Authors: Barry Maitland
That stopped him short. “No.” Surprised by the idea, rather than offended.
“And you, do you sometimes go out with other girls?”
“No, I do not!.”
“I’m sorry, Adrian, I have to ask these questions. It’s so important that we understand Angela’s background. Please don’t take offence.”
He stared at the floor. “Six years, right?”
“What?”
“How long we’ve been going out. Since her sixteenth birthday.”
“I see. What can you tell me about her movements yesterday?”
He ran a hand over his head, the hair greasy, sticking out in tufts, half his mind still catching up with the start of their conversation. “What do you mean that you’re treating it as a suspicious death? Can’t you tell, or something?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt, Adrian. What did she do yesterday, please?”
He stared at her, puzzled, then his shoulders sagged.
“She went to the supermarket in the morning,” he said in a low voice, subdued by the certainty he had seen in her eyes. “Get some stuff for her parents coming home today.” He shook his head. “Do they know?”
Kathy nodded. “Go on.”
“I went round there in the afternoon.”
“What for?”
“Just to see her, you know. We’d arranged it.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh . . .” he shrugged. “Just chatted and that. Nothing special.”
“When did you leave?”
“About 5:00, I suppose. She was going to get something to eat and then get ready to go out. She talked about this play she was going to see.”
“Yes, tell me about that.”
“Well, she got a couple of tickets for this production of
Macbeth
that everyone’s raving about.”
“Two tickets?”
“I think so.”
“You weren’t interested?”
Adrian shook his head. “Not me. Anyway, I was already going out, see.”
“So who was the other ticket for?”
“One of the girls at work, I think,” Adrian said vaguely. “Rhona, I think. Yes, I’m pretty sure it was Rhona. She works with her. I don’t know her other name.”
“Did Angela often go out without you?”
“To the theatre, that’s all.”
“You weren’t jealous, anyway.” Kathy smiled as if it was a joke.
Adrian shook his head and said “Nah,” as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him.
“Oh, one thing I have to ask, Adrian. Did you and Angela have sex when you saw her yesterday afternoon?”
Adrian stared at her. “What . . .” Then the significance of the question dawned on him. “They didn’t . . . ? Did they . . . ?”
“We don’t know what happened, Adrian,” Kathy said. “This is just one of the questions I have to ask.”
“Well . . . we didn’t.”
“I take it you were lovers, though?”
Adrian nodded, still searching her face for what she might be keeping from him.
“You must have thought about it, yesterday, didn’t you, alone in the house together?”
“I might have suggested something. But she wasn’t interested.”
“Did you have an argument about it?”
“Nah.” He gave the impression he lacked the energy or passion to have much of an argument about anything. Kathy felt sad, looking at him, slumped forward in his armchair, trying to keep up.
This was Angela’s love-life
, she thought.
From her sixteenth birthday to the day she died. Kind, obliging, pleasant Angela and Adrian the slug. Held together by her loyalty and his lethargy, probably. If she’d lived, she might have moved on, been able to look back with some fondness at dear old Adrian. But, as it turned out, Adrian was all there was ever going to be. How bloody sad. No wonder she had a passion for the theatre.
“She had to hoover the house for her mum and dad getting home. Didn’t have time.”
“What are they like?”
“Glenys is all right, fusses a lot. Mr. Hannaford . . . he tends to be old-fashioned.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, his tastes and opinions and that.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“Well . . . for instance, Angela didn’t want him to know she was on the pill. I mean, that’s a bit pointless these days, innit?”
“But her mother knew?”
“Yeah, yeah, I expect so.”
Kathy nodded. “I get the picture.” She closed her notebook and put it firmly in the pocket of her coat, as if she’d finished her questions. “You look as if you had a heavy night with the lads last night.” She smiled sympathetically.
“Yeah.” Adrian sagged back in the armchair and passed a hand across his face.
“They say a couple of raw eggs and Worcestershire sauce helps.”
“No thanks.”
“Big crowd?”
He sniffed. “About twenty.”
“I expect the future bridegroom is suffering this morning too.”
“That’s for sure.” Some recollection brought a little smile to Adrian’s mouth. “He was paralytic.”
“And I suppose somebody ordered a strippergram for him?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, you’re right. We all chipped in.”
“Was she sexy?”
“Not bad.”
“That’s a job I wouldn’t like to do. They’re usually pretty smart at winding the blokes up, though, aren’t they? Especially after the boys have had a few.”
“S’pose so.”
“Whereabouts was this party?”
“We hired a room upstairs at the Daylight.”
“Handy. What time did they throw you out?”
“Oh, I dunno . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “About one o’clock, maybe.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “Some of us went back to one bloke’s house for a nightcap and that.”
“Where was that?”
“Willett Way—does it matter?”
“How did you get home from there?”
“Well, I didn’t drink-drive, if that’s what you mean.” He was becoming belatedly unsettled by Kathy’s questions.
“Did you get a taxi?”
“No, I walked, s’matter of fact.”
“I’m surprised you made it.”
“I wanted to clear my head, like. I wasn’t that bad.”
“What time did you get home, would you say?”
“About 4:00, probably. What are you getting at?”
“You didn’t detour by way of Birchgrove Avenue, did you, Adrian?”
“No, I did not.”
“The thought must have come into your head though, that your girlfriend would be at home, lying all alone in her bed, the last chance before her parents came back.”
“No way.” He shook his head, looking at Kathy warily. “I came straight back here.”
“And you’d had quite a skinful, but not so much you couldn’t walk, and maybe you had the stripper on your mind, the way she’d wound you all up, eh?”
Adrian’s face was grey, his upper lip damp with sweat.
“Did anyone see you on the way home? Did any of the family wake up when you came in and got yourself to bed?”
“No . . . nobody.”
“I’d like you to take me to your room and show me the clothes you were wearing last night, Adrian. OK?”
“I . . . I dunno.” He looked alarmed.
“Why not? Why wouldn’t you want to help?”
“I do, but . . .”
“Come on.” Kathy got firmly to her feet and headed for the door. She turned. “Coming?”
He got up reluctantly and led her upstairs, past his mother in the hallway, ignoring her anxious look with a shake of his head.
Another pair of jeans, a casual summer shirt and various other bits of clothing were scattered across the floor of the bedroom.
“You wore these last night, Adrian?”
He nodded.
“Have you got a suitcase or an overnight bag here?”
“Overnight?”
“Just something to put these in. We’ll need to look at them.”
“But why?” Adrian finally yelped at her. “What the bloody hell are you trying to make out?”
“Adrian,” Kathy rounded on him, speaking quietly, intently, “your girlfriend was murdered last night by someone. We are going to find out who. We begin by eliminating as many people as we can, people who were close to her, or knew her movements. It’s up to you how quickly we can strike you off the list. OK?”
She watched him pack, and then made a quick search of his cupboards and drawers while he looked uneasily on. On the way out she phoned Brock.
“Take him to CID at Orpington, Kathy. Get them to take a statement from him. I’ll phone them and tell them you’re coming. I’ll get them to hold the lad’s clothing until Desai can arrange to pick it up for tests. What do you think?”
“Talk to you later, Brock,” Kathy replied, conscious of Mrs. Avery hovering in the background.
BY THE TIME SHE
had finished processing Adrian Avery at Orpington, Kathy only just had time to get back to Petts Wood for the six o’clock evening service at St. George’s. She had a brief word in the vestry with the Reverend Mr. Bannister, and took her place in a pew towards the back of a fairly thin congregation.
The church had been built just before the outbreak of the Second World War to serve the surge of development which had occurred in the area during the thirties. It was in a simplified
Gothic style, built of brick, and pleasantly cooler than the still hot evening outside. A few of the windows contained stained-glass figures, the Virgin Mary in the one nearest Kathy. Draped in an electric-blue gown, she gazed heavenward with a look of pained resignation, as if waiting for the next blow to fall. She reminded Kathy very much of Angela’s mother.
The vicar ended his sermon with a reference to Angela, “tragically taken from the bosom of her family and the community of her friends.” The congregation was very still as he told them that a police officer was among them, and would like to talk after the service with anyone who knew of the dead woman’s movements during the previous few days, and in particular Saturday, or who could offer any other information which might assist the police with their inquiries. Then he led the congregation in prayers for Angela’s soul, and for the comfort of her family.
Half a dozen people stayed behind to talk to Kathy. Most were of an age with Angela’s parents, concerned for them and shocked by such an inexplicable atrocity so close to home. Most had seen Angela at the shops on Saturday morning, and had exchanged words with her there. They stressed what a pleasant, helpful girl she was, how she was the last person to whom such a thing should have happened. One was younger than the others, a woman of Angela’s age who had apparently been a longstanding friend, and she was able to give Kathy some background on her character and habits. But none had seen her after midday on Saturday, or could throw any light on who might have attacked her.
KATHY GAVE HERSELF PLENTY
of time to get to work the next morning, relishing a moment she had long anticipated. She took the Northern Line tube down to Charing Cross, then walked across Trafalgar Square, through Admiralty Arch and slowly down the east side of St. James’s Park along Horse Guards Parade, enjoying the bright summer morning. She paused when she came to Birdcage Walk and sat for a while on a bench, still too early for the time she’d been told to report. Through the trees she caught glimpses of office workers in short-sleeved shirts and lightweight suits, hurrying to start another week. A couple of nannies walked past her, pushing prams side by side down the shady path. She thought how absurd it was that she should be nervous, when she already knew several of her new colleagues quite well, and in particular the most important one, Brock. But this was more than just another job shift. She felt like a child presenting herself for adoption by a new family.
At 8:50 she got to her feet, made her way down Storey’s Gate, and so into Broadway and the modern office building with the rotating stainless-steel prism outside: her new place of work.
After a moment’s confusion with the man at the reception desk inside, she discovered that it wasn’t.
“If it’s DCI Brock’s outfit, you want Annexe Q, love.”
“Do I? It is in New Scotland Yard though, isn’t it?”
“But not in this building. It’s a couple of blocks away, over towards St. James’s Park. Look . . .” He showed her on a photocopied street map. “Queen Anne’s Gate.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. He used to be in here. But he managed to escape.” He grinned at her. “You joining them permanently?”
“Yes.”
“Good. ’Bout time they had a woman. You’ll probably have to come back here later to check with Personnel and Training.” He looked over at a large board on the wall. “PT4, Career Management. They’ll see to your headquarters officer’s warrant card, and so on. Give ’em a ring when you get to Brock’s place. The internal number is 5771.”
Kathy wrote it down. “Thanks. See you later.”
She followed his directions back towards the park and found Queen Anne’s Gate, a quiet street of Georgian terraces, originally homes, which had long been converted into offices. She walked down the row of identical front doors on the south side until she found number 9. There was no nameplate outside, and when she rang the doorbell the door clicked open automatically. She stepped inside into a small reception area, with a clerk sitting at a desk. Kathy told him who she was, and waited while he made a phone call. A couple of minutes later she heard her name called.
“Kathy!”
She turned and smiled at the familiar figure. Bren Gurney had been a detective sergeant in Brock’s team on the first occasion that Kathy had come across him, and she had hoped that he would still be there. As tall as Brock, he looked like a younger version of his boss, so much so that Kathy had imagined at first that they could be father and son. He spoke with a soft, reassuring
West Country accent, and he was beaming with genuine pleasure as he shook her hand with a paw twice as big as her own.
“We’ve been expecting you, Kathy. It’s grand to see you again. It seems ages since Jerusalem Lane.”
“I finally made it, Bren. I was hoping you’d still be here.”
“Of course I am. Where else would I be?”
“You haven’t got bored and been tempted back to flying helicopters?”
“You’ve got a good memory, Kathy. No, I’m too old for that now. But I certainly haven’t had time to get bored.”
The shadow of something—fatigue or worry—passed momentarily across his face. Looking at him closer, Kathy thought he had aged more than the eighteen months which had passed since Jerusalem Lane, and she recalled Brock’s remark about him having a lot on his plate.