Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

A Man of Taste by Kate Ellis

A native of Liverpool, Kate Ellis currently lives in north Cheshire, England. She is the author of several novels in a series featuring Detective Sergeant Wesley Preston, who holds a degree in archaeology and investigates contemporary crimes with parallels to historical cases. See The Marriage Hearse (Piatkus Books/March 2006), available in the U.K. and through on-line retailers.

Charles Crennel’s hand shook as he held the letter at arm’s length.

His wife, Cassy, looked up and brushed a strand of straight blond hair away from her face. “Something the matter?”

Charles folded the letter quickly and put it in his pocket. “Why should there be?”

Cassy stood up. “Don’t forget you’re taking Sophie to school.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before sweeping out of the bright basement kitchen, and when she had gone Charles took the letter from his pocket and read it through again. Serious consequences could mean anything from a series of chanted protests by a gaggle of dreadlocked hippies to an all-out terrorist attack. Or anything in-between.

He stared at the sheet of paper. It had been printed on a computer. Untraceable. And it had arrived in a window envelope, self-sealing with a self-adhesive stamp. No chance of DNA traces from a lick of the tongue. The sender had been clever.

After returning the letter to its envelope Charles turned it over in his long, sensitive fingers, wondering what to do. But his deliberations were interrupted by a shout from upstairs, asking if he was ready. Sophie. His little princess. It was time to drive her through the London streets to school, cocooned in the safety of his brand new SUV, while Anna, the Russian au pair, cleared their breakfast things.

He placed the envelope carefully in the letter rack next to the microwave oven. He would do nothing for now.

Opportunities. Jobs. Regeneration. Charles felt that those three words had been somewhat overused during the press conference. The development of one of the most sensitive sites in the medieval cathedral town of Semchester was to go ahead, despite numerous protests. A huge glass tower would block the famous view of the cathedral spire from the water meadows that stood between the city and the motorway. Many artists, including Constable, had been inspired by that view. But now the developer, Sir Maxwell Tring, and the award-winning architect, Charles Crennel, were about to make their own additions to the landscape, dragging Semchester into the twenty-first century and bringing its fortunate citizens a covered shopping complex and extensive office accommodation.

The cutting-edge design would probably win Charles Crennel yet another award to display in the foyer of his lofty white offices, carved from a Georgian mansion in Notting Hill. But the letter Charles had received that morning kept drifting into his mind, marring what should have been a moment of professional triumph.

“The Men of Taste,” whoever they were, had mentioned his family. His wife, Cassy? His daughter, Sophie? His parents in their converted oast-house in the Kent countryside?

Charles decided not to stay at Sir Maxwell’s headquarters for celebratory drinks with the journalists and local councillors who were admiring the neat scale model of the proposed Semchester development. The chatter and knowing, self-congratulatory laughter around him was making his head ache, so he gave his apologies to Sir Maxwell, saying that he had work to do back at his office. The developer nodded with approval: The Sir Maxwells of this world considered dedication and commitment to be virtues surpassing all others. But in reality, Charles intended to give the office a miss and drive straight home.

As he reached the car park he saw an envelope tucked underneath the windscreen wipers of his car. A window envelope, exactly the same as the one he’d received that morning.

When he tore it open, his hands shaking, something fell out and slithered to the ground: a spotted hair ribbon, just like the one Sophie had been wearing when he’d dropped her at school that morning. Charles picked it up and let it run through his fingers. The centre was creased where it had been tied. A couple of long, pale blond hairs had wound themselves around it. Sophie’s hair.

There was a letter in the envelope and he tore it out, his fingers clumsy with fear.

“We have your daughter,” it said. “She is safe for now but she will die if you go to the police. We will be in touch shortly. Yours in the love of Beauty, The Men of Taste.”

At that moment his mobile phone began to ring and he answered it with a wary hello. When he heard Cassy’s terrified, tearful voice he froze.

“It’s Sophie,” she sobbed. “I went to pick her up from school but she wasn’t there. Nobody’s seen her all day. I’ve called all her friends but none of them know where she is. I’m calling the police.”

“No,” he snapped. “Don’t do that. I’ll meet you back home. I’m on my way now.” He pressed the button to end the call before Cassy had the chance to argue... as she usually did.

He was hardly aware of his surroundings as he drove home through the London traffic. His mind was on Sophie. And how he was going to tell Cassy about the letters.

When he reached the house, he found Cassy pacing from room to room, looking for something, anything constructive to do. Anything that would bring Sophie walking in through the front door safe and well. If it hadn’t been for the tan she had acquired during their recent holiday in Italy — the holiday Charles had hoped would save their marriage — her face would have been ash pale.

“Have you called the police?” he asked, praying the answer would be no.

Cassy shook her head. “Not yet. But I’ve checked everywhere. All her friends.”

“Surely someone saw her leaving school. If she’d gone off with anyone...”

Tears welled up in Cassy’s eyes. Charles had never seen her cry before. Cassy had never been the crying type. “The headmistress said she never arrived at school this morning. Nobody’s seen her all day.”

“That’s impossible. I dropped her off myself.”

“Where, exactly?” Cassy spat the question at him, her eyes accusing.

“Round the corner. I’ve done it before. It avoids getting caught up in the school traffic. She’s ten. She can walk a hundred yards.”

Charles was unprepared for the stinging slap across the face. “If you’d taken her to the gate like you were supposed to, she’d be home safe now. I’m calling the police.”

Charles grabbed her by the wrist and she squealed with pain. “You can’t.”

He fumbled in his pocket for the letter and spread it out before her. “This was left on my windscreen when I parked outside Max’s headquarters. I had another one this morning but I thought it was some sort of joke. We should wait and see what they want.”

Cassy was wearing her office clothes, the smart grey trouser suit of the senior accountant, but sweat stained the armpits of the jacket and the trousers were creased. At that moment Cassy no longer cared about appearance or career. She grabbed Charles’s arm like a helpless child. “So what do we do?”

He held her awkwardly. For the first time in ages she needed him.

“We wait, like they said. We can’t take any risks.”

Cassy began to sob inconsolably just as the telephone rang.

The instructions The Men of Taste gave Charles were quite clear. He had to persuade Sir Maxwell Tring to announce the cancellation of the Semchester development to the media. The scheme was to be abandoned. The timeless beauty of Semchester must remain untouched by concrete and glass. When these demands had been met, Sophie — who was safe and well — would be released.

The voice on the other end of the line was tinny, probably electronically processed, and no questions were allowed. And certainly no negotiation. The voice stated coldly that one of their number had a gun and would not hesitate to execute Sophie if their demands were ignored. The word execute, pronounced with chilling calm, froze Charles’s heart. The Men of Taste certainly sounded as if they meant business.

If they’d only wanted money it would have been simple. Charles would have paid up and, hopefully, Sophie would be returned. But persuading Sir Maxwell to abandon the flagship development which would transform the city of Semchester from a pretty, small-town backwater, barely on the main tourist trail, to a hub of commercial prosperity — a showcase for groundbreaking architecture with its snowy concrete domes and its glass tower tapering to the sky like a huge silver rocket, dwarfing the cathedral spire — might be a difficult task.

Cassy’s initial reaction to the news was hardly unexpected. She threatened to rush round to Sir Maxwell’s office and stay there until he had yielded to the kidnappers’ demands. She was a mother, and mothers will go to any lengths to defend their young. And after all that had happened between her and Max, she said, perhaps she still had some influence. She would do anything... even if it meant sacrificing her pride.

As Charles was trying to convince her that hasty action could only make things worse, they heard the sound of a key in the front door. It was Anna, the au pair. They could hardly keep this from her: She looked after Sophie; she was part of the household. Almost part of the family.

Anna had to be told. Charles left Cassy slumped on the sofa in the drawing room and crept into the hall to head the au pair off before she reached her flat at the top of the house.

And after they had broken the news to Anna, he intended to return to Sir Maxwell’s headquarters and explain his dilemma. It was the only way.

A child’s life or a multimillion-pound development? Who knew which one Sir Maxwell would choose?

Cassy found the fact that Anna cried rather reassuring. It’s always comforting to know that one has chosen a carer who actually cares.

When Anna had disappeared upstairs, Cassy knelt on the hard oak floor in the drawing room looking at the photographs of their recent holiday in Italy, staring at the images of Sophie as though she was trying to imprint her features on her mind. Sophie in St. Mark’s Square in Venice. Sophie in front of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. Sophie holding up the leaning tower of Pisa. Tears ran down her cheeks as she examined the pictures, imagining the terrible things that could be happening to their daughter at that moment. She looked up and saw that Charles was watching her.

“I’ve thought about it, Charles. We’ll have to call the police. They’ll know what to do.”

Charles shook his head. “No way. It would only panic the kidnappers. It’s out of the question.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to see Max. I’m going to take him into my confidence.”

“Don’t you think it would be better if I...”

“I think you’ve done enough damage.”

She dabbed her eyes with a damp tissue and bent her head contritely. “Do you think he’ll agree?”

“He has to.”

Sir Maxwell was a smoker. And Charles’s request resulted in the opening of a new packet of small cigars. He sat in his oversized black leather swivel chair staring at Charles and blowing plumes of white smoke into the fuggy office air.

“You have a problem, then, Charlie,” he pronounced after a few minutes of silence. “You realise there’s no way we can give in?”

“I thought perhaps... If we used my original plans... the ones that were more in keeping with Semchester’s existing architecture...”

“No way.” He leaned forward and looked at Charles, his eyes narrowing. “If we give way now, they’ll only be back every time we’ve a new development in the pipeline. We stand firm. We don’t give in to threats. And let’s face it, those original plans of yours were hardly groundbreaking. And they were far too expensive.”

Charles stared at the man across the desk, the man he’d worked closely with for the past two years — the man who’d seduced his wife — and realised that he didn’t care. Cassy had only been another conquest to pass the time: She meant nothing to him and Sophie meant even less. As far as Sir Maxwell Tring was concerned, Sophie Crennel, aged ten and a half, could be sacrificed in the name of profit and progress.

“I’d call the police in if I were you,” Sir Maxwell advised casually, as if he were recommending someone to take a holiday. He stood up and Charles knew he was being dismissed like an employee who has outlived his usefulness.

“But they’ve got my daughter. They said—”

“I told you, Charlie. Tell the police. They’re used to dealing with this sort of thing. Now if you don’t mind...”

Charles turned away, bursting with helpless fury. It was no use appealing to Sir Maxwell’s better nature: It was doubtful whether he had one. The man was a monster. And the Semchester development was more important to him than a child’s life.

He left the office, slamming the door behind him. He was afraid that he had miscalculated badly. And he wasn’t sure what to do next.

He drove home through the streets in a trance, narrowly avoiding cyclists and parked cars. He had to think of something. Fast.

But when he reached the house, a tearful Cassy met him in the hall. Gone was the brittle hardness of the woman who had slept with Sir Maxwell because she was bored with their marriage. She had become clinging, soft.

Then she broke the news he’d been dreading. She hadn’t been able to wait any longer. She’d called in the police.

The two detectives who answered Cassy’s call — one wearing a sharp suit and the other a leather blouson jacket — made themselves at home in the drawing room. As they sat sipping tea, Charles did his best to conceal his anger.

How could Cassy have had such a callous disregard for their daughter’s safety? The Men of Taste had ordered no police involvement. And if it had been up to him, that order would have been obeyed to the letter. If they’d done things his way, they would have got Sophie back safe and well. But after this act of defiance, he wasn’t so sure. If you defy volatile kidnappers you can push them over the edge.

Cassy was trembling like a child and the detectives watched as Charles put his arm around her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. A gesture of unity for the outside world.

“I’ve told the police everything and given them the letters,” she said breathlessly. “They’re tracing our incoming phone calls, so we’re to keep the kidnappers talking — play for time. We’re to say you’re making arrangements to get the development cancelled. Sergeant Pierce says they won’t harm Sophie if they think there’s a chance they’ll get their own way.”

Charles tried to smile reassuringly. Somehow he hadn’t the heart to tell her about Max’s reaction to his request. He sat opposite the two policemen, dazed, pondering his next move.

Anna made them another cup of tea before leaving the house to meet her boyfriend. She had already been questioned and, by the expression on her face, she hadn’t particularly enjoyed the experience. Like many foreigners, Anna probably didn’t altogether trust the lovable British bobby.

Charles answered their questions automatically. Yes, he’d been reluctant to call the police in because of the kidnappers’ threat. No, he had no idea who was behind it. He’d never heard of The Men of Taste before in his life. Enquiries had revealed that nobody had witnessed Sophie being abducted. Either the kidnappers had been clever — or they’d been lucky.

“What are you going to do?” Charles asked, trying to stay calm but aware of the desperation in his voice.

“We can’t do anything until they contact you again,” said Sharp Suit. “Then we’ll have ’em. They sound like a load of lentil-eating environmentalists to me. And that sort don’t usually go round harming kids, in our experience. Don’t worry, we’ll get her back.” He bared his teeth in what Charles assumed was intended to be a reassuring smile.

When the policemen had gone, he went to his study to think. Somehow he had to persuade Max to change his mind.

And by the end of the evening he thought he had come up with a couple of possible solutions.

Blackmail wasn’t something Charles Crennel would ever have considered in the normal course of events, but desperate situations call for desperate measures. When he’d called Sir Maxwell to request a meeting, the developer had agreed reluctantly, saying that if Charles was going to make another plea for the development to be halted, he was wasting his breath.

But Charles had to try.

They met at Sir Maxwell’s lavish South Kensington home, but the developer seemed determined to show his architect no hospitality whatsoever. Charles found himself trying to talk over the din of Sir Maxwell’s home cinema system as Lady Tring — the fourth of that name — watched the Titanic sink beneath the cold Atlantic waves for the umpteenth time. She didn’t acknowledge Charles’s arrival, and when he asked for a private word, raising his voice to make himself heard over the film’s sweeping theme, she turned and scowled. She was dark — whereas her predecessors had been blond — and half Sir Maxwell’s age. He had no children: His succession of wives — all considerably younger than himself — had been more interested in manicures than motherhood.

Charles studied the fourth Lady Tring and asked himself how Cassy could have thought she could compete. Perhaps she had hoped Max might learn to prefer brains to beauty. She hadn’t realised that she’d only been a pawn in his power games: Bedding his architect’s wife was his way of letting Charles know who was the alpha male. And Cassy had fallen for it.

Sir Maxwell gave his wife an irritated glance before leading Charles to his study, a haven of dark leather and masculinity.

“I’ll come straight to the point,” Charles said as he sank down into a soft armchair. “The police have been called in, but they don’t seem to have a clue, and I’m not prepared to risk my daughter’s life. The Semchester development can’t go ahead. And if you don’t care about my daughter...” He swallowed hard. “Perhaps you care about your marriage.”

He hesitated, watching Sir Maxwell’s face. But the man was giving nothing away.

“If you don’t agree to stop the development, I’ll tell your wife about the affair you had with Cassy.”

Sir Maxwell smiled indulgently, as though Charles was some naive child. “I expect she knows already. You’ll have to come up with something better than that, Charlie. The development’s going ahead. Those lunatics who claim to have your daughter won’t do her any harm. Let the police deal with them. That’s their job.”

Charles’s heart was beating fast. This was his last throw of the dice, but he had to take the gamble. “I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but if the press were told about Mrs. Shrewsbury...”

The smile disappeared from Sir Maxwell’s lips.

“I did some research into your past when we started working together on the project. I’m sure the press would be interested to know that in nineteen ninety-four you were knocking down houses for a new development and your bully boys got rather carried away when they were evicting an old lady from her home. Mrs. Shrewsbury died of her injuries. You had it put round that she’d been attacked by a gang of youths who stole her purse. But the person I talked to said that was rubbish. He told me what really happened.”

Sir Maxwell stood up. His face had turned the colour of claret. “Who was it? Who told you?”

Charles smiled. “Now, I’m hardly going to tell you that, am I?” He paused, arranging his fingers into an arch. “I’ve heard rumours you’re after a seat in the House of Lords. If the press were to get hold of the Mrs. Shrewsbury story... And I’ve no doubt the police would be interested. I believe you can go to jail for a long time for conspiracy to commit murder.”

Sir Maxwell brought his clenched fist down on the desk. “That’s blackmail.”

Charles, sensing weakness at last, pressed home his advantage. “It’s only the Semchester development. There’ll be others.”

“You never liked those changes to your scheme, did you?”

Charles ignored the remark. “When it comes out about how you sacrificed the project to save a little girl, just think what that’ll do for your reputation. That seat in the Lords...”

Something, an uncertainty in Sir Maxwell’s eyes, told Charles that he was wavering. “I’ll think about it,” he said quickly.

When Charles arrived home there had been another phone call. And this one set a deadline. The announcement had to be made by the weekend. Or Sophie Crennel would die.

“Controversial Semchester Scheme Cancelled.” “Constable’s View Saved.” Charles Crennel ran his fingers over the headlines as he stared at the phone and willed it to ring. He’d done his bit now. He’d persuaded Sir Maxwell to drop the development. It would soon be over.

A policewoman, specially trained in sympathy, was sitting in the next room, recording equipment at the ready. Cassy was with her, chemically calmed but still biting her nails, an old habit from childhood rediscovered during the crisis. Anna had been out at the shops for some time: Someone had to buy essentials and keep the house running. The au pair had been spending nights at her boyfriend’s place since the kidnapping, saying she was afraid of being alone in her flat. Cassy hardly seemed to have noticed her absence.

The telephone sat there silent, as if it had a secret it was keeping to itself. Charles looked at his watch, hoping the call would come soon. He hadn’t seen Sophie for four days and he was longing to take her in his arms and reassure her that everything was all right. Daddy was there to look after her.

Suddenly his mobile phone began to ring and he rushed into his study to take the call. He wrote down the directions, reading them through twice, fixing the geography in his head before snatching his car keys from the hall table.

He closed the front door quietly behind him as he sneaked out. He was taking no chances. The police mustn’t know where he was going.

The London traffic was heavy, as usual, and by the time he’d travelled south of the River Thames to Deptford, he felt as if he’d been driving for hours. Eventually he found the place: an empty shop on a filthy, littered street, hardly the best location in town. The windows were boarded up and covered with torn fly posters, and he double-checked the piece of paper in his pocket. Number 15. It was the right address. But it looked abandoned, unoccupied. Ripe for redevelopment.

He left the car on the street, risking a parking ticket, and, as instructed, he approached the front door and knocked, timidly at first, then more boldly with his fists. When there was no answer, he pushed the door and, to his surprise, it swung open.

Inside the shop, the old-fashioned counter was still in place: Polished up it would have graced any museum. The woodblock floor had been swept and the shelves behind the counter were piled with books and toys, jewel-bright against the dusty wood.

Charles called out. Once. Twice. And after a long silence he heard a sound.

“You’re late,” Anna said as she emerged from the door behind the counter. “I was worried.”

As she spoke, a dark-haired young man with vulpine good looks stepped through the doorway behind her. He was holding a gun, which he waved vaguely in Charles’s direction.

“Me and Anna, we thought you not coming.” His voice was deep and his accent made it hard to understand his words.

“It’s okay, Sergei,” Charles said, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s all over. Time to hand her over.”

The young man smiled, showing a set of straight yellow teeth. “What if I change our arrangement?”

Charles felt his body tense. “You can’t do that, Sergei. We arranged that you and Anna would look after Sophie until I gave you the signal to send the final letter. You’ll get paid what we agreed, don’t worry.”

Sergei smiled again. He smiled a lot, but Charles had always thought that his smiles held menace rather than mirth. “Why should I trust man who arrange to kidnap his own daughter, eh?”

“I’ve explained already, Sergei,” Charles said, growing impatient. “How can I make you understand? Semchester’s beautiful — a stunning little town. I spent half my childhood there. I love the place.”

“You kidnap your daughter for this?” Sergei said with disbelief.

“You don’t understand. I couldn’t think of any other way of stopping it. The original scheme I designed was in keeping with the architecture: It would have preserved the view of the cathedral across the water meadows. But it was too expensive for Tring — less profit in it for him. He wanted a glass and concrete monstrosity. No local materials, and completely out of scale.”

He looked at Sergei’s blank expression and feared that he wasn’t taking in what he was saying, that he didn’t understand.

“You could have refused to do it,” said Anna.

“I did, but he threatened me with legal action. It was either dance to his tune or go bankrupt. And if I hadn’t done it, there’d have been plenty of architects who would have jumped at the chance. I couldn’t let him get away with it. Do you understand?”

“But what about your wife? She is so upset and—”

“After what she did, it serves her right.” He smiled at Anna. “And Sophie’s fine with you looking after her, Anna. She adores you, you know that.”

Sergei stepped forward. “Not only Anna look after her. Me, too. Anna and Sergei.”

“Well...” Suddenly Charles felt afraid. Anna had been with them for four years and he trusted her completely. But what did he really know about her boyfriend, Sergei? Only that, like Anna, he came from Russia. He had assumed that a reliable girl like Anna would choose a reliable mate: like attracting like.

But sometimes opposites attract. And Anna looked nervous.

“Where’s Sophie?” he asked warily.

“In the back,” said Anna. “There’s a computer there. She’s playing games.” She hesitated. “We should make it look convincing. I’ll take Sophie back to the school and stay with her till she’s picked up. Sergei can make the call as arranged.”

Sergei looked Charles in the eye. “What about the police? I do not like the police.”

“Cassy called them in. It couldn’t be helped. But they don’t suspect anything.”

At a signal from Sergei, Anna scurried into the back and Charles turned to go. He didn’t want Sophie to see him in case she let something slip later. He had planned the operation down to the last detail.

“The money we arranged...” said Sergei.

Charles swung round. “What about it?”

“I want more.”

Suddenly things weren’t going to plan. He was no longer in control. He looked at the gun in Sergei’s hand and swallowed hard.

Sophie was sleeping in late. Anna thought she needed her rest. Anna had hidden the newspaper underneath the cushion. She hadn’t wanted Cassy to see the headlines: They would only upset her. But Anna couldn’t resist taking a peep at the front page herself, so she retrieved it from its hiding place and began to read.

“Kidnapped Girl Released Before Father Is Shot,” the headline said. “Police are mystified by the fatal shooting in a Deptford back street of award-winning architect Charles Crennel just after kidnappers had released his ten-year-old daughter unharmed. A witness saw a black car with tinted windows speeding away from the scene, but the police have no firm leads as yet. However, they are working on the theory that the kidnapping and the murder are linked.”

Anna frowned. Sergei swore to her he’d had nothing to do with it. And besides, he had always told her that his gun was just a replica; something he carried for effect, for security. But did she really trust him? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Another headline caught her eye. “Semchester Development to Go Ahead After All.”

As she shoved the paper back under the cushion she felt tears prick her eyes. She had to see Sergei. She had to know the truth.

Sir Maxwell Tring stood at his office window and watched as a sleek black car with dark windows screeched to a halt in the car park below.

The two well-built, shaven-headed men who emerged from the vehicle were so alike that they could almost have been twins. One of them glanced up at the office window and Sir Maxwell stepped back out of sight. They had an appointment to see him. Harry and Mick. His odd-job men, he called them. They got rid of problems. Mrs. Shrewsbury. Charles Crennel. And others.

But this time, Harry and Mick had been careless: There had been a description of the car in the newspapers. Luckily, the witness hadn’t taken the registration number, so it would just be a simple matter of getting the car resprayed. A bit of petty cash would see to it.

Sir Maxwell gazed at the scale model of the Semchester development that stood in pride of place in the centre of his office. Money, in his experience, solved most of life’s little problems.