Hoskins shrugged, and made a few swipes on his phone. He then showed Gillard the screen, where a Sky News video was playing. A reporter was standing outside a terraced house that Gillard recognised as Waddington’s.
‘A thirty-three-year-old man, named locally as Jason Waddington, was arrested here at his home on Wednesday evening. This pleasant neighbourhood is just a few minutes’ walk from the parkland where Mrs Tanvi Roy was so brutally bludgeoned to death on Sunday morning. Residents describe their shock that someone capable of such a crime could live here. According to neighbours Waddington is a keen cyclist and bodybuilder. He had a tempestuous relationship with his former girlfriend, who moved out several months ago.’
The reporter then turned to a middle-aged woman standing to his right. ‘You live next door, I understand. What was he like?’
‘Well, she was very nice. He was all right to your face, but he used to hit her. I heard it and I used to hear her crying. I called the police no end of times. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he did something like this.’ The woman folded her arms, the judgement given.
Gillard rolled his eyes. ‘So much for keeping his name out of the papers.’
‘Why should we, sir? We normally name them once charged, don’t we?’
‘Normally, Carl. This decision came from the top, so we better stick with it.’
Hoskins shrugged and left. Gillard dropped his face into his hands. A microscopic trace on a single glove was now snowballing into a major miscarriage of justice. Waddington’s life would never be the same – that was already true. He might be a nasty girlfriend-beater, but in all probability he wasn’t a murderer. Unless Gillard could find the man who really did wield the hand weight, Jason Waddington might become the new Barry George. An innocent man who would never escape the connection with an unsolved high-profile killing.
* * *
DC Adrian Blake was doing his plainclothes stint on Ashtead Common, sitting on a bench within sight of the crime scene. He’d been there since dawn, having taken over from Hoskins and Gough, who seemed to be having all the fun. Blake’s cover was to be scruffy and unshaven, with two dirty carrier bags full of clothing, and a couple of empty cider bottles. Clearly down, but not yet out. Most dog walkers had given him a wide berth, eyeing him sideways after they had passed. Blake amused himself by muttering ‘stuck-up wankers’ and other insults to the most well-heeled.
His cover was temporarily blown at one p.m. when the Corporation of London ranger, a guy called Andy, brought him a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. They both sat there watching a gradual trickle of people add to the mound of flowers and cards that well-wishers had brought. Andy was keen to resume the discussion about the two people who had been caught having sex at the crime scene last night, when DC Blake raised a cautionary finger and inclined his head to the right, where a couple of hundred yards away a cyclist was approaching on a mountain bike. The man was white, middle-aged and with fair hair that contrasted with his tan. By his wobbly progress he didn’t seem to be particularly practised on two wheels.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Andy whispered, and headed off.
The cyclist, dressed in jeans, newish trainers and a maroon cotton hooded sweatshirt, slowed as he approached the tattered remnants of the crime scene tape, and stopped by the flowery hillock adjacent to the path. Blake stared away, but followed him in his peripheral vision, while muttering to himself angrily in what he imagined to be a convincing Glaswegian accent. He reckoned he’d be up for a BAFTA for this.
The man got off his bike, set it down carefully, and made his way across to the edge of the flowers. He seemed to be reading the various cards and flower labels. After a few minutes, he stood up, took a quick glance in Blake’s direction then headed off further to the edge of the woods. Blake had already taken a quick photograph of the bike when the man’s back had been turned, and now took the opportunity to make a video of him as he poked about in the shrubs just ten feet or so from where the murder took place. The man cast a couple more furtive glances behind him, and moved further into the woodland. He was definitely looking for something.
After a couple more minutes, it was clear he hadn’t found it, and made his way gradually back towards his bicycle. The plainclothes officer was draped drunkenly across the bench, his mouth partially open. But he still took in the man’s quick smile of complicity, as he picked up the bicycle, turned it around and wobbled off back in the direction he had come.
* * *
Prisha Roy and Simon Parr-Fielding lived in a large modern detached home on the edge of St Albans. There was an extensive well-kept garden with a large rhododendron hedge, and a treble garage outside which was parked, with some incongruity, an old and rusty VW camper van with two hubcaps missing. As DI Claire Mulholland edged in her unmarked Ford Focus, she turned to DC Michelle Tsu. ‘No sign of her ladyship’s Porsche Cayenne. If she is out that might make things easier.’
They parked, made their way up to the front door and rang the bell. Pop music was playing loudly inside. After three tries on the buzzer and an extended wait, a middle-aged man opened the door, glass in hand. He was in denim shorts, an untucked white cotton shirt and flip-flops. The detectives introduced themselves and then asked: ‘Mr Simon Parr-Fielding? We’d like to ask a few questions if we may.’
He shrugged and led them in to an equatorial heat, before offering them drinks: ‘I make a good mojito if you’re interested.’ They settled for coffee, but it arrived served in a glass with a mountain of aerosol cream on top. ‘I take it you’re going to pass on the brandy? I also find it goes rather well.’
They waited for him to arrange himself on the leather settee, one leg over the arm, and one arm behind his head. ‘So, how can I help?’
Claire passed across a mobile phone on which a video was playing. ‘Is this you, Mr Parr-Fielding, on Ashtead Common this morning?’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a sigh.
‘Can I ask what you are doing, disturbing a crime scene?’ She slipped off her jacket because of the heat, and was aware of the sweep of his eyes across her.
‘I was just trying to see if I could find any evidence. My partner, as you know, is devastated by the loss of her mother. I thought it was the least I could do.’
‘What particular piece of evidence were you looking for?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, anything really.’
‘Don’t you think it’s better to leave it to the professionals?’ Michelle asked.
‘I suppose so. I was just curious really.’
‘This kind of thing really isn’t helpful,’ Claire said. ‘If you have any insights you can always ring the freephone number that has been publicised.’
Simon nodded.
‘I’m going to ask you to submit to a sampling of your DNA,’ Michelle said. ‘It’s just a cheek swab, and will at least help us eliminate you from our inquiries.’
‘I thought you’d already got someone?’ he said, betraying a little irritation.
‘Mr Parr-Fielding,’ Claire said. ‘If you think the inquiries are completed, what on earth were you doing going through the undergrowth?’
‘Look, I was mainly there to read the various tributes to Mrs Roy. But I had heard that her purse was still missing. So I thought I’d have a look.’
To Claire it seemed that he had just cobbled together this story, but it would have held water had it not been for one thing.
‘Did you not also cycle by the crime scene site last night?’ she asked.
He looked down, and then said eventually: ‘Yes, I did. I suppose those two weirdos identified me?’
‘You mean the two goths you watched having sex?’ Michelle asked.
‘Honestly I thought someone was in pain. I had no idea until I got there that they were getting it on.’
‘But you stayed to watch?’
‘Is that illegal?’
‘It’s a bit odd,’ Michelle said, sharing a glance with her superior.
‘They are the odd ones, sur
ely,’ he said.
‘It’s a matter of degree, isn’t it?’ she said.
Claire took the questioning onto a different tack. ‘Mr Parr-Fielding, in the space of twenty-four hours you made two visits to the crime scene, which is a good way from here.’
He nodded, but said nothing.
‘You can see how that looks, can’t you?’ He didn’t reply, so Claire went for the main line.
‘Can I ask if you got on with Mrs Tanvi Roy? Did you like her?’
He laughed. ‘I liked her, but she couldn’t stand me. I don’t think she ever got over her disappointment that Prisha had to divorce that philandering lizard Deepak. This was, after all, someone that she and her late husband had chosen for her daughter.’ He took a big gulp of his brandy coffee, then raised his glass in salute. ‘To Mrs Roy, God bless her,’ he drained it. ‘You know, my existence was a reminder of her failure. So generally I stayed out of the way.’
Michelle looked at her notes. ‘Mr Parr-Fielding, we have to ask: did you kill her?’
‘Good God, you’re really not quite catching my drift are you? The answer is no. I can’t even kill spiders.’
The two detectives shared a glance, agreeing to wind up the interview and desperate to escape the heat, even if it meant leaving the questions about his criminal record and debts to another time. Michelle said: ‘As well as the swab, I’m going to have to ask you to surrender your phone so we can trace your contacts and movements, and any laptops and computers. We’d also like to see details of your bank statements.’
Now he seemed genuinely angry. ‘Why are you doing all this if you arrested somebody?’
‘We have to follow everything up,’ Claire said. ‘The patrol car with uniformed officers to look after your electronics will be here in five minutes. In the meantime, can I ask if you would be good enough to turn the heating down, or at least open the windows?’
He shrugged. ‘We can continue in my old combi outside, if you like. It’s a bit battered, but it’s nice and cool.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Blimey, its decades since I lured two attractive young women in there.’
The frosty stares he got in response prompted a shrug of contrition. ‘Joke?’ he said tentatively. ‘Tell, you what, I will open the windows.’ He got up.
* * *
Gillard was looking at a curious video on YouTube, from 2013. Mrs Roy and one of her assistant chefs were in a school hall showing pupils how to make Indian food, as part of a national campaign to teach children about each other’s cuisines. Youngsters of all shapes and sizes, each with pinafore and chef’s hat, were rushing backwards and forwards between tables, carrying bowls, ingredients and utensils, in a race against time. It was clearly hilarious, with Mrs Roy’s male assistant skidding backwards and forwards athletically between two different hobs, his hat always falling off. A large clock mounted on the wall counted down the last few seconds for each team to finish making their onion bhajis. Mrs Roy, who herself was trying to cook at two separate hotplates, managed to serve up what looked to be highly creditable dishes. Her breathless grin to the camera show that she loved what she was doing. The children cheered mightily at the end.
A phone call from Dr Delahaye caught Gillard unawares.
Gillard clicked off the video. ‘David, how are you?’
‘I’ve been better,’ the forensic pathologist replied. ‘Just this morning I received the toxicology test. Mrs Roy does indeed seem to have accumulated a significant amount of thallium in her system. Her kidneys were packed with it, and the urine samples you found in the fridge were also contaminated.’
‘Was she poisoned?’ Gillard asked, sensing the opening of a new avenue in the investigation to compensate for failures over Jason Waddington.
‘Deliberately? It’s hard to say. Her medical records, which I only received this afternoon, show she first presented with hair loss nine months ago. She also reported tingling in her fingers and toes from time to time and occasional loss of feeling in her extremities. Over the same period she also reported listlessness, tiredness and chronic constipation.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid this is all rather consistent with thallium. It’s a particularly dangerous toxin because the body confuses it with potassium, which has a vital role in the nervous system. You could call it a very simple nerve agent.’
‘Who could have administered—?’
‘Hold your horses, Craig. Despite this, I am still leaning towards the accidental rather than the deliberate, principally for the obvious reason that despite being such a deadly poison, it did not kill her. A poisoner would have been quite incompetent to have failed to do so, given how little is required to do the job.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘Let’s stick to the facts. Mrs Roy seemed to be exposed to a tiny but gradual accumulation over at least nine months. Indeed, my examination of her kidneys correlates with this quite well. It shows she had been excreting the poison quite successfully for many weeks if not months. Stool samples I took from the cadaver were a further confirmation.’
‘So what are the possibilities, doctor?’
‘Initially I had thought that she might have sampled a supplier ingredient, perhaps an imported spice offered to her company, which might have been contaminated with a basic rat poison. But that doesn’t quite work with the gradual nature of the poisoning, and thank goodness, because she would not have been the only victim. So I would say it is one of two things. First, there is mention in her records that Mrs Roy was self-medicating with herbal remedies. There is no knowing what is in some quack medicines, particularly if they were acquired in an unregulated marketplace. So that would be my first suspicion. Alternatively, it could be a contaminated batch of illegal narcotics such as cocaine. I didn’t find any evidence of cocaine in her body, but that isn’t surprising. It is metabolised quite quickly, and is undetectable after four days.’
‘What if it was deliberate?’
Delahaye sucked his teeth. ‘We obviously can’t rule out a deliberate poisoning, and it would be a good choice of toxin. While pure thallium is a soft blue-grey metal, which doesn’t lend itself to being mixed with food, thallium sulphide would make rather an effective poison. It is a tasteless water-soluble salt which could easily be mixed with food. However, you’ve got to be very careful. The literature describes how it may penetrate even through rubber gloves into the skin.’
‘What did her GP make of her symptoms?’
Delahaye smiled. ‘Her doctors didn’t find thallium because they weren’t looking for it. Her kidney function tests showed problems, but it was thought to be completely separate ailment from her neurasthenia and paraesthesia. Likewise the alopecia was treated as if it was an unlinked issue. I think what they were most concerned about was her weight loss, which of course can itself cause kidney problems. But anorexia itself is yet another symptom of thallium poisoning.’
‘The flat where she stayed a couple of days a week is still sealed off, and I do remember a well-stocked bathroom cabinet. I’ll go back and have a check. And I suppose I should search her main home too.’
‘That would be a good idea,’ Delahaye said.
After ending the call, Gillard realised that this line of inquiry could not have come at a better time. With his main line forensic evidence now tainted, there was something more promising to get his detective team involved in. And finally he had some evidential justification for a more detailed look into Mrs Roy’s company. Perhaps the answer to who murdered Mrs Roy would come from within Empire of Spice Plc.
Chapter 10
At Gillard’s request, Channel 4 had sent ten CDs of footage about Empire of Spice from the series Britain’s Rising Asian Entrepreneurs, shown in 2013. According to the enclosed letter, only the first CD contained scenes from the final edit. The other nine, totalling 109 hours, were largely unused raw filming. Gillard gave them to Tweedledum and Tweedledee to watch. ‘You can do this at home,’ he said. ‘Four discs each, and I’ll take the last.’
‘W
hat exactly are you looking for?’ Hodges asked. ‘Isn’t it just going to be a load of interviews and recipes, stuff like that?’
‘Inevitably there will be loads of dross. I talked to one of the producers who remembers quite a few areas of conflict about what they were allowed to film, especially at the start. Of course they did the usual fly-on-the-wall thing, getting the family used to the presence of strangers with cameras for the first month, until they stop being so careful about what they say. It’s a technique that apparently works on almost everybody, because it habituates them into behaving normally. What I’m after are unguarded moments of stress, tension, points of disagreement, that kind of thing. The disc I’ve got contains some boardroom stuff, which Channel 4 were requested not to use by Mrs Roy, so I’m hoping that will give me an insight into the politics of the place. What I would suggest is to initially run through it all on fast forward, and make a note of the scenes containing family or close associates, and then go back to those and watch them in full.’
‘All right,’ Hoskins said. ‘At least it is going to be more interesting than watching hour after hour of CCTV of commuters going up and down escalators, which is what I was doing last week.’
Gillard started with a boardroom meeting in which Mrs Roy was holding forth on expansion plans for a particular product line: Orissa Originals. Sitting next to her was Harry, looking every inch the consummate finance specialist. There were two production managers, both middle-aged men. He skipped through the PowerPoint presentation on fast forward, and resumed in the meeting when he spotted the camera on Prisha. Going back a little way, he watched as Prisha and Kiara took their seats, and a number of the other attendees were asked to leave. It was immediately apparent that what was going to happen now was more important than discussions about production.
The first sound was of Prisha slamming her briefcase on the table. Someone off camera asked her something, and she snapped back. ‘Never mind that, get me some coffee. Black with honey.’
The Body in the Snow Page 14
