‘I’m so damn embarrassed, the leader of the hunt, doing the flying squirrel in front of our newest member.’
‘I thought I’d get an instant ban for taking off.’
‘It was hardly your fault, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Not that I don’t go with your story that you’ve ridden racehorses for years, but no one shoots off like that from a hunt when the hounds are going in the other direction. I’m just pleased it was me who fell, not you.’
‘Your name. It’s a coincidence. I have a friend in the police who mentioned a Curzon-Cammell—’
‘Other way around—’
‘No, I think they mentioned Curzon-Cammell. They were talking about the person who owned the flat the Sidmouth biker stayed in, you know, the guy who …’
She stopped. He was staring at her.
‘That was me.’
‘You?’ She did her best to feign surprise.
‘There’s hardly going to be a Cammell-Curzon and a Curzon-Cammell.’
‘I saw the biker was from Russia.’
‘Russia? I wasn’t told that. I was told Ukraine. Thought I should help, so I cut the rate a little. But it’s not my bag, meeting the tenants. I can’t tell you, when the girl died, when the attack in Sidmouth happened – attack or accident or whatever the hell it was – how sick I felt. What had he been using my bloody place for?’
‘It’s so horrible. Did the police speak to you?’
‘Of course! The Met. I told them exactly what I’ve just told you. Never met him, never interviewed him, all done through an agency.’
Stevie peered at him. She simply had no register for this kind of man. She saw the blood and scratches on his face and wondered if he was in shock, and the shock and embarrassment were making him so talkative. She wanted more.
‘Even with an agency,’ she said, ‘wouldn’t he need referees or whatever? Or would you supply them?’
‘Some landlords do that. It’s not strictly legal. The referee should know the person. Wasn’t his a doctor? I can’t remember. For all I know, he might have made a name up. A funny thing though – the police came back to me later, Devon Police. They’d found things in the flat but they couldn’t say what they were. I guess I was being immature.’
‘Meaning – sorry, I don’t get you.’
‘They were a bit bolshy. They wouldn’t tellmestuff, so I didn’t tellthemstuff. I should have, I know, but a landlord isn’t supposed to creep around a tenant’s flat. So I kept my mouth shut. I rather regret it.’
‘You kept your mouth shut about what?’
‘To be brutally frank, there was a bit of concern among the other tenants before the crash happened. So I had watched the place and let myself in when he was gone. The flat had virtually nothing in it. But there was a big machine in the living room. At first I thought, “DJ equipment”. It was a big boxy computer on a stand. I wasn’t sure it was for music. I think it was a 3D printer. The name on the outside was BONNET. Yup, I actually think it was a 3D printer, had BONNET on it in massive letters. I wonder what he was printing?’
Stevie said: ‘Maybe those ampoules. Or maybe he was making something radioactive?’
‘They swept the flat for radiation and found nothing. Odd, isn’t it!’ Richard Cammell-Curzon exclaimed. ‘Do you mind if I—?’ He showed a packet of cigarettes which looked to have been secreted in his waistcoat. ‘These two are in love, I reckon.’ As he lit the cigarette, he nodded at the horses. ‘Odd, very odd,’ he murmured. ‘Bonnet.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The estate where Lev Malnyk had lived was typical of the housing policy in the county. Six brand-new houses on a field, accessible down a narrow track – would it ever be turned into a proper road? Would the families here have a doctor, a school, or even a streetlight?
As Edward turned his moped up the narrow lane, he thought of the horror stories of people moving into new-builds and finding the plumbing was not connected or the electricity went out every time number six turned on their tumble dryer. And, of course, there were the new-build vigilantes – people like Richard Cammell-Curzon, who had people spotting new houses for them, outbidding locals and immediately turning them into rentals or, worse still, holiday lets. No council, no government had yet found a way to rewire the housing market in places like Devon, where London money always came in bigger briefcases.
He stood at the gate, where the track became a smoother, more solid strip of tarmac. He bet these houses had looked wonderful in an estate agent’s brochure. Had Kim sold them? He rang her.
‘No, not me. I would have said! Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Standing staring at them, trying to work out which one Lev was in.’
‘Ask anyone, they’ll know.’
