Authors: Graham Ison
The intercom buzzed. ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘It’s me, Corinne, James Corley.’
‘I’m sorry, James, but you can’t come in.’
‘Why not? I have got the right date and time, haven’t I? Or have you got someone with you?’
‘The police have just been here, and they’re outside now in their car watching everyone who calls on me. Someone’s told them that I entertain gentlemen.’ Debra paused before levelling an allegation that she believed to be true. ‘Was it you, James?’
‘Christ, no! Of course it wasn’t me. Why the hell would I show out by telling them I’d been screwing you?’ Corley was suddenly beset with panic. ‘Is there a back way out of here, Corinne? I mean, can you let me in, so that I can pretend I’m going to see someone else?’ An awful panorama of disaster unfolded in his mind’s eye: arrest followed by appearances in court and the ruination of his career. But despite being a legislator, James Corley was not too well versed in the law and did not immediately realize that his only danger would be the tabloid press.
‘No, James, you’ll just have to go back down the path.’ Despite his denial, Debra was still convinced that it was Corley who had informed the police about her activities. But had she thought it through, she would have realized that it didn’t make sense; Corley would have been committing political suicide by telling the police that he had regular sex with a prostitute.
There were, however, more important and more pressing things on her mind. After she had finished her conversation with a shocked Corley, she took a small black book from her handbag and thumbed through it until she found the mobile phone number she wanted.
‘Hello?’
‘Bill, it’s Debra.’
‘Well, well,’ said William Anderson, ‘are you free for the afternoon? I feel like dropping in on you to have a bit of fun.’
‘It’s the police, Bill, they’ve been here. They know that my brother came here, and I’m sure they know it was to murder me. But we know that he didn’t know it was me, and that’s why—’
‘For God’s sake slow down, Debra,’ said Anderson sharply. ‘You’re not making a lot of sense.’ He became suddenly serious. And very worried.
‘They said something about having got the information about his visit from his computer. Apparently, they found it when they searched his house after he was murdered,’ Debra continued, blurting out the words breathlessly, forgetting all she had learned at drama school about pacing her delivery and not gabbling her lines.
‘Did they mention Lancelot at all?’ asked Anderson.
‘No, they didn’t, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they suspected something. They waited outside for a while after they’d been here. Bill, I’m frightened. I’m sure they suspect us both. They pretended to talk about my little sideline, but I’m certain there was more to it than that. I’m sure they know what’s happened. I just know that they’re going to arrest me soon!’
‘Dammit!’ exclaimed Anderson. ‘I didn’t know your brother had a computer. If I told him once I must’ve told him a dozen times not to keep anything that the police might find if any of our operations went belly up. It seems that your stupid bloody brother has handed it all to them on a plate.’ He had searched Miles’s house after he’d murdered him, but found nothing that was likely to connect him with the murder. Unfortunately for him, such was his hurry, he’d had no time to look in the loft.
‘It wouldn’t have happened if Bobby hadn’t been murdered,’ said Debra pettishly.
‘Well, I didn’t kill him.’ Anderson saw no reason to confess to Debra Foley that he’d killed her brother. She had caused him enough trouble already, and he wondered just how much this garrulous woman had told the police. It seemed to him that she opened her mouth as often as she opened her legs. ‘There’s only one thing for it, Debra. We’ll go away for a while until the dust settles.’
‘But where? Where will we go?’
There was a moment or two of silence. ‘Paris for a start,’ said Anderson. ‘I know just the place.’ There was another pause. ‘Meet me at St Pancras railway station as soon as you can. And I mean as quickly as you possibly can. There’s no time to waste. You must leave immediately.’
‘Whereabouts at St Pancras, Bill? Under the clock?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman, this isn’t a bloody film; this is for real. Meet me in the Champagne Bar. I’ll get tickets for the Eurostar service to Paris. If we go before the police really start looking for us, we should be in the clear.’
‘But will it be safe, Bill?’
‘Of course it will. I’ve got contacts all over the world. We’ll just keep moving, and I assure you, Debra, that I know how to keep one step ahead of the law. We’ll spend a night or two in Paris, and then we’ll go on down to the Riviera. How d’you fancy champagne on the beach? I’ll even buy you a new bikini. Now, be a good girl; pack just one overnight bag and meet me at the station.’
‘But if we’re staying longer, Bill, I’ll need more than an overnight bag,’ complained Debra. ‘I’ll need a change of clothes and all sorts of other things. And then there’s—’
‘One bag, no more,’ said Anderson, cutting in sharply. ‘I’ll buy you anything else you need, Debra, but don’t waste any more time or we won’t get a train. And we might even get arrested. Oh, and make sure you’re wearing your wedding ring.’
Although Anderson had tried to make it sound as though he was inviting Debra Foley for a romantic holiday, he had other plans in mind. She had become a liability, and he had no intention of allowing her to endanger him any farther.
After she had finished her phone call to Anderson, Debra embarked on the difficult problem of packing. It was easy enough when she went on a theatrical tour and there was no limit to what she could take, but Anderson’s stricture of one overnight bag made the choice of what to pack much more difficult. It was with some misgivings she eventually managed to assemble the essentials, secure in the knowledge that Bill had promised to buy her anything she wanted.
Quickly changing into a navy-blue trouser suit and remembering just in time to take her passport with her, she put on the black leather overcoat that an admirer had bought her a year or so ago. She telephoned the caretaker and asked him if he’d be a sweetie and call her a taxi and perhaps he’d take her bag down for her as well.
Debra Foley arrived at St Pancras International Station at half-past four. Pushing her way through the crowds, she entered the Champagne Bar, renowned for being the longest in Europe, and looked around.
Anderson came rushing towards her. ‘Thank God you made it. I’ve got tickets for the four fifty-two train for Paris, but we’ll have to get a move on.’
‘Where are we going to stay?’ asked Debra as they hurried towards the train.
‘All arranged,’ said Anderson, ‘and I’ve even booked dinner in the restaurant.’
‘You’ve grown a beard,’ said Debra as they boarded the train.
‘Seemed sensible,’ said Anderson.
I
t was half-past eight when Anderson and Debra Foley arrived at the Santa Barbara Hotel in the rue de Castiglione. After the porter had placed their two overnight bags on the luggage rack and accepted a generous tip with profuse thanks, they went straight to the restaurant.
As the couple had eaten on the train, they limited their meal to a plate of
moules marinières
and French fries, accompanied by a bottle of Muscadet.
During the leisurely meal the two of them laughed and even joked with each other. In Debra’s case, it was a feeling of relief that the imminent danger had been averted and that she could afford to relax. In Anderson’s case, however, it was to give the impression to everyone else in the hotel that they were just another carefree married couple enjoying a romantic break in Paris.
It was ten o’clock when they went up to their room.
‘I’m tired after that journey, Bill,’ said Debra, stifling a yawn.
‘Maybe,’ said Anderson, ‘but don’t forget you have to pay off your debt in kind.’
Debra performed an erotic striptease before allowing Anderson to throw her on to the bed and take her.
Forty minutes later, an exhausted Debra finally fell asleep face down. But she was destined never to wake up.
Anderson leaned over her, seized her head and twisted sharply. ‘No one puts William Anderson in danger,’ he said quietly.
Quickly dressing, he picked up his overnight bag and walked out to the corridor. Having previously reconnoitred the layout of the hotel he did not pause, but calmly descended to the ground floor by the service stairs and out of the emergency exit into the rue de Castiglione. He walked a few yards, turned a corner, hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the gare du Nord.
When the cab driver dropped him at the station, he waited a few minutes before hailing another cab. This second cab took him to a different Paris hotel, where he booked a room for the night and produced a genuine American passport in the name of Geoffrey Crawford, born Brunswick, Ohio, forty-one years ago. The first thing he did was to shave off his beard, by which time it was midnight, and to all intents and purposes William Anderson had ceased to exist. The following day, he moved hotels again.
‘Anderson is ex-army, guv’nor,’ said DS Flynn, the moment I walked into the incident room, ‘and he’s got an interesting history.’
‘Come into my office, Charlie,’ I said, and signalled to Kate and Dave to come in as well.
‘Anderson is forty-one years old, and was a captain in an infantry regiment, but was cashiered seven years ago,’ said Flynn, once we were all settled.
‘What for?’
‘Striking a non-commissioned officer is what it says in the records, but they were only the bald facts. I had quite a long chat with the military police sergeant-major who investigated the case, and it seems that Anderson’s wife was carrying on an affair with a colour sergeant in Anderson’s battalion when it was based at Aldershot. Instead of doing the sensible thing when he found out, Anderson went round to where this NCO lived and knocked hell out of him in front of the bloke’s wife and kids. There was a court martial, during which a military police lieutenant testified to having received a formal complaint from Mrs Anderson that her husband had assaulted her on several occasions over the preceding year. Anyway, the upshot was that Anderson was found guilty of grievous bodily harm with intent, and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and was cashiered.’
‘I don’t suppose the army knows what he’s been doing since he got the boot?’
‘The only thing this sergeant-major had heard from the army rumour mill was that Anderson had been involved in some dodgy mercenary work, but he didn’t know where or when. But word is that he’d been recruiting ex-soldiers for some job as recently as nine months ago.’
‘If that entry on Miles’s computer is anything to go by,’ said Dave, ‘it looks as though Anderson and Miles were thinking about doing a job in Zimbabwe. It was called Operation Overthrow, and that can mean only one thing as far as that country’s concerned.’
‘Yes, maybe, but we don’t want to get involved in politics, Dave,’ I said. ‘Let’s just concentrate on finding out who killed Foley and Miles.’
‘We know that Anderson was at the first-night party,’ said Dave. ‘Let’s suppose it was no more than a case of Debra meeting him there and the pair of ’em going to bed together. We don’t know that there’s any more to it than that.’
‘Much too simple,’ said Kate Ebdon. ‘It doesn’t explain why Robert Miles should have made an entry on his laptop about seeing Corinne and then adding “mission aborted”. I think that Debra ought to be interviewed again, possibly even under caution.’
Kate was right, of course, and she was just the woman to do it.
‘Good idea, Kate,’ I said. ‘Bring her in and find out what she knows.’
‘I think a better idea would be if Nicola Chance and I called on her tomorrow. If we like what she tells us, we’ll arrest her.’
Leisure time is always at a premium when I’m involved in a murder enquiry, but there was little more that could be done that evening. I decided to take Gail out for a meal while I had the chance, and I phoned her and asked where she’d like to go. To my surprise, she’d said that she’d rather eat at home and would prepare a meal. But she’d sounded unusually nervous, and I thought that she had something to tell me. Something that would not please me.
I drove out of the Belgravia area and made towards Surbiton. The snow had given way to rain, and it was a miserable drive home. Consequently, it was almost eight o’clock by the time I reached my flat, having used up my entire stock of swear words on the journey. There is something about rain that has an adverse effect on motorists: they seem to lose any common-sense they may have possessed in the first place.
There was one of Gladys Gurney’s charming little notes on the worktop in my kitchen. Gladys is my personal domestic saviour. She has been looking after my flat for years now, although I hardly ever see her. But her presence is felt through the notes and the immaculate state of my apartment.
Dear Mr Brock
I give your fridge a bit of a clear out. All the stuff what was in there was well out of date. I hope you don’t mind, but I was rather you was hungry than poisoned.
Yours faithfully
Gladys Gurney (Mrs)
P.S. I put Miss Sutton’s bra in the wardrobe on the left hand side.
I changed into a clean shirt, grabbed a bottle of wine and dashed out of the door. I cut through Surbiton railway station and was lucky to find a cab on the rank.
‘Sorry I’m late, darling,’ I said, having let myself in with the key I now possessed to Gail’s Georgian town house. That description is actually a euphemism for a three-storey terraced property that was built sometime in the seventies. ‘Traffic was terrible.’
‘I’m about to serve, if you’d like to pour the wine.’
We sat down to another of Gail’s superb meals, but there was something missing. And I don’t mean anything culinary. She was amazingly quiet this evening, which was quite out of character. Usually, it’s difficult to stop her talking, especially when we haven’t seen each other for a day or two, but she’d hardly said a word since I arrived.
Eventually, I put down my knife and fork. ‘What is it, darling? There’s clearly something on your mind.’
‘I’ve been offered a contract in Hollywood,’ said Gail. Just like that. No frills, no wrapping it up.
‘What?’ That had come right out of the blue, like an unforeseen punch to the solar plexus. ‘For how long?’
‘Six months, darling. Possibly longer if it’s a success.’
‘But … I mean, how did that happen?’
‘It was actually your fault. After you’d talked to Gerald Andrews the other day, I got a call from him. He said you’d told him that I thought my ex had a grudge against me and that was why I hadn’t got any decent parts. So he pulled out all the stops and spoke to his wife. She’s a casting agent – but you know that – and up came this opportunity to appear in a TV soap that requires a quintessential Englishwoman for the part. It’s not a very big part, but it’s a start; a rung on the Hollywood ladder, if you like.’
I was absolutely stunned by this news, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Our relationship was heavily laden in my favour. I dropped in whenever duty allowed and good old Gail was there, ready and waiting to provide a meal or to jump into bed with me. Now it looked as though it was all coming to an end. I knew damned well that if she trotted off to Los Angeles she’d likely be wooed by some rich American who owned a ranch and three or four houses, each with an indoor swimming pool for when the outdoor one couldn’t be used. Doubtless there’d be a garage full of cars, and a stable full of horses with opportunities to go riding every day. And it was all my fault.
‘Are you going to take it?’ I asked.
‘I think I’d be foolish not to,’ said Gail.
‘I agree,’ I said, ‘although I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘It’s all right for you, Harry,’ said Gail. ‘You’ve got an interesting job, but one that takes you away from me for days – weeks, even – while I sit here twiddling my thumbs. You know I’ve been dying to get back into the theatre, and a job in television is just as good. In fact, it probably pays better, especially in the States.’
‘What will you do about this place?’
‘Let it out, I suppose.’
‘When is this all due to start? The TV programme, I mean.’
‘They want me to fly out on Monday.’
‘But that’s only three days away.’
‘You don’t want me to go, do you, Harry?’
‘No, I don’t, but I think you should. You’re quite right about your career. If you don’t take this opportunity, you might never get another.’
‘I knew you’d understand, Harry. After all, I’m not getting any younger.’
We finished our meal in silence, and at half-past ten, I stood up. ‘I’d better be going. I’ve still got a murder to solve.’
‘Won’t you stay the night?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve an early start in the morning.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. See you in six months’ time, then, Harry.’ Gail gave me a lingering kiss.
‘Yes, six months.’
But, to be brutally honest, we both knew that the relationship was over. Gail had got bored with her aimless life and had probably become bored with me too. I took the key to her house from my key ring and placed it on the table. Curiously, she did not return the key to my flat that I had given her, and I clung to a vestige of hope that I might see her again. But deep down I knew that I was fooling myself.
Having learned from Sebastian Weaver that the afternoon’s matinee had been cancelled through lack of bookings, Ebdon and Chance opted for calling at Keycross Court on Saturday afternoon. They waited in their car a few yards down the road, but by four o’clock the woman had not made an appearance.
‘Damn!’ said Kate. ‘Just our luck that on the one day we were waiting for her to turn up, she doesn’t show.’
‘I suppose she could’ve come earlier than usual, ma’am,’ said Nicola.
‘Possibly. Let’s go and bang on the door. I don’t intend to spend all this arvo hanging around waiting for her.’ Kate rang the bell several times, but eventually had to admit that Debra Foley wasn’t there, or if she was she was probably ‘working’ already. ‘There’s a resident janitor here,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a word with him. See if he knows anything.’
The janitor, a bald-headed man of about fifty with bushy eyebrows and a jolly, rubicund expression, gazed enquiringly at the two young women at the door of his flat on the ground floor.
‘We’re looking for Corinne Black,’ said Kate, once she had identified herself and Nicola Chance as police officers.
‘I think she’s gone away for a bit, love,’ said the janitor, thumbs in the armholes of his unbuttoned waistcoat. ‘She asked me to help her down with her bag and put it in the taxi for her.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, about half-past three, I suppose.’
‘Did you hear where she was going?’ Nicola asked.
‘No, sorry. She must’ve told the driver once she was in the cab. She give me a couple of quid for helping, though.’
‘Shall we try Chorley Street, ma’am?’ asked Nicola, once she and Kate were back in their car.
‘Might as well, Nicky, although I doubt she’ll be there,’ said Kate. ‘It looks as though she’s done a runner. Pity, really, because I was hoping we’d catch her wearing the outfit she was wearing when the guv’nor called here yesterday. She wouldn’t like coming face to face with another woman when she was dressed like that. That would have thrown her off balance.’
‘Not if she’s bisexual,’ said Nicola.
‘Well, she’d be out of luck with me,’ said Kate firmly, ‘because I’m not.’ She put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb.
But the two detectives fared no better in Chorley Street. There was no answer to repeated knockings, as the police are wont to write in negative reports.
‘She could’ve gone to the theatre already, I suppose,’ suggested Nicola.
‘It’s possible, even though the matinee’s been cancelled,’ said Kate, ‘but I’ve got a nasty feeling about this.’
They pulled up in front of the Clarence Theatre. As they got out of the car, Kate was approached by a young policeman, who looked as though he’d just escaped from the forcing factory known as Hendon training school.
‘You can’t park your nice car there, love,’ he said.
Kate moved closer to the PC, invading his personal space. ‘D’you usually address members of the public as “love”?’ she asked in menacing tones. She was becoming increasingly frustrated by her lack of success in finding Debra Foley, and the unfortunate policeman happened to be in her line of fire. And it was he who got the broadside.
The PC made the mistake of smiling. ‘I didn’t think a pretty girl like you would mind,’ he said as he appraised Kate’s attractive figure.
‘Well, I do bloody mind, cobber.’ Kate put a hand in the pocket of her jeans and took out her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Ebdon, Murder Investigation Team.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am.’ The PC’s smile vanished immediately, and his face coloured with embarrassment.