‘I hope this isn’t a total waste of time,’ yawned Camilla, following her finger along a road map. ‘Hang on. I think we should have taken the left about two miles back.’
‘You’re navigating, I’m trusting you,’ snapped Venetia from behind the wheel of her navy-blue four-by-four. They were both feeling irritable, having been up and on the road by seven a.m. to make the long drive to Derbyshire. The bleak beauty of the Peak District suited their mood, with its olive green hillsides, barren fields, stone walls etched with frost, snow settling on distant peaks like a catholic veil.
After Camilla’s confession and Serena’s breathless revelations about Alistair Craigdale’s letter, Cate had called a council of war among the four sisters to examine the evidence. Not only was Craigdale still possibly alive, the letter Serena had found seemed to suggest that the missing earl had an almost murderous hatred for Oswald. Written in a shaky hand and full of threats and ugly promises, Craigdale’s letter confirmed what Aunt Sarah had told Cate in Paris: that Oswald had discovered that Maggie and Craigdale were having an affair and had confronted Alistair about it, warning him to stay away from his wife. By the threatening tone of the letter, Craigdale didn’t like it one bit. It was postmarked shortly before the Craigdale Killing. Cate wondered if Alistair’s love for Maggie and jealousy had pushed him over the edge even then.
After some debate, the girls decided that they needed to know more about the Craigdale case, even if it was only to deflect the finger of suspicion from them. They swung into a frenzy of desperate activity. Camilla suggested that speaking to the person who’d been investigating officer in the case would be a good place to start. Nick had a friend on the Sunday Times newsdesk, and within two hours they had a name – Inspector Jim Dalgleish – now retired to Great Asquith in Derbyshire. By ten p.m. they had made the call to the retired police inspector; he sounded irritated to be roused, until he found out the caller was a Balcon sister and that they wanted to talk about Craigdale. He had invited them up at once.
‘This must be it,’ said Camilla, pointing at the sign as Venetia’s four-by-four purred around a tight bend. Great Asquith was little more than a street of cottages, and Jim Dalgleish’s house was at the end of the terrace. The house was made from honey-coloured stone, a holly wreath was nailed to the fire-engine-red front door, and a spiral of smoke escaped the chimney into the pewter sky. Retired Inspector Jim Dalgleish answered the door. He must have been about the same age as Oswald, but had weathered considerably less well. Faded tweed trousers hung off a rake-thin frame, brown socks bagged around checked slippers. A small mongrel dog snapped happily at the new visitors as he beckoned them in.
He switched off the television and offered the girls a seat on a worn sofa.
‘We were surprised to find you this far south,’ said Venetia, grateful that the drive had been only four hours rather than ten. ‘We assumed you must live in Scotland.’
Dalgleish smiled. ‘The name? No, I came from these parts originally. My wife is from here too. It made sense to return when I retired. Tea?’
The girls shook their heads. They’d had enough tea recently. Dalgleish sat back in his chair officiously, his eyes still bright and watchful.
‘So,’ he began briskly. ‘You want to know about Craigdale? I suppose your father will have told you the story over the years. I’m sorry, by the way,’ he said, pointing at the blank television screen, ‘I saw it on the news. They never seem to talk about anything else at the moment.’
‘Thank you. And yes, we know a little about Craigdale,’ said Camilla carefully. ‘We just wanted to know what you thought.’
‘Why do you want to know about Craigdale now?’ The old man was still sharp.
Camilla glanced at Venetia, both girls unsure of how much to tell to a stranger. Dalgleish was a retired copper, but he would no doubt still have connections in the force.
‘We just wanted to find out everything about our father’s past,’ said Venetia, knowing it sounded lame. Dalgleish seemed to understand that she was holding something back, but let it go.
‘I don’t know how much you know already,’ he said, his eyes beginning to sparkle as if he was relishing telling the story once more. He took a sip of his tea and wiped his top lip.
‘Lord Alistair Craigdale was one of Scotland’s most glamorous aristocrats. He went missing after Gordon Spencer was murdered in the grounds of his home, Craigdale Castle – gosh, almost thirty years ago to the day,’ he recalled, looking both women in the eyes. ‘Craigdale was a great entertainer. That weekend, all of his crowd, including the wives, were up for a shooting party. That afternoon, the men were wrapping up the shoot and making their way back to the house, but Craigdale had gone on ahead of the party. The stable girl had seen Alistair and Gordon rowing; then, about thirty minutes later, Spencer was found dead in the stables with a bullet straight through his chest. The bullet was an exact match with the one from Craigdale’s hunting rifle. It was fairly cut and dried that Craigdale did it. Spencer was having an affair with his wife, Laura. Driven mad by jealousy, Craigdale killed Gordon. It was all pretty straightforward.’
Venetia gave Camilla a sideways glance. So far, Dalgleish had not told them anything new: his story matched everything that had been written about the case in the media.
‘Then the case got murkier,’ continued Dalgleish more quietly. ‘Craigdale went missing almost immediately after the shooting. Before anyone had time to – or should I say, got round to – calling the police.’
‘What do you mean, “got round to”?’ asked Camilla.
‘The question was never really about who killed Gordon Spencer – that was fairly open and shut,’ said Dalgleish. ‘The question was, what happened next? Craigdale’s car was found on the northern shores of Loch Ness days later. The waters were swept, of course, but nothing was ever found. It’s over a thousand feet deep down there, did you know that? People assumed he had committed suicide.’
‘And what did you think?’ asked Camilla, knowing he thought otherwise.
‘I never had anything to back up what I’m about to tell you – nothing except a policeman’s hunch,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But I always got the feeling that his friends knew far more than they were letting on when we interviewed them. The police were called so late, there had to have been some sort of cover-up. I believe his friends spirited him away and harboured him for many years afterwards. Possibly they still are doing.’
‘What gave you that impression?’ asked Venetia, curiously.
‘As I said, a policeman’s hunch. I took their statements, but I always felt that they were not as upset as they should have been if a close friend had just committed suicide. At first I thought it was just the upper classes keeping a stiff upper lip, but it just nagged at me. Then I found out that some of Craigdale’s friends owed him a great deal; possibly enough to risk their own reputations to help him.’
‘Like what?’ asked Venetia.
‘Did you know that Philip Watchorn and Craigdale were friends at Oxford? Watchorn didn’t come from the wealthy background he pretends to, and Craigdale put him up rent-free when they moved out of college after their first year. He was almost like a benefactor to Watchorn, and you could tell that Watchorn was terribly, terribly grateful. Craigdale was also one of the first investors in Nicholas Charlesworth’s club at a time when gambling was considered a risky venture, and he bailed Jimmy Jenkins’s business out when it was on the verge of bankruptcy. At the time Craigdale went missing, all three men were powerful, rich, successful and connected. They were all in a strong position to get him out of the country. For me, it felt like it was payback time for Craigdale.’
Camilla and Venetia couldn’t help but notice their father had yet to be mentioned, despite being at the heart of Craigdale’s social group.
‘And our father?’ asked Camilla, wondering what he could possibly have owed Alistair Craigdale. Oswald Balcon behaved as if he didn’t owe anybody anything.
‘Oswald? I’m not sure,’ said Dalgleish thoughtfully. ‘I got the impression that he was not as close to Craigdale as the others. Or, more accurately, he had less reason to be in debt to him.’
Venetia had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from telling him that Maggie Balcon had been having an affair with Craigdale.
‘Do you think any of this has any bearing on what happened to our father?’ she asked.
‘Ah, so that’s why you’re here,’ smiled Dalgleish. ‘No, I haven’t given it a second’s thought, to be honest. Didn’t your father just slip and fall from your rooftop?’
‘He did,’ said Camilla briskly. ‘It was a terrible accident.’
But Venetia wanted to probe him more. ‘Do you think the Craigdale Killing might have any relevance today?’
‘Relevance?’ repeated Dalgleish, frowning. ‘Well, it all happened so long ago I’m not sure whether “relevant” is quite the right word to use, my dear. The only impact I think it might have would be on Craigdale’s friends. If they really did spirit him away, and if they were ever found out … Well, men that rich, that important, they don’t want ghosts that big to come back and haunt them.’
The shrill ring of her mobile roused Serena from a light afternoon sleep.
‘Yes?’ she asked sleepily, pulling back the cashmere throw she was curled under.
‘It’s Michael,’ said the voice.
Serena sighed softly. She’d been trying to blot out his dramatic reappearance at the party, knowing she should turn him down flat, but not being quite able to deal with it at the present moment.
‘What do you want?’ She didn’t mean it to sound rude, but she was not in the mood.
‘A car is going to arrive at Huntsford in about twenty minutes. I want you to get in it and come and meet me.’
‘Michael, please. I am eight months pregnant. I’m exhausted …’
‘Come on, Serena, I think you’ll like it.’
She opened her eyes, curiosity jolting her awake. ‘What’s the it?’
‘Just get in the car and I’ll show you.’
They were heading to London, that much was clear, although the driver of the Mercedes had been unwilling to tell her precisely where she was to meet Michael. Serena sat back in the supple leather seat, smoothing the lines of her dark jersey dress. She had dressed with a nod to a funeral dress code, in case she was spotted by paparazzi. Ebony sheared mink shrug, charcoal Chanel quilt bag, black pearl earrings in her lobes, hair scooped up and held in a mother-of-pearl clip. She looked good, but she still felt tired. Daylight was draining from the sky and rose-pink clouds hovered above. Then motorway became surburb as they turned along the banks of the Thames.
‘Almost there now, Miss,’ said the driver.
Where are we going? thought Serena, looking out of the smoke-tinted window.
The car parked outside an expensive-looking apartment block overlooking Chelsea Harbour, the front made almost totally out of glass. Serena had been vaguely aware of the prestigious development while it was being built. Discreet, secure, exclusive, it was now home to numerous celebrities and London’s super-rich. The driver punched a security code into the door and motioned her inside.
‘Top floor,’ he told her.
Not one to waste words, smiled Serena to herself as she got into the silver lift. The door hissed open onto a large lobby with chocolate-leather-lined walls. A door at the far side of the lobby was slightly ajar, and Serena pushed it gently, walking into a huge living space. It was a shell – devoid of furniture – but what a shell! Thick oyster-coloured carpets, big walnut doors, a vast open-plan kitchen in cream and chrome, and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a splendid view of the river and the skyline of Chelsea. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Michael in a dark grey suit holding two flutes of champagne.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s fantastic,’ said Serena, still looking around to take in every detail. The apartment occupied the entire width of the building and, from the look of the spiral stairs in the corner, it was a duplex.
‘It’s yours,’ said Michael.
Serena’s pulse quickened. ‘Mine?’
‘Well,’ replied Michael, putting down the flutes on the kitchen top and striding over to embrace her. ‘It’s yours if you marry me.’
Serena caught her breath. She should have guessed. Michael was used to getting whatever he wanted in business and in life. She hadn’t said yes to his marriage proposal at the party, and this was his way of upping his offer.
‘Michael,’ she said softly, shaking her head. ‘You can’t bribe me into marrying you. It’s a massive decision and we have to do the best thing for our baby.’
‘This is not a bribe, it’s a wedding present,’ said Michael, sweeping his arms expansively round the apartment. ‘I know you weren’t really happy in New York, so I thought we could live here for part of the year. I want to expand my European operations anyway. Serena, we can make it work.’ He brought his arms back around her, his hands skimming over the curves of her body, sending shocks of desire through her.
Although she had tried to ignore the thought of Michael’s proposal over the last few days, it was an idea that refused to be suppressed. It had been a foul year for her, and for months she had blamed it all on Michael. But she was nothing if not practical, and she knew that if Michael had been the reason for all her problems – splitting with Tom, the unplanned pregnancy, the failing career, he could also be the solution. The roaring anger she had felt after Cannes had slowly dimmed and been replaced by something else: fear. The thought that her life could continue on the same downwards trajectory terrified her. Serena wanted to be someone, not a no one. She could not face living in the cold.
Michael pulled her head into his shoulder. He smelt good: like lime and musk.
‘Come on, Serena. The chopper is at Battersea heliport. We can take the jet out to Vegas. Let’s do it now,’ he said, squeezing her hands.
‘Michael, my father has just died,’ said Serena, gently pulling away to look into his dark eyes. ‘The funeral is in a week. And, anyway, I still need to think about it.’
‘Let’s just do it,’ he repeated. ‘Oswald is dead, but don’t let that stop you living life.’
‘Michael, please.’
‘Serena, I want you. For ever.’ His voice was soft, but had an edge of steel. He was making her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
A montage of the images from the past ten months flashed through her mind: Loss, grief, betrayal. She stroked her stomach. New life.
‘Say yes, Serena.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Tom Archer picked up the phone again. For the last fifteen minutes he had been hovering by it, picking up the receiver, staring at the dial, then putting it back onto its cradle, unable actually to make the call. He swore under his breath and steeled himself. ‘Come on, Tom, come on,’ he muttered. He snatched up the telephone and quickly punched in the numbers for Huntsford Castle. He had already tried Serena’s mobile, which it seemed was no longer in use. ‘Why am I doing this? Why?’ he asked himself out loud. Maybe it was Nick’s constant badgering at him to call Serena, or maybe Christmas was actually making him soft. Either way, there were a thousand reasons never to make contact with Serena again, and only one reason to do so: because he wanted to hear her voice.
Despite himself, he had followed the story of Oswald’s death fanatically since the story broke. The media had gone crazy for the story, chasing their tails with wild theories about suicide, murder and drunken decadence, and Tom wondered how his ex-girlfriend was coping with one more trauma to deal with. Oswald had been a difficult bastard, but Serena had loved him, he knew that much. He paced up and down, the phone to his ear, his stomach flipping as he listened impatiently to the rings. Finally he heard a voice. Mrs Collins.
‘Oh, hello there. Is it possible to speak to Serena?’
Mrs Collins’ voice was guarded, having spent the last three days fielding calls from the press. ‘It’s not a good time at the moment. Who is it that’s calling?’
‘It’s Tom. Tom Archer. Hello, Mrs C.’
‘Oh Tom. Of course,’ said Mrs Collins, delighted to speak to the star again. ‘I’m afraid Miss Serena has just left. Some car came to pick her up. You’ve missed her by a minute.’
‘Oh. Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid. But I can leave a message to say you called and I’m sure she’ll call back when she can.’
‘No. No message,’ Tom said. ‘But Merry Christmas anyway.’ Tom put the phone down carefully, wondering where and with whom she’d gone, wondering if she would ever bother to return the call. Wondering if he had left it all too late.
The Mercedes snaked back along Cheyne Walk, past the long line of red-brick townhouses, moving at a snail’s pace. They’d already detoured via Serena’s flat to pick up her passport and a small holdall of things, and Michael was getting impatient.
‘Serena, please hurry!’ Michael had snapped impatiently as Serena had rifled through her wardrobe. ‘We can buy you whatever clothes you want when we get to Vegas.’
Back on the riverfront, the road was unusually busy and it had begun to rain. Michael balled his fist in frustration as the car became caught up in a long queue of traffic. ‘Come on, move it,’ he snarled.
Serena tilted her head against the window, looking through the spots of rain, and saw with surprise that they had stopped right outside her old Cheyne Walk house. There was light glowing from the front bay, the outline of a Christmas tree, a bushy holly wreath on the front door. It looked warm, lived in, a happy house. And that’s what it had been when she had lived there too, she thought, a wave of regret suddenly overwhelming her. Tom Archer.
From this distance, she could see how things had soured between her and Tom towards the end, how complacent they had become. They’d both taken each other for granted and neglected to keep the fire of their relationship burning. But there had been plenty of good times in that house: reading scripts in bed, croissant crumbs and jam messing the sheets, or just lying together at night, entwined, watching Albert Bridge twinkle. And then there were those legendary cocktail parties, with Tom’s terrible margaritas and even worse karaoke. She smiled and wondered where he was now. And with whom. That thought made her nauseous.
The driver swung the car around and began to thread through the traffic, expertly finding a route through the gridlock; ten minutes later they were turning into the heliport. Michael took her arm and led her through a small terminal building and out onto the concrete helipad, where the rotors of the midnight-blue Sarkis Corporation helicopter were already spinning. Michael ran ahead, ducking his head to avoid the down-draught of the blades, and opened the door of the helicopter to speak to the pilot. Serena hesitated and hung back.
‘Serena! Come on!’ Michael shouted back to her, ‘it’s time to go!’
‘Michael, I …’
Sarkis turned back to her, a confident smile on his face. ‘Come on, when we get back to New York, we’re going to throw a big party,’ he said, his voice shouting to be heard above the whirling blast of the blades. ‘You’re going to love it!’
She stared at his shape against the night sky. His cashmere overcoat flapping in the turbulence, his arm beckoning her over.
‘Can we just make terrible margaritas and sing karaoke?’ she yelled back, clutching her hands to her head to stop her hair whipping around in the wind.
Michael looked back at her, totally perplexed. ‘What? What the hell do you want to do that for?’
‘Do you like watching Albert Bridge twinkle?’ she yelled, smiling now, a thought of enormous clarity dawning on her.
‘Serena, I don’t understand you.’
She shook her head, laughing. ‘No, I know. You never did, Michael.’
Michael opened the helicopter door. ‘Do you just want to get inside?’
‘No,’ she shouted, moving away from him and pulling her shrug as tightly around her body as she could. ‘No, I don’t, and I don’t think I ever will. Goodbye, Michael.’
And she turned back and ran into the terminal.
While Camilla and Venetia were in Derbyshire, Cate was restless. She was tired from her trip to Paris, but she still wanted to feel useful, to do something – anything – that would help sort out the mess. She did what she always did in times of crisis: work. Recruiting Nick as her research assistant, she drove into London to St Pancras and the modernist monolith of the British Library, convinced that somewhere in its vaults there would be information about the case that would give them a clue on where to go next.
After three hours of searching through books, papers and magazines, however, Cate felt they were going nowhere fast. There had been very little in all the thousands of words written about the Craigdale Killing that they didn’t already know.
‘There’s nothing, is there?’ said Nick, rubbing his eyes, blurry from staring at the microfiche screen. ‘Want to get lunch?’
‘I suppose so.’
Cate felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket and held up a finger to Nick. ‘One minute,’ she mouthed, realizing that mobile-phone conversations probably wouldn’t go down too well in the British Library.
‘Hi Van,’ she said, moving into the foyer to talk. ‘How’s Derbyshire?’
‘Interesting,’ said Venetia down the line. ‘Jim Dalgleish, the policeman who was in charge of the case, doesn’t believe Alistair Craigdale killed himself at all. He thinks his friends helped him escape out of the country and that they have been hiding him ever since.’
‘Who would hide him all this time?’ said Cate incredulously.
‘Philip Watchorn, Nicholas Charlesworth, Jimmy Jenkins. Maybe even Daddy. If Dalgleish is right and Craigdale is still alive, he could easily have killed Daddy and disappeared again!’
Cate wasn’t so sure. The theory of Alistair coming back from the dead had been buzzing around her head since she’d visited Aunt Sarah’s apartment. But why would he come back after thirty years?
Because he missed England, thought Cate suddenly.
Random pieces of thought started slotting together. Obviously Craigdale’s exile would have suited Lord Balcon, but why would Craigdale stay away for so long? His home, his family were here. After all this time, he could easily have returned to the UK and lived quietly among friends. But only if those friends cooperated. Oswald would have known if Craigdale was back. He hated Craigdale: it would be just like him to hold a lifelong grudge. He could have caused all sorts of trouble. Looking at it that way, Oswald was the only man standing between Craigdale and a return to his life in England.
Cate hung up from Venetia and found Nick waiting for her.
‘Ready for lunch?’ he said, pulling on his coat. ‘I’m starving.’
‘No, come on, we’re going back inside,’ said Cate, pulling his sleeve. She steered him into a small alcove.
‘Where are you taking me?’ said Nick with an amused smile.
‘Inspector Dalgleish thinks that Craigdale was put into hiding by his friends.’ She had an earnest, concentrated expression that made Nick smile. ‘That tallies with what Aunt Sarah was saying about my mother getting a letter from Craigdale from Belize.’
‘It was just that …’ she paused, unsure of herself now. ‘… It’s just something Jennifer Watchorn said to me earlier this year. I was talking about doing a fashion shoot in Costa Rica and Jennifer was raving about how beautiful Central America was. It was as if she’d been there. I’m sure I read something in an old magazine years ago …’ She trailed off, shaking her head, and started to pull Nick up the staircase.
‘Philip and Jennifer got married about thirty-five years ago. Let’s go and check out all the society mags from the time. I bet they were interviewed. I know I’ve read something about it,’ she muttered.
‘So what magazines are we looking for, then?’ called Nick, trotting to keep up as Cate strode off.
‘Tatler; it was called The Tatler then. Debutante, Talk, all those. Don’t you know anything about magazines?’ she smiled.
‘But what are we looking for?’ he whispered as they found a corner in the research room.
‘See if you can find anything at all about Philip or Jennifer Watchorn: profiles, news pieces, interviews. I know it’s in here somewhere. I just know it.’
Her fingers stopped at page eighty-four in an ancient Talk magazine. It was only a single-page interview, but that figured: Philip Watchorn was just a London mover and shaker in those days, not the international player he was to become. Jennifer Watchorn smiled out of the picture in a taffeta gown, blonde hair swept up into a tall beehive. She was terribly beautiful in her day, thought Cate, considering Jennifer’s tight, face-lifted appearance now.
The interview was short, but boastful and indiscreet. Here was someone who could not believe her luck at having made the jump from air stewardess to society wife in twelve months: she was bursting to tell the world about it. Cate’s finger ran down the text as she read on. The interview was all about Jennifer’s forthcoming marriage to ‘handsome financier’ Philip Watchorn. The dress by Ossie Clark, the reception at the Savoy, the honeymoon travelling around Central America. She read the quote, her hand running slowly under each word. ‘We are spending a week at the lodge my fiancé has recently bought in Belize. It’s remote and wild and beautiful.’
‘Bingo!’ whispered Cate.