Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [170]
She’d made the decision to turn up at Rutland Gate as who she was and not as who she had earlier pretended to be: someone in search of a piece of pricey Kensington property. She rang the bell for flat 6, and without asking who’d come calling upon her, Vivienne Tully— or whoever was inside her flat— had released the door’s lock. At that, Barbara reckoned she was expecting someone. Very few people were foolish enough to allow callers into their buildings without giving them a proper grilling. People ended up burgled that way. People also ended up dead.
It turned out that the expected visitor was an estate agent. Barbara learned this within three seconds of Vivienne Tully’s giving her a once-over. Head to toe and a look of this-can’t-possibly-be, and Vivienne was saying, “You’re from Foxtons?” Barbara might have taken offence at this, but she wasn’t there for a beauty contest. She also wasn’t there to seize the moment and run with it since there was no way on earth that Vivienne Tully was going to believe an estate agent hot to sell her property would show up at her door wearing high-top red trainers, orange corduroys, and a navy donkey jacket.
So she said, “DS Havers, New Scotland Yard. I need a word.”
Vivienne didn’t exactly fall back in shock, which Barbara found worthy of note. She said, “Come in. I don’t have a great deal of time, I’m afraid. I’ve an appointment.”
“With Foxtons. Got it. Selling up, are you?” Barbara looked round as Vivienne closed the door behind them. It was a gorgeous flat by anyone’s standards: high ceilings, elaborate crown mouldings, hardwood floors covered by Persian carpets, a few tasteful antiques, a marble fireplace surround. It would have cost buckets in the first place and it would take barrels to purchase it now. The odd thing was, however, that there was nothing of a personal nature anywhere. One could call a few pieces of carefully chosen German porcelain personal, Barbara supposed, but the collection of antique books on a bookshelf didn’t exactly look like something one browsed through on rainy days.
“I’m moving to New Zealand,” Vivienne said. “Time to go home.”
“Born there?” Barbara asked, although she already knew the answer. The other woman had no evident accent; she’d be able to lie if she wished.
She didn’t. “In Wellington,” she said. “My parents are there. They’re getting older and they’d like me back in the area.”
“Been in the UK a while, then?”
“May I ask what this call is about, Sergeant Havers? How may I help you?”
“By telling me about your relationship with Bernard Fairclough. That’d be a start.”
Vivienne’s expression remained preternaturally pleasant. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. Exactly what is this about?”
“The death of Ian Cresswell. It’s being investigated. I expect you knew him since you worked for Fairclough Industries for a time and so did he.”
“Then wouldn’t the logical question be what my relationship with Ian Cresswell was?”
“I reckoned we’d get to that next. Right now it’s the Fairclough angle of things that interests me.” Barbara looked round the room with an appreciative nod. She said, “Very nice digs. Mind if I park myself somewhere?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she went to an armchair, dumped her shoulder bag next to it, and sank down into its comfortable depths. She ran a hand along the fine upholstery. Bloody hell, is this silk? she wondered. Obviously, Vivienne Tully didn’t do her shopping at IKEA.
Vivienne said, “I think I told you I’m expecting— ”
“Someone from Foxtons. Got it. I’m good that way. Memory like the proverbial elephant if you know what I mean. Or is it the metaphorical elephant? I never know which. Well, never mind. You’d probably like things better if I scarpered before Foxtons shows up, eh?”