by Graham Ison
‘Yes, he said he worked on the stock exchange trading in the futures market, whatever that meant. Anyway, I loaned him three thousand pounds. It was what my grandmother left me when she died. But after I’d lent him the money, he disappeared. I eventually rang the estate agent and asked what was happening, and he told me that they’d heard from Bob. He said that after we’d viewed the property, Bob had telephoned the agency and told him that we were no longer interested. I asked about the deposit that had been paid, but the estate agent said Bob hadn’t paid anything.’
‘Where was he living at this time, Janice?’ Kate was busily taking notes as she posed the questions.
‘He told me he lived in Chelsea.’
‘Did you ever go to his place?’
‘No. When I suggested it, he said it would be a couple of weeks before I could see it because he’d got the decorators in and they were giving the whole place a makeover. I suppose that was a lie, too.’
‘Didn’t you think it odd that he had a place in Chelsea, but was talking about buying a house here in Guildford?’
‘I think that was my fault because I said that I’d like to carry on working at the uni, but it wasn’t that important. I’d loved to have lived in Chelsea and I’m sure I could have got another job up there, probably at London University. But now that he’s dead, I don’t suppose I’ll ever see my money again. Do you know who murdered him? I read something about it being at another naturist club miles from here. I think that was the one genuine thing about him – he seemed to be dedicated to the naturism business.’
‘Yes, it was called the Pretext Club,’ I said, although I didn’t think Sharp was dedicated to naturism. As far as he was concerned, it was a means to an end. ‘We’re still looking for his killer and it’ll take time, but we’ll find him or her. Incidentally, did he ever suggest that you should join him at that naturist club?’
‘No, he didn’t, but I’d have been delighted because I’m keen on it, too. It’s so relaxing and carefree.’ Then, quite suddenly Janice Greene dissolved into tears. I was surprised at Kate Ebdon’s reaction. I say surprised because I’d always thought of her as a hard-nosed copper, but she moved swiftly across to the settee and sat down next to Janice. Putting her arm around the girl’s shoulders, she asked, in an almost motherly fashion, ‘When’s the baby due?’
‘Next month,’ mumbled Janice in between sobs.
Sabrina Holt lived on the fifth floor of an apartment block on the Isle of Dogs. Fortunately for Charlie Flynn, the lift was working and he reflected on the fact that if it had been a council-owned block, he would undoubtedly have had to climb the stairs. And he’d done that a few times.
‘Sabrina Holt? I’m Detective Sergeant Charlie Flynn from the murder investigation team. I phoned earlier.’ The woman who answered the door looked to be about forty-five. Probably old enough to have amassed a fortune and to be thinking about retiring.
‘Come in.’ She showed Flynn into a large open space that was furnished minimally but comfortably. There was a huge television set against the wall adjacent to windows that comprised the whole of one side of the room and gave a panoramic view of the River Thames. A kitchen-diner occupied a space at the far end. ‘Do sit down. I must admit I’m a little puzzled as to why someone from the murder squad at Scotland Yard should want to see me.’
‘It’s about your credit card, Miss Holt.’
‘It’s Sabrina, Sergeant Flynn. You make me sound like someone’s maiden aunt.’
‘It’s Charlie, Sabrina. Have you ever lost your credit card?’
‘No. I’ve got three altogether and I have them here. D’you want to see them?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
The woman picked up a canvas tote bag from the floor by her chair, ferreted about in it and eventually handed her holder to Flynn.
‘Have you ever parted company with this particular credit card, Sabrina?’ Flynn held up the card he’d identified from the account number.
‘No. I told you that I’ve never lost any of my credit cards.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I meant. Can you recall if this card was ever out of your sight when you were paying for something with it?’
‘Of course not. In a restaurant for example they always bring a hand-held device to the table and complete the transaction there. And the same sort of system operates at checkouts in shops and supermarkets.’ Sabrina took a moment to consider the question further. ‘But now you mention it, Charlie,’ she said slowly, ‘there was one occasion. It was on a flight to Bogotá.’
‘What were you doing in Bogotá, Sabrina? Business trip, was it?’ Flynn was trying to discover if it was a business credit card that was settled by her employers without too much questioning, as one of the credit-card company’s security staff had suggested might be the case.
‘No, I went there for a holiday. It’s a beautiful city and very interesting. If you’re ever there, make sure you visit the Gold Museum.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Sabrina,’ said Flynn, although he doubted he would ever visit Bogotá and certainly had no taste for museums.
‘Anyway, I bought a bottle of duty-free vodka on the plane and paid for it with my credit card. That card.’ Sabrina gestured at the card that Flynn was still holding. ‘The stewardess said that she would have to take it and process it in the galley as they weren’t allowed to bring hand-held devices into the cabin area. She said it was something to do with aircraft safety.’
‘A likely story,’ muttered Flynn. ‘D’you happen to remember the stewardess’s name or what she looked like?’
‘Good heavens no. I don’t suppose I even looked at her name badge at the time and I certainly can’t remember anything about her appearance. They all look the same in uniform. But why are you asking all these questions, Charlie, and what does it have to do with a murder? I assume there’s some connection as you’re from the murder squad.’
‘This card was used by an air stewardess to pay a hotel bill in central London, Sabrina. It was for four thousand, four hundred and ten pounds and fifty-five pence.’
‘But how could that possibly be?’
‘Before I answer that, d’you mind telling me your profession?’
‘I’m a commodities trader.’
‘I’m certain that your credit card was cloned, Sabrina.’ Flynn pondered the incongruity of a commodities trader who didn’t understand the simple basics of a common fraud.
‘What on earth does that mean?’
Flynn explained the simple way in which the fraud was perpetrated.
‘But how could it have been?’ Sabrina sounded genuinely puzzled, even after Flynn’s explanation.
‘The most likely scenario was that it happened when the stewardess took your card having spun you some specious story about aircraft safety. However, don’t you ever check your credit card account when you receive it?’
‘Not really. It’s cleared every month by direct debit.’
Flynn thought how pleasant it must be to have so much money that you didn’t notice when over four grand that you hadn’t incurred appeared on your account and wasn’t even questioned.
‘But you still haven’t said what this has to do with a murder,’ continued Sabrina.
As succinctly as possible, Flynn told the commodities trader about the murder of Robert Sharp and how an air stewardess was connected.
‘Well, it’s certainly opened my eyes,’ said Sabrina as she conducted Flynn to the door of her apartment. ‘I certainly won’t let my credit card out of my sight in the future.’
And that, thought Flynn, is too bloody late.
Kate Ebdon and I drove straight on to Dorking where our interview with Gina Page produced a set of circumstances almost the same as those that Janice Greene had experienced.
She was also a tall girl, much the same age as Janice Greene. She, too, had long hair, although in her case it was jet black.
Sharp had told Gina a story similar to the one he had told Janice Greene. Early last year she had
met Sharp at a naturist club and they had started an affair. He’d proposed marriage a couple of weeks after the meeting, and she admitted to having fallen ‘head-over-heels’ in love with him. The same story unfolded. The Caribbean hideaway that he talked about to Janice Greene and, incidentally, to Sadie Brooks, was backed up with photographs, none of which included him. The purchase of a house was mooted and visited, and then out came the same old story of funds being tied up in stocks and shares, and poor naive Gina was persuaded to make a short-term loan until he could lay his hands on his own money.
‘How much, Gina?’ asked Kate.
‘Four and a half thousand,’ said Gina, ‘but he promised he’d pay it back the following week.’
‘But you never saw him again and when you spoke to the estate agent, he told you that Sharp had telephoned to say that he was no longer interested in the house the two of you had viewed. Furthermore, the estate agent denied receiving any money by way of a deposit.’
‘How did you know that?’ Gina was wide-eyed at Kate’s apparent omniscience.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Gina,’ I said, ‘but we’ve heard it all before.’
‘So, that’s that, I suppose. No chance of getting my money back now that he’s dead.’
‘I’m afraid you’re in a rather long queue, but I think it’s safe to say that Sharp probably didn’t leave any money when he died. Or if he did, it’ll be in some offshore account and impossible to get at. But that’s extremely unlikely.’
‘Were you in a relationship with someone else when you met Sharp, Gina?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes, I was living with Kevin.’
‘Who is Kevin?’
‘I’d met him at the same naturist club where I met Bob. But before, of course. Before I met Bob, I mean.’
‘Was Kevin with you at this naturist club when you met Sharp?’
‘Yes.’ For a moment or two, Gina had the grace to appear shamefaced.
‘I imagine Kevin was upset when you walked out on him?’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Gina. ‘He was hopping bloody mad. I still get messages on social media calling me a slag and a tart and a whore.’
‘I think you’d better give me his details, Gina,’ said Kate. ‘It would appear that this Kevin has already committed several offences.’
In the event, prosecuting Kevin for his internet bullying proved to be too difficult for us and it was left to the police in Australia.
We got back to Belgravia by eight o’clock that evening, only to find that there had been another call from a member of the public complaining that she’d been swindled.
‘It’s a Mrs Nina Harrison who lives in Bromley, sir,’ said Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident room manager.
‘D’you want to do that this evening, guv?’ asked Kate.
‘No, it can wait until Monday, Kate,’ I said. ‘It’s bound to be the same as the stories we’ve just heard from Janice Greene and Gina Page.’
And that’s how it turned out, more or less, but this time there was a twist that made it much more interesting and possibly pointed us in the right direction. But as I’ve said many times, I’ve often been disappointed.
Before settling down to an hour’s work reading some of the statements that had been taken over the past few days, I telephoned Lydia and suggested dinner that evening at a restaurant that had only recently opened in Kingston.
‘I know it’s no good asking you to come out to Esher, not while you’ve got an investigation running, Harry, but I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I come to your place and get dinner for you? Then you can relax.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I agreed. I don’t know what it is about Saturday evening traffic during high summer, but it took me very nearly two hours to get from Belgravia to my flat in Surbiton. It must be the popularity of that day of the week for going on holiday or coming back from one. My journey wasn’t helped by an accident on the A3 that caused our traffic unit colleagues, known affectionally to the CID as the Black Rats, to close the southbound road between Tolworth and, with the cooperation of Surrey Police, Pain’s Hill.
I had given Lydia a key to my flat some time ago and she greeted me with a kiss and a large whisky.
‘I met your cleaning lady, Mrs Gurney, today, Harry, darling. How on earth d’you get her to clean for you on a Saturday afternoon?’
‘I didn’t know she did,’ I said. ‘She turns up whenever she can manage to fit it in, I suppose.’
‘She’s an absolute gem. I wonder if she’d be prepared to come out to Esher from time to time?’
‘I hope you’re not trying to kidnap her, my love,’ I said. ‘I can only manage my life if there are two women in it.’
‘She insisted on calling me Mrs Brock,’ said Lydia, having given me a playful punch in the ribs for that last remark. ‘Do you have some plan you’ve omitted to tell me about, Harry?’
I laughed. ‘That’s probably wishful thinking on her part. I think that deep down she thoroughly disapproves of me sleeping with a woman I’m not married to and tries to pretend it’s not happening.’
‘Well, I don’t disapprove. In fact, I quite like the idea,’ said Lydia, and promptly changed the subject. ‘How are you getting on with your nudist colony murder?’
‘It seems that the victim made a point of swindling women out of money. He’d met quite a few of them at the Pretext Club and had affairs with them. He also visited some other naturist clubs where he picked up unsuspecting women he eventually finished up swindling. But it seems they all fell under his spell.’
‘What you might call naked flames, I suppose,’ said Lydia drily. ‘Dinner’s ready whenever you are.’
It was a magnificent meal, as usual, and Lydia invariably manages to select the perfect wine to complement whatever she’d cooked.
‘Are you staying the night?’ I asked, once we were relaxing in the living room.
‘Of course.’ She gave me a wicked smile over the rim of her brandy balloon. ‘Unless Mrs Gurney would rather I didn’t. D’you want to call her and get permission?’
TEN
In her telephone call on Saturday, Mrs Nina Harrison had complained that she’d been swindled by Robert Sharp. I returned her call on Monday morning, learned that she would be at home all day, and made an appointment to visit her.
Nina Harrison’s home proved to be a large, detached house in a quiet road in Bromley, Kent. Parked on the drive was a middle-of-the-range Volvo and behind it a BMW. Each had number plates showing that they had been registered this year.
‘You must be the policeman who telephoned this morning,’ said the woman who opened the door. She could have been a year or two either side of forty; it was difficult to tell. Her hair may have been naturally blonde – I’m not too good at telling the difference – but from what little I knew of ladies’ hairdressing salons, the way in which it had been styled would probably have cost a small fortune. Her white trousers were well cut and her sweater was cashmere. Overall, it would be fair to describe her as a mature, confident and elegant woman.
‘It’s Mrs Harrison, is it?’
‘Yes, please do come in,’ she gushed, forcing a smile.
We were conducted into a large, airy sitting room that looked out on to a perfect garden. The room’s few pieces of light oak furniture were low enough to enhance the air of spaciousness, and the chairs and settees looked, and proved to be, comfortable. If the Harrisons owned a television set, it was presumably in another part of the house that was dedicated to viewing. I noticed that there were one or two objets d’art in various parts of the sitting room, but they were not displayed ostentatiously.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, Mrs Harrison, and this is Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon.’ I’d decided to take Kate with me for continuity; each interview was beginning to shape up in much the same way as the others.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Nina Harrison, and insisted on shaking hands with each of us. ‘Please s
it down.’
But before we were able to take a seat, a tall, well-built man entered the room. Probably a few years older than Nina, his chinos and check shirt had the unmistakeable stamp of Jermyn Street and he was wearing Gucci loafers. His guardee moustache was neatly trimmed, as was his wavy, greying hair. He struck me as the sort of man who’d be thoroughly at home on a golf course, and was the type who probably wore red trousers when he was playing or dominating the conversation at the nineteenth hole. But he had a deceptive smile that reminded me of the limerick about the smile on the face of the tiger. Instinct, and long experience of dealing with people of all classes, made me wonder if he possessed a sadistic streak. I’m not usually wrong.
‘I’m Paul Harrison, Nina’s husband.’ He, too, shook hands, holding Kate’s hand for a little longer than was necessary while he engaged her eyes with his and smiled. If only he knew that this was a very dangerous gambit. I’ve seen bigger men than Harrison hit the floor after Kate had deployed her karate know-how to subdue a fractious suspect she was intent upon arresting. And God help any man who touched her inappropriately. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He must have noticed the questioning look I aimed at his wife. ‘It’s all right, I know all about Nina’s little spot of silliness,’ he said condescendingly. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind if I sit in on the interview.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘if your wife doesn’t mind.’
‘Oh, she won’t mind, old boy.’ It was not phrased as if he was seeking his wife’s approbation, but more as if he took her consent for granted and that she wouldn’t dare argue.
‘Perhaps you’d tell me how you came to know Robert Sharp, Mrs Harrison,’ I said, determined to get on with the interview in the hope it might reveal something useful. So far, I wasn’t holding out much hope.
‘It was at an auction, as a matter of fact, in London. I dabble in antiques … well, we both do. Paul and I.’ Nina shot a coy smile at her husband who was now seated in an armchair next to her. ‘And I got talking to this man.’
‘This was Robert Sharp, presumably?’ Kate had a record-of-interview book on her knee and was beginning to take notes.
