by Graham Ison
It was unfortunate that Frobisher had selected a Police College expression to make his point. “Overseeing my global responsibilities is exactly what I was doing, sir,” said Fox smoothly.
“Quite so,” said Frobisher and, secretly admitting defeat, asked, “How is the enquiry going?”
“We have identified the three victims, sir, and we have established that they were almost certainly murdered with an automatic weapon of some description. We also found about two kilos of white powder that I’m fairly sure will prove to be cocaine. Incidentally, the PM showed traces of cocaine in all three bodies.”
“So we’re dealing with international drug-runners, would you say?” asked Frobisher speculatively.
“No, I wouldn’t, sir. Until further enquiries are made, that is an assumption I would not be prepared to make.”
“Very well, Mr Fox,” said Frobisher in a tired voice and stood up. He was fast discovering what a lot of other senior officers had discovered. That when Tommy Fox decided on a course of action, it was nigh-on impossible to persuade him otherwise. And he could hardly discipline an officer of commander rank for doing what he was paid to do, namely to investigate crime. “Perhaps you’d keep me posted on progress.” And, as Fox reached the door, added, “And if you intend going abroad again, perhaps you’d be so good as to advise me in advance. As a matter of courtesy.”
“Gavin, how are you getting on with the finest crime-fighting force in the world?” Fox stood nonchalantly in the doorway of the office which, until a few days ago, had been his own and glanced at the pile of files in the in-tray. “You want to get rid of that lot,” he added.
Detective Superintendent Gavin Brace, who had been appointed to head the Flying Squad without the promotion and the money that hitherto would have gone with it, gazed sourly at his chief. “Good morning, sir.”
*
“Gavin,” said Fox, advancing into the office and dropping into an armchair, “I wonder if I can seek a favor…”
Brace regarded Fox suspiciously. “You want something, sir,” he said. “I can tell.”
Fox grinned. “John Craven-Foster and his bag-carrier, Morgan, are still in Cyprus, but there are pressing enquiries to be undertaken here.”
“Yes, sir?” Brace felt cornered.
“I was wondering if you could lend me DI Evans and DC Ebdon for a week.” Fox paused. “I appreciate that you are now responsible for the operations of the Flying Squad, but…”
“Just a week, sir?” said Brace, knowing that if Fox kept the two officers for so short a period, it would be nothing less than a miracle. In fact, it would be a miracle if he got them back at all, knowing Tommy Fox. But Fox was his commander and he had no real option but to accede to his request. “All right, sir,” he said in resigned tones. “A week then.”
“I owe you one, Gavin,” said Fox and with a reassuring smile wandered out of the office.
*
Fox glanced up as Detective Inspector Denzil Evans and Detective Constable Kate Ebdon entered his office. “Ah!” he said, “Welcome to the Murder Squad.” And he shook hands with the two as if he had not seen them in ages.
“Mr Brace said that we’d been assigned to you for a week, sir,” said Evans, who had given up all hopes of ever escaping Fox’s clutches.
“Probably be more than a week, Denzil,” said Fox. “Incidentally, congratulations on getting through the board.”
“Thank you, sir.” Evans had recently been advised that he had been selected for promotion to detective chief inspector and now had an awful foreboding that the implementation of that promotion would be accompanied by a transfer to SO1 Branch. Not that it made a great deal of difference: even if he stayed where he was, Fox would still be his commander.
“I want you to set up an incident room, Denzil, and deal with the London end of the enquiries that Mr Craven-Foster is, at this moment, conducting in Cyprus.” And he gave the two officers a resume of what had happened so far. “The most important thing is to find out as much as possible about Michael Leighton, and the two women who were found with him, Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash.”
Evans was no longer surprised at Fox’s ability to recall names without reference to any notes. He just nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Is there a docket?”
“Of course there’s a docket, Denzil. It’s in the Murder Room.”
*
“Well, Tommy,” said Hugh Donovan, the senior ballistics officer at the Metropolitan Police Laboratory, “Your DI Morgan was certainly right about the rounds found in the bodies and in the panelling of the yacht. They were 7.62 millimeter.” He moved two Webley pistols from a chair. “Have a seat.”
“From a Kalashnikov AK 47?”
“Possibly. There are a couple of other Russian-made assault rifles that take that caliber, and even a couple of Chinese jobs, but until you find the actual weapon, we shan’t know. But the ammunition appeared to be quite old. But then, so is the AK 47.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Fox drily. “So we’re no further forward.”
Donovan grinned. “The impossible we do at once, Tommy—” he began.
“Yes, I know,” said Fox. “Miracles take a little longer.”
*
Detective Constable Kate Ebdon was Australian. She had flame-red hair, usually tied back in a pony-tail, and normally wore tight-fitting jeans and a white shirt. And she terrified villains. Now with six or so years’ service in the Metropolitan Police, she had learned the trade of thief-taking on Leman Street Division in the East End of London. Then she had come to Tommy Fox’s notice and he had engineered her transfer to the Flying Squad.
Sitting now at the Police National Computer in a fully-staffed incident room, she fed in the three victims’ names and dates of birth, which had been recorded on the passports found on the yacht, only to discover that they were neither known to the police nor wanted by them. Mouthing a peculiarly Australian obscenity, she turned next to that handy book of reference, the London telephone directory. But there were so many people called M. Leighton, P. Tilley and K. Nash that she knew there had to be an easier way. “Guv, have we got details of the boat that these bodies were found in?” she asked, turning to DI Evans.
“All in the docket,” said Evans, tossing a file on to Kate’s desk. “Why?”
“I’m sure I’ve read somewhere about a register of yachts, or some damned thing. Thought it might be a good place to start tracking this Leighton finger.” Kate was an impatient woman and although urgent enquiries were being made at the Passport Office to find out where the victims had lived, those enquiries had yet to produce a result. And even when they did, the addresses might no longer be current.
Evans dropped his pen on the desk and looked up. “There are two registers,” he said. “It could be listed either with the Registrar of British Ships at whichever port Leighton chose, or it could be on the Small Ships Register. I think the Royal Yachting Association runs that.”
“Right,” said Kate.
“On the other hand, it might not be registered at all.”
“Oh, terrific.”
“But as it’s gone foreign, it’s almost bound to be,” said Evans with a grin.
A few telephone calls later and Kate Ebdon had an answer. The yacht was, in fact, registered in Michael Leighton’s name, with an address in Chelsea.
“Good,” said Evans. And tiring of his paperwork, added, “We’ll go and see if there’s anyone there.”
The address that the Small Ships Register had recorded for Leighton was a block of luxury flats not far from the Kings Road. The woman who answered the door was about fifty, and had straight shoulder-length blonde hair that, over the years, had clearly been prey to both the sun and a bleaching agent. She wore hardly any make-up and her skin was lined and tanned as a result of countless hours of exposure to ultraviolet rays, on both beaches and sun-beds. She was clothed in a shapeless calf-length beige linen dress. “Yes?” she said, peering closely at her two callers. Kate reckoned she was too v
ain to wear glasses.
“We’re police officers, madam,” said Evans. “Does Mr Leighton live here?”
“Yes.” The woman made no attempt to open the door wider.
“Are you Mrs Leighton?” asked Evans patiently.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Evans produced his warrant card in an attempt to allay the woman’s obvious doubts about their identity. “D’you think we could come in, Mrs Leighton?”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about his yacht,” said Evans, not wishing to discuss her husband’s death on the doorstep.
“Oh, that. Yes, all right.” Mrs Leighton turned away from the door and led the way into the flat, leaving Kate to close the front door. The sitting room, of which Fox would whole-heartedly have approved, was dominated by a large Chinese rug and opulently furnished with genuine antiques. “You’d better sit down.” Mrs Leighton spoke grudgingly as though wondering whether the sort of clothing that police persons wore might sully her furniture. “What about the yacht?”
“Do you know where Mr Leighton is?” asked Evans, avoiding the woman’s question.
“Yes, of course I do.” Mrs Leighton looked from Evans to Kate Ebdon and back again, all the time her face wearing a supercilious expression. “He’s up north on business.”
“Do you happen to know a Patricia Tilley or a Karen Nash?”
“No, I’ve never heard of them.” At that moment, the telephone rang and Mrs Leighton rose quickly to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said and walked out into the hall to answer it.
Kate Ebdon had looked carefully around the room the moment that she had entered it, and had spotted a pile of letters on a writing table. Now she was out of her chair in a flash and across the room. Quickly riffling through the letters, she let out a subdued expression of disappointment. “Nothing there of interest,” she said, and promptly sat down again just as Mrs Leighton re-entered the room.
“So you’ve not heard of either of these two women then?” Kate now took up the questioning.
Mrs Leighton looked askance at Kate Ebdon’s Australian accent. “That’s what I said.” She spoke disdainfully as if implying that the police were cither doubting her word or were rather stupid.
Evans was puzzled. The triple murder on a yacht off Cyprus had been headline news, and he concluded that Mrs Leighton was one of those rare people who neither watched the television nor read newspapers. Not that the names of the victims had been released, but he thought that she might just have wondered if the yacht was her husband’s.
“What exactly is this all about?” Slowly, Mrs Leighton’s curiosity was getting the better of her.
“A yacht registered in the name of Michael Leighton was found off Cyprus a few days ago—” began Evans tentatively.
“Found? Found? What d’you mean, found?” For the first time, there was an element of uncertainty, concern even, in the woman’s voice.
“Exactly what I say, Mrs Leighton. The yacht was found off Cyprus. There were three dead bodies on board. I’m afraid Mr Leighton was one of them and Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash were the other two. They had all been murdered.”
Mrs Leighton gave a little gasp and rolled gracefully off her chair to the floor.
“’Struth, she’s bloody fainted,” said Kate, desperately trying to recall her first-aid training. She knelt down and put a cushion under the woman’s head before loosening her clothing and dashing into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Mrs Leighton recovered consciousness quickly and stared briefly at Kate. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs Leighton,” said Kate. “You fainted, that’s all. Here, let me help you up.” She assisted Mrs Leighton back into her chair.
Kate was all for pursuing her questioning, but the wiser counsels of Denzil Evans prevailed. He knew all about complaints from witnesses – and, at the moment, that is all Mrs Leighton was – who claimed to have been harried by the police. And right now, Leighton’s widow was in no fit state to be questioned.
“I think we’d better come back another time,” said Evans, “When you’re feeling a little better. Are you going to be all right, or would you like me to get a neighbor in?”
“Certainly not.” Mrs Leighton spoke sharply, her self-assurance immediately returning. “I’m quite recovered, thank you. I rather think perhaps it’s a little too hot in here.”
“We’ll come back and see you tomorrow then, if we may,” said Evans.
Four
“It seems strange that she asked no questions about her husband’s death,” said Fox. “How it happened or what the circumstances were.” He was seated behind his desk playing with a paper-clip on the end of his letter-opener. “She just fainted and then recovered almost immediately, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” said Denzil Evans. He and Kate Ebdon were briefing Fox on their interview with Mrs Leighton.
“No expression of astonishment that he should have been floating round the Med with two women she’d never heard of, when she thought he was up north on business.”
“That’s about the strength of it, sir,” said Kate. “As Mr Evans said, she came back to life pretty bloody quick and was her usual arsey self again.”
Fox slid the paper-clip into a small pot of other paper-clips and put down the letter-opener. “Go back and see her this morning, Kate,” he said, “on your own. See if you can get alongside her. I’ve got a feeling that she knows more than she’s telling. Turn on that Australian charm of yours and see if you can get her talking. Woman to woman.”
“She’s not a woman, she’s a bloody Amazon,” said Kate.
*
When Kate Ebdon arrived at the Leightons’ flat in Chelsea, Carol Leighton was wearing a plum-colored velvet leisure suit. And this morning, she wore make-up and had painted her finger-nails bright red so that they looked like scarlet talons.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Mrs Leighton and with an obvious air of reluctance, admitted the young woman detective. With a languid gesture of her right hand, she invited Kate to sit down and then sat opposite her, composing herself in the center of the settee and crossing her legs. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached forward and took a cigarette from a box on a low occasional table and fitted it into an amber holder. Then she picked up a table-lighter and applied a flame to the end of the cigarette. She did not offer one to Kate, but sat back in the settee, crossing her legs again and cupping the elbow of the arm that held the cigarette-holder with her other hand so that she was tightly bunched.
“You said yesterday, Mrs Leighton, that you believed your husband to be up north on business.”
“Yes.”
“So it was something of a surprise to learn that he was on his yacht in the Mediterranean.”
“Obviously.”
Conscious that she was dealing with a newly-bereaved widow, Kate nonetheless had an overwhelming desire to reach across and slap this haughty woman’s face. But she knew that she was unlikely to get any information from her other than by patient questioning. “Did he tell you what he was supposed to be doing up north? Where up north, incidentally?”
“Manchester. And no, he didn’t say. Michael never discussed his business with me.”
“What was his business, Mrs Leighton?” Kate was beginning to think that if she had possessed a cut-glass accent that matched Mrs Leighton’s, she might get more out of her.
“I’m afraid I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know?” Kate sounded incredulous. She did not believe that this woman could be married to a man without knowing what he did to acquire the obvious wealth that she enjoyed.
“No.”
Kate’s patience finally snapped. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her denim-clad knees and linking her hands loosely together. “Look, Mrs Leighton,” she said in a quietly menacing voice, “We are trying to discover who murdered your husband. Right now, all we know is that he and two women about whom we know next to nothing, were
gunned down aboard his yacht. You’re the only person who knew him that we’ve been able to trace. We need to know a hell of a lot more about him and his way of life if we’re to stand any chance of finding his killer. Or don’t you care?”
Carol Leighton suddenly dissolved into tears, her whole body shaking with emotion. Cigarette ash fell on to her trousers, but she seemed not to notice. And her mascara began to run. Within seconds, she looked very old.
“Here, hold up, for Christ’s sake,” said Kate, leaning across and taking the cigarette-holder from the woman. “You’ll bloody set fire to yourself.”
Carol Leighton pulled a handful of tissues from her pocket and began to dab her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled.
Kate was not sure whether it had been her own sudden aggressiveness, or Mrs Leighton’s delayed reaction to her husband’s death, that had caused the woman to break down, but she knew how to handle it. Standing up, she looked around the room until she saw the drinks cabinet. She found a bottle of brandy and poured a stiff measure into a tumbler. “Here, drink this,” she said, handing the glass to the distraught woman.
“Thank you.” Mrs Leighton gulped down the fiery spirit, put the empty glass on the table and picked up the cigarette-holder that Kate had laid in the ashtray. “It’s not what you think, you know.”
“I don’t know what I think,” said Kate. “But you tell me what you think I think.” She grinned at Carol Leighton, trying to make her remark sound like a joke.
“I haven’t seen Michael for about three months now. He walked out on me in April. We’d had a row – another row – and that was that.”
It seemed to Kate that Carol Leighton’s earlier hauteur had been a defence against prying questions, including those from the police. “What was the row about?” she asked.
“Women.” Mrs Leighton leaned forward and carefully removed the half-smoked cigarette from its holder and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
