‘You wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth,’ Fox assured him, fixing a smile on to his face. ‘Anything happening that I need to know about?’
James shrugged off his coat and hung it up. ‘Interviews with Roddy Cape and Dandy Reynolds,’ he said, before noticing Fox’s blank look. ‘The two nyaffs who were with Cal Christie that night.’
‘Right.’
‘One thing we can’t let happen is for this inquiry to stall. Got to keep up the momentum.’ He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. To Fox’s ears, it sounded as if he was trying to motivate himself.
‘Will DI Clarke be joining us today?’ Fox asked casually.
‘She might. She’s tip-top, Malcolm, you were right about that.’
‘Did she take you somewhere nice last night?’
‘Curry house — don’t ask which street; this town still mystifies me.’ James paused. ‘You got enough to do?’
‘I’m fine.’
James nodded distractedly and settled at his desk, booting up his laptop. Fox pretended to get busy on his own, doing a check of recent house sales in his neighbourhood. Following his divorce, he had bought his ex-wife out of her half of the mortgage. If he had to sell, he could clear what Jude owed. Downside was, he’d then be looking at renting, or else starting a fresh mortgage on somewhere a lot smaller, and perhaps in a less salubrious part of town.
Not yet, he repeated to himself. Not unless absolutely necessary...
He closed the property website and started a search for Anthony Brough instead. Although he knew about the man’s recent exploits, he wanted to dig back a little further. It didn’t take long to reach the tragic holiday in Grand Cayman, the one where Brough’s best friend, Julian Greene, had drowned in the pool after consuming a cocktail of alcohol and drugs. The death had had a lasting effect on Brough’s sister Francesca. She’d been hospitalised shortly afterwards, having gone from self-harming to a suicide attempt. The local newspaper in Grand Cayman had done its best to be diplomatic about the whole string of events, but the Daily Mail in London had been far less circumspect, going so far as to hint at a cover-up. Had Greene been alone, or were others poolside at the time? Had they failed to notice, failed to act? Had evidence of drug use been cleared away and the scene rearranged before an ambulance was called? The Brough family’s solicitor had turned spokesperson, able to claim that ‘these innocent young people’ were in shock, and accusing the media of ‘tasteless and tawdry tactics that do nothing but interfere with the grieving process’.
Fox sent a speculative email to the Grand Cayman newspaper asking if anyone working there might recall the drowning. He got an almost immediate reply giving the name of a retired journalist called Wilbur Bennett, along with a phone number. Excusing himself to James, he exited the room and headed out to the car park, where he made the call.
‘I’m having breakfast,’ a male voice snapped by way of answer.
‘Wilbur Bennett? My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a police detective in Scotland. Sorry to disturb you at such an early hour...’
‘Are you really a cop?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Only when I worked Fleet Street, we often pretended to be. It was as good a way as any of opening a door.’
‘I know someone a bit like that,’ Fox admitted. ‘But it’s your time in Grand Cayman I’m interested in.’
‘The drowning, then?’
‘That’s very perceptive.’
‘I didn’t do too many stories with a Scottish angle.’
‘It happened at a house owned by Sir Magnus Brough, is that right?’
‘Got it in one, though it was about to go on the market.’
‘Oh?’
‘The old boy had just popped his clogs. Always seemed rum to me that his two wards were cavorting on holiday so soon after the funeral. That’s the way I always thought of them — “wards”, like something out of Dickens. Best explanation I got was that the trip was already planned and it was what Sir Magnus would have wanted.’
‘Odd to have two deaths in such a short space of time.’
‘Isn’t it, though?’ Wilbur Bennett paused and took a slurp of something — coffee maybe, or something a bit stronger. From his voice — as rich and cloying as teacake — Fox got the impression of someone who might welcome the first drink of the day at an early hour. ‘So why the sudden interest, Officer?’
‘No real reason. Something’s come up and it may involve Anthony Brough in a peripheral capacity.’
‘You’ve been tasked with digging into his past? Well, what I saw of him I didn’t like. He was too cocky by half — all that privilege and sense of entitlement. Probably why the Mail did a number on him — or would have if the lawyers hadn’t started growling.’
‘Did you feed them any titbits, Mr Bennett?’
‘The Mail, you mean?’
‘You worked Fleet Street before moving to Grand Cayman — I’m guessing you still had contacts there.’
‘Well, you might be right. Here, tell you what — shall I pretend I’ve something juicy to tell you but I’ll only do so face to face? You can fly out here for a few days...’
‘I’m sorely tempted, but we have to think of the hard-pressed taxpayer.’
Bennett snorted. ‘Not out here we don’t!’
‘Point taken. You’re a tax haven like the Virgin Islands, aren’t you?’
‘That we are.’
‘Which probably means dirty money has washed ashore at some time or other.’
‘Caribbean’s always been full of pirates,’ Bennett’s voice boomed. ‘But to get back to that swimming pool...’
‘Yes?’
‘The inquiry — such as it was — never did get to the heart of it. Servants had heard raised voices. Then, questioned again later, they changed their story. The poor sod who died, he had plenty of booze and cocaine coursing through him, but not enough to knock him out. In fact, taking a dip should have revived him. Then there were the marks on his shoulders — nobody bothered trying to explain them. From what little I could glean, he’d had a major crush on the sister for a few months. And after he died, she went to pieces.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘Her and her brother. They were indoors allegedly, watching a film with the rest of the party. Took some time to realise Greene hadn’t joined them. Found him floating in the pool. No drugs lying around by the time the medics and cops arrived. When the autopsy found cocaine in his system, they said they were unaware he’d taken any — usual story. And surprise surprise, the only place in the house where any was found was Greene’s bedroom, a bag of white powder in a bedside drawer, never checked for fingerprints.’
‘You’ve got a good memory, Mr Bennett.’
‘Only because the whole investigation was a farce. You live as long as I have in a place like this, you see who gets away with things and who doesn’t, and it can make you sick sometimes.’
‘Are you telling me you think Julian Greene was killed?’
‘I’m telling you it doesn’t matter a tuppenny damn one way or the other — nobody paid for it then and nobody’s going to pay now. But ask yourself why Francesca went off her rocker straight after. Some of us thought she deserved an Oscar, way she threw herself into it. I’m willing to bet she’s still alive — thriving, even.’
‘Alive, yes,’ Fox conceded. ‘But that’s about as much as I know.’
‘She wanted to see an exorcist — did you hear about that?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what she told them after they’d pumped her stomach. Money can buy you a lot of things, but not always the one thing you really need — reckon I could get a self-help book out of that?’