Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  ‘I’ve been trying to contact Elliott. I’d like another session with him, but he never answers his phone. I wondered if you had a work number for the customs office he works from?’

  ‘No,’ Dabs said quickly. ‘Look, don’t do that. Leave it with me. He might be in Devon if he’s not still in London. I’ll get him to call you.’

  Jane hung up the phone and went back to the bathroom. After a long, luxurious bath, she lay down on her bed, replaying the brief phone call with Dabs in her head. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but it felt like Dabs was hiding something. She sighed. Maybe Elliott was married. Typical! She put Elliott out of her mind and made herself concentrate on what she needed to do the following morning. She’d told Julia Summers she wouldn’t try to contact Annalise, but that was exactly what she was going to do.

  *

  Jane had a thudding headache the following morning. She didn’t bother making herself breakfast but drove in early to the station to get a coffee and scrambled eggs in the canteen. She took two aspirin and, even though she didn’t feel hungry, forced herself to eat the eggs. Her headache persisted. At 6.50 a.m., Spencer joined her, carrying a full English breakfast and a mug of tea.

  ‘Sorry about last night,’ he said, banging down his tray. ‘I’ve been working nights on and off and it was just going to be a nice evening at home with her indoors. You didn’t spoil it, though; the takeaway was terrible. Soggy chips and an overcooked kebab.’

  Jane sipped her coffee. ‘Did you finish your report?’

  He nodded, his mouth full. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .’

  ‘Did you come across the name Annalise?’

  ‘No, sorry. What’s so important about this Annalise?’

  Jane pushed her half-eaten scrambled eggs away. ‘It’s just a possibility, but she’d been hired for one of the premieres and something bad happened. Julia didn’t actually mean to give me her name and was reluctant to tell me about it . . . I just have this feeling that we might be on to something.’

  Spencer shrugged. They had no time to discuss it further as the briefing was about to begin. They left the canteen and walked down to the incident room. This time there were even fewer officers than for the last briefing. DI Miller was already sitting with his pristine notebook and sharpened pencil at the ready as Tyler, looking haggard, sipped from a large mug of black coffee. Tyler kicked off the briefing by explaining how crossed wires had led to Jane going to Justine Harris’s house on her own. He glanced towards Jane and nodded his head.

  ‘However, we were in the end able to question Ms Harris, and she attempted to clarify her movements throughout the day Charles Foxley was murdered. These details are to be checked out and verified. We are still not able to pinpoint the exact time of death; the pathologist has just given us a three-hour window from five thirty to eight thirty as rigor mortis had occurred within that time. There is still the possibility that Ms Harris is a suspect.’ He frowned. ‘I can certainly vouch for her physical strength. She has admitted giving Mr Foxley drugs, and claims that when she had not heard from him, she became concerned, and that was the reason she returned to his flat the following day. As we are all aware, the blood on Ms Harris’s coat and on her trainers is a match for Mr Foxley’s, but there’s nothing to prove the bloodstains weren’t acquired at the scene when police were there.’

  Miller turned a page in his notebook. ‘We have confirmed that Ms Harris has been sectioned three times, first at age thirteen, a couple of years later at fifteen and then again at twenty-five. Her diagnosis is schizophrenia and she is on medication. Notes attached to her medical records describe her dysfunctional behaviour and violent mood swings.’

  ‘With that diagnosis, I’m surprised her daughter wasn’t taken into care,’ Jane remarked.

  Miller shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps social services were never made aware of it. Maybe you could now tell us about the dagger found at Ms Harris’s home.’

  Jane flicked back through her notebook. ‘The knife had been placed out of sight on a marble mantelpiece in the drawing room. Ms Harris explained that it had been put there for the safety of her daughter. The blade’s eight inches long and very sharp. The knife is being examined for traces of blood, which could be matched to the victim. But it’s unlikely to be the missing weapon used to disembowel the victim as that appears to have been a serrated-edged knife.’

  She was about to sit down when Miller pointed his pencil at her.

  ‘You spent some considerable time at the agency. Is there any further information you gathered we should be made aware of?’

  ‘We know Foxley was withdrawing a large amount of cash – two to four thousand pounds every couple of weeks – and even after taking into account his visits to the brothel and his drug use, there’s a substantial amount of cash unaccounted for.’

  Miller interrupted her. ‘Do you think he was being blackmailed?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I have not identified anyone who might have been blackmailing him . . .’ She gave a sidelong look to Spencer but he had his head down, doodling in his notebook.

  ‘Anything else?’ Miller asked.

  Jane hesitated. ‘At this time I don’t have anything I feel would definitely be relevant to the investigation, but . . . I have found out that Mr Foxley used the models from his KatWalk agency to act as “arm candy”, as Simon Quinn put it. These young girls would be taxied to and from the events and were enabled to hire expensive evening wear. Obviously the more glamorous they looked, the more press photographs there were. The girls were ambitious and some hoped for a career as an actress.’

  Miller looked around the table and then back to Jane. ‘So where does this leave us? I can’t see the point, Sergeant Tennison.’

  Jane flushed. ‘At the moment, sir, I don’t really have evidence to back it up, but I think these girls may have been paid money for sexual favours.’

  Miller gritted his teeth. ‘And where, if this is true, is the connection to our investigation?’

  ‘I’m attempting to find that out, sir.’

  ‘Charles Foxley had his throat slit and was then disembowelled, for God’s sake. I cannot see what paying young models to be “arm candy” could possibly have to do with it!’

  There was an embarrassed pause as everyone glanced down at their notes. Eventually another officer was asked if he had verified with the Harrods car park if they retained lists of the vehicles that used their facility. The briefing continued for a further hour as they churned over the information they already had.

  When it was over, the detectives given new assignments filed out. Jane and Spencer sat at her desk. He thumbed through his notebook showing all the names of the models he had written down.

  Spencer checked his watch. ‘I have to go. I have an interview with Michael Langton. I think it’s going to be another dead-end. I doubt very much that the poor bloke will be able to give us any new information.’

  After Spencer left, Jane sat thinking for a moment, then decided to try to cut some corners. She called the agency, hoping Rita would answer. She was in luck.

  ‘Oh, ’ello,’ Rita said. ‘We aren’t officially open yet, but I always come in early because I have to sort the mail.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask you, is it true that the KatWalk and sports agency is closing?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been on the cards ever since you know what happened. No one else really wants to take it on. They’re all quite snooty about it. Only handle famous people, not skinny, hopeful models.’

  ‘I need a big favour,’ Jane said. ‘There’s a young model, Annalise, who I really need to contact. It’s very important. I believe she was a friend of Julia Summers.’

  Rita remained silent, so Jane had to push a bit harder. ‘It is very important, Rita, and I’m wondering if you could possibly get me her address and contact number? I think she was no longer being booked as a model . . . It would be very helpful to the investigation.’

  ‘All right,’ Rita said e
ventually. ‘Let me have a look. There’s boxes of documents for shredding and Simon Quinn was supposed to come in and organise it, but he had such a hissy fit the last time he was here, claiming he hadn’t been paid and that he was going to take somebody, anybody, to a tribunal. So the KatWalk office has been left in a total mess. I’ll call you back.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jane was working on updating the incident board when her desk phone rang.

  ‘Sorry for taking so long to get back to you,’ Rita said, ‘but Simon’s office was in such a state it was hard to know where to start. There are photographs scattered all over the floor and piled up on his desk, and he’s left no invoices or lists of clients. None of the girls were in alphabetical order, and to be honest I was just about to give up when I realised I was standing on it! I mean, I didn’t recognise her – I didn’t know any of the girls – but I saw her name. It’s Annalise Montgomery. And there’s an address and phone number.’

  Jane jotted down the details. ‘Thank you so much, Rita.’

  She dialled the number and someone with an accent she couldn’t identify answered the phone.

  ‘I’m from the Metropolitan Police,’ Jane explained. ‘Can I speak to Annalise Montgomery’s mother, please?’

  She was kept waiting for about a minute before a woman with a very posh voice came on the phone.

  ‘Hello, this is Penelope Montgomery.’

  Jane told her that she would appreciate it if she could interview Mrs Montgomery and her daughter Annalise, but that she didn’t want to disclose the nature of the matter over the phone. She hastened to say that Annalise was not suspected of anything of a criminal nature. Mrs Montgomery asked for more details, and Jane, again being as diplomatic as she could, said that she needed to see them face to face regarding an inquiry she was working on.

  ‘I still think I need to know more,’ Mrs Montgomery insisted.

  Jane realised she needed to take a different tack. ‘It’s in connection with the murder of Charles Foxley.’

  There was an audible gasp. ‘You’d better come over, then.’

  After she’d taken down the details, Jane replaced the receiver, giving it a small congratulatory tap.

  *

  When Spencer arrived at the care home in Wandsworth where Michael Langton was a resident, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn’t have that awful old-people’s-home smell of stale food and disinfectant. There was a fresh feeling to the wide reception. It had two comfortable chairs and a small desk with a phone and typewriter, plus a high stool. There was no one present when he walked in. There was a neat board with directions to the kitchen, dining hall, activities room and day room. There was also a second board with a list of names and room numbers. Spencer headed towards the kitchen and drew a wide sliding door open. A pretty young black girl was cooking, stirring a big pot on the stove, and when she turned to Spencer, he noticed she was wearing leg braces and was missing half an arm.

  ‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a Michael Langton. I’m Detective Sergeant Spencer Gibbs.’ He showed her his ID.

  ‘I think you’ll find him in the activity room. If not, he’ll be in his room. Shall I find him for you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, I can have a look myself.’

  Spencer left the kitchen and pulled the door closed. He noticed that the reception and corridor were extra wide to accommodate wheelchairs. The wide door with the Activity Room sign on it had a door knob very low down. He opened the door and looked in. The room was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a garden. There was a half-size table-tennis table, a lowered table-football table and four easels with half-finished canvases alongside tables containing oil paints and brushes. The only occupant of the room was seated in a high wheelchair fitted with a hydraulic lift device to enable the occupant to move up and down. He was painting using a brush in his mouth. Although incomplete, Spencer could see it was an astonishing, vibrant image of two horses jumping a fence. Pinned to the canvas was a photograph.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt . . .’

  Spencer watched as Michael Langton turned his head and very carefully used his mouth to put the paint brush into a jar of turps, then turned the chair around by using the stump of his right arm. He was a good-looking man. Probably in his late thirties, he had a square jaw with high cheekbones and very dark thick-lashed eyes. His reddish hair was wiry and cropped close. At one time he must have been at least six foot, and he still looked very athletic, with wide shoulders tapering down to his waist. His legs had been amputated just above the knee and he had no left arm, only the stub of his right arm. He was wearing a chequered shirt and army fatigue trousers folded up under his knees.

  It was rare for Spencer to be taken aback, but Michael made him feel guilty for wanting to question him. But Michael showed no embarrassment whatsoever, smiling broadly.

  ‘I suggest that if we want a bit of peace and quiet, detective, we should go to my room. Or we can go next door. It’s a sort of hospitality area for when guests are visiting as some of the rooms are not really designed for groups of people.’

  Spencer smiled. ‘I’m very impressed with this place. It looks like a lot of thought and care has gone into it.’

  ‘Believe you me, it has. I don’t know how long it took to be converted from an oldies’ home, but Wandsworth Council are really one of the best councils for disabled people. A lot of us here are on benefits so we don’t cost them too much.’

  Spencer pointed to the easel. ‘I like your work too . . . that’s pretty good.’

  Michael nodded towards his painting. ‘I must say, horses are quite difficult. I’ve done a lot of pets: cats and dogs. But this is for one of the resident’s sisters – she’s a show jumper. I’m not doing very well with the hooves . . . and that feeling of getting the horse jumping forward, that’s hard, too.’

  ‘It looks good to me,’ Spencer said. ‘We can go wherever’s most convenient for you – next door or in your room?’

  ‘Let’s go to my room,’ Michael said. He turned the chair so Spencer was behind him. ‘This is the only tricky door in the whole place.’

  Spencer was impressed by his ability as Michael opened the door and moved the chair through. He followed him down the corridor to a small lift. The young girl he had seen in the kitchen walked past.

  ‘Hi, Mikey,’ she said. ‘Do you need some tea brought up?’

  ‘No thanks, darling, I’ve got my coffee percolator.’

  ‘OK.’

  The lift only just accommodated Michael’s wheelchair and Spencer. They went up to the second floor and Michael led the way along a wide corridor to a room at the end. In the breast pocket of his tartan shirt, he had a wide stick with a rubber end attached to it, which he jabbed into a keypad. The door opened.

  ‘Come in,’ Michael said as he moved ahead of Spencer, replacing the stick in his pocket with his mouth.

  The room was quite small, with a single bed by the window. The bed was quite high off the ground, with a very thick mattress. There was a chair, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a desk with a typewriter. The furniture left very little space in the room. Michael eased his wheelchair beside the bed and Spencer sat in the chair. Michael nodded to the typewriter.

  ‘That’s electric. I can’t tell you what a time-saver it is for me. I’m writing my second novel. The first one, I had to learn how to rewind the ribbon and it was a bastard to do. Now, brilliant! Anyway, I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Spencer Gibbs, I’m with the Met Police.’ Spencer was still feeling uncomfortable, perhaps because Michael was so confident. The walls were lined with photographs of a wedding, a rowing team, Michael playing cricket in full whites, and numerous photographs of him with who Spencer presumed were his family. He’d surrounded himself with memories of when he was an able-bodied young man. Above his bed was a photograph of a very beautiful blonde girl that caught Spencer’s eye.

  As if
reading Spencer’s mind, Michael gave a soft laugh and said, ‘Would you like me to give you a who’s who? The girl who looks down on me every night was my fiancée, then you have my brothers and sisters, and of course you have me, before.’

  ‘How long have you been disabled?’ Spencer asked, feeling awkward.

  ‘Nearly twelve years. I was in Dubai on holiday and just felt unwell. I stayed put, saw out the holiday.’ He gestured to the blonde girl. ‘I was with my fiancée. By the time I got back home I had a raging fever and went into hospital. They thought it was sepsis; in fact, it was combined with meningitis. You fall unconscious and then . . .’ Spencer waited as Michael shook his head. ‘You end up like this, but some are worse off. It took me many years before I began to live again, and I only found living bearable if I didn’t see my family or my fiancée. I had a lot of therapy. Now I do what I can to help kids like me, so I’m writing a lot of lectures and painting. But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to maintain normality in my head.’

  ‘You seem pretty normal to me.’

  Michael smiled ruefully. ‘That’s because I’m putting on an act for you. But sometimes I can’t do it anymore. And sometimes I go into a really dark place. I used to go there much more often than I do now, because one of my therapists gave me a name: Mandy Pilkington. She gave me a part of my life back, something I had never believed possible. I suspect that is why you are here.’

  Spencer realised what an intelligent man Michael was. He hadn’t broached the subject of Charles Foxley’s murder, or the fact they had been making inquiries at Mandy Pilkington’s, but somehow Michael had figured it out. Spencer began to suspect that Michael was enjoying second-guessing him.

  Spencer explained that he was trying to establish a tight timeframe because they knew that the afternoon of the day he was murdered, Charles Foxley had also been using Mandy Pilkington’s establishment. He asked if Michael had ever met Foxley or knew who he was.

  ‘I read about him in the papers, obviously. I mean, it was front-page news for a time so I knew he was some high-powered theatrical agent or film producer, but I never saw him in the flesh. Old Mandy is very careful about protecting her clients’ privacy. I personally wouldn’t give a shit, but I dare say some of them would not like it known that they could be found in nappies or dressing up as Mae West, or whatever. But I go there for straight sex and I also use the Jacuzzi, sauna and get a massage. Often’ – he cocked his head to one side – ‘if this is of interest to you, I can have two girls. It may be costly, but it’s worth every penny. Like I said before, to feel normal is quite tough. But when I come back from there I feel fucking marvellous.’