The offices of English, Armstrong & Partners were in an eighteenth-century terraced house just off St. James’s Square in the West End. It was an area teeming with gentlemen’s clubs, fine-art dealers and hedge fund managers, where rental costs commanded a small fortune. Based on location alone, the business appeared to be successful. Minderedes had called ahead and when he and Tartaglia arrived, they were told that Ian Armstrong was finishing up a conference call and would be down shortly. They were shown into a large, thickly carpeted meeting room at the front of the building on the ground floor that reminded Tartaglia of an expensive dentist’s waiting room.
‘Black or white?’ Minderedes asked, helping himself to coffee from the selection of hot and cold drinks on the side table.
‘Black,’ Tartaglia said, picking up a glossy brochure from a display rack by the door. The name ‘Stoneleigh Park Hotel’ was printed across a picture of a neo-classical Georgian mansion. Inside was a series of interior shots and a blurb about the place’s history, its Michelin-starred restaurant and its spa. He had read about Stoneleigh Park somewhere, he thought, not that he had the time or reason to go to a place like that. Or maybe his sister, Nicoletta, had told him about it.
Minderedes brought two cups of coffee over to the table. ‘You really think Lisa English is somehow involved in her husband’s disappearance?’ he asked.
‘Anything’s possible.’ They had been through the various scenarios in the car together but nothing stood out. ‘On paper, she has the most to gain financially.’
As Minderedes sat down, his phone started to ring. ‘It’s English’s first wife,’ he said, looking at the screen. ‘I left a message for her. Shall I take it here?’
‘No. You’d better go outside. Armstrong should be down any minute and I don’t want him knowing what’s going on. Tell her we need a DNA swab asap from her son. And while you’re at it, call the office and see if we’ve had any more luck with the DNA samples from the mortuary. I’ll come and find you when I’m done.’
A moment later, he heard the front door slam and saw Minderedes streak past the window, one hand futilely attempting to shield his hair from the rain, his mobile phone cradled in the other, as he ran in the direction of the car. Tartaglia looked around the high-ceilinged room, then got up from the table and went over to study the numerous framed business awards hanging on one of the walls. Some related to hotels, others to various property funds.
He had just finished his coffee and was debating whether to help himself to a refill when the door opened and a small, slim, grey-haired man walked in. He was conventionally dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, with a plain blue silk tie, and wore polished black lace-up shoes. Mr Nuts and Bolts was how Lisa English had described him; to Tartaglia he looked like an accountant, albeit a well-heeled one.
He held out his hand, with a flash of gold cufflink at the sleeve. ‘I’m Ian Armstrong. I hear you’ve found Richard’s wallet – and that there’s a body. Can you tell me what happened?’
They sat down at the table and Tartaglia outlined the basic details of the car park fire.
‘Are these his keys?’ He passed Armstrong the clear plastic bag.
Armstrong peered at them, before passing them back. ‘Those are definitely Richard’s, I recognise the fob. So it looks like it’s him in this car?’ He spoke quietly, with an indeterminate northern twang.
‘We’re waiting for DNA confirmation.’
‘But you’re from a murder squad, so we’re talking foul play?’
‘It looks that way.’
Armstrong examined his well-manicured nails, and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it’s inevitable. I mean, I knew something must’ve happened to him, but where’s he been all this time? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘So would we, Mr Armstrong,’ Tartaglia replied, studying Armstrong closely. His face gave little away but his reaction seemed genuine enough. ‘Could you tell me a bit more about your business and Mr English’s role in it?’
Armstrong leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘Richard and I have known each other for over forty years. We built this business up more or less from scratch and we have a number of interests. I deal mainly with the property side of things, while Richard was more involved with the hotels.’
‘Stoneleigh Park’s one of yours, then?’ Tartaglia asked, gesturing towards the brochure.
‘Yes. It’s our flagship.’
‘Is the business in good financial shape?’
Armstrong gave a faint smile, like a woman who’d been paid a compliment. ‘I’d say so. We turned in a pre-tax profit last financial year of just under twenty million.’
‘You and Richard English own the business?’
‘We have some outside backers but we control the voting rights.’
‘Is there any reason you can think of why Mr English might have wanted to disappear? Anything going on in his business he might have wanted to get away from?’
‘No.’ Armstrong’s tone was emphatic. ‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘I went through all likely scenarios in my mind when he went missing, but there’s no reason at all I can think of.’
‘His wife seems to think it’s a possible explanation.’
Armstrong rolled his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t go listening to Lisa, Inspector. She watches too much telly. Anyway, Richard’s not the sort of man to run away from trouble.’
Tartaglia was surprised that Armstrong dismissed the idea so casually. If he had been secretly helping English in some way, either financially or in concealing his whereabouts, it would be traceable. But that didn’t concern the murder investigation for now.
‘Did Mr English have any enemies?’ he asked.
Armstrong sighed. ‘This is business, Inspector. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, as they say.’
‘Enough for somebody to want to kill him?’
Armstrong shook his head. ‘I don’t see it. Everything we do is above board. We’ve never been on the wrong side of the law. We haven’t had to.’
Again, this was something they would check more thoroughly in due course, if there was a stronger reason to do so. ‘You reported Mr English as missing only a couple of hours after he failed to turn up to a meeting. You were pretty quick to raise the alarm.’
‘It was a very important meeting with one of our major investors. Richard was supposed to lead it. When he didn’t show and didn’t call, I knew something was wrong.’
‘It says in the report that he hadn’t been in the office for a few days.’
‘That’s right. He’d been dealing with an issue at one of our hotels up in Scotland, but he was on the plane down to London that morning. His PA spoke to him just after he landed. He told her he was getting the Heathrow Express to Paddington and was going to stop by his flat to change his clothes before coming into the office. That’s the last we heard of him. The missing person investigation was pretty unsatisfactory, so I hired a PI. He’s an ex-copper and he went through everything, looked at all the angles, but he also drew a complete blank.’
‘Who’s the PI?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘A man called McCann. He came highly recommended.’
‘Mike McCann?’
‘I don’t remember his Christian name but you can talk to him if you like.’
‘Thank you. Is it possible Lisa helped Mr English to disappear?’
Armstrong frowned. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Why is that such an odd idea?’
‘Because it is. I knew everything that went on with Richard. Everything. We had no secrets. Besides, they weren’t speaking.’
‘OK,’ Tartaglia said, surprised at his vehemence. ‘Tell me a bit about their relationship, their marriage.’
‘What’s there to tell? Let’s just say it had run its course and it was time to move on.’
‘How did she feel about it?’
‘How did she feel?’ Armstrong looked puzzled, as though it was an odd question. ‘Upset to start with, I guess. Nobody likes being yesterday’s news.’
His tone was matter-of-fact, but genuine feelings, such as those Tartaglia sensed when talking to Lisa Armstrong, were not so easily dismissed. Maybe in Armstrong and English’s world feelings didn’t matter, or didn’t exist; maybe money was all that counted and people could be bought off.
‘Could she have had a hand in his disappearance, do you think?’ Tartaglia asked.
Armstrong looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Bumped him off ? I did wonder, what with his disappearing so soon after he filed for divorce. But if she was mixed up in it, she’d have needed help. I had McCann watch her – cost an arm and a leg – but according to McCann there was no evidence she was seeing someone else.’
‘Was Richard English seeing anybody else?’
‘A girlfriend, you mean?’
Tartaglia nodded.
‘Nobody serious.’
‘I’ll need her name and details when we’re done.’
Armstrong sighed. ‘You’re wasting your time. She knows nothing.’ He leaned forward towards Tartaglia. ‘Look, Inspector, neither of us was born with a silver spoon and we made it up the ladder the hard way. As far as Richard was concerned, the business was his family. He put everything into it and it was everything to him. Nothing else mattered.’
Tartaglia wondered if Armstrong was actually speaking for himself, although what he said tallied with Lisa English’s account of what her husband had been like. But maybe Mike McCann would be able to reveal another angle.
‘So, you’d describe Richard English as ruthless?’
‘Single-minded, focussed, obsessive. Like all successful people, very driven.’
‘If anything or anyone got in his way he’d remove them?’
‘Yes. Though without breaking the law, obviously.’
‘I hear you inherit some of Mr English’s shares if he’s declared dead. Is it a meaningful amount?’
‘It gives me just enough for control of the business. That’s the whole point of it.’
‘How much are they worth?’
‘The company’s not quoted, but based on our last set of accounts and the valuation formula we use, they probably come to a few million pounds, that’s all. But they’re voting shares, as I said. The strategic value is worth a lot more than that to me. My will is made out in Richard’s favour in exactly the same way.’ He made it sound as though nothing could be more natural and fair.
Armstrong surely couldn’t be so disingenuous, and it was Tartaglia’s turn to smile. ‘Yes, but you’re sitting here, alive, Mr Armstrong, while he’s missing.’
Armstrong’s expression hardened. ‘Before you go getting any silly ideas, I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Richard’s head and I miss him more than anything. He was closer to me than anyone.’
Tartaglia returned his stare. ‘Then what do you think happened to him? You must have a theory?’
Ian Armstrong leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Honest to God, Inspector, I’ve absolutely no idea. I’ve thought about little else for the last two years, I can tell you, and I’d give a lot more than my right arm to find out.’
Even though he spoke forcefully, it didn’t ring true. He must have formed some sort of an idea, however unlikely, about what had happened and why his business partner had disappeared without warning off the face of the earth. Given that he seemed to want to solve the mystery, it was odd that he didn’t want to share his thoughts. They would need to look into English’s finances, but assuming he wasn’t in financial trouble, it gave Lisa English a strong motive to get rid of him. There was also the possibility that he was in some other kind of hot water and had needed to disappear. Maybe he had arranged it all to look as though he had been murdered, or possibly he and Lisa had arranged it together and the so-called split was just a cover story. But if so, who were the other victims in the burnt-out car?
Outside in the street, it had stopped raining. Tartaglia took a few deep breaths of the cold, damp air as he walked quickly along to where Minderedes was parked. He was struck again by the force of Armstrong’s denial when he had suggested that English might have kept secrets from him, or might have planned to disappear without involving him. The reaction had seemed genuine, but maybe the man was a good actor.
The BMW idled in the parking bay, windscreen wipers flipping back and forth rhythmically. Tartaglia opened the door, slid into the warm passenger seat and stretched out his legs. Minderedes was still on his phone.
‘He’s here now,’ he said to whoever was at the other end, glancing over quickly at Tartaglia. ‘OK. I’ll tell him.’ He hung up. ‘That was the Guv’nor. She wanted to know if we’d heard anything from Sam. I said we hadn’t, so I think she’s going to send Sharon over to see her.’
‘Good idea,’ Tartaglia replied. Donovan had been asleep when he left home early that morning, or at least the bedroom door had been closed, with no sign of a light on the other side. Things had been moving so fast since then that he’d had no time to call her to check how she was, let alone find out what was going on with the Dillon investigation. ‘Any news on the DNA?’
‘Not yet. They’re still checking all the relevant databases. In the meantime, I’ve arranged to meet the first wife.’
‘What about the son? When can we get a DNA sample?’
‘She’s ringing the school to sort it. Someone from the local station will be going out there to take the swab. Where to now?’
‘I need to make a call. Did you ever come across a DI called Mike McCann when you were working up in Hendon?’