Kissing the Dragon - 28. Dinner At Eight

“Do you want to come inside out of the cold?” I can hear Hugh asking Martin, as Derek stops to allow me to jump out of the MG and hurry over to the trio. Hugh is already dressed for dinner in his trademark kilt of blue and green check, signifying the Winterbourne clan. “Maybe join us for a glass of bubbly?”

To be honest, I had wanted to head straight up to the room and phone Ben about the Lexus and Tomas Hand, but the mysterious appearance of my teaching friend has put that on a back burner for now.

“Heavens, no,” says Martin, with a chuckle. “I’m already in the deputy head’s bad books. Need to keep a clear head on the drive back and I absolutely need to be at work first thing tomorrow. Ah, here’s the man in question.”

“Martin, Kimberley’s been looking for you. What on earth are you doing here?” I say, coming to a stop in front of them.

“Trying to hunt you down, old man. It’s okay, by the way, Humphreys knows and approves. And we both decided this couldn’t wait.”

“What the hell can’t wait? What’s happened?”

He must notice the panic in my eyes because he reaches over and squeezes my upper arm. As we stand there, a taxi filled with guests wobbles past us towards the house, two men craning out of the window and wolf-whistling at Hugh’s exposed legs. Going in the opposite direction, the leather clad rider of a darkly coloured motorcycle revs and roars up the driveway, making me flinch.

“Calm down, Colin. Nobody died. I just needed to get something to you urgently. And this was literally a spur of the moment thing. I popped into school on Sunday to pick up a couple of textbooks and while I was there, noticed a large DHL envelope sitting in your pigeonhole. Worried that it might be something to do with your application for the teaching position, I decided to drop it off for you at home. Totally forgot you were away. I did consider leaving it with Billy, but worried that he might forget—as you’ve told me many times, he’s not the most reliable person in the world—so kept hold of it for safe-keeping.”

“Anyway, over the weekend I’d had a call from my solicitor in Crawley asking me to attend another urgent appointment on Monday morning about that bloody beach house Paul left me. Why do they always have to be urgent? I printed the appointment details off from your computer, I hope you don’t mind? So I phoned Dorothy at home Sunday night and asked her if I could take the morning off. Explained why. I must have caught her at a bad moment, but she agreed grudgingly. And I suppose she forgot to pass the message on. Poor woman’s been so overworked of late.”

“By the time I’d finished with the solicitor—a very expensive waste of time, by the way—it was gone two thirty. That’s when I remembered to switch my phone back on and found a barrage of missed calls and messages from all and sundry. Anyway, I called Dorothy to explain what had happened and took the rest of the day off. Now, don’t ask me why, but I’d kept your package locked in my briefcase, along with my legal papers. And when I stopped for petrol and lunch in Crawley, I realised I was already part way on route to you. So I called you at around three to ask if I should come, but got your voicemail. Then I thought to myself, damn it, just go there. Do at least one useful thing with your day.”

“How did you know I’d be here, though? I was supposed to be at Hugh and Derek’s.”

“You left your mobile number and details of where you’d be staying on a post-it note on the computer screen. For Billy I suppose. I wasn’t snooping, but seeing the words, Sir Jeremy Winterbourne, Overton House, Portmanton rather catches one's attention. So here I am, special delivery.”

As Derek joins us, Martin opens the briefcase he is holding and hands the bulky envelope over to me.

“Wait a moment. You’re applying for another job?” asks Vaughan, catching up, as I rip open the envelope and pull out the covering letter. Unable to see very well, I move over to stand beneath one of the outside lights.

“In Buenos Aires, no less,” says Martin, to Vaughan, the older man’s pride clear on his face. “Bit of a dark horse is this one.”

“Argentina?” says Vaughan softly, moving with the others to join me. “I thought you loved your post at Croxburgh.”

“I do. But the opportunity came out of the blue. And I had no reason not to try,” I reply, and only then notice the confusion on his face.

“Blimey, Colin,” says Derek. “That’s halfway around the world. You don’t do things by halves.”

“I know,” I reply, chuckling while scanning the letter. “And only this morning Vaughan was berating me for my phobia about change.”

“Metathesiophobia,” says Martin. “In case anyone needed to know. Although I believe that’s the chronic form.”

“Well, it looks as though they want to interview me. Want me to fly out there next month for an interview on the 23rd. Can you do me a favour and let Humphreys know, Martin? You might also ask her if it’s okay for me to come back to work on Wednesday. Before I go completely bonkers.”

While Vaughan and I spend the next fifteen minutes or so chatting to Martin and bidding him farewell, Hugh and Derek head back into the house so that Derek can get ready to welcome guests. Watching Martin’s little Citroen crawl down the lane, I can sense Vaughan glance at me quizzically a couple of times, and eventually, as we amble back towards the nearest door, he speaks.

“Strange you know. It makes me feel a little sad and empty to think of you not being here in the country. And before you say anything, I know that’s slightly irrational, maybe even a little selfish, but knowing you’ll always be here has given me a modicum of comfort when I’m working abroad.”

“Actually Vaughan, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Cocktails based around the theme of pink champagne—Denny’s favourite—are served back on a first floor open balcony at the rear of the main building where we breakfasted. Ironic to think this is the colour he detested above all others and one that would never form part of his attire. Directly beneath us is the glass conservatory where pre-dinner drinks had been served the night before. From the sandstone balustrade, the moonlit view over the grounds is stunning, an entirely different beast from the one we had toured in the daytime; to the far left sits a shadowed square arrangement of low buildings which must be the stable block, backing on to the conservatory is the floodlit swimming pool and to the left of that is the brightly lit car parking area. Even now I can see Hand’s Lexus sitting like a black sheep amid the row of racing green Rovers. From this vantage point, I can see beyond the cluster of silver tipped trees to the ghostly rolling countryside that is Dorset.

When I return to the bedroom earlier, I find Kit lying on the bed, reading a book. Once I freshen up and get ready, he decides he wants to take a leisurely bath rather than a quick shower, and encourages me to go to the party bang on six o’clock, so that I can catch up with old friends without having to worry about him. I promise to come and collect him in an hour so that he does not have to enter the gathering alone. We are getting along better, the two of us, and I feel as though a truce has been brokered. Truth is I wanted to have some alone time, my mind restless since discovering the car park graffiti, trying to pull a thread between the patches of incidents that have plagued me the past week. So first things first, I call Ben on our private phone, but after ten rings the call is not picked up and, rather than text, I decide to try a little later.

As luck would have it, I am one of the first to arrive to the drinks party and only Derek is there. He confirms that Hugh is in the basement kitchen making last minute changes to dinner arrangements. Derek and I chat comfortably, sipping Kir Royale, and I ask him if Sir Jeremy, Hugh’s father, will be gracing the hoi polloi with his presence.

“Indeed he will, along with his assistant, the lovely Nichole, and the not so lovely Constantine Morgan.”

“What about the downright ugly sidekick?”

“Hand. He won’t be joining us, thank heavens. Not exactly the world’s best conversationalist.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, sensing an unwarranted anxiousness at the response and instinctively peering out towards the car park where Hand’s silver Lexus sits parked still.

“No sure exactly. Hugh saw him stalking out of the office late this afternoon, just before Martin arrived, angry as a split condom. Said he had some urgent errand to run for Morgan. But I’m guessing by his reaction that they just don’t want him around scaring the womenfolk,” says Derek, before looking over his shoulder. “Although a few here could give him a run for his money. Give me a moment, Colin. Guests arriving.”

When he moves away, I lean against the cold stone of the balcony and trace the night sky. Almost without realising, I have pulled my special phone into my hand and am staring at the blank display.

“Waiting for special friend to call?” comes an attractive female voice behind me. When I turn around Nichole Schwartz stands there in a figure hugging cocktail dress of black velvet and sequins that ends just below the knee. Sleeveless, and finished off with transparent chiffon shoulder straps and a wide silver belt, the whole ensemble nicely accentuates her curves and cleavage.

“Aren’t we all? Been waiting since puberty,” I quip, and then raise my glass to her. “Wow, you look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she says, before smirking. “Sadly it’ll be lost on most of the men here tonight. But a girl’s gotta try.”

“Trust me, dressed like that the gay men gathered will be giving you plenty of compliments. But if it’s a lustful reaction you were hoping for, then you may have to look to the women.”

We laugh together and I put my phone away. I have not had the chance to speak to Nichole—if I remember correctly she was cornered by Kit—but I am glad to have the chance now.

“So what’s it like working for Wintercorp?”

She studies me hard then, probably wondering how candid she can be with a virtual stranger. After a sip of champagne she sighs and appears to relax. Maybe the fact that I brought Kit along has helped.

“Like any job, good and bad. Working for the best the UK has to offer has got rub off, you know? But I was employed just before the two companies merged. By Jeremy himself, a true English gentleman. Which also means I need to do work for Constantine Morgan by default. Even got to babysit the guy tonight.”

“Only just met him. But he doesn’t strike as the most even tempered of people.”

“Honestly? Jeremy I admire. Morgan I—tolerate. But then it’s all just business.”

“And what do you make of Hand?”

She huffs with disgust and looks away into the night, shaking her head.

“Hand’s a goon. Effective in his own way, but dumb as a mountain mule, and just as stubborn.”

I nod my understanding and sympathy, while following her gaze across the ground. After a while I sense her studying me strangely, almost sadly.

“How did you meet Chris? He thinks a lot of you.”

“He said that?”

“He did.”

“The two of us are not—“ I begin to say, and then falter, wondering how to continue. Before I do, she straightens and interrupts me.

“Sorry, Colin. Morgan just showed. And I gotta go hold his hand tonight.”

While Nichole goes to greet the unsmiling Morgan, I decide to head back to the bedroom to collect Kit. I find him standing at the end of my bed, peering down into my open overnight case, a pair of my socks held in one hand. He looks good enough to eat, dressed simply in fawn chinos, brown belt, brown deck shoes, a crisp white cotton shirt and a navy blazer.

“Looking for something?” I ask amused, catching him by surprise. In response, he replaces the socks and folds his arms, a look resembling admiration on his face.

“Do you all take a course in how to pack? I never saw such well-ordered clothes. No matter how much time and trouble I take, my shirts end up a crumpled mess.”

“Oh, Lord. Yes, I do take a pride in my packing.”

“You sure do. And I see you got a black suit and tie. That for the funeral tomorrow?”

“It is,” I say, and then a sudden thought comes to me. Another assumption I had made. “You are coming to the funeral, aren’t you?”

“I—I hadn’t planned to be there. But I can hang around for you until it’s done. Didn’t bring anything suitable to wear.”

“I’m sure you’d be perfect as you are.”

“To a funeral?”

“A gay tailor’s funeral. There will be colour in abundance, trust me.”

“If you say so.”

“You look really great, by the way. Shall we go?”

Once back at the balcony room which is not far from our room, I wait until Kit is chatting before excusing myself to return to the bedroom. Once inside the room, I head into the bathroom, lock the door and pluck out my phone.

“Ben Whitehead,” comes the all-too-familiar voice, to my relief.

“Ben. Finally. It’s me, can you talk?”

“Fire away.”

“Something really weird’s going on. As I told you, Denny didn’t say anything significant to me that night, but I’m now convinced he might have left me something. I believe he dropped a thumb drive into my coat pocket. Billy found the thing and told me about it on Saturday evening. Only I never made the connection, thought it had something to do with student homework. I only checked properly this morning and it contains video files of CCTV footage from a car park. Even then, I thought it might be a prank by one of my school kids. The thing is, this afternoon I’m sure I saw the actual place in the video files. The car park at Hugh’s father’s offices.”

“Sir Jeremy Winterbourne?”

“Yes,” I said, and then falter. “Did I tell you where I am?”

“No, you didn’t. I had to find that out for myself. Would have been really helpful if you had, Colin.”

“Why?”

“Not right now. Where’s the thumb drive? Please don’t say you’ve got it with you?”

“No. It’s back home. Sitting in a Tom of Finland mug next to my computer keyboard. Looks like a lipstick.”

I should have expected the snort I hear down the phone.

“Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“Yes, Derek.”

“All of it?”

“Yes,” I falter, feeling instantly guilty. “And I suppose he might have told Hugh.”

“Who would, no doubt, have told the rest of the congregation.”

“Ben, I didn’t know—“

“Is your lodger home?”

“No idea. He was there this morning. You want me to call him?”

“I can do that. Need to check what else is on that thing.”

“Oh God. Look, I’m not sure if this is just me being paranoid, but they introduced me to Constantine Morgan’s assistant, an Eastern European guy called Tomas Hand. Derek pointed out his car in the car park as we were heading out for a drive. Guess what colour and model?”

“Silver Lexus?”

“Bingo. Number plate LA61HXD.”

“And where is he now?”

“No idea. Derek said he had some urgent business to take care of. For Morgan. Would have been leaving about the time we arrived back here.”

“How long ago was this?”

“An hour and half, give or take. But he didn’t take the Lexus. Why are you asking?”

“If you’re right, he might be headed to your place for the thumb drive. How long was the journey down?”

“Just over two hours,” I say. “But then Kit doesn’t push the speed limit. Ben, in case Billy’s not in, I keep a spare door key inside the left wellington boot that I leave outside on the front porch. And the alarm code is 12345 enter.”

“Christ, McCann. You really scare me sometimes,” says Ben, as someone raps on the toilet door.

“Cole,” comes Kit’s voice. “Everything okay in there? We’re about to head downstairs for dinner.”

“Yes, Kit,” I call, covering the phone, turning on the taps, and saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry. Just cleaning up here. Give me a second and I’ll come find you.”

I wait until I hear him walk away before speaking.

“Better sign off if you’re going to call Billy. We had some group photos taken just before dinner last night. Derek sent them to my phone. I’ll zap you copies so you can see Hand for yourself.”

“Good work. We found the girl, by the way.”

“Lizzie?”

“Yes. She finally called Chaudhary. Bringing her in now.”

“Thank God.”

I can hear Ben breathing heavily at the other end.

“Ben? Are you—?”

“I’m not happy about this whole situation, Colin,” he cuts in, and I feel instantly touched by his words. “I thought you would be safer down there, but sounds like you’re in the thick of things.”

“At least I’m surrounded by close friends,” I say, and then level my tone. “Kit’s here, too. Should I let him know what’s going on?”

“No,” he says, quickly and resolutely. “Not least because at the moment it’s all just speculation. If he’s with you and acting normally, then people are less likely to suspect anything. Just don’t do anything stupid Colin, okay?”

“Yes, detective constable, sir.”

“I mean it. And put your phone on vibrate. I’ll text if I find anything important.”

Having finished, I silence the phone and place the device into my trouser pocket, within easy reach.

*****

Denny’s tribute dinner with old friends is an altogether less formal affair than the previous night. Hugh has insisted on everyone dining in the storage area between tall shelves of the voluminous sunken kitchens of Overton, inconvenient to set up for house staff but easier for them to wait table. Background culinary orchestrations hammered out by busy kitchen hands during courses provides a delightful accompaniment to the low chant of conversations around the table. And golden candlelight pouring from the intermittent mounds of candles that Derek has arranged in clusters along the table's centre creates a far cosier, more intimate atmosphere in a space devoid of natural light and usually serviced by cold neon strip lighting.

As Denny mentioned, one concession to using the mansion is that Hugh's father's business colleagues are invited, although without Hand, only three extra places are needed. In total that makes a nice even twenty six diners. Across the table from us, Constantine Morgan is at his loquacious, convivial best this evening, his all too familiar laughter bursting intermittently above the general clammer like machine gun fire. Almost seamlessly, he changes tack from probing into the lives of guests to peeling stories from them about Denny. On occasion I notice him murmur something to Nichole Schwartz—filling in for Hand, his usual sidekick—and be rewarded by a short whispered response, usually before engaging one of the guests in conversation. My guess is that she acts as his memory aid for the names and lives of these unfamiliar people. All in all, those gathered warm to his inquisitiveness, which appears genuine enough, and respond freely to questions. That is until he catches my eye, which he does from time to time, when his gaze becomes arctic. Hugh's father, Jeremy, is as warm and welcoming as ever, the man needing no such human aide memoire. His personality shines brightly from the far end of the table.

Derek pops over to speak to us from time to time, telling us that Hugh has personally selected the dinner menu. At one point as he is conversing with us, a serious but handsome Italian chef with tight salt and pepper ringlets appears to consort with Hugh before appetisers are brought out. Glistening platters of assorted Italian cured meats, cheeses, anchovies, green and black olives, and sun-dried tomatoes are arranged on black slate tiles balanced on top of large empty tomato tins. Together with baskets of olive bread, the whole course is executed family style, guests happily serving themselves and each other. In fact, throughout the meal it is the same with big dishes of assorted Italian mains and pastas, and copious amounts of Italian wine.

All through the evening, Kit is warm and friendly to me and to those around him—more than happy to chat across the table to Nichole when she is not tending to Morgan—but with me he is no longer tactile. I know I am responsible for that, but the careful distancing makes me feel oddly alone and isolated—and a little guilty.

Towards the end of the meal, before dessert is served, Hugh’s speech about Denny is as polished and entertaining as would be expected of a seasoned speaker. Nevertheless, he does a great job of uncovering the essence of Denny, citing his flawless dress sense, his caustic wit and a couple of incidents involving the man’s life, that leaves everyone either sore from laughing or with tears on their cheeks.

After dessert, as we sit around sampling an eclectic selection of cheeses, biscuits and dried fruit with Hugh dishing out generous measures of Tawny port, I feel certain the phone in my pocket buzzes. While genial conversation hums around me, I pull the device into my lap but stare at a blank screen. Swallowing hard, I shove the phone back in my pocket and reach for my wine glass. When I lift my eyes I notice Constantine Morgan’s hard gaze upon me again. I smile, raise my glass to him and nod, before taking a long gulp. Please God, do not let the little vein in my neck betray my galloping heart. Because thoughts and questions are racing around my head right now. Has Ben managed to alert Billy yet? What does Lizzie know? Is Hand really heading to my house? And what the hell else is on that thumb drive? I feel as though I should be helping somehow, not just sitting here pretending to relax and enjoy myself.

”Everything okay?” asks Kit, making me flinch and him grimace. Gazing into his eyes, it dawns on me he has even less idea than me what is going on around him. And now there will be little chance to get him alone to explain. But then perhaps Ben is right, keeping him ignorant is the best course of action.

“Fine. Hitting home about Denny,” I bluff, and manage a smile, relieved when conversations around the table die down, as Jeremy Winterbourne rises from his seat and clinks a fork on an empty glass.

“So we wondered if Denny’s friends fancied a post-dinner promenade, followed by a drink in his honour?” said Jeremy, before puffing on a fat cigar. “It’s such a lovely night. I thought we could all take a stroll over the fields to our local watering hole, the Fox and Hounds. About thirty minutes through the woods as the crow flies. Raise your hand if you want to tag along. Oh, and in case you need any more persuading, drinks are on Hugh.”

Everyone laughs at the final comment and quite a few people around the table raise their hands, including Derek and Hugh, as well as Vaughan and Oscar. Jeremy informs us that we will meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes. Knowing many of us will go our separate ways after the funeral, and perhaps not have the time to bid each other farewell, I make a decision to join.

“We’re in, too,” I say, a hand shoved in the air. Even though I notice Kit’s head turn my way, it does not occur to me to check with him first.

“You chaps had better go put on some boots and something warm,” says Derek to us, from across the table. “Already getting a tad frosty out there tonight.”

At the top of the stairs from the basement kitchens, we find a bunch of friends putting on winter coats and hiking boots, stashed in a small outer cloakroom nobody had told us about. Kit and I saunter up the main stairs to the bedrooms along with those who have decided to forgo the adventure.

“Look Cole,” says Kit, as soon as we enter the room. “I’m pooped. And apart from having had enough fresh air for one day, I don’t think I could face any more alcohol.”

“I’m so sorry. Should have checked with you. I’m being thoughtless. I just thought it might be good for us to socialise with them before the sombre day tomorrow.”

“No, I mean, you go. Enjoy your buddies,” he says, before releasing a sigh. “I want to to hit the sack. Gonna try to sleep. In my own bed. But I may even be awake when you get back.”

“Maybe I should stay, too,” I say, partly to myself. With everything else going down, maybe staying safely in the room is the best idea. Or perhaps Kit means we should stay and talk.

“When will you get to see them all again? I mean socially?”

“No idea. Haven’t seen most of them for years.”

“Then you’d better scoot. Don’t want to keep them waiting. They looked ready to go.”

Admittedly I am at least ten minutes late, but at the bottom of the stairs in the reception area, I am puzzled to find the place completely devoid of guests. Standing still for a moment, I strain to listen for voices but hear only the stillness of the huge house, and the distant clatter of tables being tidied below stairs. On instinct, I move to the conservatory where the first night drinks were held, wondering if the intrepid party has gathered at the back of the house. Again, I find nobody there, so return to the main entrance hall. This time, as I come to a stop, the voice from the front door sends a chill through me.

“Ah, Mr McCann. There you are. The advanced party has already left,” said Morgan, standing at the open portal, his smile as frosty as the weather beyond. Nichole Schwartz stands outside too, her face unreadable, flanked by two powerful looking men who were not dinner guests. “We volunteered to stay behind to show you the way through the woods.”

For a moment I freeze, weighing up my choices. Light cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, intuition warning of an unknown threat, my heart racing to prepare a call to action. I could tell them I have changed my mind, need to stay to keep Chris company. But then my winter proof attire would be seen as a contradiction. What would Ben tell me to do? Remain calm. I look to Nichole for some kind of sign, but her gaze is fixed on the ground, dealing with her own thoughts. Shoving my gloved hands into my pockets, I take a deep lungful of crisp night air, and step out into the night.

“Lead the way.”

 
 A very special thanks to Timothy M for helping to edit this chapter.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:
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Brian (a.k.a. lomax61