A tall, good-looking black man in a well-tailored grey business suit stepped through the doorway. Ignoring the rain, he loped down the wide marble-tiled steps towards them, confidently offering an outstretched right hand to Vogel. The detective inspector, suddenly aware that his elderly corduroy jacket was so damp that it was sticking to his shoulders, shook the hand and introduced himself and PC Saslow.
‘I’m Stephen Hardcastle,’ said the man. ‘I’m the family’s solicitor.’
Vogel shot Hardcastle an enquiring glance. ‘They thought they needed a solicitor?’
Hardcastle looked momentarily startled but recovered quickly. He would, thought Vogel. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I’m also an old family friend. I was at university with Joyce, Fred’s mother, and her late husband Charlie. We’ve always been extremely close. And I’m godfather to their eldest son, Mark.’ His accent was upper-class English. His manners and easy style had clearly been public-school honed.
‘I see,’ said Vogel, who was wondering why Hardcastle felt the need to explain himself in so much detail.
‘We are all so pleased to see you, Detective Inspector,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s imperative that we find Fred quickly. His mother is near breaking point, I fear. Please, come on in, come on in.’
The three of them hurried up the steps together. Vogel’s feet, clad in unfamiliar leather-soled shoes because he had yet to replace his recently deceased Hush Puppies, slipped on wet marble as he glanced up at the burglar alarm just below the eaves. More security which would have to have been evaded, had the Mildmay boy indeed been abducted.
At the top of the steps Stephen Hardcastle stepped aside and ushered Vogel and Saslow through the door into a large hallway, then down a black-and-white tiled corridor towards a door at the far end, which was standing ajar. Vogel paused when he reached it and glanced enquiringly at the solicitor.
‘Everybody’s in there, in the kitchen,’ said Hardcastle. He pushed the door open and waved Vogel in.
‘Major Crime Investigation Team,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps something will bloody well happen now.’ Then he glanced guiltily at Vogel and muttered an apology: ‘It’s the waiting, Detective Inspector, it’s been terribly stressful for all of us.’
Vogel inclined his head in acknowledgement. He understood. Waiting for news of a lost loved one was torment of the worst kind. Even the dreadful confirmation that there was no longer hope, the knowledge of death and the closure of learning the manner of it, could be less painful.
But it was far too early to be harbouring thoughts of that nature. Step by step, that was Vogel’s mantra. No matter how impatient, how wealthy, how influential the next of kin, he would take each step at his own pace.
Eight
Vogel strode purposefully into the kitchen. At least he hoped he looked purposeful. And authoritative. Although he never thought he did authoritative terribly well.
He again introduced himself, and PC Saslow, explaining that she was a family liaison officer who had been assigned to assist the anxious family in any way she could.
Everybody was gathered in the kitchen. It was a big room, but appeared to be full of people. And they were all staring at Vogel.
Vogel found his own eyes drawn to a woman in her early forties who was sitting at the table with her arm round a teenage girl. Both had obviously been crying and looked as if they might start again at any moment.
It was obvious that this must be the mother and sister of the missing boy.
‘Mrs Joyce Mildmay?’ enquired Vogel.
The woman nodded, wiping her eyes with one hand and struggling to pull herself together.
Vogel shifted his questioning gaze to the girl.
‘M-my daughter, Molly, Fred’s sister,’ Joyce said, confirming Vogel’s assumption.
Merely giving voice to Fred’s name caused her eyes to fill up again.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mildmay,’ said Vogel. ‘I want you to know that my team and I have one aim, and that is to do everything we can to bring your son safely home to you. In order to do so, I’m afraid I need to ask you some more questions. I know you have already given a statement to the police officers who responded to your 999 call, but I need to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything — even the smallest detail could turn out to be significant.’
Joyce Mildmay nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said in a weak, shaky voice. Her daughter stifled a sob.
‘Firstly, could you tell me the names of everyone in this room, please,’ Vogel continued, still looking at Joyce Mildmay.
Joyce tried to speak but her voice failed her. She took a moment to compose herself, then waved a hand towards the tall man leaning against the Aga at the far side of the room.
‘Th-that’s m-my father, Henry Tanner.’
Vogel studied Tanner with interest. This was some man, he thought. Thanks to his online research he knew that Henry Tanner was the undisputed patriarch of a prominent family, and chief executive of an intriguing and possibly questionable company, Tanner-Max — the family firm in which Fred Mildmay’s father Charlie had been a partner until his premature death.
In addition to its high annual turnover, Tanner-Max owned a considerable amount of valuable property in the area. As did individuals within the family; primarily Henry Tanner, but there were also properties in the names of Felicity Tanner and Joyce Mildmay.
Furthermore, from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s own records, Vogel had discovered that over the years no less than three investigations had been launched into the activities of Tanner-Max. No specific reasons had been given, other than that the company’s financial records did not appear to match the level of business. All three investigations had been abandoned at an early stage, and there was no trace of the more detailed records which Vogel would have expected to find in the archive.
He had fired off an internal email or two enquiring about this, but had yet to learn anything of consequence.
Henry stepped towards Vogel, gesturing to his daughter that he would take charge. Vogel had expected no less.
‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘Please, let me assist.’
He pointed first to a lanky young man with a shock of unruly hair, standing awkwardly by the window. He bore a striking resemblance to the photos Vogel had found online of a young Charlie Mildmay, though the hair was not quite as long.
‘That’s Mark, my grandson, Joyce’s eldest boy,’ said Henry. ‘Stephen you’ve already met. Next to him is my wife, Felicity, Fred’s gran. At the table, opposite Joyce and Molly, that’s Janet, our PA at Tanner’s, who damn near runs the place for us.’
Henry stretched his lips into a thin, forced smile as he gestured towards a tall young woman who was washing up cups and mugs at the sink.
‘That’s Monika. She helps Joyce out, and Felicity too. Don’t know what we’d do without her.’
Monika turned from the sink and contrived a nervous stretch of the lips that didn’t quite pass for a smile. She too looked as if she had been crying.
Henry waved one hand at a tall portly man in his sixties, who was sitting in the room’s one armchair but in a rather upright, uncomfortable manner.
‘And that’s Jim Grant,’ said Henry. ‘Dr Jim Grant, our GP and a family friend. He’s been looking after us for years. I thought it might be a good idea to get him over in case anyone needed medical assistance. The women, you know...’
His voice trailed off. Vogel knew what Henry Tanner meant all right. Women were obviously the weaker sex in Henry’s eyes. To be diligently cared for, to be nurtured, but almost certainly never to be treated as equals. Vogel had learned enough about Henry from his morning’s research to have assumed that. The older man’s words merely reinforced his assumption.