Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  ‘You cannot cut corners, Detective Sergeant Gibbs. It’s standard practice to check out the previous convictions of people you interview and put the details on the descriptive form.’

  Spencer nodded, taking it on the chin. He knew he had made a mistake, and after being demoted, he couldn’t afford to make another one.

  *

  Once Spencer and Collins were seated in Nathan’s office, Spencer immediately started taking notes, listening attentively to every word as Nathan outlined the financial structure of the company.

  ‘Mr Foxley owned fifty-two per cent of the company, and Mr Myers owned the rest.’

  ‘So tell me about the other agents working in the agency,’ Collins said. ‘How do they get their percentage?’

  Nathan cleared his throat. ‘The other agents all have their own clients and pay ten per cent of their income to the company for the privilege of working under the umbrella of the company name.’

  Collins sucked in his breath. ‘Ten per cent? Nice little earner for doing nothing. So can you give me a breakdown of all the agents’ earnings?’

  Nathan looked nervous. ‘I don’t think I can divulge personal earnings.’

  Collins leant forward and spoke in a low tone. ‘Nathan, I am leading an investigation into a brutal murder and as there is a possibility the motive was financial, you have no option but to provide all the information I require.’

  He leant back in his chair and glanced towards Spencer, indicating with a finger and thumb for him to keep making notes.

  Spencer nodded. It was going to be a long morning.

  *

  It took Jane and George Henson twenty minutes to track down the whippet cross, and when they found him he had a dead squirrel in his mouth. It took them another fifteen minutes to restrain him, get the kill out of his mouth and drag him across the road and back into the house. He smelt dreadful.

  ‘There’s no way I’m going to wash him again, whatever he smells like,’ Henson said.

  Having wrenched the squirrel from his mouth, Jane was now more concerned about getting herself clean. Henson showed her into a downstairs toilet, which also acted as a cloakroom. She washed her hands, noting the expensive gardenia soap, then dried them on a thick white towel. She was just about to return to the drawing room when she noticed various coats hanging up, as well as a row of wellington boots. One of the coats was a ladies’ camel coat, and the hem had what looked like dark bloodstains on it. Jane inspected the coat carefully but did not remove it.

  As she stepped back through the doorway, Henson almost knocked into her.

  He lowered his voice. ‘I need to know exactly what’s been happening in the drawing room. You have to realise Justine is an exceedingly fragile woman. I need to know if a solicitor or someone should be with her.’

  Jane eased the door closed behind her and gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Could we talk in there?’

  Henson nodded, opening the kitchen door carefully so none of the dogs would escape.

  ‘I understand your concerns, sir. But it’s vital DI Miller gets all the information he can from Ms Harris, given that she was present at the murder site.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘I’m sorry – would you like a coffee?’

  Jane’s head was throbbing. She needed a coffee.

  ‘Yes please.’ She reached into her bag and took two paracetamols from a blister pack and quickly popped them in her mouth.

  Henson plugged in a fancy-looking coffee percolator. ‘Black or white?’

  ‘Black, please,’ Jane answered.

  She watched as Henson opened a cupboard, took out two mugs and a sugar bowl, and then went to the fridge to get some milk. He was very obviously at home in the kitchen. The dogs were huddled in their various baskets and there was a pungent smell rising from the filthy whippet cross, Stick.

  ‘Can I ask, do you live here with Ms Harris?’

  He glanced towards her and gave her a half smile. ‘You have to understand that I’ve known Justine for twenty-five years, ever since I first employed her when she was a young actress. I rent a bedroom here and use a small box room in the eaves as my office. I actually have a cottage in Kent and an apartment in Manhattan, and my two boys – well, they’re twenty-four and twenty-two now – live with their mother in Los Angeles. I work from here when I have an edit in the West End, but I made sure I was never present when Justine’s ex-husband appeared.’

  He poured two coffees, placing one in front of Jane and then perched on a stool beside her.

  ‘I am always here until Abby, Justine’s cleaner, arrives. I don’t want her to be left on her own.’

  Jane took a sip of her coffee. ‘Did Mr Foxley stay here frequently?’ she asked, trying to appear casual.

  He shrugged. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, I would say he spent more time here than he did in his own flat. Even though I loathed him, I didn’t think it was my business. I just made sure that when he was here, I was not.’

  ‘Were you ever represented by Mr Foxley?’ Jane asked.

  Henson shrugged his shoulders again. ‘It was a very long time ago, but that’s when my dislike for him began. He was representing me in a big deal with a Hollywood studio who were very keen for me to write the script. Foxley made all sorts of promises, and then suddenly told me there was no deal, even though I’d written a script. Then two years later a film came out based on my script. We had a very unpleasant argument with a two-faced bastard at the studio who denied ever receiving my original draft. In those days, to even launch a plagiarism legal action would have cost around a quarter of a million. One lone writer could not take on a major studio. So I left Foxley, but I remained friends with Justine. I could tell you about numerous other writers whose careers have been screwed by Foxley working hand-in-glove with Hollywood studios. They call it the white envelope, where scripts are passed on without writers’ names attached.’

  The doorbell rang and the two dogs leapt up and started barking furiously. Jane could see the Jack Russell had been curled up on a pair of socks. Henson bent down and snatched up the socks angrily.

  ‘This bloody dog steals socks, shoes, you name it. Goes into the laundry room, picks them up and usually buries them in the garden.’

  Jane finished her coffee. ‘I should go back into the drawing room.’

  The doorbell rang again and she skirted around the door as the whippet tried to get through. As Jane hurried along the hallway she could hear Toots, the other dog, barking. Justine opened the living room door and the dachshund charged out. Justine picked her up and opened the front door.

  ‘Abby! Come in, come in.’

  A young Filipino girl came in carrying a bag of groceries.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Harris, I didn’t think I should let myself in as there is a police car in the drive.’

  ‘That’s all right. Can you take Toots and put her with the other dogs?’ She turned to Jane. ‘I presume you found Stick?’

  Jane replied, ‘Yes, it took quite a while. He’d been chasing squirrels.’

  Justine shook her head. ‘He is so badly behaved. My concern was he would get out onto the railway line.’ She turned towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll come back directly.’

  Jane turned and walked into the drawing room. Miller glanced up at her as he was labelling a small cassette tape and inserting another in its place in his recorder.

  ‘I’m sorry it took so long, but the whippet got into the clearing opposite the house and it was a while before we could catch him.’

  Miller ignored her, concentrating on his cassette player.

  ‘I think I should tell you, sir, that after I came back with the dog, I needed to wash my hands, and I went into the cloakroom. There is a camel-hair coat in there with clear bloodstains on the hem and on one sleeve.’

  Miller nodded and checked his watch. ‘Well, I’m not finished here, so go out to the patrol car and get some evidence bags and start looking in all the rooms upstairs.’

  Jane
went to the door. ‘I think Mr Henson wants to leave now that Abby, the cleaner, is here.’

  ‘Really? Well, I need to talk to him. I can do it here or at the station, whichever he prefers.’

  Henson appeared behind Jane. ‘I would prefer to do it here and now. I’m going in to edit a new film, so whatever you need to know, I can give you half an hour. In order not to waste my time, perhaps you should know that on the night of Charles Foxley’s murder I was at my home in Kent all day. I had two guests for lunch and did not know what had happened until Justine called to tell me she had seen her ex-husband’s body. I came to be with her straightaway. I can give you the names of my guests if you wish to confirm this.’

  Miller nodded to Jane. ‘Could you please shut the door? Thank you, Mr Henson, this is very helpful. Please do sit down.’

  Jane went out to the patrol car. In the boot of the car were evidence bags of all shapes and sizes. She started searching for a very large one to put the camel-hair coat in.

  *

  As Nathan outlined more about the agency’s finances, Spencer could not believe the earning levels of some of their clients, to say nothing of the twenty per cent cut their agents were getting. He was amazed that actors he hadn’t heard of could be paid six-figure sums. Often their pay for a few days’ work was twice his monthly salary. And it was becoming clear that Charles Foxley had been a major earner himself.

  Myers had an influential list of clients, too; Emma Ransom and Laura Queen were almost equal in their earnings, and the next biggest hitter was Daniel Bergman.

  Collins tapped the table. ‘One thing you haven’t told us about yet: Simon Quinn’s model agency.’

  Nathan stood up and crossed over to a cardboard box, removed a file and returned to his desk.

  ‘This is a fledgling company Mr Foxley was in sole charge of. No one else was interested, to be honest. The name of the company was KatWalk, with a K not a C. It was used to provide models for runway, magazines, fashion shoots and events.’ Nathan flicked through the documents in the file. ‘The company is in its infancy and although Mr Foxley injected a considerable amount of money, it was not making a profit. The only person on a salary was the young Simon Quinn. However, Foxley had agreed a one-year contract with him, so although the other agents here are not interested in the venture, Quinn is still on the payroll.’

  Collins stood up abruptly. ‘OK, thank you for your time, Mr Nathan.’

  Spencer followed him out. It was a relief to leave the hot, airless little room.

  ‘I need to use the loo,’ Collins said.

  Spencer directed him across the landing to the cloakrooms and was about to go down to the car to wait for him when he bumped into Julia Summers hurrying out from the annexe, carrying a large portfolio. She was wearing a very short pelmet mini skirt and a pink V-neck Ralph Lauren sweater. Her blonde hair hung loose without her Alice band and she had heavy eye make-up.

  Spencer nodded and smiled.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said.

  ‘Are you still working here?’

  She gave a small frown. ‘Yes, I am, but mostly with Simon. I’m just taking these photographs through to reception. Do you think you could take the chairs back from Mr Nathan’s office because we’re interviewing some models this morning?’

  She scurried away as Nathan came out of his office, carrying the two chairs.

  ‘I think those chairs are wanted by Mr Quinn,’ Spencer said.

  Nathan placed them down against a wall and said, ‘Well, he can come and get them.’ He then returned to his office and shut the door.

  Spencer then heard a shriek coming from Daniel Bergman’s office. The next moment Bergman shot out.

  ‘Do you want to see me?’ he snapped.

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve been in with Mr Nathan.’

  ‘I have had a fucking awful morning,’ Bergman went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘You cannot believe what I have had to deal with. I fought tooth and nail to get this piece of shit the part, and now he’s on the set complaining about unrealistic dialogue. I tell you, the only unrealistic thing about it is that he got the fucking part in the first place. He’s been shovelling so much coke up his nose that his septum ruptured and now he sounds like he’s talking underwater. I now have to go all the way to Elstree . . .’ He stopped and gestured at the two chairs that had been placed against the wall. ‘Who put these chairs here? This is supposed to be an empty corridor.’

  Spencer pointed towards Simon Quinn’s office. ‘I think they were meant for the models.’

  Bergman, his hands on his hips, started bellowing, ‘Simon! Simon!’

  The young man instantly appeared from his annexe.

  ‘You know we do not have chairs left in the corridor. If anyone is early for a fucking meeting they are going to be sitting out here eavesdropping. Just get them out!’

  Bergman was about to go back to his office when Spencer tapped his arm. ‘I’d like to ask you a personal question. We know that Charles Foxley used cocaine. Is there anyone else in this agency that you are aware of who uses it?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of using cocaine?’

  Spencer put both hands in the air as if to apologise.

  Then Bergman moved closer. ‘I think perhaps you should talk to Emma Ransom.’

  He then turned on his heel as Simon Quinn scurried over to pick up one of the chairs. He was wearing a skin-tight black T-shirt with an Iron Maiden logo under a stylish leather waistcoat. Quinn picked up one of the chairs as Julia Summers came out carrying another one.

  ‘You can’t leave them in the corridor. He’s already having a fit about them. We need to put them up by my annexe.’

  ‘There’s three girls already waiting in reception, Simon.’

  ‘Just let them wait there until I have the chairs sorted . . . The fashion editor from Teen magazine hasn’t arrived yet.’

  Spencer offered to carry a chair and followed Julia along to the end of the corridor. Simon nodded his thanks.

  ‘Just go back to reception and keep the girls busy,’ he told Julia. ‘And make sure we’ve got all their portfolios and latest photographs.’

  Spencer looked into Simon’s office. It had actually been created from part of the corridor, with floor-to-ceiling partitions that were covered in photographs of some stunning young-looking girls. His desk was stacked with so many files they looked in danger of collapsing. Simon was obviously in an anxious state as he ran his fingers through his spiked hair.

  ‘Do you need to talk to me? Because I think I’m the only person who hasn’t been interviewed. But now is not a good time. I’ve got to find a girl that looks fifteen as these teen magazines sell to twelve-year-olds. And they want them to look tanned as the shoot is supposed to be on a Mediterranean cruise.’

  ‘I’ve been told business isn’t that good.’

  Simon pursed his lips. ‘Who told you that? I’m doing the best I can, but it’s like the blind leading the blind. Julia brings in all her Sloane Ranger friends who have never been on a catwalk in their life, never mind had a photo session. I’m finding it all very difficult.’

  Spencer smiled. ‘Well, I’m sure if we need to talk to you we can come back at a more convenient time.’

  As Spencer headed back down the corridor, a woman tottered past him in high wedge-heeled shoes. She was wearing a turban headscarf, dark glasses and a red jacket, which appeared to be covered in gold buttons. She left a waft of musky perfume as she brushed past him, pausing by Bergman’s open door.

  ‘Hello, darling . . . We must have lunch some time,’ she called out, before disappearing into Simon’s annexe.

  Spencer was just passing the doors to the reception area when Julia Summers appeared, ushering three girls ahead of her. Two of the girls had white-blonde hair and fake tans, and the third was exceedingly tall and thin with red hair. All of them were clutching their portfolios. Spencer remembered Simon saying the models for this shoot needed to look young, but to Spencer, even with their faces
caked in make-up, they looked like children.

  *

  Jane was checking the rooms upstairs, first looking through Clara’s bedroom, which was a young girl’s paradise. The large canopy bed had drapes in a beautiful pink and silver fabric, and there was a pale pink fitted carpet, stained in certain areas, most likely, she imagined, from dog pee. There were rows of girls’ toys, and a shelf full of Barbie dolls still in their boxes. The night-light had dolphins around the shade, and the small bookcase beside it was full of children’s classics. There was even a pink-tiled en suite with a collection of expensive-looking bath soaps, moisturisers and talcum powder. The fitted wardrobes contained tasteful young girls’ dresses and shoes, and the dressing table had frills that matched the bed canopy. On the wall were numerous photographs of Clara with a little white pony.

  The next room was a family bathroom containing shelves of soft towels and bottles of bath salts and perfumes beside a whirlpool bath. The cabinet had no pills or medication but was filled with moisturisers and oils.

  As she came out onto the landing, George Henson was standing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘At least I haven’t bumped into you again,’ he said, smiling. He gestured to a room up on the next floor. ‘If you want to search through my office, I will give you a code as I keep the door locked. My bedroom is next to it. I just need to get myself some shoes and a jacket.’

  Jane followed Henson up the stairs and onto the next landing. He went to the end of the landing and tapped a code into the panel, which opened the door.

  ‘My office . . . help yourself.’ Henson then went into the next room.

  As he’d described, George Henson’s office was really a box room. There was a filing cabinet, shelves full of scripts and film posters on the walls. His desk was an old pine table. Jane moved around the small room, recalling that two of the posters were films Spencer had pointed out to her at the agency’s office. There were stacks of stationery, a typewriter and various notebooks. Rather incongruously there was an electric kettle with a jar of instant coffee beside it and two clean mugs. Henson appeared in the doorway now wearing an expensive-looking jacket and clutching a briefcase.