It was 8.30 p.m. by the time she’d finished, so she left the station and collected her Mini to go and contact Foxley’s ex-wife, narrowly missing a grumpy-looking Spencer heading into the station with a wire-haired dachshund under his arm.
Jane drove through Putney and then Barnes before arriving at a substantial-looking house on Vine Road with a Mercedes 280SL convertible parked in the drive. As she approached the front door, a security light came on and she heard the sound of dogs barking. She rang the front doorbell and waited. The barking grew louder and then a brusque male voice came through the intercom by the side of the door.
‘Yes?’
Jane leant forward and pressed the intercom button. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison from—’
The intercom crackled loudly and dogs could be heard barking frantically.
‘Wait a minute.’
Through the two stained-glass windows embedded in the panel door, Jane could see the shadowy figure of a very tall man. He appeared to be shouting to quieten the dogs, before unlocking the door. A slim, handsome man wearing a black polo-neck sweater and jeans with worn monogrammed slippers stood in the doorway.
‘Could I see your identification, please?’ He had a low, plummy voice.
Jane had her ID card ready. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison. I’m hoping to speak to Justine Harris.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said, handing back her ID.
‘It is very important. May I ask who you are?’
‘I am not sure it is any of your business, but I’m George Henson.’
Jane didn’t know if the name should mean anything to her, but there was something theatrical about his manner and something quite familiar about his face.
‘It’s about her husband, or ex-husband, isn’t it?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes, I don’t know how much you’ve been told.’
‘Detective, you will not be able to speak to Justine because she attempted suicide this afternoon and is at St Mary’s Hospital.’
Jane gasped. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘As soon as I was alerted to Justine’s situation,’ Henson continued, ‘I came over to secure the house. I’m a close family friend. While I was here, her ex-husband’s dog walker deposited two of his animals . . . I have no option but to look after them now.’
Jane was still taken aback, not only about the information regarding Justine Harris, but she also found Mr Henson’s attitude unnerving.
‘I will obviously need to contact Ms Harris again after she’s hopefully made a full recovery. Thank you for your time, Mr Henson.’
He shrugged. ‘Think nothing of it.’ He hesitated for a moment, then added, ‘He was a despicable human being, a detestable man who treated his wife and his only child with a blatant disregard for their feelings. Whoever killed him has done everyone who had to deal with him a great favour.’
Jane was shocked, but this time she was able to meet Henson’s piercing gaze.
‘Was he your agent?’
Henson laughed, shaking his head. ‘Thankfully, he didn’t represent me. Goodnight.’ He shut the door, sliding the bolt across.
Jane drove to the nearest phone kiosk and called the station, asking for a message to be relayed to DCI Tyler that Justine Harris had been admitted to St Mary’s Hospital, after a failed suicide attempt.
She also wanted the unpleasant Mr Henson to be checked out.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Jane got home she had eight calls on her answering machine. She kicked off her shoes and pressed play. The first one was from DCI Tyler. ‘Please contact me ASAP. I’m still at the station.’
There were three previous calls, all from Tyler and equally abrupt. There was also a call from her mother and one from her sister, which Jane fast-forwarded through as she dialled Tyler’s direct number.
The phone was snatched up immediately. ‘DCI Leonard Tyler.’
‘It’s Jane Tennison, sir.’
‘About bloody time! It’s already after ten so I won’t ask you to come in, but I’m calling a seven a.m. meeting at the station tomorrow. I have been able to secure ten officers who will be doing the house-to-house inquiries, and there will be a press conference at eight a.m. Justine Harris appears to be making a good recovery after taking a substantial but non-fatal amount of Nembutal. I’ve spoken to Mr Henson and, off the record, he said this was not her first suicide attempt. I also had a lengthy conversation with Mr Myers at Foxley’s agency, and asked if he could compile a list of people with grievances against Charles Foxley. He was a bit sarcastic about that, saying it would take considerable time. I also asked him to put together a press release, which I can use in the morning.’
Tyler then listed all the names of the sub-agents at the agency who he wanted Jane and Spencer to interview at 9 a.m. Jane quickly jotted down the names as Tyler angrily added that they were now looking after a long-haired dachshund that Spencer had brought back to the station until Battersea Dogs Home could arrange a collection.
‘Maybe the dog could be delivered to Justine Harris’s home as Foxley’s other two dogs are being looked after by George Henson,’ Jane suggested.
No sooner had Jane put the receiver down than the phone rang again. It was Spencer.
‘Has the guvnor been in touch?’ he asked.
Jane relayed back all the instructions, adding that she had been impressed by Tyler’s efficiency. She glanced at her watch.
‘I mean, Spence, it’s eleven p.m. and he is still at the station. You know how early he usually gets off. I’ve often wondered how he would react to a big case. I’m astonished he’s got so much done in such a short time.’
‘You must be bloody joking. He’s had me running around like a blue-arsed fly since I got back to the station. Gave me a load of verbal abuse because of this fucking dachshund the neighbour refused to look after. Anyway, one of the secretaries gave the dog a ham sandwich. She’s called Toots, by the way. Dunno if that has any connection to cocaine.’
Jane smiled. ‘Where are you?’
‘I am sitting on a hardback chair at St Mary’s Hospital. The guv instructed me to stay here until our ex-Mrs Foxley has recovered, and I’m waiting for a uniform to take over. I had a quiet word with a rather tasty receptionist who told me on the QT that our ex-Mrs Foxley was quite a frequent patient. She’s had her stomach pumped and is still being monitored. I tell you something else, Jane, my wife is not going to believe what’s been going on tonight. I called her but she’s not answering the bloody phone.’
‘Listen, Spence, I’m going to make myself a hot chocolate and go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘All right for some,’ Spence muttered. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Jane replaced the receiver. She felt absolutely exhausted. She had a quick shower and didn’t even bother with the hot chocolate. She was fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
*
The following morning Jane bought a takeaway coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich on her way into the station. She was at her desk by 6.45 a.m. but was not the first in as DC Gary Dors and DC Tony Johnson were already marking up an evidence board. Two clerical staff were checking through statements from neighbours, which had been taken the previous night, and three more uniformed officers were traipsing in and out with more files on the house-to-house inquiries. Spencer arrived shortly after Jane. By his dishevelled and unshaven appearance, she doubted he had made it home.
He approached Jane’s desk. ‘Looks like Justine Harris has made a remarkable recovery and may be released sometime today – I believe she’s being put in the care of a right prat called George Henson. He was demanding to see her and got quite abusive when they said he couldn’t. He was going on about how Justine’s daughter, Clara, should be taken out of school by her grandmother, before the news about her father’s murder hit the headlines.’
‘Do you know what happened? Do you know if Henson was able to sort it out?’
Sp
encer nodded. ‘I suspect so. The receptionist was all over him like a rash,’ he added sourly. ‘She called in the duty doctor who’d pumped out Justine’s stomach.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You do know who Henson is, don’t you?’
‘No, but from the way he spoke to me, if he isn’t famous, he thinks he should be.’
‘Jane, he’s one of the top directors in England. Did you ever see Life on the Speedway?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No.’
‘How about Doomsday Killers?’
‘Nope.’
‘Riot Run?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Depraved Slave?’
‘Seriously, Spence, do I seem like the type of person who would pay money to go and see films like that?’
‘But Jane, they’re very sexy, especially Depraved Slave.’
Jane laughed as Spencer headed towards his desk. There was the sound of high-pitched barking as Toots, the dachshund, hurtled across the incident room to attack Spencer’s trouser leg. At the same time, DCI Tyler opened his door and bellowed, ‘Would somebody get that bloody dog out!’
Spencer picked it up by the scruff of its neck and hurriedly left the incident room in search of the woman who was supposed to be looking after it. Still smiling, Jane made her way to the meeting.
By 7.05 a.m., the boardroom was jammed. Eventually people were standing and a couple were leaning on a window ledge. Rather than the usual hubbub of chit-chat, there seemed to be a feeling of apprehension. Tyler entered, accompanied by a middle-aged clerk carrying a stack of notebooks. DC Dors began passing the notebooks out like a pack of cards to the officers sitting at the table. Tyler removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, then gave a concise but comprehensive update on the murder of Charles Foxley.
‘An incident board is being written up with scene of crime photographs and as many details as possible from the forensic department,’ he said finally.
He looked around the room.
‘I suggest some of the photographs be covered up as they’re very graphic. Right now we’re obviously waiting for further details from the post-mortem, but it seems unlikely I will have anything until mid-afternoon.’
The room was quiet as Tyler said they had had little result from the house-to-house inquiries but these would be continued, with statements taken from every homeowner and tenant living in proximity to Foxley’s basement flat.
The room was becoming stiflingly hot with so many people, but the officers leaning on the windowsill made no attempt to open the windows.
‘I want you all to understand this is going to be a sensitive case and we’re going to have journalists sniffing around like a pack of dogs. Charles Foxley may not be a well-known name, but he represented some big stars. So tread carefully and be wary of any journalists trying to get information.’
Like everyone else, Jane listened attentively. But as she already knew the facts of the case better than most of the detectives gathered there, her mind wandered as she sized Tyler up.
Jane admired the way he behaved like one of the team but was clearly in command – something that that she had never seen in him before. He also seemed better-looking than she had seen before. Jane was jolted out of her daydreaming when Tyler began to allocate everyone’s duties for the day, emphasising that it was imperative they find a suspect as quickly as possible.
‘Right, I’ve got fifteen minutes for a Q&A,’ he said finally, and, with perfect timing, the door was opened by one of the ladies from the canteen pushing a trolley filled with coffee, tea and plates of doughnuts.
Spencer had just bitten into a doughnut when Tyler gestured for him to come to one side. He spoke quietly: ‘Listen, Spence, I’m going to have to go to Scotland Yard for this press conference and I want you and Jane to get over to that agency. Start digging but keep on your toes; these are all theatre people who lie through their teeth to make a living.’
*
‘First off, we talk to James Myers as he’s expecting us, then we interview Emma Ransom,’ Spencer said.
Jane flipped opened her notebook. ‘OK, she’s one of the agents. Then we also have Laura Queen and Daniel Bergman. It means they all have separate offices.’
Spencer almost shot a red light. ‘Apparently they’re taking Foxley’s Jag XK120 and his Volvo into the yard. And DS Lawrence is back at the murder site.’
Jane stared out of the window. ‘I’d say the forensic department have their work cut out for them. We don’t even know if the killer was known to him and was waiting inside the flat, as there were no signs of a break-in, or if Foxley let him in. We’ll probably have to wait for the post-mortem results to give us some clues regarding his blunt-force injuries.’
They drove along Shaftesbury Avenue, turned left into Wardour Street, and parked outside Paramount House. The lift had the same ‘Out of Order’ notice taped to it so they walked up to the first floor.
‘I think we need to have a chat with the receptionists. Are we going to work the interviews together or solo?’ Jane asked.
Spencer headed towards the agency’s reception doors. ‘I think we work this together. I don’t want to put my big foot in it. I’m going to need your intuitive skills. To be perfectly honest with you, I’m completely fucking knackered.’
‘Do we know the receptionists’ names?’
Spencer held up his notebook. ‘Got to hand it to the boss, I think he’s even got the name of the cleaner. Rita Wood and Angela Merton.’
He pushed open the double doors with Jane just behind him. They could see that only one of the girls was at the reception desk. She was blowing her nose into a wad of tissues.
‘Good morning. I’m Detective Sergeant Spencer Gibbs and this is Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison. We have an appointment with James Myers. You are . . . Rita?’
‘No, I’m Angela, but everyone calls me Angie.’ She blew her nose again. ‘We’ve all just heard the news. It’s terrible . . . I can’t believe it. Poor Rita has had to go to the toilets ’cause she can’t stop crying. It’s shockin’ . . . absolutely shockin’.’
The phone rang as she spoke. She picked it up and spoke in an entirely different, and much posher, voice.
‘Good morning, this is Foxley & Myers Theatrical Agents. Can I help you? No, he’s not available. Yes, please call back.’ She replaced the phone, eyes brimming with tears.
‘We’ve been told not to say a word to anyone about what’s happened.’ She blew her nose again. ‘Mr Myers says we have to be very careful if we get any calls from the press and we’re not to say nothing. But we don’t really know anything.’ She sniffed back her tears. ‘What’s happened to his dogs?’
Jane stepped forward. ‘They’re being taken care of, Angie. We would appreciate it if you and Rita would give us a few moments later on.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll just ring through and tell him you’re here. He’s expecting you.’
As they were heading down the corridor, one of the double entry doors opened and a short man came out, fixing his eyes on Angie.
‘I’ve been expecting four scripts that were apparently delivered yesterday fucking morning. My secretary even fucking warned you that they were important. I need to get them out to my clients yesterday. You two cunts rap and yack all day long. If I now find these scripts, I’m going to have you fucking fired!’
Jane could hardly believe it. The man leant over the reception desk and began snatching at the large manila envelopes stacked to one side, muttering, ‘You fucking cunts, fucking cunts, where’s my stuff?’
Even more surprising was the way Angie, instead of being intimidated, began sifting through the envelopes with him.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, your secretary is a dozy cow and if I had an urgent delivery to you, you would’ve bloody got it,’ she said. ‘Rita’s probably over in your office now, giving it to your secretary.’
The man spun on his Cuban heels, his tight jeans showing off his spindly legs underneath a large sa
fari-type jacket. At that moment James Myers came out of his office at the end of the corridor and clocked Jane’s shocked expression.
‘Ah, I see you’ve met Daniel Bergman. You’ll have to ignore him. He tends to fly off the handle now and again. It’s the pressure of work. Fortunately, we’re quite used to him here. Can I offer you any tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be fine,’ Spencer said and Jane nodded. Myers then gestured for them to go into his office before turning to Angela.
‘Can you get Rita to bring three coffees. Make sure it’s Illy and the milk isn’t off.’ He then followed Jane and Spencer into his office, closing the door behind him.
‘I called everyone in this morning and explained the terrible situation. I said it’s imperative we did not take any calls from the press.’
He moved to sit behind his desk as Jane and Spencer sat side by side on the sofa. He then opened a file in front of him.
‘I had a lengthy conversation with DCI Tyler and I’ve compiled a list of . . .’ He waved his hand rather theatrically. ‘I don’t really want to call them suspects, but these are people who I believe had a grievance against Foxley. I’ve put them into categories. Category one are employees who were fired by him. The second category are artists that have had battles with Charles, over contracts, mis-representation and, in two cases, there was a possible sexual relationship.’
At this point Spencer raised his hand. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr Myers, but I’m finding all this a bit difficult to understand. I thought Mr Foxley was a very successful agent?’
Myers frowned. ‘He was, but you have to understand that Mr Foxley was an agent for over twenty-five years. You cannot exist in this business without making enemies.’ He waved a hand. ‘Now, do you want me to continue or should I have not bothered spending time on these lists?’
Jane tapped Spencer’s knee for him to shut up. ‘Mr Myers, we are very grateful for all the help you can give us.’
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