church community. The fatal incident took place on the B4429 outside the village of Little Denton. Official cause of death is to be verified pending the Coroner’s report. A church spokesman…’
Ben turned it off.
Petra Norrington lived in a large and expensive-looking thatched cottage at the edge of the village. A Siamese cat hissed at Ben from the front step and slunk away into the frosty bushes. Answering the door, Petra looked Ben disdainfully up and down for a moment before recognition showed on her face. She was wearing the same string of pearls she’d had on the night before, and her hair was hairsprayed into a peroxide blond helmet that looked as if it could withstand a tornado. ‘Oh — we met last night at the restaurant, didn’t we? You’re Mr, er…’
‘Hope. Please call me Ben. May I come in?’
‘I can’t believe he’s dead,’ Petra said as she led Ben inside the spacious cottage and into a chintzy sitting room. ‘It’s so awful. I’ve just got off the phone with the ladies’ badminton club secretary. Everyone’s just devastated.’ She sighed and shook her head sadly — though not too sadly. Her Siamese being run over might have upset her more.
‘They both are, Mrs Norrington,’ Ben said.
Petra nodded hesitantly, and Ben got the impression that she was considerably less concerned about Michaela’s death than about Simeon’s.
‘How can I help you, Mr Hope? Ben?’
‘I came to ask you if you knew how I could find Jude,’ Ben said. ‘You seemed to know about the place in Cornwall where he hangs out with his friend Robbie.’
Petra nodded, a flicker of disapproval showing. ‘That Robbie. His parents’ holiday place, apparently. It’s out in the middle of the moors. Somewhere not far from Bodmin, I think. I don’t know exactly where.’
‘I see,’ Ben said, feeling his heart sink.
‘But Sophie would be able to tell you.’
‘Sophie?’
‘My daughter.’ Petra arched a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘She and Jude went out together — only for a short time, mind you. He took her to the farm once, for a weekend. From what she told me, it’s a dreadful place. A whole gang of them hang out there, drinking themselves stupid and God knows what else. I can’t imagine what that boy-’
‘Is Sophie here?’ Ben cut in.
‘She’s spending Christmas with her father. He lives in Spain.’
‘Could I have his number?’
Petra shook her head emphatically. ‘Dominic and I haven’t spoken for over five years.’
‘What about Sophie’s mobile number?’
She frowned.
‘It’s very important,’ he said. ‘Jude needs to be contacted.’
Petra nodded and went over to a little writing desk in the corner, where her phone lay next to a glasses case, a pile of mail and the small camera Ben remembered she’d been waving around in the restaurant the night before. Petra took her time putting on her glasses, then picked up the phone and pressed a speed-dial key. After a moment she said in a sugary tone: ‘Sophie, darling, it’s Mummy. Could you call me when you’ve got a moment? Byeee.’
Ben looked at her. ‘That didn’t exactly convey a sense of urgency.’
Petra returned his look icily. ‘As if he’ll be concerned about his parents, anyway,’ she muttered. ‘That young man is only interested in himself.’
Ben was about to reply, then thought better of it and changed the subject. ‘There’s something else I need from you,’ he said. ‘The registration number of the BMW you backed into last night in the Old Windmill car park.’
Petra blinked. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I haven’t got time to explain. I’d appreciate your help.’
‘Er… are you from the police, Mr Hope? Because if not, I frankly don’t see-’
She was interrupted by the doorbell. A UPS delivery van had pulled up in the street outside.
‘My Harrods Christmas hamper! At last!’ Petra gasped, and rushed out of the room to answer the door. She made a big fuss of signing for the parcel. The delivery man had to lug it inside the hallway for her, amid her cries of ‘Oh, be careful! You’ll scratch the parquet!’
Meanwhile, Ben was looking up Sophie Norrington’s number from the phone and scribbling it on the back of his hand with a biro from the writing desk. Sifting quickly through the pile of mail on top of the desk, he found a sealed, unstamped envelope addressed to a motor insurance company and slipped it into his pocket.
Petra had almost finished harrying the delivery driver in the hallway. Ben looked at the little camera lying on the desk. His mind raced back to replay the scene from the restaurant. When Petra Norrington had jumped up from the noisy ladies’ badminton club party table to photograph them all, snapping away left and right, she’d had her back more or less to Ben, which meant she’d been facing roughly in the direction of the archway leading through to the bar area.
The same bar area where the owner of the BMW had been sitting quietly, unnoticed until the incident with the headlight. Was it possible that he might have been captured by chance in one of her shots?
The guy might not be connected to the crash at all. Maybe he was just some surly bastard who’d been miles away when the Lotus had gone over the bridge. Maybe this was a blind alley. Maybe not.
Ben didn’t have long to decide. Petra had shut the front door and was heading back towards the sitting room. He flipped open the side port of the camera, slid out its memory card and pocketed that too.
‘Anyway, Mr Hope,’ she announced archly as she walked back into the room. ‘I’m afraid my private affairs are none of your business.’
Ben gave her his warmest smile. ‘You’re quite right, Mrs Norrington. I’ll be on my way. Thanks for your help, and Merry Christmas to you.’
Chapter Twenty
The meeting had been set in late November, after several weeks of furtive phone calls to a hard-found and extremely cagey contact in London who went by the name of Mick. Palms had been greased, generously and diplomatically, in return for which Penrose Lucas had eventually been given a non-negotiable time and place, as well as a serious warning that he should come alone and prepared. Prepared meant ‘bring money’.
Penrose had flown to London in the Lear and hurriedly made his way to his appointment, carrying a briefcase. The location had been a crowded pub in the East End. The man he’d come to see had been sitting at a window alcove table in the corner, nursing a pint of lager and a frown. He was a Londoner, in his mid-to-late thirties, tall and lean, and under his tight-fitting jumper was the hardened physique of a man who worked out seriously and ran ten miles a day. His receding hairline was razored to a stubble and his piercing grey eyes didn’t once flinch away from Penrose from the moment he sat down. His voice was soft, yet managed to be infinitely menacing at the same time. The man’s name was Steve Cutter, and he was the head of a firm called Cutter Security.
Penrose hadn’t come all this way to talk about fitting alarm systems and fancy locks to his new villa in Capri. Cutter was a private military contractor.
The fact was that Penrose could have approached any one of a hundred suit-and-tie corporate PMC outfits in expensive offices throughout London, but he’d chosen to wade through murkier waters in order to secure the services of someone better suited to his purposes. As far as reputations went, Cutter’s outfit was somewhere near the lower end of the spectrum, though not because they weren’t proficient at what they did. The elusive Mick had told Penrose enough about Cutter’s recent involvements to know that he was exactly the kind of hard-bitten professional mercenary he wanted to engage.
Penrose had been terrified of Cutter at first, and even more terrified of the two scowling and deeply intimidating associates who’d appeared from nowhere, each carrying a pint of beer, and sat down either side of him at the table. It was clear that he was no longer dealing with the likes of the deadbeats from Hardstaff amp; Baldwin in Darlington.
‘This gentleman here is Mr Grinnall,’ Cutter said, motioning to his murderous-looking colleague on Penrose’s
