He called up the records of data so far gathered, including interviews made by the team temporarily based at Wellington police station, both door-to-door locally and with any persons of interest who may have been in contact with either Sir John or his nurse Sophia Santos.
An interview with Santos’ sister in the Philippines, conducted by local police, ascertained that Sophia had reported that the demands made of her, particularly in terms of working hours, were exceptionally high. But she had taken the post because the salary offered had also been exceptionally high, apparently two to three times what the nurse would have expected in the UK. In addition, there was promise of a bonus, to be paid after Sir John’s death, on condition that she continued to care for him until that eventuality.
Santos had, of course, been the only live-in nurse, assisted by Janice Grey. Three agency nurses who had been occasionally employed, were also interviewed. Each gave an almost identical account. They had been called only to work night shift, and Sir John, on high levels of medication, had been asleep most of the time and uncommunicative for the rest.
Paul Preston Evans, the swimming pool man DC Dawson had told Vogel about, had been interviewed as it seemed he’d been one of the last people, outside of those directly caring for Sir John, to see him alive.
Preston Evans had confirmed that he’d caught Sir John unawares in his swimming pool about a month before the fire and been immediately ushered out by Janice Grey.
‘Sir John looked terrible, I was quite shocked by his appearance,’ Preston Evans had said. ‘He’d always been a strong fit man for his age, and I couldn’t believe how he’d deteriorated. It was as if he’d shrunk. And he looked so weak. A shadow of his former self.’
The interviewing DC had then asked how long it had been since Paul Preston Evans had previously seen Sir John.
‘Oh, it was months, maybe a year, I suppose,’ said Preston Evans.
And yes, he confirmed, Sir John had then looked perfectly well and the same as always.
Vogel recalled that Sir John had been treated privately by Bristol neurologist James Timson, a Parkinson’s specialist, who had also been interviewed early in the proceedings. Vogel called up the interview. It seemed that Sir John’s condition had at first improved slightly under the care of Mr Timson, and his estimated life expectancy had increased accordingly.
The neurologist was unsure exactly how long his patient had suffered from the disease. Then came the information Vogel was looking for. It seemed that Mr Timson had only treated Sir John Fairbrother for about eleven months, and had not seen any earlier medical records.
‘They were always on the way, but never seemed to turn up,’ he said.
Vogel sat for a moment deep in thought. He had so far found nobody who was in any sort of close contact with Sir John at the time of his death who had known him for more than a year. Anyone who did had been sacked, or simply avoided, or in the case of his immediate family, allegedly become estranged.
Vogel was still trying to make sense of what all this might mean, when Polly Jenkins came running across the incident room.
‘I’ve got it, boss,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Jack Kivel hired a car from Hertz at Victoria about two and a half hours ago. It’s a metallic grey Toyota Prius. They’re sending over all the details.’
‘Well done, Polly,’ said Vogel. ‘Put out an alert for that car. Get onto traffic right away. Tell them to forget about speeding violations. I want every traffic officer on the major highways out of London on the lookout for this vehicle. Particularly focusing on the motorways and arterials heading west and south. Kivel didn’t hire a car to stay in the city, and I’m gambling that as he picked it up in Victoria, he wouldn’t be heading north or east out of London. Right, Polly, move.’
Polly moved.
Vogel could feel the adrenalin rushing through him. The news of Kivel had somehow triggered him into action. He’d made his decision.
‘Saslow, with me,’ he called.
Saslow followed briskly. As Vogel strode through the incident room with the young DC hard on his heels, he called out to Micky Palmer.
‘Micky, get Hemmings on the phone. Tell him Saslow and I are on the way over to his house, and there’s been a possible development in the Fairbrother case which I must tell him about face to face.’
Palmer looked slightly askance. Vogel knew what the DC was thinking. It was getting on for midnight. Hemmings was going to be absolutely thrilled to receive the news that Vogel and Saslow were about to arrive at his home.
Twenty-Seven
Vogel filled Saslow in on his latest theory as she drove.
The young DC didn’t seem to quite know what to say. Vogel knew how she felt. His phone rang just as they pulled up outside Hemmings’ large mock Tudor semi, which neither of them had ever visited before, in Clifton on the south side of the city.
‘Traffic just picked up Jack Kivel’s hire car on the M5,’ said Polly Jenkins. ‘Just past the Bristol intersection.’
‘Well, well, so is he coming home, I wonder? That would be pretty damned cool behaviour.’
‘I dunno boss, but it seems he has a passenger. More than likely Freddie Fairbrother, from what Nobby Clarke’s lot have said. Their full report’s come through. It seems Freddie had help giving ’em the slip. From a drunk, a burly broad-shouldered man, probably in his late fifties. Or more than likely our Jack pretending to be drunk, they think now. Traffic are covering every junction as the vehicle passes, tracking but making no approach, like you said, boss.’
‘Good,’ said Vogel. ‘Just keep me posted.’
Hemmings opened his front door before either Vogel or Saslow had the chance to ring the bell. He was wearing pyjamas and a velvet dressing gown that was more like an old-fashioned smoking jacket. Vogel didn’t dare look at Saslow.
‘This had better be good, Vogel,’ the superintendent growled.
‘Well, that’s one word for it, I suppose,’ said Vogel.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t talk in riddles, Vogel,’ said Hemmings. ‘Right, as you’re here you’d better come in.’
He led the way into a plushly carpeted sitting room. Even under such taxing circumstances Vogel could not fail to notice an abundance of velvet. Almost certainly down to Mrs Hemmings, he suspected.
Hemmings gestured for his visitors to sit, side by side on an expansive, gold, velvet-covered sofa. He did not look happy. Somewhat pointedly he did not offer them any hospitality.
Vogel began to speak, reporting on the day’s events and doggedly explaining his theory, which, he felt, began to sound more far-fetched the more he tried to rationalise it.
Hemmings listened in silence until he came to a natural end. Vogel waited patiently for his superior officer’s response, which seemed an inordinately long time in coming.
‘You are something else, Vogel,’ Hemmings said eventually, his tone no longer indicating whether or not he remained irritated by the presence of the two detectives. ‘You really are. And you have just presented to me what is probably the most outlandish scenario I have encountered in my entire career.’
‘Sorry sir,’ said Vogel lamely, largely because he could think of nothing else to say.
‘Yes, well, the thing is, I think you might well be right,’ the superintendent continued, to Vogel’s relief. ‘So, the only question is, what exactly are we going to do about it?’
He paused. ‘Kivel, and Freddie Fairbrother, we think, are somewhere on the M5 in a hire car. I don’t suppose we have any idea where they are going?’
‘No sir, I’m afraid not,’ replied Vogel. ‘I thought Kivel might be playing it cool and heading for home when I first heard where his car had been spotted. After all, we haven’t got any hard evidence against him. Not yet anyway. But I don’t think he’d take Freddie back to his cottage, unless his wife is in on it all too, of course—’