Or was he imagining it?
He lowered the gun and stared in disbelief at it.
He felt the paddleboarder laughing at him. The ship’s crew mocking him.
The whole world enjoying his embarrassment.
Johnny Fordwater’s so useless he can’t even kill himself!
He spun the cylinder, but it barely moved. ‘Useless as a chocolate teapot,’ he muttered. He hadn’t oiled the damned thing in years, he realized, maybe that was the problem.
He laid it down on the table behind him and went through into the utility room behind the kitchen to see what he had. There on a shelf above him, nestling between the Mr Muscle and a canister of Brasso, was a small can of 3-in-One Oil. As he reached up, his phone rang.
Ignore it.
It rang several times then stopped.
He returned to the living room with the oil and a rag and began lubricating his weapon until the cylinder spun freely.
The phone rang again. He looked at the display:
International. In a sudden moment of black humour he was reminded of an old favourite film of Elaine’s, with Peter Sellers and Peter O’Toole — and the actress Ursula Andress. What’s New Pussycat? There was a scene beneath a bridge across the Seine in Paris, when one of them had said to the other — he couldn’t remember which — ‘How can I eat my dinner while you are trying to commit suicide here?’
He picked up the phone and answered with a quiet, ‘Hello?’
A man with a foreign accent he couldn’t place, possibly German, said, ‘Major Fordwater?’
‘Speaking.’
‘I am Mr Jules de Copeland, I am Ingrid’s brother.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ingrid — Ingrid Ostermann — I am her brother, you see.’
Johnny wasn’t sure what he was seeing — or rather, hearing. The man’s accent was strange, now sounding more African — Nigerian, perhaps — than German.
‘Jules?’
‘Yes, Jules.’ He gave a strange little laugh, all good-natured.
‘Nice to speak to you, Jules.’
‘Well, yes, you see I have some news about Ingrid. She should have come to England — she was looking forward so much, she was so excited for her new life with you! But very misfortunately, her taxi on the way from Munich to the airport was in a bad accident on the highway. The driver was killed. She was in a coma, you see. It has taken me a while to track you down and tell you this very bad news, sir.’
‘I see. She is still in a coma?’
‘Yes, but they say she will wake soon. We are praying for her. But there is another problem — she has no medical insurance. The hospital needs to transfer her to a private clinic to continue her recovery, but without funds they will not accept her. I am thinking you would want to help her.’
‘There’s no one else in the family who could help her financially, Jules?’
‘No, unfortunately, there is just me.’
‘So none of the money I sent over previously for you is left?’
There was a moment of hesitation, then the man laughed again. ‘No, there’s not unfortunately, no.’
‘And how are the boys doing at school? You did use that money I sent to pay their fees, I trust?’
A brief hesitation then he replied, ‘Oh yes, indeed.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘So perhaps, Mr Fordwater, you could arrange a bank transfer of £30,000 to cover the initial medical bills?’
‘Thirty thousand — will that be enough?’
‘Well, perhaps not really, sir. Maybe £50,000 might be better.’
‘Fifty thousand, yes?’
‘Yes, I will give you new account details.’
Inside, Johnny was bristling, but he kept his calm. ‘That’s very good of you. I have just a few problems, Jules.’ He deliberately fell silent, waiting for a reaction.
After several seconds the man prompted him. ‘Problems?’
‘Well yes, you see, firstly you say you are Ingrid’s brother. But her brother’s name is Rudy, not Jules. Secondly, in Germany they don’t have highways, they have autobahns. And thirdly, I believe Ingrid Ostermann, whoever she is, has been suckering money out of umpteen other mugs like me. I suggest you try your luck elsewhere. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m right in the middle of something important.’ He ended the call with a grim satisfaction, then looked back at the gun. The phone rang. Again, International showed on the display.
He nearly didn’t answer it.
35
Tuesday 2 October
Roy Grace stared warily up at the fixings of the large chandelier the woman was hanging from. Decorated with carved, gilded birds and dripping with teardrop pendants, it looked like it belonged in a stately home, as did the stucco work on the ceiling. He was trying to assess the danger from the evident strain on the ceiling, which had caused the cracks and fallen chunks of plaster. Was it going to hold, he wondered, or was the ceiling about to come crashing down under her added weight? From a safety standpoint, the sooner her body was cut down, the better. Another flake of plaster fell as he watched.
‘What do you think, Glenn? Cut her down?’
Branson, several inches taller and closer to the ceiling than him, was looking equally concerned. ‘I reckon the whole chandelier’s going to come down soon if we don’t,’ he said. ‘Like that massive one in the Royal Pavilion, when we were on Operation Icon — the one that came down during our investigation, killing Gaia’s stalker, Drayton Wheeler.’
‘That didn’t have the help of a dead body.’
‘Right, boss.’ He looked up again, nervously. ‘Didn’t one come down in the Phantom of the Opera as well?’
‘I wouldn’t know — I’m not a lover of musicals.’
‘You’re such a cultural philistine, you know?’
‘A philistine? Me? What’s cultural about a bunch of luvvies in ridiculous costumes bursting into song? Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack — whichever came sooner.’
‘I rest my case,’ Branson said. ‘There’s no hope for you.’
‘There’s no hope for either of us if the ceiling comes down while we’re arguing. Shall we focus?’ He instructed Alex Call to have someone cut down the dead woman immediately, but to preserve the knot. Knots often yielded fingerprints or DNA, and in the case of serial offenders, the style of knot could be a vital clue.
He scanned the bedroom, not wanting to stay in there too long. Evidence that he was in the home of someone in the antiques world was all around. The grand two-poster bed, the beautiful inlaid dressing table adorned by silver and porcelain ornaments, the chaise longue scattered with cushions. Through the window he could see white marble statues dotted around the lawn of the well-kept garden. They looked vulgar, as if trying to give the place the airs and graces of a stately home. Not his taste. There were framed oil miniatures on the walls, fine curtains and antique rugs, and an exquisitely upholstered bow-backed chair directly beneath the dead woman.
His focus was on the elements that might make it a crime scene, as Bill Warner had suspected. The DI had good reason to be suspicious. The top of the seat cushion was a good six inches below Suzy Driver’s feet. Roy assessed the cushion. If she’d been standing on it, attempting to hang herself, it would have squashed down even more. There was no obvious way she could have hauled herself up the extra distance.
On her right foot was a black velvet slipper with a gold crest. Her left foot was bare and the left slipper lay on its side on the far side of the room, against the skirting board. He speculated on how it had got there. Had she kicked out her legs in her death throes, in her final desperate struggle for air? Or had she been carried unconscious by her assailant and had the slipper fallen off and, in a red mist of panic, had he — or she — not noticed?