Chapter Four
I drove west, along the M4. I turned off the motorway at junction 34 then made my way past a vineyard, a sewerage works and lots of farmland before arriving in the Vale of Glamorgan. Tusker Hall was on the road to St Hilary, though located a few miles short of the village itself. I was driving past a forested area and the rain was streaming down. In fact, it was raining so hard I nearly missed the junction that took me towards Deke Spencer’s country pile.
I parked my Mini, adjusted my trench coat and walked towards the ornate gates of Tusker Hall. There was an intercom on the gates, so I pressed a button, stated my business and, to my surprise, was granted access to the driveway.
The rain was matting my hair and I was feeling dishevelled and in need of a bath. But I ploughed on, past the sheep and cows, which appeared to roam free in the grounds of Tusker Hall, along the driveway to the front door. Like Castle Gwyn, Tusker Hall was another Victorian folly. Castellated turrets and a swooping concave parapet linking two solid square towers dominated the building. The arrow slits were presumably fake and the battlements were plainly for show. I’m not a ‘pink’ girl – I prefer darker hues – but I was touched by the pink plaster, which covered the walls.
Five low steps led to a white, arched door. I skipped up those steps and rang a bell, positioned at the side of the door. Large arched windows flanked the door, and this pattern was repeated in the upper storey of the building, with another window replacing the ground floor door.
I could feel the rain running down the back of my neck and I found my mind wandering to what I could throw into the microwave for dinner when the door opened and a man greeted me. He was in his mid-forties with smiling blue eyes, bushy eyebrows and dark, collar length, wavy hair curling around his ears. He possessed an aquiline nose and a charming, white-toothed smile. He was in reasonable shape with no excess fat and he stood on his doorstep with his hands in his jeans pockets, thumbs exposed, his shirt open at the neck. His open shirt revealed a medallion and a lot of chest hair. The medallion carried an inscription, possibly a fertility symbol, maybe his initials, badly engraved. Like so much of life, it remained a mystery to me.
“You’re the enquiry agent?” He had a slow drawl, a mid-Atlantic accent, suggestive of ample time spent in the USA. As he spoke, a devious twinkle appeared in his deep blue eyes. Watch this one, he might be slippery. “How can I help you, lady enquiry agent?”
“You’re Deke?”
He nodded.
“I’m Sam, Sam Smith. I’m working for Derwena de Caro, investigating the possibility that she has a stalker.” I flashed my ‘access all areas’ badge. “I understand you might have seen the stalker. Can I have a chat with you about him?”
“Sure, lady, step inside, get out of the rain. You can have a chat with me about anything.”
I entered Tusker Hall and Deke Spencer led me to his library. In truth, I was in awe. I love books and the solid wall of bookshelves took my eye, almost blinding me to the crested wood panelling, the brass fittings of the large, open fireplace and the ornate glass chandelier, dangling from the vaulted ceiling.
“Great place.” My eyes were still on the books, then I noticed a series of pictures, modern portraits of an attractive, thirty-something lady. “Your wife?”
Deke grinned, revealing his pearly-white teeth. He nodded. “Married five years next month and I’ve been faithful to her since the day. Free love’s a great thing, but I’ve done all that in the naughties. Now I’m strictly one on one and I tell you what, you can’t beat it.” He studied my hands and noted the lack of finger rings. “Are you in a relationship?”
Did Marlowe count? Probably not. I shook my head, “No.”
Deke frowned, his malleable features creasing into a sombre glower. “You should be with someone. A girl as pretty as you shouldn’t be on her own. It’s not right, it goes against nature.”
“Are you big on nature?”
“Yeah. The greenery, the planet, anything natural, I’m big on that.”
I turned my attention back to Deke’s library, running a finger over the spine of a book – Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. I loved that book as a child. Maybe because I spent so many hours alone, in my own world, I could identify with Robinson Crusoe.
“I love your library,” I enthused. “Have you read all these books?”
Deke nodded, and the thoughtful look on his face hinted at sincerity. “Most of them. I’m working my way through Descartes at the moment – ‘My senses lie to me. They inform me that straight sticks in water are bent. There is no conclusive way to prove that all my experiences aren’t just dreams or hallucinations’. Have you read Descartes?”
I shuffled my feet and gave Deke my empty-headed blonde smile. “I struggle with Cosmopolitan, that’s about my limit.”
“No it’s not,” he replied firmly, his face serious again. “You’re a smart cookie, I can tell. And I know I’m right because I’m a good judge of character.” He was talking to me while gazing at his wife’s portraits. I felt a little uncomfortable, but I accepted the compliment and concluded that I liked the man. True, there was a mischievous look in his eye, a look that said, be wary. But forewarned is forearmed and I felt easy in his company.
I decided to be cheeky. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but, how did you get hold of this place?”
“Hard work. And luck. I’m a businessman.”
“What line of business?”
“Import-export.”
My mind slipped back to Woody’s comment about ‘needing some love’ and I jumped to a conclusion. “By import-export, do you mean drugs?”
“Now you’ve offended me.” Deke pulled a long face. He furrowed his brow. He looked suitably offended. But the playful nature of the man would not be denied and a smile soon returned to his lips. “If I placed my hand on the Bible and swore that I’m not a candyman, would you believe me?”
“Are you religious?”
He shrugged. “I believe in a Higher Power.”
“Do it.” I returned his smile. There was something about his personality that made me feel mischievous.
Deke walked along the wall of books. He selected a large Bible from a bottom shelf and placed it on a richly polished mahogany table. Then, he intoned, “I swear on this Bible that I, Deke Spencer, am not a drug pusher.” With his declaration complete, he gave me a wide grin. “Convinced?”
I laughed. “Not really.”
Deke echoed my laughter. “You’re good. You make me smile. I like you.”
Great, we’d established a mutual-admiration society. And I could have gone on, admiring his books for the rest of the evening. But matters were pressing and I was here to discuss Derwena’s stalker, so I moved the conversation on to him.
“You’ve known Derwena a long time.”
“Yeah, our families go way back. I’m older than Derwena, but I knew her when she had holes in her shoes and her mother used to boil her nappies in a pot. My family were not much better off. I had holes in my trousers and used to scavenge on the coal tips for coal to warm our house. We had nothing but each other. By that, I mean we had a sense of community, togetherness, all for one, one for all.”
“What was Derwena like as a youngster?”
“All she wanted to do was sing. In school concerts, Sunday at chapel, impromptu shows in her mam’s front room. At sixteen, she was doing the clubs. She told the booking agents that she was older and with make-up on, she could pass for twenty easily. Then one night she was spotted and whisked off to the wicked city that is London. Sadly, it didn’t work out. Her manager was more of a pimp than a music man and she had to work her passage, if you know what I mean. But still she kept on singing – she worked Soho top to bottom. Then she got her big break when Milton heard her voice. Milt is a genuine music man; he’s in it for the songs. He held her hand and walked her through all the publishing houses in the wicked city. Eventually, he
found someone who’d take a chance and he paired Derwena up with Woody. Woody’s a bit of a cement-head, but he’s got talent and he knows how to write a song. He penned a string of hits for Derwena and with her looks and his musical ear, they cleaned up. Milt kept a tight rein on them in those days, but with success came more pressure and pressure needs its own balm. Woody had affairs, Derwena hit the booze and even Milt split from his long-time boyfriend. It all got crazy and when it got crazy, the hits dried up. Milt got his act together and tried to steer them into calmer waters, but Woody still has trouble keeping his trouser snake zipped and Derwena will sit up and beg the moment someone pops a cork. They’re my friends, don’t get me wrong, and I like them. But I think their glory days have gone.”
“It all sounds very sad.”
“That’s showbiz, honey. They chew you up and spit you out. Why should the executives worry, there are hundreds more like Derwena out there. A pretty face, a decent voice, a catchy song...two years in the limelight, another bundle in the exec’s bank account and it’s time for champers in the Bahamas. Chin-chin, what-what.”
“You sound cynical.”
“I don’t like double-standards; I don’t like people who rip other people off. I don’t like to see my friends getting hurt.”
“And where does the stalker fit into this?”
“Who knows?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“I saw something. But I’ll be honest with you, I like a joint. I was in the castle relaxing. Maybe I saw something; maybe I saw shadows in the smoke. Maybe we’re all shadows, maybe this is all a dream and the reality is locked inside our heads. Maybe we need to find our peace with nature before we can find the golden key. Maybe the trees are our masters and subconsciously we’re working for them.”
I grinned. “And maybe the planet is travelling through space on the back of a giant whale.”
“Yeah.” Deke nodded his head, slowly. He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. He pursed his lips and stared into the middle-distance. “Now that is a thought.”
“I was joking.”
He shot me a serious look. “I’m not.”
I walked away from Deke’s mansion with my head buzzing, as though I were surrounded by a swarm of bees. I was deep in thought, so deep in thought that I wandered on to the grass and trod in a cowpat. At least that’s reality, I thought, at least I knew for certain that my right foot was sinking deeper and deeper into cow shit. And after a day spent in the surreal world of Derwena de Caro, I was grateful for that reality, whatever its form.