GRAVE MATTER

FOUR

It's almost six by the time we reach Amber Chase's house. Blanche came with me as support and as my driver.  I don't drive, never have done and never will do.

Three cars parked in the driveway.  Visitors.  That makes it more difficult. Finally, the front door opened by a woman in her early twenties, red-eyed from crying.  A young man, bearded and shaggy-haired, joins her, putting his arms around her waist. 

            "I'm looking for Mrs. Amber Chase," I say.

            "That's my mum," says the young woman. "I'm Louisa, and this is Jamie."

            "We phone ahead earlier," Blanche says, "I am the Home Office pathologist, and this is Justin Grave."

            The young couple stares at me, not knowing how to react.

            "Can we speak to your mother?" I ask.

            She led us to a sitting room where an older woman stood by the fireplace as though posing for a photograph.  She has delicate features, and short brunette hair swept back behind her ears.  I notice the family photographs on the mantelpiece—Louisa as a baby child, teenager, and married.  An earlier wedding photograph shows Robbie Chase in his dress uniform and Amber wearing a white wedding dress in a split up her thigh.

            Seats are offered and chosen.  Mrs. Chase perches on the edge of an armchair, barely making a crease in the cushion.

            "I'm very sorry for your loss," I say as I sit opposite.

            "Thank you," she whispers. "They're saying Robbie committed suicide."

            "Does that surprise you?" I ask.

            "It shocks me."

            "Your husband had attempted suicide before and ended up in the Priory mental hospital."

            Mrs. Chase waves the information aside dismissively. "The suicide attempt had been a sham concocted by Robbie to buy himself time with his angry creditors.  Psychiatric records showed that he voluntarily visited the Priory. He had taken too many tranquillisers and had superficially cut and bandaged his wrists, something the doctors discovered he did so people would think he was suicidal."

            "You and Robbie were estranged," observes Blanche.

            "We were living separately."

            "Divorcing?"

            Mrs. Chase looks offended by the suggestion.

            "When did you last see him?"

            "About a month ago," she replies, "It was sad to see that he had become such a haunted figure – drinking heavily, doing far too much cocaine, and getting himself mixed up with dodgy people. Then, two weeks ago, he called the police at 3 am and disclosed to officers that he believed gangsters and the Russian Mafia would assassinate him. He hadn't slept in three days and had not eaten or had anything to drink all day except for a scotch egg due to fear of poisoning. He asked for armed protection and told me that he had requested help from MI5, and MI6 informed the record shows. But, instead, the police referred him for psychiatric tests, stating that there was no information to corroborate his allegations of his life being in danger."

            "What did you think about these allegations?"

            "The police eventually arrested Robbie and at the police station, and doctors determined he was distrustful, with a fierce flavour and had a multifaceted delusional faith system. So, they committed him under the Mental Health Act and moved him to St Andrew's Hospital.  The doctors noted that Robbie appeared sweaty, suspicious, and restless, attempting to kiss other patients and expose himself. He even accused nurses of being in the league of the FSB and tried to kick down the ward doors to escape."

            "Is that correct? You were going through divorce proceedings at the time?" Blanche asks.

            "Robbie had been due to attend a divorce hearing with me the next day, and he would face jail if he failed to disclose documentary evidence of his losses. Instead, doctors at St Andrew's Hospital wrote to the judge that he was mentally unfit to comply with the court order. I was furious, asking the judge to imprison Robbie for his disobedience, but the judge delayed the hearing."

            "How did that make you feel?"

            "Cheated," she responds with venom, "I'm trying to protect my daughters and give them something of a future. The next day, doctors noted a significant improvement."

            "How convenient," I say.

            "Precisely," Mrs. Chase nods. "The next morning, he was exhibiting no psychotic features, though he still maintained, calmly, now, that his fears were justified. He called our youngest daughter, Louisa, and warned that someone was following him, that something was going to happen, and that we all had to be in a safe place. Robbie's fears for his safety led to his commitment. Louisa told me that he admitted to her, his mental health admissions were his way of fleeing to safety when he found himself in imminent danger."

            "Did he provide a satisfactory explanation for the sudden disappearance of his fortune?"

            Mrs. Chase laughed without humour. "After seven years, 65 divorce hearings, and three months in prison for contempt, he had still failed to provide a satisfactory explanation for the sudden disappearance of his fortune. The High Court judge was forced to make his final ruling blind and decided that Robbie still had £45 million hidden from this court and ordered to give me half of that and several million more to cover my legal costs. The judge acknowledged that I would have difficulties in enforcing my order, but told Robbie the debt would exist for all time."

            "What did you do after that?"

            "For several months at the start of the year, I was determined to find his assets. So, I deployed a team of surveillance operatives to tail him on foot and in vans, tracking his every move."

She paused for a few seconds.

            "They caught him on film doing deals in an array of exclusive West End bars and restaurants, visiting London's finest five-star hotels, and partying at Boujis with his new girlfriend, the model, Casca Ashakova. Then, one February day, my surveillance team followed him to a meeting at the five-star Dorchester Hotel, a favourite haunt. Robbie went to an upstairs room and came down later, shaking and looking deathly pale. He had been dangled out of a window at the Dorchester by heavies working for the Russian Mafia." 

            "What did he do?" I ask.

"He high-tailed it back to his flat, only to be photographed re-emerging with arms full of bags, suits, and shirts. He then decamped to the nearby Majestic Hotel, a tired two-star establishment far out of keeping with his eye-watering expensive tastes. He checked in with cash, the private eye said, and used an alias."

"What did your surveillance team do?"

"They followed him to the second hotel, where they eavesdropped on his room. In one phone call taped by the surveillance team, Robbie discussed handing over the paperwork to an individual in Russia and told an unknown caller that a Russian businessman, Igor Akinfeev was keeping his head down."

"What did he do then?"

"He called Shelley sounding very erratic and very scared and warning her to get herself, her sister, and me somewhere safe."

"What did you do?"

"That was when a man approached, out of the blue, with a message from Moscow. The Russian government wants me to visit them."