‘Not at all. I was enjoying the view.’
‘The view?’ Her eyebrows rose and then she laughed. ‘Ah, across the way, you mean: yes, there’s always plenty going on over there.’ She sat at the small round table in the centre of the room: McGurk joined her, settling his long body awkwardly into the standard civil-service-issue chair. ‘It’s been a while since we had a call from the police,’ she said. ‘In fact, I don’t think we’ve had one since my old boss Jim Glossop retired.’
The detective glanced at her ringless fingers. ‘I hope it isn’t an inconvenience, Ms Thorpe.’
‘Not a bit. “Miss” will do perfectly well, by the way: the political correctness of the eighties and nineties passed me by. But “Sylvia” will do even better.’
‘Okay, Sylvia: do you have something for me? I’m sorry I didn’t have anything more than the name and year of birth for you to go on.’
‘That was quite enough. There weren’t a hell of a lot of “Claude” registrations in Scotland, not even back at the end of the twenties, when the man you’re after was born. I have to say, I can see why you’re asking about him, even if it is a right few years too late.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s had a very interesting life, so far.’
‘So he’s still alive.’
‘Let me put it this way: we have no record of him being dead. He could be six feet under in some foreign land, but if he is, word hasn’t filtered back to us.’
‘And would it?’
‘That would depend on where and how he died.’
‘So what records do you have?’
‘I have his birth certificate: registration took place in Perth.’ She opened the folder, took it from the pile of documents it contained then placed it to one side. ‘And,’ she said, ‘I have his marriage certificates.’
‘Certificates?’ McGurk exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes, Mr Bothwell was a serial husband.’ She spread the rest of the documents out on the desk in a fan shape. ‘He married three times. The first marriage was to Ethel Margaret Ward, in Wishaw, when he was twenty-three. The second took place four years later, in Glasgow: the bride’s name was Primrose Jardine. And the third was four years after that, in Edinburgh, to Montserrat Rivera Jiminez of Torroella de Montgri, Spain.’
‘Regular as clockwork, eh? Our Mr Bothwell must be a meticulous man.’
‘In all but one respect.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Before his second and third marriages he neglected to get divorced. I’ve checked with the courts: he didn’t, and that’s certain.’
‘Maybe he was unlucky; maybe he was widowed twice.’
‘By the time he was thirty-two? No, Sergeant: according to our records, all three Mrs Bothwells are still alive, and the second and third have some bad news coming to them.’
So Bob Skinner’s tip to the chief had been spot-on. McGurk chuckled. ‘Not nearly as bad as the news that’s coming to him, once I catch up with the polygamous old sod, wherever he is.’
Thirty
There had been little or no conversation as they left London and none on the drive down the A3: Skinner had been locked away with his thoughts, Shannon had been looking at the view from the back seat, as a means of keeping her nerves under control, and Amanda Dennis had been concentrating on the road, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel.
They had turned off the main road, heading for a place called Churt, and had just driven past an inn called the Pride of the Valley when the inspector broke the silence. ‘Wasn’t that Lloyd George on that hotel sign?’ she remarked.
‘He lived in Churt,’ said Dennis, ‘towards the end of his life. I believe that when he finally married his secretary, Frances Stevenson, it was here they settled.’
‘That sounds like a happy ending.’
‘Yes. I wish there were more of them.’ Her voice was so sad that Skinner reached across and put a hand on her shoulder. She gave it a quick squeeze of acknowledgement and, he supposed, thanks, then focused on the tree-lined road once again. The entrance came almost immediately: she indicated, then swung the car sharply to the left, halfway round a long bend. There had been no signpost, just a gap in the trees.
She drove for half a mile up a narrow avenue, until she came to a barrier. Before it, on the right, was a metal post, with a key-pad mounted on it. Dennis stopped, rolled down her window and punched in a code, then drove slowly through the gate as it opened. ‘They’ll know in the house that we’re on the way. There are cameras that will track us all the way to the door.’
The roadway started to climb steeply: after a couple of hundred yards the forest came to an abrupt end, and they found themselves in open country. On the top of the hill that they were climbing, Skinner saw a two-storey house, in Tudor style complete with thatched roof. ‘I take it that there’s a fence,’ he said. ‘I looked at the gate, but couldn’t see it.’
‘It’s not easy to spot,’ Dennis told him, ‘but it’s there.’
‘Electrified, I take it.’
‘Yes. The first time you touch it, you won’t get much more than a tickle, but if that and the razor wire don’t put you off and you try to climb it, the charge gets stronger, until it’s approaching lethal. Every so often we go round and clear away the dead cats and foxes.’
‘How long has it belonged to the service?’
‘It was acquired about fifty years ago, at the height of the Cold War. Officially, it was purchased as a staff college; occasionally the DG and department heads do use it for away-day meetings, but most of the time you wouldn’t want to come to the kind of course that’s held here. The trees around it were all cleared away long ago, so that all the approaches are clear. It’s as secure as we can make it: there’s even a bunker deep underneath, although we don’t use it now.’
They wound round the long driveway until finally they reached the crest of the hill. Dennis parked the car at the side of the house, then led the two visitors round to the front.
The entrance door was open when they reached it. A bulky, dark-skinned man stood, waiting to greet them: his jacket hung loose, exposing a pistol in a shoulder holster. ‘Hello, Big W,’ said Dennis. ‘This is Winston Chalmers,’ she told Skinner and Shannon. ‘He’s the housemaster here. Winston, these are the visitors you were told about.’
‘How many staff do you have here?’ Skinner asked.
The minder looked at Dennis. She nodded. ‘There are six of us,’ he replied, ‘working twelve-hour shifts, three at a time.’
‘Where are they?’
‘There’s a basement level at the back of the house. The hospitality suite is down there.’
The sound of rock music forced its way through from another part of the house. Skinner thought he recognised the Pat Travers Band. He smiled at Winston. ‘Have you run out of Status Quo?’
The ‘housemaster’ laughed. ‘There is such a thing as a balanced diet. Do you want to see them both together?’
‘Hell, no, one at a time. Who would you say is the stronger of the two?’
‘Rudy Sewell, no doubt about that. He used to be my boss: I know how hard a bastard he is.’
‘Is that right? You’re making him sound like something of a challenge. Let’s warm up on Hassett, in that case. What’s he been on?’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Has he been drugged?’
‘No, sir. He hasn’t had any more than two hours’ sleep at a stretch since he’s been here. That’s as effective as any sedative for keeping people under control.’
‘He’s been given a normal diet?’
‘He’s been eating the same as us.’
‘Clothing?’
Chalmers smiled. ‘We don’t want him to feel special, sir. He’s still wearing the clothes he arrived with, and he hasn’t washed since then.’
‘It’s time he did. Get him showered, shaved and into some fresh clothes, then we’ll talk to him.’
‘Will do.’ He picked up a phone from a hall table, pushed a button and spoke quietly into it.