‘Would the blows have knocked him unconscious?’ Tyler asked.
‘Altogether, yes, without a doubt,’ the pathologist replied.
‘And the cricket bat was definitely the weapon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would he have been alive when his throat was cut?’ Tyler then asked.
‘Very likely. But he was almost certainly dead when he was disemboweled.’
‘The cut-throat razor that was found in the bath of the victim’s home, was it the only other weapon used?’ Tyler asked.
The pathologist was less certain about this. ‘Some injuries are consistent with a cut-throat razor, but a large, very sharp serrated knife may have been used to disembowel the victim as the cut was deep and had left marks on the rear ribcage and spine.’
Tyler frowned. As yet, no large blood-stained knife had been found at the scene. He had no choice but to go back to the station to see if the house-to-house inquiries had turned anything up – someone seen carrying a cricket bat on the night of the murder, for instance. He also wanted to talk to Eric Newman, the dog walker. He could possibly be the last person to have seen Charles Foxley alive, apart from the killer, and might also know if he had a cricket bat in the flat, but they had been unable to trace him, and he was not at his home.
*
At the agency, Jane and Spencer were on their second round of coffees. They were talking to Rita, who remained inconsolable. Unlike everyone else they had spoken to, she felt that Charles Foxley was not only a wonderful boss, but one who paid well and had a great sense of humor – though he did often make the receptionists lie about his whereabouts. She cheered up for a moment as she remembered something.
‘There was this actress – I can’t tell you her name but she was really famous – and Mr. Foxley had got her to take this part in a play, and then when it got terrible reviews she turned up ’ere all guns blazing.’ She started laughing and had to blow her nose. ‘He was in the broom cupboard . . . he ’id in there ’cause he knew she was after ’im. He was stuck in the cupboard for half an hour until we convinced her he wasn’t in the office – we had such a laugh. But all the other people who work here didn’t half have a go at him ’cause his dogs piss and shit all over the carpet. Mr. snooty-up-the-corridor’s dogs are too posh to shit, but we know half the carpet stains are from his Pekingese.’
Rita seemed on the point of telling another story when Jane interrupted.
‘What was your impression of Justine Harris?’
‘Ooh, she was really famous once upon a time, beautiful too. She had a temper all right, but she always apologized after she’d thrown a wobbly.’
When it was her turn to be questioned, Angie also spoke fondly about Charles Foxley and was equally kind about Justine.
Both girls had said he was his usual self on the Monday morning, chatting amiably, expressing his concern that Jack the Jack Russell had been humping Toots and he was worried she was coming into season. He left earlier than usual, but didn’t say where he was going.
‘Everything will be in his desk diary, though,’ Angie told them.
‘So, Angie, were you hired originally by Mr. Foxley?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, we both were.’
Spencer leaned forward. ‘There seem to be a lot of other agents alongside Mr. Foxley.’
Angie nodded. ‘Well, yeah . . . It used to be just his company. Then it got to be so successful, he hired other agents. I think they all bought shares in it.’
‘So, who exactly owns the company?’ Jane asked.
Angie shrugged. ‘If you really want to know, we have a legal department across the hall, along with an accountant, John Nathan, who does all the contracts.’
They thanked Angie and started walking towards the other offices but were stopped in their tracks when they heard what sounded like a howl of rage and then the booming voice of Daniel Bergman.
‘Pregnant? Are you telling me she is pregnant? The stupid fucking bitch. I’m not having a go at you, but for Christ’s sake. She’s done this on purpose, or the stupid son of a bitch of her husband has got her pregnant, and he’s the fucking director!’
Jane looked at Spencer as Bergman continued his rant.
‘We only got the movie financed because his wife was going to star in it. He probably got her up the spout intentionally because he couldn’t face working with her. Now the whole deal could go up in smoke.’
At that moment a slim young man scurried out of the office, closing Bergman’s door behind him.
‘Angie just called and told me you want to meet John. He’s in the office at the end of the corridor.’
‘And you are?’ Jane asked.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Simon Quinn. I’ve only just started working here. If you want to talk to me, I’m in that annex down there.’ He pointed to an office partition. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a large Duran Duran logo on the front, a black waistcoat, pale blue skin-tight jeans and trainers. He appeared to be in his early twenties.
As Jane and Spencer headed down the corridor, there was a muffled scream from Bergman’s office.
‘Bloody madhouse,’ Spencer muttered under his breath, knocking on John Nathan’s door. It was opened almost immediately. Compared with everyone else they had met so far at the agency, Mr. Nathan looked out of place. He wore an ill-fitting grey suit, white shirt and tie. He had thin, wispy hair with a receding hairline, and wore gold-rimmed glasses.
‘I was expecting you,’ he said quietly, and closed the door behind them.
The office had banks of files from floor to ceiling against every wall, and the floor was covered with cardboard boxes containing scripts, files, notebooks and books. In the middle of the chaos was a plain desk with two calculating machines and a telephone.
‘Have you had coffee?’ Nathan asked, seeming nervous. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t have any extra chairs.’
‘That’s all right,’ Jane said. ‘And we’ve had coffee, thank you. We just want to find out who might benefit from Mr. Foxley’s death. We’re a little confused about who owns the company and the position of the various agents.’
Nathan clicked the top of his retractable pen. ‘Well, it is quite complicated, but the primary shareholder of Foxley & Myers is – or was – Charles Foxley. Originally Mr. Foxley and Mr. Myers were not exactly partners. Mr. Myers was the first agent to join the company. I believe shortly after that, they both decided on bringing in more agents.’
Jane opened her notebook. ‘So that would be Emma Ransom, Laura Queen and Daniel Bergman?’
‘Yes. Recently the agents you mentioned bought shares in the company, which enabled them to handle their own clients in the agency’s name. So, you have Emma, who has actors and actresses, Laura, who mostly does writers, producers and directors, and Daniel has a lot of theatre stars.’
Jane looked up from her notebook. ‘We just met a Simon Quinn?’
Nathan continued to click his pen and a film of sweat broke out on his thin upper lip. ‘Well, it is quite complicated because Simon has only just joined the agency and he is very much part of . . . ’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, was part of a new venture Charles had been working on for the past six months. They were setting up a modelingagency called KatWalk and contracting some well-known sports stars, mostly for advertising and promotional work, but it’s all still in its infancy.’
Spencer shifted his weight. The office felt stifling and his back was starting to ache from having to stand.
‘So, Myers is now the majority shareholder?’
Nathan nodded. ‘Yes, but he would not be able to make any changes to the present structure until Mr. Foxley’s estate and beneficiaries are legally sorted.’
Jane closed her notebook. ‘Can you think of anyone with a motive to kill Mr. Foxley?’
She was surprised by his reaction because for the first time there was a glimmer of a smile on Nathan’s face. ‘Well, I would say there are an awful lot of people with grievances, but I doubt any of the
m would want him dead.’
‘What about his ex-wife?’ Jane asked.
Nathan kept clicking his pen. ‘I know Justine was devastated by the divorce, and perhaps she is the main beneficiary of his will . . . I really don’t know. I hardly ever had anything to do with her.’
He placed his pen down on the cluttered desk and Spencer glanced towards Jane to indicate they should leave. He thanked Nathan for his time and turned towards the door.
‘You’re welcome. She was a very successful actress, you know. When the company first started, I believe Justine financed it. I don’t know if that’s any help.’
Spencer didn’t reply as he opened the door and ushered Jane out. A tearful secretary scurried past them and they headed further down the corridor. Daniel Bergman threw open his office door.
‘Margaret, come back in here this minute!’ he shouted. ‘Oh . . .’ He looked at Jane and Spencer. ‘Secretaries.’ He shrugged. ‘For some reason I seem to go through a large number of them, but Miss Pratt really and truly suited her name. You must be Jane Tennison.’ He reached out to shake her hand. He then turned to Spencer. ‘And you, I believe, are Detective Sergeant Spencer Gibbs? Do come in and sit down. I think you’ve already been offered coffee, but would you like a fresh cup? Or I have a variety of teas. Herbal, mint . . . ’
Spencer lifted his hand to indicate that they were fine. Mr. Bergman’s office was spacious, with a window looking out onto a yard behind the building, with a partly opened white blind. Bookcases were stacked on two walls and glass-fronted cabinets beneath them housed hundreds of scripts. Two comfortable-looking sofas formed a ‘V’ in front of his desk. Bergman waited until they had both sat down before moving around his desk to sit in a large leather swivel chair. They were now able to get a good look at the man they had earlier heard screaming and cursing. Daniel had dark, curly hair, an unusually long face with a prominent nose, and a small, pinched mouth, but his most striking feature was his dark brown eyes, which were set unusually close together. He spread his hands on the top of his desk and attempted a pleasant smile.
‘We are all in a state of shock,’ he said softly. ‘We haven’t really been told any details, but James said that he had identified him and that he was shocked to see the injuries to his face. Obviously I’ll do all I can to help you to find who did this to him, but you have to understand that, although we all work together under the same roof, we are very separate and private people and do not mix socially with each other unless it’s for premieres or discussing casting between agents. By that I mean, if I have a movie and require an actress that I know is represented by Emma, and so of course we discuss things. But it is always strictly business.’ Bergman spoke quietly and softly, as if he was a different person to the one they had heard screaming abuse earlier. Jane found it slightly disturbing.
‘Even so, can you think of anyone who would have a motive to kill Charles Foxley?’ Spencer asked.
‘I am aware there was a very unpleasant situation with regard to Charles’s purchase of his flat, which was previously owned by a set designer, but that was quite a long time ago. He didn’t talk about it that much, but he was quite upset when it all blew up and the designer, Sebastian Martinez, made a big fuss.’
‘Can you explain what the fuss was about?’ Jane asked.
‘Not really. I think it was connected to something about a set Martinez had built, which went catastrophically wrong. But I was never privy to any of the details. Charles is – or was – a very likeable man, who made friends easily, but beneath that bon viveur there was, I know, a darker side. He hated failure, but the strange thing is that he hated success almost as much. There was something masochistic about it.’
Spencer glanced at the list of people that Myers had given them and saw that Sebastian Martinez, with his address and contact number, was on the list.
‘But I would say that Charles hated any sort of direct confrontation,’ Bergman added.
Jane looked up from her notebook. The red light on Bergman’s phone was blinking furiously. She was trying to make sense of what he had just said, but before she could put anything into words, Spencer asked Bergman about his relationship with Justine Harris. For the first time, Bergman became animated.
‘She was an abusive alcoholic and made Charles’s life hell. Before the divorce she would come into the office and cause trouble, throwing all sorts of accusations around. One time, I was just leaving when she appeared, and I told her that her presence was unacceptable.’ He opened his mouth and tapped a tooth. ‘She punched me in the face so hard that she knocked this tooth out. I fell down the staircase.’ He shrugged. ‘I hope that answers your question.’
Spencer stood up. ‘Thank you for your time. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too much. And if we do need to talk to you again, we will obviously give you prior warning.’
They left Bergman’s office as his phone started ringing. By now both Spencer and Jane were feeling exhausted.
‘Do you think we should have a talk to the new guy, Simon Quinn, before we go?’
Jane suggested they leave it for another time as they still needed to see Foxley’s office. By rights it should have been first on their agenda. As they crossed back towards the reception area, Angie walked past with her arms full of manila envelopes.
‘That poor cow,’ Rita explained, shaking her head sadly. ‘She’s only been here a couple of weeks. They never last more than a few months with him. He’s a nasty little sod. But this time it was Angie’s fault because some scripts had been delivered and she put them in the wrong place.’
Jane looked at her watch. ‘We just need to have a look at Mr. Foxley’s office.’
‘Oh right, it’s up the corridor, next to Mr. Myers’.’
It was surprising how different all the agents’ offices were to each other. Charles Foxley’s office, although the same size as Myers’, was more like a study in someone’s Victorian manor. There was a giant oak desk with claw feet, cabinets bursting with manuscripts, old bound-leather books and numerous faded photographs covering the walls. There was an exercise bike and on top of the original, worn fitted carpet was an expensive antique Persian rug. Instead of a desk chair there was a wing-back chair covered in worn fabric with three equally worn cushions on the seat. A matching wing-back chair was on one side of the desk and on the other, a leather studded sofa. Two dog baskets and dog bowls were on the other side of the desk and there were dog hairs everywhere. There was also a wooden carved waste-paper basket, still full of screwed-up pages. Foxley’s desk displayed an array of slightly tarnished, silver-framed photographs that seemed to be of family and friends. On the desk there was also an old leather blotter, a Rolodex, a portable typewriter, and stashed in one corner a large electric typewriter and a fax machine.
‘We better not take anything from here without a warrant,’ she said, looking around the room.
Spencer was already flicking through the Rolodex. ‘Where’s his diary?’ He pulled open one of the drawers in the oak desk. ‘Bloody hell.’
Jane came over to look. ‘What?’
‘Vitamins. I’ve never seen so many vitamins in my life! There’s every kind in here. Vitamin B, Vitamin C, D. Oil of primrose. A blood pressure band . . . ’ He shut the drawer and opened the one beneath it. It was full of bags and tins of dog food.
Jane continued to look around the office, which somehow felt very decadent. It was so different from the elegant basement flat where Foxley’s body had been found. It also did not appear to be very clean. Everything seemed to be covered in dog hair.
‘Well, I can’t see any diary,’ Spencer said.
‘I’ll go and ask Emma.’
Jane closed the door behind her as Spencer began to sift through a wastepaper basket full of screwed-up papers and some torn typed notes. He started cramming them into his pockets and whipped around as Jane walked back in.
‘Caught me!’ He grinned. ‘But it’s only rubbish so we won’t need a warrant.’
>
‘We might need one for Mr. Foxley’s diary,’ Jane said. ‘According to Emma Ransom, it was a large red leather-bound thing with Foxley’s initials in gold. She also mentioned that all the agents were supposed to leave their diaries on their desks in case someone needed to check them.’
Spencer stuffed the last few papers into his pocket. ‘Funny it’s not here, then. On our way out I’ll ask Angie if she can track it down for us.’
*
It was only a short time later that an irate Eric Newman appeared in the agency’s reception and let all three dogs loose in the corridor of the offices.
‘What have you brought them here for, Eric?’ Rita screeched. ‘Don’t you know what’s happened to Mr. Foxley? We can’t have the dogs here. Are you stupid?’
Eric jabbed his finger at her. ‘Hey, don’t you go talking like that to me, darling. I won’t have it. I got a phone call from George Henson. You know who he is?’
Rita pursed her lips. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Right, well, Mr. Henson, who is living in Mr. Foxley’s ex-wife’s house, he tells me I gotta help out because the police have sent Toots over in an effing taxi and he tells me that he can’t look after the effing dachshund, because he’s got to go and take the ex-Mrs. Foxley to Ascot.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Rita asked.
‘I have no fucking idea. But I’m owed money. And Mr. Henson tells me that if I take Toots I’ll be paid by someone here at the agency. So I borrowed me friend’s van – that I need to pay him for – and pick up Toots and the other two, and I’m here ’cause I’m still owed fifteen quid and if I’m not paid now, I’m ruddy well leaving them here.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Rita said firmly.
The three dogs, Jack, the Jack Russell cross, Stick, the whippet cross and Toots, the dachshund, ran up the corridor, barking madly, tails wagging, scratching at Foxley’s door until it opened. They ran widely around the room excitedly until eventually they seemed to realize that Foxley wasn’t there. All three jumped onto one of the wing-back chairs and huddled together, whimpering sadly.
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