Fourteen

“Get this cordoned off as a crime scene, Ricky,” Tim said, “and call Patti Gardner.” He turned to Giash Chakrabati and his colleague, who had been standing in the shadows next to Giash, and was about to give them an instruction when he noticed for the first time that the colleague was a woman PC and not one he knew. He’d assumed without paying attention that it was Gary Cooper, probably because Giash and Gary usually worked together.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her now. “DI Tim Yates. I don’t think we’ve met?”

“I’m Verity Tandy, sir,” she said. “I’ve just transferred from Boston. I asked to come to Spalding because my partner’s moving here. Sarge sent me with PC Chakrabati. He and PC Cooper are showing me the ropes.”

Tim took a step back in order to examine her as well as the dim light allowed. She was of medium height and plump to the point of being obese, with blotchy skin and rather lank semi-curly hair that lay flat on her crown where it was greasiest. Somewhat uncharitably, he thought that a woman like her would be prepared to follow her partner, once she’d managed to hook one. He looked down at her feet and saw that they were surprisingly small and dainty. Presumably Jean Rook had been speaking metaphorically when she’d talked of ‘plods’ and ‘size elevens’, as Giash was neat and wiry, only just tall enough to have qualified for the force, his feet in proportion.

“Delighted to have you with us,” he said briskly. He turned slightly so as to include Giash in the conversation. “Once Ms Gardner arrives, you can leave, unless she says that she needs you. I’d like you both to come back here first thing tomorrow, though. I shall want the building and its grounds isolated as a crime scene, with one of you on duty at the gate all the time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Giash. Verity Tandy nodded mutely. Shy or sulky? Tim couldn’t tell which. On first impressions, he didn’t mark her down as one of the force’s bright hopes for the future.

He pounded back to the top of the cellar stairs. Jean Rook was waiting for him.

“Mr de Vries will see you now,” she said, as if she were a courtier admitting Tim to the royal presence.

“Too damn right he will,” Tim thought. Belatedly, he realised that he shouldn’t interview de Vries and Jean while he was alone. It was a thousand pities that Juliet wasn’t here. He could hear Ricky MacFadyen’s footsteps advancing from the cellar. Ricky appeared at the door, brandishing his mobile phone. He was slightly out of breath.

“DC MacFadyen, when you’ve made that call I’d like you to join us. In the drawing-room?” The question was directed at Jean Rook.

“I suppose so,” she said. She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Kevan de Vries emerged after a short interval and followed her into the drawing-room, barely acknowledging the two policemen. Tim waited for Ricky to make a short call to Patti Gardner, after which they entered the room together. Kevan de Vries and Jean Rook were seated on either side of the fireplace. It struck Tim with some force that they could have been mistaken for a married couple.

“Good evening, sir. I’m sorry that I’ve had to disturb you again today.”

“That’s quite all right, Detective Inspector; I told you to do so, although I hadn’t quite envisaged these circumstances.” He had recovered some of the mildly astringent urbanity that he’d displayed during the conversation at the airport. He glanced across at Jean Rook, as if for approval. She crossed her legs, tugged once at the hem of her skirt for form’s sake and poised her pen over her notepad.

Tim and Ricky sat down awkwardly on one of the two-seater settees. Ricky also took out pen and notebook.

“Mr de Vries, you know why I’m here. As you’re aware, I asked you if my officers could return this afternoon to begin a search of the premises, following the discovery on Sunday of what were apparently counterfeit passports in your cellar. Further searching has now yielded what appear to be human remains buried under the floor of the cellar. If that turns out to be correct, I must ask you if you had any prior knowledge of them? Can you shed light on how they came to be there?”

“I should have thought that it’s obvious that I don’t. I would hardly . . .”

“DI Yates, is this a formal interrogation? If so, don’t you think you should caution Mr de Vries?” Jean Rook’s tone was clinical.

“It’s informal in the sense that I’m not accusing Mr de Vries of any crime. I’m merely asking him to help us with our enquiries, by supplying as much information as he can.”

“So if you were to charge him formally, you would wish to caution him and go over the same ground again?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“In that case, bearing in mind that he is still jet-lagged, I would like to suggest that you desist . . .”

Kevan de Vries held up his hand in a languidly weary gesture.

“It’s all right, Jean. I’ll answer the questions. As you’re aware, my intention is to return to Joanna as quickly as I can. If this helps, I’m happy to comply.” He turned back to Tim.

“I really have no idea, and I’m as horrified as you are.”

“Has the cellar been refitted during the time that you’ve owned this house?”

“No, not in my time, and as far as I know, not in my grandfather’s, either. The cellar was just as it is now when I was a child coming to visit. That big old workbench was already there and the floor was flagged, just as you see it now. The only addition I’ve made is to have the third room – the one beyond the one where the workbench stands – turned into a wine-cellar.”

“What about the furniture that’s piled against the wall?”

“Some of it was removed from the main part of the house by my wife. She’s kept a lot of my grandfather’s things, but some of his stuff was just too big and heavy for our tastes. Some of it’s been there much longer.”

“You inherited this house from your grandfather?”

“That is correct.”

“Did your father pre-decease him?”

Kevan de Vries gave a disdainful shrug.

“Who knows, Detective Inspector? He may still be alive. My understanding is that he disappeared from the scene before I was born. My grandfather had two daughters, my mother and my aunt. No sons. I fulfil that role.”

“De Vries was your mother’s maiden name?”

“It was her only name. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out further. I’ve always been happy to bear my grandfather’s name. I’m proud of what he achieved.”

“Quite. You’re suggesting that the flagged floors and the workbench have been in the cellar since the house was built?”

Jean Rook opened her mouth to speak, but once again Kevan de Vries raised his hand to silence her.

“I’m suggesting that they were there when my grandfather bought the house, which was when I was quite a small child. Obviously I can’t say exactly how old they are.”

“Who holds the deeds?”

“They’re stored at my offices,” said Jean Rook. “I assume that you’re interested in knowing who the previous owner was?”

“Possibly,” Tim said. “That depends on how long ago the bones were buried, if indeed they’re human.”

“I know who the previous owner was,” Kevan de Vries volunteered unexpectedly. “It was an old lady. Her name was Mrs Jacobs. I believe that Jackie Briggs’s grandmother acted as a sort of paid companion to her.”

He was suddenly silent. He twisted his head to look back at the door. His face assumed an anxious look: anxious, but deeply absorbed. He didn’t speak for several minutes. He cast his eyes about the room, not vacantly, but as if searching for something, or someone, not visible.

“Mr de Vries, are you quite well?” Tim asked at length.