The Mistress of Alderley (9 page)

“Oh, this is on us.”

“No—I shall absolutely insist on paying,” said Caroline briskly. “It's not as though you're rolling in money like Covent Garden.”

So back Enid took her, and she stood at the door of the Circle Bar. Olivia was still surrounded by all the notables, though Colm had a lesser circle of admirers. Marius was in neither group, nor in any of the others. She shook her head, and the stagehand who had followed them took her out of the theater and down to the back, where a company car was waiting. As they began their drive to Alderley, Caroline kept saying things like “I'm sure I'm being silly,” then lapsing into silence. The last few miles she had to direct the man, and when they got there she insisted on paying him, then rushed indoors to check the answer machine. There was nothing on it. From upstairs there was silence, so the children had probably been long in bed. Caroline wondered whether to pour herself a drink and wait for Marius, but she was washed over by tiredness and she took herself to bed.

She slept for an hour or two, then felt beside her to find only emptiness. The rest of the night consisted of alternately dozing uneasily and long spells of wakefulness. Sometimes she had something like a presentiment of future loneliness, at others only a resentment that Marius had spoiled one of the weekends she cherished so much.

The sun was up, and the city was starting to stir, but only mildly and tentatively, because Sunday still feels like a day of rest in the early hours, before the big chain stores open. Reg Liversedge was out with his Yorkie later than usual, and lingered longer at places of canine interest, because he wasn't going to work. He rented one of the flats over a shop in Briggate in Leeds. The shop sold mobile phones, but the establishment next door was a kebab take-away, so the odors were sometimes pungent. Reg told himself he was part of the regeneration of the inner cities. He also told everyone who would listen that it was better than living with his wife, though if pressed he might have admitted that it was not better than living with
a
wife.

His dog, Trueman, was part of this guarded satisfaction with his present life. Reg took him for a walk every day around eight, before the city girded its loins to start the day. He came home for his lunch break, gobbled the sandwich he had prepared at breakfast time, then took him round the streets. After work he was almost always in, with an early-evening and later-evening stroll. Mostly, like 90 percent of British people, he just watched the television. Trueman did too. The favorite program of both of them was
Pet Rescue.

So today there was no work at Austin Reed's, no being friendly to customers he didn't give a damn about, no dealings with reps or company high-ups, all trying to guess next season's fashion trends. A lazy day. Reg turned up Briggate, crossed Merrion Street, and eventually made his way to the little oasis of green that surrounded the newly built and unusual block of flats that were called CASPAR. Their distinction, their departure from the urban norm, was that they were round, were faced with wood, and looked from a distance like nothing so much as an Elizabethan theater. Close to, it might have seemed that they were exclusive indeed, a little fortress for the moneyed, and way out of Reg's price league; in fact, however, CASPAR stood for Citycenter Apartments for Single People at Affordable Rents.

Trueman had no ambitions to live there, but he liked the greenery around the apartments. The public was allowed onto the lawns, with their modest and low-maintenance shrubs and bushes. Lingering now became the order of the day: Trueman could sniff to eternity before he decided which of the various growing things would be favored with his urine. Sundays he could be pampered, and he took every advantage of this fact. Trueman was a dog of well-developed ego.

At the high point of the little patch of garden, the Yorkie outdid himself in dilatoriness. Bored but obedient, Reg turned away and looked down toward the center of the city. He could see down Briggate, with the Grand Theatre to his left, the Odeon on the same side farther down, then the main section of the street, with all the big chain stores—Debenhams, House of Fraser, Marks & Spencer—followed by Lower Briggate, which curved out of his sight.

Trueman had gone to the limits of his long lead and was now tugging. Reg turned away from the city and followed the little dog. Something was drawing him, exciting him. Trueman pulled toward a flourishing shrub abutting a stretch of fencing. He scrambled into it, then turned around and barked. Reg peered into the dense and flowery vegetation. He saw what looked like an arm. Appalled at the thought of a severed limb, Reg tried to edge through the row of bushes. The arm was not severed at all, but attached to a body—a smart, besuited middle-aged man. Reg dragged Trueman away, down the slope toward North Street, the dog protestingly barking that his little legs didn't
do
running. Then Reg came to what he was seeking and bundled Trueman and himself into a telephone booth to dial 999.

“It's a body, near those new flats past Upper Briggate—up from North Street, you know the ones, they're called CASPAR—it's a body hidden in the bushes around the flats. There's blood on his shirt. He's somebody, this chap. It's a very good suit—Armani or whatever—a
very
good suit indeed.”

The constable taking the message thought it was an odd thing to put so much emphasis on, but then he knew nothing of the man who was ringing in. Clothes were Reg's business, so he was a man who noticed such things.

*  *  *

“Doncaster 3707 946.”

“Is that Mrs. Fawley?”

“That's right.” Caroline's heart was thumping badly, and she had difficulty holding the telephone receiver without shaking.

“This is the West Yorkshire Police in Leeds, Mrs. Fawley. I believe we had a telephone call last night from someone at the Grand Theatre on your behalf.”

“Yes.” Her voice was flat, while something in her brain blared
BAD NEWS
like a newspaper hoarding.

“This was an inquiry about a missing person, wasn't it? Your partner, I believe.”

“Yes, Marius. Marius Fleetwood. Is there any—”

“There's nothing certain, Mrs. Fawley. But I should tell you that a body has been found this morning.”

“Oh God!” Caroline immediately began to sob.

“There's nothing definite, Mrs. Fawley, like I say. Please don't jump to conclusions. But we wondered whether you could come to Leeds—”

“Yes!” She had to know.
Now.
“Should I get a taxi?”

“No. We've lined up someone from the Doncaster force. He can be with you in fifteen minutes. Can you be ready by then?”

“I'll be ready.”

She put the phone down and saw, standing on the stairs, her two younger children. They had been told of Marius's mysterious nonappearance at the party over breakfast. Caroline sank into the chair by the phone, her head in her hands, and did not notice Alexander and Stella look at each other with fear in their eyes, nor the legs of Guy as he listened from the landing above them.

*  *  *

The young uniformed constable who came for her from Doncaster had been out on another matter when he received the message to go to Alderley. He already knew Marsham, and was given instructions on how to find the way from there to the house itself. He bundled Caroline into the car with muttered expressions of sympathy and began the drive to Leeds at a fast pace. Caroline sat silently, dazed and full of forebodings, for more than ten minutes.

“Was there anything on him—any papers or anything with his name on them?” she asked at last.

“I'm afraid I don't know anything. I'm with the Doncaster force—we're just doing this as a favor. The chap on my radio just said it was a bloke—a man—in a very good suit.”

“Yes, Marius always knew how to dress,” said Caroline.

It was another ten minutes, driving through suburbs and flat countryside of no interest, before she realized she had spoken of him as dead. She was already preparing herself for a sort of widowhood. She wondered how she ought to describe Marius. “My late partner,” perhaps. Though a not particularly kind actress friend had once pointed out that “partner” was not strictly accurate since Marius had never left his wife. “My bloke,” she said, would be better. “My late bloke,” however, didn't sound at all right.

When they got to Leeds the young policeman drove her straight to Millgarth Police Headquarters and escorted her into the station. The constable on the desk knew at once who Caroline was, and spoke in a low voice into his phone. Soon she was being escorted into the station proper by a white detective of about her own age and a much younger black one who towered over her.

“My name is Oddie,” said the senior one, “and this is Detective Sergeant Peace. This must be quite horrible for you. I don't know if you'd like a cup of tea or coffee, or if you'd prefer—”

“I'd prefer to see him now,” said Caroline, interrupting him. Oddie nodded, signaled to Peace to wait, and then walked her to the mortuary. Caroline shivered when she got there, but went through the grisly ritual as if in a dream—or perhaps as if in a television cops drama. When the attendant drew down the sheet covering the body she just nodded and said, “Yes, that's Marius.”

“Marius Fleetwood?”

“Yes. The owner of the Fleetwood supermarket chain.”

The sheet was pulled up again, and they walked back to Sergeant Peace in silence. When they got to him, and began to walk she knew not where, Caroline suddenly started talking as if she would never stop.

“I knew it would be him. It's not a shock. When someone you know and love does something entirely out of character, or
seems
to, then you get a presentiment of disaster, don't you? And Marius
never
went back on a promise or an arrangement. If he said he would be somewhere at a certain time, there he'd be. He said he'd be back for the curtain calls—that's for
Forza del Destino
at the Grand—and I knew he would be because he loved that sort of thing, and he'd be full of, well,
pride,
even though Olivia's not his child, of course. And he'd be happy for me and her. So when he wasn't there, and wasn't standing at the back as I thought he might be, that told me there was something wrong, and when he wasn't at the party afterwards then I
knew
—almost knew—I mean I thought he might be in hospital, that was one of the things I feared, then I thought he might have been mugged and was just lying somewhere. Oh, I must tell Guy—all the children, of course, but Guy is his son, and he's at Alderley, and I suppose he'll have to ring his mother—oh dear, I suppose I could ring them from here, couldn't I?”

“Yes, of course you can. And then would you like to go home? We can leave detailed questions for the moment and concentrate on things this end, rather than on the background. There is a chance this is a sort of mugging or random attack.”

“I would like to go home, very much. But first could I…I'd like to see the place where he died. Or, where he was found. So I could have some idea of his end, of his last hours—if he had that long.”

“That will be all right. Sergeant Peace here can take you before he drives you home. You won't be able to be alone there, I'm afraid—at the scene of the crime, I mean: there will be policemen all over the place.”

“I understand.”

They had got to Oddie's office, and he opened the door and gestured toward the phone. Caroline stood still for a moment, seeming to steel herself, or perhaps deciding how she would break the news. Then she sat down at the desk and took up the phone and dialed.

“Stella? Darling, it's Mummy. I'm afraid it's bad news. Yes, he's dead. Murder.” She looked up at Oddie, who nodded. “Yes, it couldn't be worse. They're bringing me home when I've seen where he was…
found.
Will you tell Guy, darling, and ask him to ring his mother…. Yes, darling. I love
you
both. Be brave, be gentle with Guy, and I'll be home very soon.”

Caroline let herself be taken by Sergeant Peace out to a car and seemed oblivious to her surroundings as he drove her up Eastgate, turning into Upper Briggate, then stopping in North Street. He led her to the grassed area, and her eyes immediately caught the knot of uniformed policemen and a little gang of people in white. She and Peace stopped at the ring of blue and white tape.

“Could we go closer?”

“Better not. It might complicate things. The body was found over there, behind that bush—Genesia, I think it's called. The one with the yellow flowers.”

“
Behind?
So he was probably not killed there?”

“Probably not. Hidden there so he wouldn't be found too soon.”

“
How
did he die?”

“He was stabbed.”

“Was the weapon still—”

“No weapon has been found.” Charlie Peace looked at one of the men in white, who nodded his head. Caroline frowned, then looked around her at the surrounding cityscape, as Reg Liversedge had done a few hours earlier.

“But I don't understand.”

“What don't you understand?”

“I imagined Marius going to the town—to a pub, a restaurant, the Playhouse—something like that. But that's the Grand Theatre there, isn't it? If he was killed here he was coming
away
from anything he might have wanted to go to, to fill in time. There's nothing much here, is there?”

“Nothing much,” agreed Charlie. “Those new flats. The odd seedy hotel. Otherwise just run-down businesses.”

“That's what I thought, looking at it. I don't know Leeds well, but Marius did. He worked for the Morrison's supermarket chain in Manchester when he was starting out, but he was often in Leeds. He always knew where to go, where to park…. Oh, the car must still be in the parking garage off Woodhouse Lane.”

“Don't worry about it. We'll see about it. The SOCO people will want to go over it.”

“I see.”

She gave him the Mercedes's number, then they went back to the police car and began the drive home. Caroline was still in a slightly hysterical, talkative mood, and she hardly needed asking before she began filling Charlie in on Marius's background.