by Graham Ison
‘What was this man’s name, Sadie? The one who spent the night with you last Friday.’
‘Man?’ Sadie scoffed. ‘I should think he was young enough to be my son. I think he said he was called Lance or some poncey name like that. What’s more, when I eventually got up and had a shower, I discovered that I’d paid for the night out on my credit card, but I don’t remember doing it. I was blotto.’ She paused to blow her nose. ‘You must think I’m a bloody fool, Mr Brock. I let men walk all over me. Always have done and I don’t suppose I’ll ever change.’
‘Did he say where he lived?’
‘No. Could be anywhere. He might live in Brighton, but, on the other hand, he might be down here on holiday and getting his end away as often as he can. Anyway, I’ve decided to sell this place for what I can get and move to Australia.’
‘What brought on that sudden decision, Sadie?’ I asked.
‘There was a nice Australian girl here yesterday called Kate and she told me all about where she lived in Oz, as she called it. It sounded great. I thought to myself, Sadie, what the hell are you doing in a bloody Brighton junk shop? Start a new life.’
We walked back to the car and drove off with the intention of returning to London.
‘What d’you think, Dave?’ I asked.
‘Call me cynical if you like, guv’nor, but I think Sadie Brooks is a bloody good actress. I still think it’s worth showing the staff at the Pretext Club the picture of Sadie that Miss Ebdon took. And I shouldn’t mention to Miss Ebdon that Sadie’s thinking of going to Australia.’
‘You’re right, Dave. I’m not sure whether to believe Sadie Brooks or not. I still can’t accept that she would shut her shop for a whole Saturday just because she’d got a hangover.’
As we left Brighton, I telephoned Colin Wilberforce to see if there had been any developments in my absence and found him in a bad mood.
‘What’s wrong, Colin?’
‘You asked me to find some background on Madison Bailey, sir. So, I decided to check on whether she and Robert Sharp had been at the Pretext Club at the same time on any previous occasions.’
‘And had they?’
‘The woman at the club wouldn’t tell me, sir.’
‘Who did you speak to, Colin?’
‘Someone called Rosemary Crane, sir, who kept banging on about data protection.’
‘Leave it with me, Colin. It’s time these people were put right about obstructing a murder investigation. Where’s Miss Ebdon?’
‘In her office, sir.’
‘Transfer me, Colin.’
‘Before I do, sir, I’ve discovered some interesting information about the Pretext Club. I’ve passed it to Miss Ebdon. I’ll put you through now, sir.’
When Kate answered, I explained the problems that Wilberforce had been having with Rosemary Crane.
‘D’you want me to go up there and rattle their bars a bit, Harry?’
‘I think we’ll get a brief first, Kate. Go to the nearest Crown Court, smile sweetly at the judge and obtain a search warrant to seize their membership database and details of when members stayed there. Then, meet me at the Pretext Club and we’ll give their tree a shaking just to see what falls out.’
‘Sounds like fun, Harry. By the way, Wilberforce gave me some info about the two who run the club. I’ll fill you in when I get there. But I’ll get the warrant first.’
SEVEN
Dave and I left it long enough to afford Kate sufficient time to persuade a circuit judge that her application for a warrant was valid. Then we drove out to the Pretext Club.
After a short and rather terse conversation with Rosemary Crane via the gate intercom, we drove into the club’s grounds. As we got out of the car, the first person we saw was a naked Madison Bailey. She waved, dropped the large beach bag she’d been carrying and dived gracefully into the pool.
‘Any chance of mixing business with pleasure, guv?’ asked Dave.
‘What would Madeleine say, Dave?’ Dave’s wife, Madeleine, was a principal dancer at the Royal Ballet. ‘Don’t forget that ballet dancers are extremely strong, even the female ones.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that, guv,’ said Dave, nodding sagely. ‘It’s not worth the risk of two broken legs.’ There had always been rumours that Madeleine assaulted Dave from time to time, but it was all a big joke. Dave was devoted to his wife, and there was no chance of him ever taking a fancy to another woman or she to another man.
Kate Ebdon was seated on a bench close to the general manager’s office. She took a document out of her shoulder bag and handed it to me.
‘The warrant, guv.’
‘Any trouble, Kate?’
‘No way. The moment I mentioned a nudist colony and a murder, the judge had his pen out ready to sign.’
I took the warrant and briefly scanned it. ‘That should stop them complaining.’
‘Probably start them off again,’ said Kate. ‘Before I left the office, Colin Wilberforce told me that his bit of digging turned up an interesting snippet of information. Cyril Cotton is actually the joint owner of the Pretext Club. The other joint owner is Rosemary Crane who is divorced and by all accounts enjoys a close relationship with Cotton that’s much more than a business relationship. Cotton has never married.’
‘Well, there’s a surprise. I reckon they’re made for each other simply because I can’t imagine anyone else fancying either of them. I wonder why they’re so reluctant to give us any assistance.’
‘Could be money laundering,’ said Dave. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘I had thought of that. However, let’s have a chat with the aforementioned lovebirds.’ I pushed open the door of the general manager’s office to find both Cyril Cotton and Rosemary Crane there. This time neither of them was wearing clothing but didn’t seem in the slightest embarrassed by it. Perhaps this bravado was an attempt to embarrass us so that we’d run away red-faced. Which just went to show they didn’t know much about coppers.
‘I’ve already told one of your people who had the audacity to telephone me that I don’t intend to part with any more information about our members,’ announced Rosemary Crane at her haughty best. Her reaction made me wonder if she and Cyril Cotton had had something to do with Sharp’s murder after all. They certainly hadn’t gone out of their way to be helpful to us.
‘I’m afraid you don’t have an option, Mrs Crane.’ I showed her the search warrant. ‘Failure to comply with a Crown Court judge’s warrant is a serious offence and could result in imprisonment for contempt.’
‘Well, I don’t know what you hope to achieve by harassing our members. All they want to do is come here to relax and enjoy themselves in this beautiful sunshine.’
‘And get murdered,’ said Dave.
‘Pah!’ Rosemary tossed her head. ‘What d’you want to know, then? I see I have no alternative.’
‘Robert Sharp and Madison Bailey were here last Saturday,’ Dave stated. ‘When were they last here together before that?’
‘How d’you know they were here before? Madison certainly was, but I’m not sure about—’
‘You’re wasting my time, Mrs Crane.’ Dave was beginning to get a little annoyed. ‘I might even go so far as to suggest that you’re deliberately obstructing us in the execution of a warrant. Just look it up.’
With a toss of her head, a gesture of irritation that she repeated frequently, Rosemary Crane crossed to the computer on Cotton’s desk, her ample derrière wobbling as she did so, and began scrolling through the entries.
‘They were here from Monday the third of June to Saturday the eighth of June. There, does that satisfy you?’
‘Not yet,’ said Dave. ‘Did they arrive together?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Rosemary studied the monitor again. ‘No, they didn’t. Robert Sharp arrived at eight thirty and Madison arrived at eleven minutes past ten.’
‘I thought naturist clubs restricted their membership to couples,’
suggested Kate archly, ‘and yet these two appear to be unrelated singles.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Rosemary. So far, Kate hadn’t spoken a word, and her Australian accent may have caused the Crane woman to wonder if we’d brought a journalist with us.
‘Detective Inspector Ebdon, Murder Investigation Team. And your answer?’
‘We have to make money, Inspector.’ For the first time since our arrival, Cyril Cotton joined in. ‘This place is very expensive to run and if a suitable applicant turns up, then we take him or her, whether or not they have a partner.’
‘And that’s how Sharp and Bailey became members, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not something I agree with,’ said Rosemary Crane. ‘Cyril happily accepts anyone who turns up. It’ll get us into trouble one day, and I …’ She suddenly realized that she was talking to three police officers, but it was too late to retract her admission.
‘Yes, go on,’ I said.
‘Well, no, I mean … there are always issues with health and safety and hygiene and that sort of stuff.’ Rosemary’s flustered protestation was weakened by the scarlet glow that rose rapidly to her cheeks.
‘I think you mean that the behaviour of some members might cause the police to take an interest in the running of this establishment,’ I suggested.
‘Why would you take an interest?’ asked Rosemary innocently, attempting unsuccessfully to backtrack.
‘Running a brothel, perhaps?’ said Dave uncompromisingly.
But instead of responding to Dave, Rosemary turned on Cotton. ‘Didn’t I always tell you, Cyril, that if you were too lax about the sort of people you admitted you would eventually run foul of the law? But you wouldn’t take any notice, would you? No, you were the one who wasn’t interested in anything but money, and that was your all-important god, wasn’t it?’ It appeared now that, far from being involved in the murder, Rosemary Crane was far more worried about a visit from the burgeoning army of jobsworths who were likely to descend unheralded to enforce one of their pettifogging rules.
‘But I’m always very careful about who we admit,’ said Cotton lamely.
‘That’s absolute rubbish and you know it.’ Rosemary was not giving up yet. ‘This scheme of yours to admit sexy young women at a lower rate than middle-aged men is just one example. Take that Madison Bailey. She pays next to nothing to be a member here, and if I didn’t respect that young lady’s judgement, I’d think there was something going on between you two. Fat chance!’ She laughed scornfully at the prospect of Madison even giving the overweight, unattractive Cotton a second glance, let alone anything else. But ironically, according to the information that Wilberforce had turned up, Rosemary Crane was more than willing to hop into Cyril Cotton’s bed. ‘There are laws now about sexism and ageism and gender equality, Cyril, but you just sail along as though nothing but the bank balance matters to you. Have you ever wondered what goes on in the chalets during the night? Have you ever noticed how often members creep from one chalet to another? Have you ever walked around the place after dark? No, you’re too busy poring over your precious bank statements.’
‘If I may just interrupt your discussion for a moment,’ said Dave sarcastically, ‘perhaps you could tell me if Robert Sharp was a single member?’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Cotton. ‘And so is Madison.’
‘Have a look at this photo, Mrs Crane.’ Kate handed a six-by-ten blow-up of one of the photographs she had taken of Sadie Brooks. ‘Is it anyone you recognize?’
Rosemary Crane studied the photograph for some seconds before shaking her head. ‘I don’t know that woman at all.’
Kate took the photograph back and handed it to Cyril Cotton. ‘And you, Mr Cotton, have you ever seen this woman here at any time in the past?’
Cotton studied the photograph for longer than Rosemary Crane had done before replying. ‘Yes, I’m sure she was here some weeks ago. Don’t you remember, Rosemary? She spoke with an American accent and said she lived in New York. Mind you,’ he said, ‘it might be easier to recognize her if she wasn’t wearing any clothes.’
‘Well, I don’t recognize her at all,’ said Rosemary.
‘Perhaps you’d show it to members of your staff,’ said Kate, ‘and ask them if they know her.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Cotton.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ Kate saw no advantage in revealing the name of the woman. In fact, if someone were to recognize Sadie Brooks and name her, that would be extremely useful.
‘That seems to be all for the time being,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time now, but we’ll undoubtedly have to return with more questions as our enquiries progress.’
‘I don’t doubt that for one moment,’ said Rosemary Crane acerbically.
I was in the office next morning at just after eight o’clock. At eight thirty, Linda Mitchell arrived.
‘We’ve completed the examination of Sharp’s car, Harry, but there seems very little in the way of evidence that’s likely to help you. Of course, you may think differently. Anyway, it’s all in my report. But we did find this.’ Mitchell handed me a document enclosed in a plastic sleeve. ‘It’s a credit card account that we found under the front passenger seat of Sharp’s car. I doubt that Sharp knew it was there. In fact, he probably thought he’d lost it.’
‘He seems to be up to the limit on this one, Linda,’ I said, quickly scanning the document. ‘His credit limit is shown as eight thousand pounds and he’s got seven thousand, nine hundred and sixty-five pounds outstanding, including interest. I think we’ll have a chat with this company, see what they can tell us about Robert Sharp.’
‘Anything on there that might help, guv?’ asked Dave.
‘Quite possibly, Dave. Several of the entries are for hotels in various parts of the country. If they can tell us who he stayed with and, in turn, find out if one of them ever went to the Pretext Club, we might get lucky and find out who topped him.’
‘You could well be right, sir,’ said Dave.
‘Shut up, Poole.’ No doubt, he thought it was a long shot. And so did I, in truth.
I walked through to the incident room. ‘Colin, find out where this credit card company has its offices,’ I said, handing him the account. ‘And please don’t say Edinburgh.’
Wilberforce turned to his computer and tapped a few keys. ‘That makes a change,’ he said. ‘It’s in London. And, as usual, the director of security is ex-Job.’ He turned the screen so that Dave could note the details.
The director of security at the credit card company was named Ron Clark and had retired a year previously from the fraud squad of one of the county constabularies.
‘It’s a different world after thirty years in the Job, Harry,’ said Clark, once introductions had been effected. ‘It takes a bit of time adapting, and I’m still learning. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
I summarized the investigation into the murder of Robert Sharp and explained about the discovery of the credit card account in his car.
Clark glanced at the account number and keyed it into his computer. ‘This is one curious punter, Harry. He’s running what’s known in the trade as a yo-yo account. He’s got no credit left at the moment, but last year the same thing happened. Then he paid in a lump sum – six and a half grand to be exact – and cleared his debt in one go. Then the debt started mounting again, but now he’s back to square one. Let me try the credit reference agency we use. They might help you even more.’ He keyed another address into the computer and waited. ‘I thought so. Sharp’s rating is rock bottom. It seems that he owes money all over the place.’
‘How did he get the sort of credit you gave him, then, Ron?’
‘He’s been a cardholder with us for quite a few years, so we obviously gave him a card before his balance started its see-saw behaviour. But how he managed to get the others is a mystery. And I don’t know why we didn’t withdraw his credit facility altogether
. According to this credit agency,’ said Clark, tapping the computer screen with his pen, ‘he’s got six credit cards, all topped up to the limit, and there’s a bank very keen to talk to him about mortgage arrears.’ Clark keyed in another address. ‘Yeah, that reckons. There are County Court Judgements out against him all over the place – from Cornwall to Yorkshire.’ He swung round to face me again. ‘There’s going to be a hell of a lot of unhappy creditors when they learn he’s snuffed it, Harry. Unless he’s left any assets that none of us know about.’
Dave laughed. ‘I very much doubt it, Ron. His wife’s on her beam ends and the poor cow hasn’t got two pennies to bless herself with. It’s rented property so she’ll probably be served with an eviction order very soon, if she hasn’t been turned out already, but I wonder why he’s got a mortgage?’
‘You’ll have to ask the bank,’ said Clark, and handed me a slip of paper on which he had written details of Sharp’s mortgage.
‘I’ll see if I can persuade them to give me some information,’ I said. ‘Are any hotels mentioned in his account history, Ron?’
Clark swung back to his computer. ‘There are four over the past year. There’s one interesting one, though. On the twelfth of May this year, he tendered his card at a hotel and it was refused. We make a note of such incidents because ultimately it affects his creditworthiness. Would you like a printout of those transactions?’
‘Please, Ron. It might be that one of the women he wined and dined was responsible for cremating him, particularly if he stole all her money before doing a runner. That’s his usual MO, at least, as far as we know.’
