Chapter 24

Wednesday, 17^th March, 1971

Frank unlocked the front door of the Harrops’ house; he should think of it as Nancy’s house now. He was sure she’d never want to live in it, and because of its recent history he couldn’t imagine anyone else would. He pushed open the heavy door, half-expecting to see the hanging body of Clara Harrop in front of him. He turned and held the door open for Stuart, who was carrying a shopping bag.

‘Mabel packed us some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee,’ he said.

‘All’s well that ends well?’

Stuart smirked. ‘I feel a new man. I can tell you she put me through the wringer, but I think we’ll be all right now.’

‘Women, eh?’ Frank said, pulling a face.

Stuart stared at him. ‘What about, you know … Mrs Pemberton? Is that all finished?’

Frank closed the door behind them. ‘Yes. As far as I’m concerned, but who knows what might happen if she chooses to be vindictive? I was a fool, or to more precise, I let lust win over common sense.’

‘You’re only human, and she is a cracker.’

‘I let my infatuation with her cloud my judgement. I took an instant dislike to her husband for no good reason, and because of that I may have missed some vital clues. We’re no nearer to finding David, or what happened to him, than at the beginning of the investigation.’

They went to the kitchen and Stuart placed the shopping bag on the table. ‘I don’t know, we’ve got a connection between the school, Harrop and Luxton, and we think we know why David didn’t want to go back there. Hopefully Revie will be able to search the school. Who knows what he may find?’

‘Let’s hope it’s not dead bodies. At least some of the children may be saved from molestation, or even death. I wish we’d known when we went there.’

Stuart grimaced and struck his right fist into his left palm. ‘Too right. From what you told me, that Gary Salmon is a nutcase.’ He peeped into the shopping bag. ‘Not sure if I feel like having a picnic in this house.’

Frank nodded in agreement. ‘I’m with you there. We’ll search the house from the proverbial top to bottom, and break for lunch at the Cross Keys when we’ve finished upstairs. Or we can picnic on the beach?’

Stuart shuddered. ‘Too cold. We can eat the sandwiches in the car on the way home. I daren’t take them back. Got to keep in her good books.’

Frank looked at his watch. ‘Right, it’s ten o’clock. Let’s make a start.’ He passed a pair of cotton gloves to Stuart. ‘I promised Revie we’d wear these. He was pretty scathing, said if we found anything of value he’d buy the five of us a slap-up lunch at The Wentworth.’

‘That’s made my eyesight sharper. By the way, what are we looking for?’

Frank blew out his lips. ‘God knows, I certainly don’t.’

Laurel drove past The Maltings at Snape; it was a wonderful setting for the concert hall: close to the river Alde and surrounded by marshes. She must book and go to one of the concerts at the Music Festival in June. She took a right-hand fork into a narrow lane, wide enough for one vehicle. The dense, overhanging hedgerows were bare, except for stretches of blackthorn blossom. She slowed down and turned right between two brick pillars into a short, tarmacked drive with mown grass on each side. At the end was a Georgian house; its regimented architecture didn’t appeal to her, but it had its admirers, and Tucker must be one of them. A Land Rover and a Mercedes sat on a parking space in front of the house, which she had to admit was handsomely proportioned. There was an imposing central door, with two long windows on each side. The house was topped off with a gently sloping tiled roof with chimneys at each end. The art business must be good.

As she walked to the door it was opened by Hager, Tucker’s assistant. He bowed slightly. She felt like the visiting lady from the next-door manor.

She held out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Hager.’

He gave her a brief and painful handshake. She felt the bones crunch.

‘You don’t know your own strength, Mr Hager.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Bowman. Did I hurt you?’

He didn’t sound sorry. ‘Hardly at all. Where is Mr Tucker?’

‘This way, please.’

He led her into a marble-floored hall, sparsely furnished with three hall chairs and a two-tiered hat and coat stand. A wide central staircase led to the first floor. He opened a door on the right.

‘This is the parlour. Please take a seat, Mr Tucker will be with you in a few minutes.’

The ceiling was high, and the two sash windows made the room light and airy. The mahogany furniture matched the period of the house: a tall bookcase, three settees and a couple of armchairs on either side of a marble fireplace. Over this was an oil painting; it showed a young boy playing a musical instrument – a lute? He was dark-haired with peachy skin, his ruby-red lips half-open. The light from an oil lamp lit his face and created shadows. A man, half-hidden, watched him. It was beautifully and skilfully painted, but disturbing.

‘Miss Bowman, Laurel, I see you’re admiring my Caravaggio.’

She hadn’t heard him come into the room. ‘Mr Tucker, Ben. Is it really a Caravaggio?’

He laughed. ‘I wish it was; it’s a good copy, not modern. Perhaps by one of his followers.’

It was the only painting in the room, but there were light patches on the walls where other paintings had hung. ‘Are you changing your collection here as well as Aldeburgh?’

‘Ever the detective, eh? Yes, I’ve moved some to my gallery in London. My collection is an ever-changing scene. I might keep a painting for a few months, a few years, then if the price is right I sell it.’

She wondered where the other guests were. There was no sign of any one else. ‘Are your guests in the garden?’

‘I have to apologise, Miss Bowman, my friends had to leave this morning. Such a pity. I tried to phone you but couldn’t get through. However, I have briefed them about David and his particular style. They’ve promised to let me know immediately if they come across any of his work. If they do, I’ll get in touch with you or Mr Diamond.’

Prickles of suspicion raced down her backbone. Why hadn’t he been able to phone her? The telephones were working at Greyfriars.

‘That’s a pity. Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I’ll not stay for lunch. I need to meet Mr Diamond and Mr Elderkin in Aldeburgh.’

He pulled a distressed face. ‘Oh, but you must stay, poor Hager has spent all morning preparing the food. He’ll be dreadfully hurt if you go, and I won’t be able to eat everything. Please stay.’

‘I didn’t realise Hager was also your cook as well as your assistant in the gallery.’

‘He’s a wonder, can turn his hand to anything.’

Including trying to break my hand, she thought.

‘You will stay, won’t you? Oysters from Orford for the first course,’ he said, looking like a schoolboy who wanted his favourite catapult returned.

She laughed. ‘Thank you, I will.’ What harm was there in a few hours eating delicious food? Frank would be jealous when she recited the menu.

‘Thank you. Let’s go to the eating room, to give it it’s Georgian title.’ He led her to the room opposite the parlour. It was a similar size and again filled with mahogany furniture: an elegant table and six dining chairs, a sideboard displaying silver dishes and a wine cooler holding two bottles of wine. The table was set with silver cutlery and sparkling glasses.

Dining at Greyfriars was always civilised, but this was over the top for a casual lunch. She was pleased she was wearing her best blue suit and high heels.

‘Goodness, Mr Tucker, this is very impressive. The table looks beautiful.’

‘Thank you. I do like having guests, especially one whose beauty matches the surroundings. It’s my weakness – beauty.’

Laurel smiled at him, not sure what to say. Was that his right temptation? Beautiful objects? Somehow, although he’d paid her a compliment, she didn’t get the feeling women would interest him. Would men? What was his relationship with Hager? She couldn’t see it herself – Hager wasn’t ugly, but she didn’t find him attractive.

He pulled out one of the chairs for her, and Hager appeared carrying two oyster dishes. Frank would be mad.

He placed one of the dishes in front of her. His animosity seemed to seep across the air between them. He was not happy playing at waiter.

‘Thank you, Mr Hager. They look delicious. A real treat.’

He nodded curtly, served Tucker, and took one of the bottles from the wine cooler. The ice clinked against the lead liner. He poured some into her wine glass.

‘Thank you, not too much, I’ve got to drive back to Aldeburgh.’

He didn’t reply, poured wine into Tucker’s glass and left the room.

She chewed on an oyster, savouring its unique flavour, then took a sip of wine. Goodness, that was good. She looked at Tucker who was tipping an oyster down his throat: a swallower, such a waste.

‘I’m not sure of the wine; it isn’t Muscadet, is it?’

Tucker wiped his chin with a napkin. ‘Certainly not, Sancerre, a much better match.’

She looked forward to re-educating Frank. ‘I thought Mr Hager would be eating with us.’

Tucker, an oyster on its way to his mouth, paused. ‘He’s been too busy in the kitchen. My cook is on holiday, Hager’s cooking is a temporary measure, but he has enough basic culinary training to fill in for a time.’

This was why the house seemed empty, Tucker and Hager the only occupants. A house this size would need a housekeeper, a cook, and certainly a gardener. It looked well-maintained so the lack of staff must be recent. It was unsettling, no one else in the house but herself, Tucker and Hager, the missing pictures, the copy of the Caravaggio with the boy looking at you with knowing eyes. But the oysters were delicious.

Tucker chatted away as Hager came back to clear the plates and then brought each of them a grilled Dover sole, sauté potatoes and some spinach. The flesh slid away from the bones and was perfectly cooked. Ten out of ten to Hager.

‘I’m afraid Hager’s culinary skills don’t rise to puddings, so the last course is cheese,’ Tucker said, as Hager, face like a frozen cod, placed a wooden board with several cheeses on it, in front of her. She cut two pieces, Camembert and a blue cheese. Hager was getting on her nerves and she noticed Tucker giving him an old-fashioned look and a slight shake of the head. What had she done to annoy him so much?

Laurel folded her napkin and placed it on the side plate. The meal was over as far as she was concerned; she needed to get back to Aldeburgh and see if Frank and Stuart had discovered anything. ‘That was a delicious lunch, Ben. Mr Diamond will be upset when I tell him about the magnificence off the oysters and Dover sole.’

Tucker nibbled at a piece of Stilton. ‘He’s a bon viveur, is he, your Mr Diamond?’

Laurel smiled. ‘He’s a good cook.’ She waited until Ben put down his knife. ‘I must be off, but thank you once again.’

Tucker got up. ‘A quick cup of coffee before you depart? Hager’s already made it. We’ll go back to the parlour, shall we?’

She would have liked to have given it a miss, but it would seem rude to refuse; and she’d drunk two glasses of wine, so perhaps it would be a good idea to have a coffee.

‘Thank you.’ The hours spent here had been a waste as far as helping to find David. If she could have met Tucker’s friends perhaps something might have come of it.

Kelvin Hager spooned freshly ground coffee into the cafetiere and filled it to the maximum mark with water which was just off the boil; he stirred it and placed the lid on, waited a few minutes and then pushed down the handle. He placed two cups and saucers on a tray with hot milk in a silver jug, and a bowl containing lumps of brown sugar.

He took two bottles from a cupboard. Which one should he use? Rohypnol or GHB? He’d have preferred to use the side of this hand and have done with it. Why had Tucker invited her here? He’d said it was a back-up, a bargaining tool, in case things went arse over tit. He didn’t believe him. He felt like giving them both a dose and then finishing them off, but if Tucker died he’d be left as high and dry as a jellyfish on a beach.

He decided to use Rohypnol as GHB didn’t mix well with alcohol, and the bitch had drunk two glasses of wine. She was a smug bastard, thought she was as good as a man. Because she’d bettered the headmaster everyone treated her like a hero. Pity the headmaster hadn’t added her to his list of victims. But never mind, he’d add her to his list, which was much longer than the headmaster’s. Nicholson was an amateur; he was a professional, a trained killer. How many had he seen off? He wasn’t sure, he didn’t keep a score, didn’t put notches on his bedpost, or stick gold stars in a diary. He’d been cashiered from the army for violence – what did they expect? He’d met Tucker, or to put it another way, Tucker had engineered the meeting. He’d served him faithfully for fifteen years, with the promise when the time came for them to leave the country, he’d be well looked after. He’d have a high-level job in the government, one which suited his skills, plus a luxurious apartment and the finest whores Moscow could provide. He’d even learnt bloody Russian. Now he was suspicious. Tucker’s attitude to him had recently changed. Did he intend to travel solo and leave him holding the can?

He wasn’t sure. But if he found Tucker was double crossing him …Why make things more difficult by involving this bitch? What was Tucker up to making him cook lunch for her? Treating him like a servant? At the beginning, he’d enjoyed fooling the suckers who came to the house, because he knew what they were in for. How he’d scared them to death when they realised the shit they’d were in. The bluster soon stopped when they saw the evidence and he mentioned the names and addresses of their wives, children or lovers. A few cracks of his knuckles and a squeeze round their throats were enough to make them shit their trousers. Yes, he’d enjoyed that. Then Tucker made him nursemaid to that squit upstairs and now he was adding Miss Bloody Bowman to the menagerie.

He carefully measured some liquid from one of the bottles and poured it into a coffee cup. He poured out the coffee and picked up the tray. He entered the parlour and placed it on a low table; he handed one cup to the bitch.

‘Cream? Sugar?’

‘Cream, please, no sugar. Thank you for the lunch, Mr Hager.’

He smiled at her. She frowned.

‘My pleasure, Miss Bowman.’

He half-bowed and silently left the room. He washed up while he waited. Waiting. Waiting. Fifteen years waiting. He was sick of mixing with old queens, buttering them up, listening to them braying away to Tucker, seeing their faces when after aphrodisiacs in their drinks, they’d been offered what they most desired. He was sick of filming them buggering children, although some of the old ones could only manage kissing and fondling. But it was enough. He was ready for a proper job. Searching out dissidents and making them squeal out their secrets. That was a proper work.

Tucker came into the kitchen. ‘She’s unconscious. What did you use? Rohypnol?’

Hager nodded.

‘Minimal dose?’

‘As you said.’

‘Good. Take her upstairs, put her with him. Make sure you place her on her side.’

They went to the parlour. The bitch was lying on the settee, her head on a cushion, her mouth open, breathing heavily. She wasn’t bad looking, good figure. He hadn’t had a woman for a few weeks. The whores of Ipswich avoided him, didn’t like his idea of playful sex. Tucker was looking at him. He picked her up, she was warm against him, her head lolling against his shoulder.

‘You’re not to touch her, that’s an order,’ Tucker barked. ‘You’ll have plenty of women soon enough.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll come up with you. I’ll unlock the door.’ He doesn’t trust me. And I don’t trust him.