Sleeping Cruelty

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?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘He was found dead yesterday morning.’ Chalmers showed no flicker of emotion. ‘With his wrists slit in his bathtub.’

‘Really? Sorry, I forgot to ask, do you take sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ William took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m aware that you had an ongoing relationship with him.’

‘So?’ Chalmers sank back into his cushion and blew on his coffee. ‘There are biscuits too, if you’d like one.’ William was alarmed by the young man’s response. This was not how it was meant to go. Chalmers pulled a face. ‘So you found him, did you? Must have been unpleasant. A lot of blood, I suppose? Cutting your wrists sends a massive spray.’

‘You saw him last Thursday. What time did you leave?’

There was a pause as Chalmers gazed intently at William. ‘You seem very well informed.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I went round at about seven thirty in the evening. I was having dinner elsewhere, but Andrew wanted to see me, so I obliged. I left about an hour later. Around eight thirty, perhaps a quarter to nine.’

‘Did you have an argument?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

William placed his cup down and leaned forward. ‘You mind if I call you Justin?’

‘I don’t mind if you call me Jack the Ripper.’

William talked across Chalmers’s laughter. ‘You see, Justin, the press will hound you if they discover what was going on between you and Andrew Maynard. I am aware that he paid you large sums of money.’

Chalmers stared. William was unnerved by his assurance and turned away. He chose his words carefully. ‘It would be preferable, Justin, if your relationship was not made public.’

‘I have no desire to discuss my relationship with Andrew. We were good friends and I was very fond of him, although not as exclusively as he wanted.’

‘Did he kill himself because of you?’ William blurted out.

Chalmers shrugged. ‘I have no idea. He seemed quite together when I saw him but, then, one can never tell another person’s real feelings, especially when that person is a politician.’ He laughed, softly, leaned back and stretched like a cat, his sexuality and sensuality filling the room.

William felt distinctly uneasy in his presence. Suddenly doubts started to filter through his mind. Could it have been murder?

As if reading William’s mind, the other man leaned forward. ‘I didn’t kill him. I can tell you’re thinking it’s a possibility, but I didn’t. He was too useful and, as you so rightly pointed out, I received a considerable amount of money from him and hoped to continue doing so.’

William stayed another fifteen minutes, in which time he agreed that a sum of money would be paid into Chalmers’s bank account on the condition that he left London immediately and did not speak to the press or anyone else about his relationship with Andrew Maynard. The young man did not quibble over the amount, but accepted a hundred thousand pounds immediately and said he would be on the next flight. William was relieved that the negotiations had gone so smoothly, but as he shook Chalmers’s hand, he felt the man’s fingers grip his own.

‘You have his diaries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do the police know you removed property from the scene?’

‘No. They will be destroyed. No one will know of their contents.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Chalmers sighed and smiled simultaneously. ‘But I know... and I also know I could make a lot more than a paltry hundred grand in one exclusive to any number of tabloids.’ He let the veiled threat hang in the air briefly then continued, ‘Because I did care for poor old Andrew, I’ll accept your offer — but I’d appreciate it if you remember you’re getting off very lightly.’

‘I have nothing to worry about,’ William said, removing his hand from Chalmers’s grasp.

‘Really? Then I’ve misjudged you, Sir William.’ He crossed his arms and propped himself against the door-frame. ‘Look at the facts. You have come here personally and you have taken possession of his diaries. It can only mean one thing: you are worried that Andrew Maynard’s private life might contaminate your own.’ Chalmers chuckled to himself. ‘After all, you did finance his career and, knowing the gutter press, they will dig deeply into your...’ he snorted before continuing, making speech marks in the air ‘...“predilections”. Perhaps they will assume that you too are a “friend of Dorothy” as they say. They may force you to come out.’

He smiled at William’s discomfort, but his eyes showed no signs of amusement. William grasped the subtext and reluctantly upped the kiss-off price to a quarter of a million. It was accepted.

William drove back to The Boltons in a fury. He didn’t mind spending the money — that had not irked him — it was the arrogance of the man, the confidence with which he had played his hand so perfectly. Justin Chalmers had class and William knew it. No matter how rich he was, he would never be able to match that sort of man’s aristocratic air, and he felt sure that that had not been the last time he would see him.

The crisp morning made William feel a bit better. The traffic in Park Lane was still moving freely, enabling the gleaming Rolls to move swiftly down and round Hyde Park Corner. On occasions, William enjoyed driving himself instead of being chauffeured and already he felt more confident, as if the power he was wielding over the car was somehow mirroring the control he had taken over his life. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was chicken feed to a man as wealthy as William, and he had been prepared to pay a lot more. He would clear up this unfortunate Maynard business quickly, and that would be that. A minor setback. He slotted a CD into the stereo and drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel as Beethoven exploded from the speakers.

As he drove towards The Boltons, his mood lifted even higher. He had a full day ahead: a luncheon with Lady Thorn to discuss a charity benefit, then back-to-back business meetings for the rest of the afternoon before dinner with a senior member of the Royal Family to discuss sponsorship for the Royal Horse Show. As he mulled over the day ahead he succeeded in putting Maynard’s suicide to the back of his mind.

However, as he turned into The Boltons, it all came flooding back. The roadway outside his house was swarming with reporters and photographers, and a TV news team was setting up its cameras. William was forced to slow to a crawling pace as the hordes converged on his car. The flash of cameras made his eyes water, and there was a sudden burst of voices as they recognized him and attempted to stop the car to interview him there and then. ‘Sir William, SIR WILLIAM... Daily Mail... Daily Telegraph... the Sun.’ They surrounded the car, shoving microphones towards him, and he almost ran over a few as he attempted to get into his driveway. The electronic gates half opened, but the journalists took that as an invitation to move further on to his property.

He lowered the window, and barked, ‘You are trespassing. Please move out of the way of the car. Move away from the car. No comment. No comment. Get out of my way, please.’

Not until the gardener, the valet and Michael, his secretary, came out did William try to step out of the car. As the gates closed behind him, he saw his employees trying to remove two men who were attempting to squeeze past them.

Michael opened the driver’s door and gestured for him to hurry inside. ‘We’ve been inundated, sir. The phones are ringing, the fax machines haven’t stopped, and there are people trying to get over the back wall.’

Inside the elegant hallway, William headed straight for his study. ‘Call the bloody police, Michael. They’re trespassing, for God’s sake. Legally they can’t put a foot in the driveway.’

‘I know, sir, but they’ve been out there since you left this morning. We have contacted the police and they—’

‘Call the Chief Superintendent. No, get me Commander Jameson. I’ll talk to him.’ Michael bustled around the study, stacking documents on the desk. Every single phone was ringing. ‘Turn the bloody phones off! This is ridiculous. Get Mrs Fuller to bring me some coffee and—’ William snatched at one of the telephones and barked into the receiver. ‘Yes?’

It was an irate Myers Summers. ‘Where, in Christ’s name, have you been? I’ve been calling since seven o’clock. Have you seen the papers?’

‘Not yet. I’ve been trying to get rid of the press. They’re like hornets outside.’

‘Well, read them and call me straight back.’

William took half an hour to get through every newspaper. By the time he had finished, Myers Summers was sitting in his study.

‘You’re telling me you went to see this Chalmers in the flesh?’

‘Yes.’

Summers rested his head in his hands. ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No. Why are you getting into such a state?’

Summers took a deep breath. ‘This is serious, William. You walk off with diaries and documents. You spend — how long at Maynard’s place before you call the police? You then pay some fucking fruit half a million—’

‘Quarter of a million.’

‘Why? What the fuck for? I mean, who is he?’

‘The last person to see Maynard, that’s who. And he’s a screamer so I got rid of him.’

‘Do you think he killed Maynard?’

‘No, Maynard cut his own wrists, Myers, with—’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, with an open cut-throat razor, silver and bone handle, inscription from you! Now, it seems to be a bone of contention that the cuts were deep, and to both wrists. Apparently that’s odd. If you slash one open it’s pretty tough to slash the other. So we won’t be certain it was suicide until after the post-mortem. He could have a six-inch blade shoved up his arse for all you know, and this poofter might have done it! And you go round personally and pay him off!’ He sighed and flopped back in his chair. ‘Why?’

‘To minimize the risk of scandal I bought his silence.’

‘Are you joking?’ Summers sat forward again. ‘Don’t you see the implications of that?’

‘Quite frankly, no, I do not. Right now the “poofter”, as you call him, is probably on his way to Paris. Gone. Finished with.’

Myers Summers closed his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll have to find out more about him. You’re sure no one else saw you visit him?’

‘Certain. I told you, it was six o’clock in the morning, there wasn’t a soul around. Just milkmen, newspaper boys...’

‘All right. Now, yesterday, did Maynard’s cleaner see you remove anything?’

‘No, she wasn’t in the room.’

‘Well, that’s something. And she called you as soon as she discovered the body?’

‘Yes, there was a memo stuck on his desk telling her to call my number.’

‘What? He left a memo? With some kind of instruction?’

Suddenly William found himself blushing: it hadn’t occurred to him how strange it was that Maynard should leave a sticker on his desk for his housekeeper to find, with William’s private number and instructions not to enter the bathroom. Of course it was suicide. Maynard must have known exactly what he was doing.

‘Come on, man, was there anything else this woman might have seen you remove?’

William was irked by the way Summers was speaking to him. ‘Listen to me, Myers, I took the personal items because there were details of how much he had been forking out to this guy and it was a lot of money. Whether it was blackmail or not is immaterial now. Chalmers is out of the loop. I was just trying to protect Maynard’s reputation, and mine and the Party’s. He’d have been misappropriating funds, for Chrissakes.’

Myers Summers got to his feet and walked round the room as he spoke. ‘All right, then, let me put it to you another way. His bank will have particulars, won’t they? His bookkeeper, accountant. Maybe friends of this Justin Chalmers character knew about the money. Maybe there are other Maynard pickups in other diaries — last year’s for instance. The police will be looking into everything.’ He laid a hand on the mantelpiece and turned to face the desk. ‘Can’t you see, Sir William? This is a huge story. I mean, the man was supposed to be some great political hope, and he’s climbing the ladder like a trapeze artist when he tops himself because he’s heartbroken about some bloody poof. How much sleaze do you need to make a juicy front page?’

Myers pulled at his pinstriped waistcoat, then his tie, then his jacket, as if to calm himself. ‘Okay, Sir William, I’ll tell you what’ll happen. You give a statement — I’ll get my people to write it for you — and in it you say nothing about the diaries or documents you took. Nothing. You happened to be there as you had a meeting scheduled. After finding the body you were deeply distressed and needed a few moments to collect yourself before calling the police. I’ll talk to the housekeeper. I’ll also run a trace on Chalmers. List the other names you found in the diaries and I’ll give them the once-over as well.’

‘Is all this necessary?’ William asked.

Myers Summers picked up his bulging briefcase: he was already running late for his next appointment. ‘If Andrew Maynard was murdered, then it’s abso-fucking-lutely necessary and even if he committed suicide, drunk or drugged up, whatever, it’s still gonna be headlines for weeks because the press will want to find out who his boyfriends were, what his relationship was with every male he knew, in fact. And you can bet they’ll come after you. You found him dead, you financed him to the hilt, and it’s public knowledge that he’s your mentor when it comes to public-speaking. Everyone knows you scratch each other’s backs. What they’ll wonder is just what else you’ve mutually scratched.’

‘It’s okay, Myers. I get the picture. But no one’s going to think that of me.’

Myers Summers raised an eyebrow. ‘They’ll believe anything, if they’re told it often enough. Isn’t that why you have a publicity agent?’ He rested his hand on the door handle. ‘I’m just warning you, as one of the mega-rich, you are just the type the tabloids will go for. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And all those little people you may have forgotten treading on when you were climbing up will come crawling out of the woodwork.’ He paused and faced William. ‘Just for the record, were you having a scene with Maynard?’

William gasped. ‘What?’

‘Are you queer?’

William sucked in his breath, shocked. ‘No, I am not. And how dare you speak to me like that!’

‘Well, that’s the best news so far. I’ll deal with it,’ Myers said, and with that he opened the door to the hall. ‘I’ll be in touch shortly — if I make it through that mob and live to tell the tale.’

William remained in his study. Up to now, he would have described himself as unshockable; a tough man who had made it to the top by his own hard graft but who now enjoyed rubbing shoulders with the British aristocracy. For the first time, he realized the depth in him of a naïvety he had never previously suspected. He checked his watch and buzzed for his secretary.

Michael scooted in. ‘Yes, Sir William?’

‘I’m due at lunch. Can you call the Ritz and—’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir William, Lady Thorn called, but I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting with Mr Summers. She sends her apologies, but has come down with flu.’

William sat down behind his desk. ‘Perhaps, under the circumstances, it’s a good thing.’

‘Yes, sir, I’ve got sheets of messages. There are also numerous faxes, e-mails and an urgent call from Superintendent Hudson, Metropolitan Police. He’s left his home number and direct line.’

Michael left the study and William unlocked the drawer that contained Maynard’s business-appointment diary, and wondered why Myers hadn’t asked to see it. It soon dawned on him that such a devious man wouldn’t want to touch it. If the story did get out, Myers could say he knew nothing about any diaries being removed. William’s eyes travelled to his wall-safe, which held Maynard’s personal diary. It was as if he could see the red leatherbound cover through the steel door. It was dangerous to keep it, but he could not bring himself to destroy it.

Later, Myers Summers phoned William to give him details of the post-mortem: Andrew Maynard had died from loss of blood due to both arteries being severed on right and left wrist. Tests showed that his blood contained a vast quantity of alcohol and cocaine. There were no signs of physical violence. It was determined that he was a practising homosexual but no traces of semen were found apart from his own. His naked body was devoid of pubic hair and smothered with Johnson’s baby oil. Myers hesitated to draw breath. ‘They also found numerous bottles of pills. You name any kind of speed and your friend had it, plus five grams of cocaine. Oh, and another tasty morsel that will, no doubt, be fucking leaked is that Maynard was suffering from genital herpes.’

William couldn’t listen to any more. He was sweating. Only the announcement of a Third World War would knock this lot off the front page.

‘The housekeeper’s blabbed,’ Myers went on. ‘She’s told the cops about a diary and drawers full of letters and that you were the only person with access to them before they arrived.’

‘I suppose the police will want to question me,’ William observed.

‘’Course they will, but wait, just fasten your seat-belt. So far strong-arm tactics have kept it all under wraps in case it was murder, but it’ll all hit the fan tonight. So far the press have only had the most meagre details. They only know he died at home. But tonight they’ll have the titillating details. You know anything about his family?’

‘No, I don’t. His parents are dead. I believe he had a sister, but she died in some car accident. There’s just an aunt in Bournemouth, as far as I know.’

‘Ah, well. No doubt we’ll know a lot more by tonight.’

William shrugged. ‘You sound very sure. Why?’

‘All right then,’ Summers grunted. ‘How about this? Someone has managed to get photographs of the body from the mortuary and some other bloody hack paper has been sent photographs of Maynard dancing in some gay nightclub in Morocco, so Christ only knows what else they’ll get from some bloody perverted bastard trying to make a few quid.’

‘Well, what’s all that got to do with me? I financed him. I didn’t go down the Palais with him, dancing on a Saturday night.’

Summers hesitated. ‘We only have your word for that.’

William was starting to get angry. ‘I’ve told you, Myers, I knew nothing about his pervy life till yesterday, and I will make a statement to that effect and hand it over to the police. I’ve already spoken to them anyway — at his house before I left.’

‘That won’t satisfy the papers,’ Summers was impatient. ‘You were closely associated in life so you will be in death.’

‘So what do you suggest I do?’

‘Give a statement and, thinking about it, perhaps it’d be better in your own words.’

‘You fucking said you’d write it!’ William said angrily.

‘Maybe I did, but standing back a bit, I think it should come from you. You knew him better than anyone else.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘One minute you were calling him the political saviour of the millennium, next he’s pictured dancing with twelve-year-old boys in Morocco! You work it out. I can’t be involved.’

‘Can’t or won’t? Which is it, Myers?’

There was a pause. ‘My wrists are tied.’ Summers gave a humourless laugh. ‘Sorry, under the circumstances, that was a rather crass thing to say.’ He continued, ‘I’ve been warned off you, William. I’m sorry, but a word of advice. For God’s sake keep schtum about the diaries and stuff. Burn them, get rid of them, deny ever seeing them. And don’t mention the note. Why did Maynard want you to find him, before the police? And don’t mention this Chalmers bloke either.’ There was a pause, this time at William’s end. ‘You still there? Hello? Hello?’

William had hung up. He’d never liked the squint-eyed son-of-a-bitch anyway. It was just that he was so well connected. Well, fuck him! William hadn’t become one of the wealthiest men in England without being able to take care of some jumped-up journalist — or a pack of them come to that. And if they wanted to dig around in his past, let them. He didn’t have anything to hide.

‘Michael,’ he bellowed. ‘Call a press conference.’

‘For when, sir?’

‘First thing in the morning. Meanwhile I want you to cut out every newspaper article on Maynard and record every piece of television news coverage to date, even if it takes all night.’

‘It’s all over the Internet,’ Michael said nervously.

‘Then print out whatever anybody’s saying. I want to read it all, no matter what it says. Is it bad?’

Michael nodded and his lips trembled slightly. ‘Some of it’s downright sick. Er... will you be arranging his funeral?’

‘What?’

‘Andrew Maynard’s funeral, sir.’

William slumped into his chair. ‘Yes, yes — well, you sort it out, I can’t think about that right now. Go on, do what you have to, no expense spared, but keep it simple.’

Michael left the room, as William lowered his head into his hands. He had been too preoccupied, too shocked for it all to have sunk in. He had been blocking out the emotional impact of losing a man he had grown to admire and love like a son, and now the floodgates opened. The tears trickled down his cheeks, as he murmured his protégé’s name in despair and bewilderment.

He tried to hide his tears when Michael tapped and reentered. The police were waiting to see him.

William blew his nose, wiped his face and nodded for Michael to let them in. He stood up, hand outstretched to meet Superintendent Hudson and Detective Inspector Joan Fromton. He offered them tea or coffee but they refused, seating themselves in front of his desk on two hard-backed chairs that were usually placed against the wall.

The interview lasted two and a half hours. They questioned William in detail as to how he found the body, what the housekeeper had said, why she had called him before contacting a doctor or the police. William had no need to lie. He just did not mention that a note had suggested she call him: it was feasible that she would have anyway as he was so closely associated to Maynard.

Then came the obvious question; ‘Just how closely?’ With dignity William dismissed from their minds any notion that he was homosexual. All he was, and all he had been for the past few years, was a friend and business associate. There had been nothing more between them than friendship and admiration. He had had no inkling of Maynard’s private life.

He was asked whether he had removed any items from Maynard’s property and he said that he had not.

When questioned about Maynard’s associates, he again extricated himself well by saying that, as he had already stated, he did not know of Maynard’s private life so did not know any of his close male or female friends. The officers were polite, at times appearing genuine in their sympathy with his grief. Twice William came close to tears as he repeated that he had not really taken in the loss of someone he had greatly admired, and felt sad that, despite their friendship, Maynard had not spoken to him about his depression. This led the officers to ask William if he had been aware that Maynard used certain substances, and that a substantial amount of cocaine had been found in his house. William said he had not. The interview eventually ended with William admitting, ‘It is hard, I suppose, for you to understand how someone like me could be foolish enough not to see what Andrew was, but I didn’t. You see, I cared for him deeply, as a father would. He was special to me, but now I have to face the awful truth that I never really knew him at all.’

The Superintendent thanked William, and said that he would have Maynard’s note sent to him as soon as it could be released. Hudson had a habit of appearing to dismiss a subject, then hopping back to it. ‘You recognized the writing on the note as Maynard’s, is that correct?’

William nodded.

‘It was very blurred from the water, but you still believe it to be Maynard’s own handwriting?’

William’s nerves were ragged. ‘Yes, I do. Is there any reason for me not to? He had very distinct, looped writing.’

‘Yes, we are aware of that. But the letter was submerged in water so it’s quite difficult to ascertain for sure... That said, the forensic experts believe it to be Maynard’s.’

The policeman assured him that foul play was not suspected and offered William his condolences. When he was ushering them from the room, Joan Fromton asked if William would please contact them should any of Andrew Maynard’s associates approach him; they would still like to make enquiries about the drugs discovered at Maynard’s home. Then she threw William. ‘Does the name Justin Chalmers mean anything to you, Sir William?’

William knew that he had flushed but he shook his head. ‘I can’t say that it does, may I ask why?’

‘He is the main beneficiary in Andrew Maynard’s will. He had no family, but no doubt Mr Maynard’s lawyers will be able to assist us. Thank you very much for your time.’

William gave a long, weary sigh. Chalmers worried him greatly but, as the police had said, there were no criminal charges under review. But yet again, just as he went to shake the Superintendent’s hand, he felt the carpet tugged from beneath him.

‘Sir, if this case had proved to be other than suicide, and you had removed items from the deceased’s premises, it would be a criminal offence. I am sure you are aware of that. I take your word for it that you did not remove any such items such as diaries, private letters...’

There was cold appraisal in the balding Hudson’s hazel eyes. He knew William must have taken a diary, perhaps even letters, and he also understood why. These society types were all the same; their sole priority was saving their own backsides, and it infuriated him that he had been ordered to clear up the investigation as quickly and with as little scandal as possible. He knew that William was somehow caught up in this and given half a chance, Hudson would come down on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ the Superintendent said as he left, ushering his inspector ahead of him. He kept his head down as he walked out into the street beyond the high barred gates. The vultures hovering there with their cameras and microphones, screamed for him to stop and say a few words.

‘No comment. No comment.’

A uniformed officer stood by the plain patrol car, the door open. Joan settled in the back seat, Hudson in the front with the uniformed driver.

‘What did you think of him?’ she asked, checking over her notes.

‘Not a lot. Lying through his teeth about the “no items removed from victim’s premises”. He certainly had time enough to clean the place up. He’s probably scared his own sexual peccadilloes will get out — every politician’s hiding something or other.’

‘He’s not a politician, though. He was Maynard’s benefactor. He’s rich as Croesus.’ She paused. ‘Didn’t you think he reacted strangely to Justin Chalmers’s name? I wonder why.’

‘Justin Chalmers...’ the Superintendent mused. ‘You ran a check on him, right?’

‘Yes, sir, clean as a whistle. Neighbours say he keeps himself to himself — not at home much, apparently. He has a sister who visits regularly. She has some sort of psychiatric complaint. I think he looks after her pretty well. Oh, and he’s openly gay, which explains Maynard’s generous will. Probably partners.’

‘Oh, well, there you have it. That probably explains Sir William’s reaction then. Maybe he had a scene with him too and doesn’t want it to come out. Half of the society set are in the closet, not that it concerns me.’

Joan smiled. She’d liked Sir William, and felt sorry for him, but she said nothing more as they drove past the flashing photographers. She often wondered what they did with all the photographs they took, and laughed to herself.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, I just wondered if they’d caught my best side.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t let it concern you. They’re not interested in us — we’re not rich or famous enough. Now, if it had been a murder, we might have made the front page departing from Sir William Benedict’s mansion!’