Murder... Now and Then (4 page)

He saw the nervous glance she gave as Holyoak and the reception party moved towards the glass doors to meet their guest of honour, and laughed. ‘He won't eat you,' he said.

‘I know.' She smiled. ‘But he's important.'

‘So what's your job?' Lloyd asked.

She looked a little uncomfortable as she answered. ‘I'm in public relations,' she said.

It sounded like a lie, but for the life of him Lloyd couldn't imagine what reason she would have for lying. It was, he supposed, a hazard of his at times antisocial occupation. You couldn't simply make small talk if half your life was spent interviewing suspects. ‘It'll all go without a hitch,' he assured her, employing more Welshness than was necessary in his accent. ‘You'll see. If the sniffer dogs say there aren't any bombs, I'm quite happy to take their word for it.'

She cast one last look towards the foyer, across which had been hung an outsize white ribbon. A pair of gold scissors lay on a small table. ‘It's not bombs I'm worried about,' she said, looking up at Lloyd.

This pleased him, since most of the ladies of his acquaintance were colleagues, and virtually as tall as he was; his lack of height had over the years been joined by a lack of hair, and both these inadequacies were less noticeable when someone had to look up at him. ‘Don't worry about him,' he said. ‘He's not important. None of them is. They're all just candidates in a general election.'

But she wasn't impressed by this piece of wisdom. ‘He's important enough to have armed police crawling all over the building,' she said.

Lloyd sighed. ‘ That's just a sign of the times,' he pointed out. ‘Not of his importance.'

‘He's a
cabinet minister
,' she said.

‘Not until he
and
his party are re-elected,' Lloyd said in a stage whisper. ‘Maybe not even then. He might find himself on the back-benches. But Holyoak's quite a big wheel himself, isn't he? Back in Amsterdam or wherever?'

‘Not just there,' she said, a note of irritation finding its way through her general nervousness. ‘I'd forgotten how cut off Britain is. Everyone in Europe knows Victor Holyoak. The papers here might not find him newsworthy, but they do abroad, believe me.'

Lloyd accepted the rebuke with a smile. ‘Well then,' he said. ‘You don't get the jitters just because he walks into a room, do you?'

‘Not always,' she said, with a half-smile. Then it went, and the little worried frown that Lloyd found very attractive came back. ‘But this is very important to him,' she said.

The minister walked towards the open doors followed by the sitting MP, two bodyguards, two TV news cameras, and a staggering number of press photographers, interested in the election, not – as the girl had pointed out – in some entrepreneur of whom their readers had never heard. Stansfield, with its marginal status, had become the place to be seen, and to be seen to care about very deeply, in the three-week scramble to Election Day.

‘Is there a collective noun, do you think?' mused Lloyd. ‘A snap of photographers?'

‘An exposure of photographers,' she said.

Nice, he thought and gave her an interested glance, but she wasn't looking at him. She was almost on tiptoe, anxiously watching progress as the ministerial party was met by Holyoak and Max Scott, the man who was so remarkably uninterested in his wife's health. Lloyd amused himself for a moment or two by playing Spot the Special Branch, as the minister began his speech. His remarks were short and to the point, time having become ever more pressing, and soon Lloyd and the girl were clapping with the others as the ribbon fell to the ground and the air shuddered to fifty cameras clicking at once and a small electrical storm of flash-bulbs.

A photo opportunity. That's what they called this sort of thing these days. A piece of stage-managed bonhomie to show the electorate what great guys they all were. Sometimes they patted puppies, sometimes they visited old people's homes, and sometimes, especially in a marginal constituency with rising unemployment, they opened factories. Since the election had been announced, Stansfield had been invaded by every charismatic and not so charismatic member of parliament the parties could lay their hands on. This one was relatively young, reasonably dynamic, and almost handsome – the jewel in the government's crown – and he always got national news coverage. Holyoak was lucky to have got him.

The Rules re-entered unobtrusively after the official ceremony finished; Holyoak and Zelda Driver immediately went over to them. Scott didn't. Zelda took the keys, and went off to the lift; Scott remained where he was.

‘Holyoak's stepdaughter did know he was going to make this announcement did she?' he said, as the crush of people began to organize itself into groups to which the minister could be introduced while casting furtive glances at the clock.

‘Oh, of course,' said Anna. ‘I think she just got a bit over-emotional, that's all.'

Lloyd and Anna had inadvertently become a group; the minister met them, had a sip of wine, and then he and his media circus moved on to the next port of call.

Lunch was in the boardroom, an impressively large and imposing room off the foyer. They filed in, and Lloyd was agreeably surprised to find himself seated next to Anna Worthing, and at the opposite end of the long table from Holyoak.

‘Holyoak won't actually be running this place himself?' he asked, over the soup.

‘No. That'll be Max Scott's job,' she said. ‘But Holyoak UK's head office will be based here – for the moment it's housed in this building, but a prestige building is being designed. And this factory will be just the first of Holyoak UK's acquisitions. Holyoak Security will be the flagship company.'

Lloyd raised his eyebrows a little at the idea, and the self-conscious quoting from some PR pamphlet.

‘This is just the start,' she said. She looked round the boardroom, and at the portrait of the firm's founder. ‘When the factory's in full production, it'll employ up to two thousand people. And he'll build more, in other areas. He wants Holyoak Security to be the biggest manufacturer of state-of-the-art security systems in Europe.'

‘So I'm told,' said Lloyd. He felt, and sounded, more than a little sceptical. ‘Up to' two thousand people could actually mean any number under two thousand, after all.

‘Another non-believer,' she said.

‘How many has it actually taken on so far?' Lloyd asked, his voice dry. ‘Apart from the ones already employed by Driver's?'

‘A hundred and fifty, since the expansion,' she replied.

More than Lloyd had thought, he conceded. ‘Not bad, I suppose,' he said. ‘But it's still a long way from two thousand.' He smiled. ‘And a very long way from Mr Holyoak's goal,' he added.

‘Victor Holyoak started out with nothing,' she said. ‘His wife had a dreadful stroke about twenty years ago. He looked after her and his stepdaughter – making himself a millionaire at me same time. If he wants something, he gets it. If he says he'll do something, he does it. He never gives up, he never lets himself be sidetracked – whatever his goal is, he achieves it. He's a household name in Europe. Do you know how many people Holyoak Industries employs altogether – how many facets of life Holyoak products enhance and improve?'

‘No,' said Lloyd, smiling. ‘But you can switch off the PR machine. I'm just a policeman.'

‘Sorry,' she said, flushing slightly, which Lloyd found even more attractive. ‘It's just that no one seems to believe in him here. And they should. He does what he says he'll do.'

‘Perhaps they've heard one too many promises,' said Lloyd.

‘He never goes back on his word,' she said, looking across at Holyoak and Scott, who were in conversation with two local councillors.

Scott looked edgy; he wasn't actually taking part in the small talk. Perhaps he was belatedly worrying about his wife, thought Lloyd.

‘Victor Holyoak doesn't want vast complexes churning out a product none of the employees gives a damn about,' Anna carried on as the lamb arrived. ‘That's why he invests in smaller businesses in smaller towns where they need the work.'

Because the rates are cheaper where they need the work, thought Lloyd. And they work for lower wages and waive their right to trade unions. And you can buy into going concerns for a song, and add them to the bewildering number of companies you already own, snuffing out their identity if they work, and their existence if they don't.

But he didn't voice the thought; policemen weren't allowed to have public politics and Holyoak Industries had built the new factory, and increased the labour force, so they must be reasonably serious about Stansfield at any rate. Besides, the food was surprisingly good for in-house catering. And he had no wish to offend his companion; he liked her. She must have learned all the PR hand-outs by heart, he thought, with a private smile. Every now and then she would speak in her own voice, but mostly it was pamphletese. There was something touching about that. And odd; she was obviously bright, and yet she seemed to be doing a job of which she had no real or personal knowledge.

Lloyd turned his attention back to the beard, unable to rid himself of his absurd notion about it. ‘The Holyoaks,' he said to the girl, leaning towards her so as not to be overheard. ‘Do they live in Stansfield?'

‘He moved to Stansfield about three months ago,' she said. ‘His wife came over first – she wanted to be with her daughter, and … well … no one was sure how much time she had left.'

‘And until three months ago he lived in Holland?' he asked.

‘Yes.' She looked up at him, a quick frown crossing her brow. ‘Why?'

He didn't answer, and contented himself with chat about this and that until the pudding arrived. Then, he thought it might be safe to try again.

‘Have you worked for Mr Holyoak long?' he asked.

There was a moment's hesitation before she answered. ‘Six months,' she said.

‘You won't know him all that well then,' Lloyd said.

She turned, her eyes almost angry. ‘I'm sure you've done your homework on that,' she said.

Lloyd smiled a little uncertainly, not knowing at all what she meant. All he knew was that he had seen that scar before. It was a long time ago; at least it wasn't in the recent past. He could hardly explain what was really bothering him, because it didn't make any sense.

‘Where did he live when he was in Britain before?' he asked.

‘I'm not that certain,' she said. ‘I think he lived in Hertfordshire.' This last piece of information was delivered with unmistakable defiance.

‘You wouldn't know how he …?' Lloyd ran a finger from his ear to his chin.

‘Are all these questions in the line of duty?'

‘No. Idle curiosity.' She was beginning to get very irritated, and he really didn't want to irritate her. He liked her. But he had to get to the bottom of the scar. ‘I just feel as if I've seen him somewhere before,' he said.

‘You might have seen him around,' she said a little doubtfully. ‘Though he has rather kept himself to himself since he's been here.'

‘Probably,' said Lloyd. But he had never seen Holyoak around, he was sure of that.

‘Oh, you mean Anna!' Holyoak's voice carried down the table, and Lloyd's companion looked up quickly, apprehensively.

‘Oh, Anna represented me in the early stages of negotiation,' Holyoak said. ‘But her forte is PR – and nobody does it better – isn't that right, Max?' he asked.

Scott smiled and nodded, but the tension was tangible. Something was going on, and Lloyd's curiosity was doubled, as he glanced at Anna's anxious face.

After lunch, the assembly moved back into the foyer, and Lloyd felt a little deserted as Anna moved round, keeping an unobtrusive eye on the young women who came round constantly with jugs of beer, bottles of spirits, wine, soft drinks, even coffee. Good coffee, Lloyd discovered, but not too many of his fellow guests would have found that out. Someone should be standing outside with a breathalyser, he thought, as practically everyone present took full advantage of Holyoak's generosity. Every now and then Anna Worthing would smile across at him, and he would feel ridiculously pleased that she had. But mostly, she was involved in what she was doing, and so was he.

He was watching Holyoak. He was watching him as he moved around the room, as he ate and drank, as he chatted to his guests. Lloyd felt like a child, fascinated by some non-conformity, knowing that he shouldn't stare. But he knew that scar. He knew that it ran through a beard, knew that that beard was old-fashioned, formal and clipped, Edwardian style. He frowned. It was that beard, and that scar. And one thing was certain. The absurdity which he hadn't put into words, not even in his own head, now wouldn't be denied. Lloyd had never seen Holyoak before; he would swear to that on a stack of PACE handbooks. But he had seen his beard and scar before.

And they were on the wrong face.

Max reached out a hand to put on the radio. He didn't much like music when he was driving, but tonight sleet was slicing across his windscreen, and the visibility was poor. He wanted some company, as he drove at a steady fifty, peering through the freezing rain at the signs leading him to the motorway.

‘Follow the signs for the A something-or-other,' his client had told him, entirely seriously, ‘ and you can't go wrong. You go through an underpass, and that brings you out on the slip-road to the motorway.'

Max, who had come the pretty way during the clear cold sunlight of the chill November day, had wanted to get home as early as possible, given that his appointment had dragged on until nine o'clock at night and that he had a very early start in the morning, what with the wedding and the ad that he wanted to get into Monday's paper. He had no girl for the office now that Susan had left. They had a tendency to do that if he got involved with them; once the affair had run its course, they would vanish. And getting involved with them was something Max seemed quite unable to avoid. He liked women. Genuinely liked them, not just going to bed with them. But that was the best bit, of course.