“Do you know who these holding companies are?”
“Well, I could get the names for you, but unless you’re a corporate or tax expert it won’t do you much good. Most of them are perfectly respectable. It’s not like it was back in the fifties and sixties, you know, when criminals acted as if they were untouchable. A few of them — the Cages and the McKees of this world — learned to take their business seriously and moved with the times.”
Riley looked doubtful. “Well, if their deaths are anything to go by, someone seems to have stuck with tradition.”
Hyatt shrugged apologetically and glanced at his watch as a volley of applause leaked out from the direction of the conference hall. “I’m sorry, Miss Gavin, that sounds like my spot coming up.” He reached into his pocket and took out a slip of paper. “Donald vouches for you, so I’m willing to go with him. This is the hotel where the Willis couple are staying. It’s just down the road from here. They’re booked in under the name of Watson. I can’t guarantee they’ll give you much, but they have agreed to talk.”
“I appreciate that.”
He leaned forward suddenly. “Also, I don’t know how much longer they’ll be there before someone else finds them.”
“What do you mean?” Riley felt a shiver at the sudden change in his tone.
Hyatt looked cautious. “It might be nothing. I had a call first thing this morning from someone claiming to be from one of the broadsheets wanting background on Willis. Address, phone number, stuff like that.”
“And?”
“It didn’t sound right. I know most of the personnel. The dailies have gathered all the local background colour they want — and they certainly know where Willis lives. This one didn't want to give his name so I gave him the brush-off and called head office. They haven’t got anyone else down here other than their normal man, so why they would need to send another body doesn’t make sense.”
Riley found she was holding her breath. If the mystery caller was the killer, and he had managed to find where Willis was hiding, there was little hope of reaching the chauffeur in time. One thing she had learned about these people was that they didn’t waste time.
“Thank you for warning me. Does Peter Willis know?”
“I called him immediately.” He gave her a stern look. “Please be kind to them. They’re not really a part of this — I’d put money on it.”
Riley followed Hyatt’s directions to a neat, anonymous hotel just off the A34 south of Crawley. She went inside and asked to speak to Mr Watson. After a brief call, the receptionist gave her the room number and directed her to the first floor.
A man answered the door, opening it a small way and peering past her shoulder down the corridor. “Can I see some identity?” he murmured quietly, sliding his hand out through the gap.
Riley handed over her passport. He took it and studied it carefully before standing back to let her in. Seeing him properly, she recognised him from the photo in the newspaper library, although he now looked thinner and somehow smaller. He wore a dark blazer and highly polished shoes, and looked ready to go out. Just inside the door were two suitcases.
“Mr Hyatt said you’d be round,” he said, closing the door softly behind her. He sounded nervous, and clamped his lips shut, snapping off the words as if trying to hold in a growing sense of panic. In spite of that, his tone was polite, and Riley felt a momentary surprise. She had expected a degree of annoyance or aggression after what they must have been through.
His wife was a different problem. She stood by the window, hands clasped in front of her in a manner that was plainly hostile. She was plump and homely and wearing a print dress and summer sandals, but there was no warmth in her expression. Riley felt a faint stirring of guilt; she was hardly helping matters by turning up here.
“You know why I’m here?” said Riley quickly, glancing at the suitcases. “Do you have time to talk?”
“No.” Mrs Willis answered immediately, throwing her husband a defiant look. Plainly, this meeting had not been unanimous.
But Willis nodded, trying to smile reassuringly back at his wife. “It’s okay. Mr Hyatt explained. We’ve decided to take a short break,” he said, intercepting Riley’s look at the luggage. “Get a little sun after all this… business.” He indicated a club chair by the television and sat on the double bed, neat in his blazer and shiny shoes, while his wife stood her ground by the window. “Actually, our flight’s been delayed. Overbooking or something. They said they’d call, but it could be quite a while.”
“I still think we’d be better waiting at the airport.” Mrs Willis bit out the words, meaning the airport would be an effective barrier against having to talk to people like Riley.
“How can we help?” Peter Willis said quietly.
Riley asked him if he had known Cook and Page. He looked blankly back at her, shaking his head. “In that case,” she continued, “do you know anything about a third man who used to be an associate of Bertrand Cage years ago — probably in the clubs.”
Willis chewed his lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about Mr Cage’s business. I only worked for him after he retired. The previous chap died and Mr Cage needed a chauffeur. He couldn’t get around easily, you see; he had bad arthritis and some other problems. I got the job through an agency. What he did before was none of my business.”
“But you know what he was — what business he was in?”
Willis looked defensive, jutting his chin forward. “I know what he used to be. But he was always good to me.”
“Did you meet any of the others?”
“McKee, mostly,” Willis said shortly, with a look of distaste. “I didn’t rate him. No finesse. Mr Cage couldn’t stand him, either. Not that he ever said as much. They were more like associates than friends.”
“Did they meet often?”
Willis shrugged. “Fairly regular — maybe every three months. But always at the house. They argued sometimes.”
“Violently?” She watched Willis’s eyes for reaction, but he looked back at her without any sign of concern.
“Not worth killing over. The police asked the same question.”
Riley nodded. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“I wish I did.” Willis said emphatically. “At first I thought it might have been McKee, but couldn’t have been, could it?”
While Peter Willis had been speaking, Riley had been aware of his wife, shuffling her feet in the background, her mouth opening and closing as if about to say something. Riley took it as an opening and turned to the older woman.
“How about you, Mrs Willis? Any ideas?”
Mrs Willis looked surprised to be consulted, wavering for a moment as if regretting drawing attention to herself. Then she drew herself up with a forceful shrug of her shoulders as if determination had won the debate. “Peter lost his job over this,” she said in a fierce rush. “There wasn’t a pension, although Mr Cage did see us right.” She glanced at her husband. “Peter’s too… loyal to say what he really thinks, so I’ll have to say it for him.” She lifted her shoulders before continuing. “I used to clean at Mr Cage’s house a long time ago. I didn’t know him any better than Peter did, and I only heard him argue with someone the once. He was a very quiet man, you see… not given to raising his voice. Then, about five years ago, I suppose, I heard him arguing. I was in the kitchen. It was a real blazing row and the language was… well, not what you’d call nice, if you see what I mean. Mr Cage was almost shouting — which was very unusual.”
“Was this face to face or over the phone?”
“Face to face,” Mrs Willis confirmed. “The other man had come to the house and demanded to see him. Peter had let him in, but only after Mr Cage said it was all right.” She glanced at her husband. “It was Peter’s job to look after him, you see.”