Authors: Graham Ison
‘Very sad,’ said the solicitor smoothly, and he drew his hand across the top of his desk as though checking for dust. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may be of service to you. But you have to understand that this firm deals only with civil matters, and I’m not sure how I can assist you with anything concerning crime.’ He spoke the last word as though uttering an obscenity.
That’s a good sign
, I thought.
I may be able to pull the wool over his eyes if he starts to get awkward.
‘It’s a matter of Mr Lancelot Foley’s will,’ I said. ‘I understand that you hold a copy of it.’
‘Indeed we do, Chief Inspector, but as a matter of client confidentiality I’m sure you’re aware I am not at liberty to disclose its contents without the consent of the principal beneficiary or other similarly qualified person.’ The lawyer plucked a large handkerchief from his sleeve, put it to his mouth and coughed affectedly.
‘And that is the problem, sir,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who the beneficiary is until I have sight of the will. Of course, if there’s likely to be some difficulty, and I’d anticipated there might be, I can go across to the Old Bailey and obtain a Section Eight warrant under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. I could be back in half an hour.’ I paused and glanced at Dave. ‘You did prepare an information, just in case, didn’t you, Sergeant?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Dave, and patted his empty pocket.
I was fairly sure that a Crown Court judge wouldn’t grant me a warrant in these particular circumstances, but I guessed that this plum-in-the-mouth solicitor was not too familiar with PACE warrants either, and his response confirmed it.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Chief Inspector. Never let it be said that we failed to cooperate with the police. I think in this particular case I’m sure I’d be justified in helping you.’ The lawyer ran his hand across the desktop again. ‘I presume you’re working on the theory that the beneficiary might’ve been responsible for this heinous crime.’
Well, he said it
, I thought. ‘Very perceptive of you, sir,’ I murmured.
‘Of course, as you undoubtedly know, if the named beneficiary is the murderer, he or she cannot inherit the estate. That’s the law.’ The solicitor flicked down the switch on his intercom. ‘Cynthia, be so good as to bring me Lancelot Foley’s last will and testament, please.’
‘Of course, sir,’ came Cynthia’s disembodied voice. This was clearly an efficient organization, because it was less than two minutes later that she appeared in the office and placed a slim document on the lawyer’s desk.
‘What exactly did you want to know?’ The solicitor stripped the pink ribbon from the will, and then glanced up.
‘The name and address of the principal beneficiary would be quite sufficient in the circumstances, sir,’ I said.
The solicitor took a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from a smart little stand on his desk and put them on. He spent a few minutes reading the will, and then took another few minutes to scan through it again. ‘There is only the one beneficiary, Chief Inspector,’ he said eventually. ‘Mr Foley has bequeathed his not inconsiderable estate, which I would estimate to be in excess of fifteen million pounds, give or take, to a Sally Warner with an address in Overcroft Lane, Farnham, Surrey. I’ve already telephoned the beneficiary and informed her of her inheritance, subject to probate, of course.’ He wrote Sally Warner’s details on a plain slip of paper and handed it to me.
I felt that we owed the solicitor a little token of gratitude, and as Dave and I were leaving his office, I said, ‘I’m most grateful for your assistance, sir, and I assure you that no one will know where our information came from.’
‘Most kind,’ murmured the solicitor, and put his spectacles back in the little stand.
The secretary ignored us as we left.
‘I don’t think that Debra Foley or Jane Lawless will be too happy when they learn where Lancelot’s money is going, Dave,’ I said as we returned to the car.
‘To say nothing of Ruth Strickland, guv,’ said Dave, and then paused. ‘It’s interesting that this Sally Warner also lives in Farnham. I wonder how far she is from Lancelot Foley’s house and where she fits into his life.’
‘Another of his birds on the side, I suppose, but she must be someone special to cop fifteen mill under his will. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.’
‘Looks like a trip to darkest Surrey, then.’
‘I reckon so, Dave, but first try the mobile phone number you found for Gerald Andrews and see if you can track him down. It’s time we had a word with him; he might just know something.’
‘Isn’t Andrews the bloke who Gail—?’ Dave began.
‘Yes, Dave. The very same.’
I
was surprised to find that Gerald Andrews was at the Clarence Theatre, but I supposed that he wanted to reassess the production now that the lead role had been taken over by Charles Digby.
‘Mr Andrews, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, and I’m investigating Lancelot Foley’s murder.’
‘Ah, I thought we might meet eventually, Chief Inspector.’ Andrews didn’t explain why he thought that, although I was sure I knew. ‘What can I do to help?’ he asked as we shook hands. ‘It’s a very sad business, and one that could be commercially disastrous if Digby doesn’t manage to pull it off. To be honest, I thought that the producer was a bit reckless to stage
Importance
in the first place.’ Like everyone in the theatrical profession I’d ever met, Andrews had acquired the habit of shortening the names of plays. ‘It’s so well known that people would rather have something new, and preferably a musical at that. Half the audiences these days are foreigners and don’t understand the language, let alone the nuances. Still, I only direct; I don’t invest in productions any more, unless it’s a racing certainty. Let’s see if we can find somewhere quiet for a chat.’
It doesn’t do to have preconceived ideas about a man of whom I had heard so much but had never met, and I found myself warming towards Andrews. He was about forty-five, and my first impression was that he was both affable and courteous. He constantly ran his hand through his full head of wavy iron-grey hair, and the suit he was wearing must have set him back at least a grand. And I’m pretty good at judging the price of a suit. The overall effect was one of a successful and wealthy theatre director.
Andrews eventually ushered Dave and me into a small office alongside the basement dressing rooms and invited us to take a seat.
‘I suppose you want to know what I know about Lancelot Foley,’ Andrews began. ‘I certainly can’t tell you who murdered him,’ he said, with a diffident smile, ‘but I can tell you that he had a liking for the ladies, if that’s any help.’
‘We’ve met three of them already, Mr Andrews,’ I said. ‘His wife, Debra; Jane Lawless; and Ruth Strickland.’
‘Oh, do call me Gerald, please. You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you? I feel that we have quite a lot in common, even though we’ve never met.’ He twitched the corner of his mouth, as though aware of the interpretation I would place on his comment.
‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘but to get to the point of my seeing you, have you any idea who might’ve wanted to kill Foley? It sounds like a routine question, and I suppose it is, but very often we find that there has been some disagreement that has culminated in violence.’
‘A few husbands, I guess.’ Andrews repeated what Debra Foley had said and smiled again. ‘Sorry. That was a joke and in rather poor taste. I know the theatrical game is a cut-throat business, but I doubt that an actor would have resorted to murder,’ he added, echoing what Gail had told me on many occasions. ‘I think Jane Lawless was married, but that wouldn’t have worried Lancelot and probably wouldn’t have bothered her either. He tended to play the field, and I think Debra probably threw him out after he’d erred once too often. That was with a girl called Sally Warner, but I don’t know what happened to her. Abandoned like all his other paramours, I suppose.’ As our conversation progressed I noticed that he frequently primped the handkerchief in his top pocket and fussed with his tie. Whether it was nervousness or a continuing concern for his appearance was open to conjecture.
‘But I presume that you can’t really point the finger at anyone in particular, Gerald.’ I wasn’t going to admit knowing that Sally Warner was about to inherit Foley’s substantial estate.
‘No, I’m afraid not, Harry. He was a thoroughly dislikable man, and he’d made a few enemies on his way up. But if that were a motive for murder, half the leading actors in the country would’ve been slaughtered by now.’
‘Well, thank you for your time, Gerald,’ I said as Dave and I stood up. But as I reached for the door handle Andrews spoke again.
‘I wonder if I could have a word with you in private, Harry,’ said Andrews hesitantly, and glanced at Dave.
‘I’ll wait in the car, sir,’ said Dave. He always called me ‘sir’ in the presence of civilians, as well as when I made some fatuous remark.
I sat down again and waited, fairly certain that Andrews didn’t want to talk further about Lancelot Foley’s murder.
‘How’s Gail, Harry?’ There was a directness in the way Andrews posed the question, as though he wanted to get the matter over and done with as soon as possible. ‘I’ve seen her from time to time, but the last time was just before Christmas.’
‘She’s very well, Gerald.’ It was news to me that Andrews met up with Gail occasionally, and I wondered where this conversation was going. But I didn’t have long to wait.
‘You obviously know that she and I were divorced some years ago, but it was inevitable.’
‘She told me something about you being in bed with a nude dancer when she got home from the theatre one afternoon,’ I said, just to let him know that I knew.
‘What?’ Andrews’ stunned expression could not have been other than genuine. ‘Is that what she told you, Harry?’ But then he gave a nervous little laugh.
‘Isn’t it true, then?’
‘Not exactly.’ Andrews primped his pocket handkerchief and touched his tie again. It was definitely nervousness this time. ‘Gail was the one who was in bed when I got home from the theatre unexpectedly. With a man.’ Once again, he ran his hand through his hair.
‘I didn’t realize that there were too many male nude dancers around.’ It was a lame comment, but I was so taken aback by what Andrews had told me that I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘He wasn’t a dancer, Harry, although he was nude at the time. He was the assistant stage manager at the Granville Theatre, which is where she was appearing at the time, and Gail eventually admitted that the affair had been going on for a while. I probably wouldn’t have minded so much if it had been another actor.’ Andrews paused momentarily and chuckled, attempting to make light of a delicate situation. ‘There again, perhaps I would.’
‘I see. This comes as something of a surprise.’ I wasn’t sure that I believed what Gail’s ex had told me. But on the other hand, Gail had always been a passionate and inventive lover, and I knew from my years with her that she wasn’t the sort of girl who would be prepared to go for too long without sex. And that worried me because it made me wonder what she did when I was tied up in a case and didn’t see her for a week or two. And what did she get up to when she went to Nottingham, supposedly to see her parents? Damn this man Andrews. He’d succeeded in planting a seed of doubt in my mind; but perhaps that was his intention.
‘I can understand you doubting my account of what happened, Harry, but if you ask Gail I’m sure she’ll admit it. Eventually.’
‘She told me that you’d stopped her from getting any decent acting parts. Is that true?’
Andrews smiled his tolerant little smile again, and once more primped his pocket handkerchief. ‘Why should I do such a thing? But after Gail and I were divorced, I married a casting agent. She knows about Gail, and I suppose she might’ve had something to do with it. Women can be very vindictive when the mood takes them. And that, of course, brings us back to Lancelot Foley. I’m not a detective, but if I were, I’d have a good look at the women in his life.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said, somewhat tersely.
‘Sorry if I’ve spoiled things for you, Harry.’ Andrews stood up and offered his hand.
‘Thanks for telling me anyway.’ After a moment’s hesitation I shook hands with him.
‘And perhaps you’d tell Gail that I’ll do what I can to get her a part. If she really wants to go back to the theatre, that is.’
I walked out to the car, turning over in my mind the story that Andrews had told me and wondering if it were true or whether it was an attempt on his part to engineer a break-up with Gail. Or maybe it was designed just to destabilize my relationship with her. But if any of that were true, it begged the question why.
I thought back to Gail’s appearance in
Scatterbrain
at the Granville Theatre when I had met her. And I wondered if the ASM there had been the only man with whom Gail had been having an affair. She was, after all, a damned attractive woman.
‘Everything all right, guv?’ asked Dave as I slid into the passenger seat.
‘Fine,’ I said.
Dave knew about Gail’s divorce, and Gail and Madeleine, Dave’s ballet dancer wife, often talked on the phone. Diplomatically, he said nothing further, but he must’ve guessed that Andrews’ request for a private chat must have had something to do with Gail.
‘Where to, guv?’ asked Dave as he started the engine.
‘Back to the factory, Dave.’ CID officers always call their office ‘the factory’.
Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic practitioner, was waiting for me in the incident room when Dave and I got back to Belgravia police station.
‘Have you by any chance got some good news, Linda?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I think it’s possible that I have, Mr Brock.’
‘That’ll be the first today.’ I could certainly do with something positive. I have to admit that I was somewhat disturbed by what Gerald Andrews had told me, and was having some difficulty in believing it.
‘We found a fingerprint on Foley’s walking stick.’
‘Whose is it?’ Was this, I wondered, the piece of the jigsaw that would solve our murder for us?
‘We don’t know,’ said Linda. ‘It’s not on record. All I can tell you with certainty is that it’s not Lancelot Foley’s print.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. All we have to do now is find the owner of the print.’
‘Mind you, Mr Brock, it could be anybody’s. But the chances are that it was the murderer’s, if he picked up the walking stick and threw it into the excavation where Foley’s body was found.’
‘I’m surprised that the killer wasn’t wearing gloves in this weather.’
‘If he’s the sort of hard case who goes round snapping people’s necks, he probably wouldn’t wear ’em anyway,’ said Dave. ‘Just in case he meets another macho man.’
‘If we ever find this killer, Linda,’ I said, ‘would that print stand up in court?’
‘Without a doubt. The fingerprint examiners got a clear sixteen points. It was probably the snow and ice that preserved it so well.’
‘Where’s the commander, Colin?’ I wondered if I should bring him up to date.
Wilberforce glanced at the clock. ‘Gone home, sir.’
‘Of course.’ I knew that the commander always left on the stroke of six o’clock. He wouldn’t want to get into trouble with Mrs Commander, if she was as much of a harridan as the photograph on the commander’s desk seemed to indicate. ‘In that case, I think I’ll do the same. Tomorrow morning we must really get our teeth into this enquiry.’
‘I’ve got toothache, guv,’ said Dave.
One of the few advantages of having moved from Empress State Building at Earls Court to Belgravia police station was that we had private parking spaces.
I started my car and set off for Surbiton, knowing that my journey of about twelve miles would take forever, particularly as it had begun to snow again. Crawling my way through the evening rush hour, I inched over Albert Bridge, wound my way slowly through the gridlocked Wandsworth one-way system, and negotiated the snarled-up Robin Hood roundabout until eventually I reached the A3, after which I had a fairly clear run. I finally arrived at my flat at gone half past seven.
After my conversation with Gerald Andrews, I’d decided against calling at Gail’s house in Kingston; I needed a day or two to think over everything that he had told me. Furthermore, it had planted a nagging thought in my mind: was Gail’s affair with the assistant stage manager still going on? I even wondered if she was still seeing Gerald Andrews on the sly. On the other hand, Andrews could have been lying to me in order to preserve his own reputation.
With that jumble of thoughts racing through my mind, I had momentarily forgotten that I’d given Gail a key to my flat so that she could come and go as she pleased. I had a key to her house, too. It was a mark of how far our relationship, and our mutual trust, had progressed. But I had a nasty feeling that that was all about to come to an end.
The first thing that caught my eye when I opened my front door was a brown leather coat and a pair of knee boots. And I thought I could detect a whiff of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, Gail’s favourite perfume. She was here, and to put it beyond doubt, I heard her voice.
‘I’m in the kitchen, darling. I rang the office, and they said you’d left for home, so I thought I’d come round and get you dinner. There’s a whisky next to your chair in the sitting room. I’ll be with you shortly.’
I put the whisky on hold and walked through to the kitchen. Gail, who is five foot ten inches tall and has long blonde hair and a superb figure, was standing at my cooker. She was wearing a red polo-necked sweater, a very short skirt and black tights that showed off her long legs to perfection. But she also had a devious mind, which was perhaps even more devious than I had imagined.
‘Hello, darling.’ Gail hugged me and gave me a lingering kiss. With a sigh, I yielded and ran a hand up her leg beneath her skirt.
‘Later,’ she said, smacking my hand away.
Being the pushover I am, the idea of having a row became less palatable. Nevertheless, I was determined to get her side of the story.
‘Are you dealing with Lancelot Foley’s murder, darling? I saw a bit about it on TV last night.’
‘Yes, I am. Did you know him?’
Gail and I had had supper, several glasses of Malbec, and now we were in bed. It was only half past nine, but as I’ve already said, I’m a pushover for a pretty girl. And Gail is a temptress.
‘I never met him, thank goodness,’ said Gail, ‘but he had a reputation in the theatre.’
‘A reputation for what?’ I asked, turning on my side to face her. From what I’d learned so far, I thought I knew. And I was right.
‘For being a womanizer. I was told that any of the girls unlucky enough to be appearing in a play with him called him “the theatre handyman”. These stories get about, you know. The advice was never to find yourself in a dressing room alone with him.’