Deadly Deceit Read online

  DEADLY DECEIT

  Nancy Buckingham

  Chapter One

  Over dinner, Kate Maddox and Richard Gower were playing the Lookalike game.

  The dining room of the Palacio Palmela in Lisbon had a muted air of high-tone luxury. Originally the home of a wealthy eighteenth-century merchant who’d believed in denying himself nothing that money could buy, the hotel kept up that tradition for its clientele. Kate and Richard, each of them prevented by pressure of work from taking the longer holiday together they’d hoped for, were instead five-starring it for a long weekend.

  From among the other diners they had already labelled several passable lookalikes. They’d agreed on Meryl Streep, Gore Vidal, and John McEnroe. Disagreed on Margaret Thatcher and Jolly Joliffe, Kate’s lugubrious superintendent.

  They finished a scrumptious concoction of veal and kidneys in a rich cream sauce. A waiter shimmied over and deftly removed their plates, while another balletic waiter wheeled across the lavish dessert trolley. Richard chose caramelised orange, and Kate spoiled herself with a helping of early strawberries and yet more sinful cream. Dammit, this was supposed to be a holiday.

  As she picked up her spoon to dig in, her glance strayed over Richard’s shoulder.

  ‘Look who’s just walked in! Jonathan Miller and Shirley MacLaine. No, don’t look! They’re heading this way.’

  Too late, Richard had turned his head.

  ‘Bugger it,’ he muttered. ‘Of all the filthy luck. Just when I thought we’d finally managed a few days to ourselves, away from everyone we know.’

  The female lookalike had spotted them. She came sweeping up to their table, her male companion trailing behind her.

  ‘Richard Gower!’ she exclaimed, beaming her delight. ‘Fancy seeing you here. What brings you to Lisbon? Alec, you remember Richard, don’t you? You know, the editor of the Marlingford Gazette. He owns it, too, of course.’

  Richard levered himself clumsily to his feet. His left leg, injured when he’d been a war correspondent, was playing him up after rather too much rubber-necking around the sights of Lisbon this afternoon. The two men exchanged civil nods as they shook hands, neither of them overwhelmed with pleasure.

  ‘This is Kate Maddox,’ Richard told them. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kate Maddox, of the South Midlands Police. Kate, this is Major and Mrs . . . Bletchley, isn’t it? They live in our neck of the woods, over at St Agnes-in-the-Wold.’

  ‘Please, Richard, we’re Alec and Heather to you,’ the wife gushed. ‘Kate, I’m delighted to meet you. I thought your face looked familiar just now, and of course I’ve seen photographs of you in Richard’s newspaper. You’re the famous lady who’s been jerking our local police force into the twentieth century. About time, too.’ She gave Kate a coy look. ‘So you and Richard are here for ... a little holiday?’

  Amused by the telling pause, Kate said, ‘Only a very little holiday, unfortunately. This is our first day, and we fly home on Tuesday evening. And you?’

  ‘We arrived on Wednesday, and we’re here for another week at least. But it’s chiefly business for us. Alec’s in the wine trade, you see, so we often have to come to Lisbon. We always like to stay at the dear old Palmela. It has such style, don’t you agree? And the food’s quite tolerable, too.’

  Kate laughed. ‘To be fair, the food’s distinctly above tolerable, judging by the meal we’ve just eaten.’

  After a few more exchanges, both parties agreeing they were so lucky with the weather, the Bletchleys passed on to their table. Kate watched as the major seated his wife attentively, his hand hovering above her shoulder in a gesture that was halfway protective and halfway possessive. He clearly adored her and seemed glad to have her entirely to himself again.

  Scarcely more than half an hour later, while Kate and Richard were sitting over coffee and Portuguese brandy at a table set beneath a jacaranda tree in the lamplit courtyard, the Bletchley pair reappeared. Hardly long enough to do justice to the lavish five-course dinners that were served at this place, Kate thought. The major looked distinctly dyspeptic, though, so he probably had to eat sparingly.

  ‘So here you are!’ Heather exclaimed in a bright voice. ‘Mind if we join you?’

  Kate forced her face into a welcoming smile. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful here?’ said Heather. ‘The air, the scent of flowers. That song isn’t wrong about April in Portugal.’

  ‘We’re well into May,’ her husband pointed out dryly, but there was fond indulgence in his tone.

  She gave his wrist a playful slap. ‘Oh, Alec, don’t be so unromantic. April, May, what’s the difference?’

  ‘About ten degrees Farenheit, at a guess.’

  ‘Men’ His wife’s laugh tinkled gaily.

  Making conversation, Kate remarked, ‘Richard and I are going to a Fado club later on. It’s an experience that mustn’t be missed, so we’re told. We’ve been given the address of a little back-street place where the Portuguese go themselves and you get the genuine article.’

  ‘Oh, you lucky things. I so well remember the first time Alec took me to hear Fado. Of course, that was before . . . well, late nights are ruled out for the poor darling now. Doctor’s orders.’

  Major Bletchley was frowning, not too keen on having his state of health discussed with comparative strangers. ‘If you want my opinion, Fado, and Flamenco too, are greatly overrated. More like wailing than singing, both of them. Give me a good tenor every time.’

  ‘Don’t be such a sourpuss, Alec.’ Heather smiled wistfully at Kate and Richard. ‘If you’re the least bit romantic like me you’ll just adore it tonight. Oh, how I wish it was possible for me to go, too. But I can’t, can I, not a woman on her own?’

  Alec tutted impatiently. ‘I’ve told you, my darling, you can always join one of those organised parties. You only have to ask at the reception desk and they’ll arrange it for you.’

  Heather made a face. ‘That’s not the real thing at all. The Fado clubs those parties go to are just commercialised places, geared to the tourist trade.’

  ‘If you like, Heather, you could come along with us.’ The words were out before Kate had time to think. She avoided Richard’s eye, knowing he’d be furious with her. She felt pretty furious with herself.

  ‘You really mean it?’ Heather was over the moon. ‘Isn’t that kind of them, Alec? You’re sure you wouldn’t mind if I go?’

  ‘Not at all, my love,’ he assured her, with a rare glimmer of a smile. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’ It could be, Kate thought, that love her as he might, the prospect of a few hours’ peace from Heather’s chatter was quite appealing.

  ‘Oh, I’m so thrilled. You really are sweet, you two. What time do you want to set out?’

  Richard glanced at Kate, his expression conveying that he’d have things to say to her in a minute, when they were alone. ‘How about ten o’clock?’

  ‘Is that okay for you, Heather?’ queried Kate. ‘We’ve been told the best Fado singers don’t come on till later in the evening.’

  ‘Ten o’clock’s fine by me,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby, shall I?’

  Her husband drew back an expensive cuff to glance at his expensive wrist watch. ‘That means you have almost an hour to titivate, and make yourself even more beautiful. And while I think of it, darling, ask at the desk for another key to our suite when you return in the early hours. Then you won’t need to wake me. You know I can’t get off to sleep again once I’ve been disturbed.’ He managed a thin smile again. ‘I hope you have a splendid time.’

  * * * *

  They took a taxi to the Fado club - or rather, as close to it as a taxi could get them. Alighting, they climbed a narrow, stepped street beneath balconies trailing geraniums. Then
, as they were turning into a cobbled alley, Heather halted with an exclamation of dismay.

  ‘Damn! I didn’t remind the people at the Palmela about Alec’s breakfast. He’s on a special diet, and they forgot this morning. I think I ought to telephone about it.’

  ‘Why not leave a message at the desk when we get back to the hotel?’ said Richard.

  Heather bit her lip. ‘I think I’d feel happier phoning now, then I shall have it off my mind.’

  ‘Right. Then you can phone from the Fado club.’

  At the address they’d been given, they were surveyed through a metal grille in a solid-looking wooden door before being admitted. Just like a speakeasy. Inside, they were greeted in Portuguese by a swarthy man in a wasp-waisted dark suit who could have played the part of a gangster any day. He was, however, exquisitely polite. He took the women’s coats, then in response to Heather’s mimed request to use a telephone, he led her with ceremony to a quaint, glass-doored callbox in one corner.

  ‘Okay?’ queried Kate, when she emerged a couple of minutes later.

  ‘It is now. Sorry to have kept you waiting, my dears, but I’m such a duffer with strange phones.’ Heather laughed gaily. ‘Right then, here’s where we start to enjoy ourselves.’

  At the foot of a short flight of steps, their escort drew back a heavy velvet curtain to reveal a large cellar spanned with stone arches. The place was crowded with people, all sitting squeezed together around small tables, on each of which was a flickering candle stuck into an empty wine bottle. Everyone was paying rapt attention to the spotlit singer. Middle aged, and dressed in all black with a fringed silk shawl slung around her shoulders, she was striking rather than beautiful, with gaunt features and drawn-back dark hair. In a rich, throaty voice she poured forth a ballad that sounded inexpressibly sad. Two guitarists accompanied her, stout elderly men who plucked the strings with impassive expressions on their plump faces.

  New arrivals were expected to wait until the fadista had ended her song and retired through a doorway. Under cover of the ecstatic applause the threesome were shown to a table, and Richard ordered a bottle of champagne. They immediately felt confident that they’d come to the right sort of place. The conversation all around them seemed exclusively Portuguese.

  ‘Such a difficult language,’ Heather sighed. This is the umpteenth time I’ve been to Lisbon since I married Alec, but I’m afraid I can still hardly speak a single word.’

  ‘How long have you two been married?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Three years next month. Both of us had been widowed for quite some time, and it was wonderful to find each other for a second chance of happiness. Dear Alec has his funny ways, but he can’t help his ill health, poor love. He’s really so thoughtful and considerate. Unlike my number one.’

  The impassive guitarists were stirring into life. The spotlight came on again and conversation abruptly tailed off. The fadista reappeared and struck a dramatic pose, tossing one corner of the black silk shawl over her shoulder. Again a torrent of passion and anguish flowed over them, which Kate found very moving. It was like nothing she’d ever heard before, but she knew that she’d remember this evening for a very long time.

  It was gone two-thirty when the three of them left, though the place was still more than half full. Companionably, a little tipsily, they made their way back along the cobbled alleyway and down the stepped street.

  ‘Fado really gets to you, doesn’t it?’ Kate mused aloud. ‘All that unrequited love and jealousy. The lamenting over life’s tragedies.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Come off it, we couldn’t understand a single word.’

  The two women instantly sided against him, pouring scorn.

  ‘You don’t need to understand the words,’ Heather reproached him. ‘The general drift of it should be perfectly obvious to anyone. The trouble with men, though, is that they have no soul. Oh good, look! There’s a taxi.’

  The Palacio Palmela was wrapped in silence. As they entered, the night porter greeted them with the courteous reserve of the Portuguese, and handed them their keys with a little bow.

  ‘Boa noite, senhor, senhoras.’

  The lift was like a gilt birdcage, wafting them upward two floors. Stepping out, they paused; their rooms lay in different directions.

  ‘I really enjoyed this evening,’ Heather told them. ‘It was so sweet of you to invite me to join you.’

  ‘Glad to have you with us,’ Richard declared gallantly.

  Heather kissed each of them. ‘Well, good night, then. And thanks again.’

  Walking along to their room, Kate said, ‘I really enjoyed myself, too. It was a good evening, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Better still if it had been just the two of us.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Where’s your charity, Gower?’

  ‘I didn’t pack any this trip.’ Stopping at their door, Richard inserted the key into the lock. ‘No more outings with Heather, understood? However sorry you feel for …’

  He broke off at the sound of a woman’s agonised scream echoing along the corridor. They both froze for an instant, then they were racing full pelt back the way they had come, past the lift gates and round a corner.

  Heather Bletchley was standing in the open doorway of the suite she shared with her husband, both hands to her face. Her screams had now become great gulping sobs.

  ‘Heather, what’s wrong?’ Kate asked, putting her arm around the distraught woman.

  ‘Alec . . . look!’ She pointed into the room with a shaking hand.

  Wearing blue silk pyjamas, Major Bletchley lay sprawled on the carpet beneath one of the two windows, face down. His whole head was battered and bloody. Kate couldn’t have any doubt that he was dead.

  Chapter Two

  Instinctively, Kate took charge. She asked Richard to see about summoning the police, while she stayed to look after Heather.

  ‘You’d better have a doctor sent for, too,’ she added quietly. ‘Heather’s going to need one.’

  By now other guests were emerging from their rooms and gathering round with awed curiosity. Kate quickly shut the door of the Bletchleys’ suite, taking care not to smudge possible fingerprints on the handle. To those who could understand English, she explained that there had been an incident and that the police would be arriving at any moment. Then she led the sobbing Heather away to the privacy of the room she was sharing with Richard.

  Pulling back the bed quilt, she persuaded Heather to lie down and drew it up to cover her. Kate herself sat on the edge of the bed, holding Heather’s hand in sympathy. Beyond making soothing noises there was little she could usefully say until Heather had calmed down a bit.

  Presently, Heather whispered in a choked voice, ‘Vince. I want Vince.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do. He’s a relative, is he?’

  ‘My son. I want him here.’

  ‘He’d be in England, I suppose? How can I locate him?’

  ‘His number is ... oh dear, what is it? Yes, I think I can remember.’ Stumbling, Heather had to correct herself twice, then was satisfied that she’d got it right. An 081 code, which meant outer London.

  A tap at the door heralded the doctor. A small, dapper man, who looked as if he’d been roused from bed. He had very little English but it hardly mattered. He’d obviously been briefed about what had occurred, and his manner towards Heather was gentle and kindly. While he was taking her pulse there came another tap at the door, Richard this time. Kate stepped outside to join him in the hallway.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Pretty bad. She’ll have to stay here tonight, Richard, and I can’t very well leave her alone. Will you find yourself somewhere else to sleep? I’ll collect together the stuff you’ll need.’ She smiled at him ruefully. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault, love. The police have arrived. They want to talk to Heather.’

  ‘The doctor’s here with her now. I’ll tell him.’

  The doctor had just finished examining. Heather. At the single word
‘Policia’ he shook his head.

  ‘No Policia! The senhora needs to rest now.’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘Amanha,’ he said firmly. Tomorrow, I will inform policia. Be assured!’

  Bloody officious medico, Kate would have thought in her police capacity back home. Blocking her access to a vital witness! Now she applauded him. Heather was clearly in no condition for questioning. The other side of the coin.

  Richard accepted the doctor’s message with a shrug. ‘I can’t see that it matters. I’ve already told them everything that either you or Heather could have said.’

  The doctor had sedated Heather. He left two more pills with Kate in case of need. Even before he’d departed, Heather’s eyelids were beginning to droop.

  Quietly, Kate lifted the phone and dialled the London number. The calling tone went on interminably. She was on the point of giving up when the receiver was lifted noisily and an irritable voice demanded, ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  ‘Are you Vince?’

  ‘So what if I am?’

  ‘Is your mother Mrs Heather Bletchley?’

  His manner changed and he asked anxiously, ‘Is something the matter with Mum? What’s happened? Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Kate Maddox. I’m a fellow guest at the hotel in Lisbon where your mother is staying, and she’s asked me to get in touch with you. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Major Bletchley is dead.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ A shocked pause, then, ‘What was it, a heart attack or something?’

  ‘No, he was killed. Murdered. Your mother would like you to come over to be with her.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He seemed stunned, understandably. ‘Mum’s okay, is she? I mean, she’s not been hurt?’

  ‘No, she’s quite unharmed. Just very upset. She was with us, my friend and me, when it happened. We’d been out this evening, while your stepfather went to bed. When we returned just a short time ago, she found him dead in their suite.’

  ‘Poor old Mum. How awful for her. Er . . . there’s a slight problem. I’d come like a shot, but the thing is I’m a bit skint right now. How about if Mum comes straight home and I meet her at the airport?’