He couldn’t believe he had been so blind, that he had failed to detect this other side of Maynard. It confused and angered him, yet he found the details of the man’s bizarre, hidden life strangely compelling: the neat, meticulous handwriting, the lists of names, lovers, descriptions of sexual practices and a detailed account of monies paid out for years on sexual gratification. One name, Justin Chalmers, featured more often than most. This man had accompanied Maynard on trips to Paris, Vienna, Jamaica and Morocco. Maynard’s bank statements recorded payments to Chalmers; large sums over several years. William wondered if he had been blackmailing Maynard. What else could account for the thousands of pounds Maynard had spent on him? What else could account for the lists of fictional companies, whose names he had used to redirect campaign funds to a bank account in France? The recipient was always J. Chalmers. Was Justin Chalmers the person Maynard ‘longed for’? Had Chalmers broken his heart?
It was lunchtime before William moved through to his office and checked the answerphone. There were twenty-four messages, but he felt disinclined to play them. It was imperative that he found Justin Chalmers. Of all the names in Maynard’s diary, this one had leaped out as the most dangerous. Slowly William punched in the number and waited. The phone rang three times, then an answerphone clicked on and a soft, drawling voice announced, ‘Hi, I’m afraid I am unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and the time and date you called and...’ there was a pause, followed by a laugh ‘...if you’re lucky I’ll get back to you.’
At two fifteen, William let in his damage-control expert, Myers Summers. ‘Well, this is a fucking mess all round, isn’t it? You know the world and its mother are trying to contact you, old boy?’ Summers shrugged off his coat.
‘I guessed as much, but I’m not speaking to anyone until we’ve sorted something out. Come and have a drink.’
‘Not for me, thanks, if we’re to concentrate on making sure you escape the flak.’ Summers sat down. ‘Right, let’s have it from the top, shall we?’
It was just after midnight when Summers left, by which time William was flushed with brandy — not drunk, but he had consumed more than usual.
Summers’s parting shot was that it was imperative to get the boyfriend, or whoever he was, tucked away and out of public grasp no matter the cost. Especially as, according to the diary, he would have been the last person to have been seen with Maynard. He might even have had an argument with him that had resulted in Maynard slashing his wrists.
‘I suppose he did slash them himself?’ Summers asked, as if it was just an afterthought.
‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped William.
‘Well, let’s hope he did. It’s murky enough as it is. If murder was mentioned, it would really whip up a frenzy. Is this Justin fella around at all?’
William shrugged. He obviously had been, and with Maynard on the night he died. But where was he now?
As the police did not have access to Maynard’s private diaries, William was confident that he could deal with Justin Chalmers. Money, he had learned over years of having it, always had the desired effect on a certain type of person. He had no doubt that Chalmers could be bribed. He was about to turn off the lights in his study when he checked the time. It was two thirty. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled, leaning back against the desk, staring at his brown brogues. There was no immediate reply, and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice answered, ‘Yes?’
‘I called and left a message earlier today,’ William said, then had to clear his throat as he was so nervous. ‘Is that Justin Chalmers?’
‘I believe so...’ came the reply, followed by a yawn.
‘I need to see you.’
‘Really? You want to come over now?’
‘No, in the morning, early. This is a most urgent matter, which concerns a mutual acquaintance. I cannot discuss it over the telephone.’
‘Mmm, well, come whenever you want, and...’ there was a pause, then what sounded like a giggle ‘...I can’t wait.’ The phone went dead. At no time had Chalmers even asked who was calling.
Exhausted, William went to bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept, untroubled by dreams, but his serenity was not to last long.
Chapter three
It was six a.m. when William drove into the mews. As yet the news of Maynard’s death had not broken: it had not made the previous night’s programmes, but there was no doubt that it would be this morning’s main item. William arrived at Chalmers’s address in Kensington. Flower-tubs and urns decorated the doorsteps of the row of pretty two-storey mews cottages. If he lived in that sort of house, in this part of town, William thought, Chalmers must be pretty well off. But as he reached the end of the street, the houses began to look seedier, obviously leased. Number thirty-two had the obligatory doorstep tub, but the plants were dead and the front-door paint was peeling. The bell was out of order, so William knocked. He did not have to wait more than a few moments before the door opened. A tall, tanned young man beckoned him in. He was wearing a pristine white T-shirt with pale washed-out denim jeans. His bare feet were encased in velvet monogrammed slippers and he wore a heavy gold bracelet on his right wrist. The interior was dark, all the curtains still drawn, but the furniture was antique and the carpets, though threadbare, were good-quality Turkish. Velvet cushions were scattered over the floor, and there was a sofa with stuffing protruding from its arms. ‘Justin Chalmers? Sir William Benedict,’ William said, and thrust out his hand.
The young man glanced down at it and, without a word, went through a bead curtain into what William supposed was the kitchen, from where the smell of coffee emerged. William stood uneasily in the middle of the room.
Minutes later the young man reappeared with a tray and put it down on an Indian brass coffee-table. ‘Do sit down. I rarely entertain at this house, so excuse the mess. You obviously have something of...’ He swallowed the word ‘urgency’, then smiled, and gestured to the coffee pot. ‘Black or white?’
‘Black, please.’
William sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘I’m intrigued by how you got hold of my number and address.’ Chalmers handed William a cup.
He was tall, at least six foot two, with a lean torso. He had exceptionally blond hair, not the same colour or texture as William’s but naturally thick and streaked by the sun, well cut and worn quite long, touching his shoulders. He had penetrating wide-set eyes of so vivid a blue that the whites seemed brilliant. The deep lines at the side of his eyes and mouth did not detract from his overall youthfulness, but he was, William guessed, in his early thirties.
As he passed a chipped porcelain cup and saucer, William noticed that his fingers were long, slender and as tanned as his chiselled face. His nails were clean and manicured and he had a large embossed gold ring on the little finger of his left hand.
‘You needed to see me urgently,’ he said, ‘so let’s not waste time. What’s the problem?’ He curled up on a cushion opposite William, and looked at him over the rim of his cup. He took a sip, then tossed his hair back from his face.
William watched him carefully as he began. ‘You know Andrew Maynard?’