He held out his empty pint glass. ‘I find the memory
works better after a pint of best and a Scotch chaser.’
Wesley had no choice but to oblige. And when he returned from the bar with the drinks, Houldsworth looked decidedly more friendly.
It’s hard to insult the man who buys the drinks.
Wesley decided to come straight to the point. ‘I’d like to arrange a convenient time to speak to you about the Marcus Fallbrook
case.’
There was a long silence while Houldsworth quaffed his drink with the speed and urgency of a suction pump. It could hardly
be good for the man’s health, Wesley thought. And the bloodshot eyes and sallow skin suggested a serious drink problem.
‘You’ve kept your notebooks, I take it?’
Houldsworth tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nasty case. The nanny had something to do with it . . . never proved it though.
Did you see that article in one of the tabloids a couple of months back? Great unsolved crimes of the seventies. Did the police
make mistakes and was there a cover up? That sort of thing. Made us look like incompetent idiots it did.’ He downed what was
left of his beer. The article had clearly got to him.
Wesley glanced at his watch. ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’
Houldsworth said nothing for a few moments. Then all of a sudden he picked up the small glass of whisky and drained it. ‘Better
make it lunchtime. In here. OK?’
Wesley would have preferred somewhere away from licensed premises but he nodded. ‘What about your notes?’
‘I’ll dig them out. OK?’ the large man snapped.
‘Do you live far away?’ Wesley asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
‘Just up the stairs.’ He grinned, showing an uneven set of yellow teeth. ‘My sister’s the landlady. She split up with her
husband a couple of years ago so I give her a hand. It’s a convenient arrangement for both of us.’
‘Oh,’ was all Wesley could think of to say. There was an old joke about every man dreaming about marrying a nymphomaniac who
owned a pub, but he supposed a divorced sister who owned one was the next best thing for a man like Houldsworth.
He stood up to go.
‘You off already?’ Houldsworth almost sounded disappointed.
‘I’m afraid so. My wife’ll be wondering where I am.’
Houldsworth stared into what was left of his beer. ‘Mine always used to wonder that and all. There comes a time when they
can’t be bothered asking any more.’
Wesley took his leave. The last thing he wanted was for that time to come.
Suzy Wakefield had made the call to the mobile number she had. But she had been told what she didn’t want to hear. Leah wasn’t
where she thought, where she hoped, she might be.
She’d waited an hour before locking the house up. After she’d switched on the alarm she walked as fast as her stiletto heels
would allow her to the triple garage fifty yards from the front door,her progress lit by the banks of security lights, bright as theatrical spots, installed by her estranged husband, Darren,
when they’d first moved in.
She drove the Mercedes down the steep hill towards the twinkling lights of Neston. She knew where Leah was likely to go: the
only pocket of urban sophistication in the town mainly populated by New Age hippies and elderly ladies. She would be propping
up the bar of the Castle Top Hotel, the best hotel in town with a Michelin starred restaurant.
The Castle Top was the place where the rich kids hung out – the ones from London whose parents owned second homes in the area.
On a few occasions Leah had invited them back and, after one impromptu party, Suzy had had to call in a firm of cleaners.
Suzy had never taken to that crowd of rich kids with their arrogant braying and their lack of respect for other people’s property
but she hoped Leah would be with them now, safe. Although the state she was in, she’d probably be flat on her back being screwed
in the back of a Mercedes by now. Suzy suspected that
works better after a pint of best and a Scotch chaser.’
Wesley had no choice but to oblige. And when he returned from the bar with the drinks, Houldsworth looked decidedly more friendly.
It’s hard to insult the man who buys the drinks.
Wesley decided to come straight to the point. ‘I’d like to arrange a convenient time to speak to you about the Marcus Fallbrook
case.’
There was a long silence while Houldsworth quaffed his drink with the speed and urgency of a suction pump. It could hardly
be good for the man’s health, Wesley thought. And the bloodshot eyes and sallow skin suggested a serious drink problem.
‘You’ve kept your notebooks, I take it?’
Houldsworth tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nasty case. The nanny had something to do with it . . . never proved it though.
Did you see that article in one of the tabloids a couple of months back? Great unsolved crimes of the seventies. Did the police
make mistakes and was there a cover up? That sort of thing. Made us look like incompetent idiots it did.’ He downed what was
left of his beer. The article had clearly got to him.
Wesley glanced at his watch. ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’
Houldsworth said nothing for a few moments. Then all of a sudden he picked up the small glass of whisky and drained it. ‘Better
make it lunchtime. In here. OK?’
Wesley would have preferred somewhere away from licensed premises but he nodded. ‘What about your notes?’
‘I’ll dig them out. OK?’ the large man snapped.
‘Do you live far away?’ Wesley asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
‘Just up the stairs.’ He grinned, showing an uneven set of yellow teeth. ‘My sister’s the landlady. She split up with her
husband a couple of years ago so I give her a hand. It’s a convenient arrangement for both of us.’
‘Oh,’ was all Wesley could think of to say. There was an old joke about every man dreaming about marrying a nymphomaniac who
owned a pub, but he supposed a divorced sister who owned one was the next best thing for a man like Houldsworth.
He stood up to go.
‘You off already?’ Houldsworth almost sounded disappointed.
‘I’m afraid so. My wife’ll be wondering where I am.’
Houldsworth stared into what was left of his beer. ‘Mine always used to wonder that and all. There comes a time when they
can’t be bothered asking any more.’
Wesley took his leave. The last thing he wanted was for that time to come.
Suzy Wakefield had made the call to the mobile number she had. But she had been told what she didn’t want to hear. Leah wasn’t
where she thought, where she hoped, she might be.
She’d waited an hour before locking the house up. After she’d switched on the alarm she walked as fast as her stiletto heels
would allow her to the triple garage fifty yards from the front door,her progress lit by the banks of security lights, bright as theatrical spots, installed by her estranged husband, Darren,
when they’d first moved in.
She drove the Mercedes down the steep hill towards the twinkling lights of Neston. She knew where Leah was likely to go: the
only pocket of urban sophistication in the town mainly populated by New Age hippies and elderly ladies. She would be propping
up the bar of the Castle Top Hotel, the best hotel in town with a Michelin starred restaurant.
The Castle Top was the place where the rich kids hung out – the ones from London whose parents owned second homes in the area.
On a few occasions Leah had invited them back and, after one impromptu party, Suzy had had to call in a firm of cleaners.
Suzy had never taken to that crowd of rich kids with their arrogant braying and their lack of respect for other people’s property
but she hoped Leah would be with them now, safe. Although the state she was in, she’d probably be flat on her back being screwed
in the back of a Mercedes by now. Suzy suspected that
Similar Books
