“It’s only a stopgap solution, darling. We can start looking for our own place whenever you like.”
He had read her like a book, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, along with a mischievous giggle.
“I think we need a detached house this time, darling, somewhere with some privacy, like Greg and Joyce’s.”
Greg was his old boss at Heggerty. He had bought a mansion just outside of Leeds, in the village of Linton. It was a movie star-type house, set in four acres of perfectly manicured gardens, opposite Wetherby Golf Club. Michael had never understood why a couple without children needed seven bedrooms.
The conversation didn’t change on their way to the club. They had been invited for lunch by Reichard, and Lisa was still debating the merits of on suite bathrooms with Michael when they sat down at the table.
“I take it you are happy with the flat we found for you?” Reichard asked expectantly.
Lisa saw the opportunity and took it.
“No, it’s horrible. Don’t you have a nice bungalow, somewhere quiet for us, Herr Reichard?” A subtle flutter of her eyelids accompanied the question.
Reichard smiled at her and reached over to pat her knee. Many men had been slapped for less, but Lisa let it go with a sideward glance in Michael’s direction. Three waiters arrived at the table simultaneously. A large bowl of salad was placed in the middle, and a freshly grilled halibut put in front of them. The head waiter poured them each a glass of sparkling water, then waited for consent from Reichard to serve the 2004 Grün Burgunder.
“I hope it is okay, but I ordered for us all. The fish here is remarkably good.”
“That’s fine,” said Lisa, slowly rolling the white wine around her glass, before testing its nose and taking a small sip to taste. “Ooh, the wine is very good! You must try it, Michael!”
Michael followed her guide and smiled in agreement.
“Very good.”
“There are very many fine German wines you will both have to try, and I am sure we can find you a fine German property as well. In fact, now that I think of it, there is a property in Starnberg that will soon be available. It belongs to a partner of ours, Fredrik Petersen. He is recently separated and is looking to downsize.”
“Starnberg, I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that the big lake where the Bavarian King drowned?”
“Indeed it is. You are very well-informed, Mrs Jarvis. King Ludwig II drowned mysteriously, whilst being held at Castle Berg. Starnberg is one of the most beautiful lakes in Bavaria. The German aristocracy have been going there for centuries. I have a holiday home there.”
“Wow, how wonderful. What was mysterious about his death?”
“King Ludwig had been spending money like it was going out of fashion, building castles and monuments all over Bavaria, and the politicians were scared he would bankrupt the local country. They locked him up, saying he was mad, and then he was found, together with his physician, drowned in waist-high water, near the castle.”
“They were both dead? Had they had a fight?” Lisa loved a good mystery.
“The doctor did have some injuries, to his head and shoulders I believe, but Ludwig had no visible injuries. It remains a mystery as to what happened. King Ludwig is probably solely responsible for the tourist industry in Bavaria. There are some wonderful places to visit. Surely you have heard of Schloss Neuschwanstein? It is the Castle Walt Disney copied.”
“Oh, gosh, yes. Is that close to here?”
“About an hour’s drive.”
“Ooh, Michael, we must see it!”
“Yes, darling, of course. Tell me, Herr Reichard, is Petersen selling or renting?”
“Selling. I think he wants about one point five for the house.”
“Million?”
”Yes, but on the money we are paying you, that shouldn’t be a problem, Michael.”
Michael wasn’t convinced—what if the job fell through or he didn’t like it? Despite the look on his face, Lisa surged ahead.
“When can we see it?”
“Just a moment.”
Reinhardt reached into his pocket and took out his mobile, hitting a speed dial number. Petersen answered immediately. There was a quick exchange, and then Reichard once again turned to Lisa.
“Is this afternoon too soon?”
17
Joe Wilson was back in his crowded office, staring at the computer screen, trying to digest the information he had gathered and its implications. Dr Jackson had more or less confirmed the letter’s allegations concerning the Singh Family. Now the name blinking on his computer screen had opened a whole new can of worms. Wilson had found out that a sergeant in the Portland Island Police had been responsible for sending the bodies to the general infirmary. Now the same sergeant’s cousin, Deputy Chief Frank Hanson of the New York Police department, had been found dead at his home, surrounded by bank papers. He was apparently heavily in debt, and the .45-caliber hole in his head was his final solution. Joe pondered the question over a lukewarm cup of canteen coffee, which sat like a small muddy pond in the middle of the rolling hills of manila folders that covered his desk.
The question was, had he killed himself because of the debt, or because he had interfered in the investigation? If he had interfered in the investigation, why? What could possibly interest the deputy chief, in a small town tragedy?
There were lots of questions he needed to answer, and two witnesses he would very much like to speak to: Britt Petersen, whom he had now made Interpol’s problem, and Sergeant Sandy Dillon, whom he was expecting within the hour.
Leaning back in his chair, he took a drink of the coffee, letting it circulate around his mouth before swallowing it down. The burnt taste of coffee beans lingered on his tongue, exciting his saliva glands as he mulled over the facts.
Someone had wanted the Singh Family dead. That somebody had connections to the deputy chief. Britt Petersen’s letter had made the accusation that the someone was a company, Meyer-Hofmann AG. Through Google, he had learned their CEO was called Herman Reichard. Maybe Interpol should have a few words with that gentleman?
Officer Billie Mickelson put her head around the door, breaking Joe’s concentration.
“Joe, Sergeant Dillon is here. Shall I send him in?”
“Please.” Joe smiled back at her.
Dillon was not a happy trooper, and didn’t make any attempt to disguise the fact as he entered Joe’s office. His black hair was waxed, with a strong left-sided parting. His ruddy complexion supported the flush of anger in his round face. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt that’s colour was bleeding out of the fabric, a sign of a hot wash cycle Joe could relate to. Dillon planted himself into the chair opposite Joe and did his best to start a staring competition.
“Sergeant Dillon, thank you very much for coming over.”
The greeting was met with a nonchalant raising of eyebrows, but nothing else.
“I need you to answer some questions about the circumstances leading up to the discovery of the Singh Family’s deaths.”
“Look, this is all in my report. What do you want from me? I haven’t got time for this shit.” Dillon crossed his legs and glared at Joe across the table.
“I will try to make it quick. Could you tell me how you were made aware of the Singh Family’s deaths?”
“Yeah, it came through dispatch. Someone had called 9-1-1.”
“Were you on duty at the time?”
“Yeah, I was filling in for a buddy.”
“The first you knew about the events on the island were through the dispatch call?”