Murder on Page One (20 page)

‘Where are the boys?’ Flick asked.

‘In their rooms.’

‘We want to see them. First, though, how did your forehead come to be bruised?’

‘I walked into a door,’ she whispered.

‘I just know that’s not true,’ Baggo said quietly. ‘The more often you lie for him, the worse it’s going to get. Believe me.’

‘We’ll come back to that,’ Flick said. ‘Where is your husband?’

‘I don’t know.’ She wiped her face with her sleeve.

‘When did he leave?’

‘Some time today, and I don’t know when he’ll be back. He has research to do. Lots of research.’

Flick stood close in front of her. ‘Was he here on Sunday twenty-first February? That’s Sunday before last.’

‘Oh yes. He was here.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I cooked lunch and we all watched television.’

‘What was on?’

Her face fell and she shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I … I can’t remember.’

‘What about Monday fifteenth February, a fortnight ago today, about lunch time?’

‘He was here.’

‘Is there anything that makes you remember that?’

‘Apart from his fist,’ Baggo cut in.

‘Nothing in particular.’ Matilda stared at Baggo, almost flinching, as she answered Flick’s question.

‘When did you walk into that door?’ Baggo asked.

‘The Wednesday before last, I think it was. I’m not sure.’

‘Where are the boys?’ Flick repeated.

‘In their rooms, doing homework,’ she whispered.

Without saying more, Flick went to Harold’s door. She rapped once then entered. The boy lay on his bed, books open in front of him. He wore a cast on his right forearm.

‘Hello, Harold. How did you get that?’ Flick asked.

Harold’s eyes darted about. ‘Fell on my way back from school.’

‘Was your dad there when you fell?’ Baggo asked.

The boy’s mouth opened and he looked at the floor. ‘No.’

Flick carried on. ‘Are you sure?’

He nodded.

‘Was your brother there?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you walk to and from school together?’

‘Not that day.’

‘Which day was it?’

‘The Wednesday before last.’

‘Have you or your brother been smacked or put in the stocks since we last saw you?’

Close to tears, Harold shook his head.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Flick asked about the days of the Swanson and Noble murders. Monosyllabically, Harold confirmed that his father had been at home on both dates. The television programme his mother had forgotten was a film about Robin Hood.

When Flick finished, Baggo was last to leave the room. He turned and said, ‘Bad luck your mum’s head being injured. On the same day as you fell, too.’ The brief flash of anger he saw on the boy’s face confirmed what he thought.

Rufus started when they entered his room. He said little, spoke quietly and avoided eye contact, but appeared less troubled by the questions. He gave the same answers as his brother, except he said he was there when Harold had fallen on an icy pavement. He had to think briefly before saying his dad had not been present.

‘We’ll be back,’ Flick promised as Matilda showed them out.

In the car, they discussed what to do.

‘We should really inform Social Services,’ Flick said.

‘I’ll bet my bottom dollar he is abusing the lot of them, but it will never prove, and they will all firm up on their lies. Besides, it might mess up Jane’s plan if Francis feels he has to concentrate on fighting the social workers.’

‘What if he really hurts one of them?’

‘We need only a couple of weeks, and if he is Crimewriter, we’ll stop him killing people, and abusing his family. For good, I hope,’ Baggo added, grinning.

There was nothing funny about that, Flick thought, but she grinned anyway. ‘All right. We’ll do it your way,’ she said.

* * *

As Flick reversed into a space in the pool car park, her i-Phone sounded. Baggo answered for her. He listened for a minute then turned to her.

‘Osborne will be with us in a jiffy. Another agent’s been murdered. We’re to go to the scene. A car park.’

Flick cursed under her breath and turned off the engine. ‘Pit stop,’ she muttered and got out.

‘Good idea,’ Baggo said to himself. Following her into the building, he nearly collided with Osborne and Peters.

‘Wrong way, Baggo. You’re coming too,’ Osborne barked.

‘I’m sure you don’t want my weak bladder to compromise your crime scene, gov.’ He ran to the toilets, and was out of earshot before Osborne could think up a suitably obscene reply.

Her pit stop over, Flick was not going to hurry for Osborne. She saw him look at his watch as he waited in the front passenger seat, so walked slowly and stretched before getting back into the car.

‘Everyone got their pink lipstick on? Got to look our best if we’re meeting a dead body. He’s got plenty of time, even if I bloody haven’t.’

She ignored him.

Their destination was a public, multi-storey car park off Bayswater Road. It had been closed to all but police. A crowd had gathered outside. Some were curious bystanders and others, more agitated, wanted to drive away in their parked cars. Flick eased her way through the melee and found a space on the ground floor. The flash of a camera told them that the press knew of the latest killing. They used the stairs to go up to the fourth. An area had been taped off, and sterile-suited SOCOs were already busy dusting for fingerprints. Horns and raised voices from below could be heard through the open walls. Near the lift, a white canopy shielded the body. Osborne went straight there.

The body was of a casually-dressed male who looked about fifty. He lay on his back. A red puddle had formed under his waist. On his forehead there was an irregular area of red from which trickles of blood had oozed.

Dr Dai Williams was shining a pencil torch into the wound, his face almost touching the dead man’s. ‘It looks as if this chap’s been shot or stabbed in the back. This injury to the forehead is probably some form of desecration after death. The killer may even have tried to write something, but I can’t see what.’

‘Bastard,’ Osborne muttered.

‘Exactly so. But a clever one, I think.’

Osborne snorted. ‘We both know the score, Doc. We need you to tell us as much as possible ASAP, and you can only do that once you’ve got him back to your morgue. What do we know about him?’

A uniformed sergeant stepped forward. ‘He’s Laurence Robertson, age fifty-one, sir, a literary agent. He works near here and lives in Notting Hill. I got that from his wallet and papers he carried in his briefcase. He was found by a motorist just after six pm, already dead. The man phoned us by mobile and stayed here. He’s giving a statement now. The body has not been moved as far as I am aware.’

‘Is anyone checking to see if any of these people downstairs saw anything? I don’t want the bloody newspapers telling me the names of witnesses.’

‘There’s something under this car.’ The shout came from a constable lying beside a four-by-four. Carefully, he pulled something metal from beneath the vehicle and held it up. It was a nail gun. A nail protruded from the barrel. ‘There’s blood on it,’ he said.

As everyone else craned to see what they assumed was the murder weapon, Baggo turned to Flick.

‘I wonder …’

‘Where certain people are right now.’ She finished the sentence for him. ‘We should …’ She nodded towards Osborne.

‘Best not, I think. Tell him, I mean. Sarge?’

She nudged Peters. ‘Baggo and I are off to check some alibis. You tell the Inspector in five minutes.’

As Peters protested and Osborne gleefully proclaimed that the killer had just made his first big mistake, Flick and Baggo slipped away.

A camera flashed as they sped out of the narrow exit from the car park.

Flick said, ‘This should be one of Candice Dalton’s nights at the Mile End Road hostel. We’ll try there first.’

Baggo got out his i-Phone and his notebook. ‘I’ll arrange for some other people to receive visits.’ He reached up to put a blue light, in silent mode, on the car roof, then phoned a succession of police stations, starting with Bracknell.

He ended the last call as they drew up outside the hostel. By then he had invoked the name of Chief Superintendent Cumberland himself in an attempt to persuade one over-burdened duty sergeant to send someone out to Dogmersfield in double-quick time.

Inside the hallway, Candice Dalton sat at a table, sipping a cup of tea and talking earnestly to a young man with darting, frightened eyes and filthy, ill-fitting clothes.

‘Could we have a word, Mrs Dalton?’ Flick asked.

‘In a minute, once I’ve finished with Derek,’ she replied firmly.

‘This is urgent,’ Flick snapped.

‘So are Derek’s housing needs. This won’t take long.’ She made a note in the ledger. ‘Date of birth?’ she asked the youth.

Without a warrant, Flick decided to give in, but as soon as the young man had shuffled off through the door leading deeper inside the building, she leaned over the table and asked Mrs Dalton to account for her movements over the last three hours.

‘Oh. Do I need an alibi?’ she asked, then brought her hand to her mouth. ‘Not another agent? Oh no.’ She shook her head.

Flick said, ‘I’m afraid that’s right, but please tell us what we need to know. Time is precious.’

‘I think I’m entitled to know if I’m suspected of killing someone.’

‘We’re trying to eliminate as many people as we can. That’s why time is important.’

‘Well, I’ve nothing to hide. I looked round various places where people who need our help might be.’

‘Did you have a car?’ Baggo asked.

‘Yes. I took the hostel car. Oh, and I went to a bookbinder in Highgate to pick up a present for my husband. He’ll be fifty on Wednesday.’

‘Can you give us evidence of this?’ Flick asked.

Mrs Dalton sighed. ‘I’ve a lot to do this evening, but I suppose you’re only doing your job. I think I’ve got something here that might help.’ She picked a large, shabby handbag off the floor and rummaged in it. Eventually, from her purse, she drew a credit card slip and handed it to Flick.

Flick examined it carefully. It was a Mastercard slip. The payer was Candice Dalton, the payee Horace McElhinney, Bookbinder, Highgate. The payment was £89.40, verified by PIN, and the transaction had taken place that day at 17.44.

‘If you must see the book, I warn you it’s rather special, so please be careful,’ Mrs Dalton said, getting to her feet and heading for the door. She led the way round the back, passing from a dark lane to a small courtyard, suddenly lit by a movement-sensitive lamp, where two cars had been abandoned rather than parked. One was a Vauxhall Nova, the other a Fiat Punto, and both needed a wash. Skidding slightly on the film of ice that had formed on the uneven paving stones, Mrs Dalton approached the Punto and unlocked the passenger door, which boasted a dent the grime could not conceal. From under the passenger seat she brought a parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘The King’s Book of Sports by Govett. It’s about the games you could play on Sundays under the Stuarts. It’s very rare. This copy was in terrible condition, but it’s lovely now. Do you want me to unwrap it?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs Dalton. Thank you for your time.’ Flick said.

‘Yes, please,’ Baggo said simultaneously.

Mrs Dalton looked from one to the other.

‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,’ Flick said, shrugging.

Mrs Dalton placed the parcel on the car roof and slowly began to unwrap it, trying not to tear the paper. She exposed a small, calfskin-bound volume, the title printed in gold on the front. Baggo ran his fingers over it.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

Flick thanked Mrs Dalton tersely, turned on her heel and strode towards the police car. As Mrs Dalton re-wrapped the book, Baggo thanked her more profusely, his hand feeling the frost that was forming on the Fiat’s bonnet.

‘Cool as a cucumber,’ he said, once in the passenger seat of the police car.

‘An excellent alibi,’ Flick conceded. ‘Her engine was cold, too. I felt it while she was fiddling with her parcel.’

Baggo grinned. ‘I was talking about my feet. It’s a cold night, Sarge.’

‘Where to now?’ Flick asked.

Before Baggo could answer, his phone vibrated. ‘The Inspector,’ he said before answering.

‘What the hell are you and Fortune playing at? Get you arses back to the station double-quick. You’d better have something good, or you’re both dead meat.’

17

The whiteboard had been almost entirely taken over by the Crimewriter inquiry, as everyone now called it. Other cases had been either shifted to other officers or put on the back burner. They occupied a small area bounded by a thick line of red marker ink. Baggo busied himself writing up the latest developments in green; a visit from Chief Superintendent Cumberland was expected at noon, and he would demand to see progress.