‘Oh my God,’ Tally exclaimed, obviously feeling quite queasy.
‘Nothing has come in yet,’ Jean replied when Steven arrived at the Home Office next morning and asked about a response from Interpol and beyond. ‘But I have arranged a meeting for you with Mrs Field, Dr Field’s widow.’
‘Well done,’ said Steven, ‘that couldn’t have been easy, it’s a bit soon...’
‘Takes a woman,’ said Jean.
‘And a special one at that.’
‘I simply assured her that we were as keen to see her husband’s killer brought to justice as she was,’ said Jean, slightly embarrassed but not displeased.
‘How did she sound?’ Steven asked. ‘Fragile?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. She seemed calm and self-assured, like a woman brought up not to display emotion in public, if you know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Steven.
Next morning, Steven turned up at a substantial house in Notting Hill at the appointed hour of eleven’.
‘Hello, I’m Martha Field,’ said the smiling woman who opened the door.
Steven shook hands with an elegant woman of around forty years old and was invited to follow her through to the conservatory. ‘Such a beautiful morning,’ she said. ‘So nice to see the sun after the winter we’ve had.’
Steven agreed.
‘I’ve just made some coffee. Would you like some?’
Steven smiled and nodded. ‘Black, no sugar please.’ He ended the polite ritual by taking a sip and saying, ‘I hate to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs Field, and I’m sure I’m going to ask you things the police already have, but, when there is no obvious reason why anyone would want to kill your husband, we’re all struggling.’
‘I understand, Dr Dunbar.’
‘I’m taking it for granted you’ve no idea who’d want to kill your husband, he didn’t have any enemies, he wasn’t a secret gambler and had no money worries?’
‘About sums it up.’
‘Are you rich, Mrs Field?’
Martha Field recoiled a little from the directness of the question before saying, ‘We’re... I suppose you could say we were fairly well-off.’
‘No, I mean rich.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean exactly, Dr Dunbar.’
‘Bank accounts into seven figures...’
‘Martin dealt with our finances. I honestly couldn’t say.’ Martha Field’s smile muscles were excused further duty. ‘Is this really relevant to my husband’s death?’
‘What kind of car did your husband drive, Mrs Field?’
‘Really, this is getting ridiculous...’
Steven waited silently for a reply.
Martha Field softened her expression and managed a slight smile. ‘Actually, Martin’s one failing was for cars, for some reason. Don’t ask me why... men and their cars I suppose.’ She threw her hands in the air and said apologetically, ‘He drove a Maserati.’
‘Nice car,’ said Steven. ‘Better than a Ferrari in my book.’
‘I’ll never understand men and cars.’
‘I’ll never understand women and shoes,’ countered Steven with a smile. ‘You have a lovely home here, Mrs Field, is this your only one?’
The coolness returned like morning frost. ‘No, we have a place in the Dordogne, Dr Dunbar. My husband was a very successful man, but he also helped thousands of terminally ill people in coming to a much better end than they might otherwise have done.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Field and I’m sure their families are very grateful.’
‘They are, Dr Dunbar, ‘now if you’ll excuse me...’
Steven paused for a moment before accepting his dismissal with a slight smile. He went back to the Home Office.
‘How did it go?’ asked Jean Roberts.
‘Asking the English about money is never a very good idea,’ Steven replied.
‘Then why did you?’
‘I was struggling to think of any line the police wouldn’t have pursued with her, then I remembered something Tally told me about the other murdered man — she knew him vaguely when she worked in Leicester. She told me he drove a white Rolls Royce.’
‘Wow.’
‘Martin Field drove a Maserati.’
‘Wow again.’
‘Big house in Notting Hill, holiday home in the Dordogne, drives a Maserati... The other guy drives a white Rolls Royce... I know the pair of them were medical consultants at the top of their game, but something about it doesn’t feel quite right...’
After a few moments, Jean said, ‘You know, I think I see what’s wrong.’
Steven raised his eyebrows.
‘It’s their specialties, palliative care and prosthetic limb control... you’re not exactly going to have private patients banging on your door. You won’t need a place in Harley Street to pander to the rich and famous, will you?’
‘You are a star,’ said Steven. ‘The two of them are famous in medical and scientific circles but it would be fame without fortune. Neither was a surgeon charging ten grand a pop for new hips or knees or shed loads of cash for plastic alterations to your looks. The connection between the murdered two — if there is one — is the fact that they became rich for another reason.’
‘I think we can wear our pants outside our trousers from now on,’ said Jean.
‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ said John Macmillan coming out of his office: he had heard what was going on. ‘Bit showy for Sci-Med, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe you’re right, sir,’ said Steven sharing a secret smile with Jean.
‘Actually, there’s some more news, Sir John,’ said Jean. ‘I hadn’t got around to telling Steven, Interpol has come up with a third murder.
The two men looked at each other but didn’t have time to say anything before Jean continued.
‘And possibly a fourth.’
Three
‘There have been two murders, one in Paris and one in Geneva, almost identical to our two, but neither were doctors or scientists. Phillipe Lagarde worked for the World Health Organisation in Geneva, he was a high-level strategist charged with making the logistical decisions in accordance with WHO’s global strategy for wiping out infectious disease. The other man was an investment banker; based in Paris. No further details as yet.’
‘Any obvious connection between the two?’ Steven asked.
‘None at all,’ said Jean. ‘The French and Swiss police have had as little luck as we have in establishing a link between victims.’
‘So, where does that leave us?’ asked Macmillan. ‘We have four murder victims in three countries with little or no connection to each other apart from the distinctive method of their demise. Sci-Med’s interest lies in the fact that two were senior UK medical specialists enjoying perhaps a questionable degree of wealth. In view of what Jean has come up with about two further murders, is this enough to sustain Sci-Med involvement?’
‘I think the fact that one of them is some kind of decision maker in the World Health Organisation maintains the medical thread,’ said Steven.
‘And the investment banker?’ Macmillan asked.
‘The drummer,’ said Steven.
In response to blank looks, he invoked his love of jazz. ‘There are those who claim a jazz quartet comprises three musicians and a drummer.’
Jean said, ‘Maybe the drummer being an investment banker is connected to the wealth of the two English victims.’
Macmillan said, ‘I think we have talked ourselves into continuing our interest for the moment. Any ideas?’
‘We should try to find out just how well-off Field and Pashley were,’ said Steven. ‘That might tell us whether they’ve been involved in something dodgy or whether we are reading too much into a couple of holiday homes and two fancy cars.’