‘It concerns two of your daughter’s friends- Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. Do you remember them?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Have you seen the newspapers?’
‘No. Why? What’s happened?’
Ruiz glances at me. She doesn’t know.
‘I’m afraid they’re dead, Mrs Chambers.’
Silence. Static.
‘You should really talk to Skipper,’ she says, her voice straining.
Is she talking about the gardener or the dog?
‘I’m talking to Skipper right now,’ says Ruiz. ‘He’s come down to the gate to meet us. He’s a very charming chap. Must be a dab hand with the roses.’
She is knocked off guard. ‘He doesn’t know daffodils from dogwood.’
‘Me neither,’ says Ruiz. ‘Can we come in? It’s important.’
The gate lets out a hollow click and swings inwards. Skipper has to step back. He’s not happy.
Ruiz slides behind the wheel and drives past him, raising his hand in a half-salute before spinning wheels in the gravel.
‘He doesn’t look much like a gardener,’ I say.
‘He’s ex-military,’ says Ruiz. ‘See how he stands. He doesn’t advertise his strengths. He keeps them under wraps until he needs them.’
The gables and roofline appear through the trees. Ruiz slows over a grated gate and pulls up in front of the main house. The large double door must be four inches thick. One side opens. Claudia Chambers peers from within. A slender, still pretty woman in her late fifties, she’s dressed in a cashmere cardigan and khaki slacks.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ I say, making the introductions.
She doesn’t offer her hand. Instead she leads us through a marble foyer to a large sitting room full of oriental rugs and matching Chesterfield sofas. Bookshelves fill the alcoves on either side of a large fireplace that is set but not burning. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and side tables showing a child’s passage through life from birth to toddler to girlhood. A first lost tooth, first day at school, first snowman, first bicycle- a lifetime of firsts.
‘Your daughter?’ I ask.
‘Our granddaughter,’ she replies.
She motions to the sofa, wanting us to sit down.
‘Can I get you something? Tea perhaps.’
‘Thank you,’ says Ruiz, answering for both of us.
As if by magic, a plump woman in uniform appears at the door.
There must be a hidden bell at Claudia’s feet, beneath the rug or tucked down the side of the sofa.
Claudia issues instructions and the maid disappears. She turns back to us and takes a seat on the sofa opposite, tucking her hands in her lap. Everything about her demeanour is closed off and defensive.
‘Poor Christine and Sylvia. Was it some sort of accident?’
‘No, we don’t believe so.’
‘What happened?’
‘They were murdered.’
She blinks. Grief is like a moist sheen over her pupils. It’s as much emotion as she’s going to show.
‘Christine jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge,’ I say. ‘We believe she was coerced.’
‘Coerced?’
‘She was forced to jump,’ explains Ruiz.
Claudia shakes her head fiercely, as if trying to clear the information from her ears.
‘Sylvia died of exposure. She was found handcuffed to a tree.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ asks Claudia, a little less sure of the world.
‘You haven’t seen the TV or the newspapers?’
‘I don’t follow the news. It depresses me.’
‘When did you last see Christine and Sylvia?’
‘Not since Helen’s wedding; they were bridesmaids.’ She counts on her fingertips. ‘Eight years. Goodness, has it really been that long.’
‘Did your daughter keep in touch with them?’
‘I don’t know. Helen went overseas with her husband. She didn’t get home very often.’
The maid has returned with a tray. The teapot and china cups seem too delicate to hold boiling water. Claudia pours, almost willing her hands to be steady.
‘Do you have milk or sugar?’
‘Milk.’
‘Straight from the pot,’ says Ruiz.
She stirs without letting the teaspoon touch the edges of her cup. Her thoughts seem to drift away for a moment before returning to the room.
A car sounds outside- tyres on gravel. Moments later the front door slams opens and hurried footsteps cross the foyer. Bryan Chambers makes the sort of entrance that befits a man his size, bursting into the room, hell bent on hitting someone.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he bellows. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
Balding, with big hands and a thick neck, his head is shaped like a hard hat and glistens with sweat.
Ruiz is on his feet. I take longer to find mine.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ says Claudia. ‘Something awful has happened to Christine and Sylvia.’
Bryan Chambers isn’t satisfied. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Who sent you here? These women have nothing to do with us.’
It’s obvious he knows about Christine and Sylvia. Why didn’t he tell his wife?
‘Calm down, dear,’ Claudia says.
‘Just be quiet.’ he barks. ‘Leave this to me.’
Skipper has followed him into the room, moving behind our backs. There is something in his right hand, which is tucked inside his jacket.
Ruiz turns to face him. ‘We don’t want to upset anyone. We just want to know about Helen.’
Bryan Chambers scoffs. ‘Don’t play games with me! He sent you, didn’t he?’
I look at Ruiz. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re helping the police investigate two murders. Both victims were friends of your daughter.’
Chambers switches his attention to Ruiz. ‘You a police officer?’
‘Used to be.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I’m retired.’
‘So you’re a private detective?’
‘No.’
‘So none of this is fucking official.’
‘We just want to speak to your daughter, Helen.’
He claps his hands together and laughs indignantly. ‘Well, that just takes the biscuit!’
Ruiz is growing annoyed. ‘Maybe you should do like your wife suggests and calm down, Mr Chambers.’
‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’
‘No, sir, we’re just trying to get some answers.’
‘What’s my Helen got to do with it?’
‘Four weeks ago she sent emails to Christine Wheeler, Sylvia Furness and another school friend, Maureen Bracken. She arranged to meet them at a pub in Bath on the 21st of September, a Friday night. The others turned up but Helen didn’t. They didn’t hear from her. We were hoping to find out why.’
Bryan Chambers gapes at me incredulously. The manic glimmer in his gaze has been replaced by a fever of
