Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  “Were Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash two of them?”

  “Probably.” Carol Leighton sounded resigned. “I said yesterday that I’d never heard of them and I haven’t. They were probably just two more in the long line of his fancy women.” She laughed, a short humorless laugh. “Looks as though the poor bitches paid a high price for his company,” she said.

  “So there was no truth in your statement that he was up north on business, Mrs Leighton.”

  Carol Leighton shot the detective a sharp glance as though she was about to resume her previous arrogance. But then she relented. “I had to say something, didn’t I?” she said. “Are you married?”

  “No,” said Kate.

  “Wise girl. Well, it’s a very private thing, marriage, or it ought to be. At least in my book. I hate having to admit that ours was a disaster. I don’t know why but people always seem to blame the wife, as though a man running off with another woman is a result of his wife’s inadequacy in some way.” Carol held a tissue to her nose and sniffed. “It’s a damned unfair world,” she said.

  “D’you still maintain that you knew nothing of his business?” asked Kate.

  “He was the managing director of a company that marketed fruit machines and juke-boxes. That kind of thing.” Carol Leighton glanced up at the young Australian, as though willing her to understand what she was to say next. “It’s not the sort of business you can be proud of,” she said. “Not the sort of thing you can boast to your friends about.”

  That sort of pretentiousness was completely alien to Kate Ebdon, but she confined herself to asking where the firm had its offices.

  “You’ll find a business card over there.” Carol Leighton pointed to the writing table.

  “D’you know the names of any of the others?” asked Kate as she sat down again.

  “The others?” Leighton’s widow appeared mystified by the question.

  “Yeah, the other women in your husband’s life.”

  “Oh, I see. No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “How did you know of their existence then?”

  Carol Leighton smiled condescendingly. “When one is married to a philanderer,” she said, “one knows instinctively when he’s seeing other women. Surely I don’t have to spell it out to you, do I?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Kate.

  “He was a cruel man, too.” Leighton’s widow looked into the middle distance, recalling the agony of their life together. “He would beat me, quite savagely at times, and tell me that I wasn’t as good in bed as some of his other conquests. But it was the mental cruelty more than the physical that really got me down. I even heard that he’d been kerb-crawling in King’s Cross once.”

  “Oh? How did you know that? Was he arrested?” Kate immediately thought back to her search of police records. But these days, he would probably have been cautioned, and that was likely to be recorded only at the police station which dealt with him. But she made a mental note to check with King’s Cross. If Michael Leighton had been looking for prostitutes once, it was likely that he’d done it before. And since.

  “I shouldn’t think so. He was far too clever for that.”

  “How did you know then?”

  “A friend rang me and told me. She and her husband were driving through the area late one night and they saw our car. There was some awful woman in a mini-skirt leaning through the window, talking to Michael.”

  Kate stood up. She had decided that she was not going to get any more out of Carol Leighton for the time being. “I might have to come back and see you again, Mrs Leighton,” she said and paused. “There’ll be the question of the funeral, too, once the coroner has released the bodies. If I can be of any help, give me a ring.” She took a card from her pocket and quickly amending the telephone extension to that of the incident room at the Yard, laid it on the table. “Are you going to be all right?”

  Carol Leighton held out a hand and grasped Kate’s arm. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”

  *

  “We’ve got details of the two women,” said DI Evans when Kate Ebdon arrived back at Scotland Yard.

  “’Bout time,” said Kate. “The Passport Office finally got the files out, did they?”

  Evans nodded and handed Kate a page of rough notes. “Yes,” he said. “Both live in the London area.”

  “Toms are they, sir?” asked Kate.

  “I don’t know,” said Evans. “You ran them through the computer, didn’t you? What makes you think they might have been prostitutes?”

  “Just something that Mrs Leighton mentioned,” said Kate, perching on the edge of Evans’s desk, and she told him about the kerb-crawling incident in King’s Cross.

  Evans shrugged. “Might be as well to check with the local nick,” he said. “Did you find out what he did for a living?”

  “Yeah.” Kate slid off Evans’s desk and sat down behind her own. “In a pretty big way of business, I should think. There’s a few quid in that flat of theirs, that’s for sure. Fruit machines and juke-boxes apparently, but I’ll need to check at Companies House, just to see what he was worth.”

  “I’ll get someone else to do that, Kate,” said Evans. “In the meantime, we’ll go and see if we can find any relatives of the two women.”

  “Why don’t we visit the firm first, guv?” said Kate. “Might kill two birds with one stone.” She paused and grinned. “In a manner of speaking.”

  *

  It did not appear to be a prosperous company, but appearances, as any detective will tell you, can be deceptive. Situated in one of the back streets of Fulham, the offices of Leighton Leisure Services occupied a large converted house. The paint on the door and the windows was peeling and the concrete facing on the lower part of the house had fallen away in places to reveal the brickwork beneath. There was a driveway at the side leading to what had once been the garden but was now a tarmacadam area where a couple of plain vans were parked.

  Evans and Kate mounted the steps, strode in through the front door and looked around. A secretary-cum-receptionist sat behind a chipboard desk. A computer screen stood to one side, but it was switched off.

  “Help you?” The receptionist looked as though that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Police,” said Evans tersely. “I want to see whoever’s in charge.”

  “That’ll be Mr Webb,” said the girl. “Hang on.” She picked up the handset of a telephone and pressed down a button. “Ray? There’s a copper here to see you.” She grunted an acknowledgement and pointed at a door. “Go through there and up the stairs. First door on the right.” And she resumed her reading of The Sun newspaper.

  “Raymond Webb. How d’you do?” The man who stood up behind his desk had greasy black hair and a small moustache, and was dressed in a gray suit that seemed a couple of sizes too big for him, but Evans imagined that this may have been the man’s idea of prevailing fashion.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Evans of Scotland Yard, and this is DC Ebdon.”

  Webb sat down again after waving Evans and Kate to sit down too. “So, what can I do for you?” He spoke nervously as though the police could have called about any one of a dozen infractions of the law. It was a reaction that Evans had seen often in shady businessmen.

  “Mr Michael Leighton was the managing director of this company, I believe?”

  “Was?” Webb raised his eyebrows. “He still is.”

  “Mr Leighton’s body was found on board his yacht, about fifty miles off Cyprus,” said Evans calmly. “He had been murdered.”

  “Good God Almighty!” Webb’s mouth opened and he stared at the detective inspector. “But he, I mean, oh, surely not.”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr Webb.”

  “Christ! What a tragedy. What a bloody tragedy.” Webb shook his head. “What can I say?” he asked, opening his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Who would do such a thing? I read about that yacht in the papers, but I never thought for one moment that it
could be Mike’s.”

  “When did Mr Leighton leave here?” asked Evans.

  Webb glanced at a calendar on the wall. “About the eighth of June, I suppose. That’s when he flew down to Cannes to pick up the yacht.” He spoke slowly, obviously still stunned by the news.

  “Holiday, was it?” asked Evans.

  Webb dragged his gaze away from Kate’s figure. “Er, yes, sort of.”

  “What d’you mean, sort of?”

  “Well, Mike was always on the lookout for a bit of business. He said something about dropping in on Cyprus, now you mention it, to see if he could interest the locals. And the air force base there. Do quite a bit of business with service canteens and that, you know.” Webb suddenly remembered what else he had read in the papers. “Weren’t there two women with him? It didn’t give any names, of course, otherwise I’d’ve known about Mike.”

  “Yes, two women were found with him, but we don’t release the names until we’ve advised relatives,” said Evans. “But the two women were Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash. I wonder if—”

  “No! I don’t believe it.” Webb looked genuinely shocked. “Not her too.”

  “I see you do know them.”

  “I know Tricia Tilley, Inspector. She used to work here.”

  “Used to? D’you mean she’d left?”

  “Yes, she resigned the same day that Mike left for his holiday.”

  “Did she tell you she was going with him, Mr Webb?”

  “No, she didn’t.” Webb looked shifty. “I can’t say I’m surprised though.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  Webb lowered his voice, even though only the three of them were in his office. “Mike and Tricia had something going,” he said. “Common knowledge here, of course. She felt sorry for him, I think. His wife had left him, you know. Went off with some other bloke apparently.”

  “Is that what Leighton told you?” Kate spoke for the first time and her strong Australian accent surprised Webb.

  “Er, yes, love. He did.”

  “Don’t call me love,” said Kate, a quiet menace in her voice. “It’s Miss Ebdon.” She had already taken a dislike to Raymond Webb, mainly because he kept undressing her with his eyes.

  “Oh, sorry.” Webb was taken aback by Kate’s forthrightness and stared at her for a moment or two before going on. “He reckoned his missus was a bit flighty and eventually he got fed up with it and told her to hoof it. Reckoned he found her in bed with some guy when he came home unexpectedly.”

  “What about Karen Nash, Mr Webb?” asked Evans. “That name mean anything to you?”

  Webb considered the question for a moment as though trying genuinely to assist the police. “No,” he said eventually. “Might have been a friend of Tricia’s, I suppose.”

  “How long had Patricia Tilley worked here?”

  “Six or seven months, I think.” Webb reached out for his telephone. “I can check.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Evans. “Not at the moment. Was she married?”

  Webb paused and looked distinctly uncomfortable as though concerned for Patricia Tilley’s reputation, even though she was dead. “Yes, but she wasn’t living with her husband. He was a right bastard—” He broke off and glanced at Kate. “Oh, sorry,” he said, only just preventing himself from calling her “love” again. He looked back at Evans. “Her husband came round here one day, demanding to see her and creating merry hell. I had to threaten to call the police eventually.”

  “Have you got an address for Mrs Tilley?” asked Evans. Although he had been given an address by the Passport Office, it was possible that Patricia Tilley had moved since taking out her passport five years previously.

  “Yes, of course.” And once again, Webb’s hand moved towards the telephone.

  Five

  “The bodies of the three victims have arrived in the United Kingdom, sir,” said Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster. He and Detective Inspector Charles Morgan had returned from Cyprus on an early morning flight and were now in Fox’s office along with DI Evans and DC Ebdon. “The inquest will be convened at Uxbridge, probably tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said Fox. “You can look after that, Charles.” He nodded towards DI Morgan and then fingered a sheet of paper across his desk. “It’s been confirmed,” he went on, “that the white powder found aboard Leighton’s yacht was cocaine.” He glanced at Evans. “How does that fit in with your visit to Leighton Leisure Services, Denzil? Bit ‘iffy’, are they?”

  “This character Webb, who now runs the show, has got form, sir,” said Evans. “Previous for fraud, only a minor job, but he got nine months back in the seventies. Since then, he appears to have gone straight.”

  Fox snorted; he could never bring himself to believe that anyone ever went straight. “Worth spinning, is it, this Leighton Leisure Services?”

  Evans considered the possible value of executing a search warrant on the seedy premises in Fulham and then nodded. “Might turn something up, I suppose, sir,” he said. But he sounded doubtful.

  “And the two women?” asked Fox.

  “Webb gave us an up-to-date address for Patricia Tilley, sir, but we haven’t checked it out, or the address for Karen Nash that we got from the Passport Office.”

  “I think that’s a priority then,” said Fox. “Webb and his dodgy operation can wait. They’re not going anywhere in a hurry. I hope,” he added. “But in view of the fact that cocaine was found on the yacht, we have to ask ourselves whether this fruit-machine set-up is a cover for a drug-smuggling operation.”

  “Possible, I suppose,” said Evans mournfully. He had never been an expert on drugs and always regarded any case involving them with a measure of apprehension.

  “Right.” Fox stood up. “You and Kate chase up the two women’s addresses, Denzil, and then we’ll take it from there.” He switched his gaze to Craven-Foster. “And you, John, do some digging on this Leighton Leisure lot. Beat on the ground and see what comes up.” The brief conference was over.

  *

  Patricia Tilley had shared a flat near Clapham Common in south London with a divorcee called Helen Crabtree, who worked as a computer operator for a firm of bookmakers.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Mrs Crabtree, her face blanching as she sunk into an armchair. “I knew she was knocking about with her boss – he was loaded apparently – but she never said anything about going on holiday with him. I mean, she said she was going to France for a fortnight, but nothing about a yacht.” She shook her head slowly. “Murdered. My God! What a world we’re living in.” She glanced up at Evans and Kate. “I mean, you read about these things in the paper, but you never think it’s going to happen to anyone you know. I saw about the yacht, but it didn’t say who was on it. I never thought about Tricia. Well, you wouldn’t would you?”

  “Did she tell you that she was leaving her job, Mrs Crabtree?”

  “No.” Helen Crabtree looked up at the detective as if realizing that there was a lot that her flatmate hadn’t told her.

  “And was she married?” asked Evans, seeking to confirm what Webb had told him.

  “Yes, but she said it was over.”

  “D’you know if she was actually divorced?”

  “Isn’t everyone these days?” Helen gave a despairing shrug. “I don’t know really. She moved in with me about six or seven months ago. That’s when she got the job at Leighton’s. Said she was making a fresh start all round.”

  “Did she ever mention her husband, or say where he lived?”

  “Twickenham, I think. I’m sure that’s where she said.”

  “Did she ever say anything about having had children?” put in Kate. The pathologist’s report had mentioned that Patricia Tilley had borne at least one child.

  “No, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, she never said very much about her life at all.”

  “We’ll need to look through her things,” said Evans. “I presume she had a room of her own?”

  Helen Crabtree, still o
bviously stunned by the news of her flatmate’s death, nodded slowly. “We each had a room of our own,” she said, “but shared this room and the kitchen and bathroom. It was the usual sort of arrangement.”

  The search of Patricia Tilley’s room yielded very little that would help the police to find her killer. It was clean and tidy, and the bed was made up. A tattered teddy bear sat in the center of it. The drawers of the dressing table contained the usual proliferation of underclothes and cosmetics, and there was a pile of correspondence. Kate went through it and found a letter from a solicitor, addressed to Patricia Tilley care of Leighton Leisure Services, about her separation from Keith Tilley; and another from her mother with an address in Manchester. Evans recalled that Carol Leighton had told them initially that Michael Leighton had gone to Manchester on business, but as that had turned out to be a downright lie, he discounted it as a coincidence.

  “Did you know of, or did Mrs Tilley mention, a woman called Karen Nash, Mrs Crabtree?” asked Evans when they returned to the sitting room.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Helen Crabtree appeared to be giving the question careful thought. Eventually, she shook her head. “No, I’m sure I’ve never heard the name. Was that the other girl on the yacht?” Newspaper reports, some of them inaccurately describing the triple murders as The Mary Celeste Mystery’, had mentioned that the victims were a man and two women.

  “It’s just a name that’s come up in our enquiries,” said Evans casually.

  *

  Keith Tilley, whose address in Twickenham the police had obtained from the solicitor who had written to Patricia, was utterly distraught at the news of his wife’s death. Two children, a boy and a girl, had been playing in the sitting room when Evans and Kate Ebdon arrived, but were quickly ushered away to another part of the house by an attractive young woman whom Tilley described as his housekeeper. Cynically, Kate kept an open mind about the girl’s precise status in the household.

  Keith Tilley was seated in an armchair, his head bowed, as he answered Evans’s questions. “She walked out on us about six or seven months ago.”