Chapter Eight

DANIEL turning up at the Shepherd’s Bush restaurant in uniform at the tail end of a busy Saturday lunchtime was an unexpected but not unpleasant surprise. In fact, he looked hotter in uniform than he did in white Speedos or Bermuda shorts. Benny, the front-of-house manager, had zeroed in on the policeman and, once he realized Daniel was there unofficially, flirted outrageously. If anyone could give Daniel a run for his money on the flirtatiousness stakes, Benny was the man. However, today Daniel was all business, strictly professional and only grinning good-naturedly and nodding at Benny’s double entendres. Fortunately Benny gave everyone the same treatment—for most people the straight-faced delivery of his innuendos meant that many went over their heads—so he would have been blissfully unaware that Daniel batted for his team.

Between Marcus’s stint in the hospital and his time in New York, they had called each other a couple of times trying to synchronize calendars for a night out. But through no fault of either, this had proven difficult, both having busy professions. Marcus often had to head into work at short notice to deal with one crisis or another, while Daniel was frequently called upon to work overtime.

But finally they’d managed to meet one Tuesday afternoon in late July for a drink in a small local bar on Marylebone High Street, a few blocks from the restaurant. Marcus had finished the lunchtime service at Edgware Road and Daniel, in jeans and a tee, had been on a training course in Hendon, dropped off by a colleague.

Daniel had drunk designer Belgium beer straight from the bottle, taking great pride in talking about the fermentation process, the history of the beer brewed by Trappist monks—clearly a veritable expert on the product. One particular brand, a strawberry-flavored lager with a reasonably high alcohol content, had been a favorite of his for many years. At the time, Marcus could think of nothing worse than strawberry-flavored beer, but had sampled some and made encouraging noises when offered out of sheer politeness.

The meeting had been cordial and almost formal, and Marcus had begun to realize nothing was ever going to happen between them, even before Daniel got called away within the hour after a brief but highly charged call from a colleague back at the station.

“You want something to eat?” asked Marcus, stepping out of the kitchen, wiping his forehead with a cloth as Benny sashayed off to see to another customer.

“Your man over there’s a piece of work,” said Daniel, nodding to the departing backside of Benny.

“But a bloody good and loyal worker. So to what do I owe this very nice pleasure?”

“Too early for that dinner you owe me, I suppose?”

Marcus tilted his head quizzically, not sure what Daniel meant.

“Is there somewhere we can sit, mate? I found out some things for you.”

“Damian Stone?” said Marcus, looking up eagerly. “Come into the back office.”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” said Daniel when seated in the tiny storage room that doubled as an office. “Twenty-five-year-old single Caucasian male from Frenton, regional marketing manager for a high street bookstore chain, no previous convictions, total clean slate.”

“Well, that settles that,” said Marcus, arms folded.

“What?” asked Daniel, shaking his head, not understanding.

“She was into older men. Tom’s ten years older. Still doesn’t explain why she was in the car that Friday lunchtime.”

“Off for a weekend romp, maybe?”

“No way. Anyway, she was supposed to attend a dinner party with Tom’s work people that evening. That’s why Moira picked up the girls from school.”

“Thank goodness,” said Daniel.

“But thanks for doing this, anyway, Daniel. Listen, I’ve been given complimentary tickets to a champagne brunch at a new hotel opening in the next couple of months. Sunday from eleven. Oysters, caviar, lobster, carvery, champers—the works. Thought it might be right up your street. How do you fancy being my date?”

“In lieu of dinner?”

“As well, if you like?”

“Sure. Let’s do the brunch,” he replied, grinning and slipping a piece of paper across the table. “More likely to work this time, if it’s a Sunday.”

“What’s this?” asked Marcus.

“Stone’s address. In case you wanted to make contact. Or if you could steal an hour or two off work right now, we could drive over there together.”

DAMIAN Stone’s house turned out to be a small but pretty Victorian terraced cottage bordering the common in Frenton. Snug, Raine would have called the place. Maybe she had, if they’d been friends. Walking up to the front door, he had a moment of trepidation. Daniel must have noticed, because he stepped forward to take the lead. Would the occupant be more or less likely to open up with a uniformed officer present? Marcus had no idea. Moreover, in the time since the accident, Stone’s family may have already sold the house. Would the new occupants have any idea about the previous owner? At the very least they might be able to point Marcus in the direction of Stone’s family. Or maybe Stone had a girlfriend who still lived here and might have known nothing about Lorraine being in the car. How awkward would that be?

While Marcus had been lost in thought, Daniel had already rung the doorbell. Pretty chimes echoed faintly from inside. As the silhouette of a figure filled the large frosted glass door panel, Daniel removed his cap.

“Can I help?” asked the man, opening the door wide before looking suspiciously at Daniel and taking in his uniform.

Slight of build, the man was not unattractive, but had a slight stoop forward, as though he had been hauling heavy weights around on his back all his life. If Marcus were to guess, he’d put the man in his early to midthirties. As the man was dressed a little shabbily in a soiled tee and jeans, Marcus assumed they had interrupted him doing some gardening or maybe home maintenance.

“Sergeant Mosborough. Kent Police. Are you the owner of this house?”

“I am now. Why? What’s this about?”

“And your name is?”

“Ken. Kenneth Villers. If this is about the break-in at number fifteen, I told your lot already that I didn’t see nothing. I was out all night with friends.”

“This isn’t about the break-in. It’s about a previous occupant, Mr. Damian Stone. Can we come in for a moment?”

“Damian’s dead,” said the man, his voice quieting.

“Yes, we’re aware of that. May we come in?”

Hearing Daniel slip into his official mode made Marcus grin. When the man held the door open obediently, Marcus followed in behind. The front door opened straight into a living area, with an old dark metal fireplace and grate, but now housing a gas version of a coal fire. With pine floorboards and bronze light fixtures, the old place had been beautifully renovated and decorated. Someone had very good taste. Either that or this guy had a lot more money than his appearance belied. Villers offered them a seat on a long brown leather chesterfield. Marcus sat, but Daniel remained standing.

“Mind if I use your bathroom, sir?” asked Daniel.

“Top of the stairs, on the right.”

“Cup of tea would be nice,” said Daniel, heading toward the stairs. “Milk with one sugar for me.”

Despite a barely audible sigh, Ken stepped into the open kitchen—much like Tom’s place but with more modern appliances—and began setting about filling a kettle with water.

While Marcus sat there, his phone beeped. When he pulled the phone out, the message from Tom read simply, girls want to go to a small farm tomorrow and want Uncle Marc to come along, too. Interested?

Marcus sighed. As well as sacrificing another Sunday morning, he would have to spend the day trying his best not to ogle Tom. He texted back a simple count me in.

“So why are you with the copper?” asked Villers.

“Look, I’m sorry about this, Ken. He’s actually a friend helping me out. We’re not here for any official reason. It’s just that I knew the woman in the car who was with Damian and wondered if you might have some answers.”

“Bradford? The one who died in the crash?”

“That’s right. Lorraine. So he had mentioned her before?”

“Not sure. They may have done yoga together. Then again, Stoner talked a lot of names. S’what marketing people do, names and places, organizing events and book signings, making guest lists. I rarely listened.”

“I see,” said Marcus.

“You her husband?”

“No,” said Marcus. “Her best friend.”

Just then Daniel came down the stairs and entered the room, holding a large silver-framed photograph in his hands. After flashing the photo at Marcus, he held the picture in front of his chest. The picture had Ken and another man standing together smiling. Done up in matching white tuxedos and black bow ties, drinking champagne from crystal flutes, they stood together on grand stone steps—the photographer positioned a couple of steps below them—while in the background a row of Doric columns indicated some kind of official building, a museum perhaps.

“That’s private property,” said Villers, stopping what he was doing.

“How long were you and Mr. Stone married?” asked Daniel.

What the hell? Marcus’s jaw dropped at that. But then, when he studied the photograph again, the fact was so blatant. Each held a glass out, but the fingers of each other’s hands were entwined in the other’s. Maybe you could call Damian Stone attractive, but not in a masculine sense. If Marcus had to use a word to describe him, he would have used the word pretty. In the picture, he appeared to be wearing eyeliner.

“Not married. Civil partnership. Three years,” said Ken.

“Oh God, Ken. I’m so sorry,” said Marcus.

“Yeah, well. Shit happens. Had over a year to try to get used to it,” said Ken, dropping tea bags into mugs and keeping his head down. But Marcus could hear in his voice that the memory still hurt. When Ken brought mugs of tea over and placed one on a coaster in front of Marcus, he paused a moment, looking puzzled into Marcus’s eyes.

“I know you, don’t I?”

For a moment, Marcus felt a rush of optimism. Had he met Ken and Damian Stone before while with Raine? And if so, when?

“Yeah,” said Ken, handing another mug to Daniel but with his gaze still on Marcus. “You’re that chef on the telly. Vine. The one what does traditional British food. Me and Stoner had our anniversary dinner at your Shepherd’s Bush restaurant. Your head waiter was a star. Made us feel really special. You’re one of us too, ain’t you?”

“I am. And I’m really pleased we gave you a good memory.”

“Were you and Mr. Stone exclusive?” asked Daniel out of the blue. While Marcus and Ken sat, Daniel remained standing by a bookcase. Marcus couldn’t help but show his disgust at the question, but Ken didn’t appear to mind.

“Mostly, yeah. We had an understanding.”

“What kind of an understanding? Did Mr. Stone date women too?”

“Dan!” said Marcus.

Ken’s sudden laugh sounded like someone sawing wood. “Damian used to tell people he was a prototype gay, a solid six on the Kinsey scale. He was one of those blokes who you just know are gay as soon as they open their mouths. The girls at work loved him like the brother they never had; they all turned out for his funeral. But if a woman ever hit on him, he’d run a mile screaming. And to be fair to him, Stoner wasn’t the one of us who messed around. Most of the time he was too busy. Either fixing up this place—he was the designer and decorator—or doing his jobs. But I had urges every now and then. He understood that.”

“So,” said Marcus to Daniel, “that answers that mystery. Raine was definitely not having an affair with Damian.”

But Daniel had already moved on. “Did you know where he was heading the Friday they died?”

“No. He did yoga in the morning and should have been home that afternoon.”

“At the Cumberland Health Sanctuary?”

“That’s the one.”

“Still doesn’t answer what they were doing driving south on the M25,” said Daniel.

“Look,” said Ken, “I don’t know if this helps, but sometimes Stoner did a bit of moonlighting. His company would have fired his arse if they’d known. But I’d sometimes help out if they were shorthanded.”

“What kind of moonlighting?” asked Daniel in full interrogation mode.

“Organizing kids’ parties, weddings, anniversaries, that kind of thing. He’d sort out venues, catering, staff, invitations, and everything. Reckoned that once he’d saved up enough, he was going to set up a full-time business. Get away from those bloodsucking corporate bastards.”

At first Marcus couldn’t see how that information helped, but once again Daniel piped up. “Did he have a list of preferred venues?”

“He did, as it goes. Five or six. Mainly around London. Usually depended on where the client lived or whether the guests needed accommodation too.”

“Any chance we can have a look?”

This time Ken simply reached around Daniel to a large box folder in the bookcase. He proffered the file to Daniel. “Knock yourself out.”

Marcus was not sure exactly what Daniel expected to find, but rather than question him, he went along with the idea. Daniel had the professional experience, after all. Forty-five minutes later, they came up with invoices from six venues Damian had used over the past three years, all dotted around the home counties and within easy reach of the M25.

“What exactly are we looking for, Dan?”

“It’s just a theory,” he said, jotting down contact details in his notepad from each of the invoices. “But maybe Raine was organizing an event. Maybe something for the kids. Who better to help with the arrangements than her gay yoga buddy?”

“Me, Dan. I’m her best gay buddy. If Raine had been organizing an event and wanted professional help, she would have come to me.”

“Point taken. Then maybe Raine was assisting Damian with an event. What did you say she did for a living?”

“I didn’t. But she worked part-time in a local naturopathic store. Selling and advising on alternative medicines, vitamins, herbs. That kind of thing.”

“She ever do any work in your restaurant? Wait tables or serve drinks?”

“Not a chance in hell. Raine, for all her positive traits, was naturally uncoordinated where restaurant or kitchen work was concerned. The only position she’d have suited brilliantly would have been the maître d’s role: meet, greet, and seat guests. But I already had those roles filled. And it’s not a job a caterer needs.”

“Still, it can’t do any harm giving these numbers a ring and checking if they remember having had any bookings from Stone or Bradford. Leave that with me and I’ll call you if I find anything.”

On their way out, Daniel thanked Ken for being so helpful and compliant, but Marcus stopped at the door and pulled out something from his wallet.

“Look, Ken. I know how hard it is to lose someone you care for. And this doesn’t really go anywhere near to helping fill that hole. But if you do find yourself uptown with a friend and fancy a free meal at Old Country—anything you want, my treat—just show this card to the head waiter. Or give me a call beforehand and I’ll make sure we reserve a table for you.”

“Wow,” said Ken, clearly taken aback. “That’s really… that’s really nice. Thanks, Marcus. One last favor?”

“Go on.”

“Any chance of a selfie with you? Otherwise my mates will never believe you were here in my home.”

Daniel patiently took the photos on Ken’s phone, shaking his head and smiling. But even he seemed pleased with Marcus as he drove him back to the restaurant.