Hung Out to Die Page 9

Bellamy’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, before his temper got the better of him and his mottled face turned ugly. “Who’s been saying that? That old witch on the Green? Or that...” He stopped, suddenly aware that his carefully cultivated image as a genial, friendly sort of guy was rapidly eroding.

  “Is it not true? Before you say anything further, I would point out that, whatever your views as to it not being known, it was, in fact, the subject of much gossip in the village. Gossip, moreover, that a surprising number of people have been more than happy to tell us about,” Calderwood, continued, determined to rattle the man opposite, as quickly as possible.

  Both police officers watched in fascination as Bellamy pulled himself back from his towering fury and shape-shifted himself back into the hail-fellow-well-met role he’d nurtured so carefully since moving to the village.

  “People, particularly villagers, gossip; make something out of nothing!” He tried a man to man laugh, paused, and, seeing the disbelief on the two faces opposite, changed tack. “Okay, we did meet up occasionally, soon after she moved up here. But to call it an affair? Ridiculous!”

  “What would you call it, Mr. Bellamy?” asked Calderwood, his voice neutral, satisfied to see the man opposite him severely off-balance.

  “Just two people getting together, just now and then, for a bit of the other, that’s all.”

  “And did Ms. Riminton see it the same way?”

  “Debra? Of cour...” His voice trailed off as he realised his blunder.

  “I’m sorry, who did you say? asked Calderwood, his voice showing none of the excitement he felt as his quarry blundered into the bear trap.

  “Sorry – stupid of me, always getting names mixed up,” he said with a laugh, which was definitely not mirrored in either of the two faces sitting opposite him. “Must’ve heard her real name from someone in the village,” he added.

  “Looking back on your original statement, you say that you moved here eight years ago, from London, is that correct?”

  Bellamy nodded eagerly, relieved that apparently he’d got away with his blunder.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

  “It doesn’t say in your statement how long you’d lived in London before you moved here,” noted Calderwood casually.

  “I’ve always lived in London,” the other man responded, puzzled, but not yet alarmed.

  That changed with Bulmer’s interjection. “You’ve never lived in Birmingham, then?”

  Wariness shot into Bellamy’s eyes as he realised too late that the police knew far more than they’d – as yet – let on.

  “Look here, what’s going on! I’ve changed my mind! I want to have a lawyer present!”

  “Of course, that’s your right, Mr. Bellamy,” nodded Calderwood, unsurprised. “We will of course adjourn until he or she arrives.”

  “Good,” said a relieved Bellamy, standing up to go.

  “Obviously, you’ll understand that, with all the unanswered questions, we’ll need to ask you to remain here until your solicitor arrives.”

  “You can’t...!” Bellamy blurted, then shut up, entirely aware that they could. After a moment, he tried again. “My solicitors are in London; they may not be able to get here until tomorrow at the earliest. Oh, all right!” he said, trying to hide his fury as he

  saw that the two officers were entirely uninterested in that fact. “They have links with people in Estwich. I’ll call them.”

  *

  Four hours later saw them re-convened; very briefly, as things turned out.

  After going through the usual preliminaries, Calderwood got straight down to business.

  “Mr. Bellamy, could you tell me where you lived in Birmingham, for how long – and what your work was there?”

  After a quick glance at his solicitor, he answered reluctantly. “I was there about two years, all told, about ten years ago. I worked as a freelance.”

  “Freelance at what, exactly?”

  Bellamy shrugged. “Whatever was needed. I was a facilitator, you could say.”

  “And did this facilitating include working for Jack Rizzio?”

  Shock almost caused Bellamy to lose his voice. “Who?” he finally managed. “Never heard of him.” He had been caught completely off-balance by the question. His links with the gangster had been known only to very few people in a very tight, disciplined circle, and, he’d believed, were entirely unknown to the police.

  “Really? So you aren’t the one who did some recent dirty work for him, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our information is that Mr. Rizzio, a very vindictive and powerful man, wanted his revenge on Ms. Addison.”

  “Hey, hold on! I told you I scarcely knew the woman.”

  “Indeed you did. However, when we spoke earlier, you called her ‘Debra’, quite naturally. Yet, according to you, you only ever knew her in Beldon Magna, where she was not known by that name. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bellamy threw away the last vestiges of his ‘Mr Nice’ persona, and, shrugging off his solicitor’s cautionary hand on his arm, lost his temper completely.

  “You bastards! Don’t you even try and fit me up with that!”

  “Why would we ‘fit you up,’ Mr. Bellamy? Or should I say Mr. Beddison?” asked Calderwood quietly.

  “Because that’s what your lot do. Whenever you can’t do your job properly, you find some poor bastard like me!” He stopped suddenly. “What did you just call me?” he asked, his voice sounding suddenly strangled.

  “Mr. Bedd…” started Calderwood, only to break off mid-sentence when Bellamy half-reared up, and then suddenly collapsed across the table.

  *

  “Bloody hell! It’s confirmed as a heart attack!” groaned Bulmer, two hours later, making no effort to conceal his disgust as he dropped the phone back into its cradle.

  “Well, that stops us in our tracks – and I have no doubt a future claim blaming us for causing the blasted attack will land on our desks!” responded Calderwood grimly.

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “He’s nasty enough, certainly. His wife, though, is adamant that he was with her all the time. Which is corroborated, unfortunately, by neighbours hearing them having an almighty row – followed by a rather noisy and energetic making up session. We’ll re-check everything, obviously, but it looks about 5-1 against, at the moment – if that.”

  Chapter 13

  “Curious,” remarked Robert Calderwood to Colin Bulmer a few days after the Bellamy/Beddison debacle as he put down the receiver. “That was the Commander. He’s just come off the phone to the Boss.”

  Bulmer’s eyebrows shot upwards. The latter designation could only mean the Chief Constable. He waited as Calderwood seemed to drift off, tapping his teeth with his pen, a habit he had when particularly pre-occupied, and which annoyed the hell out of everyone around him. Almost three weeks had gone by, with virtually no progress made, since their abortive trip to speak to Rizzio, and they knew they were within days of having the case quietly and unofficially downgraded; something they were fiercely against, but powerless to stop. Some extra work had already arrived on their desks, a warning of what was to come.

  “It seems we are to meet a very important person; or rather, let me re-phrase that, a very, very important person.”

  “He must be if he’s important enough for the Chief to be involved,” commented Bulmer, itching to grab the pen off his boss. “Who?” he asked after yet another pause.

  “David Venables.”

  “David Ven...? You mean...?”

  “Yep. Lord David Venables, TV magnate, Press baron, etc; etc; etc. The owner of, among other newspapers, The Sunday Voice; the perch from which the late Debra Addison spewed her poison.”

  “Why? Do we know?”

  “Nope, only that he’s just got back in the country and believes he has some important information which may help us with our investigation into the Addison case.”

  “What investigati
on?” Bulmer asked a shade bitterly. “With all this new stuff we’ve had piled onto us, we’re already spending less time on it!”

  “I know, but we knew what the powers that be would decide once Rizzio’s name entered the frame. It was inevitable,” replied Calderwood with his usual equanimity in the face of the apparent shortcomings of his superiors. That coolness and, even more, his shrewd realisation of the pressures often behind their decisions, were not the least of the reasons for his meteoric rise through the ranks.

  “When do we go and see him? I assume we do go to him?” added Bulmer sarcastically, his socialist prickliness just visible.

  “Indeed we do. He’s flying out again tomorrow, so we need to travel down to London to see him now.”

  Neither of the two detectives were strangers to how the other half lived. Even they, though, were staggered by the lush extravagance of the world they stepped into. The flashily glittering opulence of the purpose-designed office building near Canary Wharf hit them like a blow when they emerged fully into the complex housing the tube station. As they raced up to the top floor in a lift, the glass sides of which almost had Bulmer retching, they saw below one atrium after another, all decorated with lush shrubbery and interspersed with pools, all connected to each other by a system of small streams. Each had its own waterfall, and all were filled with expensive carp. All in all, it was a picture of lush, exotic, almost overwhelming luxury, which was almost brutal in its brazenness. Then, surprisingly, it stopped the moment they entered the suite housing his private office. Money still oozed out of every inch of the walls and expensive wooden flooring, which was mahogany – if Calderwood, an unlikely expert in such things, wasn’t mistaken – very expensive and severely restricted for import. A clever mix of glass, mirrors, bronze tiles, impressionistic life-size stencils in the starkest of black on white, now gave a minimalist, but still almost overwhelming impression of scarcely restrained power and wealth. Intriguingly, it somehow also conveyed just a hint of an oriental influence.

  They were shown into Venable’s office within a minute or two of their arriving in the palatial suite. It was a suite, they discovered later, that was adjacent to his penthouse, which occupied the remainder of the top floor of what was one of the tallest buildings in London. Even so, there were strong rumours that the restless tycoon was planning a move into the newly completed Shard at London Bridge. Another rumour, though, contradicted it, saying that he had cooled to the idea when his offer to buy the whole building had been re-buffed.

  Before entering the private office itself, Calderwood had half expected a Xanadu of vulgar ostentation, a fitting backdrop for a plutocratic, overbearing tyrant. As the doors swung open, however, they showed a décor that was surprisingly and elegantly restrained. Their initial impressions of the immensely powerful media tycoon were also one of pleasant surprise. He was far from the distant and forbidding figure they’d expected from the acres of newsprint that had documented both his life and his rise to power; a story that had started when he’d arrived, virtually penniless, from Hong Kong, son of a British father and half Chinese mother. Instead, they saw an immensely affable and approachable man. As they entered his large office with its stunning views across the capital’s skyline, he immediately rose to greet them, walking briskly across the huge expanse of wooden flooring; more mahogany, noted Calderwood. In his early forties, the tycoon was a little over medium height, and his tanned features were almost entirely Caucasian, only his eyes giving the slightest of hints as to his oriental blood.

  “Thank you for coming at such short notice, I really appreciate it,” said Venables after shaking each man’s hand, a warm smile on his face as he offered refreshments.

  Declining these, Calderwood responded, “It’s no problem at all, sir. We’re grateful for any help we can get in solving the killing of Ms. Addison.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure I can help you there, directly anyway,” the mogul said, resuming his seat behind his massive desk; more mahogany, Calderwood noted.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we understood that you had information which could help?” he responded, puzzled.

  “Oh, I have. It won’t help you to find out who was responsible, that’s what I’m saying. I just know who wasn’t.”

  “I see, sir. Perhaps you’d tell what you know and we can take it from there,” responded the young DI neutrally. At the same time he was thinking that if this tosser was wasting police time he’d slap a charge on him regardless of both who he was and the stink it would cause.

  Venables nodded. “I understand you visited Jack Rizzio two or three weeks ago.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Calderwood, hiding his surprise, and not wasting his time asking from where he’d heard it, merely nodded.

  “I just wanted you guys to know that any time you spend trying to pin this one on him will be wasted, that’s all.”

  “I see, sir, and on what grounds do you say that?” Calderwood asked, again masking his surprise. “I understand that you took over the paper only a few months before Ms. Addison resigned?”

  “That is correct. I do, however, always look after employees, past or present, of any company I own.”

  “I see. And how did you look after Ms. Addison’s interests in the particular situation she found herself in?”

  “I had Jack Rizzio call off his dogs,” Venables replied quietly.

  Whatever the two policemen were expecting, it sure as hell wasn’t this, and it took a moment for them to regroup.

  Calderwood nodded slowly. “I think you’ll agree, sir, that that raises two, no, three further questions.”

  “And those would be, Inspector?” smiled Venables calmly.

  “The first would be why you did so; the second how you did it; and the third would be why you’re telling us about an acquaintanceship with someone who, to put it at its mildest, isn’t exactly on most people’s Christmas Card list.”

  Venables nodded, smiling. “All fair questions, Inspector. I’ve already said I always look after my own, and that includes protecting them from thugs such as Jack Rizzio. How I did it was simple: I gave him something he wanted rather badly, even more than he wanted Debra’s head on the proverbial plate. No, I won’t tell you what it was, you only need to know it was nothing illegal. Thirdly, I’m telling you because I want you to find out who did cause her death.”

  “As indeed do we, of course, sir,” Calderwood responded, “but may I ask why you yourself are keen on solving the case?”

  “Other than that of any good citizen, you mean?”

  Calderwood smiled and said nothing, waiting to hear why a billionaire international businessman who spent less than ten percent of his time in the UK, and who’s paper, The Sunday Voice, was less than one percent of his vast holdings, should be personally interested in solving the case of a woman who wasn’t even his employee, and hadn’t been for almost six years.

  “I’ve told you, Inspector: I look after my people. It’s that simple.”

  “Even after they’ve left your employ, sir?”

  “Yes, even then, if there’s the slightest chance their death was linked in any way to their work when with me,” said Venables flatly.

  “And you think that Ms. Addison’s death may be such a case, sir?” Calderwood asked, his voice neutral.

  The magnate shrugged his shoulders. “That, I don’t know – but with everyone focused on Rizzio, you never will find out, will you? Quite apart from looking the wrong way, I doubt that the case continued to get the resources it needs once his name entered the frame,” he added shrewdly, admiring the bland look Calderwood sent back across the desk.

  “Was Ms Addison aware of the threat’s removal,” the DI asked., though virtually certain of the answer.

  “Oh yes, I had word sent to her,” nodded Venables. “She’d moved very quickly and already changed her name and left town, so she decided she’d build a new life anyway, but she was happy that she could stop looking over her shoulder; very happy,” he added. />
  The three men talked for another twenty minutes, at the end of which the two policemen were very clear that they had got all they were going to get, from this interview, anyway, and rose to go.

  “Glad to help you guys, really glad,” Venables said, smiling his warm smile as he rose and shook their hands as he lead them towards his office door. Part way there they opened and a male assistant came to show them out. As they left the room, Calderwood turned to thank their host again – and felt a chill race through his body. The smile had left David Venable’s face, leaving it a cold, flat surface where absolutely no emotion showed at all. So swiftly did it change again on Calderwood turning back, to be replaced by the same warm smile he’d held throughout the interview, that the detective wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen it at all. Nevertheless, he felt chilled in a way he didn’t understand.

  *

  “What do you reckon, then, Colin? Think he’s telling the truth?” he asked as they crossed over towards the tube station.

  “He sounded genuine about getting Rizzio’s dogs off Addison. And it certainly explains why she was so laid back about people from her previous life knowing about her name change and so on; but something doesn’t add up, does it?”

  “Go on,” responded Calderwood neutrally.

  “Well, leaving aside the why he did it, even leaving aside another rather large question as to whether whatever he did was ethical, let alone legal, we still have the big one – why did he go to the trouble of telling us about it?”

  “I agree. Whichever way you look at it, the association isn’t one that does him any credit, so why advertise it – and to us?”

  “And why wait until now? The case has been headlines for weeks. Even when he’s out of the country, doesn’t he read his own newspapers for Christ’s sake?” Bulmer added humorously. “Do you reckon what he’s said will be enough to make the powers that be give it some priority again?” he added hopefully.

  “I think so, but I’ll need to put in a report and wait and see.”

  Which he did, but he never really knew if it had any lasting impact on his superiors’ decision because something was to happen with savage suddenness; something which very, very firmly and very, very urgently put the original investigation rapidly back on track.