Authors: Graham Ison
H
aving spent last night with my girlfriend at her Kingston town house, I’d travelled to work by train today instead of using my car. I arrived at Waterloo railway station and was about to descend to the depths of the Underground station to catch the tube train to Victoria when my mobile vibrated in my inside pocket. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Brock?’
‘I can’t hear you properly. Some idiot’s broadcasting incomprehensible rubbish on the tannoy. Just a minute.’ Pushing my way between coffee-carrying, mobile-phone-using commuters, I moved into the archway next to Costa’s coffee shop. ‘OK, that’s better. Go ahead.’
‘Mr Brock?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Colin Wilberforce in the incident room, sir. I’ve been trying to get you for some time.’
‘I was on the train, and the signal’s always poor. Anyway, what is it, Colin?’ I had a bad feeling about this; the only reason that I got a call from Detective Sergeant Wilberforce at this time of the morning was that somewhere there was a dead body that required my expert attention.
‘Freshbrook Street, Chelsea, sir. A couple of workmen found a dead body in an excavation there. Local police are on scene, and the HAT DI has assessed it as a murder and one for us.’
The HAT DI’s job is to evaluate suspicious deaths that might be too complicated or lengthy for the local CID. He’d obviously decided that this was such a case. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I’ve alerted DI Ebdon, Dave Poole and the team, and I understand that Doctor Mortlock and an evidence recovery unit are already at the scene.’
‘You’ve made my day, Colin,’ I said sarcastically, and terminated the call. It was just my luck to get the murder of someone found in a hole on a freezing cold, snowy February morning. Why don’t I ever get a civilized murder of an elegant blonde draped decorously on the floor of the library up at a centrally-heated manor house?
There was a queue a mile long waiting for taxis at the station cab rank. Instead of joining it, I pulled up the collar of my Barbour jacket and walked out to York Road in the vain hope of finding a taxi during the morning rush hour. However, I was lucky enough to sight a police traffic car. I stepped into the road and waved it down.
‘What’s your problem, mate?’ enquired the radio operator, opening the window just enough for us to hear each other.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Homicide and Major Crime Command,’ I said, producing my warrant card, ‘and my problem, as you put it, is a murder in Freshbrook Street.’
‘Sorry, guv. Thought you were a mad member of the public who loves policemen. Hop in.’
I just managed to get the door closed before the driver accelerated away, carving his way through the traffic with wailing siren and blue lights.
Freshbrook Street was about three miles away, but despite the awful weather my intrepid driver managed it in less than five minutes. Just long enough for me to offer up a prayer beseeching the Almighty to preserve me from an instant and painful death. But as I’m not at all religious, my prayer probably went automatically into junk mail.
A miserable inspector clutching a wet clipboard announced himself as the incident officer and demanded my particulars.
‘DCI Brock, HMCC Murder Investigation Team.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the inspector, blowing on his hands before making a few notes. ‘The body’s in the tent, and some of your people are in the mobile police station over there.’ He pointed at a trailer parked near the scene of the crime. Having provided me with the requisite logistics he finally allowed me through the tapes.
‘I’m DCI Harry Brock, HMCC,’ I said as I approached a man dressed in a duffel coat, a scarf and a flat cap.
‘Jack Noble, guv. I’m the HAT DI. Your team’s here already. So is Doctor Mortlock.’
‘What’s the SP, Jack?’ I asked, using a bit of terminology that CID officers had appropriated from the racing fraternity. But in our case it was shorthand to discover what was known so far.
‘Dr Mortlock reckons someone broke your victim’s neck, after which it looks as though he was chucked in the hole.’
‘Where is Dr Mortlock?’ I was surprised that the deceptively lethargic pathologist had arrived so quickly, but then I remembered that he lived in Chelsea.
‘With the Metropolitan Police camping club, guv,’ said Noble with a grin, and pointed at the tent.
‘Would be, I suppose,’ I said, and crossed to the canvas structure. ‘Good morning, Henry.’
‘There’s nothing bloody good about it, Harry,’ said Mortlock, with a brief glance in my direction. ‘I’ll be finished in just a minute.’
In all the years that Henry Mortlock and I had conversed over dead bodies, I’d never really learned much about him. I knew he played golf and had a predilection for classical music, frequently humming excerpts from operas and, on occasion, actually singing the odd verse or two. I also knew that he was married, but had he any children? I’d never asked.
Now, with a few moments to spare, I looked at Henry the man rather than Mortlock the pathologist. He was avuncular in bearing, rather short, maybe five-six or five-seven, and rotund of stature. His old-fashioned wire-rimmed spectacles seemed to be a part of his rounded face, as did his battered homburg hat, as though he’d been born wearing them. His appearance, that of the friendly family doctor of my youth, was countered by the occasional flash of anger when those with whom he was obliged to deal failed to follow his scientific pronouncements. He also had an acerbic wit, but that perhaps was the result of dealing with cynical coppers like me. Or perhaps it was the other way round.
‘What can you tell me?’ I asked, when eventually Mortlock gave me his attention.
‘As I told the local chap, I reckon the deceased was the victim of a martial arts expert, Harry. Probably crept up on him, twisted his head and broke his neck.’ Mortlock flicked his fingers. ‘Just like that.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Difficult to say. I’d think that he’s been in that hole for some time, and the snow and the ambient temperature throws everything to pot, but I’d guess a good nine to twelve hours,’ said Mortlock, and followed it with his standard announcement: ‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him on the slab.’
‘Do we know who he is?’ I asked.
He looked at me with an expression of sympathy as though I’d just asked a stupid question. ‘I’ve no idea, Harry, but that’s your job. I’ll tell you what killed him. The rest is up to you.’
‘Thanks a bundle.’ I gathered that Mortlock was in one of his curmudgeonly moods and left it at that. He wandered off humming something from Puccini’s
Turandot
. At least, I think that’s what it was.
‘Morning, guv.’ Detective Sergeant Dave Poole, my trusty bag-carrier, ambled across the road, hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat. Dave’s nonchalant attitude is deceptive, as many a villain has discovered to his cost. In reality, he is a very astute detective and one of the best I’ve ever had working with me. Although of Caribbean origin, he was born in the Bethnal Green area of London’s East End. His grandfather had been a medical doctor, and Dave’s father is a chartered accountant. Dave graduated in English from London University, and for some reason I could never understand he decided to join the Metropolitan Police, as a result of which he frequently refers to himself as the black sheep of the family, a comment that disconcerts our politically correct hierarchy.
‘Do we know who this guy is, Dave?’
‘Linda Mitchell went through his belongings, guv. His name’s Lancelot Foley, and he’s got a wallet stuffed full of credit cards and a membership card for Equity, the actors’ union. There’s also a hundred quid in cash.’
‘So, robbery wasn’t the motive,’ I said.
‘No, sir,’ said Dave. He always calls me ‘sir’ whenever I make a fatuous comment. It’s his way of saying that I’ve just stated the obvious.
‘Is there any indication as to where he lives?’
‘His driving licence shows an address in Farnham in Surrey.’ Dave handed me the document.
‘Terrific! What the hell is he doing in a hole in Freshbrook Street, then?’
‘Playing dead, guv? However, given that he’s got an Equity card, I suspect he might’ve been appearing in a play of some sort in London. Or maybe he was recording something for television.’
‘I’ll get Miss Ebdon to follow that up. Where is she?’
‘Organizing house-to-house enquiries, not that I think she’ll have much luck. With this weather I’d think all the locals were in the warm with the curtains drawn at the time of the murder.’
‘Who’s Miss Ebdon got with her?’
‘Charlie Flynn and John Appleby, guv.’
‘See if you can find her, Dave, and ask her to see me. We can leave Charlie Flynn to take over running the house-to-house.’
It took me a moment or two to recognize Kate Ebdon when she entered the trailer that was the centre of our operations. She was wearing a fur Cossack hat, a quilted jacket and knee-length boots over her jeans. Around the office she was usually attired in tight-fitting jeans and a man’s white shirt, a mode of dress that somewhat alarmed our commander. But no one else complained – not the men anyway – because her outfit accentuated her five-foot nine curvaceous figure.
A flame-haired Australian, Kate had been born and brought up in Port Douglas in Queensland. She described it as an idyllic place in which to be raised, and often spoke quite without embarrassment of the times she’d spent skinny-dipping in the Coral Sea. Arriving in England at the age of seventeen she had made brief forays into advertising and hospital adminis-tration, until finally settling for a career in the Job.
As a detective, she’d served in London’s East End before graduating to the Flying Squad as a sergeant. Somewhere along the way she’d acquired a black belt in judo, and I had once seen her put a six-foot muscle-bound villain on his back with what seemed little more than a flick of her wrist. Now in her early thirties and a detective inspector in Homicide and Major Crime Command, she was one of the best homicide investigators I’d ever had the privilege of working with. As an interrogator, she had the ability to charm men and terrify women. Or the other way round if the circumstances demanded it.
‘Any joy with the house-to-house, Kate?’
‘Exactly what you’d expect, guv. No one saw a thing. So far, anyway. There are a few more houses to check, but I don’t hold out much hope.’
‘That reckons,’ I said. ‘The victim is a Lancelot Foley, an actor, apparently, and—’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Kate. ‘He’s appearing at the Clarence Theatre in
The Importance of Being Earnest
.’
‘How did you find that out so quickly, Kate?’
‘I could say that it was my superior detective ability,’ said Kate, smiling, ‘but my date took me to see the play last week. Foley’s wife Debra is in it too. She appears under the stage name of Vanessa Drummond.’
‘Your date?’ This was the first I’d heard about Kate having any kind of relationship. There were rumours that she’d given pleasure to a few of her male colleagues on the Flying Squad – and that was put down to canteen scuttlebutt – but never mention of any sort of a social liaison.
‘Women do occasionally go out with men,’ said Kate sharply. ‘It’s a well-documented fact, sir.’
Kate only rarely called me ‘sir’ – I think she’d got the idea from Dave – and I took it as a warning that I should mind my own business.
‘We’d better get round to the theatre and see what we can find out,’ I said.
W
e left our car at West End Central police station at the end of Savile Row and took a taxi into the heart of theatreland. It is a well known fact that these days villains are not above stealing police cars left carelessly in the street. To put the police logbook on the dashboard may prevent the issue of a ticket from an enthusiastic traffic warden, but it is an open invitation to any passing low-life to do a bit of opportunistic thieving. And to score one off the Old Bill into the bargain.
The Clarence Theatre had the slightly seedy appearance to be expected of a building erected in the late nineteenth century. London’s grime had taken its toll on the brickwork, and there were one or two places that showed a clear need for repointing. The small windows high up on the front of the building were dirty, though you wouldn’t notice this lack of care once the lights went on. It was, however, no different from the other theatres of its age. The billboards advertised Oscar Wilde’s
The Importance of Being Earnest
and prominently displayed the names of Lancelot Foley and Vanessa Drummond together with their photographs.
‘It looks as though Foley’s understudy is about to get his big chance,’ I said as Kate and I entered the theatre.
A young woman in dirty jeans and an equally dirty T-shirt was towing an industrial vacuum cleaner listlessly across the carpet of the foyer. She paused to take the cigarette out of her mouth. ‘The box office ain’t open till two o’clock,’ she said.
‘It’s against the law to smoke in here,’ said Kate.
‘What are you lot, then, ’ealth and safety?’ The woman shot Kate a surly glance.
‘No, police,’ said Kate. ‘Where’s the manager’s office?’
‘Up them stairs.’ The woman pointed at a door, carried on smoking and returned to her vacuuming.
The manager looked up as we entered his office, his expression possibly one of pleasure at an unforeseen interruption in what must otherwise be a mundane existence. ‘Ah! We have visitors,’ he said, as though addressing an invisible partner.
The office was a cramped room with an air of mustiness and decay that matched the age of the theatre. Its walls were adorned with playbills of productions long gone, as though the theatre was attempting to cling to its illustrious past. Behind a desk laden with paperwork sat a portly man probably approaching sixty. His hair, despite it being unsuitable for a man of his age, hung over his collar as if he were attempting to emulate a Shakespearian actor. His loud pinstriped suit included a waistcoat that appeared ready to burst open at its straining buttons, a spotted bow tie and a white carnation in the buttonhole. Finger-marked horn-rimmed spectacles, tipped forward on his nose, completed the picture of a flamboyant theatrical character, the type of which I thought no longer existed. I wondered if, years ago, he had been an actor and now found himself with nowhere else to go but the management of an ageing theatre.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock of the Murder Investigation Team at Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon. Are you the manager?’ It seemed an unnecessary question seeing that his door bore a sign inscribed with the word ‘Manager’, but over the years I’ve discovered that nothing is ever as it seems.
‘Yes, indeed. Sebastian Weaver at your service, my dear sir. What seems to be the trouble? Don’t tell me that “a murder has been arranged”,’ he said, deliberately using the title of one of Emlyn Williams’s best known plays. Raising his bushy eyebrows in a burlesque of the great George Robey, he made the enquiry sound like a joke as he skirted his desk and shook hands.
‘It may not have been arranged,’ I said, ‘but it’s certainly occurred, and it’s one that’s not likely to afford you any comfort, Mr Weaver. It concerns Lancelot Foley.’
‘Lancelot Foley? He’s not murdered someone, surely?’ Weaver emitted a great belly laugh that developed into a smoker’s cough, putting further strain on his waistcoat buttons. He waved a hand at a couple of uncomfortable chairs. ‘Take a seat, my dears,’ he croaked, still half coughing and wheezing.
‘Lancelot Foley’s the one who’s been murdered, Mr Weaver.’
‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood! But he’s due on stage at half-past seven this evening. Thank God there’s not a matinee today.’ The false bonhomie vanished in an instant, and Weaver became immediately anguished. ‘What the hell am I going to do now?’ He returned to the sanctuary of his desk and collapsed into his chair like a hot-air balloon that had suddenly and unaccountably deflated. It was as though this disastrous event was too much for his unhealthy physique. Plucking a voluminous red handkerchief from his top pocket, he began to clean his spectacles.
‘Presumably he has an understudy,’ said Kate helpfully, not appreciating that Weaver’s question was a rhetorical one.
‘Yes, of course he has, but the man’s bloody useless. Lancelot’s the one who puts bums on seats. He’ll never match Henry Irving or the late, much lamented Larry Olivier of course, but he does his best. Or did, I suppose I should say.’ Weaver perched his spectacles back on his nose, pocketed his handkerchief and glared at me as though Foley’s untimely death was my fault. ‘Where did this happen?’
‘Freshbrook Street in Chelsea, late last night or early this morning,’ said Kate.
‘How very interesting! Was he murdered in his tart’s flat, then, Inspector?’
‘No, he appears to have been murdered in the street. His body was found in an excavation.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ exclaimed Weaver. ‘Trust Lancelot to go out on a high.’ He started to polish his spectacles again. ‘He could always be relied on for a spectacular encore, could Lancelot.’
‘This woman friend you mentioned,’ I said. ‘From what you say, I take it she lives in Freshbrook Street.’
‘Yes. That’s why I asked if he’d been murdered at her place. But I don’t know whereabouts in Freshbrook Street she lives.’
‘Do you at least know her name?’
‘Yes, it’s Jane Lawless. She’s in the profession too. Mind you, knowing Lancelot, he might’ve picked up with another bird by now.’
‘Is this Jane Lawless appearing in the same play as Foley?’ I asked, not having noticed her name on the billboards.
‘No, she’s resting at the moment.’
I knew from conversations with my girlfriend, Gail Sutton, who is also in ‘the profession’, that ‘resting’ was a euphemism for unemployed.
A sudden thought occurred to Weaver. ‘Has his wife been told?’
‘You’re talking about Debra Foley, I presume.’ Kate was making sure, as all good detectives should, but she’d told me earlier that Debra was Lancelot’s wife and that her stage name was Vanessa Drummond. ‘And she’s playing opposite her husband, I believe.’
‘That’s right,’ said Weaver. ‘Mind you, she’s grievously miscast in the role of the Honourable Gwendolen Fairfax. She’s far too big a girl to play the part, and the fact that she’s supposed to be Lady Bracknell’s daughter is, not to put too fine a point on it, ludicrous. I know it’s a comedy, but the audience isn’t supposed to laugh at the actors, but rather to laugh at the lines they speak.’
‘The only address we have for Lancelot Foley is in Farnham, Surrey,’ I said, ‘but I imagine that he and his wife have theatrical digs somewhere in London. D’you have a London address for them?’
‘Hang on a second. My contacts book is here somewhere.’ Weaver shifted piles of paperwork about, eventually uncovering a worn book with Post-it notes sticking out at intervals. ‘Yes, here we are,’ he said, thumbing through the dog-eared pages. ‘They live together—’ He broke off and chuckled. ‘I should have said they
did
live together. Now, let me see. Ah, yes, here we are,’ he repeated. ‘They actually own a house in Chorley Street, but that was before the row. I don’t know which of them moved out, but I suppose she’s still there as Lancelot was shacked up with Jane.’
‘What’s the exact address, Mr Weaver?’ asked Kate, taking her pocketbook from her coat pocket.
Weaver handed Kate his contacts book and pointed a podgy finger at the entry. ‘I think they were only living there while this run is on,’ he continued. ‘When they’re resting they live at the Farnham address you mentioned and let the Chorley Street house to other theatricals.’
‘You said just now that the Foleys lived together until the row, Mr Weaver,’ said Kate. ‘D’you know what the row was about? Was this Jane Lawless the cause of it, d’you know?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I don’t think Lancelot moved in with Jane until after the bust-up with his wife.’
‘When we told you that Lancelot Foley had been murdered in Freshbrook Street, you asked if it was at Jane Lawless’s flat.’
‘That’s right,’ said Weaver.
‘Did you think it possible that Jane Lawless murdered him?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Weaver. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’
‘I think that’s all for the moment, Mr Weaver,’ I said, ‘but we may need to see you again at some later date.’
‘Yes, I suppose you will.’ Weaver spoke in a distracted sort of way, his mind obviously pondering the crisis with which he was now faced. He took out his handkerchief and began to polish his spectacles again.
We left the unhappy manager to deal with his problems, and as I closed his office door I heard him on the phone telling someone to take down the billboards. ‘No, you idiot boy, not tomorrow. Right now.’
We drove out to Chorley Street, a turning off Belgrave Square where, we had been told by Weaver, Debra Foley occupied a four-storey town house. I rang the bell on the intercom and waited for quite some time. We were on the point of leaving when a sleepy voice answered.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs Foley?’ I asked.
‘Yes, what d’you want?’
‘We’re police officers, Mrs Foley.’
‘Oh God! What now?’ The lock buzzed. ‘I’m in the sitting room on the first floor. Come on up.’
Debra Foley was standing at the top of the stairs, and when I drew level with her I realized that she was only slightly shorter than me, and I’m over six-foot tall. As Weaver had said, she was a big girl, although buxom would be a more complimentary way of describing a woman who was overweight. Nevertheless, with her sensuous lips, long wavy blonde hair that cascaded around her shoulders, wide hips and full bosom, she possessed a compelling sexual allure. For some inexplicable reason – my knowledge of Gail, I suppose – I imagined all actresses to be slender, but this woman was adequately covered. I guessed that she had yet to celebrate her thirtieth birthday.
‘You’d better come in, I suppose,’ said Debra wearily, and led the way into the sitting room. It appeared that our arrival had dragged her from her bed, but being an actress, I suppose that was to be expected. Her black satin peignoir was ankle-length and revealed bare feet. ‘And how can I help the police?’ she asked, an enquiring expression on her face.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Mrs Foley,’ I said, ‘and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon. It might be as well if you were to sit down.’
‘I hope this isn’t going to take long. I’ve got to shower and get dressed. I’ve an appointment this afternoon.’ The actress lowered herself elegantly into an armchair, carefully arranged the skirt of her peignoir, and vaguely waved a hand at the sofa opposite. It was all very studied, as though she were acting a part.
But let’s see how you perform when you hear what I’ve got to say
,
I thought.
‘It concerns your husband, Mrs Foley,’ I said tentatively as Kate and I sat down.
‘Oh? What’s Lancelot been up to now?’
This was the task that all police officers hate the most. No matter how the subject is broached or what words are used in an attempt to cushion it, it eventually comes down to a bald statement of fact. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s been murdered.’
‘Oh Christ!’ exclaimed Debra. ‘That’ll put the kibosh on the play. His understudy’s useless and is always corpsing. Personally, I’d have thought that everyone in the profession would have known
The Importance of Being Earnest
word perfect by now. The damned play’s been performed often enough. It’s unbelievably tiresome having to keep whispering his first lines to him,’ she said airily. ‘They really should give him a radio earphone so that he can be fed his lines, but the producer is unbelievably stingy. A prompt-box would be better than nothing, but we haven’t even got that.’
Of all the reactions to news of the violent death of a spouse, this was the most bizarre and callous I had ever heard. I have to admit that I was lost for words, but I did wonder if she’d already learned of her husband’s death and was putting on a bravura performance to cover her grief. However, her next utterance disabused me of that thought.
‘Don’t look so surprised, Chief Inspector.’ Debra shot me a fetching actress-like smile, the sort she would flash at the rich and famous in the stalls, I imagined. ‘Lancelot and I were on the point of divorce. Adultery, unreasonable behaviour and desertion. How’s that for a kick-off? You can take your pick. His dying has actually saved a lot of paperwork and the outrageous legal fees that go with it.’ She paused. ‘On second thoughts,’ she continued, ‘you can discount desertion: it was me who threw
him
out.’
‘We understand that he’s in a relationship with a woman called Jane Lawless.’ Kate Ebdon could always be relied upon to get to the point, and on this occasion I agreed with her direct approach. I’d already decided that little was to be gained by pussyfooting about with this woman, who showed all the signs of self-indulgence and clearly didn’t give a tuppenny cuss about the death of her husband.
‘You’ve been talking to that creep Sebastian Weaver,’ said Debra Foley, raising her eyebrows at Kate’s strong Australian accent. She leaned across to a side table and took a chocolate from a large open box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.
‘We’ve come straight here from the theatre,’ said Kate.
‘And when was Lancelot murdered?’
‘As far as we can tell, at just after midnight this morning. His body was discovered face down in an excavation in Freshbrook Street.’
‘Hah! So he didn’t quite make it to his slut’s bed,’ said Debra scornfully, and glanced towards the window. ‘Like a dull actor now,’ she quoted airily, and seeing Kate’s puzzled expression, added, ‘Shakespeare, my dear.
Cymbeline
.’