[Alicia Friend 01.0] His First His Second Page 13

  “Yes, and yes. And I’m out of pocket at the minute. You bring what I want?”

  “Soon as you show me the other item.”

  “Glove box.”

  Alfie opened the glove box and removed the rag-wrapped bundle, weighed it in his hand. “Heavy.”

  “Yeah, it’s an old one, but it’ll fire okay, if ya need it to. Now, one more time. You got what I asked for?”

  Alfie replaced the bundle without checking it. “I had five thousand, two hundred and nineteen dollars in savings. I pulled it out and changed it to sterling. After the handling fee, that’s about three and a half grand.”

  “We said four.”

  “I can pull the rest on my Visa. Chill out, man. It’s covered.”

  “I negotiated her down from five-K. Plus my commission, of course.”

  “Sure. Visa’ll cover that too.”

  Man, when did the Brits get so greedy?

  Red asked, “You wanna go straight to the hotel? I know a strip club open all night. Great girls. None of them grannies all trussed up like past-sell-by-date turkeys. Well, maybe a one or two.”

  Alfie caught the words, “hotel”, “strip club”, “grannies”, and “turkey”.

  He said, “The hotel’s fine.”

  “You know what I never could get about the Yanks?”

  Alfie didn’t care. He just wanted sleep.

  “The way you all talk funny. I mean what happened there?”

  “We kicked your asses out and started the greatest democracy on Earth. Land of the free, home of the brave. Britannia might rule the waves, but in our own land, we’re the friggin’ daddy.”

  For some reason, McCall laughed. “Typical bloody Yank.”

  Alfie didn’t bother to argue. If a man who loved his own country could be considered “typical”, then he was more than happy to be “a typical Yank.” Roll on the hotel, roll on morning, and roll on skint cop who needs the money for who cares what.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The morning brought fabulous sunshine, the sort a person might associate with childhood, school holidays and more romantic times. But few saw the sun in its full glory this morning due to the thick mist that enveloped Yorkshire; from the Vale of York down to West Bretton, right out to the Owlcotes Shopping Centre, then as far north as Mother Shipton’s Cave in Knaresborough. But a short distance from the cave where the benevolent witch known as Mother Shipton used to reside, where people still hang ornaments and cuddly toys in the hope they’ll turn to stone, the mist was thinner.

  A sprawling house was only just visible from high up on a ridge; no fog up here. It merely swirled about the lower ground. The whole house was not visible, although its shape was hinted at through the trees. Bushes and hedgerow lined the side of the property, so the average person driving by would barely notice it.

  But if you were sat in a Ford Focus, and if you were looking for Henry Windsor’s residence, then it would be perfectly natural to park up and watch the great house for a few minutes. You’d be forgiven if you felt a touch uneasy, as Alicia Friend did. And you could even be forgiven if you mentioned to your partner that it looked, maybe, a little haunted.

  Your partner would definitely be forgiven for rolling his eyes.

  Likewise, it would also be understandable to not notice the phone ringing at first.

  Murphy was behind the wheel so Alicia answered.

  “Looks like he was hiding more than a couple of grams,” Ball said, his voice breaking up due to the poor cellphone coverage here. In the valley it would likely die entirely. “A kilo of Mary Jane stuffed in his throat wound. Reckon we can safely say he was a dealer.”

  So it sounded drugs-related. It was the most logical thing. But the timing of it…

  Alicia said, “Do you think your presence could’ve tipped off Doyle’s supplier?”

  “That’s what I thought. Cleaver’s finished looking through the man’s books. Seems he did some bloody expensive artwork. Strangely, each session cost about the same as a gram of weed.”

  “Weird.”

  Murphy said, “What’s weird?”

  Ball went on. “Anyway, the books are pretty complete. If it came to court, he’d ace the taxman. Every transaction for the last six years.”

  She said, “Never thought I’d be thanking heaven for VAT.”

  Murphy frowned. He mouthed, “What’s happening?”

  “I have to go,” Alicia said. “Keep us up to date. Won’t you, love?”

  He said he would and hung up. Alicia paraphrased the other half of the conversation.

  “It’s no coincidence,” Murphy agreed. “Tanya turns up dead, and our one link to the elusive boyfriend is killed. Someone’s covering his tracks.”

  He started the engine and pulled out into the road, tyres crunching over frozen grass.

  They turned into the Windsors’ grounds and passed through a corridor of pine trees and other winter greenery, parking at the top of the gravel driveway. The weeds were obvious; breeding, hidden, but living beneath the façade of a well-maintained road. Being winter, they were dying, but in summer it’d be a green adventure.

  When they stepped out, Alicia checked her phone: yup, no service. Alicia wore her coat this time. Murphy buttoned his jacket, the dark blue one again.

  The house itself looked Tudor but with a grander feel, the corners shaped almost like turrets, the stone grey. The newest-looking addition was the door, a thick wooden double structure with iron rivets that Alicia assumed were purely decorative. She’d phoned ahead from the top of the hill, so the man answering the door wasn’t overly shocked to be presented with police identification.

  Operating a manual wheelchair with ease and dexterity, he was a wide chap with a weathered face. Lived-in, her mother would’ve said. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit with the shiniest of shiny shoes.

  “Mr. Windsor is expecting you,” he said in a spooky Adams Family tone.

  Alicia’s haunted feeling returned.

  The greeter expertly spun one wheel and Alicia and Murphy followed him into a cavern of an anteroom, doors left and right and a staircase ahead with a long corridor alongside. A twelve-foot Christmas tree towered, clinically decorated by some service or another, and dozens of greetings cards claimed pride-of-place on the wall leading upstairs.

  The man gestured to a door on the left. “He is waiting for you.”

  “In there?” Alicia said. “That’s not going to be a lab or something is it? With test tubes and lightning and stuff?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am.” The doorman or butler or whatever he was appeared fat through lack of activity, but seemed able enough. He held his arm in place, eyes stern and deeply unhumorous.

  The detectives entered the room, a study as it turned out—disappointingly absent of test tubes and lightning or, indeed, any hint of Christmas—and were greeted by a man who couldn’t be more friendly.

  “Henry Windsor,” he said, shaking their hands.

  He exuded the image of a pure country-set gent, right down to the flowing handlebar moustache and tweed jacket, yet sounded too posh to be genuinely posh.

  “Can we sit down, Mr. Windsor?” Murphy asked.

  “Of course. We shan’t be disturbed. James is away on holiday and Lawrence has his duties.”

  “Lawrence? He’s your…?”

  “Butler. It’s a bit old-fashioned, but Lawrence likes the title, he likes the work. Not many jobs for cripples, not that get you room and board in quite such luxury anyway. No below-stairs accommodation here, thank you. Lawrence gets a main bedroom—en-suite of course—a physio visit twice a week, and since my needs are few these days he gets plenty of spare time.”

  Alicia detected a faint whiff of class-embarrassment. Not uncommon with people like this, eager to justify their existence to the lower rungs of humanity; their charity work, job creation, or treating their minions fairly, as if those things were extraordinary instead of basically decent.

  Henry Windsor directed them
to a leather sofa against the wall. An open fireplace gaped, spacious enough for Alicia to walk inside, turn around, and do some star jumps without getting a speck of soot on her; a great desk—probably antique—faced the window, and a dark wood-and-glass coffee table served the sofa itself. Windsor opted for a large leather chair, darker than the sofa, highlighting himself against the floor-to-ceiling window, a tall yucca plant to his right.

  Alicia found it hard not to smile at psychological tricks the yuppies ceased using in the 80s. She really hoped he wasn’t trying to intimidate a pair of police officers, no matter how bad their tidings may be.

  “Mr. Windsor,” Murphy said, “I’ll come right out with it. I’m sorry tell you, but Tanya’s body was discovered yesterday.”

  Windsor nodded, stroking his ’tache down, allowing it to spring back up. He crossed his legs. “I see.”

  “Yes. I am sorry, sir.”

  “Well, it’s a crumb of comfort I suppose. We all assumed she was dead soon after she disappeared. At least now we’ll be able to bury her properly.”

  “Sir.” Murphy stood taller. Coughed once. “Sir, I need to explain something. And we understand this will be extremely difficult to hear, especially after the investigation wound up some time ago.” A breath for courage. “Tanya was only killed yesterday.”

  Mr. Windsor fixed Murphy with a stare. Alicia and Murphy already agreed he should do the talking, that Henry Windsor would respond better to Murphy. Alicia would only step in if they were wrong. Now wasn’t the time.

  See how he acts, observe.

  Henry Windsor teetered, anger in his face. Then, simply, he collapsed. Doubled over, head in his hands, cheeks flushing red, his whole head glowing beneath thinning hair. He shook once, before sitting upright.

  He wiped a tear. “All this time…”

  “We don’t know for sure exactly what happened,” Murphy said.

  “Where was she living? I know she had the old class-tourism bug, but surely she could not have hidden for so long.”

  “We don’t believe so, Mr. Windsor.” Murphy inhaled, puffing out his chest, his next words slow and deliberate. “We believe she has been held captive for most of that period. She killed only recently.”

  “How can that be?” Henry Windsor’s mouth hung open, fleshy jowls shaking. Either he was the world’s best actor or this was news to him.

  “I mean what sort of person…?”

  “The sort of person who has killed two others that we know of,” Murphy said. “He is holding a third.”

  Mr. Windsor stood and posed regally next to the fireplace. Coughed once. “If there’s anything I can do—anything at all—you name it.”

  “Well, sir,” Alicia said, also standing. “You can be one hundred percent honest about everything we ask.”

  The three of them gathered in the cold outside. The ground mist held firm and beaded the foliage with moisture. Cold soaked into Alicia’s face, although her body was toasty warm in her thick coat. The monument to Tanya Windsor was a small but beautiful white headstone, as high as Alicia’s hip, bearing the inscription: Tanya, beloved daughter, niece, and cousin. Wherever you are, rest in peace. It stood in a clearing beside Paula Windsor’s grave—Henry’s wife—as well as three generations of Windsors.

  “Your setup, sir,” Murphy said. “Can you tell me about it? Here. This house.”

  “There’s only myself and Lawrence in residence permanently,” Windsor replied. “He cooks well enough, although I used to have a live-in chef too. No need anymore, although I hire him back for special occasions, entertaining, that sort of thing. An accountant of course, plus a regular gardener. I’ll forward you their details as soon as I can.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “Eight bedrooms, two studies, a large kitchen, a second one—we use the smaller one unless I’m entertaining, which is rare—two dining rooms, a drawing room, and my library.”

  “No cellar?”

  “No. Well, yes, but it’s now a garage. My hobby. Classic cars. Access is from the rear. Would you like to see?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  Alicia said, “Are the cars all, like, really old?”

  “Some are, yes. I have an E-type. An original.”

  “Excellent. Come on Murphy, let’s look at the cars.”

  With a subdued “harrumph” from Murphy they walked around the house. It was bigger than anyone needed, would probably cater for ten poor families. Most of the trees had shed their leaves, but evergreen bushes filled out the land. Beyond them, pines lined up symmetrically, a man-made woodland that sparkled with frost and shimmered in the foggy sunlight.

  “Sir,” Murphy said as they walked. “Tanya disappeared during James’s birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have been hard on him.”

  “He took it badly, yes. He was sad that Tanya planned to go on tour with the lower classes, but he understood why. He worried terribly about her when she went on those jaunts. ‘Backpacking’, I think they call it. She had more money than most of the countries she visited but preferred to camp down on the floors of rug merchants.”

  “The ‘class tourism’ you mentioned earlier.”

  “Yes. Something of a fad. A lot of well-off youngsters do it. You saw young Harry not long ago rounding up kangaroos in Australia. It’s common these days.”

  “Prince Harry?” Alicia said. “You know him?”

  “I met him once, yes. When he was a toddler, mind. Mother was a charming woman. A little flaky, though, not really queen material. Sad end.”

  “Sir,” Murphy said. “Your son, he’s not here? You mentioned a holiday.”

  “Ah, no.” Windsor practically chuckled, as if the question were absurd. “When it was clear Tanya wasn’t coming back, James took off. He’s out on his mission: giving away Tanya’s money. He visits all the places she did, you see, hands out money to the people who were kind to her.”

  “James has Tanya’s money?” Alicia said.

  “Of course. After so long missing, Tanya was declared officially dead. You didn’t think she’d leave it to evil Uncle Henry did you?”

  They stopped beside a steel door, two of them, actually, the size of garage doors on an average house. Windsor lifted a plastic flap built into the brickwork and inserted a key, turned it, and the door rose into a thick metal roll. A huge elevator gradually revealed itself.

  Over the noise of the mechanism, Henry said, “The last I heard, he was in Bangalore, looking for a man who let Tanya sleep on his settee for two nights in return for her babysitting his kids. He was a local politician or some such thing. Whatever they have out there instead of normal government.”

  This man is getting more ridiculous with each and every sentence.

  Alicia had seen it throughout university, throughout her life, people with an image of themselves, desperate to impose that image upon everyone. Including themselves. She said, “I think they have politicians, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose they have to have something. But yes, he wants to buy the family a nice home. Two or three thousand should suffice he thinks.”

  “How come?” Murphy said.

  “How come what?”

  “How come James got the money?”

  “Oh, that. He was the heir. She hated me for some reason, but James she treated like a younger brother. Made a will aged eighteen, as soon as her trust fund matured.”

  The lift was surprisingly quiet as it descended. Clean, solid. They emerged into what looked like a swish car showroom. Alicia whistled her appreciation. It stretched into a dimness that brightened as strip lights flickered on one by one. There were at least a dozen vehicles.

  “Financially, the cold war was good for my family,” Windsor said. “We had a little warren built down here in 1962 as the Cuban crisis loomed. I was young then, but it had everything—servants’ quarters, kitchen, bathrooms, even a room for radios and TVs, for news of how any war was going. Naturally, as things eased in the
eighties, the place wasn’t really maintained.”

  Alicia ran her hand across the side of an old, long Ford.

  “Please don’t do that,” Windsor said. “Lawrence will have to clean it again otherwise.”

  “Lawrence?” Alicia said. “He cleans all these?”

  “Yes. Don’t let the wheelchair fool you—he’s an extremely dedicated butler.”

  “I didn’t think butlers existed anymore. Figured they only worked for the queen herself and even then it looks like a tourist thing.”

  “They are not dinosaurs, my dear. As I said, Lawrence is the only permanent staff I have. He is paid partly out of Tanya’s estate, as is his physiotherapy. To remain employed here as long as he chooses.” Windsor appeared to have finished, but Murphy and Alicia said nothing, compelling him to expand. “He was with Tanya’s father—my brother—in the first Iraq war. My brother was an officer, and Lawrence was a cook, took a hit when the Yanks bombed them by accident. Peter got away with a spot of shrapnel, but Lawrence was crippled. Tanya brought him with her after her parents’ accident. She was like that, you see. Kind. Loyal.” He faltered a moment, steadied himself. “I think that was partly what made Tanya and James so close—his fascination with her butler. Jim had been interested in all that army stuff, ever since he was a boy. Considered joining up until … well, until what happened with Tanya. My brother refused to indulge his questions about the war. Found it … distasteful.”

  “Sir,” Murphy said, “Tanya was snatched from the barbeque which she paid for, is that right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Meaning she must have either known or trusted her abductor.”

  “Yes. The last officer, what was his name..? He said that too.”

  “Wellington.”

  “Yes, Wellington. Good chap him. At least I thought he was.” Henry’s eyes narrowed and then closed. “It was his fault wasn’t it?”

  “Sir?”

  “His fault that Tanya was held captive for all this time. He said she was dead or hiding intentionally.” The man’s face flushed. “He convinced me to stop trying!”

  “Sir,” Alicia said. “The original investigation was flawed, no arguments from me, and I have no doubt that the powers that be are facing a huge lawsuit—”