Kissing the Dragon - 25. Overton House

As soon as we coast away from Croxburgh, what becomes clear is that Kit is someone who relishes driving and the freedom of the open road. A careful driver, he is gentle on the brakes and navigates bends in the road safely but with confidence. Unlike most male drivers I know, he remains considerate of the comfort of his passenger and not one of those who single-mindedly play out their Formula One fantasies on public roads. I notice him smile and relax back in his seat as he lets the rental loose on the unusually quiet M3, setting the car on cruise and allowing the engine to take over. Before long, the six lane motorway scenery becomes rambling green meadows of rape and wheat, bordered by well tended grass verges. Both still full from lunch and neither in need of restrooms, we agree to forge ahead and complete the journey without stopping. Even the music he has chosen, soft and modern vocal jazz, comes as a pleasant surprise and what with the subliminal heating system, I am soon cocooned and lullabied, catching up on lost sleep. Images of Ben are replaced by those of Roland, his body hanging from a red noose. Only as the car decelerates dramatically and veers off the motorway do I waken with a start. While I rub my eyes and mumble an apology, Kit shakes his head amused.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“I do not.”

“Sorry, buddy, but you do. Want me to record you on my cell next time?”

“Not if it’s anything incriminating.”

“Nah. Some nonsense about not getting too close to the dragon. Good advice. You a closet fantasy fan?”

“Not at all,” I reply, turning to stare out the window. “Where are we?”

He explains that we are currently following a single lane road to Portmanton which has slowed us significantly. At times the lane is only wide enough to take one vehicle and, despite strategically placed mirrors and signs on the roadside, I tense up, anticipating a sudden lorry materialising from the other direction. Progress becomes painfully slow, neither of us being familiar with this green belt region.

“GPS. How’d we ever manage without?” says Kit, patting the device on the dash and grinning as the calm female voice tells us to take a right onto a private dirt track. From Portmanton, the route has taken us through a labyrinth of winding narrow roads, navigated courtesy of the miracle device.

“AA road maps and route guides,” I reply, thinking back to my youth. “Involving days of advanced planning with a red pencil by my father. Then throw in a large serving of u-turns, dead-end lanes and shouting matches, and you have the basic ingredients for the start of almost every one of our family holidays.”

At around five, as light drains from the sky, he slows the car at an open gate with an ostentatious signage for Overton House - Private Road and turns into a chalky lane lined by English oaks. We pass beneath their leafless branches overhanging the way like black forked lightning frozen in time. After another five minute’s drive the impressive stately home presents itself, already subtly illuminated to showcase the architectural features. Hedgerows embrace the house on either side and a circular lawn housing a gargantuan marble statue of Hercules confronts us. A copy of the classic original, the carefully spotlit muscular warrior leans on his club over which is draped a lion-skin. Winterbourne senior is not known for his subtlety.

Beyond the Greek hero stands the equally impressive facade of Overton House. Built of sandstone, the centre of the three-storied house sits behind a recessed portico on the first floor fronted by four grand Ionic columns. The frontage is familiar because it is a scaled down version of Basildon Park in Berkshire. Formal access to the main part of the mansion is via the gentle rise and embrace of matching semi-circular stairways either side of the central projection which leads to the middle floor. My guess is that the original structure dates back to the mid seventeenth century but Uncle Dom would have known precisely. What I do remember him teaching me is that this architectural style is called Palladian. I can see him even now, the way he scrutinised a structure, pointing out unique features and idiosyncrasies of the era, and even accurately guessing the architect whose dream this had been. Continuing on the ground level, two smaller single storey buildings are joined to the main structure either side, both housing large burgundy doors; servants and tradesman’s entrances perhaps. As we drive past, I notice that the one to the left hand side stands open.

Beside me Kit whistles softly and steers the car towards a car port where an array of expensive cars are parked. These are almost hidden behind a hedgerow to the far left of the property.

“Okay. So tell me again. What is it these friends of yours do?” he asks, as we rumble slowly towards a space next to a sleek red sports car. Two Rolls Royces and a Range Rover have corresponding number plates JHAW1, JHAW2, and JHAW3.

“This is Hugh’s father’s place. Jeremy Winterbourne. You may not have heard of him across The Pond but he’s something of a magnate and celebrity over here.”

“Cole. Please. I work in the media. Give me some credit. You don’t get to keep a job like that without knowing people. Just glad I packed the notebooks, SLRs and spy drone.”

I turn anxiously to him then as he parks up.

“Actually Kit. I’m not sure that would be—” I begin, eyeing him furtively. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Relax, will you,” he says, pulling on the handbrake and turning to me grinning. “I’m kidding.”

We retrieve our bags from the car and head for the side door. Even though it is ajar, I step up ahead of Kit and press the doorbell. Part of me is expecting a suited and booted Jeeves and Wooster butler to answer, but instead larger than life Jeremy Winterbourne himself appears. Despite appearing older in person than he does on television, he looks good for a man in his late sixties. Kitted out in a stylish suit of light grey tweed, pristine white shirt and burgundy bowtie with a thick woollen cardigan in matching in burgundy, he could trump Denny in the style stakes. Only his figure is at odds, fuller and more substantial than Denny. Clearly a man who enjoys the good life, his cheeks are alcohol reddened, while short silver hair borders an almost completely bald and sweating pate. Relaxed and in jovial spirits, he gives me a quizzical once over. I am about to introduce myself but he steps out and shoves a hand towards me.

“Colin, isn’t it? Colin McMann,” says the one and only Jeremy Winterbourne, in his deep, publicly familiar baritone. Although I feel the need to correct him, he is already forgiven for the slight faux-pas of my surname. “I recognise you from Derek’s freshman photo.”

“McCann. And no prizes for guessing who you are,” I say, meeting his warm handshake. “A pleasure to meet you, your lordship.”

“Oh heavens, please,” he says, a look of mock-disgust crossing his face, before his expression turns to one of surprise on seeing the casual, flip-flop wearing American stood behind me. “Just call me Jeremy. None of that pomp in my own home. Come inside out of the cold.”

I introduce Kit and they have a quick and largely one-way chat about influential Americans that Jeremy knows. Kit takes it all in his stride with warmth and good humour. He even impresses Hugh by reciting a few of WinterCorp’s recent deals and acquisitions, and then following up by commenting on his son’s up and coming political career. Up until that moment, I had not realised Kit knew anything about British politics. He is way ahead of me on that score and I am grateful to have him by my side. Once they are done, Jeremy ushers us into the house and heads for the wide staircase. Climbing at the leisurely pace of modern aristocracy, we mount the left side of the slow rise of stairs that meanders up both walls of the mansion’s grand lobby. Apart from the beautiful artwork and enormous chandelier what strikes me is the amount of natural light that fills the space even on an overcast day like today.

“I have to say, Jeremy, the house is an absolute delight. One of John Carr’s designs?”

“Jolly well done, young man. I usually dig that one out for the grand tour. But yes, this design is based on Tabley House in Cheshire rather than his better known work, Basildon Park in Berkshire. Each design has a similar facade—the corps de logos—but Tabley and Overton have three windows on each floor either side of the Ionic portico, the four columns array, rather than two. I bought the place around ten years ago from Lord Markenham, who couldn’t afford the upkeep and, moreover, now in his early eighties, wanted to move to warmer climes to enjoy his final days. Can’t say I blame him. Took three years to plug the holes and hammer the place into any kind of habitable state and even now renovations are ongoing. Fortunately, the rooms where Carr lavished his neoclassical talent are still wonderfully intact. Feel free to wander around the place while you’re here.”

“That’s very kind. My uncle was the architect of the family. But his enthusiasm rubbed off. I’m astonished at how bright the staircase and entrance is on this almost sunless day without the interior lights switched on.”

“Back before the convenience of electric lighting, architects had to figure out ways of bringing light into buildings. If you look near the ceiling, there’s a row of small windows: the clerestory. Most of the time, because of other more demanding features, the eye isn’t drawn to these features. Their design is purely functional, to bring in light and, on the rare hot summer days we have in this country, to be opened for ventilating the inside space.”

When I turn around, Kit has stopped on the stairs, his wide-eyed stare taking in the feature. A grin comes to my lips and once again I am grateful he came along.

“Keep me in mind for the grand tour,” says Kit, still staring in awe.

“Of course. Now I’ve put the two of you in the Holland Suite at the back of the house,” says Jeremy, reaching the top of the stairs. “Nice enough view. Overlooking the pool and gardens. Once you get yourself settled, come on down for drinks.”

“Which room belongs to your son, the MP?” asks Kit, and then sees my chastising expression. “I wouldn’t mind popping in for a chat with him while I’m here. Purely off the record, of course.”

“Kit’s a photo journalist. Working for a US magazine,” I explain, and then turn to Kit. “But he’s here purely for pleasure, aren’t you, Kit?”

“Aw, come on, Colin. Give a guy a break.”

“And I’m sure Hugh’ll be more happy to chat with you,” says Winterbourne, chuckling. “You’ll meet him downstairs in a moment. But he may be a little tied up with our other guests tonight. He and Derek have the Wedgwood Suite at the far end of the other wing. Slightly smaller than yours but more to their taste and significantly quieter. I’m afraid you boys overlook the carpark so you’ll hear the roar of engines when our guests finally depart. Hopefully it won’t be too late. Almost there.”

I chance an anxious glance at Kit who catches my eye and grins. Off a Persian carpeted first floor hallway, we eventually turn right into a spacious bedroom of lemon and white walls. Relief floods through me on spying two double beds almost lost along one wall of the chamber. As we squeeze past Jeremy and drop our bags, he remains standing by the entrance pointing out the door to the bathroom, the wardrobe and, for some reason, the call rope to the servants quarters that no longer works.

“No doubt you’ll want to change,” he says, his gaze resting on Kit’s cargo pants, “and freshen up before you come down.”

After we both thank him, he finally leaves, and I feel free to take in the view overlooking the pool from the windows.

“How the other half lives,” I mutter, before poking my head into the bathroom of glass, steel and chrome fittings.

“Disappointed?” asks Kit. While he explores the cupboards and wardrobes, bringing out a couple of hangers, I decide to leave all my packing neatly folded in the bag, to use things as and when I need them. Instead, I perch cross-legged on the cushioned shelf of the windowsill and study him.

“Of course not. I was going to book us a couple of rooms at a local bed and breakfast.”

“No,” he says, striding across the room to the wardrobe with a couple of shirts in hand. “I mean about the sleeping arrangements.”

“Very funny, Kit,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “At least this way you’ll be relatively safe.”

“Safe is overrated,” he chuckles, his back to me, unreadable. Cargo pants are rarely flattering on a man but his accentuate his round backside and long muscular legs. While his back is to me and to my surprise, he quickly drops them, pulls out a pair of navy trousers, and shucks into them.

“Come on. Let’s head down and get this over with,” I say, to mask my embarrassment, jumping up from the seat. “I hate these meet and greet things. So stick with me. I need your support.”

“Don’t worry, Colin,” he says, chuckling and then giving me that oddly assessing stare. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Back downstairs we can hear the hum of distant voices coming from the far end of the corridor, but I decide to stop at the slightly ajar double doors of what appears to be a grandiose dining room. Elegant and courtly portraits of people line adjacent walls including a rather dashing one of the man himself as well as eighteenth century noblemen and women and I wonder for a moment if these are Winterbourne’s descendants. Until I recognise one of them, Alexandra of Denmark, wife of King Edward VII and the Princess of Wales long before Lady Diana Spencer forever claimed the title. Winterbourne would not be the first person to have portraits of old royalty on the walls to complement the decor, but the feature does smack of egotism. Until I spot a smaller portrait of Bill and Hillary Clinton and then I am completely confused. Lost in the spaciousness and opulence of the room, a thirty seater table takes up the central floor space and is set for dinner ready to welcome guests. Arranged before one of the large heavily draped windows and caught in the afternoon sun, a mahogany Steinway grand piano glistens with framed photographs. After a quick look around to make sure nobody is watching, I tilt my head towards the interior, beckon Kit to join me. After silently shaking his head and raising his eyes to the heavens, he nods. We slip into the room and, while I head straight for the classic art, he strolls over to the piano. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he is going to knock out a tune. After a few moments, he beckons me over.

“Colin. Come look at this,” he whispers, holding up a photograph.

I wander over to the piano, wondering what he has found. Most of the sliver framed photographs are of the Winterbourne clan and their friends or business associates, some instantly recognisable. A few are of Hugh as a child and one is of Hugh and Derek together. Apparently, the Winterbourne’s had warmly embraced their son’s orientation and welcomed Derek into the family as one of their own. When I examine the photograph in Kit’s hand, I let out a gasp of surprised pleasure.

“Oh, my God. This was a dinner party at Hugh and Derek’s old flat in Chatham. I’d completely forgotten.”

“When was it taken?”

“Must be around four years ago. Just before they moved.”

“Is that you? With the scrappy beard?”

“None other.”

“Were you homeless?”

“Listen,” I laugh, snatching the photo from him and staring at it. “Beards were all the rage at the time.”

In the photo, the three older men stand in the background, with the younger sat in front. In the back row, Hugh has his left arm around Denny’s shoulders while I stand to Hugh’s right. Seated in the front are the young and fresh-faced Roland and Tony grinning playfully. I had forgotten Vaughan and I met the boys twice, at this party to celebrate Hugh and Derek’s move to a newly purchased cottage in Dorset. Looking at the boys and Denny I am lost in a wave of sorrow mixed with unease, wondering again if there really is something linking their deaths. News of Roland’s hanging would not have been released yet. Kit’s concerned voice brings me back to myself.

“Colin? Are you okay?”

“Not really. Sorry. Having a moment there. Not sure why Vaughan and Derek aren't there. But Alfie, Denny’s late partner, is taking the photo. Died from cystic fibrosis, poor sod. About a year after this was taken. God, to think they’re both gone now.”

Funny how a single photograph can bring back so many poignant memories. Including mine there are six familiar faces standing or sitting one side of a dinner table. On the wall behind us, two rectangular patches of clean wallpaper indicate missing pictures, ones already packed ready for the move. But on the far right hand side is one still hanging there, that I have only ever seen in Hugh and Derek’s apartment. A portrait of two muscled Turkish men wrestling in the open air, crafted in grainy charcoals.

“Is that Vaughan?” asks Kit, pointing to one of the standing figures.

“Heck, that’s the friend Denny who drowned? The one I met outside the pub?”

“That’s him. I’d like to get a photo of this on my phone. Can you hold it up for me?”

While I yank out my mobile and snap a copy, I remember back to when the picture was taken. For a second I wonder why Derek is missing from Hugh's side, but then recall that back in the day he had been a smoker, and was therefore banished to the garden or, in this case, the balcony. Vaughan must have been keeping him company. There may have been other photographs taken at the time but maybe this is the only one that survived. I resolve to ask Hugh when I talk to him later about The Open Locker.

“I wondered where the bloody hell you’d gotten to,” booms a familiar voice behind us. “The boys were about to organise a search party.”

When I whirl around, Jeremy Winterbourne stands at the open door escorted by two terriers, black and white, standing obediently at his heels. He has his arms folded, but appears more amused than displeased.

“Sorry. My fault,” I admit, holding up the photo. “I saw the photos on the piano and just had to come take a look.”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he says, clearly pleased to see Kit’s more formal attire. “Come on now, they’re waiting to see you.”

Where the majestic carpeted corridor takes a ninety degree turn towards the back of the mansion, the gentle hum of good humoured conversation grows louder from open double doors. Jeremy enters first and heads off into the fray. Kit enters close behind me, as two or three of the many guests gathered turn our way. For a moment I wonder if we have stumbled into the wrong function—Derek had mentioned small numbers for dinner—until I hear Hugh’s guffaw rumble across the room. Toasty warm, the ballroom continues the building’s theme of grandiloquence, an overdecorated conservatory containing three sparkling chandeliers pouring in through rippled stucco and floor to ceiling windows that offer panoramic wintery views over the back of the mansion; the Olympic size swimming pool bordered each side of its length by regimented rows of patio chairs, loungers, parasols and tables, all now wrapped in sky blue sheeting for the winter. Beyond stone stairs descending to the estate, frost peppered grounds are dotted with huge abstract statues, stark blocks of curved or angular black and white marble figures rising up from well tended lawns, bordered by the semicircular audience of thick dark woodlands edging the property. Already two or three smokers have braved the chill weather and huddle together on one of the poolside tables.

“McCann the man!” calls a once familiar voice, and I am transported back to my college days.

“Sorry about the crowd, chaps,” says Hugh. “Dad’s partner Morgan decided to invite some of the suits along tonight. They’re over here from Fort Lauderdale, Florida and Osaka, Japan. Don’t worry, dad’s stuffed us all at the far end of the table for dinner. Tomorrow night it’s just us and more of Denny’s old friends. However, if you do get trapped in conversation tonight and need a translator, Nichole over there speaks fluent Japanese and American.”

He nods towards a pretty woman dressed in smart business attire, dark haired and trim, who is deep in conversation with one of said businessmen.

“As you can tell,” says Derek. “Hugh’s sense of humour hasn’t improved with age.”

“Also happy to help out with American translations,” chips in Kit.

“Aha. You must be the mysterious American Colin mentioned to my husband,” says Hugh, turning and appraising Kit, then offering his big hand in welcome. “Jolly nice to meet you.”

“Mysterious am I?” says Kit, returning Hugh’s firm handshake while giving me a quizzical smile.

“I never used the word mysterious. Tall, I think I said.”

“Tall, blond and insanely handsome, were your exact words,” chips in Derek, taking turns to greet Kit and wink playfully at him. “And right on all counts, if I do say so myself.”

“Did I mention that my former friend Derek is a little hard of hearing,” I quip, feeling my cheeks burning. “Tall, blond and his name’s Chris Hansen, were my exact words.”

“Ooh. Good save, Colin,” says Derek, laughing along with Kit and Hugh. “So you finally got rid of that bloody beard.”

“As I mentioned, facial hair was trendy in England back then,” I explain to Kit. “Derek had a moustache.”

“Only lost it recently actually. Did you not like it?” said Derek, visibly taken aback. “Hugh kept his and if you push him, I’ll bet he says that he preferred me hirsute.”

“Hugh’s moustache lends him a kind of Tom Selleck-ness. Derek used to look like one of the Village People.”

“Hoi!” says Derek, as the good looking woman Hugh pointed out earlier approaches us.

“Gentlemen,” says Hugh, clearly impressed with the lady and moving out of our group to stand next to her. “This is Nichole Schwartz. Dad’s personal assistant. Let me go grab you a drink.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Kit, and as he leans forward and shakes her hand, his accent catching her attention.

“A fellow American?” she asks, raising one delicate eyebrow. “Sounds like you might even be from my neck of the woods. Texas?”

“San Antonio.”

“Good heavens,” says Derek. “Do you know each other?”

“Based on landmass alone, Texas is a huge state,” says Nichole with good humour. “Bigger than all of the UK put together. I’m from Austin. So,—give or take a hundred miles—I suppose we’re practically neighbours.”

Almost Kit’s height and with a similar nose—perhaps a Texas thing, which on her makes for a horsey quality—Nichole Schwartz nevertheless exudes an elegant attractiveness, a royal finishing school grace in the way she moves and holds herself. Raven hair is drawn back sharply from her face although golden brown eyebrows reveal her natural colouring. Together with dark framed glasses any other person might come across as severe, but even though she does not smile, her mouth is relaxed and her stunningly green eyes attentive. Derek notices the exchange between the two of them and grabs me by the elbow, addressing his comments to the woman.

“Hope you two don’t mind if I drag Colin away for a moment. Got a lot to catch up on.”

Kit arches an eyebrow but then agrees with a nod, and we leave him and Nichole to share stories from home. Derek guides me towards a corner of the room where a door opens onto the patio. At first I wonder why because the weather is still chilly but then we move to the side of the building, away from the inquisitive gaze of guests and, with a quick wink at me, he pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. From inside the packet, he pulls a plastic lighter and quickly lights up.

“I thought you’d given up.”

“Many times. And if anyone asks—especially Hugh—I gave up a decade ago,” he says, taking a deep toke before tilting his head to the sky and exhaling. “God, I hate these bloody parties. Thank heavens you’re here.”

Despite a few more wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, and grey hair dusting his temples, he still seems the usual upbeat Derek that I went to college with. Although I shake my head at him, I cannot help laughing. Over the next few minutes we catch up on stories about family and friends.

“So good to see you,” he says, laughing along with me. “We really should stay in touch more. But Hugh and I are tied to this part of the country, now that his constituency’s here. And I suppose you’re still biking everywhere.”

“Guilty. But I’ll be happy to jump on a train and come visit.”

“Do. Let’s not leave it until another one of our friends keels over.”

At his remark we both fall silent.

“Sorry,” he says, plucking a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “That was a bit callous.”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

“I wonder if we’ll ever know what really happened that night.”

“Police are no wiser. As far as I can tell.”

“Him and those bloody woods. Did you know he was a nighthawk?”

“Seems everyone knew but me. What did they tell you? The police?”

“Same as you, I suppose. Someone clobbered him and pushed him into the pond. Bastards. Hugh said a local gay rights group wanted to hold a protest around the woods to drum up support for better policing in the area. Problem is that strictly speaking what Denny and his ilk are doing is illegal. So if they increase police patrols they’re likely to end up arresting the very people they’re meant to be protecting.”

Derek ushers us both beneath a patio umbrella that someone has kindly left open and I wonder why until I notice the feathery rain, almost a mist, that has begun to fall. I take a sip of chilled champagne and glance out at the gathering grey clouds.

“You seem different, Colin.”

“Hmm?” I ask, returning my attention to Derek. “Good or bad different?”

“Just different. Calmer. Less—I don’t know—neurotic?”

“Neurotic?” I say, affronted, pulling the champagne flute away from my lips. “When was I ever neurotic?”

“You’re kind of shimmering with— Oh my God! You’re shagging the American!”

“The American and I are not shagging. That I can promise you.”

“Who then? Because you’ve definitely had some action recently. I remember that look well. It’s plastered all over your face.”

“Nonsense. The most recent action I’ve had is a cycle ride in the freezing rain this very morning. Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing now that Hugh’s forever in the spotlight. Are you still editing for Harnes?”

“On and off. Most of the time I’m stuck in the cottage; cleaning, gardening, looking after the dogs, and cooking for Hugh’s many and varied guests. Total bore. Look at me, I’ve turned into my bloody mother.”

“Without the blue rinse, thankfully. So who’s coming to dinner tomorrow?”

“Usual calamity when it’s short notice,” he says, stubbing out the cigarette and burying the end into a conveniently placed plant pot. “Invited over fifty but a lot can’t make it because of work or other commitments. Vaughan, for instance, as I’m sure you already know. Probably have around thirty-six for dinner tomorrow. Paul and Christian are here. Flew in last night. They’re inside somewhere.”

“Talking of which, I ought to get back and rescue Kit.”

“Trust me, Colin,” he says, reaching into his top pocket and popping a couple of mints into his mouth. “That man does not need saving. I spent four months in Washington DC and then another two in Fort Lauderdale following Hugh around from one business meeting to the next. Towards the end I cannot tell you how nice it was to hear another voice from home. So let Kit have his familiar accent fix while we go and find Hugh.”

We find the man surrounded by a group of guests. Fortunately for him and us, Jeremy calls attention to himself and announces a pre-dinner tour of Overton House. Before long, as stragglers follow the sound of Jeremy’s booming voice, only around ten of us are left in the room. I notice with amusement that Kit is nowhere to be seen and has presumably joined the tour. When Derek excuses himself to use the bathroom, I am finally alone with Hugh. After covering the usual smalltalk, I decide the time is right to confront him.

“Hugh. Have you heard of a club called The Open Lockup?”

I freely admit that I know Hugh much less than Derek or our other friends. But as the name of the club leaves my lips, he need not utter a word. Even with what is undoubtedly thorough training as a budding politician in how to hide or circumvent the truth, the flash of guilty panic that crosses his face is unmistakeable. He recovers instantly, smoothing his moustache, his inner guards firmly back in place.

“So it’s you, is it?”

The response is not what I had expected.

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“You’re the one leading the boys in blue to believe there’s a connection between me, the place, and Denny’s death. How the hell did you get dragged into that?”

“They asked me to help them. What else could I do? Up until last week they had me pegged as the murderer. Dragged me down there to see if I knew anyone. But nobody mentioned your name at all, if that’s what you’re worried about, even though one member described somebody that could have been you. Or any one of our friends, come to that. ”

“Someone at the club called to warn me that I might be pestered by the police. When did all this happen?”

“Last Monday night.”

“Figures. Fortunately I haven’t been to the club in eons. And never with Denny.”

His gaze is unflinching and I pause a while before playing my trump. Why would he lie about that? Maybe I should hand this photo to Ben and be damned with our friendship.

“In which case, you might want to do something with this.”

From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out my wallet and hand over the polaroid snap that I found at the club. After staring quizzically at the photo for a few moments, eventually he blanches.

“Don’t worry, Hugh. You don’t need to say anything—“

“There’s nothing to tell, Colin,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Okay, yes, Denny and I used to meet there very occasionally. Derek knew we got together whenever I went to London. He approved. But he thought we met up in London, at the conservative club in Pall Mall. Funnily enough we did once, but the place is a bore, full of retired CEOs and stuffed shirts. You’ve clearly been to the OL so you’ll know the club is anything but dull. Both of us stayed in touch with the boys after Alfie passed away, so we’d invite them along, find out how they were doing. We both enjoyed their banter and it was mostly innocent fun. Dinner, lots of drinks, good company, and sometimes an overnight stay. Rarely more. I do, however, appreciate you giving me this.”

“No problem. That was one of around thirty snaps. But you weren’t in any others, in case you were going to ask.”

“So the police don’t know about this photo.”

“No. But if they’re going to call you, will you tell Derek—?”

“I will not. And I would prefer to keep things that way. Please don’t read too much into this, Colin. But instances of downtimes like these have helped keep our relationship fresh and intact.”

“Hugh, the police aren’t stupid. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the past fortnight, it’s that. Even without the photo they’re going to come knocking, going to work out that you spent time at the club with Denny and Tony. Isn’t it better to be upfront?”

“I’ll deal with the police. And I will do what it takes to make sure Derek is kept out of this. My decision, Colin. I will deal with it the way I think fit.”

“Fine. I would never presume to judge.”

Except that my words must be at odds with my expression. I had always thought of Derek and Hugh’s relationship as untouchable, rock solid, and something to aspire to especially after my own with Vaughan faltered and failed. And I feel for Derek who is likely unaware of this indiscretion, however mild. Fine for the likes of Hugh, playing around behind Derek’s back, but what about Derek’s feelings? At least Denny and Alfie had agreed to an equal playing field, to both of them messing around.

“But you already are, aren’t you? Judging me?” he adds, and for the first time ever I glimpse a sheen of anger fill his eyes. ”You know, a better question might have been to ask me—“

“Hugh, there you are,” comes a deep voice from behind us that stalls Hugh. When I look around, the man approaching is someone I spotted talking to Nichole earlier. Groomed and suited, he has the same magnetic presence as Jeremy Winterbourne, the same corporate smile plastered in place.

“Hello there, Uncle Stan,” says Hugh, clearly in awe of the man, as he places a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Colin, this is Constantine Morgan. My dad’s business partner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Morgan,” I say, holding out a hand in welcome, as the name Constantine ’Tiny’ Morgan registers. Not as recognisable or as often in the media as Hugh’s father, but a businessman to be reckoned with nonetheless. Squat but well put together, the man has a firm handshake.

“Just Constantine, please,” he says, with a brief smile, before warmly sharing my hand. “Hugh, I hate to be a bore. But one of your father’s friends is keen to meet the MP for South and Central Dorset. Do you mind awfully?”

“Not at all. Duty calls. Colin and I can catch up later,” he says, a quick apologetic look my way. Perhaps he is relieved to have an excuse to drop out of our conversation. I am still trying to piece together what he was about to say. “Keep Colin amused while I’m gone.”

When Hugh leaves, I expect Constantine to begin chatting to me but we remain there in awkward silence, him studying me coolly. Eventually I decided to break the peace.

“So how’s business?” I ask, a bland question, but one I know he can answer easily enough.

“Business is always good,” he says, with that enigmatic smile in his dark eyes. “Even when it’s bad, it’s good. We are one of the few listed UK companies that came out on top after the global financial fiasco. And now we’re working our way up the Fortune 500.”

“So I’ve read.”

Although I only browse through the business sections of the Observer on Sunday, I am familiar with the phenomenal success of WinterCorp International, the group of companies controlled ruthlessly but successfully by the Winterbourne Morgan partnership.

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Trust me. That is advice I have lived by over the past week. Especially when it’s about oneself.”

“Ah yes. You’re the deceased friend’s acquaintance. What was his name? Dennis?”

“Denny.”

“You walked him home. I must say, the whole business sounds rather grim, if media reports are to believed. Which in my experience is rarely the case. So what didn’t the newspapers report?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were there. Only you know the full story. What was left out?”

“Nothing. As far as I’m aware. At least, not from my perspective.”

“Come now, Mr McCann. You can do better than that.”

Intimidation is probably built into this man’s DNA, but I have no idea what he is trying to allude to. Something in his mien tells me that he thinks I am hiding something. And I am but, as promised to Chaudhary, I have told nobody about the blood stains in Denny’s bedroom and am not about to do so now. While I struggle for and issue a response, a wall of a man strolls up and stands at Morgan’s right arm.

“Come to think of it, the press didn’t mention Denny’s impressive collection of sex toys. Is that the kind of tittle-tattle you’re looking for?”

Smartly suited and groomed, the man beside Morgan is powerfully built. Dark pupils, close cropped hair and sooty stubble give him an unwavering hardness. For some reason he reminds me of a squatter version of Ben Whitehead, without the good looks. Smiling thinly at my response, Morgan tilts his head towards the new arrival. When he leans in to whisper to Morgan, I notice white veneers capping his front teeth. After Morgan listens unspeaking before nodding his acknowledgment at whatever message has been delivered, he returns his attention to me.

“Tomas. This here is Colin McCann. The last person to see Denny Harrison alive.”

“That would have been the murderer.”

“And this is Tomas Hand,” continues Morgan, ignoring my retort, “a business acquaintance of mine. I think it would be mutually beneficial for you to get to know each other.”

Now I am completely baffled. Why would knowing Morgan’s sidekick be beneficial to me? When the man in question swings his unsmiling gaze my way, his brow drawn quizzically too, an instinctual chill runs through me. Have I seen this man before? There is something familiar about his profile. In an effort to break the hold, I smile grimly and nod a welcome.

Almost simultaneously, I hear one of the serving staff repeatedly banging a gong to signal dinner and see Derek’s flustered face appear in the doorway, before hurrying our way with a look of astonishment on his face. He completely misses the strained exchange between the three of us, before blurting out.

“Christ, Colin. There you are. We need to talk.”

He grabs my elbow and drags me away from the dour duo. Over my shoulder I notice Morgan lean in and whisper something urgently to Hand, making the shorter guy nod and move quickly away. But Derek is oblivious and once he has me in a corner, he continues on.

“Look, I just had a call, and wanted to give you a head’s up,” he says, although I am not really listening. “Colin!”

“What?” I say irritated, my attention drifting back to him.

“Vaughan’s on his way. Apparently he could make it after all.”

 
 A very special thanks to Timothy M for helping to edit this chapter.
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Brian (a.k.a. lomax61