by Graham Ison
‘Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,’ quoted Dave, taking the printout from Clark and handing it to me. The hotels where Sharp had stayed, I was pleased to see, were in London or the home counties.
‘One other thing, Ron,’ I said. ‘How the hell does this guy manage to use other people’s credit cards without knowing their PIN?’
‘Easy if you know how, Harry.’ Clark paused. ‘Give me your credit card for a minute or two.’
I handed it over and watched Clark insert it in a reader that he then plugged into his computer. After tapping a few keys, he turned the monitor so that I could see it. Displayed in large numerals was my four-digit PIN.
‘Like I said, Harry, it’s easy when you know how.’
The five-star hotel where Sharp’s card had been refused on the twelfth of May was only a couple of streets away from the office we’d just left, and I decided to call there on the way back to Belgravia.
It was one of those hotels that thrived on the tourist trade. As we approached the entrance, I saw unlicensed minicabs circling like vultures, waiting for the opportunity to rip off unsuspecting foreign visitors.
Inside the hotel there was a rack full of pamphlets depicting Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, the Royal Festival Hall, Windsor Castle and other attractions in and beyond the capital. The foyer was crowded and voices in a variety of foreign languages could be heard attempting to converse with each other and with the hotel staff. A world-weary hall porter was standing behind the place of safety provided by his counter, fielding questions as fast as he could.
Waiting until the latest coachload of international sightseeing travellers had checked in, Dave and I approached the reception desk.
‘We’re police officers, miss. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, Murder Investigation Team, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole,’ I announced quietly to the receptionist, discreetly displaying my warrant card at the same time. ‘I’m told that a Mr Robert Sharp stayed here a couple of weeks ago. I wonder if any member of the staff remembers who was with him.’
The young lady receptionist’s badge said her name was Estelle. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get the manager’s permission before I’m allowed to give out any information about guests.’ She tapped out a number on her phone and explained the situation to whoever had taken the call. ‘The manager will be along shortly,’ she said, replacing the receiver.
The middle-aged woman who appeared was smartly dressed in a tan-coloured trouser suit. Her name badge said she was called Greta and showed her to be the manager.
‘I’m Greta, gentlemen. Estelle tells me you’re enquiring about Robert Sharp.’ Her accent sounded Germanic and reminded me of my ex-wife Helga, originally from Cologne, whom I’d divorced some time ago after sixteen years of tempestuous marriage. The catalyst was the loss of my four-year-old son, Robert, who had drowned in the pond of a neighbour with whom Helga had left him while she went to work. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come into my office.’
We followed Greta into a small but comfortable room close to the reception area. I imagined it was where uncomfortable interviews were conducted with long-stay guests who’d ‘omitted’ to settle their accounts on a regular basis.
I told Greta who we were and explained that we were investigating Sharp’s murder. I said that we’d learned that he’d stayed at this hotel and left on Sunday the twelfth of May this year.
‘Huh! It sounds as though he got his just deserts at last,’ exclaimed Greta vehemently, and then apologized. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very Christian of me, but I’m afraid people like Sharp really annoy me.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ I asked.
‘They take unfair advantage of women and, unfortunately, all too often, the women let them.’
‘D’you have a reason for saying that, Greta?’ I couldn’t imagine any man being foolish enough to try taking advantage of Greta.
‘Sharp produced a credit card when he arrived and, as usual, it was swiped into our system, but when he came to settle his account the next morning, the card was rejected. At that point, the receptionist called me to the desk, and I asked Sharp what he proposed to do about it. After a short discussion with the young lady who was with Sharp, she produced her own credit card and paid the bill. I have to say that she didn’t appear to be very happy about it. It was for almost four and a half thousand pounds.’ She glanced at her computer screen where she had already turned up the details. ‘Four thousand, four hundred and ten pounds and fifty-five pence, to be exact.’
‘Who was this young lady, Greta?’
‘She was a rather gorgeous young black girl, mid to late twenties, I should think. Actually, her skin was quite light.’
‘But d’you remember her name?’ Dave asked.
Greta turned back to her computer. ‘It was Sabrina Holt. She really was lovely. God knows what she was doing with that Sharp person, apart from paying for their weekend.’
Dave took out his mobile phone, scrolled through it and turned it towards the manager. ‘Is that her, Greta?’ It was a shot of Madison Bailey waving.
Greta needed only a glance. ‘Yes, that’s Sabrina Holt, but she’s not wearing any clothes.’
‘It was taken at a naturist club just outside London. It was where Sharp died.’
‘Ah, that would explain it. We have many such clubs in the south of Germany, but I didn’t know there were any in this country. Usually the weather here is too cold for that sort of thing. Either that or it’s raining.’
Having been to Cologne with my ex-wife on several occasions, I didn’t think that Germany’s climate was too good for wandering about naked either.
‘Can you give me details of that credit card, Greta?’ said Dave. ‘I think it may be false.’
‘You do? But the account was settled by the card company.’
‘Yes, it would have been, if what I think happened, did happen,’ said Dave, and wrote down the details.
‘Two questions, Dave,’ I said as we drove away. ‘How did you manage to get a photograph of a naked Madison Bailey?’
‘It was when we went to the club yesterday to interview Cotton and Crane, guv.’ Dave offered no further explanation than that. ‘And the second question?’
‘How in hell’s name did Madison Bailey get a credit card in the name of Sabrina Holt? I doubt that a company would willingly have issued one in a false name.’
‘There are two answers to that,’ said Dave. ‘Either Sabrina Holt is her real name or she was using a cloned credit card. It’s easily done. People are too trusting. They go into a restaurant or a bar and allow the waiter or barman to take their card away in order to prepare the bill or whatever. At least, that’s what they pretend to do, but you and I know that it’s not necessary.’
‘Yes, I know. They usually deal with the bill at the table or wherever, with a handheld machine.’
‘With the right kit, you can clone a credit card in seconds,’ continued Dave. ‘And very often it’ll take a month or even longer before the card holder realizes there are transactions on the card that they didn’t incur.’
‘You suggested that Sabrina Holt might be her real name, Dave. Supposing she comes from Jamaica, for example, and she got the card there.’ I looked sideways, but Dave was already shaking his head even though he was keeping his eye firmly on the road ahead.
‘If that was a genuine card, it would mean that she actually intended to pay the bill. No, I’m not wearing it, guv, not when you consider her salary is probably twenty grand a year. Maybe twenty-five grand at a stretch.’
‘I can check that with Clare Hughes, the airline security officer. I should’ve asked her when I saw her.’
‘I reckon Madison was part of Sharp’s scams,’ Dave continued, ‘and that Greta misinterpreted her being unhappy about footing the bill. Madison’s display of reluctance might have been part of the pretence or she was nervous about using a cloned card. D’you intend to ’front her with it and see what she says?’
/> ‘No, not yet, Dave. I’ll put Charlie Flynn on to it. He knows his way around the financial markets.’
EIGHT
Back at our Belgravia headquarters, Kate Ebdon joined me in my office.
‘I’ve been out to the Pretext Club again today, Harry. And I took Tom Challis with me, although I don’t suppose the new Mrs Challis will be too chuffed about him mixing with all those naked ladies.’ Tom Challis had recently married Heather Douglas, who had very nearly become a victim in a series of murders we had investigated. Her knowledge of science enabled her to set a trap that ultimately led us to arrest a serial killer.
‘Was it profitable, Kate?’
‘Possibly. Tom and I spent some time chatting to the staff. Frankly, I don’t rate the Cotton and Crane duo to be much help, but the girls who clean the accommodation and change the beds, that sort of thing, were much more forthcoming. One of the things that was apparent is that the people who work for them hate the two bosses. As a result, there’s a regular turnover of staff.’
‘I’m not sure that’s too much help to the investigation, Kate.’
Kate laughed. ‘You’re right, Harry. I was straying from the point. The interesting fact that emerged concerned Madison Bailey. It seems that during the week leading up to the murder, she became very friendly with a guy called Geoffrey Sykes who was staying there. This came from three of the cleaning staff and one of the lifeguards at the pool, each of whom was interviewed independently. They were all women, and they tend to take more notice of such things. The really interesting fact is that one of the cleaners barged into Sykes’ room in the accommodation, thinking it was empty, only to find Madison in bed with him.’
‘It looks as though Madison Bailey was prepared to put herself about a bit. Still, there’s no law against it whether they’re single or they’re both married, even if they’re not married to each other. What’s known about this Geoffrey Sykes, Kate?’
‘It was his one and only visit to the Pretext Club, Harry. Apparently, they take casuals, as they call them, from time to time. I made a few more enquiries from the reluctant pair who own the place, and they told me that Geoffrey Sykes checked out on the Saturday morning, ten minutes after Madison Bailey.’
‘I suppose Rosemary Crane didn’t have an address for this Sykes finger, did she?’
‘You suppose right, Harry, but I got the details of his credit card. We can trace him through that.’
‘We’ll have a word with him when we’ve time, but it looks as though he took advantage of a willing Madison. Can’t really blame him for that, I suppose. And the fact that Sykes and Madison booked out within ten minutes of each other is probably a coincidence.’
‘They were certainly booked to stay for that week and were scheduled to leave on the Saturday morning. Oh, and one more thing. Rosemary Crane showed the staff the photograph of Sadie Brooks, but no one recognized her. It looks as though that’s a blowout.’ Kate stood up to leave. ‘Charlie Flynn’s waiting to have a word, Harry. He said you wanted to see him.’
‘Yes, I do. Leave the details of Sykes’ credit card with me, Kate, and I’ll get Charlie to look into that as well.’
Detective Sergeant Charles Flynn is a suave ladies’ man. He had been divorced twice by the time he was twenty-eight and was now touching thirty and in an on-off relationship with a woman police officer stationed at Bishopsgate in the City of London. Frankly, I don’t think he’s really cut out for marriage.
Flynn’s years as a member of the Fraud Squad had fine-tuned an astute brain that was capable of analysing facts in a comparatively short space of time. But he’s not only a desk jockey. He’s also very good at prising facts out of those who are reluctant to part with information. All in all, he was the ideal officer to find out about the credit card that Madison Bailey, alias Sabrina Holt, had used to pay a hotel bill. And to track down this Geoffrey Sykes who had become a person of interest.
‘There’s a lot of it about, guv,’ said Flynn, once I’d explained about the Sabrina Holt credit card. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, the general public are easily taken for a ride. Believe it or not, it can often take weeks, months even, before someone twigs that they’re being cheated. Some people pay the minimum amount on their card by direct debit without even checking their account. And there are those who clear the whole amount every month, again by direct debit, to avoid paying any interest.’
‘See what you can find out, Charlie.’
‘Right, guv.’ Flynn stood up. ‘D’you want me to have a chat with this Madison bird?’
‘Not yet. Get the story behind the credit card first, and then I’ll work out what to do next.’ I decided that allowing Flynn to interview Madison Bailey was really putting too much temptation in his way. An amalgam of the sexy Madison and the roving-eyed Flynn was a dangerous mix. I’ve seen cases fall apart before, simply because a police officer has become personally involved with a witness, let alone a suspect. And I was beginning to wonder if Madison was now a suspect in the murder of Robert Sharp.
It was proving to be a busy afternoon. The next to appear in my office was Colin Wilberforce.
‘I’ve been doing a bit more research on Madison Bailey, sir.’
‘Sit down and tell me about it, Colin.’
‘She studied physics at Leeds University, sir.’
‘Did she indeed!’ This opened up an entirely new side to the woman. ‘Did she graduate?’
‘No, sir. She dropped out after a year and decided to become an airline attendant instead.’
‘Physics, eh? So, she’d probably be qualified to know how to start a fire by remote control, say a mobile phone, even after a year’s study. Presumably she had suitable A-levels.’
‘I imagine so, sir. I haven’t found out which school she went to, yet.’
‘Don’t bother, Colin. It’s not important. At least, not at this stage. What you can do is leave a message for Martina Dawson and ask her to ring me.’ I was hoping that the fire investigator would be able to answer some of the questions formulating in my mind.
Rather than telephone me, Martina Dawson appeared in my office an hour later.
‘I much prefer talking about things face-to-face, Harry, rather than using the phone. What’s your problem?’ She sat down in the one armchair that my office boasted and crossed her legs.
‘It’s about the fire at the Pretext Club you investigated, Marty.’ I repeated the information that Wilberforce had discovered about Madison Bailey’s time at university. ‘I was wondering whether a year of a physics degree course at Leeds might have given her sufficient knowledge to have started that fire by remote control.’ I was guessing and I knew that she would destroy my theory very quickly if I was on the wrong tack. But she didn’t.
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ Martina Dawson remained silent for some time, deep in thought. I waited, having previously formed the opinion that she was not a woman to be rushed. ‘I daresay that she could have acquired enough knowledge to set a device that could be triggered with a signal from a mobile phone,’ she said eventually. ‘If that were the case, such a device would likely have been destroyed beyond recognition in the resulting conflagration.’
‘Would that call show up on her mobile phone or on her phone account?’
‘Only if she’s naive enough to have used her own phone, Harry.’ Marty laughed. ‘But I doubt she’d be that stupid. She’d have picked up a phone from a supermarket for cash, one that couldn’t be traced – ironically it’s what the Americans call a burner – and throw it in the river once the job’s done.’ After a lengthy pause, she added, ‘Does that get you any further forward?’
‘Not in terms of the investigation itself, no, but it does move her up the list of suspects. My main problem at the moment is to find a motive for her to have murdered Sharp. If, in fact, she did.’
‘It’s not my field of expertise, Harry, but from a female perspective, I can tell you that if a man swindles a woman out of a large amount of cash there’s no
telling what she might do. Do you think that your dead man could’ve swindled her?’
‘It’s something I’m in the process of finding out, Marty. Thanks for your help, and I’m not only talking about the fire.’
‘Mind you, there is one thing that can tip a woman over the edge, and that’s if the man in her life abandons her in favour of a newer model.’
It was a comment that made me wonder if Marty Dawson was speaking from experience.
After one or two false starts at the credit card company, Flynn was eventually shown into the office of a woman who, he had been assured, would be able to answer all his questions. She was a brunette with a pageboy hairstyle, whom he estimated to be in her mid-thirties.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Charles Flynn, Murder Investigation Team, New Scotland Yard, Mrs …’
‘My name’s Patricia, Sergeant Flynn, although everyone calls me Trish, and I’m one of the security staff,’ said the woman, skilfully dodging the implied question about her marital status, having got Flynn’s measure immediately. ‘Please take a seat and tell me how I can help you.’ She seemed unaffected by her visitor’s suavity and her response was impassive, but then he wasn’t the first police officer with whom she’d had dealings in her job.
Flynn explained about the credit card, in the name of Sabrina Holt, that was used to pay the hotel bill on behalf of Robert Sharp on the twelfth of May. He didn’t immediately mention that it was almost certainly Madison Bailey who had used the card.
‘What seems to be the problem, then?’ asked Trish, still maintaining a dispassionate attitude as if to convey that she was not in the least impressed by Charlie Flynn or the job that he did.
‘We think it may have been cloned,’ said Flynn.
‘Oh, Christ!’ exclaimed Trish, abandoning the false reserve that she had deployed until then. ‘D’you have the details?’
‘Certainly do.’ Flynn chuckled at the sudden collapse of Trish’s original iciness. He handed her the piece of paper with the account number and the dates of the stay at the hotel.
