Claudia issues instructions and the maid disappears. She turns back to us and takes a seat on the sofa opposite, tucking her hands in her lap. Everything about her demeanour is closed off and defensive.
‘Poor Christine and Sylvia. Was it some sort of accident?’
‘No, we don’t believe so.’
‘What happened?’
‘They were murdered.’
She blinks. Grief is like a moist sheen over her pupils. It’s as much emotion as she’s going to show.
‘Christine jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge,’ I say. ‘We believe she was coerced.’
‘Coerced?’
‘She was forced to jump,’ explains Ruiz.
Claudia shakes her head fiercely, as if trying to clear the information from her ears.
‘Sylvia died of exposure. She was found handcuffed to a tree.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ asks Claudia, a little less sure of the world.
‘You haven’t seen the TV or the newspapers?’
‘I don’t follow the news. It depresses me.’
‘When did you last see Christine and Sylvia?’
‘Not since Helen’s wedding; they were bridesmaids.’ She counts on her fingertips. ‘Eight years. Goodness, has it really been that long.’
‘Did your daughter keep in touch with them?’
‘I don’t know. Helen went overseas with her husband. She didn’t get home very often.’
The maid has returned with a tray. The teapot and china cups seem too delicate to hold boiling water. Claudia pours, almost willing her hands to be steady.
‘Do you have milk or sugar?’
‘Milk.’
‘Straight from the pot,’ says Ruiz.
She stirs without letting the teaspoon touch the edges of her cup. Her thoughts seem to drift away for a moment before returning to the room.
A car sounds outside- tyres on gravel. Moments later the front door slams opens and hurried footsteps cross the foyer. Bryan Chambers makes the sort of entrance that befits a man his size, bursting into the room, hell bent on hitting someone.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he bellows. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
Balding, with big hands and a thick neck, his head is shaped like a hard hat and glistens with sweat.
Ruiz is on his feet. I take longer to find mine.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ says Claudia. ‘Something awful has happened to Christine and Sylvia.’
Bryan Chambers isn’t satisfied. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Who sent you here? These women have nothing to do with us.’
It’s obvious he knows about Christine and Sylvia. Why didn’t he tell his wife?
‘Calm down, dear,’ Claudia says.
‘Just be quiet.’ he barks. ‘Leave this to me.’
Skipper has followed him into the room, moving behind our backs. There is something in his right hand, which is tucked inside his jacket.
Ruiz turns to face him. ‘We don’t want to upset anyone. We just want to know about Helen.’
Bryan Chambers scoffs. ‘Don’t play games with me! He sent you, didn’t he?’
I look at Ruiz. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re helping the police investigate two murders. Both victims were friends of your daughter.’
Chambers switches his attention to Ruiz. ‘You a police officer?’
‘Used to be.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I’m retired.’
‘So you’re a private detective?’
‘No.’
‘So none of this is fucking official.’
‘We just want to speak to your daughter, Helen.’
He claps his hands together and laughs indignantly. ‘Well, that just takes the biscuit!’
Ruiz is growing annoyed. ‘Maybe you should do like your wife suggests and calm down, Mr Chambers.’
‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’
‘No, sir, we’re just trying to get some answers.’
‘What’s my Helen got to do with it?’
‘Four weeks ago she sent emails to Christine Wheeler, Sylvia Furness and another school friend, Maureen Bracken. She arranged to meet them at a pub in Bath on the 21st of September, a Friday night. The others turned up but Helen didn’t. They didn’t hear from her. We were hoping to find out why.’
Bryan Chambers gapes at me incredulously. The manic glimmer in his gaze has been replaced by a fever of uncertainty.
‘What you are suggesting is impossible,’ he says. ‘My daughter couldn’t have sent any emails.’
‘Why?’
‘She died three months ago; she and my granddaughter drowned in Greece.’
Suddenly the room isn’t big enough to hide the awkwardness of the moment. The air has become cloying and harsh. Ruiz looks at me, unable to respond.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell them. I don’t know what else to say. ‘We had no idea.’
Bryan Chambers isn’t interested in apologies or explanations.
‘They died in a ferry accident,’ says Mrs Chambers, still sitting upright on the edge of the sofa. ‘It sank in a storm.’
I remember the story. It was late in the summer, a freak storm in the Aegean. Ships were damaged and yachts destroyed. Some of the holiday resorts had to be evacuated and a passenger ferry sank off one of the islands. Dozens of tourists were rescued. Passengers died.
I glance around the room, looking at the photographs. The Chambers have created a shrine to their dead granddaughter.
‘Please leave now,’ says Bryan Chambers.
Skipper emphasises the demand, by holding open the door. I’m still looking at the images of a blonde-haired, clear-skinned granddaughter, missing a front tooth, holding a balloon, blowing out birthday candles…
‘We’re very sorry to have troubled you,’ I say. ‘And for your loss.’
Ruiz dips his head. ‘Thank you for the tea, ma’am.’
Neither Bryan nor Claudia respond.
Skipper escorts us outside and stands sentry at the door, still with his right hand inside his oilskin jacket. Bryan Chambers appears beside him.
Ruiz has started the Merc. My door is open. I turn back.
‘Mr Chambers, who did you think sent us?’
‘Goodbye,’ he says.
‘Is someone threatening you?’
‘Drive carefully.’
36
We emerge out of the wooded drive and swing right, taking the back road as far as Trowbridge. The Merc floats over the dips. Sinatra has been turned down.
‘That’s one fucking crazy family,’ mutters Ruiz. ‘The wheels are spinning but the hamster’s dead. Did you see Chambers’ face? I thought he was having a heart attack.’
‘He’s frightened of something.’
‘What? World War III?’
Ruiz begins listing the security measures- the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Skipper could have come straight from SAS central casting.
‘A guy like that earns five grand a week as a bodyguard in Baghdad- what’s he doing here?’
‘Wiltshire is safer.’
‘Maybe Chambers has been doing business with the wrong sort of people. That’s the problem with those big corporations- it’s like Friday night at the movies. Someone is always trying to get a handful of tit or a finger in the pie.’
‘Colourful analogy.’
‘Think so?’
‘My daughters are never going to the cinema.’
‘Just you wait.’
We take the A363 through Bradford-on-Avon and skirt the top of Bathampton Down. We crest a hill. Bath Spa is there before us, nestled sedately in a valley. A billboard announces: Your Dream Retirement Lies Just Ahead. Ruiz thinks it sums up Bath, which has that sulphurous reek of old age and money.
I can’t get a single question out of my head: how did a dead woman send emails organising a night out with friends? Someone sent the messages. Whoever sent the messages must have had access to Helen Chambers’ computer or her login details. Either that or they stole her identity and set up a new account. If so, why? It makes no sense. What possible interest would someone have in getting four old friends together?
It could have been the killer. He may have drawn them together and then followed them home. It certainly would explain how he scoped his victims- learning where they lived and worked, discovering the rhythm of their lives. It still doesn’t explain how Helen Chambers is linked to this.