Authors: Graham Ison
‘That was partly true, Mrs Tate,’ said Dave. ‘We know from our enquiries that your husband was running a successful import and export business. In fact, from our examination of his company’s accounts, he was very successful. Did you know he also owned a house in Romford?’
‘In Romford? He never mentioned it.’
‘It was the centre of his mercenary operations,’ Dave said.
‘You see, Mrs Tate,’ I continued, ‘when I said that your husband died in Paris yesterday, I wasn’t telling you the whole story. The fact of the matter is that he was shot dead by police, upon whom he had opened fire. As a result one policeman was killed and two others wounded.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Elizabeth Tate crossed to the cabinet a second time and poured herself another whisky. ‘But why should he have shot at policemen in Paris? None of this is making any sense.’
‘There is little doubt that he murdered three people: two in London and another in Paris. The police, both here and in France, had been searching for him for almost four months.’
Elizabeth drained her glass, but seemed remarkably tolerant to the effects of the alcohol she had just consumed. I could only assume that the shock she had experienced had prevented the onset of insobriety.
‘But who were these people?’
‘Lancelot Foley, the actor, was the first, Mrs Tate,’ said Dave.
‘I read about that, and there was quite a lot about it on television,’ said Mrs Tate. ‘I can’t believe that Charles would have murdered him.’
‘And then we believe him to have murdered a Robert Miles, one of his fellow mercenaries,’ continued Dave, ‘who coincidentally was Lancelot Foley’s brother-in-law. The French police have positive evidence that he also murdered Debra Foley in a Paris hotel. She was the wife – or widow, I should say – of the actor Lancelot Foley and was herself an actress, but also a prostitute.’
‘Your husband had first visited her under her other name of Corinne Black,’ I said, taking up the story, ‘who kept an apartment at Keycross Court for the express purpose of having sexual intercourse with her clients. Although your husband claimed to have met her there for sex, I now have doubts about the veracity of that statement.’
‘So that’s why you came here that day.’ Elizabeth levelled an accusing glare in my direction. ‘You thought he’d been having sex with this woman. But why did he have to murder these people?’
‘Debra Foley had asked him to murder her husband, because she was afraid that her husband would tell people that she was a prostitute and thus ruin her acting career. But when she couldn’t pay him for the hit, Lancelot Foley having left all his money to another woman, your husband took her to Paris and murdered her.’
‘I’m finding it very difficult to take all this in. How did that finish up with Charles being shot by the police in Paris?’
‘The French police had positive evidence that your husband was the killer of Debra Foley. As I said just now, your husband and Mrs Foley had been sharing a room at a hotel there, and that’s where he murdered her. But months later he was recognized in the avenue des Champs Elysées by a retired French detective who alerted the police. A chase through Paris took place, but when your husband was cornered he attempted to shoot his way out.’
Elizabeth Tate leaned back against the cushions of the settee in which she was sitting and stared absently into her empty whisky glass. ‘What am I going to tell my son?’ she asked eventually.
‘Was your husband the boy’s father?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He was the son of my first marriage, but shortly after my first husband died I met and married Charles, or whatever his name is. It was more for the security than anything else.’
‘Did your husband make a will?’ asked Dave.
She stared blankly at Dave. ‘I suppose so. I don’t really know.’
‘I should see a solicitor if I were you,’ said Dave. ‘We believe that your husband had a substantial bank account. If your solicitor gets in touch with the legal department at Scotland Yard, someone there should be able to provide you with the details.’ Dave knew better than to give Elizabeth Tate those details himself; the Commissioner took a poor view of police officers becoming involved in civil matters.
I hadn’t had an opportunity to see the commander when Dave and I got back from Paris. Or to put it another way, I’d skilfully avoided seeing him. But now there was no alternative.
‘Ah, you’re back, Mr Brock. What have you to report?’
I started to give the commander a precis of all that had taken place both here and in Paris, but he stopped me once it became clear that I had succeeded in confusing him with the complexities of the entire investigation.
‘I think it would be better if you wrote your report, Mr Brock, and then I’ll be able to study it at length and be in a position to make recommendations.’
‘Good idea, sir,’ I said. But I did wonder what sort of recommendations he had in mind. Frankly, I couldn’t see that he could add anything to all that had happened. Unless he had it in mind to put my name forward for a commendation. But I somehow doubted that.
It was now six o’clock, which was the commander’s going-home time, and that was the most likely reason for him to have curtailed my explanation.
I put my head round the door of the office occupied by Kate Ebdon and Len Driscoll. Only Kate was there. I sat down in the armchair adjacent to her desk.
‘Everything turned out ripper, then, guv,’ she said.
‘Yes, it did.’ And then, without a thought for the long-term ramifications, I said, ‘D’you fancy having dinner with me tonight, Kate?’
‘Is it the whole team, guv?’ she asked, aware that celebrations of that sort were often held after the successful conclusion of a case.
‘No, just you and me.’
Kate flashed me another of her conspiratorial smiles and reached out to touch my hand. ‘I’d like that very much … Harry.’