Lynda Plante - Sleeping Cruelty

Michael scooted in. ‘Yes, Sir William?’

‘I’m due at lunch. Can you call the Ritz and—’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir William, Lady Thorn called, but I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting with Mr Summers. She sends her apologies, but has come down with flu.’

William sat down behind his desk. ‘Perhaps, under the circumstances, it’s a good thing.’

‘Yes, sir, I’ve got sheets of messages. There are also numerous faxes, e-mails and an urgent call from Superintendent Hudson, Metropolitan Police. He’s left his home number and direct line.’

Michael left the study and William unlocked the drawer that contained Maynard’s business-appointment diary, and wondered why Myers hadn’t asked to see it. It soon dawned on him that such a devious man wouldn’t want to touch it. If the story did get out, Myers could say he knew nothing about any diaries being removed. William’s eyes travelled to his wall-safe, which held Maynard’s personal diary. It was as if he could see the red leatherbound cover through the steel door. It was dangerous to keep it, but he could not bring himself to destroy it.

Later, Myers Summers phoned William to give him details of the post-mortem: Andrew Maynard had died from loss of blood due to both arteries being severed on right and left wrist. Tests showed that his blood contained a vast quantity of alcohol and cocaine. There were no signs of physical violence. It was determined that he was a practising homosexual but no traces of semen were found apart from his own. His naked body was devoid of pubic hair and smothered with Johnson’s baby oil. Myers hesitated to draw breath. ‘They also found numerous bottles of pills. You name any kind of speed and your friend had it, plus five grams of cocaine. Oh, and another tasty morsel that will, no doubt, be fucking leaked is that Maynard was suffering from genital herpes.’

William couldn’t listen to any more. He was sweating. Only the announcement of a Third World War would knock this lot off the front page.

‘The housekeeper’s blabbed,’ Myers went on. ‘She’s told the cops about a diary and drawers full of letters and that you were the only person with access to them before they arrived.’

‘I suppose the police will want to question me,’ William observed.

‘’Course they will, but wait, just fasten your seat-belt. So far strong-arm tactics have kept it all under wraps in case it was murder, but it’ll all hit the fan tonight. So far the press have only had the most meagre details. They only know he died at home. But tonight they’ll have the titillating details. You know anything about his family?’

‘No, I don’t. His parents are dead. I believe he had a sister, but she died in some car accident. There’s just an aunt in Bournemouth, as far as I know.’

‘Ah, well. No doubt we’ll know a lot more by tonight.’

William shrugged. ‘You sound very sure. Why?’

‘All right then,’ Summers grunted. ‘How about this? Someone has managed to get photographs of the body from the mortuary and some other bloody hack paper has been sent photographs of Maynard dancing in some gay nightclub in Morocco, so Christ only knows what else they’ll get from some bloody perverted bastard trying to make a few quid.’

‘Well, what’s all that got to do with me? I financed him. I didn’t go down the Palais with him, dancing on a Saturday night.’

Summers hesitated. ‘We only have your word for that.’

William was starting to get angry. ‘I’ve told you, Myers, I knew nothing about his pervy life till yesterday, and I will make a statement to that effect and hand it over to the police. I’ve already spoken to them anyway — at his house before I left.’

‘That won’t satisfy the papers,’ Summers was impatient. ‘You were closely associated in life so you will be in death.’

‘So what do you suggest I do?’

‘Give a statement and, thinking about it, perhaps it’d be better in your own words.’

‘You fucking said you’d write it!’ William said angrily.

‘Maybe I did, but standing back a bit, I think it should come from you. You knew him better than anyone else.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘One minute you were calling him the political saviour of the millennium, next he’s pictured dancing with twelve-year-old boys in Morocco! You work it out. I can’t be involved.’

‘Can’t or won’t? Which is it, Myers?’

There was a pause. ‘My wrists are tied.’ Summers gave a humourless laugh. ‘Sorry, under the circumstances, that was a rather crass thing to say.’ He continued, ‘I’ve been warned off you, William. I’m sorry, but a word of advice. For God’s sake keep schtum about the diaries and stuff. Burn them, get rid of them, deny ever seeing them. And don’t mention the note. Why did Maynard want you to find him, before the police? And don’t mention this Chalmers bloke either.’ There was a pause, this time at William’s end. ‘You still there? Hello? Hello?’

William had hung up. He’d never liked the squint-eyed son-of-a-bitch anyway. It was just that he was so well connected. Well, fuck him! William hadn’t become one of the wealthiest men in England without being able to take care of some jumped-up journalist — or a pack of them come to that. And if they wanted to dig around in his past, let them. He didn’t have anything to hide.

‘Michael,’ he bellowed. ‘Call a press conference.’

‘For when, sir?’

‘First thing in the morning. Meanwhile I want you to cut out every newspaper article on Maynard and record every piece of television news coverage to date, even if it takes all night.’

‘It’s all over the Internet,’ Michael said nervously.

‘Then print out whatever anybody’s saying. I want to read it all, no matter what it says. Is it bad?’

Michael nodded and his lips trembled slightly. ‘Some of it’s downright sick. Er... will you be arranging his funeral?’

‘What?’

‘Andrew Maynard’s funeral, sir.’

William slumped into his chair. ‘Yes, yes — well, you sort it out, I can’t think about that right now. Go on, do what you have to, no expense spared, but keep it simple.’

Michael left the room, as William lowered his head into his hands. He had been too preoccupied, too shocked for it all to have sunk in. He had been blocking out the emotional impact of losing a man he had grown to admire and love like a son, and now the floodgates opened. The tears trickled down his cheeks, as he murmured his protégé’s name in despair and bewilderment.

He tried to hide his tears when Michael tapped and reentered. The police were waiting to see him.

William blew his nose, wiped his face and nodded for Michael to let them in. He stood up, hand outstretched to meet Superintendent Hudson and Detective Inspector Joan Fromton. He offered them tea or coffee but they refused, seating themselves in front of his desk on two hard-backed chairs that were usually placed against the wall.

The interview lasted two and a half hours. They questioned William in detail as to how he found the body, what the housekeeper had said, why she had called him before contacting a doctor or the police. William had no need to lie. He just did not mention that a note had suggested she call him: it was feasible that she would have anyway as he was so closely associated to Maynard.

Then came the obvious question; ‘Just how closely?’ With dignity William dismissed from their minds any notion that he was homosexual. All he was, and all he had been for the past few years, was a friend and business associate. There had been nothing more between them than friendship and admiration. He had had no inkling of Maynard’s private life.

He was asked whether he had removed any items from Maynard’s property and he said that he had not.