‘At home in bed.’
‘Is there anyone who would corroborate that story?’ Claire asked.
‘My girlfriend, obviously.’ He folded his arms, as if that was the safest of alibis.
Claire took down the details and address of the woman.
‘What did you do after I had taken your statement and you left at the Three Feathers on Saturday night?’ Gillard asked.
‘I went down A&E with Paul.’
‘I take it that is Paul Welby?’ Claire asked.
‘Yeah. He was in a right state. Suspected broken jaw.’
‘What time did you leave the hospital?’ Gillard asked.
‘What the fuck do you care?’
‘Don’t be difficult, Jason,’ Claire said.
‘I stayed there maybe an hour, then I drove home.’
‘Sober?’
‘Too right, by then. Nothing sobers you up faster than seeing your mate getting kicked in the head. I’d only had a couple anyway.’
‘Do you know Ashtead Common at all?’ Gillard asked.
‘Yeah, obviously. I live around the corner, don’t I? I go running there most days.’
‘Do you know this woman?’ He passed across a publicity photograph of Mrs Roy.
‘Obviously. I heard about the killing, and I seen her on the telly. But I’ve never seen her face-to-face and just so you know, I didn’t kill her, right?’
‘So why is there some of your DNA on her raincoat?’ Gillard asked.
‘You what?’ His mouth hung open.
‘You heard correctly,’ Gillard said. ‘I took a swab from your mouth, to eliminate you from all the suspects in the pub fight, and it just happens to match a hair we found on that raincoat.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘DNA doesn’t lie, my friend,’ Gillard said. ‘Now, do you own a bicycle?’
Waddington stared belligerently at the two detectives. ‘Obviously. I work at a fucking bike shop, don’t I?’
* * *
Prisha Roy had asked liaison officer Gabby Underwood for a private meeting with the officer in charge of the investigation. Gillard had agreed to meet her, although he was a little surprised that she suggested that they meet at the Orion Hotel near Heathrow Airport. He was less than impressed when she left him kicking his heels in reception for forty minutes before she arrived. Even the receptionist had given him a funny look when he said he was there to meet Ms Roy.
‘Do you want me to show you to the Buttermere Suite?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ll wait for her here.’ He took a seat in the lounge, but wouldn’t have been a detective had he not spotted from the corner of his eye that the two female receptionists were discussing him. One of them giggled as she left to go into a back room.
The black Porsche Cayenne with personalised number plate was hardly discreet, and didn’t quite square with Prisha’s request not to come to a police station or have a police vehicle come to her home. She slid it into a disabled parking spot close to the entrance. Gillard wondered whether this thoughtless parking was evidence of her being embarrassed to be late, and wanting to minimise any further delay. He revised his opinion as he watched her spend five minutes touching up her make-up in the rear-view mirror and brushing her hair. Finally, she opened the door, and made her way to the hotel entrance with the unhurried gait of a catwalk model.
‘My apologies for the delay, detective chief inspector.’ She pushed her large sunglasses onto the top of her head and shook his hand as he stood to greet her. She was wearing a conservatively cut dark blue jacket and trousers, and patent leather shoes with a low heel. Her large brown eyes were lined with kohl, which gave them an arresting intensity. She immediately took charge, and checked with the receptionist to make sure her usual meeting room was ready. She then led the DCI down a long featureless corridor, within which the scream of jet engines could only just be heard. As they walked side-by-side, she turned to him. ‘Before you ask me any questions, I want to ask if you have a suspect in mind for the murder of my mother? Have you identified that damned cyclist?’
‘Well as I think you know we have a description—’
‘Yes, but do you know who it is? I asked your liaison officer and she couldn’t tell me.’
‘That’s because we don’t know. We’re at an early stage in the inquiry.’
‘Detective chief inspector, my mother was one of the most prominent female businesswomen in the country. Her murder is a national tragedy, and it doesn’t sound to me like Surrey Police is resourcing this properly.’
‘Ms Roy, let me assure you that we have a very large investigative team, one of the largest that we have ever deployed for a murder. The best way to speed up that inquiry is to co-operate fully, even with what may seem like intrusive questions.’
She ignored his reply, slid her key card into the door, and let him into the meeting room. Beyond the aroma of stale coffee was some other musty locker room smell. Once seated, she turned off her phone, set it to one side and gave him her full attention.
‘All right. Now your questions. Fire away,’ she said.
‘Now I know you are the eldest daughter, but my understanding is that you don’t play any active part in the company?’
‘No, I don’t. I think you may be able to guess the Indian rules of inheritance, and I have only a limited stake in the company. I have spread my wings in other directions.’
‘Was Friday the last time you saw your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you didn’t see her over the weekend?’
‘No. I think you know that I live in Hertfordshire. My partner and I have our own life there, with my daughter, Indigo.’
Gillard passed across a sheaf of papers. ‘We have looked through your mother’s phone and found she had been in contact with quite a lot of people over the last month. It would be helpful if you would confirm any numbers here that you are aware of, which will save us a lot of time chasing up the details.’
‘I see you refer to emails, and texts. Whose permission did you gain to access all this confidential data?
‘Your brother’s. Her phone had a password, but with our data kiosk we can extract all the metadata, texts and emails, within half an hour. It often doesn’t tell us who owns the phones she was called from, and obviously we don’t know what was said. But anything you can tell us will save time.’
Prisha sighed, and flicked through the papers. ‘Well that’s mine, that is my daughter whose birthday it was last week. I see you have already got Harry’s number labelled.’ Using her own phone, she cross-referenced another dozen contacts on the phone. ‘There, that’s all I can help you with.’
Gillard locked eyes with her. ‘Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against your mother? Any former employee or business associate? Was she to your knowledge being stalked by anyone? After all she was a familiar face on television. She probably got fan mail.’
There was a flicker in those brown eyes, which Gillard knew from long experience indicated that she knew something.
‘So you’re sure this wasn’t a robbery?’ she asked. ‘Or some random argument with a stranger?’
‘We are keeping an open mind, but your mother’s wealth and position give us some obvious motives to work from. Anything that you can think of would be helpful.’
She paused. ‘I’ll have to have a think about that.’
‘Finally, there is something I have to ask. Where were you were at 7.30 a.m. last Sunday?’
She stared at him, enmity radiating from her features. ‘I was in bed asleep at home in Hertfordshire with my partner Simon. The first I knew about my mother’s death was when Harry rang me just before ten.’
‘I’m sorry to upset you, but it is something we had to ask. It’s just a formality.’
‘Perhaps there are things that you should know. I had lunch with my mother on Friday. She had agreed to invest some money into the expansion of my business.’
‘That’s a spa in Marylebone isn’
t it?’
‘It’s not just a spa. It’s an Ayurvedic wellness centre, promoting deep cleansing of body and mind. It’s been doing very well, but a lease has come up for larger premises nearby. My mother was going to transfer the money on Monday, but of course she didn’t. Now, because of the delay, I’ve just been told that somebody else has taken up the lease.’
Gillard spread his hands. What do you expect me to do about it? ‘Well of course that is very inconvenient for you. It’s inevitable that many major decisions can’t be taken after a death like this. I understand your brother’s wedding is on hold too.’
She stared at him with the intensity of a hawk. ‘When this murder happened is no accident, believe me. The timing is very significant.’
‘What do you mean?’
Prisha sighed and let her hands fall to the table, as if having second thoughts. When she looked up her face was softer and more reflective. ‘When I was a little girl, my father gave me a doll. She was white, as you couldn’t get Asian-featured dolls in Britain at that time. I painted her face brown to match my own, and made her a sari from scraps of material. And then I made her jewellery from cooking foil, and some of my grandmother’s old beads.’ Now her eyes focused on him. ‘I believe in shaping my own destiny. Our family’s destiny. But someone is trying to destroy us, to change and ultimately control our wonderful company.’
‘Who controls your company isn’t my concern. It’s only my concern if this same person could have been involved in the death of your mother.’
She leaned forward. ‘But I think there is a link. I don’t want to name names, but you’re a detective, you can find out.’
Gillard leaned back in the chair and spread his arms. ‘Actually I do want you to name names, and to offer me some evidence if you have any.’
‘Oh, there’s no real evidence. She’s too clever for that.’
‘Do you mean the operations manager? Morag Fairburn?’
Prisha inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘So you do have a nose for the criminal element.’
‘I’m aware that she mentioned continued hostility from you, that’s all.’
‘I’m the eldest. I have to look after our family, particularly now. Did you know that my grandmother predicted exactly when her daughter – my mother – would die?’
‘How?’
‘It was in her star chart.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never believed in astrology.’
Prisha gave a look of amused indulgence. ‘That’s a typical Aries thing to say.’
Gillard laughed and so did she, but her next utterance was a bombshell: ‘Craig Michael Gillard. Date of birth 18th April 1967, in Croydon. Rising sign Sagittarius, cusp of Leo. It seems you had a very bad year in 1986 that nearly destroyed you, it’s as bold as brass on your birth sign. But next year will be even worse.’
He was stunned because it was true. As an innocent eighteen-year-old he had fallen head over heels in love with a brilliant and charismatic girl, one completely out of his league. Liz had dumped him when she went off to Cambridge, leaving him in pieces. He had even considered suicide. It took him years to get over her, if he ever had. But how could Prisha possibly know this?
The detective fixed her with his steeliest gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m not impressed.’ He was lying. He still didn’t believe in astrology. But Prisha was right. He was impressed. And worried.
‘I didn’t mean to worry you, detective chief inspector. Casting horoscopes is just a little hobby of mine.’
‘If it’s so good, I suggest you use it to find out who killed your mother.’ He said a hurried goodbye, and walked out along the endless echoing corridor back to reception. One of the receptionists he’d seen earlier gave him a cheery greeting. ‘Did you enjoy your stay?’ she called out as he passed.
‘I’ve only been here an hour,’ he replied. As he exited the sliding doors, he could hear gales of laughter behind him. He’d been made a fool of, but he wasn’t sure how. And how on earth did that woman know so much about him?
* * *
Research Intelligence Officer Rob Townsend caught up with Gillard as he was arriving back at Mount Browne. ‘Just been having a look at Mrs Roy’s laptop, and there is some video footage on there that you might like to look at.’
‘Okay. Make it quick. I’ve been summoned to see Rigby in a few minutes.’ Meetings with the chief constable always made him nervous, and she was a stickler for punctuality.
Townsend led Gillard into his office, where almost every surface was covered with pieces of computer equipment: laptops, hard drives, and standing aside on the floor the precious data kiosk, which saved them hours on extracting the data from phones. The young detective constable was constantly teased about being an anorak, but his skills had been crucial in an increasing array of investigations. Electronic evidence was playing more and more of a central role in prosecutions, and given the explosion in online data, being able to access and interpret it quickly was vital.
Townsend clicked on his own PC in which a data stick was sticking out of a USB port. Video software opened, with slightly choppy and grainy footage of a suburban semi-detached house viewed from inside a car parked on the other side of the road. The date subscript was 18 May the previous year. The front door of the house opened and a woman that Gillard recognised as Morag Fairburn emerged, turning to speak to somebody within. The voice-over was clipped and technical. ‘Okay, 0745 hours, here is some action. Miss B leaving house. Embraces target at the door.’ The camera zoomed in closer. Gillard could clearly see the target was a dishevelled Harry Roy, in a bathrobe. ‘Miss B walks to garage.’ She slid up the door, went inside, and a short while later a black BMW 3 series emerged. ‘Vehicle B emerges, Miss B at the wheel.’ The car turned right out of the drive past the surveillance vehicle and out of camera shot.
‘There’s more,’ Townsend said. He slid the cursor along until the sound chart spiked, indicating more narrative. The next video was almost identical, but on a different day.
‘They’re all pretty much like this,’ Townsend said.
‘This is pretty innocent stuff surely.’ Gillard asked. ‘Why on earth would Mrs Roy have a private detective watching her own son?’
‘I think I have an answer for you. I dug up an old email from her to the agency, Walker Chapman. She’s looking for evidence that her son is having what she calls an illicit affair.’
Gillard frowned, as he read the letter written by Mrs Roy to the agency. ‘He’s not married. What on earth is illicit about him having a girlfriend? I mean I know some Asian families are quite conservative, but really, the man was already in his thirties.’
‘Still, it seems to be what she is saying.’
‘I suppose it’s an issue now he’s getting an arranged marriage to someone that presumably they do approve of?’
Townsend shrugged. ‘I’m not saying it is relevant to the case, but it is interesting.’
Gillard thanked him and left the room, now in danger of being late. As he did so his phone rang. It was DI Claire Mulholland.
‘Claire, what have you got?’ he asked, as he climbed the stairs two at a time.
‘Hi Craig. The lab has managed to identify the make of the cyclist’s training shoe from its indentation in the snow at the crime scene. They’re run-of-the-mill Adidas trainers.’
‘That’s not going to help unless we find the very same shoes in the possession of a suspect.’
‘Likewise with the fibres found on the dog’s muzzle. They are a bog-standard mixture of polyester and cotton, grey. They are a basic match to dozens of brands of jogging bottoms in hundreds of stores. The lab says we can get Staffordshire University to do a more detailed analysis, but it will take time.’
‘OK. Go for it. We want all the details we can get.’
* * *
Chief Constable Alison Rigby was on a long conference call when Gillard arrived outside her office, and he had to wait almost twenty minutes before g
oing in. The detective chief inspector knew what kind of reception he was going to get when he saw half a dozen newspapers on her coffee table, each of which was open at an article about the mysterious murder of Mrs Roy.
‘Take a seat, Craig,’ she said, indicating the low chairs around the coffee table. ‘I have been looking at the coverage of the crime, which seems to be highly speculative. Have you seen all these?’
‘No, I have been a little bit too busy to try to keep up to date with everything they are saying. One thing is apparent. They have a great many more people to throw at this than I do.’
Rigby locked eyes with him. She was a handsome woman, six foot two inches tall, and her enormous pale blue eyes, rimmed in dark eyeliner, were almost magnetic. Her gaze was known as the blue stare of death and intimidated even the most senior and experienced officers.
‘Actually, considering the resource constraints we are operating under I have been extremely generous in resources for you. I may be able to give you a little more but in exchange I would certainly like to see some solid progress. Did you see this?’ She passed across the Daily Telegraph, folded to show a business article, which had been circled in highlighter pen.
Britain’s premier food magnate Johnny Lam has again said that he is willing to buy Empire of Spice Plc for a generous price if the family are willing to sell. Lam, whose own company Hong Kong & International Cuisine is the biggest distributor of ethnic food to Britain’s restaurant trade, has reiterated that EoS would make a good fit with his other businesses. ‘I’m in contact with members of Mrs Roy’s family at the moment. Although they are very upset by what has happened, they will at least be able to sleep at night knowing that the business is in good and capable hands,’ he told us.
The Body in the Snow Page 11
