Lane accompanied Alan to the police station to take a witness statement about Candice’s suicide. As they headed towards Ely through the low mists of morning, Lane told Alan that Sebastian had, at last, confessed to Stan’s killing.
‘He gave him whisky, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Lane replied. ‘Just upstream of the mill.’
That was all Alan needed to know. They drove in silence while Alan thought about his friend’s sad end. And it was so sad. He felt numb and wanted desperately to return home to Harriet. But it would have to wait.
The rush-hour traffic was building up, and there were interminable road works on the Downham Road, just outside town, but eventually they arrived at the police station. While they were waiting for Alan’s statement to be typed up they went to the canteen for a cup of coffee from the machine. It was hot and wet, and that was all Alan wanted at this point. Lane asked him if he’d phoned Harriet yet, and Alan explained that she had a very important interview that day and he didn’t want to upset her. Then he had a thought.
‘Richard, you’ve got an office here, haven’t you?’
‘Yes?’ He answered, uncertain. He couldn’t think what might be coming next.
‘And a computer linked to the Internet?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I want to go on one of those property search websites – the ones that give you the sales history of particular houses?’
‘OK. Come with me.’
His office was on the second floor, down the end of a grey-carpeted, windowless corridor, which vaguely reminded Alan of his visit to Blackfen Prison, eight days ago. They entered the room. Lane sat down behind the desk and logged on. He chose a website he was familiar with from his own search for the house he now owned in Whittlesey.
‘And what’s the address?’
‘Isle Farm, Fursey.’
Lane looked at him, puzzled. But he typed it in. The website came back with a post code. It looked plausible.
‘Let’s go with that, Richard.’ Alan was looking at the screen over his shoulder. ‘Now press Enter.’
Immediately the sales history for Isle Farm flashed up. The first recorded transaction was in October 2003, when the farm initially came on the market for £2,590,000. But it failed to sell. Thereafter the vendors had leased it to various clients for steadily increasing sums, first in 2004, next in 2005, and finally in 2007. Then the screen suddenly flashed up: ‘This Property is Again Available for Lease! Offers in the region of £2,150 a month.’
Blimey, Alan thought, that’s steep, even for the Cambridge area.
Alan explained to Lane that Sebastian had always wanted to restore Isle Farm to the family. It had superb-quality land. He described how Sebastian had confided to him that he wanted, above everything else in life, to be a farmer. He would happily sell Fursey Hall and all the land he currently controlled just to buy Isle Farm. Alan reckoned that his first attempt to buy it was back in late 2003, when it originally came on the market. He couldn’t prove it, but he probably approached Hansworth, the banker, for a loan. Hansworth might well have agreed, but he was conscientious and would have done a due diligence check, which presumably revealed that he wasn’t credit-worthy. But meanwhile he’d raised Sebastian’s hopes, which were then bitterly smashed. And that crushing disappointment was the motive that drove him to have the row on the riverbank – which led to his death.
Lane was very impressed. And he had to agree: it all made perfect sense.
‘I’ll see how he reacts.’
‘And can you offer him any sweetener, like, say a reduced sentence?’
‘I doubt it,’ Lane replied, slowly. ‘Not with three deaths to account for. But I’ll probably suggest to him that a plea of guilty usually leads to a shorter sentence. That way we might get a full confession.’
‘And will that reduce his sentence?’
‘What, after three pleas of guilty to murder? I very much doubt it. No, I don’t think he’ll ever be seen outside a jail again. He’ll get a whole-life sentence, without any doubt. As my old sergeant used to say, “They’ll lock him up and throw away the key.”’
* * *
A week later, Alan got a phone call from Richard Lane. Mary’s father was now out of hospital and back at home, being looked after by his very capable wife – herself an ex-nurse. But Mary was exhausted, physically and emotionally. So Lane had hired a fully equipped narrowboat for a gentle four-day cruise along the navigable rivers of the central Fens. They planned to spend the following weekend travelling along the Old River Nene and had booked moorings on the western approaches to March. The place he had in mind was handy for a fine old pub that kept an excellent pint of Slodger. And there was a superb fish and chip shop about 50 yards in the other direction.
‘Sounds like heaven on earth. Is that an invitation?’
It was. He and Harriet were invited for lunch the following Sunday at noon.
It was a gorgeous early summer’s day. The sunlight was fresh, the air was clean and the diseased chestnut trees still had clean green leaves. Alan had brought an enamel bucket that held a gallon, but was more safely filled with six pints, of foaming Slodger. Meanwhile Lane bought four portions of cod and chips, plus mushy peas, which they enjoyed on the stern deck and wheelhouse.
After five minutes of concentrated batter-crunching, Alan looked up from the food.
‘Richard, I’m fairly convinced that Candice did in fact push John over. I don’t think it was an accident at all: most likely a stupid impulse, born of frustration.’
But it was the event itself that was worrying him now. In his mind he was there, in the chill of the evening, not like was now, in the cramped boat, but watching while a wife helped her husband into a rucksack filled with rocks.
He sighed heavily. ‘The thing is, John was half-starved and feeling groggy. I don’t suppose for one moment he was thinking clearly. And somebody must have helped him into that heavy rucksack. As soon as he had put it on, Candice must have realised he was dangerously top-heavy. Any normal person would have taken it off him. But she didn’t. Instead she lowered him into the canoe and shoved him out into the stream. But I’m also certain that she soon regretted it bitterly and never forgave herself for what she’d done. That’s why she went downhill so fast.’
Lane was still chewing, but he nodded. Eventually he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I agree, Alan. It’s all very odd. And the boat was moored in such a deep spot. Was that intentional? I mean, she could have chosen a proper mooring with a floating wooden stage, like we’ve got here. There was one just a few yards away. But no, instead she secured the boat to two willows.’
‘Yes, I noticed that. There was also a long pole nearby – the boat-people use it as a washing line support in winter. But it was also very convenient, if you wanted to test the depth of the water.’
‘Or maybe push somebody back under, should they float to the surface,’ Lane added grimly.
Harriet looked up. ‘Are you sure about that?’ she asked. ‘Sounds a bit of a wild accusation, don’t you think? A pole is just that: a pole. It doesn’t have to be used as a weapon, as you suggest.’
‘No, you’re probably right,’ Lane agreed. ‘But it was odd the way she hadn’t used the proper moorings. She must have known who owned them. And I doubt if they’d have charged much, if anything, at that time of year. I think Alan’s right: the water at the moorings is much shallower. He might even have been able to stand up.’
They continued eating for a few minutes, while a couple of afternoon strollers passed by along the towpath. For a moment, Alan wondered if they had any idea that the relaxed group of people eating fish and chips were discussing something as dark as a man’s death and a woman’s suicide. Then a thought struck him. He waited till the walkers were out of earshot.
‘But what lay behind it all, Richard?’ He was frowning: they were still missing something; there must have been more to it. ‘What else do we know about John’s life?’
Alan remembered a conversation with Candice, shortly before they began the car park excavation. John’s consultancy was looking after the affairs of two large betting franchises. So he kept in touch with that world, even after he had supposedly given up gambling himself. Mary had been listening closely. Candice and John had long fascinated her.
‘So is personal betting quite common behind the scenes in the gambling world?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ her husband replied. ‘But as with drinking in the pub sector, people learn to keep it under control. Or else they get out, which is what John Cripps did. He then used the experience he had gained in the racing world to move into the management of visitor attractions. It wasn’t a big step.’ He munched on a chip. ‘Anyhow, at some point he met up with Blake Lonsdale.’
‘The man behind White Delphs,’ Alan added for Mary’s benefit.
She smiled at him in thanks.
‘That’s right,’ Lane continued. ‘He and John formed the HPM partnership in 1990. And they’ve been remarkably successful.’
‘Yes,’ Alan added, ‘Jake told me that they were never short of funds at White Delphs, and my brief experience at Fursey showed them to be efficient. Money was always there if you needed it. I certainly had no complaints.’
‘Well that doesn’t surprise me,’ Lane resumed the story. ‘My sources at the Met now reckon their Water World historical theme park near Hackney Marshes is largely used to launder gambling money acquired through a number of shady partners abroad. They’re watching them closely.’
‘Which might explain how and why John and Blake got together in the first place,’ Alan suggested.
Harriet hadn’t said much so far. Alan got the impression she was having trouble coping with all the changes around her. She liked stability, even though right now it was in short supply. But like Mary, she had been fascinated by John and Candice – and one question still puzzled her.
‘So presumably, John’s conversion to evangelical religion had something to do with his gambling?’
‘Yes, it did,’ Lane replied. ‘In fact, I was able to check on that myself. His conversion happened September 1985 when an American evangelist visited Ely. You might remember, he pitched a circus-style big-top on the outskirts of town and attracted thousands of people to his gatherings. I understand they were very emotional affairs. But the rejection of drink and gambling were a big part of his mission. And in John’s case, the cure seemed to have worked. But then last year rumours began to spread that he had returned to his old habits.’
‘But he didn’t drop the religion?’ Alan asked.
‘No, he didn’t. If anything, he became more mainstream – and hence his friendship with the Fen dean. And I don’t think that was unusual: I can think of many alcoholics who are devout Christians.’
Harriet stood up and stretched. She had eaten too much.
‘So do you think, Richard,’ she asked, ‘that Candice was aware John had resumed gambling?’
‘Yes. I don’t see how he could have hidden it from her. She was bound to have found out sooner or later, because he was in it in a big way – or that’s what local bookies have been telling us.’
‘So his gambling,’ Mary said quietly, ‘would have given her a reason for pushing him overboard. How very sad.’
It was a sorry tale. They were all silent for a moment.
‘And what did she do then?’ Alan asked.
Nobody made any suggestions. So he answered his own question. ‘I think she made eyes at Peter Flower.’
Harriet was pouring herself a small beer. ‘Oh yes,’ she said under her breath. ‘She certainly did that.’
‘And I think it makes sense,’ Alan continued. ‘I mean, look at it this way: he was now bursar of a famous Cambridge college. He had strong links with a well-established television series and he wasn’t a habitual gambler. And make no mistake, she was attractive, too – for her age.’
Alan realised that hadn’t been the most tactful thing he could have said – and Harriet shot him a reproving look. He decided to press on, to cover his confusion.
‘It would also have made business sense for Peter to have closer relations with the Cripps family, given the college’s large land holdings in the area. So all in all, I don’t understand why Flower didn’t respond.’
‘But Alan,’ Harriet broke in, ‘we don’t know for a fact that Flower didn’t respond, do we?’
‘I suppose not.’ Alan was frowning.
‘He was – is – a very successful man,’ Harriet resumed, ‘and he continued to act very responsibly after things had collapsed at Fursey, You’ve said so yourself, Alan.’
‘Well, it’s true, he did.’
‘So don’t you think,’ Harriet continued, ‘that Flower could have acted kindly to her, as everything had gone so horribly wrong. He wasn’t the sort of person who’d kick someone when they were already down.’ She paused, then looked up. ‘And I know you’ve good reasons not to like him, but he’s quite well-liked in college. He wouldn’t have been made Bursar, otherwise.’
‘So you think she misread Flower’s kindness to her?’ Lane asked. ‘Thought he was making a pass at her?’
‘Well, why not?’ Harriet replied. ‘Put yourself in her position: she was desperate. Her husband was an obsessive gambler. The family business was in tatters and then along comes this attractive and highly successful, intelligent man – who was being kind and considerate to her. I can see how it could have happened. I honestly can.’
‘And you think that was strong enough motive to kill her husband?’ Lane asked.
‘Added to everything else – the gambling and so on – yes, I think it was.’
‘But then the truth dawned?’ Alan asked, more to himself than anyone else.
‘Yes,’ Lane replied, ‘and very quickly, too. But by then she could see there was only one way out.’
Then Alan muttered, almost under his breath: ‘And I saw her take it, poor woman.’
Harriet wiped her eyes.