by Graham Ison
Mrs Chapman smiled and the air of aloofness vanished in an instant. ‘My sister-in-law is one of the Friends of Covent Garden and she was telling me about your wife. Mrs Poole is regarded as an extremely talented ballerina and I’ve had the pleasure of watching her perform on several occasions. You must be very proud of her, Mr Poole.’
‘I am, ma’am.’ Dave was completely overawed, a most unusual state for him.
‘I was told that you have something important to tell me, Mrs Chapman,’ I said, as Dave and I sat down opposite her.
‘I’m afraid I do.’ Mrs Chapman became serious again. ‘My daughter Fiona committed suicide two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.
‘Thanks entirely to that bloody man Sharp.’ Rebecca Chapman remained perfectly calm, which made her use of the expletive seem even more effective, spoken as it was in her modulated, educated tones.
‘Would you like to tell me the circumstances?’
Before replying, Mrs Chapman took a framed portrait photograph from her handbag and passed it me. ‘That’s him. He promised to marry Fiona. They fixed a date and everything, and Charles and I – Charles is my husband – arranged a wedding breakfast for about twenty of Fiona’s friends and our family.’
‘Were Sharp’s family not represented, then, Mrs Chapman?’ asked Dave.
‘He told us that he had no family but he did have a friend who would act as best man. Robert was very good looking and personable, too. I hate to admit it, Mr Poole, but my husband and I were completely taken in by him. He was suave to a fault and he never once put a foot wrong when it came to the social graces.’
‘So, what happened? Did he fail to turn up for the wedding?’
‘Yes, but that wasn’t all. Not only did he leave Fiona pregnant, he stole from us. We kept quite a lot of cash in the house that Charles left in his study. I suppose it was about five thousand pounds in all and it was for Charles to pay tradesmen – we were having quite a lot of improvements done to the house and garden, and there was a conservatory being built on the back of the house as well. Many tradesmen resent having to pay for depositing cheques and much prefer cash. They probably don’t like paying tax either, but that’s a matter for the government; it’s their problem, not ours. However, that’s neither here nor there.’
‘Where was this money kept, Mrs Chapman?’ I asked. ‘In a safe, perhaps?’
‘No, Charles always left it in the top drawer of his desk. It wasn’t locked up or anything like that. The fact is that we trusted Robert – after all, he was about to become family – and didn’t for one moment imagine that he would go rooting about in Charles’s study. Even Fiona and I would hold back from entering what we called Charles’s own space, if you know what I mean. His inner sanctum, as it were. However, on that fateful day of the wedding, after Sharp failed to turn up at the church, we found that the money was missing. Charles went into his study – some sort of sixth sense, I suppose – and saw that one of his desk drawers had been left open.’
‘And all of it, five thousand pounds, was missing?’ I could hardly believe that people could be so stupid as to leave that amount of money more or less just lying about.
‘Yes, at least Charles thought it was about that much, but that wasn’t all. Later on, I found that some of my jewellery was missing. Not all of it, and I suppose he thought that by taking only some of it, I wouldn’t notice until I went to look for a particular piece. And that’s what happened – it must’ve been about a month before I realized some of it had gone.’
‘What is your husband’s profession, Mrs Chapman?’
‘He’s a property developer. He seems to have a knack for it.’
‘Did you report this theft to the police?’
‘When we were able to find a police station to report it to, yes,’ said Mrs Chapman, with an element of irritation. ‘A young man eventually turned up and took a few details, but I have to say he didn’t seem very interested. I got the impression he thought that if we were stupid enough to leave that amount of cash lying around, we not only deserved to lose it, but could afford to.’
There wasn’t a lot I could say about that. Since the savage cuts to the budget, the police have not been able to provide the service expected of them. There was a time when chief officers would have banged on the Home Secretary’s desk and complained bitterly, but not any more. Honours are at stake, although I knew of one or two former commissioners who’d have raised merry hell about any reduction in funding.
‘How long after this did your daughter take her own life, Mrs Chapman?’ Dave asked.
‘Three weeks and two days, Mr Poole, during which time she was utterly inconsolable. She spent most of her time in her room crying her eyes out. I do believe that she was in love with Sharp heart and soul. That wretched man had promised her the earth and he destroyed her at a stroke. There was the property he owned in the Caribbean, the exotic holidays he enjoyed on the French Riviera, the cars he owned, although we never saw any of it, and all of this was going to be Fiona’s. But it was obvious to me, Mr Brock, once I’d thought it through, that he sniffed money the moment he set eyes on where we lived. And frankly, I don’t think he had a brass farthing to his name.’
‘Where is it you live, Mrs Chapman?’ I asked.
Rebecca Chapman opened her handbag and took out a visiting card which she handed to me. The address was in a fashionable part of Belgravia. Beneath that address was another, for a country residence in Devon.
‘I wonder if I might take a copy of this photograph, Mrs Chapman.’
‘Why should you want a photograph of Robert Sharp, Mr Brock? He’s dead, surely.’
‘Yes, he is. But we’re still making enquiries and we haven’t seen a photograph of him until now. It would greatly assist us if we were able to show people a photo because we understand that, on several occasions, he has used other names.’ I was by no means sure of that, but it seemed an odds-on bet that he did. In my experience, most confidence tricksters had several aliases.
‘You can keep it, Mr Brock. It was on my daughter’s bedside table and she was clasping it the day she died.’
‘Thank you.’ I took the photograph out of the frame.
‘You can keep the frame, too,’ said Rebecca Chapman. ‘Throw it away if you like. For Charles and me it brings back too many unpleasant memories.’
‘How did Fiona die, Mrs Chapman?’ asked Dave.
‘A drug overdose, Mr Poole. It seems to be the method of choice among the younger generation.’ Again, there was that touch of bitterness in Rebecca Chapman’s voice. ‘How exactly did Robert Sharp die, Mr Brock?’ she continued, turning to me. ‘The newspaper reports were a little vague, other than saying it was at some sort of nudist colony.’ Rebecca Chapman’s bland expression suggested that she had no objection to naturism.
‘It was at the Pretext Club, a naturist establishment not far from Harrow. He was shot and then his body was set on fire.’
‘I hope he suffered,’ said Mrs Chapman.
‘Incidentally, Mrs Chapman,’ I said, ‘where did Fiona meet Sharp?’
‘Ironically, it was at one of these nudist colonies. I’ve no objection to such places at all, but if Fiona hadn’t decided to go to this one, she’d never have met the damned man.’
‘D’you know the name of the club that Fiona joined?’
‘No, I can’t remember. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t the one where Sharp was murdered. The Pretext Club, did you say?’
‘Thank you for coming to speak to us, Mrs Chapman. I’ll see you out.’ I conducted her to the doors of the police station and down the steps. ‘May I call you a taxi?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Brock. I think I’ll walk for a while.’ Rebecca Chapman shook hands and I stayed on the steps watching her erect figure making its way along Agar Street towards Trafalgar Square.
‘Well, that’s a turn up,’ said Dave, joining me at the door.
‘It makes me wish that he was still alive,
Dave. I’d love to see that bastard sent down for the rest of his life.’
‘Funny mistake for a con man to make,’ said Dave, ‘giving someone a photograph of himself. He must’ve been very confident of not getting caught. Still, as Alexander Pope wrote: Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.’
‘Smart-arse,’ I said. ‘This afternoon we’ll visit Paul Harrison and rattle his bars a bit.’
I thought it would be preferable for Nina Harrison not to be at home when Dave and I called on her husband, both for her and for us. I hoped that being on his own might prompt Harrison to be more truthful than he was on the last occasion we spoke to him. I rang the mobile number Nina Harrison had given us and suggested it to her.
‘I shan’t be at home anyway, Mr Brock,’ she said. ‘I’m having tea with a friend at the Savoy this afternoon.’
‘Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector.’ Paul Harrison was unable to disguise his surprise – or maybe his shock – when he opened the door to us. ‘Do come in.’ His false bonhomie rapidly returned and he managed to sound as though he was actually pleased to see us.
We followed him into the sitting room and accepted his invitation to sit down, but refused his offer of alcohol.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Chief Inspector?’ Paul Harrison’s urbane confidence was now firmly in place.
‘Where were you on Saturday the twentieth of July this year, Mr Harrison?’ Dave had a habit of dispensing with the niceties in circumstances such as these and went straight to the point.
For a moment or two, Harrison stared at Dave. I could almost see the wheels turning as he tried to convince himself that the question had been posed by my sergeant rather than me and was, therefore, of lesser importance. He was not the first suspect to make that mistake.
‘The twentieth of last month, you say. As it was a Saturday, I was probably playing golf.’
‘So, if we make enquiries at your golf club, they will confirm that, will they?’ Dave, idly tapping his pocketbook with his pen, put the question almost casually, as though he was merely going through a list of routine questions that I had given him with instructions to ask them, one by one.
‘Er, hang on a moment.’ The first signs of Harrison’s uncertainty and an ebbing of confidence were beginning to show. ‘I’ll just have a look in my diary. I’ve a terrible memory.’ He stood up and left the room, returning a few minutes later clutching an A4-sized book. ‘Saturday the twentieth of July,’ he mumbled, as he sat down and flicked through the pages. Finding the appropriate entry, he said, ‘Oh, it seems not. No, in fact, I had a meeting.’
‘A business meeting?’ asked Dave, still contriving to sound as though he wasn’t really interested in the answer.
‘Er, no. Well, not exactly.’ Harrison slammed the diary shut. He was clearly rattled. ‘Might I ask why you’re so interested in that date, Sergeant?’
‘It’s the day on which Robert Sharp was murdered at the Pretext Club,’ I said. ‘When we spoke to you before, you told us that you and your wife were both here all that weekend and your wife confirmed it.’
‘Oh, did I say that?’
‘So, where were you, Mr Harrison?’
‘Look, why are you so interested in my movements on that day?’
‘For the simple reason that the last time we spoke to you, Mr Harrison, and your wife’s infidelity with Robert Sharp was discussed, you said …’ I paused and glanced at Dave. ‘What did Mr Harrison say on that occasion, Sergeant?’
Dave made a big thing of thumbing through his pocketbook. ‘Detective Inspector Ebdon made a note of Mr Harrison’s exact words, sir, and I have a copy. He said, “I might’ve been tempted to do him an injury.” I suppose that could be considered as a threat of GBH.’
‘Would you agree with that, Mr Harrison?’ I asked.
‘It’s possible I might’ve said something like that,’ said Harrison airily, at the same time making a brushing motion with his hand as though to dismiss the comment as too trivial for real comment.
‘However, you have yet to answer my question.’
‘I’ve forgotten what it was.’
‘Where were you on the twentieth of July?’
Harrison let out a sigh. ‘I was with a lady friend,’ he finally admitted.
‘And her name and address, sir?’ This time Dave’s pencil waggled in Harrison’s direction in the menacing way I’ve seen him do so often in the past.
‘Oh, God! This is awfully embarrassing. She’s a married woman, you see.’
‘And you’re a married man, Mr Harrison,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t that make things a bit tricky, given that you pretend to be holier than thou?’
‘Her name’s Anne Craven and she lives in Beckenham,’ said Harrison reluctantly. ‘You’re not going to see her, surely?’ There was an element of concern in his voice now.
‘How else do we confirm your alibi?’ asked Dave. ‘Of course, if you have a mobile phone number for her, we could speak to her in the absence of her husband.’
‘Yes, yes, that would save her being embarrassed.’ Harrison promptly furnished the number.
‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘I must warn you that interference with a witness is a serious offence. I would caution you against contacting Mrs Craven in an attempt to ensure that she backs you up. Were she to do so falsely, she also would commit the offence of perverting the course of justice.’
We left Paul Harrison a worried man and considerably less bombastic than when we’d arrived.
‘Make for Beckenham, Dave,’ I said, and keyed in the phone number for Anne Craven that Harrison had given us. It was answered immediately.
‘Mrs Anne Craven?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock of the Murder Investigation Team at New Scotland Yard.’
‘Good heavens! What’s happened?’
‘We’d like to speak to you about Mr Paul Harrison, Mrs Craven.’
‘Oh, Lord! He’s not been murdered, has he?’
‘No, but we’d like to talk to you about him.’
‘All sounds very mysterious, but yes, do come and see me.’ Anne Craven gave us her address and I could only presume that she was alone.
We pulled up outside her house ten minutes later.
Anne Harrison was an attractive, mature woman. Her most noticeable feature was her high cheekbones which lent her a slightly oriental appearance. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater.
‘Come in,’ she said, once we’d introduced ourselves, ‘and tell me what ails you.’
‘What ails us? Are you a doctor, Mrs Craven?’ asked Dave impishly, as we all sat down in her sitting room.
Anne Craven laughed. ‘Yes, I am actually, but not a medical doctor, and it’s Anne. Everyone calls me that, and don’t call me “doctor” either. But if you’re interested, I have a PhD in town and country planning, which sounds terribly boring and most of the time it is. Now then, what is it you want to know about Paul?’
‘We interviewed Mr Harrison a short while ago in Bromley, Anne. He tells me that he spent Saturday the twentieth of July with you. Is that correct?’
‘Probably, but just let me check.’ She crossed the room to where her handbag was lying in a chair, and took out a small Filofax. She flicked through the pages and then nodded. ‘Yes, we actually spent that weekend at a naturist club.’
‘May I ask which one?’ I asked, trying not to sound too bored. I didn’t know whether to hope it was the Pretext Club or another one.
‘It’s quite a distance from here,’ said Anne, ‘at Paul’s insistence.’ She took her membership card from her handbag and handed it to me. ‘It’s in France.’
‘We seem to be running across an awful lot of naturists recently,’ said Dave.
‘There are about four million of us in the country altogether,’ said Anne. ‘It’s good fun and very liberating.’
‘Is your husband a member, too?’ I asked, as I returned her membership card.
&nbs
p; ‘I’m divorced,’ she said, laughing. ‘And so’s Paul.’
‘We spoke to his wife only this morning,’ I said. ‘And she was under the impression that Mr Harrison was in New York that weekend.’
‘His wife?’ Suddenly, Anne Craven threw back her head and laughed. ‘O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!’ she quoted. ‘But who was the poet?’
‘Walter Scott,’ said Dave.
We left the merry divorcée and drove back to central London.
‘I think Paul Harrison, in his own way, is a sort of con artist, but he’s not very good at it,’ said Dave. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting he’s promised to marry Anne Craven.’
‘Funny that,’ I said, ‘because he’s the sort of individual who’d criticize someone like Robert Sharp for playing fast and loose with women.’
Back at Belgravia, Kate Ebdon reported to me with the results of the follow-up enquiries on the ex-boyfriends of Janice Greene and Gina Page. They were disappointing.
Stephen Hall, the university employee who was Janice Greene’s ex, had indeed moved to Swindon. Kate got in touch with the Wiltshire police and arranged for an officer to interview him. The detailed statement, taken by a detective inspector, reported that the man’s original fury at the loss of Janice had been set aside and that he now had another girlfriend. Questioned further, he was able to provide a rock-solid alibi for the weekend that had seen the death of Robert Sharp.
Kevin, Gina Page’s former boyfriend, who, she had said, was hopping mad at losing her, had moved to Australia and according to the Victoria police now lived in Melbourne and was there at the time of Sharp’s murder. Colin Wilberforce had spent a great deal of time and trouble to track him down, all for nothing. But that’s police work for you.
DS Liz Carpenter had reported back to Kate that the follow-up enquiries she and Nicola Chance had made in response to the telephone calls received on the hotline had also come to nought. The five London-based women had met Sharp, or thought they had. Two of them claimed to have met him at the Pretext Club, but enquiries there indicated that neither woman had ever stayed there. However, none of them had had an affair with Sharp. The woman in Cornwall and the woman in Birmingham were now not sure that the man they’d met was, in fact, Sharp, and on reflection thought it might have been someone else. There are always people seeking their five minutes of fame following a well-publicized murder and these women were possibly among them. Interestingly, none of the seven women had lost any money. It came as no surprise that there was an absence of people appearing on television to say what a nice, quiet neighbour Robert Sharp had been. He’d never stayed anywhere long enough.
