Endpeace

Derek and Van Dieman looked at each other; then the lawyer said, ‘There is – shall we say – dissension – in the family. For some time now some of the younger ones have been threatening to ask for a winding-up of the company and a distribution of the group shares.’

‘So the younger ones could then combine their shares and have some real clout?’ Clements sat back, was his old self: a rough-edged cynical detective with class prejudices. Just like my Old Man, thought Malone: Us and Them. ‘That right? All the yuppies suddenly turning greedy?’

‘I don’t know that they’d appreciate being called yuppies. These young people are not upwardly mobile, they don’t need to be. But yes, I suppose you could call them greedy?’ He looked at Derek.

‘Greedy as hell,’ said Derek. ‘Some of them.’

‘Who are the grandchildren?’ asked Malone.

Derek said, ‘There are my three – Alexandra, Colin and Ross. There are Sarah and Michael, Nigel’s two. And there’s Camilla, she’s Sheila’s.’

‘All of voting age?’

Derek nodded. ‘I don’t know that all of them would want to sell.’

Van Dieman contradicted him: ‘I’m not so sure, Derek. If they all combine their shares, it could be a stand-off. And that, I’m afraid –’ he looked at Malone, ‘is what’s happening. Or was happening up till – till last night.’

Malone said, ‘Exactly what is your position in all this, Derek?’

‘You mean, how do I feel about selling? I’m against it, dead against it.’

‘How much – clout do you have?’

Derek shrugged. ‘No more than my brother and sisters. I’m executive editor and publisher of the newspaper and I’m deputy-chairman of the whole group. But that means zilch when it comes to voting.’

‘Your father was chairman?’ Derek nodded. ‘And the rest of the family?’

‘Nigel and my sisters are directors on the group board.’

‘The in-laws, too? And the grandchildren?’

‘They just run – what do they call it in American football? – they run interference. You’d go a long way to meet a more interfering lot of buggers, including the kids.’

Malone was surprised at the amount of venom Derek showed; but he made no remark on it. ‘Is there a buyer for the business?’

Derek looked at Van Dieman again, left it to him: ‘Let’s say there is strong interest.’

‘Who?’ Van Dieman said nothing and Malone snapped, ‘Come on, you’re fartarsing again! We’re here because of a murder, not some bloody business deal! Who?’

‘Metropolitan Newspapers,’ said Derek. ‘From London. That is why Ivor and Beatrice Supple are here. She’s deputy-chairman – chairwoman, chairperson, whichever you like – she’s here for Metropolitan. There are two lawyers and two bankers with her, they’re at the Sheraton-on-the-Park. But that’s not for publication,’ he said, apparently in his status as executive editor and publisher.

‘Pull your head in, Mr Huxwood,’ said Malone officially and officiously; he was getting stiff-necked about these two sitting opposite him. ‘I’m not in the habit of shooting off my mouth to the media.’

Derek backed down. ‘Sorry.’

Then there was a knock at the garden-room door and the butler, Krilich, looked in. He was a tall middle-aged man, dark-haired, heavy-browed and thick-shouldered; even last night Malone had thought he looked more like a builder’s labourer than what he had imagined a butler should look like. This morning he was in shirtsleeves and a blue-and-black striped vest, but wore a tie, a black one.

‘Assistant Commissioner Zanuch is here, Mr Huxwood.’

2

Assistant Commissioner Bill Zanuch did not look uncomfortable in this big house. The air of arrogance was there as always, the familiarity with top company as apparent. Malone had once described him, though not in his presence, as being so far up himself he had turned ego into a pretzel. In the latest of the Service’s shuffling of senior ranks, he had been moved from AC Administration to AC Crime, a criminal act in itself in Malone’s opinion. Zanuch was very much hands-on, to the point of throttling those under him. He and Malone in particular were not mates.

‘Hello, Bill,’ said Derek Huxwood, rising from the couch. ‘You here to take charge?’ He avoided looking at Malone as he said it.

‘No, Derek. I’m here to offer condolences – from the Commissioner, too. I’m not here to take charge.’

No, thought Malone, he’s not here to take charge: in the same way that General Schwarzkopf didn’t take charge of the Gulf War, as Napoleon went to Moscow for the snow sports.

‘Any leads, Inspector?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Well, go ahead with whatever you were doing. I’ll just sit in.’ He sat down, arranged the crease in his trousers, undid the button of his double-breasted suit so there would be no strain on it, laid his police tie, silk of course, flat on his white shirt. He never wore anything that showed a label, he aspired to be too wellbred for that, yet somehow he gave the distinct impression that everywhere on him was a label, only the best, waiting to be displayed. ‘I’m here to help.’

But Malone wasn’t going to fall for that. ‘Sergeant Clements and I are finished here for the moment, sir. We have to see others in the family.’

‘Who?’ said Huxwood, irritation plain. ‘I can tell you everything you want to know –’

‘It’s just routine, Mr Huxwood,’ said Malone, waiting to be interrupted by Zanuch. But the Assistant Commissioner said nothing and Malone went on, ‘We like to interview everyone at the scene of the crime.’

‘Scene of the crime! Christ –’ Derek Huxwood looked at Zanuch as if expecting him to correct his junior officer. Then abruptly his broad shoulders slumped and he gestured futilely. ‘Why the hell am I protesting? It’s what we’ll call it in the paper tomorrow – the scene of the crime ... Go ahead, Scobie. Talk to the others. They’re all somewhere, here or in the other houses.’

‘Your mother?’

‘She’s upstairs in her room. Leave her – please?’

Malone hesitated, then nodded. He and Clements said goodbye to Van Dieman and Zanuch and left the garden room. Outside in the hallway they met Kate Arletti, looking even more untidy than ever. ‘Having a hard time of it, Kate? You’ve lost another button off your shirt.’

She looked down in surprise. ‘So I have! Sorry, sir ... This family is worse than any Italian family I’ve ever met. They can’t make up their minds whether to grieve or to argue.’

‘Where’s the elder sister, Sheila? And her husband?’

‘They’ve gone back to their own house.’

‘Righto, you and Russ continue with the others. I’m going over to Little House Two. Russ, give me the envelope with that scrap of paper.’

He went out through large French doors on to a wide stone terrace that ran the entire breadth of the main house, crossed half an acre of lawn, went through an opening in a head-high privet hedge and came to Little House Two.

The main house had been built in the 1860s, a hodgepodge of English country house, Roman villa and Colonial homestead, as if the architect, uncertain of his surroundings, had gone on a drunken spree yet had somehow produced something that was not an eye-sore. The two smaller houses had been built a hundred years later and the style, with just minor modifications, copied. The three stood in line facing north across the tiny bay, resembling nothing more than a slapdash Nash project that, like the convicts, had been transported and survived the change.

Ned Custer met Malone at the heavy oak front door. ‘I saw you coming, I’ve been expecting you. Finished with that lot over there? Van Dieman there, putting his oar in? Best lawyer in town. Pity he knows it better than anyone else.’

‘How’s Mrs Custer?’

Custer was leading the way into a large comfortable room that looked out past a lawn and a jetty, where a yacht was moored, to the bay. He was dressed in lightweight blue trousers, a blue-and-white cotton jumper and espadrilles; but at least his face showed appropriate gloom. ‘Not the best. We don’t get on, the family, but Jesus wept – murder?’

‘What makes you say that?’