nursery rhymes. It’s like tuning into my favourite radio soap and listening to another instalment of life in the O’Loughlin household.
I lumber downstairs, teeth brushed, face washed and body medicated. There’s laughter from the sitting room. I listen at the door. Julianne is interviewing nannies. Emma seems to be asking most of the questions.
Ruiz is in the kitchen, eating toast and reading my morning paper.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Morning.’
‘Don’t they feed you at the pub?’
‘It doesn’t have the ambience of this place.’
I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat opposite him.
‘I found Helen Chambers’ family. They live on the Daubeney Estate, outside Westbury. It’s about thirty miles from here. I tried to call and got an answering machine. Helen Chambers isn’t listed on the voter rolls or telephone directories.’
He senses I’m only half-listening.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
He goes back to reading the paper. I take a sip of coffee.
‘Do you ever have nightmares?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you dealt with some pretty terrible things- murders, rapes, missing children- don’t they ever come back to you, the memories?’
‘No.’
‘What about Catherine McBride?’ She was a former patient of mine. That’s how I first met Ruiz, he was investigating her murder.
‘What about her?’
‘I still see her in my dreams sometimes. Now I’m seeing Christine Wheeler.’
Ruiz folds the newspaper in half and half again. ‘Does she talk to you?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘But you’re seeing dead people?’
‘You make it sound crazy.’
He slaps me hard across the side of my head with the newspaper.
‘What was that for?’
‘It’s a wake up call.’
‘Why?’
‘You once told me that a doctor is no good to a patient if he dies of the disease. Don’t go soft in the head. You’re supposed to be the sane one.’
The Daubeney Estate is two miles north of Westbury on the borders of Somerset and Wiltshire. The rolling countryside is dotted with small farms and swollen lakes and dams from the recent rain.
Ruiz is driving his Merc. The suspension is so soft it’s like a waterbed on wheels.
‘What do we know about the family?’ I ask.
‘Bryan and Claudia Chambers. He owns a construction company that does a lot of big money contracts in the Gulf. The Daubeney Estate used to be one of the biggest landholdings in the country until it was broken up and sold in the 1980s. The Chambers own the manor house and eleven acres.’
‘What about Helen?’
‘She’s an only child. She left Oldfield Girls School in Bath in 1988- same years as Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. She went Bristol University; studied economics and married eight years ago. Since then she’s lived abroad.’
He raises his forefinger from the steering wheel. ‘This is the place.’
We pull into an opening guarded by a ten-foot-high iron gate hinged on stone pillars. On either side, a perimeter wall stretches through the trees. It is topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete like jagged flowers.
The gate has an intercom box. I press a button and wait. A voice answers.
‘Who is it?’
‘Is that Mr Chambers?’
‘No.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘He’s not available.’
‘Is Helen Chambers at home?’
‘You trying to be funny, pal?’ He has a Welsh accent.
I glance at Ruiz who shrugs.
‘I’m Joseph O’Loughlin. It’s important that I speak to a member of the family.’
‘I’ll need more information than that.’
‘It’s a police matter. It concerns their daughter.’
There is a pause. Maybe he’s seeking instructions.
The voice comes back: ‘Who are you with?’
I dip my head and look through the windscreen. A CCTV camera is perched on a metal pole twenty feet above the gate. He’s watching us.
Ruiz leans across me, ‘I’m a retired detective inspector. I formerly worked for the London Metropolitan Police.’
‘Retired?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I’m sorry. Mr and Mrs Chambers are both unavailable.’
‘When is the best time to speak to them?’ I ask.
‘Write a letter.’
‘I’d prefer to leave a note.’
The gate stays firmly closed. Ruiz walks around the Merc and stretches. The camera pivots and follows every move. He hoists himself onto a fallen tree, peering over the wall.
‘Can you see the house?’ I ask.
‘No.’ He looks left and right. ‘Now there’s an interesting thing.’
‘What?’
‘Motion sensors, and more cameras. I know the rich get nervouscome the revolution and all that- but this is complete overkill. What does this guy have to hide?’
Boots sound on gravel. A man appears on the far side of the gate, walking towards us. Dressed like a gardener in jeans, a checked shirt and oilskin coat, he has a dog with him; a massive German Shepherd with a black and tan coat.
‘Get away from the wall,’ he demands.
Ruiz swings himself down and makes eye contact with me.
‘Great day,’ I say.
‘Yes, it is,’ says the man with the dog. We both know we’re lying.
Ruiz has moved to my side of the car. He drops his hand behind his back and holds down the intercom button, leaving it there.
The German Shepherd is watching me as if deciding which leg to eat first. His handler is more concerned with Ruiz and what sort of physical threat he might pose.
Ruiz takes his finger off the intercom.
A woman’s voice answers: ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Mrs Chambers?’ Ruiz replies.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, but your gardener said you weren’t home. He was obviously mistaken. My name is Vincent Ruiz. I’m a former detective inspector with the London Metropolitan Police. Is it possible to have a few moments of your time?’
‘What is this about?’
