‘As soon as they heard the news of my father’s death early this morning a board meeting was called,’ Bella Fairbrother continued. ‘Martins and Travis set about making provision for trade to continue as usual with Martins as temporary chair until someone could be appointed in the proper way. Jimmy Martins has already made it pretty clear he will not be prepared to take over as chairman on a permanent basis. And I don’t blame him. Being deputy chair to my father was a bit like trying to co-pilot an aircraft whilst wearing a blindfold. It is going to be very difficult indeed for anyone to take over the running of the bank from my father. He wove a tangled web, Mr Vogel. There were accounts and investments worldwide to which only he had access. In some cases, only he knew of their existence. Half the time he didn’t even follow proper Companies House procedure. Of course, most members of the board were aware of this, whatever they might say now, but if you wanted to remain in a senior position at Fairbrother’s you simply did as you were told.
‘When they learned that he was seriously ill, about five or six months ago, Travis and Martins and the board found themselves in a pretty pickle. And they still didn’t know what to do about it. In name, at least, my father remained chairman and chief executive, and nobody quite had the balls to overthrow him. Although he eventually stopped coming into the office, he was on the phone all the time, conference calls and so on, making sure things were still done his way. And he continued to control all the fundamental data concerning the business. In spite of his illness, he always remained confident of his own ability to deal with any situation.
‘But he was a maverick, Mr Vogel. And, now, well, without the sheer magnitude and extraordinary power of his personality, without his ability to juggle, when others would have no idea how to, nobody knows quite how to get out of the hole he seems to have dug for Fairbrother’s. It is possible that the bank may have to cease trading, or at the very least be subjected to a hostile takeover.’
‘You are being very frank, Miss Fairbrother,’ said Vogel, who genuinely had not expected so much information to be so freely offered.
‘I am afraid everything I have just shared with you will become public knowledge in the very near future unless I — and I really believe it is going to be down to me — can find a way of sorting out this mess and come up with a plan to save Fairbrother’s,’ responded Bella. ‘And that is going to take some doing, I can tell you, detective inspector.’
‘I see,’ said Vogel.
Bella Fairbrother took in a deep intake of breath and let it out very slowly.
‘It’s all just so awful,’ she said eventually, showing the first sign of any emotion since Vogel had met her. ‘I can’t believe that Blackdown Manor has gone. It was such a beautiful house, full of beautiful things. I grew up there, of course. And I had a very happy upbringing too, until my father decided to chuck my mother out and move in that tart he later married. After that it was sheer misery, probably why my brother turned out the way he did, too.’
Bella Fairbrother sounded bitter. And angry again.
‘Miss Fairbrother, you are clearly not sorry that your father is dead, you have made no secret of that,’ said Vogel. ‘I wonder if you actually desired his death.’
Bella Fairbrother laughed briefly. It was a laugh without mirth.
‘Not enough to kill him, or to have him killed, if that’s what you are suggesting, detective inspector,’ she said.
‘I would not dream of suggesting any such thing without appropriate evidence,’ said Vogel deadpan.
‘No, well, in any case, I had known for some time what a mess he was going to leave behind him. And, I also knew that my father would die sooner rather than later of natural causes. Whether or not I wanted him dead is irrelevant. I only had to wait a few months. In any case, I am a senior executive of a major bank, Mr Vogel, and I have every reason to believe that when the present chief executive takes retirement within the next year or so I shall be offered that position. I am only stepping in to assist Fairbrother’s at this stage because I have been asked to do so by the board, because I have a greater knowledge of how my father ran things than anyone else And I do not want Fairbrother’s to go under, obviously. It is my family heritage.’
‘Yes indeed,’ murmured Vogel. ‘I wonder, speaking of heritage. Have you been in touch with your brother at all? We need to speak to him too, of course.’
‘I don’t see why, he’s not been near our father for years. Not even been in this country for years either, as far as I know.’
‘Miss Fairbrother, I am not at all clear who or what is going to benefit from your father’s death. You paint a picture of possible collapse as far as the bank is concerned. But as a rule, when a wealthy man is murdered, excepting crimes of passion, there is usually a financial motive. That is why I need to speak to your brother, and to any other surviving family members.’
Bella Fairbrother sighed.
‘All I have is a mobile phone number for Freddie,’ she said. ‘He does call me occasionally, and me him. But at the moment it’s just ringing out. I’ll give you the number.’
Bella reached into her bag for her phone.
‘Thank you,’ said Vogel. ‘Of course, your father’s death, and the fact that it’s a suspicious death, is already in the press and on the net. Your brother is bound to hear of it, so he will surely get in touch with you then. Or even the police.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Bella Fairbrother. ‘My brother is not like other men.’
Seven
George Grey arrived at London’s Paddington station at about the same time Bella Fairbrother reached the Mount Somerset Hotel.
He’d bided his time at Musgrove Park hospital until a moment when there seemed to be little going on in his ward, and few medical staff around, before making his move.
His clothes, which were in a bag in his bedside locker, were steeped in blood and had been partially shredded during the repeated stabbing he had sustained. They were of little use to him. Not if he wished to be as inconspicuous as possible.
His shoes were also in the cabinet, spattered with blood, but otherwise undamaged. He had removed them and, carrying them in one hand behind his back, along with his wallet and phone, made his way along the central corridor dividing the rows of individual rooms which now made up the bulk of the patient accommodation at the Musgrove.
There was a nursing station at one end of the corridor, but the sole nurse sitting there had been busy at her computer, and in any case, even if she had seen George, he’d hoped she would merely assume he was on his way to the toilet.
The doors to most of the rooms stood open. George peered inside two or three before seeing what he wanted to see. The male patient inside was hooked up to a drip and to a PCA — a patient-controlled analgesia, probably morphine — pump, and he looked as if he’d been making good use of it. He lay on his back, eyes shut, mouth open, snoring heavily. George entered the room quietly, opened the patient’s bedside cabinet as softly as he could, and inside found exactly what he was hoping for: the man’s clothes, neatly folded. There was a pair of jeans, a polo shirt, a V-necked sweater and a lightweight jacket made of some kind of shiny beige material. George wrinkled his nose in distaste. He was, by nature and when he could afford it, quite a natty dresser. Normally he wouldn’t be seen dead in a jacket like that. Under these circumstances, he was phenomenally grateful for it.