Wheel of Fire Page 15

  ‘I don’t know nothing about nothing,’ Janice Grey responded quickly. ‘I’ve told you that before.’

  ‘Yes, you did, Mrs Grey. But your husband is dead now. He won’t be coming back to you. And he will never be able to tell us the truth about what happened to him on the night of the fire, and exactly how he received those injuries. Because I am pretty sure that he didn’t tell us the truth when we interviewed him at the Musgrove. Nor will he now ever be able to tell us why he felt it necessary to leave hospital so suddenly, when still weak from his injuries, and travel straight away to West London. I think you know far more than you are admitting to, Mrs Grey. And if you do have information which might shed light on any of this, then you really should share it with us. Before you find yourself in a great deal of trouble.’

  Janice Grey shook her head yet again. ‘I don’t know nothing,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Except he was attacked by armed intruders. He told me all about it in hospital.’

  ‘What did he tell you exactly, Mrs Grey?’

  The woman looked as if she felt she’d allowed herself to be caught out, Vogel thought.

  ‘Nothing you don’t already know,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Mrs Grey, your husband did indeed tell me this cock and bull story about unknown armed intruders attacking him, but I don’t believe a word of it, and I very much doubt that you do either.’

  Mrs Grey took a deep breath. ‘Of course, I believe what my Georgie told me,’ she insisted. ‘He was attacked by men with guns, the same men who probably set fire to the house.’

  ‘Yes. Men with guns. Your husband was stabbed. Wouldn’t you expect him to have been shot if these intruders were armed with guns?’

  Mrs Grey shrugged. ‘How would I know?’ she said. ‘Maybe they didn’t want to make a noise.’

  ‘All right, did your husband indicate to you exactly how he was attacked, and whether or not he knew who these alleged intruders were?’

  ‘What do you mean alleged intruders?’ asked Janice Grey.

  ‘Will you please answer the question,’ instructed Vogel curtly.

  ‘He said they came up behind him. He had no idea who they were. Why would he?’

  ‘And you, too, have no idea who his mystery assailant or assailants might be?’

  ‘Of course not. I keep telling you, I don’t know anything about any of it.’

  ‘Mrs Grey, I believe there are things that you do know that, for whatever reason, you are keeping to yourself; quite possibly vital information. If that is the case, and I strongly suspect that it is, then I must warn you against failing to reveal such information in very serious circumstances. Three people have now died, Mrs Grey. There is little doubt that the fire here at the manor, which killed two of these people, was started deliberately, and we strongly suspect that the third, your husband, was murdered. You really must tell us what you know, Mrs Grey, not only for the sake of your dead husband, but also for your own sake.’

  Mrs Grey raised a hand to her mouth. Another flicker passed her eyes. This time Vogel could see fear in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she was going to open up.

  Then the shutter came down again.

  ‘I don’t know nothing,’ she said.

  FIFTEEN

  Meanwhile Bella Fairbrother had been fully occupied throughout the day. In the afternoon she kept her appointment with William Watkins, the Taunton solicitor her father had been using for the past year or so, at his office in Hammett Street, Taunton’s premier location for legal and financial professionals.

  It turned out, however, that he was rather different to most in his profession. He was well past usual retirement age, for a start. Bella had been told by Peter Prentis, her father’s London solicitor, that this was down to the cost of a number of failed marriages and an even greater number of children.

  Prentis had been somewhat scathing about Willian Watkins, and had even indicated that, because of his precarious financial situation, the Taunton solicitor might not be beyond bending the law when it best suited him or his clients. Bella suspected that Prentis had no way of knowing that, and was merely jealous of the man who seemed to have virtually stolen his number-one client. But she certainly would not put it past her father to employ a solicitor he could bend to his will.

  Watkins came out into the corridor and greeted Bella at the lift she had taken to his fourth floor office. He was a handsome man, with a full head of silver hair, belying the age Bella knew him to be. He had a gentle smile, and a quiet manner about him.

  He ushered Bella in, and gestured for her to sit on an upright chair in front of his desk whilst he sat down behind it facing her. The first thing she noticed was that the west-facing windows had no curtains. Instead, pieces of old newspaper had been stuck over the windows, presumably in order to prevent William Watkins and his clients being blinded by the afternoon sun.

  ‘I am not sure how I can help you, Miss Fairbrother,’ said Watkins straightaway, placing the tips of his fingers together so that they formed a point upon which he propped his chin.

  ‘Well, I do understand, and I realise this may be difficult because of client confidentiality and that it’s probably against legal protocol for you to discuss in detail my father’s affairs with me, Mr Watkins, even though he has passed on,’ said Bella. ‘But I am hoping you may at least be able to tell me what papers he has lodged with you here, in particular whether or not there is a will—’

  ‘No, it’s not that, Miss Fairbrother, it’s not about client confidentiality or anything like that,’ interrupted Watkins. ‘You see, I don’t have anything at all archived for your father here. He took away all the papers I did have almost a year ago, and I haven’t seen them, or your father since.’

  ‘Did he go to another solicitor?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Miss Fairbrother. Although I have a feeling your father employed a number of solicitors over the years – in different parts of the United Kingdom, and probably overseas, and that he deliberately limited what each of us dealt with so that none of us knew the full picture concerning either his business or personal affairs.’

  William Watkins paused. ‘Or am I being far too Machiavellian?’ he asked.

  ‘It is not possible to be too Machiavellian concerning my father,’ replied Bella, who was thinking that this was pretty much the way Sir John had run the whole of his life. ‘He was a remarkable man, of course. He had been ill for some time, but I always believed he would make it possible, before he died, for those who would have to take over his affairs to do so. The fire and his sudden death have changed all that, and I am left, quite bluntly, with trying to clear up a fearful mess. Have you really no idea what he did with the papers he took from you?’

  ‘Oh yes, he made that clear enough. He told me he wanted to store everything in the storeroom he had built at Blackdown Manor, which he reckoned was safe in any eventuality, including nuclear warfare.’

  Bella never wanted to hear that description again, and would certainly never repeat it again, not now that she had seen the ruins of Blackdown. So, he’d moved everything to the storeroom – which meant, if the contents of that storeroom had been destroyed, or even substantially destroyed, the complex financial riddle she was about to try to unravel was going to be even more difficult.

  She said none of that, of course, only responding mildly with a smile that was more of a grimace: ‘Yes, he always said that.’

  ‘Well, the one thing I do know is that your father’s affairs were very complicated,’ Watkins continued. ‘So, I hope for your sake, and for the sake of all of his family and his business, that the storeroom has proved to be as safe as he considered it to be.’

  Bella didn’t bother to answer that. Clearly the man didn’t know the half.

  ‘Could I ask you, without asking you to divulge the content at all, did the work you undertook for my father involve the making of a will?’ she asked.

  Watkins appeared to ponder for a moment. ‘Not exactly,’ he said at last.

  ‘I’m
sorry?’ queried Bella. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He asked me to write an addendum to his will,’ replied Watkins. ‘I never saw the will itself.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘It is indeed. Then again, your father was a most unusual man, wasn’t he? But there was no real reason why it shouldn’t be done, so I complied with him. It is an effective legal document, I can assure you.’

  ‘But, of course, you are not at liberty to tell me what this addendum was?’

  ‘To be frank, it referred throughout to trust funds, overseas accounts and investments, insurance policies, and so on, and meant little without access to the original will. Or, certainly, it meant little to me. Which I assume was your father’s intention. Of course, if references had been made to specific beneficiaries …’ William Watkins paused again, looking down at the table. ‘To specific family members, for example,’ he continued, looking up once more and meeting Bella’s eye, ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you. Primarily, it seemed to be a matter of ensuring that, after his death, certain of his funds and assets would be distributed throughout his business empire in the way he wished, and similarly concerning the management of his personal wealth, the details of which he did not confide in me.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bella, thinking just how typical of her father that was.

  She thanked the man and left.

  She glanced at her watch. It was just gone four p.m. She thought that she might pay another visit to Blackdown Manor a little later. She wondered for how long a police presence would be maintained there after the initial fire investigation and CSI work had been completed. She suspected not for long, considering the police cuts enforced in the UK over recent years by successive governments. It could just be possible that she might be able to sneak into the remains of the ruined manor and see for herself the condition of the storeroom which offered the only hope, it seemed, of anything surviving the fire. After all, if health and safety and all the rest of them held back for much longer, any remotely retrievable contents would be destroyed by the elements.

  Bella glanced up at a dull heavy sky. It might be only early October but this was more like a November day. The weather was horrible. Vast quantities of water had already been poured onto the manor by the fire service. Now it looked as if the heavens were about to drop another load over the poor old place at any moment. Almost certainly before the night was out.

  As she climbed into her car she began to formulate a plan. It had to be carefully worked out. Her wardrobe needed some attention too. She was wearing suede fashion boots with heels, tiger print leggings and a fitted leather jacket over a lightweight sweater.

  She needed work boots and warm protective clothing. She also needed a powerful torch, and a crow bar. Maybe other tools. A hammer perhaps. And she knew just the place to go to fulfil her needs.

  She was more than familiar with the market town of Wellington. It was, and always had been, a proper country town and she was confident that she would acquire all that she wanted there. She parked in the car park off Fore Street.

  Her first stop, right on the corner, was Perry’s, an old-fashioned ironmongery store which she had been brought up to believe sold everything in its field. Or maybe just everything!

  ‘If Perry’s ’aven’t got it, it doesn’t exist,’ Jack Kivel used to say.

  Visits to Perry’s with Kivel were amongst Bella’s foremost childhood memories. She remembered standing alongside Jack while old Mr Perry, who had even seemed old to her then and yet was still about the place, had rifled through drawers and tins looking for exactly the right screw, clip, or whatever obscure gizmo might be required.

  All the memories came flooding back as she stepped through the doors. The shop had changed shape a little since she’d last visited. The counter was longer, the layout not quite the same. But it was still Perry’s, and she suspected that there weren’t many shops like it left anywhere in the world.

  Not for the first time in the past couple of days, she had to make an effort to shake herself out of her reverie. This would never do. Life had moved on. The task ahead of her was not going to be a pleasant one. And nobody, it seemed, was going to come to her rescue. She just had to get on with it alone.

  ‘Why, hello Miss Fairbrother,’ said a familiar voice. It was Guy. Also still there, then.

  A thought occurred to her. A bit late, she admonished herself. She was still well known in Wellington. Purchase of the items she had on her mental shopping list was bound to attract attention. If she wanted to go ahead, she would have to explain herself – or at least appear to.

  ‘Hello Guy, nice to see you again,’ she said, smiling brightly.

  ‘Indeed, Miss Fairbrother, but under such terrible circumstances. We are all so sorry, about your father, and the old manor.’

  ‘Thank you, Guy.’ Bella adjusted her smile.

  She told him the things she wanted to buy and watched the surprise flit across his eyes.

  ‘Trying to salvage what we can out at the house,’ she said. ‘There’s not much, but there are some metal boxes and such like which were in storage that I’m hoping may not have been entirely destroyed. I want to go and have a good poke about. Once the police give me the go ahead of course.’

  Bizarrely, it was more or less the truth. Nonetheless, Bella was rather surprised by how plausible she sounded. The last bit was a blatant lie of course. She had no intention of waiting any longer for anybody to give her permission to enter her own family home.

  After Guy had supplied her with all that Perry’s could provide, she made her way along Mantle Street to the new country shop where she bought over-trousers, a Barbour jacket and a woolly hat. The shop had not been there when she had last been in Wellington, and she didn’t recognise the owner. Neither did he show any sign of recognising her. So she was not required to explain anything.

  Her final call was to the local shoe shop, the aptly named Wellington Boots, where she duly bought herself a pair of wellies. Owner Anne Brummett recognised her at once, of course, greeted her warmly, and, like Guy, offered condolences about her father’s death, and the loss of the great old house that was Blackdown Manor.

  Once again though, no explanation of her purchase was required. In the west of England you never have to explain why you need a pair of wellington boots. The exceptionally high rainfall level of the south-west peninsular takes care of that, in addition to the rural nature of much of the area.

  Bella loaded her purchases into her car and considered what she should do next.

  Clearly, it made more sense to make her foray into the ruins of the manor after dark, thus giving herself the best possible chance of doing so undetected. And there was still a good hour of daylight remaining. However, there was something she might do to kill the time, that she probably should have done already. She would pay Mrs George Grey a visit. Like everyone else, including the police and the fire service, Bella Fairbrother was not at all clear about exactly what had happened to cause Blackdown Manor to be burned to the ground and bring about the death of two people. So much didn’t make sense. She knew that arson was strongly suspected, and that George Grey was wanted by the police. But beyond that everything was mere conjecture. And she wondered, as indeed Vogel had, exactly what Janice Grey might know. She’d truthfully told Vogel that she had never met either of the Greys. Now she thought, was the time to change that.

  And whilst she was about it, she could also check out whatever police presence there might still be at the manor.

  She headed out of Wellington on the A38 in the direction of Exeter, then off over the Blackdown Hills along those so familiar country lanes. This time she did not stop to gaze nostalgically across the hills at the burned-out house that had been her home for so long. She already knew all too well what those ruins looked like, and the image would be emblazoned in her memory for ever more.

  She approached Blackdown Manor only minutes after Vogel and Saslow had left, although Bella had no way of knowing that.
The family liaison officer had yet to arrive. A special constable was still on scene-guard at the gates, but allowed her through when she explained who she was and that she wished to visit Janice Grey, merely warning her not to cross the tapes cordoning off the ruined house itself.

  As she parked outside The Gatehouse she noticed a twitch of a curtain. Was somebody, presumably Janice Grey, sitting inside watching the driveway?

  Bella walked up the garden path and was about to knock on the door when it opened before she had a chance to do so. Just as it had for Vogel and Saslow. The woman who stood before her looked dishevelled and unkempt. Straggling greying hair framed a pale face. She may recently have been crying.

  ‘Yes,’ she said rather aggressively.

  ‘Mrs Grey?’ enquired Bella, trying to sound as pleasant and unthreatening as she could.

  ‘Who are you?’ countered the woman, equally aggressively.

  ‘I’m Sir John’s daughter—’ Bella began.

  ‘Are you indeed? Well, you’re a bit late then, aren’t you?’

  Bella was puzzled. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean, Mrs Grey,’ she said. ‘It is Mrs Grey, isn’t it?’

  The woman just stared at her belligerently.

  Bella carried on regardless. Who else was the woman likely to be? ‘I just stopped by to say how sorry I was to hear that your husband had been injured. I’m sure you are aware the police are looking for him, that they want to talk to him about the fire. But I know my father trusted George totally.’

  She tried a bit of flattery. ‘And you too, of course.’

  Mrs Grey’s gaze did not flicker.

  Bella battled on. ‘I just wondered if you knew what happened that night? I mean, you and your husband worked together, didn’t you? You’d have known if he were planning to do anything like start a fire, wouldn’t you?’

  Bella stopped, mentally kicking herself. She hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt.

  Mrs Grey’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, if he was so trustworthy, why would he do that, then?’ she asked sharply. ‘You’re worse than the coppers.’