‘Canary Wharf. He’s a merchant banker.’
‘Any more on the relationship?’
‘He married money, the daughter of another merchant banker. After that, his fortunes improved dramatically.’
‘What else do we know about the man?’ Isaac asked.
‘Quentin Alistair Waverley, thirty-nine, school captain, academically gifted, Master’s degree in economics.’
‘Smart man. Amelia wouldn’t fit in with where he was heading – the daughter of an outspoken social commentator, into drugs and bad men.’
‘The drugs came about after she had separated from Waverley. The man’s “butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth” clean,’ Bridget said.
‘Which means he’s got skeletons in the cupboard,’ Isaac said.
‘Bridget, a full dossier for tomorrow. Larry and I will go and see Waverley. Wendy, keep up the pressure on the cleaning company. Check if there’s any dirt, any attempt to use the access to the houses of the affluent to steal or embezzle.’
‘And to blackmail,’ Wendy said.
‘It’s possible. We need to tie the two women together. Waverley’s one option, the cleaning company is another, and now we have Jeremy Brice lying to us.’
‘We could visit him tonight,’ Larry said.
‘He’ll be defensive.’
‘That’s up to him.’
Isaac made a phone call. Brice answered the phone, reluctantly agreed to a late night visit. The two police officers left Challis Street. It was already ten in the evening. Larry knew he’d not be home before 2 a.m. and his wife would be livid.
Isaac had no one to go home to, and for once, seeing how Larry suffered, he didn’t mind.
Brice let the two officers into his flat in Mayfair.His girlfriend, who looked to be in her fifties, introduced herself.
The three men excused themselves and went to the study. ‘Now what is so important?’ Brice said.
‘Quentin Waverley,’ Isaac said.
‘That’s a few years back.’
‘But you knew him?’
‘Of course I did. I thought he was going to marry Amelia. If he had, she’d still be alive.’
‘You approved of the man?’
‘Yes, I did. He was a good influence on Amelia.’
‘Why did you deny on our last visit knowing anyone who could have been Q?’
‘They were not on good terms. As far as Amelia was concerned, the man was dead.’
‘It’s still not a good enough reason to deny his existence.’
‘It is for me.’
‘According to your daughter’s diary, she had some contact with him. Were they having an affair?’
‘My daughter sometimes had trouble distinguishing fiction from fact. Quentin Waverley, in my estimation, is a thoroughly decent man. I’m only sad that he turned her over for the other woman.’
‘Gwen Happold. What can you tell us about her?’
‘She was a friend of Amelia’s. They used to go around together. Her father was successful, and she was attractive.’
‘As attractive as your daughter?’
‘It’s hard to say, but she was a good-looking woman. Anyway, she had her eyes on Quentin.’
‘How, if he was with your daughter?’
‘She made sure that Amelia caught the two of them in bed.’
‘Devious?’
‘An excellent woman to have on your side.’
‘You still admire her?’
‘Not for what she did to my daughter, but she was, still is, a driven woman. I can admire people who know what they want and will do anything to get it.’
‘Even sleeping with someone else’s partner?’
‘Life’s a bitch, DCI. You must know that.’
‘I do, but I don’t go sleeping with my friends’ partners.’
‘She did, and now Quentin’s living well, in line to take over his father-in-law’s chairmanship of the bank.’
‘Amelia’s diary implied that she was still in contact with the man. Are you?’
‘I see him from time to time.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘Not in itself. Did Amelia know?’
‘We never spoke about it, but yes, she would have known. And besides, she broke up with Quentin some time ago. People move on with their lives.’
‘Not according to Amelia. She was in fear of the man.’
‘I don’t see why. Quentin is perfectly charming.’
‘Don’t tell me that he wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘He’s an ambitious man, he would have trodden on a few toes in his time. No doubt you’ll find others out there who didn’t appreciate him. You’ll find plenty who don’t like me, not that it bothers me.’
Isaac could not be sure whether the man was telling the truth or lying through his teeth. On the radio, Brice would fluctuate between aggressive and passive, charitable and hard-nosed. He’d suck up to one politician, belittle another. If he could do that, then the pretence of helping a murder investigation would not be difficult, and it was his daughter who had died. He had shown no concern over the death of Christine Devon, yet on the radio he would be sympathetic to a woman whose husband needed medical treatment that they couldn’t afford or he would be organising delivery of much-needed help to a pensioner in trouble. Yet a black woman who had cleaned his house had not caused the man to do anything. Not even an offer of help or concern for her children.
Larry’s wife always listened to Brice on the radio, and was one of his most avid fans; he knew she’d be jealous that he was meeting with the man. He wasn’t sure why he did not like the man when they finally met; maybe it was because of his wife droning on about what he had said or done that day, or because instinctively he did not believe a word the man was saying.
‘Mr Brice, we intend to talk to Quentin Waverley and his wife,’ Larry said. ‘We need to understand the references in your daughter’s diary to him. If we find any disparity in his account and yours we will need to question you again.’
‘If you’ve no more questions, you’ll need to excuse me,’ Brice said. ‘It’s late, and I have had a busy day.’
Isaac
