Janice Grey’s voice tailed off.
‘I’m sorry he’s gone. You can believe what you like of me and George, Mr Vogel. But Sir John Fairbrother was a kind man. A nice gentle man. He didn’t behave posh, the way you might expect from someone in his position, and with all that money. I liked him. He was good to us. I would never have done anything that might hurt him, and I don’t believe my Georgie would have done, either. Not knowingly, anyway.’
‘What do you mean by “not knowingly”, Mrs Grey?’ asked Vogel.
‘Nothing, I don’t mean nothing,’ Janice Grey replied quickly.
Too quickly, Vogel wondered? None the less he thought he could detect the sign of tears in the corner of each of the woman’s eyes.
She was either an extremely good actress, or she was telling the truth, thought Vogel.
‘And what are we going to do now, Georgie and me? Sir John gave us a home as well as jobs,’ Janice continued, the desperation clear in her voice. ‘God knows what will happen to us now.’
Against his better judgement Vogel found himself feeling some sympathy for Janice Grey. He made himself consider again what he’d just learned on the phone from Micky Palmer about the woman’s Old Bailey trial eight years previously. The case against her had seemed overwhelming. The Crown Prosecution Service and the officers who’d put together the case against her had been convinced she would be found guilty and spend most of the rest of her life in jail.
But she’d convinced a jury of her innocence. And apparently the way in which she had conducted herself, when called by her barrister to give evidence in her own defence, had evoked grudging admiration even from the prosecution counsel.
Vogel made a mental note not to underestimate this woman.
Five
Vogel and Saslow drove back to Bristol later that afternoon and headed for Kenneth Steele House, home of the MCIT unit. The DI wanted to catch up with all that was happening across the board, and collate in his own head the various strands of the murder inquiry which would now occupy his every waking hour. He also needed to see his boss.
Detective Superintendent Reg Hemmings had appointed himself Senior Investigating Officer, as usual, with Vogel and DI Margot Hartley as his joint deputy SIOs. Hartley, one of the best organisers in British policing, Vogel thought, was, again as usual, office manager. Vogel would take the hands-on-role to which he was invariably considered best suited.
‘The temporary Incident Room we’re setting up near the crime scene, at Wellington police station, should be fully operational by tomorrow morning, and I suggest you work out of there until we’ve completed the obvious investigations locally,’ Hemmings told Vogel. ‘I’m hoping to have about fifty officers on board. There won’t be room for them all at Wellington, of course. I’ll keep Micky Palmer and his team here, where they have access to HOLMES, if that suits you.’
Vogel knew the importance of that. HOLMES was the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, used for sharing and collating information throughout the country by all forty-three British police forces, but installed only in selected police and specialist unit stations.
He nodded his agreement, gave Hemmings a brief report of his own investigations so far, in particular his interviews with the Greys, and then headed for the MCIT’s permanent incident room.
Micky, whom Hemmings had poached from Gloucestershire police a few months earlier, convincing the detective constable to make the move on the grounds that MCIT would make far better use of his considerable talents, and of him, was engrossed in his computer. He was a quiet man, with deceptively sleepy eyes and a mischievous sense of humour which lurked just below the surface, who liked to work independently and could only function when permitted to do things his way. He’d been immersed in a destructive personality clash with Gloucester’s head of CID, and had jumped at the chance of joining Hemmings’ team. Brain like a bacon slicer, Hemmings had murmured when he’d introduced Vogel to Micky Palmer several months earlier. And in the time Palmer had been on board Vogel had already seen plenty of evidence to back up his superior’s assessment.
DC Polly Jenkins, recently promoted from uniform, and a young officer for whom Vogel had gained considerable respect when they had worked together the previous year on what had turned out to be one of the biggest and, arguably, the most disturbing murder enquiries of his career, was also one of the newer members of MCIT.
She made a beeline for Vogel as soon as he entered the incident room.
‘I’ve tracked down Bella Fairbrother,’ said Polly. ‘She’s on her way down here. I spoke to her on her mobile. But only briefly. She said she was on the motorway and would call us when she arrived.’
‘Do we know where she’s staying?’
‘Uh no, she didn’t want to talk because she was driving...’ Polly sounded apologetic.
‘It’s OK, Polly,’ said Vogel quickly. ‘Just get back to her and ask her. Tell her we need to meet her as soon as she reaches her destination.’
Micky Palmer had by then looked up from his computer and noticed Vogel’s presence. The DI walked across to his desk.
‘Anything more?’ Vogel asked.
Micky nodded. ‘Just been checking out the errant eldest boy. Typical spoiled rich kid, apparently. He was a bit of a lad and regarded by his father as a wastrel. Unlike his kid sister, no work ethic at all. Played at being an actor, and was allegedly quite talented, but made little effort. In his teens and into his early twenties he was known to us as trouble. Had a community service order against him, spent a couple of nights in jail when he got in a pub brawl, done for drink driving, cautioned for possession of marijuana, that sort of thing. When he was twenty-two he took off on some sort of round-the-world trip. Word is his father was glad to see the back of him. And apparently, he’s never been back. Supposed to be in Australia, sir. We’re trying to get in touch, and I’ve been on to our friends down under. But he seems to have cleaned up his act, certainly no record of him being in any trouble.’
‘Do we know who inherits?’
‘I’ve been on to the company secretary and Fairbrother’s lawyers, but everyone’s being a bit cagey, boss,’ said Micky. ‘I suppose you can understand it up to a point. Solicitors are conditioned to be secretive about things like wills. But I’ve certainly learned that this is going to be a very complicated matter. Pretty obviously with one of the most famous banks in the world involved, I suppose. Traditionally, ever since the bank was founded in the seventeenth century it’s been handed down from son to son. Seems unlikely Sir John’s son is going to be involved, though neither would he want to be, from all accounts, and the daughter walked out of the place for reasons yet to be learned. Plus, she’s a woman. And a mother. A single mother, it seems, just to make matters worse.’
‘Come on, Micky, you sound like some terrible old chauvinist.’
‘Not me, boss, them. There’s never been a woman at the top of Fairbrother’s and it seems unlikely the board would accept one.’
‘Not even Sir John’s clearly extremely able daughter?’ queried Vogel.
‘Well, the word is a lot of the old guard weren’t happy having her on the board at all, let alone as deputy chair. There have been one or two women in the past. Sir John’s first wife, Bella’s mother, before he divorced her and kicked her out; and his mother, I think. But it seems they were regarded only as token women really, and not allowed to take much of an active part in anything. Whenever they were given opportunity to vote, which was not often, it would have been only to support the family position. They were always expected to vote with the chair — that is Sir John and his father before him.’