Authors: Graham Ison
‘So Anderson’s a bloody mercenary, and so was Miles,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t take much imagination to work out what was planned for Zimbabwe. We’ll definitely have to go carefully when we look into Anderson’s affairs. We might even have to involve the Foreign Office. And that would be a pain in the neck.’
‘D’you need me any more, Mr Brock?’ asked Lee.
‘I don’t think so, Lee, and many thanks for your invaluable assistance. Can my officers go through the laptop now? I mean, is it all decoded, or whatever you call it?’
‘Yes, it’s all in plain,’ said Lee, and wandered off.
‘So what do we do about Anderson?’ asked Dave. ‘Observation?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Spin his drum, then?’
‘If his place is anything like Miles’s house, Dave, and he’s got surveillance cameras, he’d see us coming and hide any damning evidence in such a way that we’d never find it. And then he’d sit in his safe room until we went away. I’ll put money on this cottage of his being isolated, and as a mercenary he’ll know all about self-preservation. We’d never be able to break in. As for an observation, I reckon he’d spot a tail within minutes. He’s probably done counter-surveillance training at some time.’
‘We’ve got to do something, guv.’
‘Yes, and that means sitting and waiting. The first thing we must do is find out as much as we can about him. He’s bound to be ex-military. I’ll leave it to you, Charlie, but it might be a good idea to start with the military police.’ Flynn was an absolute wizard when it came to trawling through paper, and if there was anything to be found he would find it. ‘Dig up what you can, but in no way must Anderson be alerted to our interest. In the meantime, Dave, you and I will speak to the manager at the theatre and see if there was a first-night party and who was there.’
‘Might not Andrews be a better bet, guv?’ asked Kate.
‘Maybe, but we’ll try Sebastian Weaver first.’ For personal reasons I was reluctant to approach Gerald Andrews again.
Dave and I arrived at the Clarence Theatre at about three o’clock that afternoon and made our way to the manager’s office.
‘Oh, God! Not more bad news.’ Sebastian Weaver stared at me with an expression of despair on his face.
‘Not this time, Mr Weaver,’ I said. ‘When was the first night of this play?’
‘The seventh of January,’ said Weaver without hesitation. ‘And it’s bloody well closing at the end of this week. Bookings have gone through the floor. I thought that Lancelot’s murder would’ve brought in the ghouls, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘Was there a first-night party?’ Dave asked.
‘Yes, there was, but not here. It was at the Waldorf in the Aldwych. No expense spared. As a matter of fact, I think that Lancelot Foley paid for most of it. But there won’t be a last-night party, that’s a racing certainty.’
‘Have you got a list of who was there?’
‘I’ve got a list of those who were invited. In addition to the cast, of course,’ said Weaver. ‘But I dare say there were a few gatecrashers. All sorts of hangers-on turn up at these junkets. They twitch at each other.’
‘I think you mean tweet,’ said Dave mildly.
‘Were you there?’ I asked, deciding not to ask Dave about tweeting; I’d rather the social networking scene remained a mystery.
‘Of course I was,’ said Weaver, as though it would have been an affront for the theatre manager not to be invited. ‘It went on until two in the morning.’
‘Perhaps we could have a copy of the list, then,’ said Dave.
Weaver opened a drawer in his desk and ferreted around, eventually producing a tatty piece of paper. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You can keep it as a memento of yet another theatrical flop. Mind you, there have been so many flops recently, it probably won’t be worth the paper it’s written on if you try to auction it.’
Dave handed me the list. ‘He was there, sir,’ he said and pointed at Anderson’s name. ‘Invited by Lancelot Foley.’
I glanced down the list. Debra Foley’s name was there, obviously, but Robert Miles had also been a guest. ‘I
reckon
that makes our friend the common denominator, Dave.’
‘I graduated in English, sir,’ said Dave. ‘Not maths.’
Back at Belgravia, I sat in my office and contemplated just how we were to get tabs on such a shadowy figure as Bill Anderson. I tend to get impatient in situations like these, but I knew that I’d have to wait and see what information Charlie Flynn turned up.
But then another thought occurred to me. Suppose the murders of Foley and Miles had nothing whatever to do with Anderson. Were we dealing with a serial killer who went around breaking people’s necks just for the sheer hell of it? I walked out to the incident room.
‘Colin.’
‘Sir?’ Wilberforce swung round from the computer and faced me.
‘I was wondering if there have been any other murders with the same MO as the two we’re dealing with.’
But the efficient Wilberforce dashed that idea without the need to refer to his computer. ‘No, sir. I checked.’
Oh well, it was worth a try.
Dave looked up from his desk. ‘I know you said we mustn’t go anywhere near Anderson, guv, and I agree, but why don’t we speak to Debra Foley? Miles’s log showed that he visited Corinne Black on the ninth of January. And we know that’s the name Debra uses for her sex business.’
‘I still can’t work that out, Dave. Why should Miles make an entry about visiting his sister and then mark it “mission aborted”?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t know it was his sister until he got there, guv’nor.’
‘Yes, you could be right.’ I’d often said in the past that Dave thought of the things I didn’t think of, and it looked as though he’d just done it again. I glanced at my watch; it was too late to catch Mrs Foley today. ‘We’ll pay her a visit at Keycross Road tomorrow afternoon. That should surprise her.’
Dave laughed. ‘Especially if she’s flat on her back with a guy on top of her,’ he said.
‘I get the impression that she’d be a bit more inventive than the missionary position.’
‘I don’t know about that, guv,’ said Dave. ‘If what Miss Ebdon said about Corinne’s weight is right, she’d suffocate the poor guy if she was on top.’
D
etective Sergeant Challis came to see me just after lunch, the next day.
‘I’ve followed up on the names in Lancelot Foley’s address book that you got from Jane Lawless, guv. The only one I was able to reach was a guy called Hubert Darke.’
‘What did he have to say, Tom?’ I asked.
‘He’s one of Foley’s regular poker partners, and he told me that the other three were William Anderson, Gavin Townsend and Dudley Phillips. I got Darke to give me a description of Anderson, but it would be good for at least a hundred other guys.’
‘We know that Anderson’s in the wind somewhere,’ I said. ‘But have you tracked down the other two?’
‘Not to speak to, guv. At the moment I’m relying on what Darke told me. And he told me that Townsend is in Australia at the moment.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘According to Darke, Townsend is a professional yachtsman and is around forty years of age. Darke reckons that he’s due back this week. Apparently, he told Darke that he was taking part in some Antipodean yacht race. I wouldn’t have thought that February was the right time of year for it, even Down Under, so it might be a moody excuse.’
‘Not necessarily. The Sydney to Hobart yacht race begins on Boxing Day each year. Anyway, that’s irrelevant. What does Darke do for a living?’
‘He’s something in the City, guv. He wasn’t very forthcoming, but I suppose he’s a broker, a financial adviser or a banker, or something that gets big bonuses every year. If his drum at Hinchley Wood is anything to go by, he’s not short of cash.’
‘What about Phillips, Tom?’
‘Dudley Phillips is a fashion designer and has a studio or workshop, or whatever it’s called, in the Commercial Road and lives over the shop, so to speak. Got a bit of previous: one for burglary and two for petty theft, guv. But the last one was fifteen years ago, so they’re spent, anyway.’
‘Thanks, Tom. You can leave it with me. I’ll see them and see if they shed any light on Foley’s murder.’
Dave and I arrived in Chorley Street at half-past two and parked a little way down the road from Debra Foley’s house. At twenty minutes to three she emerged, dressed in the dowdy outfit that Liz Carpenter had told me she usually wore when going to the flat where she would ‘entertain’ gentleman. She walked round the corner and hailed a cab.
Dave started the car and followed at a safe distance. It didn’t matter too much if we lost her in traffic; we had a good idea where she was going.
As we had hoped, the cab set her down at Keycross Court. Once she had gone inside, we gave her time to close the Venetian blinds and, we thought, to change into attire more suited to her alternative profession.
Twenty minutes later, I pressed the bottom button on the intercom system.
‘Caretaker.’ The voice crackled through the speaker.
‘Police.’
There was no reply, but the door lock was released. We entered the apartment block and took the lift to the first floor. I rang the bell of Corinne’s flat, and Dave and I stood to one side of the door, thus avoiding being seen through the spy hole.
Seconds later the door was opened by Debra Foley. To say that she was minimally attired was perhaps erring on the side of exaggeration. She was wearing a thong, a suspender belt, black nylons, stiletto heels, a short diaphanous negligee, and nothing else.
‘Christ Almighty!’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She closed her negligee tightly around herself and held it closed. Not that it did much good in terms of covering her near nakedness. Her ample breasts were still plainly visible. ‘How did you get in?’
‘
Mrs Foley!
’ I said, feigning surprise. ‘What on earth are
you
doing here? We’ve actually come to see Miss Black, Miss Corinne Black. Is she here?’
‘I’m Corinne Black.’ Debra Foley made the admission with a sort of ‘you’ve caught me out’ resignation in her voice. ‘Corinne Black’s another of my stage names.’ I doubt it sounded convincing even to her.
‘I never knew that,’ said Dave, stifling a laugh. ‘May we come in, or would you prefer that we conducted our conversation out here in the hallway?’
Without a word Debra turned and walked into the sitting room, leaving us to follow. Dave closed the front door.
The sitting room was large but sparsely furnished and, unsurprisingly, lacked the lived-in look of permanent residency. The carpet was cream, as were the curtains, a contrast to the two armchairs and the settee that were both upholstered in black leather. Two small tables with lamps on them completed the furnishings, but there were no ornaments anywhere.
Having recovered her poise after greeting us in a state of undress, Debra Foley invited us to sit down and then left the room, returning a minute or so later attired in a full-length kaftan. She seated herself in the centre of the settee and crossed her legs. Although the kaftan had long slits on either side, she made no attempt to display her legs as she had done on the other occasions I had interviewed her.
‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she said, as if warning us that she was not available for a lengthy interview. The way she’d been dressed when she opened the front door indicated quite clearly that she was expecting a client.
‘Have you moved here from Chorley Street, then, Mrs Foley?’ asked Dave, with a masterful display of feigned innocence.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I have,’ said Debra airily. ‘The other place was too big once I’d thrown Lancelot out, and it seemed silly to keep such a big house. Apart from anything else, the play’s closing at the end of the week, so I probably won’t be here for much longer, anyway.’
‘I suppose you’ll be going back to your house in Farnham, then,’ said Dave.
‘It’s not mine any more,’ snapped Debra. ‘That bastard husband of mine has left all his money – it was over fifteen million pounds – to that wretched woman Sally Warner. I suppose it includes the house because the deeds were in Lancelot’s name, but some of the furniture is mine. Naturally, I shall contest the will, but it’ll take time and money. I’ve plenty of the former now, but not much of the latter. The only redeeming aspect of it all is that Jane Lawless won’t see a penny of it either.’
I was rapidly tiring of this woman’s insistence on playing centre stage, and I decided to put a stop to it.
‘Mrs Foley,’ I said, deliberately injecting a tone of weariness into my voice, ‘please don’t take me for a fool. You’re using this apartment for the purposes of prostitution.’
For a moment, Debra stared at me, a carefully contrived expression of astonishment on her face, before giving vent to a response that demanded all her acting skills for its explosive delivery. ‘That is an outrageous suggestion!’ she exclaimed vehemently, as though addressing the gallery with an impassioned deathbed monologue. ‘How dare you come here and accuse me of such a thing! I shall certainly lodge a formal complaint. Just because you’re a policeman doesn’t mean you can walk in here and make slanderous allegations like that. Whatever makes you think that I would demean myself in that way? I’m an actress!’
There’s no doubt about that
,
I thought.
‘We are investigating the murders of your husband and your brother, Mrs Foley,’ said Dave, ‘and it was necessary to keep observation on your Chorley Street house. And it was you who led us to this apartment. We then made further enquiries. That’s how we know.’
‘I can’t imagine why you thought you’d find Lancelot’s murderer here,’ said Debra. ‘I told you why I’ve opted to live here, and I’ve visited from time to time to make sure that everything would be ready when I did move in. What on earth makes you think I’m a prostitute? It really is the most bizarre idea.’ Her mental script demanded that she laugh gaily at this point, and she did.
‘The way in which you were dressed when we arrived, for a start,’ Dave said. ‘It looked as though you were expecting a client, but instead we turned up.’
‘You caught me in the middle of getting dressed.’
‘You can stop pretending, Mrs Foley,’ I said, not wanting to give the woman a chance to create more spurious excuses. ‘We’ve observed several men coming here, and we’re in no doubt that they’re coming here for the purpose of having sexual intercourse with you.’ There was really no point in pursuing this discussion, but I wanted to unnerve the woman before moving on to the real purpose of our visit.
‘Why shouldn’t I have gentlemen friends? Lancelot and I were separated, so you can’t blame a girl for looking elsewhere to satisfy her needs. And you can’t prove that it was me these men were coming to see. If I were you I’d have a few words with the woman who lives on the top floor. If you really want to talk to a prostitute, I suggest you start with her.’
‘And I dare say the men paid you by credit card,’ I said. ‘These things can be checked, of course.’
Debra glowered at me, but remained silent.
‘And we’re probably going to talk to James Corley, too.’ Dave took a chance on the MP being another of Debra’s clients, based upon what DS Charlie Flynn had reported.
‘Oh, I get the picture.’ Debra leaned back in the settee and conjured up a disdainful expression. ‘And now, I suppose, you’re going to tell me what I have to do to make all this go away,’ she said sarcastically, all pretence having now vanished. ‘What’s it to be – one at a time or three in a bed? Tied to the bed? Once a week? Twice a week? Actually, I rather fancy you, Sergeant.’
Dave laughed, which was not what Debra had expected. ‘We’re not the slightest bit interested in having sex with you, Mrs Foley.’
‘Oh, and why the hell not?’ Her reaction was one of anger, probably because no one had ever turned down such an offer before.
‘That’s not why we’re here,’ I said. ‘You aren’t committing any offence by hiring out your body.’
‘Then what the hell
are
you here for?’ Debra had been caught wrong-footed and was probably feeling rather silly, having made the offer she had and thus revealing herself in her true light.
‘Why did your brother Robert visit you here on Thursday the tenth of January this year?’
‘My brother came here? I don’t think so … No, that’s not—’ Debra said haltingly, and then stopped. My question, coming so suddenly and at variance with anything we’d discussed so far, clearly flustered her. But, being the actress she was, she quickly recovered from having fluffed her lines and improvised. ‘No, you’re wrong. It couldn’t have been here because I was still at Chorley Street. But I do remember now. He did call there to ask how the play was going. Yes, that would have been it. The play opened on the seventh of January, you see. Yes, I remember now,’ she said again, ‘it was Chorley Street.’
‘He came here to
this
apartment, Mrs Foley.’ I was becoming heartily sick of this woman’s prevarication. ‘What other reason could he have had for making an entry on his computer to say that he had called on Corinne at Keycross Court? And you’ve already admitted that Corinne is another of your so-called stage names.’
‘I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about, Chief Inspector.’ Debra spoke carelessly, but her expression revealed her concern at learning that her brother had recorded the visit on his laptop. She was probably wondering what else he’d made a note of. ‘In any case, I don’t see that it matters whether Bobby came here or to Chorley Street.’ She made a point of glancing nervously at her wristwatch, as she had done at intervals throughout the interview. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a friend at any minute.’ In other words, she wasn’t prepared to talk about it any more.
‘Very well, Mrs Foley,’ I said. ‘But we will be coming to see you again. There are other matters we need to discuss.’
As we walked across the forecourt to our car, a man came towards us. Whatever reason he had for doing so, he suddenly turned, placed one foot on a low wall and pretended to tie a shoelace. Once we were past him, he hurried towards the entrance to the flats.
‘Did you see who that was, Dave?’ I asked, when we were in the car.
‘Yes, it was James Corley the MP, and he’s probably just remembered that he’s wearing slip-ons. Very difficult to tie shoelaces that aren’t there.’
‘He must know that he’d be recognized sooner or later, Dave. He’s always on TV, shooting his mouth off about something or other. Some guys are suckers for punishment.’
‘D’you reckon Corinne’s into that sort of thing as well, then, guv?’
I decided we would wait in the car for a few minutes before leaving, for no better reason than a desire to satisfy my idle curiosity. Sure enough, I was rewarded almost immediately. James Corley spent a few minutes talking on the intercom. Several times he turned to look around. When he’d finished his conversation, he turned and ran down the path. He contrived to look absolutely furious, disappointed and worried all at the same time.
‘Oh dear!’ said Dave. ‘He looks as though someone’s stolen his lollipop.’
‘I imagine that he’s just had a tongue lashing from Debra before she sent him on his way, Dave. As we mentioned his name to her, she’ll have blamed him for telling us that she was on the game.’
‘Nor hell a fury like a woman whose trick has just shopped her to the wicked police. I wonder what she’ll do now, guv. You told her that she’s not committing an offence, but I wonder if she’ll decide to give up anyway.’
‘I’m not sure she can afford to, Dave. We knew about Lancelot leaving everything to Sally Warner, so it’s quite possible that Debra really hasn’t got a penny of her own. And now that the play’s closing she won’t have an income. No, I reckon she’ll go on the game full time.’
Debra Foley looked out of the window and watched as DCI Brock and DS Poole walked down the path towards their car. But as she did so, her afternoon client, James Corley, came into her field of vision. She was thankful that he was late, otherwise he would have arrived when the police were with her. She watched the police officers get into their car, but was concerned that they did not drive away immediately.
Suddenly, she realized what they were doing. Despite what they’d said about her not committing an offence, she was certain they were waiting for sufficient evidence to charge her with prostitution or even with something more serious.