Lynda La Plante - Wrongful Death

‘Curtis, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. Curtis Bowman. Bloody statue – unlike me, you have to polish and buff it up once a week so it keeps its colour,’ he said, guffawing at his own joke while pulling a duster from his back pocket.

‘Have you worked here for a long time?’

‘Yes, I was the handyman when it was called Doobies. Mr Reynolds kept me on when he and Mr Williams bought the place. They did it all up and renamed it – Mr Reynolds said they named it after me because I work like one,’ Curtis said with a proud smile as he started to rub the polish into the statue.

‘You must miss Mr Reynolds being around?’

‘Couldn’t believe it when I was told. He was the quiet type, you know, but always friendly and got things done. Mr Williams is a good boss as well but different from Mr Reynolds.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, firing and looking out for fingers in the tills was always down to Mr Williams, he’d not take any thieving and in a place like this you got to watch out. He was the tough one of the two. Not afraid to go head-to-head with punters that got out of order with the girls. Strict look-but-don’t-touch policy.’

‘Funnily enough he mentioned that Delon Taylor was sacked for stealing.’

‘Bad ’un he was, with a short temper. Best rid, I say.’

‘Did you see Mr Reynolds the day he died?’ Anna asked.

‘A few times, but only when he asked me to do something round the place.’

‘How did he seem to you that day?’

‘Fine. That’s why I can’t believe he shot himself like that.’ He shook his head.

‘Neither could his wife. She used to work here, I believe?’

He pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Was she friendly like Josh?’

‘I don’t want to speak bad about her, but she started work here as a pole dancer, then she hooked Mr Reynolds and married him. She was always a bit hoity-toity. When she became head hostess she started throwing her weight around a bit, said she was taking over running the club. To be honest she couldn’t run for a bus, and she put a lot of people’s noses out of joint, mine included. The girls didn’t like her.’

‘Maybe they were a bit jealous she’d been promoted?’

‘I heard Mr Reynolds and Donna having a real row about her working here. I don’t think he liked the way she dressed and flirted with the VIPs.’

‘Was it just flirting?’

He hesitated before answering. ‘I really don’t know. I try to mind my own business, but I didn’t like her for personal reasons. She’d park her car here in the yard and tell me to give it a wash, and to keep an eye out for the traffic wardens. She must have had Christ knows how many tickets and would blame me. I only got one pair of eyes and can’t stand out here until six p.m. every day.’

A large rubbish truck began to back into the small yard, Curtis jumped into action, gesturing for it to move slowly towards him. Realizing she needed to get a move on, Anna left him to get on with his work.

Anna drove down a narrow lane flanked on either side by hedgerows and fields of rapeseed with blazing-yellow flowers that brightened up the countryside. It was such a contrast to central London, with its exhaust fumes and stop-start traffic, and she could feel herself beginning to relax. At first, she thought the satnav had directed her to the wrong location until she saw Dewar’s car parked up on the nearside of the road. Anna pulled up behind her and looking out of the window saw a set of large decorative wrought-iron gates tipped with spikes. A plaque on one of the gate pillars read LYNNE HOUSE and below it was a CCTV intercom system and lockable mailbox built into the stonework. On the other side of the gates there was a long tree-lined gravel driveway that rose gradually upwards to an imposing Georgian manor house. Anna got out of her car and approached Dewar, who was still in her car.

‘Some place, isn’t it. I may as well leave my car out here and go in with you.’

‘We’re a bit early. It’s only five-thirty.’

‘I’m sure they won’t mind,’ Anna said, going over to the intercom as Dewar pulled up in front of the gates. Anna held her warrant card up to the camera, the gates slowly cranked open and they drove up the long gravel drive to the house. Once out of the car, they stopped to take in the breathtaking view across the front of the house down to a large lake and surrounding woodland.

‘It’s not just a house, it’s a country estate!’ Anna breathed.

‘Wonder how much it’s worth,’ Dewar remarked.

‘In this area, with all the land… millions!’

‘Those cars are worth a few bucks as well,’ Dewar said, drawing Anna’s attention to a four-bay detached garage. There were three cars parked in front and a man in his mid-fifties was washing one of them.

‘That’s the new Bentley Mulsanne he’s cleaning. Costs over a quarter of a million. The others are a Maybach 62 and a Mercedes McLaren 722. They’re not far off a million put together.’

‘Didn’t have you down as a petrolhead, Jessie.’

‘It’s not just boys with toys. My dad was a head mechanic on the Indy-car-race circuit and then he opened his own repair shop. Used to help out whenever I could.’

Anna nodded in approval at Dewar’s skills.

The front door was opened by a stocky middle-aged grey-haired woman. In broken English with an eastern European accent, she said that she was Katrina the housekeeper and Mrs Lynne had asked that they make themselves comfortable in the library. Katrina escorted them through the vast entrance to the library, giving them little time to take in the large marble-floored hall with its T-shaped stairwell, emerald green carpet and oak banisters. Katrina asked if they would like a drink and they both said water would be fine.

In contrast to the hall, the library was much brighter as natural light streamed through the multi-paned sash windows. Oriental rugs covered parts of the polished wooden floor and there were two red leather armchairs, a matching sofa and small coffee table in the middle of the room. The two end walls were covered by elegantly ornamented bookshelves that had been positioned to avoid the direct sunlight. The shelves nearly touched the high ceiling and contained hundreds of old and new books.

‘The rooms like something out of Sherlock Holmes,’ Anna remarked, taking a couple of steps up the library ladder to view the books.

‘Olde-worlde isn’t my kind of thing. Don’t mind a bit of art but those two paintings either side of the fireplace don’t go with the room,’ Dewar said.

Anna turned to where the agent was pointing. One picture with a black background was of three sepia-coloured, very old and haggard-looking women. Two were in the foreground of the picture standing side by side, one leaning from behind on the shoulder of the other, their heads turned towards each other as if engaged in whispered conversation. Dressed in head-scarves and shawls they looked similar, as if sisters. The third woman was in the background with only her face showing, floating like an eerie shadow while watching the two women in front.

The other painting was different: light, colourful and vibrant, it depicted a dreamlike scene with blue skies and wispy clouds. There were also three women in it but they were young, curvaceous and sensual. Two floated like angels above the third, who was lying on her side upon a stone table.

‘I think they are meant to contrast each other. You think they might be originals?’ Anna wondered.

‘Original crap more like,’ Dewar said.

‘Do you think the old women in that picture on the left are beggar women or witches?’ Anna asked.

‘I think one’s a psychopath and the other’s Spider-Woman. The one at the back with the duster is obviously the cleaner,’ Dewar said.