‘What’s all this worth, Superintendent Haddock?’

  ‘Call me Sauce, please. In the right auction house, properly promoted, it’s got to be millions. But I guess to Sandra it was all priceless.’ He frowned. ‘But it’s not what I’m looking for. Let’s move on.’

  The two men moved on, beginning their search at the top of the house, a glazed turret that an estate agent would have called a belvedere. There was enough room for a table, a small bar, and two chairs, from which the occupants could enjoy a spectacular ocean view.

  ‘Our constables start at under twenty-five thousand dollars a year,’ Dossor said. ‘And for that they protect people with this level of wealth.’

  ‘I know,’ Haddock sighed. ‘The clown in the gatehouse probably gets paid more than that.’

  They moved downstairs, inspecting each of the five bedrooms in turn. Four gave no sign of recent use, but the largest, with a balcony that also looked beyond the garden and swimming pool towards the sea, had been left with make-up and a hairbrush, on the dressing table. There were three drawers on either side. The Scot checked them, finding underwear, socks, and a small jewel box that contained earrings and a few costume rings. Similarly the wardrobe unit held nothing exceptional, only clothing and shoes.

  ‘How old was Ms Bulloch?’ Dossor asked as he emerged from the en suite bathroom.

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘Forty and single. There’s no sign of a man ever having been in there, and in my experience they always leave a trace. She had a vibrator, but so what? I saw no condoms and no contraceptive pills. The cleaners could have been more thorough,’ he observed. ‘There’s a toe-nail clipping on the floor, but it’s painted, so I’d guess it’s hers. Did you see any sign of jewellery?’

  ‘Only a few things in a box,’ Haddock said. ‘Nothing significant. That fits with the description of her style that I have from people who worked with her.’

  The staircase was wide enough for them to descend side by side. As they did, they were surprised to see a woman standing in the hallway. She was silvery blonde, buxom and, Haddock knew instinctively, British.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ she demanded, in clipped tones that might have been modified Essex. ‘Who are you guys?’

  ‘Does my uniform give you a clue, madam?’ Dossor said, icily.

  ‘Should it?’ she challenged. ‘All you guys wear uniforms of one sort or another. Okay, so you might be police, but that doesn’t give you the right to go looking through people’s houses in a closed community.’

  ‘This does.’ Haddock held up the court warrant. ‘Superintendents Haddock and Dossor.’

  She peered at him. ‘You’re not from around here, love. Scotland, innit, from that accent.’

  ‘Wow,’ he exclaimed. ‘We could make a detective out of you. Any vacancies, Alan? The lady’s about to introduce herself, aren’t you madam?’

  She sniffed. ‘Liz Brown,’ she replied. ‘Live next door at number ten, me and my old man. I came in to see what you’re up to.’

  ‘I commend your public spirit,’ the Scot said, ‘but we’re not going to discuss our business. If you’ll oblige us by going back home, when my colleague and I are done, I’ll come and see you, and we can have a chat then. Meanwhile do you know your neighbour well?’

  ‘Well? Not well, but yeah, I know her.’

  ‘Right, we can discuss that but for now . . .’

  Liz Brown sighed. ‘I know, fuck off.’

  Involuntarily, Haddock smiled. ‘I wasn’t going to put it quite like that, but yes please, off you fuck, and I will see you shortly.’

  She left, holding her dignity round her like an invisible robe.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand a year,’ Dossor repeated. ‘She probably spends that much at the hairdresser. Come on Sauce, let’s do the rest.’

  The ground floor, behind the entrance gallery was open plan, kitchen and dining area to the right, a large television with one armchair to the left. The central area was seated, but it was not large. The house had been designed for mainly outdoor living.

  Haddock was admiring the layout when his colleague called out. ‘What’s this?’ He turned to see him standing by a door beyond the television area.

  ‘Toilet?’ he suggested.

  ‘If it is,’ the Manchester Bahamian countered, ‘it’s the only room in the house with a Yale lock. That could be a problem if you were in a rush.’

  Haddock crossed the space to join him. As he did so he took the key-ring from his pocket; studying it he saw no Yale key. ‘Bugger,’ he muttered. ‘Do you have a locksmith on call?’

  Dossor smiled. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but first . . .’ From his trouser pocket he took what seemed to be a collection of long narrow tools. ‘You might not want to witness this,’ he chuckled, as he turned to block the door, shielding his actions. ‘The warrant doesn’t cover it.’ He went to work. A few seconds later, there was a click and the door opened. ‘I’m old school,’ he explained. ‘Whenever I have a job like this I always come equipped, just in case.’ He stood aside as Haddock joined him.

  ‘Not a toilet,’ the Scot murmured.

  The room was, in fact a small office. It was furnished only with a desk, a swivel chair and a set of Harman/Kardon candlestick speakers, that were connected to an Apple iMac computer. Haddock felt a surge of excitement. ‘This,’ he murmured, ‘could be gold dust.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The location, the place where Sandra’s body was found, it had been stripped clean of every trace of her. There was no phone, no tablet, no laptop, although we know for sure that she had all three of those. This,’ he said, pointing at the desktop, ‘if we can get into this, we could find her whole life on here . . . that’s assuming she actually used it. But even if she didn’t, it might connect to the Cloud, where almost everything’s backed up these days.’

  ‘Do you have Ms Bulloch’s email address?’

  ‘Yes, and the Glasgow team have looked at it, but she doesn’t appear to have used it since she left for Europe, other than to make final arrangements to pick up her motor home in Germany. If we can get into this thing . . .’ He switched it on and waited for a few seconds, as it booted up. An image of Leo Speight and Sandra Bulloch appeared, a selfie, taken in what might have been a Highland location. At the foot a cursor flickered, awaiting a password. On impulse Haddock pulled the keyboard across, typed in ‘Champion’ and clicked, only to see the asterisks in the space bounce as it was rejected.

  ‘Do you have an IT department?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Dossor said. ‘We can help you with that. The warrant authorises the removal of personal items at our discretion. I have some clever men and women who should be able to get in there. I’ll take it to them.’

  ‘What level of internet infrastructure will this place have?’

  ‘Ms Way will be able tell you, but if it isn’t full fibre I would be surprised.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Yes, there, behind the computer, that’s the router. It’s the same as the one I have at home, so I’d bet that BTC’S the provider. I’ll have someone contact them and check. However it’s just possible that the service is provided centrally, through the community. Whatever, leave it with me.’

  ‘Thanks, although the main thing will be to get us into this computer. Minimum, it’ll show us her search history up until her departure. Progress at last, Alan.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s unplug the thing. I can take it back to my office now, so my people can get to work. That’ll let you go and finish your conversation with the delightful lady next door. D’you want me to do a background check on her, by the way?’

  ‘To cover all the bases, yes I would. I don’t expect any surprises, mind but I preach thoroughness to my team until they’re sick of hearing it, so I need to practise it myself. Let me help you take this down to your car, Alan, before I go into number ten.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Everything must be in there, Sauce, if you think about it. The lady doesn’t appear to have kept any paper records at all.’

  ‘She must have; nobody’s completely paper free. We just haven’t found them yet. I’m probably going to need a more detailed search, Alan,’ he warned.

  Haddock carried the computer down to the police vehicle, while Dossor took the keyboard, mouse and cables. As he closed the rear door, his colleague took a card from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Contact details,’ he said. ‘Can I have yours, please?’

  ‘I’ll text you,’ the Scot promised. ‘That’ll put my mobile in your contacts. We’re staying at the Bright Islands Resort.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Wife and daughter. It’s a dirty job . . .’

  ‘But someone’s got to do it,’ Dossor laughed, as he slid behind the wheel of his car.

  Haddock returned to Sandra Bulloch’s mansion, where he conducted another, quicker, search with no more success than the first. Frustrated, he reset the alarm and locked up, before cutting across the grass to the neighbouring property.

  Liz Brown’s front door opened as he reached it. She had changed from day pyjamas into a swim suit covered with a diaphanous robe. The carpet slippers she had worn earlier had been replaced by yellow plastic clogs. ‘Come through to the garden,’ she said, as he stepped inside.

  He glanced around. The entrance was different from number eleven, more conventional, square, with a staircase to the right and beside it a glass-fronted lift. The white walls were hung with prints and framed photographs, showing Brown and a white-haired man in a variety of locations and situations.

  The woman read his mind. ‘Yeah, I know. We don’t have any trophies to show off, Bry and I, just our memories. Mind we’ve got loads of those.’

  ‘Where is your husband, Mrs Brown?’ Haddock asked. ‘It is Mrs, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, with emphasis. ‘Call me Liz. My maiden name was Dors, would you believe. I ’ated it, got fed up early doors, with people calling me Diana, so I was more than happy to change it when Bry and I got hitched. He’s out just now, as he is every morning, at the country club; golfing. He’s getting on a bit now, but he can use a buggy so it’s okay.’

  ‘I don’t think you have a choice out here,’ Haddock observed. ‘Carts are compulsory. Good news for the caddies.’

  ‘You a golfer, Superintendent?’

  He nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘What’s your handicap?’

  ‘At the moment it’s two, but I can’t practise as much as I used to.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Bry’s twenty-two. He won’t let me play with him anymore, ’cos I always beat him.’

  She led him through the house. The furniture was dark, leather seating, wooden tables. ‘We brought all this stuff with us when we moved, eight years ago,’ she explained, as if reading his thoughts. ‘We sold our big house near Chelmsford when Bry retired. We still have a little flat there for when we visit our boys and the grandkids, but otherwise we’re here for good.’

  ‘What did your husband do?’ Haddock asked. He had no real interest in his career, but experience had taught him that when interviewing a compulsive talker, it always helped to feed the addiction.

  ‘He was a consultant. That’s what I usually tell people and usually that’s enough. Actually he was a proctologist. Know what that is?’

  The detective nodded.

  ‘Yeah. Arseholes, that’s what people normally think when I tell them, but it’s much more complicated than that. A colorectal surgeon, that’s what he was. He did some NHS work, but latterly it was all private. He had quite a client list. Film stars, MPs, a couple of oligarchs, even some Royals; half the crowned arses in Europe, he’ll tell you when he’s had a few. Have a seat,’ she said, as they reached a suite of brown rattan garden furniture. ‘Would you like a drink? I don’t mean booze. I’ve got that but I don’t myself. Got to take care of Bry. These days he shifts enough for both of us.’

  ‘Anything with ice in it would be good,’ Haddock told her.

  She left him in the garden, feeling slightly enclosed by the flanking trees, high enough to block the view from Sandra Bulloch’s balcony and from the home on the other side.

  ‘Here you are love,’ Liz Brown exclaimed, handing him a tall glass of a bubbling yellow liquid decorated with mint and slices of lime. ‘Barley water and soda. Can’t beat it. Makes me think of Wimbledon. Went there once. One of Bry’s clients got him seats in the Royal Box. We sat behind Tom Cruise, and String.’

  ‘String?’

  ‘Ah sorry, Sting. I always get his name wrong.’ She settled into a chair, rubbing her back against its cushion as if she was relieving an itch. ‘Well,’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s the news about our Sandra? She’s a deep one, but I didn’t expect to find cops raiding her house. What’s she done?’

  ‘She’s dead, I’m afraid,’ Haddock said.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ She sat bolt upright the itch forgotten. ‘What? How? What happened?’

  ‘She was murdered. I’m head of the team that’s investigating her death.’

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’

  Haddock said nothing, allowing the woman to absorb and process the shock, and to react in her own time.

  ‘How?’ she asked, when she was ready. Her strident tone had become little more than a whisper.

  ‘I won’t go into detail,’ he replied. ‘All I’ll say is that she was killed a few months ago, but was only recently that her body was discovered.’

  ‘Who done it?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. Sandra Bulloch was a private person; she was also a former police officer. I didn’t work with her but several of my colleagues did. None of them really knew her, though. We need to find people who did. Did you, and your husband?’

  Brown stared at her shimmering swimming pool, as if she had lost the power of speech. For a few moments Haddock feared that she had, until, ‘I suppose,’ she said, almost a concession. ‘I suppose we did. Certainly we knew her better than we know anyone else in this place. This is a fucking ghost town, truth be told. A very hot ghost town, but that’s what it is. It took us a while, mind,’ she added, her voice regaining its former timbre. ‘We knew Leo, before Sandra arrived here. He was some machine. A quiet man but an absolute fucking killer.’

  ‘In the ring,’ Haddock agreed. ‘Yes, that was his reputation.’

  ‘Not only there,’ she countered. ‘Anywhere, I’d say. One time, he was having dinner with us, and he got talking about a Russian guy he said had stolen his gold medal in the Olympics, because the judges were bent. He’d have killed him, given half a chance, I could see it in his eyes. I met a couple of blokes in England that were hoodlums that had never been caught. You could tell with them, and Leo was the same, only far more dangerous.’

  ‘Did they ever come here together, Sandra and him?’

  ‘No, love. Sandra only moved out after he died. We thought it was just to get over it, but she stayed on here, full-time. She kept herself to herself, for, oh, must have been the first year she was here, but finally she came in to ours for a drink, then for dinner. After a while we invited guys along, to make up a four. Attempted match-making I suppose you’d call it, but she wasn’t interested. She did a return dinner once with one of them included, but that was it. He told me later that walking into her house, he’d been fucking terrified. It was like Leo Speight’s ghost was intimidating him, that’s what he told me afterwards. The only man I ever saw her with more than him that was Ryan, but he was definitely only a friend.’

  ‘Ryan?’ Haddock repeated.

  ‘Ryan Pilgrim,’ Brown explained. ‘He’s a pro golfer, a touring player attached to the country club. Sandra was a member too. He gave her a few lessons when she joined. She liked him and they became a sort of a couple, like I said, friends. After that, if Sandra had us in for dinner, he’d be there unless he was away playing somewhere.’

  ‘Friends with benefits?’

  ‘Definitely not. Sandra was done with men, she told me one night when she’d had a couple of drinks. She said she’d had a bad experience before Leo. After that, and what happened to him, her bedroom door was definitely closed. “With a combination lock, Liz,” she said. There was one, apart from Ryan, that she was close to, she told me, back in Britain, but he was like a son. He was Leo’s boy from when he was young; Gordon, she said he was called, her project. In fact, the last time I saw her . . . Christ, nearly a year ago, when I think about it . . . she said she was going back to tour Europe with him, and to sort a few things out.’

  ‘To what?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Sort a few things out; that’s what she said. “Things or people?” I remember I asked her. She shook her head and said “Just business.” That was all. I knew she’d inherited millions from Leo, but she never really talked about that side of her life. She dropped the odd name . . . an Italian called Giuli-something that she said was nutty, a guy called Charlie she said was her property guru, and another called Gino . . . but that was all.’

  ‘What about her sister? Did she ever mention her?’

  ‘Sister? I never knew she had one. That sums her up, my neighbour Sandra, really.’ To Haddock’s surprise, Liz Brown’s eyes glazed. ‘A woman of mystery,’ she murmured, her voice faltering, ‘right up to the end.’

  Fifty-Five

  ‘This is a little off piste, Dolça,’ Bob Skinner observed. ‘I tend to hold all my meetings in the office, not in a city centre coffee shop.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ she replied, ‘and I wouldn’t have dreamed of suggesting it, but I didn’t want to have to sign Jordi into the office. They might have wanted to know who he is, and why he’s here.’

  ‘I could have fixed that, but never mind.’ He looked at their companion, a lean man in his mid-twenties with sandy hair and a pointed chin that gave him a fox-like appearance. ‘Now I’ll ask. Who are you, Jordi, and why are you here?’

  ‘He’s my research . . .’ Dolça began but he held up a hand to stop her.

  ‘Let him tell me.’

  ‘I’m her researcher,’ Jordi Poch said. ‘I’ve been helping Dolça with the investigation that you asked her to undertake.’