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  ‘Questions?’ he interrupted. ‘But … but I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘Sure you have, but there will be an opening inquest very soon, which may prompt further inquiries, and it would be grand if you were still here should we need to speak to you again.’ She shrugged. ‘I have no power to detain you, though…’ and that irritating smile returned ‘… unless, of course, I were to place you under arrest.’

  And she laughed at the expression on his face. ‘But that won’t be necessary – unless we discover you’ve done something wrong – will it, Mr Wiles?’

  Then she was gone, quietly closing the door behind her, leaving Wiles shaking in his shoes and her thinly veiled threat still hanging in the air.

  ****

  Julian Grey lived in an upmarket first-floor apartment in Clapham and with Angel peering curiously over his shoulder, Benchley rang the front door bell at just after 7pm.

  It had been a long trying day for him and his DI. He had had to make three phone calls to Devon and Cornwall’s Helston police station about Freddie Baxter’s death before he was finally put through to a detective sergeant in an incident room that was apparently in the process of being set up. Even then the sergeant, allegedly speaking for a Detective Inspector Maureen O’Sullivan who seemed to be permanently ‘out’, had not been that forthcoming. The DS had only been prepared to say that the death was being treated as ‘unexplained’ and that ‘inquiries were still on-going,’ although he’d promised to pass on Benchley's interest in the case to his boss when she returned. To be fair, the fact that an incident room was being set up in relation to the death was enough of a steer for Benchley, as it suggested that there were, at the very least, suspicious circumstances surrounding the death, but he was angry and frustrated by the sergeant’s parochial attitude and his reluctance to come clean on what was going on – possibly because the man was unsure of his ground.

  Attempts to re-interview the other four models who were at The Philanderer’s Club the night of the bombing had then added to Benchley’s frustration. Two of them – a Parisian and a girl from Rome – had been given leave by Carol Amis to return home while the affairs of New Light were sorted out. Of the other two, only one – Melanie Jones, the model who, according to Carol Amis, had won the key modelling contract over Felicity Dubois – was at her London address when the detectives called. But in Benchley’s own words after the interview, she was about as much use as a ‘clockwork orange’.

  Tall and thin to the point of emaciation – no doubt a size 6, Angel had enviously commented later – she had the sort of finely chiselled features, Mediterranean tan and silky black hair which any woman would have died for, but it had soon became apparent that there wasn’t a lot going on in her pretty little head. Frowning at nearly every question, then shaking her head in response, it was obvious that she would have had difficulty remembering what day it was, let alone coming up with any useful information about the bombing, so in the end they had given up and left.

  Julian Grey was their last hope and Benchley’s pulse quickened slightly when he heard a chain being pulled back from the front door. At least someone was at home, he mused.

  The good-looking young man who opened up to them was nothing like either Benchley or Angel had imagined. Tall and muscular, with shoulder-length blond hair and sharp penetrating blue eyes, he was dressed in a white T-shirt, black baggy trousers and a pair of light blue trainers. But his smile seemed genuine, if a little wry, when Benchley showed him his warrant card, and he invited them in without hesitation.

  Then, waving them to white leather armchairs in his luxuriously furnished living room, he leaned back against the fireplace and studied them curiously. ‘I must admit, I am intrigued,’ he said in a soft, slightly effeminate tone which was in direct contrast to his macho appearance. ‘What is all this about?’

  After Benchley had explained, Grey pursed his lips in thought for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you with regard to the bombing, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘As you probably know already, I had left the agency when that happened, though I did read about it in the newspapers. Poor Lynn Giles. Such a lovely girl too.’

  ‘Can I ask you where you were on the night?’ Benchley asked abruptly, watching Grey’s face and anticipating an indignant response to the insinuation his question carried with it.

  Instead, Grey emitted a low chuckle. ‘Ah, I’m a suspect, am I, Chief Inspector, after my little contretemps with Freddie?’ he said. ‘How absolutely thrilling. But I’m afraid you’re way off beam. I despised the man for the way he’d treated me, but I didn’t try to kill him. And bombs?’ he rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘Horrible things and not my bag at all—’

  ‘So may I ask you again where you were on the night of the blast?’ Benchley interjected.

  He shrugged. ‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea,’ he said. ‘Probably partying somewhere, I usually am. Too long ago and too many vodkas in between for me to remember, though.’

  ‘Yet you do remember reading about the incident in the newspapers?’

  ‘Well, newspapers or the telly, yes. I worked at New Light for around two years and Freddie and I were an item once, so a news story like that does tend to stay in the old memory. As to what I was doing when I heard about it all, however …’ another shrug ‘… I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

  Benchley got the distinct impression that behind the pleasant manner and ready smile, Grey was playing with him, so he changed tack. ‘You do know Freddie Baxter is dead, don’t you?’ he said.

  Grey nodded soberly. ‘It’s all over the city,’ he said. ‘Fell off a cliff in Cornwall, didn’t he?’

  ‘Pleased about that, were you, Mr Grey?’ Angel put in provocatively.

  An irritable sigh. ‘No, Sergeant,’ he said with emphasis. ‘I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone, not even Freddie, but I can’t cry crocodile tears and say I’m sorry. Actually I’m quite ambivalent about it. Freddie, you see, turned out to be a rather unpleasant arse.’

  Benchley gave a little cough, picking up on the pun and wondering whether it was actually intentional. ‘So I believe,’ he said. ‘Lots of enemies, had he?’

  Another laugh, this time with a hard cynical edge. ‘Half of celebrity London, I would think, which makes your job rather difficult, I would imagine.’

  ‘Why should it make my job difficult? I’m not investigating Mr Baxter’s death and as far as we know, it was an accident anyway.’

  Grey was unfazed by the DCI’s attempt to catch him out. ‘Of course,’ he said smoothly, ‘but you are investigating the bombing, aren’t you? Since you are both here asking me questions about my relationship with Freddie and if I am pleased he is dead, it’s obvious you think he may have been the target of the bomber.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Baxter again after you left the New Light agency?’

  ‘You mean did I follow him to Cornwall and push him off the cliff after the bomb failed to snuff him out?’

  Benchley gave a rueful smile. ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chief Inspector, but the answer is no. I never saw Freddie again after our bust-up, and if it helps to allay your suspicions I have never been to Cornwall in my life.’

  ‘But you were obviously pretty pissed off when he dumped you for Felicity Dubois?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t too happy about it, I must admit. As you already know, we had a row over it. But it was to be expected, I suppose. Freddie was easily distracted and I couldn’t compete with that bitch’s long legs and pert tits – oh, my apologies, Sergeant Angel, I was forgetting myself.’

  Angel inclined her head in acknowledgement and treated him to a faint smile, without commenting on his crude remark, which she sensed had been deliberate anyway. Instead, she said, ‘Strange that a pretty girl like Felicity would want to embark on an affair with someone like Freddie Baxter, though, isn’t it? After all, he wasn’t exactly the catch of the yea
r, was he?’

  Grey chuckled again. ‘Well put, Sergeant, and one would suppose that she was after the same things as myself. You know, career advancement and financial gain, which I willingly admit to. But the fact is, she had no choice in the matter.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Grey’s face was suddenly bleak. ‘Freddie Baxter was a dangerous, odious man, Sergeant, and he was also an ace manipulator who had a knack for digging up the dirt on people and using it to get what he wanted—’

  ‘You’re saying he had a hold over Felicity?’ Benchley cut in again, leaning forward in his seat and staring at him intently.

  Grey nodded. ‘And quite a few others, I believe,’ he confirmed. ‘He once boasted to me that he had dirt on half his staff. Probably an exaggeration, but I am sure it wasn’t far from the truth.’

  ‘And what was the dirt he had on Felicity Dubois?’

  ‘No idea, Chief Inspector, but he intimated he had her over a barrel, if you’ll pardon the expression, which is why she so willingly succumbed to his advances.’

  ‘What did he have on you then?’ Angel queried sharply.

  Grey laughed again. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but the answer is nothing. My affair with Freddie was motivated by gain, purely and simply. I was after what his influence in the business could put my way, nothing more.’

  ‘And did you get it?’

  ‘Not from him, no, but I am doing very well with my own salon in the celebrity world anyway,’ and he waved an arm around the room to indicate its opulence, ‘thanks to my new partner, of course, who has all the connections I could wish for. Now, can I help you with anything else …?’

  ‘Well, Guv,’ Angel said to Benchley as they returned to their car in the street outside, ‘what do you think about our Mr Grey? A possible?’

  Benchley frowned. ‘Could be,’ he replied as they both climbed aboard. ‘Too bloody self-assured for my liking, but after what he told us about Baxter, I reckon Felicity Dubois still has a lot to answer.’

  ****

  Lynn heard the crunch of wheels in the gravel outside her bungalow as she was preparing a light supper for herself. She had left Alan’s home shortly after doing the breakfast dishes and since an abrupt change in the weather had produced another warm sunny afternoon, she had spent it lying on the beach as usual. She had only just got back and she grimaced her irritation when she heard the hollow sound of footsteps on the patio decking as her visitor ignored the front door and came round the back.

  Maureen O’Donnell wore her usual disarming smile as she poked her head through the open French door. ‘Anyone in?’

  Lynn forced a smile of her own from the hall doorway and drying her hands on a tea-towel, she beckoned her inside.

  ‘Thought I’d pay you a wee visit before I returned to the station,’ the DI said.

  Lynn nodded, stepping into the room and indicating a chair. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she queried. ‘I was just making some supper.’

  O’Donnell shook her head and sat down. ‘Sorry. You know the score. On duty and all that, so I’m afraid it’ll have to be a no.’

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m grand, so I am.’ The DI glance around the room. ‘’Tis a nice wee place you have here. Been in long?’

  Lynn shook her head and sat down on the edge of the settee, still clutching her tea-towel. ‘No, just a few weeks, since I was released from hospital.’

  O’Donnell made a face. ‘Desperate business, that. No one in the frame for it, I suppose?’

  Lynn smiled faintly. ‘You’d know that better than me, but no, not as far as I’m aware.’

  O’Donnell leaned forward in her chair, her expression less relaxed. Now it’s down to business, Lynn thought grimly.

  ‘Been to see Vernon Wiles,’ the detective began. ‘Not a very nice wee man, I think.’

  Lynn shrugged. ‘Not one of my favourites, no.’

  ‘I gather he’s into porn films?’

  Damn it! Lynn had guessed the police would find out sooner or later. ‘So I believe.’

  O’Donnell’s gaze was fastened on her face now. ‘He told me he and Freddie Baxter were down here to make a porn film and that they’d offered you a part in it?’

  Lynn was expecting that and was ready with her reply. ‘I told them both to go to hell.’

  The detective’s smile flickered back. ‘Ach, I don’t blame you. But … er … did it annoy you that they had thought of you that way after you had previously been a top model?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Maybe they tried a bit of unwelcome pressure?’

  Now Lynn smirked. ‘You mean did I murder Freddie Baxter because he was trying to bully me into accepting his offer?’

  O’Donnell was not put off by her directness. ‘Aye, something like that.’

  ‘Then the answer is no.’

  ‘When did you last speak to Mr Baxter?’

  Lynn hesitated very slightly. ‘The morning before his … er … accident when he came to see me with Mr Wiles.’

  O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed. She had obviously picked up on the hesitation. ‘What makes you think it was an accident?’

  ‘Why would it be anything else?’

  ‘Maybe he committed suicide?’

  ‘Very unlikely. Freddie Baxter was a coward. There’s no way he would have topped himself.’

  ‘And you didn’t see or speak to him after the morning before his death?’

  Lynn shook her head. ‘Why would I? I told him and Wiles to get lost and that’s exactly what they did.’

  ‘Sure, that was very accommodating of them, so it was’

  O’Donnell paused for a second, studying her fixedly, then added with deliberate emphasis, ‘Do you know any reason why anyone would want to kill Freddie Baxter?’

  Lynn tensed inside, but tried not to show that the question had unnerved her. ‘Dozens of them, I would think. He was not a particularly nice man either.’

  ‘Have you anyone in mind?’

  ‘No one specific. But he had a lot of enemies in the Smoke. People he’d shafted businesswise. Models he’d dumped. Bad people he’d crossed.’

  ‘Open season on Freddie then?’

  Lynn nodded. ‘You should ask Vernon. He could probably name a few.’

  ‘I have. He says everyone liked Freddie.’

  ‘In his dreams.’

  ‘Did he dump you after your injuries?’

  Here we go, Lynn mused, back to motive again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was very good actually. Gave me a generous pay-off.’

  ‘But he still tried to use you after it had happened. Put you in one of Vernon Wiles’ films?’

  Lynn sighed heavily. ‘Look, Inspector,’ she said wearily. ‘I never saw Freddie Baxter again after that one meeting in this room and I didn’t push him off the cliff, if that’s what you’re implying. In fact, I had Alan Murray from The Old Customs House over here for dinner the evening Freddie died, so if you don’t believe me, you can ask Alan. Furthermore, I have no idea how Freddie died, so I really can’t help you anymore.’

  O’Donnell nodded and stood up. ‘One other thing,’ she said. ‘We found evidence in the old engine-house of someone sleeping rough. Blankets and a haversack containing dirty clothes. It’s pretty old stuff, so could have been there a while, but on the other hand, it might be relevant to our inquiries. Ever seen anyone suspicious wandering about in that vicinity?’

  Lynn thought of the hooded man and her recent burglary, but met the detective’s gaze without flinching. ‘You asked me that before, up on the cliffs, and the answer is still no,’ she lied. ‘But there are still some walkers using the cliff paths even at this time of the year.’

  ‘The Traffic man who stopped you for speeding says you complained about a stalker?’

  Lynn thought quickly. Oh this one was really on the ball, wasn’t she?

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘but it wasn’t true. I was trying to avoid a ticket.’

&n
bsp; The DI gave a sympathetic grin, apparently satisfied with her answer, and handed her a business card. ‘Okay then, but if you think of anything that might help us with our inquiries, would you give me a wee ring me on this number,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, it might be a good idea to keep your doors and windows locked at night.’

  Lynn showed her to the door. ‘I always do,’ she said and watched her pass the side windows on her way to her car at the front. Only when O’Donnell had finally driven away, did she relax and make straight for the bottle of white wine on the kitchen table. Why on earth hadn’t she said about the hooded man, she asked herself? And why rubbish her story about the stalker? She’d had a golden opportunity to get O’Donnell and the rest of them off her back and had wasted it – or had she? No, girl, she thought as she sipped her wine, the last thing you want is involvement as a possible witness and the inevitable publicity churned out by the hyenas of the press. Done that. Got the T-shirt. Seen the video. And what good did it do you, except force you into hiding? So stay out of it all. Let the police play their little games and just keep schtum. That’s what all good survivors did.

  ****

  Felicity Dubois pulled up outside The Blue Ketch Inn in Cornwall at just after 6pm. ‘What a hole!’ she murmured to herself as she climbed out of the BMW and stared at the thatched, white-walled cottages huddled together in a half-circle around the pub, as if trying to shield it from prying eyes.

  It had been a long frustrating drive from London, with heavy delays on both the M4 and M5 motorways, but now, finally in Cornwall, tired and hungry, the place she had booked over the phone for her intended overnight stay was a big let-down.

  Like all the other models at New Light, she had managed to park her commitments for a couple of days while the agency’s solicitor and the bank executers sorted out the legal position regarding the company, following Freddie Baxter’s death. There were still important contracts to fulfil, but as far as she knew, the agency boss had not made any provision for someone to take over the reins in the event of his death, which meant that everyone was in total limbo – although to be fair, Freddie could not have known when he’d left for Cornwall that he would end up at the bottom of a cliff.