Dead Gorgeous (A Mystery for D.I. Costello) (17 page)

Father Martin turned left out of the presbytery. It was now Friday morning, a fine, bright day and he had just enough time for what would be his third investigative walk before an appointment with an engaged couple to discuss their wedding plans. His two previous walks didn’t lead him to the right location, as far as he could be aware, but hadn’t dimmed his hope of success. People had to come out from their houses sometime. You just never knew. He had his rosary with him today, and he set off along the road fingering the beads in the pocket of his jogging bottoms.

He rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

Immediately he berated himself and began to walk again, knowing he had to walk past showing no interest, and he might very well be wrong. He moved forward at the same steady pace, telling himself to stay calm even though his pulse raced.

Two men stood outside a house about halfway along the street. They were very big, with close-cropped hair. Something about the stance of one of them reminded Martin of the shape he’d seen briefly through the glass panel in the confessional door. He drew level with them. He heard their conversation, in some unknown language. He passed on, not hurrying or looking back.

When he reached the end of the street he went through a pantomime of not being quite able to decide which way to go next, before turning round. His little act had been unnecessary; the men had now disappeared. He gazed along the other side of the street.
Now, doesn’t God just go before me,
he thought.
Katy D lives along here.
He crossed the road and approached a house nearly opposite to where he’d seen the men, and rang the bell.

Katherine Devine, bespectacled, middle-aged and a stalwart member of the charismatic prayer group, opened the door and beamed when she saw who was standing on her front step.

“Martin!” she exclaimed delightedly. “This is a nice surprise. Come in.” She turned and led the way into her front room. As he followed her in he saw what a good view she had of the houses over the road. “Take a seat, Father M,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Martin sat down. “Well, this might sound very odd, Kate,” he replied, “and believe me I’m not being a nosy parker, but I’m wondering about the people who live in the house nearly opposite you.” He pointed. “The one with the blue door.”

A sudden silence settled in the room. Katherine looked at Martin with an expression on her face that made him think his quest hadn’t been in vain after all. “You know,” she said after a moment, “once or twice I’ve wondered about that house myself.”

“Ah,” he said. “In that case, I’ve got a bit of a story to tell you.”

Leon Rushton was up to his neck with preparations for a fashion shoot when Angela and Gary arrived to interview him. He greeted them at the door of the Whitechapel studio to which they’d been directed. “Hi. You the cops?” he asked. Angela introduced herself and Gary. “Come through,” he said, turning and leading the way into the studio proper. He had an egg salad sandwich in his left hand, and picked up a polystyrene cup of coffee from the reception desk with the other as he went. About £3,000-worth of long-lensed camera was slung over his right shoulder. He was a tall, lanky man with a pleasant, smiley face. “I hope you don’t mind if I get on while you’re talking to me,” he said.

“Not at all,” replied Angela. “Thanks for sparing us the time.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not, strictly speaking,” he grinned. “But deadlines are necessary evils and we’re already late on this
one.” He pointed to a couple of chairs. “Park yourselves there for a minute, while I see where we’ve got to.”

Angela and Gary found themselves sitting to one side of two large arc lamps mounted on stands and pointing to a blank, white space. Several racks of clothing in plastic covers lined the opposite side of the space, and in one of the remaining corners, rather huddled together, five girls sat while a small team of hair and make-up artists got them ready.

“Cor,” said Gary. “They’re all so lovely! You can see what Kirsty was up against, can’t you?”

“And this lot have the necessary height,” agreed Angela.

“Yeah, they must all be nudging six foot,” agreed Gary, casting an admiring glance at several pairs of long, smooth legs.

Just at that moment, Leon came back to their side of the room with a fold-up chair in his hands. He pulled it into shape and sat down. “OK, how may I help you?”

Angela took out some photocopies of the snaps found in Kirsty’s room, and handed them to him. “The originals of these are part of an investigation we’re dealing with at the moment.”

Leon took them and immediately identified the event. “Oh yes, that was the
Passionista
bash; quite a while ago now, I think. Do you need me to check my diary?”

“Yes, please. We’ll make sure we take all the details we can before we go, but do you recognize the woman in those pictures?”

Leon held his hands out in an apologetic gesture. “Really sorry – in my job…” he cast a hand back to indicate the women on the other side of the room. “It’s just that I photograph so many; you can imagine how it is – oh, but hang on. Is this the woman who turned up on the arm of Nigel Summers?”

“It’s possible,” said Gary.

“I remember him being a bit peeved. Arm candy’s supposed to stay on your arm, isn’t it? But she struck out on her own a
bit. I seem to remember seeing her in conversation with one or two of the other women there.”

“Why would that annoy Nigel Summers?” asked Angela.

“Oh, it wouldn’t have been that so much; I think she was found trying to get into a back room where she hadn’t been invited. Some things in this business are a bit delicate, aren’t they?”

Angela and Gary turned enquiring looks onto him and Leon gave them a disarming smile. “Me, I keep my head down and my eyes on the job. But let me give you an innocent example. Supposing you took your date to a showbusiness party and he or she went around asking the celebs for their autographs.”

“I don’t think that would be quite right,” said Angela.

“Spot on; it isn’t. You have to know how to behave in different situations and I don’t think this girl did. In any case, I’ve run into Nigel a few times since and she wasn’t with him. Oh wait! The police – asking about…?”

“Yes,” said Angela. “She’s now dead; murdered.”

“Oh my, yes – I did hear about that. I’m sorry. I should think that’s the last thing Ian King needs right now. He’s having a tough enough time as it is at the moment.”

“Oh, really?” asked Angela in her most inviting manner.

“It’s no secret; he’s had a couple of very bad years. The word is, he’s lost his edge. We’ll have to see what sort of reception he gets for this year’s collection. But as for your enquiries, I don’t think I can be much help to you.” Leon’s attention was distracted by a woman coming up to him. He turned towards her. “Sure thing, Bethany,” he said. “I’m all ready, just waiting for the word. Are the two in the swimsuits sorted?” Bethany, with her back to Angela and Gary nodded, saying something they couldn’t catch. “What?” exclaimed Leon, in an amused tone. “You’re not serious? Stacey and Tr –? Oh. OK.” He yelled across the open space. “Right, girls! Stacey and Tracey – can we have you in the swimwear now, please?”

He turned back to the police officers as Bethany hurried away. “Sorry about this, time’s money and all that.”

“Not a problem,” replied Angela. “We won’t keep you any longer. I’m just wondering if it’s possible to have any of the pictures you took at that party.”

“Easy-peasy; you can have the lot. I produced a couple of sets and the magazine only wanted one. I can get them biked over to you later.”

“That would be brilliant. Thank you,” said Angela, taking a card out of her bag. Suddenly Bethany appeared at Leon’s side again, muttering something in a worried whisper.

“Oh no!” said Leon. “Just what we need.” He turned to Angela. “Minor crisis, I’m afraid. The swimwear is stuck in traffic in a taxi coming up from Wapping.”

“Oh dear,” commiserated Angela. “And time’s money.”

“Yeah,” he said, and turned back to the assistant. “OK, Beth, darling, get them into the next looks. We’ll do the swimwear later.”

Bethany ran off again and Angela stood rooted to the spot. After a moment, she became aware that Leon was looking expectantly at her. “Er, hello?” he said.

She blinked. “Sorry.” She gave him her card.

“Right,” he said. “They’ll be with you later today.”

“What did you just say?” asked Angela.

A bewildered look appeared on Leon’s face. “I said they’ll be with you later today.”

“No, before then.”

“Er, the swimwear is stuck in traffic?”

“No – looks, you said –”

“Oh that. Yeah, I just told the girls to get into the next looks; we’ll go back to the swimwear once it arrives. No biggie.”

“I don’t get this, ‘looks’.”

Leon grinned. “It’s just trade jargon for the clothes, the
outfits, the designs, whatever. Here.” He reached into a large holdall containing what looked like photographic equipment, and pulled out a pad. He flicked open the pages and Angela could see a different design on each one. This is an old one from last year, but it’s what’s known as a ‘look book’.”

“That’s very, very enlightening,” said Angela. “More than you could possibly know.” She slung her bag across her shoulder. “Thanks for your help, Leon,” she said, moving towards the door. “I look forward to getting the
Passionista
prints.”

They were on the pavement before Gary spoke. His voice was excited. “Looks! So that woman in the confessional –”

“Absolutely, Gaz; she wasn’t in the least bit worried about being disfigured. She’s a dress designer. She must have come over here with a portfolio of ‘looks’ hoping to break into the industry.”

“They must be good.”

“Quite. Somebody thought they were worth stealing.”

Angela phoned the office as Gary started the car and pulled away from the kerb. Derek answered. “I want you to add a new note to the board,” she explained. “It might be window dressing, but possibly not.” She quickly told him what they’d learned from Leon Rushton.

“Got it, guv. Where are you off to now?”

“We’re on our way back by a circuitous route. We’re going to try to catch Nigel Summers in Chelsea, then his business partner in Wandsworth. I just want to take the questions a bit further – see if I can rattle their cages a bit.”

“OK, guv. See you when you get back.”

Angela finished the call. “Did you pick up on that other little matter of interest when we were with Leon Rushton, Gaz? No, turn here; the City’ll be clogged up with traffic. Head for Tower Hill and go along Lower Thames Street. We can drive more or less all the way to Chelsea along the side of the river.”

“OK,” replied Gary, swinging the car round to the south. “Do you mean that comment he made about Ian King having lost his edge?”

“Yes. He said Ivano King has had two very bad years, yet Nigel Summers still operates from that very expensive place in the King’s Road.”

“Good point. What’s more, the carpet looked very new to me and classy as well. And the place in Wandsworth was firing on all cylinders, wasn’t it?” agreed Gary.

“Yes, it was; none of the sense of gloom you get when people are worried about their jobs.”

“Could be toughing it out, keeping up appearances. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or both of them have plenty of dosh.”

“You could be right but the question still has to be asked. Or maybe it’s the Financial Investigation Unit that’ll be asking.”

“Are we calling them in on this, then, Angie?”

“It’s a possibility. If I put it to Stanway he’ll want some concrete evidence.”

“Ah, hence the cage-rattling.”

“Exactly, Gazza.”

Nigel Summers’s expression seemed more guarded than at their previous interview with him. But any irritation or annoyance he may have felt at their unannounced visit was hidden by the time his receptionist showed them into his office after a short delay. He had only one computer, a desktop, in operation today.

“Sorry to bother you again, Mr Summers, but I’m afraid investigations throw up all sorts of questions in the most untidy manner.”

“Not a problem, Inspector. How may I help you?”

“It’s just that a clearer picture of Kirsty is emerging, and it seems she was developing quite a lively interest in how business works. Since you’re the business side of Ivano King…” Angela’s voice tailed off when she saw Nigel nodding at her with a resigned smile on his face.

“Yep, you’ve got it. It wasn’t just business, though, Inspector. She was curious about all sorts of things, most of which were none of her business. To be honest, she was a snoop.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I think she thought knowledge was power; well, it can be sometimes but not with Kirsty; I wouldn’t expect her to be discreet about having inside information.”

“She doesn’t seem to have told anyone about having some of Ian’s designs, though.”

“Yes, Ian told me you found some of his looks on her laptop. He was mightily relieved. I would think she imagined having them gave her some kind of hold over Ian, which is what she wanted. And you’re right. She doesn’t seem to have done anything with them; we would have heard otherwise.”

“What about other aspects of your business?”

“Which other aspects?”

“The normal business side of things; you’re effectively a clothing company, so stock, orders, invoices, all that sort of thing.”

“She would have picked up quite a lot of the normal day-to-day running from her work at the unit, that’s true. You’d need to speak to Jenni to find out if she poked her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“Could she have learned anything about hiring models from Jenni?” Angela couldn’t swear to it, but she thought Nigel tensed for a second.

“The invoicing is done through Jenni, but either Ian or I do the actual negotiating. We prefer it that way.”

“What agency do you use?”

He was fiddling with his pen again. She remembered the mannerism from the first time she’d interviewed him. “We mostly use the same one; Massingham’s. We find them very reliable.”

“Yes, we met Mrs Massingham the other day. From Kirsty’s personal effects, it’s clear that she had some interest in the agency.”

“You surprise me. But I suppose it’s not impossible. They’re a modelling agency and she was trying to make it as a model, in theory at least.”

“Would Kirsty have ever had access to your computer, either here or at your home?”

“Absolutely not!” He looked horrified at the idea before adding, “Not that she would have found any reference to Massingham’s in any of my files, because there isn’t any.”

Why are you twitchy about this?
thought Angela. “There must be something if you hire models from there, surely?” she asked.

Nigel’s mouth suddenly formed a thin tight line. He was piqued to be wrong-footed. “Yes. OK, I might have their number, but for everything else you’d need to speak to Jenni.” Angela decided to take the finality in his tone as her cue to depart.

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr Summers,” she said, rising.

“Not at all,” replied Nigel. “Happy to be of help.”

“Not much doing there,” commented Gary, as he belted himself into the driving seat.

“Apparently not,” agreed Angela. “But you never know. We dropped a pebble into a pool. Logic dictates that some ripples must be produced. We still need to know why Kirsty fancied herself on the board of Massingham Models.”

“She was well deluded if she thought her beauty could swing her a job like that. Her mum and dad didn’t do her any favours, bringing her up to believe stuff like that, did they?”

“You’re right. You can’t blame any parent for thinking their children are the bees’ knees, but it sounds as though in this case they got a bit carried away. The first interpreters of the world, for all of us, are our parents – or whoever brings us up – and if they feed us a load of hogwash it’s very hard to do a rethink when our experiences don’t meet the expectations they planted in us.” Angela glanced across at Gary. “Father Martin would say she’d been badly catechized.”

“
Catter
what? Oh, is that to do with the catechism, like, religious teaching?”

“That’s what I like to see, a detective who can follow a trail.”

Gary laughed. “Yeah, but we’ve got no indication that Kirsty was religious in any way.”

“It’s not just about religion. Think of it as teaching. Everybody gets taught
something
. If you’re brought up to believe that the sun shines out of your eyes and you can have everything you want just for the asking, then that’s what you’ve received and you’ll try to live by it.”

“Oh, I get it. Yeah, Kirsty was definitely going nowhere fast. The bloke in the unit at Wandsworth had the angle on that, didn’t he? You know, when Jim was reporting on his interview with him and he talked about one of their dates happening in a suburban backwater. Then it was probably back home to bed without even a ‘How was it for you?’ the next morning.”

Angela laughed. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, Gaz. This is what Ian King calls a dalliance. Well, maybe Kirsty learned about Massingham’s from him. OK, let’s go, young Houseman. I’ll phone him as we go.”

“You don’t want to just turn up, like we did with Nigel Summers?”

“I don’t think it would work. I expect Nigel’s already rung Ian and told him about our visit
and
mentioned that we’ve shown an interest in Massingham Models. Ian could decide that if we’re on our way to him next, he might suddenly discover pressing business elsewhere. Ringing ahead will make that more difficult.”

However, it didn’t seem that Ian was trying to avoid the police. They hadn’t been on the road for more than five minutes when Jenni rang back in answer to Angela’s request to say Ian would be happy to see them just as soon as they got to the unit. Twenty minutes later they parked under the now-familiar sign and through the glass panel in the front door could see the office manager waiting for them.

Ian was doing something at his computer when Angela and Gary were shown into his office a few moments later. He clicked the mouse a couple of times and turned away from
the screen with something of a flourish. “Right, Inspector, you wanted to see me again.” He spread his hands to indicate the two chairs on the other side of his desk. Angela and Gary sat down. “I don’t flatter myself that you’ve come because of my report from last night.”

“Your report from last night?” asked Angela.

“Yes, I saw someone watching my flat. Whoever it was left wheeling a bicycle. I phoned the local nick, as requested, but since nothing happened I suppose it’s not very high on your scale of things to follow up.”

Although she knew somebody on the team would have logged this report and added it to the file, Angela fought down a sense of irritation with herself for not having checked through everything. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been in the office very much. I’ll make sure I read it when I go back.”

Ian waved away her apology. He’d dispensed with casual today and was wearing a superbly cut charcoal grey suit with royal blue coordinates. Angela could imagine Patrick looking just as good in the same clothes. Her mind drifted a little. It had been quite a while since Paddy had bought anything new.

Ian shot his cuffs, rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “So what can I do for you?” he asked.

Angela dragged her mind back from the contemplation of getting Patrick out of tweed and into charcoal. “Oh, it’s just that one or two more things have come to light we think you might be able to help us with,” she began.

“OK, fire away,” he said.

“Would Kirsty have known of Massingham Models?”

“Oh, I expect so. She could hardly work in the office here and not hear of them. She probably sent them photos at some point, trying to get on their books.”

“Nothing else?”

“I don’t see what else there would be, not for Kirsty anyway, Inspector.”

“She didn’t, for instance, have any involvement in the company?”

Ian’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead. “Kirsty, involved in Massingham’s? Not to my knowledge. How very odd.”

“Odd? Why?”

“It just seems strange to think of Kirsty being involved in any sort of business. What do you mean by ‘involved’?”

“That’s just it, we don’t really know. The thing is, along with some of your designs, which you already know about, we found a copy of Massingham’s letterheaded paper on her computer.”

“Really?” Ian laid his hands flat on the desk and produced full-on puzzlement. “How weird!” There was a brief silence and when Angela didn’t rush to fill it he continued, “I’m completely stumped.” He thought some more. “I can understand why she’d want to have my designs on her computer. Obviously I’m not happy that she did, but it makes sense. I’m sure she thought it would give her a bargaining counter. But letterheaded notepaper – this is completely bizarre, Inspector.”

Angela cast her mind back over the picture of Kirsty at the
Passionista
event. “Do you think Kirsty could have tried to pass your designs on to someone else?”

Ian took a very deep breath. “That was my biggest fear. When you have as high a profile in this industry as I have, you can be sure there’s someone out there who’d love to bring you down.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Who would she have passed them on to?”

“That’s a good question. She networked where she could, but I don’t think that amounted to a great deal and I wouldn’t think she’d made any likely connections.”

“I remember you saying that she talked about her friends. Could you get any idea about them? Did she mention them much?

“Oh, Inspector, does the Pope have a balcony? Kirsty’s friends were her main topic of conversation.”

“What sort of things did she say?”

Ian shook his head as though trying to rid it of confusion. “You’re asking me something, there. I remember a lot of ‘he saids’ and ‘she saids’ interspersed with a great deal of babble.” Ian smiled. “I tuned in only occasionally, I’m afraid.”

“Do you know who her friends were?”

Ian raised his shoulders and let them fall again. “I don’t. I expect she had one or two she’d been at school with. I suppose she met others wherever she was working before she came to us. And she went to some gym on a regular basis. I’m sure she must have made some there.”

“She didn’t tell you any names?”

“I think her flatmate was Sandra and somebody called Tony was one of her friends at the gym. That’s about it; sorry.”

Angela nodded. She was being pointed back to the gym again and she wondered if this entire visit had been a waste of time. Even as she had the thought she dismissed it. The whole business of the designs on Kirsty’s computer and her interest in the modelling agency made her sure there must be something more here to be ferreted out, but she couldn’t identify exactly what it was.

Hmm,
she thought,
there’s definitely something not quite right here, something I’m not getting, but I don’t know what questions to ask to flush it out.
She stood up. Gary did likewise. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr King. If I need clarification about anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

Ian managed, more or less, to hide his relief that Angela was leaving. He rose with a smile. “Certainly, certainly; anything I can do to help.”

“There’s more there,” said Angela as Gary drove them away a few minutes later.

“I’m sure you’re right, Angie but…”

“Yes.
But
. I was stumped. I suddenly felt I’d reached a dead end.”

“There’s something I don’t really get, Angie.”

“Yes, what?”

“This letterheaded page; I mean, this business of ‘fleshing out a fantasy’. I don’t get that.”

“Oh, I do, Gaz. I remember Patrick telling me once, when Madeleine was about twelve and really into schoolgirl stories, she decided when she grew up she wanted to be the headmistress of a girls’ boarding school. She designed the whole place, right down to the sports pavilion. She could even have told you the names of the school houses. I can remember doing something similar when I was a kid as well.”