Remember Me Page 9

  ‘Wait, I don’t even know your name?’ Jimmy calls after her.

  ‘Bridget.’ She gets in a small Fiesta and drives away.

  Jimmy decides to drive back to Faukon Abbey; it is Friday after all, and the long weekend is coming up. Eric Warner, if indeed it was Eric Warner the lady had been talking about, could have just been missing his own daughters. Some guys get like that. But, it didn’t seem to have come across that way. So what had been going on, if indeed something had been going on? For all Jimmy knows, that Bridget person could be pulling the wool over his eyes, concocting a bad-sounding story of a successful person like Warner. Or not. People do strange things for strange reasons. However, the more he thinks about it, the more he’s inclined to believe Bridget was telling the truth.

  Jimmy decides to call Helen and ask her out. He apologizes to her for not calling recently and claims he’s been very busy and wonders if she wants just to go out to the Whistle and Tin? If so, they could meet there around seven or so? She sounds a bit unhappy but agrees to meet. Jimmy heads back to the Chronicle office to type up his notes.

  Helen waves at him when he comes into the pub, which is, as usual on a Friday, overcrowded. She is sitting by the counter and he has to push his way over to her. He gives her a hug, and asks the barmaid for two G&Ts.

  ‘Let’s have a drink first and then find out if we can get a table for dinner. Ok?’

  ‘Sure,’ she smiles. ‘So what have you been so busy with that you haven’t been able to call me?’ she chides.

  ‘Been working on trying to find info about that guy who died in Tersel Woods. Nobody seems to know much about him.’

  ‘You mean Eric Warner?’ the barmaid asks when she puts their two glasses on the counter. ‘Six pounds sixty p, please.’

  ‘Yes indeed, do you know him? Was he a customer here?’ Jimmy digs up a ten pound note and gives it to her.

  ‘Yeah I know him, what’s it to you? You’re not the police are you?’

  ‘No, I’m with The Abbey Chronicle, I’ve been writing about Eric Warner. Was he a customer here?’

  ‘So what’s in it for me if I talk with you?’

  ‘Elsie, come over here.’ The barmaid sighs and walks away.

  ‘Wow, that was interesting’ Helen gushes. ‘She clearly knows something! You must talk with her.’

  ‘I guess I should. Funny, I wouldn’t think Eric Warner would be the kind of person to come to this place. Although the food here gets good reviews, I don’t think Mulberry Hill people come over here for that, do they? Now, let me find out if we can get a table. I’m starving.’ Jimmy walks to the other end of room through a narrow door where he sees a waiter standing.

  ‘Come on, we got lucky, they have a table free now.’ Jimmy pushes his way back to Helen and grabs his drink. She takes hers and they are shown to their table.

  ‘What looks good to you, Helen?’

  ‘I think I could go with the trout, what do you think?’

  ‘Trout with almonds and lemon sounds really good. We could have some white wine with it too; you like white wine, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, white wine is good.’ Jimmy waves the waiter over and orders a bottle of house white and trout for the two of them.

  ‘So tell me all about this Eric Warner thing you’ve been working on. I haven’t really seen anything much in the Chronicle about him, only the obituary.’

  ‘That’s the problem, there really isn’t that much to say about him, or so it seems.’

  ‘How do you mean, so it seems?’

  ‘Well there really is nothing remarkable about him except the way he died. And that he was possibly the shadow investor of the golf club expansion. Other than that there’s very little known about him.’

  ‘I can tell you have found out other things about him, haven’t you?’

  ‘If I have, you can read all about it in the paper.’ Jimmy grins.

  ‘Oh no, you want my Watson to your Sherlock,’ Helen laughs. The waiter brings their food and wine.

  ‘Mmm, the trout is really good,’ Helen says. Jimmy agrees.

  ‘Come on Jimmy, tell me everything. Who is – or rather was – Eric Warner?’

  ‘That is the question. As you know, he was a lawyer and had apparently been married before, had had two kids, one still alive. Ex lives in Penzance. His current wife is at least ten years his junior and a real looker. Enormous eyes.’

  ‘Oh she’s a looker, is she now?’

  ‘She is a good looking one for sure, and they’ve been married only four years. But here’s the odd thing: it seems he had a hideout place in Exeter.’

  ‘What do you mean a hideout?’

  ‘I talked with a lawyer pal of his who said Warner had a place in Exeter, where they used to go to relax without their wives.’

  ‘Wow, that is a bit odd, surely? With a new good-looking and young wife, why would he need to relax without her?’

  ‘Now why indeed, that is the question. More wine?’

  ‘Yes, please. So what have you found out?’

  ‘Nothing so far. I don’t think his wife knew about the flat in Exeter.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have to talk with more people for sure. The inquest is on Wednesday, and I’ll definitely find out more there, or not. It could still be that he died of a heart attack.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you now?’

  ‘No I don’t. He was a bit too young and healthy by the sound of it for that – at least that’s what everybody I talked to says, so who knows. But no, I don’t really think so.’

  ‘A real life mystery, this is so cool! I’ll drink to that!’ Helen smiles big and raises her glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers indeed.’ Jimmy smiles too.

  They finish their meal and the wine. They chat about this and that. Helen wants to know more about Warner’s hideout, but Jimmy resists, saying he really doesn’t have that much to tell yet. On their way out, Jimmy sees Elsie the barmaid behind the bar and asks if he could talk to her.

  ‘What’s in it for me if I talk with you?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know yet; it depends on what you can tell me.’ Jimmy responds. ‘Are you here tomorrow? Or is there somewhere else we could talk now? I could make it worth your while.’

  ‘Cannot do now; come over here tomorrow around four in the afternoon. Not too many people here then.’

  ‘I’ll see you then. Here’s my card, if you want to give me a call.’ Elsie scowls but takes the card.

  ‘What do you think she knows?’ Helen asks.

  ‘I don’t know; I’ll find out tomorrow.’

  ‘You know,’ Helen frowns, ‘I do wonder if she wasn’t one of the women Olga and I saw. I can’t be sure, but I think she was.’

  ‘Oh really? The one you heard talking about murder in Daily Cuppa?’

  ‘Yup, I think she could have been one of them.’

  ‘Now that is interesting. Good thing we went out then,’ Jimmy says. ‘Want to walk a bit?’

  Jimmy and Helen walk down Castle Road, the main street of Faukon Abbey. They stop and look at the shop windows, pausing at the shoe store. Helen gushes about a red pair of sandals in the window. They continue to chat about movies and books and generally have a good time.

  By the time they get to her place, Jimmy is encouraged enough to ask if he could come up for a nightcap. Helen lives in a small flat above the bookshop where she works. The bookshop belongs to her parents but they had more or less left it to her to manage after they’d moved out to a small cottage in Taunton and retired part time.

  ‘Sorry Jimmy, not this time. My parents are back and staying with me.’

  ‘Maybe next time? ‘Jimmy says hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ Helen smiles. ‘Thank you for the dinner, I had a really good time.’

  ‘So did I,’ Jimmy says. He gives her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  He watches as she unlocks the door and walks upstairs. Then he walks slowly toward his o
wn place.

  On Saturday, Jimmy goes back to the pub and talks with Elsie Pratt who gets a twenty pound note for her troubles. Jimmy only gets a beer.

  ACT 2 - Inquest

  Action

  The murderer walks off the ferry to a waiting car. Sun is shining from a bright blue sky; a light breeze brings the sweet scent of roses mixed with the saltiness of the sea air.

  Chorus

  Tuesday 27th of May

  DI Peter Greene

  Greene takes the seven-thirty train from Exeter to London. He has all his case notes with him, such as they are. He gets a cup of tea from the teacart and starts jotting down what he needs to ask Robert Hughes. A little over two hours later, he arrives in Paddington station, and gets a taxi to go to Chancery Lane.

  As soon as he enters the law firm’s entry hall, a blonde woman comes out. Greene states he has an appointment with Robert Hughes, and is a bit early. She turns around and goes back to her office, and comes out again a minute later. ‘Follow me please’, she says. She walks ahead of him upstairs, knocks on a door and pushes it open. ‘Robert, your eleven o’clock is here.’ She lets him pass inside and closes the door behind her.

  Robert Hughes stands up and comes to meet Greene by the door. Greene introduces himself, shows his warrant card, and they shake hands. Hughes asks Greene to sit down, walks back behind his desk again, and sits down.

  ‘So, what do you want to know?’ Hughes asks.

  ‘Tell me about Eric Warner. Mrs. Warner said you knew him well?’

  ‘Eric and I go back a long time; we met at Edinburgh University where we both studied law. We became good pals, even though we went in different directions – Eric was into criminal law, I was more into civil and corporate law.’

  ‘And yet you both ended up here? Isn’t this firm mostly dealing with corporations?’

  ‘Indeed we do, both Eric and I deal with mergers and acquisitions. Eric and I did our training in different firms before coming over here about seven – or actually, it’s nearly eight years ago now. We had lost touch after uni, but once here, we started playing squash again. I assume you know by now what Eric died of? He couldn’t have died of a heart attack; he was in great shape!’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s still unclear. The inquest will be tomorrow to determine that.’

  ‘Haven’t you talked with Dr. Holmes yet?’

  ‘We have yet to reach him. He’s been on holiday. When did you last see Eric Warner?’ Greene asks.

  ‘We played squash at the beginning of May, and we planned to meet at his place when Estelle was away, but he cancelled.’

  ‘When was this?’ asks Greene.

  ‘Let me check.’ Robert picks up his mobile, scrolls for a while and finds the text message he was looking for. He then shows the phone to Greene. “Sorry Rob, have to cancel our meeting in Exe on Friday. I’ll call you later.” The text was sent 9.15 on Monday the twelfth of May.

  ‘Did he call you?’ Greene asks.

  ‘No, didn’t hear from him.’

  ‘Was that normal behavior for him, not calling back when he had promised?’

  ‘Well, yes and no – he was known to get involved with something, vanish for a while and then surface a couple of weeks later.’

  ‘So you were not worried when you didn’t hear from him?’

  ‘No, didn’t have any reason to be.’

  ‘But you were friends, right?

  ‘Yes indeed, we have known each other a long time as I said.’

  ‘So if you were going to visit him at his house in Faukon Abbey, how come such a formal note, about “meeting in Exe”? Or was that his style? These days most people don’t write full words on SMS.’

  ‘Well we weren’t going to meet at his house; we were going to meet at his pied-à-terre in Exeter.’

  ‘He had a flat in Exeter?’

  ‘Yes he did, bought it at least three years ago when his daughter, Lizzie, was talking about going to the University of Exeter. He thought it would be a good investment. Then Lizzie changed her mind, so he decided to use it himself.’

  ‘As an office or did he rent it out?’

  ‘Guess it was meant as a sort of an office. He wanted to get into investing in golf courses in the West Country and wanted to have a central place to meet people.’

  ‘Was he an avid golf player?’

  ‘Not really, he wasn’t bad, but for him the only reason for playing golf was as way of making deals – it wasn’t about playing. He liked squash, a much faster game.’

  ‘Investing in golf courses was to make money?’

  ‘Yeah, he thought there was great potential for a domestic investor, and according to him, the West Country was undervalued in that regard.’

  ‘Aren’t golf courses rather big investments?’

  ‘Oh he wasn’t doing those alone. Eric’s talent was connecting with other interested parties and getting them to invest. He was a snake charmer. He’d charm the investors for their money, and then collect a cut for putting the deal together.’

  ‘I see,’ said Greene although he didn’t really understand. ‘Was he making good money on that?’

  ‘His biggest deal was going to be the expansion of the golf course near Faukon Abbey. He was planning to make it big, full eighteen holes. Add a massive hotel with a spa and other activities.’

  ‘Were you planning to invest in it?’

  ‘Nope, I don’t play golf.’

  ‘So why were you going to meet Eric in Exeter, if not for business, since he called it a meeting?’

  ‘Oh we used to meet there, to “chill out” as the modern saying goes.’

  ‘Which means? I’m not very current on modern sayings,’ said Greene.

  ‘We’d sit and talk, drink a few beers, watch a movie – he has a really large TV – or we’d play poker.’

  ‘Just guys then? No wives?’

  ‘I’m not married and Estelle doesn’t like playing poker.’ Robert said with some finality. He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Thank you for your time. Only one more question: what can you tell me about Eric’s will? Estelle Warner claimed you’d be the one to know if he had one? Who are the beneficiaries of it?’

  ‘Yes, of course he did have a will; he was a lawyer after all.’

  ‘Mrs. Warner seemed to think you were the executor of his will. Is that the case?’

  ‘Yes, that is so, but you know I can’t tell you anything more about it.’

  ‘You are his friend and we are trying to investigate what killed him. Surely you understand the theory of “follow the money?”’ Greene says.

  ‘Yes of course I do’ Robert says, his voice clipped. ‘But I can’t share his will with you until it has been shared with his family. After all, you have no proof that Eric was a victim of anything as of yet, do you?’

  ‘Very true, we don’t, but his death is unexplained as of now, and it would help us tremendously to know if we should indeed “follow the money” or not. I’m sure I can get a court order for it, if I need to, but it would be a lot easier if you could just tell me.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ Robert Hughes says, and walks out of his office.

  Hughes returns with a senior partner, Mr. George Gillen. Gillen shakes hands with Greene who again shows his warrant card.

  ‘As I mentioned to Mr. Hughes, Eric Warner’s death is unexplained. I don’t need to see the actual will; I only need to know who the main beneficiaries are, to be able to understand who benefits from Eric Warner’s death.’

  ‘Very well, we can do that. But to see the details, you’ll have to get a court order,’ says Gillen. ‘Robert, do you have the will in your safe?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ Robert says.

  Robert unlocks the safe behind him, and removes an envelope from the safe. He hands it to Gillen, who says, after quickly reading it, that the house in Faukon Abbey and everything in it goes to Estelle, except about ten thousand pounds which goes to the ex-wife, Maggie. Th
e daughter Lizzie gets the flat in Exeter and some money as well. Greene thanks the lawyers. Hughes returns the envelope back in the safe.

  ‘When is the funeral, do you know?’ Gillen asks Greene.

  ‘No sir, I do not. We have released the body to Mrs. Warner. The inquest is tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well, I assume Estelle will let us know’, says Gillen before turning and leaving Robert’s office.

  Greene gets up to leave as well, thanking Robert for his time and asking him for the address of the flat in Exeter. Robert gives him the address. Hughes shakes his head.

  ‘I can’t believe Eric is dead, who am I now going to play squash with?’ Hughes laments. ‘You have to find out what happened to him, there’s no way he died of a heart attack.’

  Greene shakes Robert’s hand and leaves the office. He thinks he’ll probably have to come back to talk with the other employees there after the inquest. That is, unless Slater has come up with a natural cause by then.

  It’s nice and sunny when Greene gets back outside. He waves for a taxi and tells the driver to head to Harley Street. The taxi takes a good half an hour to get there –traffic is very congested.

  Doctor Aron Holmes’ office is on the third floor. Greene walks up the stairs, and is slightly out of breath by the time he gets there. He stops on the landing and pretends checking his mobile while trying to catch his breath. The doctor’s office, with white painted walls and comfortable-looking beige leather chairs, has three patients waiting. Greene walks to the white antique reception desk, managed by an efficient-looking redhead in her late forties. Greene shows his warrant card to her and asks quietly if he could talk with Doctor Holmes for a few minutes about a patient. She says the doctor is seeing a patient right now, but she’ll check with him as soon as that patient leaves.