, around the corner at Victoria Station. I looked at my watch. Five hours to go.
I spent much of the evening making duplicates of the videotape from my little chat with Juliet. I had made one copy at Kate’s using her video recorder in the sitting room. Chris had taken it with him, as he was pretty certain that without the actual tape The Pump’s lawyers weren’t going to let him write anything about the Enstones.
“All your bloody fault,” he’d said.
“How come?”
“You remember that last time when the paper went after you?” he’d said. “You know, all that stuff a few years ago.”
I’d nodded. How could I forget.
“Well, nothing gets in now unless it’s passed by the libel lawyers and they’re pretty tight after you took us to the cleaners.”
I hadn’t. They had got off lightly.
Now, I made six further copies onto VHS tapes between performing my nursing and domestic duties around the flat. I steamed some salmon fillets in the microwave for dinner and Marina and I ate them in front of the television with trays on our laps.
Marina’s salmon remained only half-eaten, as she watched the tape with growing fascination.
“I really don’t think I want to meet this Peter,” she said.
“You already have,” I said. “He was wearing motorcycle leathers.”
“Oh yes. So he was.” She rubbed her knee.
My phone rang. It was Chris Beecher.
“It’s all in,” he said. “Front page! They allowed me to do the lot.” He was very excited.
“Good,” I said, “you’ve done well.” It was under seven hours since we had left Lambourn.
“Where’s Juliet?” I asked him.
“Bricking herself in the Donnington Valley Hotel,” he said. “She has tried to call me on my cell at least fifteen times, but I won’t answer. She leaves messages saying she doesn’t want to be named. Bit late now!” He laughed. “If she wanted it off the record, she should have said so at the beginning, not after the event.”
“Will she stay there?” I asked.
“What would you do?” he said. “I don’t reckon she’ll go back to her place. I think we can safely say that young Mr. Peter is not going to be best pleased with her in the morning. If I were in her shoes, I’d stay put in the hotel and keep my head down.”
In her Jimmy Choo shoes, I thought. Young Mr. George is not going to be too pleased with her, either.
“Right, then,” I said. “Now that I know that the story will definitely be in the paper tomorrow, I’ll get these other tapes off to their new homes.”
“Yes,” Chris said, “and … thanks, Sid. Guess I owe you one.”
“More than one, you bugger.”
He laughed, and hung up. He wasn’t a bad soul, but I still wouldn’t be sharing any of my secrets with him in the future. Not unless I wanted to read them in the paper.
I spent some time packing the six videotapes into large, white padded envelopes and then went round to Victoria Station to await the papers. I made sure that the door was properly locked and told Marina not to open it under any circumstances, even if someone shouted that the building was burning down.
At ten minutes past eleven, I watched a bale of Pumps being thrown out of a delivery van. It was tied up with string but the paper’s headline was clearly visible.
MURDERER, it read across the whole width, above a large, smiling photograph of Peter Enstone. The picture editor obviously had a sense of humor. He had chosen to show an old shot of Peter in bow tie and tuxedo, receiving the prize for Best Young Amateur Rider at an annual racing awards dinner.
I waited impatiently while the newsstand staff cut the strings and stacked the papers on a shelf. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, as I picked up seven copies and stood there in the open paying for them. I could clearly feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck.
I turned around and looked behind me, but, of course, there was no one there. Just some late-night revelers making their unsteady way to their trains home.
With the papers safely tucked under my arm, I went swiftly back to the flat to find that all was well and not a fire to be seen. I let myself in and locked the door behind me. Marina and I sat at either end of the sofa and each read a copy of The Pump.
Chris Beecher had done a great job. Everything was there. Juliet’s story was largely quoted word for word, and there were pictures of Huw Walker and Bill Burton and one each of Jonny Enstone and George Lochs. I was pleased to note that my usual Pump mug shot was not included. Indeed, there was hardly a mention of me by name at all, except as the partner of the girl who had been shot in London.
It was a true hatchet job with the comment section of the paper getting in on the act to criticize Enstone senior for having produced such a monster.
I was still packing the relevant pages of The Pump into the padded envelopes at a quarter to midnight when the buzzer of the intercom sounded outside the kitchen door. The porter downstairs informed me that my preordered late-night messenger service had arrived.
I took five of the envelopes downstairs with me in the elevator. I was slightly taken aback to find a motorcyclist in the reception, dressed in black leathers and wearing a full-face helmet, but he turned out to be the real thing, a messenger and not a gunman. He took the packages and assured me they would be delivered that night.
“The first three can arrive any time you like,” I said. “The fourth must arrive after five o’clock, when you’ll probably find him feeding his cattle. And the fifth should be delivered last, on your way back.”
“Right.” His voice was muffled by the helmet that he seemed determined not to remove. He stuffed the packages in a bag and swung it onto his back.
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“Don’t go to sleep and fall off your bike,” I said.
“I won’t,” he mumbled, and left.
What would be his route, I wondered. New Scotland Yard first, I expected, for Detective Superintendent Aldridge, then on to Thames Valley Police headquarters, in Oxfordshire, to drop off the one for Inspector Johnson. Then down to Cheltenham to deliver the one for my friend Chief Inspector Carlisle. Next to South Wales, to Brecon, to find Evan Walker’s farm for package four.
Finally, on his way back, the motorcyclist’s last stop was to be at the House of Lords. Package five was for his lordship. The videotape was in case he didn’t believe what he read in the newspapers.
•
THE BODYGUARD I had arranged for Marina arrived promptly at eight and turned out to be a six-foot-two ex-Marine with biceps bigger than my thighs. The biceps, along with an impressive pair of pecs and assorted other bulging muscles that I didn’t even know existed, were squeezed into a bottle green T-shirt that looked to be at least two sizes too small.
He dismissed my suggestion that he should sit in reception and wait for Marina to come down when she went out to lunch. No good, he said. He wanted to have “the target” in sight at all times.
I said I would rather he did not refer to Marina as “the target,” and he couldn’t have her in sight at all times as she was still in her dressing gown and was about to take a shower. He covered his disappointment well.
In the end, he settled for a chair outside the flat door, opposite the elevator.
“But how about the windows?” he asked. “Someone could come through one.”
“We’ll take our chances,” I said. After all, as I pointed out to him, we were on the fourth floor. But he still wasn’t happy.
However, it was a great relief to see him there when I left for Archie Kirk’s office at nine to deliver the last of the videotape packages. And, in the interests of my own security, I telephoned for a taxi, which was waiting for me at the front entrance of the building with its engine running for a quick getaway.