Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

Vogel knew the importance of that. HOLMES was the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, used for sharing and collating information throughout the country by all forty-three British police forces, but installed only in selected police and specialist unit stations.

He nodded his agreement, gave Hemmings a brief report of his own investigations so far, in particular his interviews with the Greys, and then headed for the MCIT’s permanent incident room.

Micky, whom Hemmings had poached from Gloucestershire police a few months earlier, convincing the detective constable to make the move on the grounds that MCIT would make far better use of his considerable talents, and of him, was engrossed in his computer. He was a quiet man, with deceptively sleepy eyes and a mischievous sense of humour which lurked just below the surface, who liked to work independently and could only function when permitted to do things his way. He’d been immersed in a destructive personality clash with Gloucester’s head of CID, and had jumped at the chance of joining Hemmings’ team. Brain like a bacon slicer, Hemmings had murmured when he’d introduced Vogel to Micky Palmer several months earlier. And in the time Palmer had been on board Vogel had already seen plenty of evidence to back up his superior’s assessment.

DC Polly Jenkins, recently promoted from uniform, and a young officer for whom Vogel had gained considerable respect when they had worked together the previous year on what had turned out to be one of the biggest and, arguably, the most disturbing murder enquiries of his career, was also one of the newer members of MCIT.

She made a beeline for Vogel as soon as he entered the incident room.

‘I’ve tracked down Bella Fairbrother,’ said Polly. ‘She’s on her way down here. I spoke to her on her mobile. But only briefly. She said she was on the motorway and would call us when she arrived.’

‘Do we know where she’s staying?’

‘Uh no, she didn’t want to talk because she was driving...’ Polly sounded apologetic.

‘It’s OK, Polly,’ said Vogel quickly. ‘Just get back to her and ask her. Tell her we need to meet her as soon as she reaches her destination.’

Micky Palmer had by then looked up from his computer and noticed Vogel’s presence. The DI walked across to his desk.

‘Anything more?’ Vogel asked.

Micky nodded. ‘Just been checking out the errant eldest boy. Typical spoiled rich kid, apparently. He was a bit of a lad and regarded by his father as a wastrel. Unlike his kid sister, no work ethic at all. Played at being an actor, and was allegedly quite talented, but made little effort. In his teens and into his early twenties he was known to us as trouble. Had a community service order against him, spent a couple of nights in jail when he got in a pub brawl, done for drink driving, cautioned for possession of marijuana, that sort of thing. When he was twenty-two he took off on some sort of round-the-world trip. Word is his father was glad to see the back of him. And apparently, he’s never been back. Supposed to be in Australia, sir. We’re trying to get in touch, and I’ve been on to our friends down under. But he seems to have cleaned up his act, certainly no record of him being in any trouble.’

‘Do we know who inherits?’

‘I’ve been on to the company secretary and Fairbrother’s lawyers, but everyone’s being a bit cagey, boss,’ said Micky. ‘I suppose you can understand it up to a point. Solicitors are conditioned to be secretive about things like wills. But I’ve certainly learned that this is going to be a very complicated matter. Pretty obviously with one of the most famous banks in the world involved, I suppose. Traditionally, ever since the bank was founded in the seventeenth century it’s been handed down from son to son. Seems unlikely Sir John’s son is going to be involved, though neither would he want to be, from all accounts, and the daughter walked out of the place for reasons yet to be learned. Plus, she’s a woman. And a mother. A single mother, it seems, just to make matters worse.’

‘Come on, Micky, you sound like some terrible old chauvinist.’

‘Not me, boss, them. There’s never been a woman at the top of Fairbrother’s and it seems unlikely the board would accept one.’

‘Not even Sir John’s clearly extremely able daughter?’ queried Vogel.

‘Well, the word is a lot of the old guard weren’t happy having her on the board at all, let alone as deputy chair. There have been one or two women in the past. Sir John’s first wife, Bella’s mother, before he divorced her and kicked her out; and his mother, I think. But it seems they were regarded only as token women really, and not allowed to take much of an active part in anything. Whenever they were given opportunity to vote, which was not often, it would have been only to support the family position. They were always expected to vote with the chair — that is Sir John and his father before him.’

‘So aren’t there any other women on the board now? Was Bella Fairbrother the only one?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Sounds like quite a can of worms,’ commented Vogel.

‘It certainly is, boss,’ said Micky.

Polly approached Vogel again. She was of West Indian descent, dressed streetwise, and had an enviable knack of getting on with almost everyone she encountered. Vogel was glad she was now permanently part of MCIT.

‘I spoke to Bella Fairbrother again,’ said Polly. ‘She’s staying at the Mount Somerset, just outside Taunton. Says she’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Right.’

Vogel turned to Saslow.

‘C’mon then, Dawn, what are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘Let’s get over there.’

‘But boss, we’ve only just come from Taunton...’ began Saslow lamely.

‘The goal posts have moved,’ said Vogel. ‘Now we are going back.’

Bella Fairbrother was elegant, assured, well dressed, and bristled with self-confidence. Vogel knew her to be thirty-nine years old. He thought she probably looked younger, and in some ways behaved as if she was older. She had only very recently heard of her father’s violent death in a fire, but was certainly displaying little or no sign of distress. Her expression was entirely non-committal. Everything about her indicated cool containment. Almost certainly she was accustomed to giving little away of her inner feelings. Superficially, her manner reminded Vogel of his old boss when he’d been in the Met. Only, the preposterously named Nobby Clarke was a tall blonde woman. Bella Fairbrother was of average height, with a full head of tumbling brunette hair which fell over her shoulders in a style Vogel thought would probably be considered rather old fashioned. It suited her though, and Vogel felt sure it would prove to be the only remotely old-fashioned thing about the thoroughly modern Miss Fairbrother.

‘Very pleased to meet you, detective inspector,’ said Bella, offering a perfectly manicured hand, in a manner which seemed almost to suggest that he should kiss it. Now that would be old fashioned, thought Vogel. And in the current climate could land him in jail, too.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Vogel, taking the extended hand in his firmest handshake.

‘Don’t be, detective inspector,’ responded Bella. ‘As far as I am concerned, my father was a bigot and totally set in his ways. He and I have always had a difficult relationship, and for some time now, since I resigned as his deputy at Fairbrother International, we’ve had hardly any contact at all, which has suited both of us.’

Vogel was surprised, both by her frankness and her vehement manner.

‘That sounds quite harsh, Miss Fairbrother,’ Vogel responded mildly.

‘Does it? Yes, well, nothing to how harsh he could be. Nonetheless, I am, of course, shocked by what happened. I wouldn’t wish death in a fire on anyone. Obviously.’