White Lies (30 page)

“Everything all right?” Dafydd was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits. She hadn’t spotted those in his newly acquired shopping. “Do you want another cuppa? The kettle’s hot.”

“Not just yet, I’ve just got to make a couple of phone calls.”

“Righty-o.”

She sat again and dialed Jimmy. It rang and rang but there was no reply. She didn’t know the number of the house on Ashgate Road else she’d have tried there. She tapped the address of the Chervil Court flat into the online phone directory but nothing showed for it. She knew there was a phone line because Laverstone was too much of a backwater town to have optical cables laid yet and the flat had a broadband internet connection. It must be unlisted. It was, of course, perfectly feasible Jimmy was currently helping the police with their inquiries.

Since it was after dark she phoned the solicitor’s. Gillian du Point was the only solicitor she’d ever met who routinely worked nights as a service to her clients. There were others, but they generally worked on rotation to provide representation to those who’d fallen into the hands of Laverstone Police. The call was answered by Amanda Brinkley, who generally worked evenings until the office officially closed at midnight.

“Isaacs and Du Point.”

“Hello. Is it possible to speak to Gillian, please?

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Meinwen Jones.”

“And is it a personal matter?”

“Partly, yes, but it relates to one of her clients.”

“Putting you through...”

The phone went silent but for some intermittent bleeps until Gillian answered. Meinwen could imagine the cold smile behind the words.
“
Meinwen. How nice. Didn’t I say to make an appointment for later in the week?”

“Hello, Gillian. It’s about Richard Godwin this time. Were you aware he was murdered last night?”

“It had come to my attention, yes. Why?”

“His sister asked me to look into it. She told me he was in some considerable debt but had a good deal of life insurance.”

“That’s correct. Not that I can reveal details.”

“Could you at least tell me the main beneficiary? Of the will as well as the insurance.”

“You know I can’t, Meinwen.”

“Surely you can give me a hint? You know I’ll keep it to myself.”

Gillian tut-tutted. “The usual beneficiaries. That’s all the information I can give you. Now, I am very busy, Meinwen.”

“Yes, sorry. One last thing?”

“Be brief.”

“Do you know how I can get in touch with Catherine, his wife?”

Gillian fell silent for a moment. “I suggest you leave that to the police, Meinwen. Good night.” The phone went dead.

Meinwen stared at it. It was unlike Gillian to be so short. There must have been someone with her. With a single glance at the computer screen, Meinwen dialed one more number.

“The Hotel Luminaria. Stephen speaking. How may I help you?”

Chapter 28

Meinwen paid the taxi driver and strode into the hotel. The lad on the desk couldn’t have been any older than twenty, surely not old enough to work in this sort of hotel, though he did radiate a sense of the exotic. His blond hair and tanned skin gave him the appearance of an Australian, somewhere where he spent long hours on sun-soaked beaches riding a surfboard.

“Can I help you, madam?”

Meinwen deflated. Would it really hurt anyone to call her “Miss” for a change? Anyone other than the annual year six school party tour of Historical Laverstone, anyway. Far from suggesting antipodean delights, his accent marked him as Mancunian. She leaned on the chest-high desk. “I’ve an appointment to see Lady Antonia.”

“Oh? Let me just check. Name please?”

Meinwen lowered her voice, despite there being no one else in the lobby. “You’ll find me under the name of Circle scribe.”

“Ah, here you are.” His faced creased. “Were you aware Lady Antonia does nothing intimate with ladies? She’s quite strict on the matter.”

“I was informed of that, thank you...” she looked at his name tag, “Andrew. However, I have no wish to partake of her intimate services, only to seek her advice.”

He dropped his voice and with barely a glance at the camera she knew was trained on the lobby, leaned forward to shield his face from it. “There are a lot cheaper places to go for advice, love. I can give you name of someone willing at only a fraction of the reservation it will cost you here.”

Meinwen covered his hand with her own, tucking a ten-pound note into his palm as she spoke. “While I appreciate the offer, Lady Antonia and I go way back. She’s the only one I can ask, you see, because she’ll remember the gentleman in question.”

“I see.” Andrew’s sleight of hand skills would have earned him a place among Fagin’s favorites. “I’ll notify her of your presence. If you’d like to pay for your reservation? I’m afraid we do insist on advance payment. Cash or credit?”

“Cash.” Meinwen opened her purse and pulled out three hundred pounds. Andrew counted it into the till and gave her a receipt and a room key.

“Room two-oh-seven. She’ll be with you shortly.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” She smiled and made for the lift. Rebecca would be pleased to know her receptionist was undercutting her reservations at least. It might give her the leverage to get hold of the CCTV footage. She paused and returned to the desk.

“Did you forget something?”

“In a manner of speaking. Did you know John Fenstone?”

“Not biblically.” He grinned. “Sorry. Yes, I remember John. What about him?”

“You know he was murdered, yes?”

“Murdered? I thought it was...” He mimed putting a rope around his neck.

“He didn’t put it there himself.” Meinwen grimaced at the thought. “Is there anyone here that might have wished him harm? One of the staff or perhaps a client?”

Andrew pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly. “None that I know of. He was a good man. Everybody loved him.”

“Someone didn’t.”

“No, I suppose not.” He frowned. “Lover’s quarrel, perhaps? Richard Godwin and he had a blazing row in the gymnasium one day. Actually, I think it was about Lady Antonia. John caught him coming out of her room one morning. It was obvious he’d spent the night with her. John was furious.”

“Was he now? What about Richard Godwin?”

“He was dreadfully embarrassed. He was supposed to be the dominant partner but you wouldn’t have thought so the way he was wheedling and crying.

“When was this?”

“Three weeks ago? Maybe four. It was the day after we had the Lyndhurst reception. I remember because there was a big ice swan and John knocked it over and smashed it.” He stared at his computer screen and clicked the mouse several times. “Here it is. The reception was the eleventh, so the argument was on the twelfth.”

“And John died on the seventeenth.”

“If you say so.” Andrew looked at his watch. “Look, you’re on the clock. You’re paying for your time and Lady Antonia won’t be able to run over when your hour is up.”

“Hour? I thought I’d paid for the night.”

“With three hundred quid? The seventies called and they want their glitterballs back.”

Meinwen winked. “I didn’t say I hadn’t brought glitter.”

* * * *

“Hello?” Meinwen closed the door to room two-oh-seven behind her. “Lady Antonia?”

“I’ll be right with you. There’s a bathroom to your right if you’d like to shower.” Lady Antonia’s voice brought a memory of daffodils,
petrichor
and a Celtic ring in the fountain at the Larches.

Meinwen slipped off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks near the door. A bookcase was sparsely filled with paperbacks on bondage,
shibari
and suspension techniques. She ignored the variety of bathrobes and looked instead to the end of the short passage, where a sharp turn concealed the room beyond. “No need, Catherine. I’ve just come for a chat.”

The rattle of chain against steel sounded from the other room and ceased just as abruptly and Lady Antonia appeared at the end of the passage. She had grown from the naïve maid Meinwen first met three years ago. Now she sported a white blouse under a tightly laced leather corset, thigh-length boots, leather finger gloves and a flowing skater’s skirt. The long hair Meinwen remembered had been colored and cut into a severe bob and the girl’s soft, youthful features had hardened into bony angularity. “Meinwen?” She stepped forward a pace. “Meinwen Jones?”

“That’s right. Long time no see. You’ve...changed a bit, Catherine.”

“What are you doing here? You can’t be here. I have a client due.”

“I’m already here.” She lifted her hands and dropped them. “I’ve paid for the hour. I need to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can sit?”

“Erm...sure. Come in.” Catherine led her through to the hotel room. It was a bigger room than the pictures she’d seen on John’s computer, though not as big as the dungeon area Rebecca had shown her earlier in the day. The white walls and shag carpet were accentuated by black furniture and curtains, with red highlights in the bed throw, paintings and scatter cushions. A series of crops and floggers were arranged on a sturdy coffee table. Meinwen recognized the design of heavy supporting beams and rows of eyelets from the bed in the Ashgate Road house.

In one corner stood a cage within which a man was encased from head to toe in black leather, the face mask containing only two nostril holes to breath through. Whoever he was, Meinwen could see he was in good shape. The chains she’d heard came from this cage and the padlock holding it firmly shut.

Meinwen sat on the sofa and deliberately looked away from the cage. “Do sit, Catherine. I’ve not come for a session with you but it is very important.”

“All right.” She picked up a silk gown from the bed and pulled it on. “What’s all this about? How did you find me?”

Meinwen leaned into the cushions. The leather was surprisingly firm. “It wasn’t easy. I chased about all over the place looking for you. Fortunately Susan had your email address and from there it was easy to deduce where you were, especially since John Fenstone used to work here. Now I understand why Richard used to visit regularly.”

Catherine glanced toward the slave in the cage as she sat on the other end of the sofa facing her. “When we didn’t quarrel.”

“Why did you split up?”

“Richard always swore he wasn’t bisexual. Not sexually bisexual, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was okay about playing with men, dominating them, that sort of thing but he always said he wasn’t sexually intimate with them.”

“I see.”

“That was before John bloody Fenstone. I swear the two of them would have run off into the sunset if John had been willing to give up his job. As it was they spent more and more time together. John was an absolute slut and I got tired of coming second in Richard’s affections. We had a blazing row and I left. I drifted about a bit until I ran out of money and then Richard suggested I come here. I had the experience, after all.”

“You didn’t like John Fenstone then?”

“Like him? No. I’m almost ashamed to say I was glad when he topped himself. Richard is more like his old self now. I know he misses John. Blames himself for the suicide, sometimes.”

“Blames himself? Why?”

“You know. Having to make the decision between his marriage and his lover. He thought it was choosing me that sent John over the edge.”

“You never actually got divorced, did you?”

“No. We never got around to it. It was all a bit flash in the pan. By the time I thought about seeing the solicitor about it I was here and the urgency had faded. I was making a decent amount of money and Richard and I were seeing each other again.”

“So you’re still the beneficiary of his will and his insurance policies?”

“I suppose so.”

“So have you and Richard reconciled?”

“Pretty much. I was too embarrassed to go back to The Larches and eat a big piece of Jean’s humble pie so he used to come here when he could. I nearly died of shock the first time he paid for a session but it was good to be on the other side of the domination line for a change. After that he started dropping in at all hours. He used to say ‘I don’t deserve you,’ and he was right. I still don’t know what I see in him.”