Authors: Stuart Pawson
‘Look in his diary,’ I replied. ‘I’ve an appointment to see Mr Fox at ten o’clock.’
‘You were seeing Fox? What for?’
‘To ask him some questions. Is it murder?’
‘We don’t know.’ He introduced me to the pathologist and a DI, telling them: ‘When Charlie appears, you know you have trouble.’
‘So what’s happened?’ I asked.
‘Maid found him, ‘bout six thirty,’ Les replied. ‘He’s half on the floor, hanging from the bedhead with a dressing gown cord round his neck. At first glance it’s a sex game gone wrong, but that might be the intention. The SOCOs and scientific are in there at the moment. I want every fibre, every latent footprint on record. Nobody goes in without an Andy Pandy on. We should have a video in a few minutes. Right, now you’re up to speed, how about telling us why you’re here.’
I told them about the fire, Melissa, Kingston and the link with Fox, and left it at that. ‘I was hoping Fox might tell me something about Kingston,’ I said, ‘seeing as he employed him.’
A SOCO came down the stairs carrying a video cassette. He was wearing a white suit that completely enveloped him. Presumably Andy Pandy dressed in a similar manner. Only a nose protruded, beneath a pair of rimless spectacles. Les took the cassette and said: ‘Thank you, Carol.’ He was a she.
The DI was speaking on his radio. ‘The caravan’s set up,’ he said as he switched off, ‘but the BT engineer’s still working on the phones.’
‘In that case find the manager and ask him if there’s anywhere we can watch this,’ Les told him, waving the cassette. The DI made for the lift and the pathologist excused himself and followed.
When we were alone I said: ‘There’s a lot more to this, Les. I’m seconded to the SFO and they’re looking into Fox’s affairs. I’ll fill you in when we have the chance, but meanwhile I’d appreciate it if you could let me sit in on things.’
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘I knew it. As soon as I saw you I knew it. You’re bad news, Charlie, did anyone ever tell you?’
I grinned and said: ‘I know, but it makes death more interesting, doesn’t it.’
The manager switched the video on and told the DI which button to press on the remote control when the tape had run itself back to the beginning. He hovered until Les told him, very politely, that he’d
have to leave. It might have been his office, with a huge mahogany desk, three-piece suite and Atkinson Grimshaw prints on the walls, but this was a murder inquiry and he’d have to go. I assumed they were prints, but you never know.
The SOCO had given us a wide-angle overall view of Fox’s suite of rooms that constituted the penthouse. She’d panned around and wandered from room to room as if making a film for architects or interior designers. The main room, presumably the one intended for his waking hours, had a glass wall with a view over the city, and outside was a bank of mirrors that could follow the sun and reflect it in. Furniture was sparse but luxurious, with lots of white fur, and a few antique pieces struck a discordant note.
After the grand tour the SOCO pulled back the lens and got down to the nitty-gritty. Fox’s clothes were in an unhasty pile in a Queen Anne chair with a pair of striped boxer shorts on top. The huge bed was crumpled and the pillows had been pushed to one side. It was built in, with lights and speakers in the headboard and a bank of controls for things I could only wonder about. The man himself was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the floor near the top of the bed. His head was at an awkward angle and a cord led from his neck and was looped behind one of the hi-fi speakers. The cameraman zoomed in
with ruthless disregard for taste or propriety. This was strictly after-the-watershed stuff.
Fox was naked apart from pyjama trousers, which were round his ankles. His eyes were closed, and he looked reasonably peaceful, although a ribbon of saliva had run down his chin and chest. His winkie was relaxed, small and red, with a condom hanging off the end like an old sock. If that’s safe sex, I thought, God save me from the dangerous sort.
An hour later we saw the real thing, just before he was hauled away for dissection. I didn’t feel sorrow for him, not an ounce. Around his bed the pong of cheap perfume hung in the air like petrol fumes on a foggy morning, and that, as much as anything, convinced me what a sordid little man he was. Les still insisted we wore paper suits and bootees and we trudged from room to room, me concerned with the man’s lifestyle, Les looking for anything that might throw some light on how he met his death.
A feature of the living room was a pond containing several large koi carp. As we approached they rose to the surface and followed us with their bulging eyes.
‘They need feeding,’ the DI stated.
‘So do I,’ Les told him.
In another room I found a bank of televisions, six of them, all glowing silently, their screens alight with columns of names and numbers. They were showing stock market prices from all around the world: the
Dow Jones, Hang Seng, Nikkei; plus exchange rates and commodity prices. If that’s what it took to become rich, I’d rather not bother.
‘Look at this, boss,’ I heard the DI say, and wandered out to see what he’d found. He was holding a fishing rod, about four feet long, complete with reel, line and hook.
‘Where was that?’ Les asked.
‘Under there,’ the DI replied, pointing to a window seat. ‘It lifts up. I was looking for some fish food for them.’
‘That’s one way of doing your fishing,’ Les said. ‘Beats standing out in the rain for hours.’
I went back to Heckley and did some typing. Les promised to keep me informed about the postmortem and I arranged to see him in the morning with a synopsis of Fox’s affairs. He rang me late that evening, just after I’d stood under the shower.
‘Cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation,’ he said, bypassing the normal formalities. ‘Time, about eleven p.m.’
‘Foul play?’ I wondered.
‘Difficult to tell. We’ve told the press that it looks like a sexual experiment that went tragically wrong. He was over twice the driving limit with alcohol and there were traces of coke on the bedside table. Haven’t got the results of the blood test yet. What did you say
that character was called who worked for Fox?’
‘Kingston,’ I replied. ‘Nick Kingston. Why?’
‘I thought so. Because an NJW Kingston was booked in the Fox Borealis for Monday night, but his bed wasn’t slept in.’
‘That sounds like my man,’ I said.
‘One other guest is unaccounted for,’ Les continued. ‘A young lady called Danielle LaPetite, also booked in for Monday night only. Her room was number 1403, Kingston’s was 1405, next door. Both rooms were booked on Reynard’s account, so there were no bills to pay.’
‘Danielle LaPetite,’ I said, ‘sounds like a hooker.’
‘She does, doesn’t she? We’re checking her out.’
‘Les…’ I began.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘You want to talk to Kingston.’
‘So how about it?’
‘See me in the morning, as planned, and we’ll discuss it then.’
‘Fair enough, and thanks for ringing.’
‘There’s one other small point you might find interesting,’ he said before I replaced the phone. ‘Guess what Fox’s last meal was?’
‘No idea.’
‘Sushi.’
‘Sushi? Raw fish?’
‘That’s right. With oysters. About nine o’clock the chef went up to his room and prepared a freshly caught carp for Mr Fox and his guest. She was a tall and beautiful half-caste girl. The chef is Japanese, and his English is rather basic. He said she was dressed like a prostitute.’
‘Yuck,’ I said.
Superintendent Isles was happy for me to interview Kingston. I knew the man, was intimate with the story, and could put my mileage expenses on the SFO’s account. One of his own detectives would have been limited to the usual did-anyone-see-you-there questions; I could try to get under his guard. I rang him in Kendal from Les’s office.
‘It’s DI Priest from Heckley CID,’ I said. I came to see you a fortnight ago.’
‘I remember, Inspector. The Carlos Castaneda man.’
‘That’s me. First of all, I suppose you have heard the bad news about JJ Fox?’
‘Yes, just caught it on the radio. What a tragedy.’
‘We’ve just been going through the guest list at the Fox Borealis where he died,’ I told him, ‘and have noticed that there is a NJW. Kingston on it, with your address. Were you at the Fox Borealis on Monday night, sir?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was, Inspector. I
had a meeting with JJ that evening. I do consultancy work for the Reynard Organisation: psychometric testing of job applicants; motivational lectures to senior management; that sort of thing. He wanted to discuss some ideas he had. I assure you he was fit and in good spirits when I left him.’
Les was listening on another phone. He pulled a nice-work-if-you-can-get-it face and nodded for me to carry on.
‘In that case, Mr Kingston,’ I continued, ‘we will need a statement from you and some samples, with your permission, so we can identify you amongst any others we find. Elimination purposes, as we say. I’d like to drive over now and see you at Kendal police station, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course, Inspector. Anything to help, anything at all. Can I ask, though, why you are on this? I thought you were with Heckley CID.’
‘I am, sir,’ I told him, improvising like a
non-swimmer
in the deep end. ‘But I also work for something called SCOG; Serious Crimes Operations Group. We all get roped in when something like this happens.’
He put on a good show of sounding incredulous. ‘Serious crime? Crime? You mean…you mean…it wasn’t natural causes? Are you saying he was m-
m-murdered
?’
‘We’re not sure,’ I told him. ‘It was probably
an unfortunate accident, but we have to treat it as a suspicious death, and with him being such an important person we’re giving it all we’ve got. You know what the papers will say if we’re negligent. I’ll set off now and ring you from Kendal nick at about…’ I looked at my watch, ‘…about twelve thirty, eh?’
‘Fine, Inspector. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘Just one other thing, sir,’ I said. ‘Could you please wear the same shoes you were wearing on Monday night?’
We replaced our phones and Les said: ‘Well done. He had it all off pat; he was expecting someone to ring him. Do you want a coffee before you go?’
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be stopping for a pee all the way.’
The A65 leads through the Dales and on to Kendal, Windermere and the Lake District. Long stretches of it are single carriageway and queues of slow-moving traffic are the norm. Lorries bring limestone from Settle and hurtle back at breakneck speed where conditions allow. They’re no problem. It’s the coaches and caravans and mothers taking the kids to school in the next village with the Range Rover stuck in first gear that cause the hold-ups. I hate the road. The only consolation is that although thousands of tourists head this way, thousands more are deterred. I did the eighty miles in two and a half hours and rang
Kingston. He was with us in fifteen minutes.
I explained to him more fully why we wanted samples of his DNA, and he enthusiastically allowed the police surgeon to extract six hairs, by the roots. That’s where the DNA lives. I boasted expansively about ESFLA, electronic footprint lifting apparatus, or something like that, that enables us to track a culprit across a carpet, and he happily surrendered his shoes to the force photographer. He admitted that he’d been in Fox’s room, so he had nothing to hide.
I took him into an interview room but didn’t bother with the tape. I wanted it to be nice and informal; he was among, if not friends, a bunch of half-witted coppers who didn’t know their batons from their buttons. He told me that Fox had asked to see him about some ideas he was having. ‘As I said on the phone, Inspector,’ he continued, ‘I analyse information from tests about the suitability of staff members. Management staff, that is. It’s not regular work, about two hundred hours per year. I also devise the tests. JJ is – was – a great believer in a scientific approach to staff selection and promotion. He puts great store by loyalty. That and competence were the attributes my tests were designed to highlight. Lately, though, he’d become paranoid. He was considering placing bugs in places where staff congregated, so he could see what they were saying about him behind his back. That’s what he wanted to discuss with me.
It would be my job to listen to the tapes and report directly to him. I discouraged him, of course. Said that just because someone might say something disparaging it didn’t mean they were disloyal. We all go over the mark in private, I said. I think I talked him out of it.’
‘What time did you leave him?’ I asked.
‘About eight o’clock. I had a workout in the gym and came home.’
‘You didn’t stay in your room overnight?’
‘No, Inspector, I prefer my own bed.’ He gave a little smile and I thought of the delightful Francesca.
After a long silence I said: ‘Did you see anything of a dark girl who was staying in the room next to yours? She’s called Danielle LaPetite.’
He heaved a giant sigh, leant heavily on the table between us and drummed his fingertips on the top of his head. It was a gesture he’d seen on
How to be a Psychologist
videos, when the patient runs out of patience and is considering whether to slot the doctor. He’d obviously practised it. ‘I might as well tell you,’ he said, looking up at me, his face a study of embarrassed guilt. ‘You’ll find out, one way or another.’ I sat back and waited for the revelation.
‘Danielle is JJ’s mistress,’ he began. ‘She’s a dancer with a Manchester theatre group called Zambesi. I met her off the eighteen fifty-two train and took her to the hotel. JJ trusts me, you see. We had a drink in
the cocktail lounge, and I came home.’
‘Did you find Danielle for Fox?’ I asked, avoiding the word procure.
‘I introduced them, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied, almost offended.
‘Was she a student of yours?’
‘What if she had been, Inspector? She was the same as lots of others like her; expectations way above their intellects. Thick as two short planks and wanted to be a doctor. She’s a good dancer and good in bed; I encouraged her to develop what talents she possessed. JJ pays her a thousand pounds a night and she enjoys her work. Where else could she earn money like that?’