by Graham Ison
“Are you sure of that, Mr Tilley?” Evans was aware that both Patricia Tilley’s employers and her erstwhile flatmate had told them that, but he was a great seeker after what the police called collateral.
“Absolutely. It was not long after she got the job at Leighton’s. She did it to help out with the mortgage after I lost my job. Then one day, she upped and left.”
“Did she say why?”
“She didn’t say anything.” Tilley paused as one of the children upstairs laughed, and then began to scream defiantly. “One day she was here, the next day she was gone. I tried phoning Leighton’s, but she refused to speak to me. Eventually I got my solicitor to write to her.”
“What happened?” asked Evans.
“I got a reply saying that she didn’t want to know. He said that she wouldn’t let him give me her new address. I went round to Leighton’s once, to see if I could see her, but I got into a ruck with some bastard there who threatened to call the police. So I thought, well, that’s that. If she doesn’t want to see me, so be it. I wrote to the solicitor and asked him to start proceedings.”
“So you never saw her from the day she left you, Mr Tilley?”
Tilley looked up, a tired expression on his face. “No. I always hoped that she’d see sense and come back, but she never did.”
“How long has your housekeeper been with you, Mr Tilley?” asked Kate quietly.
Tilley looked up sharply. “About five months,” he said. “I had to have someone to help with the kids.” He paused and ran his hands through his hair. “What puzzles me is what Tricia was doing on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
“She was with her boss, Michael Leighton, and another woman,” said Evans.
“The bitch,” said Tilley. “So that’s what it was all about. She was having it off with him, I suppose.”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr Tilley,” he said. “It was suggested at Leighton’s that it was a business trip, but all three of them were naked when they were found.”
“Huh! Some business trip,” said Tilley angrily.
*
“Right,” said Fox, rubbing his hands together, “let’s get this bloody enquiry moving. Denzil, you get a search warrant for Leighton’s. And while you’re about it, one for Raymond Webb’s private address, wherever that is. Kate, you check this Nash woman’s last known address, see what you can find out.”
“Are we going to do Webb’s private address straightaway, sir?” asked Evans.
Fox grinned. “Only if we find something interesting at the Fulham office, Denzil.”
“But I was wondering what were our grounds for doing either, sir.” Evans was still unhappy.
“Simple.” Fox regarded the DI patiently. “Cocaine was found on Leighton’s yacht. Leighton was the managing director of Leighton Leisure Services. Therefore, Denzil, dear boy, there is reasonable suspicion that further quantities of the said substance may be found at his place of work. And if that proves to be the case, we are entitled to conclude that quantities of it may be found at the home address of Raymond Webb who now runs the show. How’s that?”
“I suppose it’s all right, sir,” said Evans with a reluctance born of knowing that he was, after all, the one who was going to have to satisfy the magistrate.
“Of course it is,” said Fox, dismissing his DI’s concerns.
*
Karen Nash’s last known address was a flat in a modern block to the west of Ealing Common. Not surprisingly, there was no answer when DC Kate Ebdon rang the bell, but fortunately she had thought to bring with her the bunch of keys which had been found in the dead woman’s handbag on Leighton’s yacht. She let herself in and closed the front door.
It was a small flat – one-bedroomed – with a fresh, clean smell and it had obviously been tidied before its occupant left for the last time. Kate sat down in one of the armchairs and let her gaze travel around the clearly feminine sitting room, comparing its luxury with her own meager flat in Dulwich. Karen Nash had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble furnishing her home: a peach-colored carpet that blended with the curtains and upholstery, a small bookcase containing mainly paperback novels, a low coffee table, and a writing table on which were a telephone and an answering machine. Kate saw that the answerphone had recorded three messages, and she switched it to play-back. The first two messages were from women, neither of whom had identified herself, presumably because she knew that Karen Nash would recognize her voice. But the third call was from a man who introduced himself as Harry Pritchard. He left a brief message telling Karen that he had a job for her and asking her to contact him as soon as possible. But he did not leave a telephone number.
Kate opened one of the drawers of the writing table and found Karen Nash’s personal book of telephone numbers. Skimming quickly through it, she found Harry Pritchard’s number which, as far as she could tell from the dialing code, belonged to an address in the West End of London. She dialed the number of the incident room at the Yard and waited while one of the DCs did a subscriber check.
“Yeah, you were right, Kate,” said the DC. “The number goes out to a place in Soho.” And he read out the address.
Putting Karen Nash’s book of telephone numbers in her handbag, Kate wandered into the dead woman’s bedroom. There was a double bed, made up, with a black satin coverlet. Inside a fitted wardrobe that ran the length of one wall, Kate found a stunning array of good quality clothing, and considerably more shoes than her own wardrobe contained. On a shelf at the top were two thick loose-leaf display books of photographs.
Kate took the books back to the sitting room and sat down, opening the first volume and riffling through the glossy plates. The photographs, each one of which was contained in a clear plastic envelope, showed an elegantly-dressed Karen Nash striking a pose. Some of them had been taken in the open air, others in a studio. In some she was displaying well known products, mainly cosmetics and perfume, but the remainder were obviously intent on showing off the clothes she was wearing.
But just as Kate had come to the conclusion that Karen Nash had been a professional model, she picked up the second book and opened it. The photographs in that book were also of Karen Nash, but these consisted wholly of the racy poses popular in the sort of men’s magazines usually found on the top shelves of seedier newsagents. And Karen Nash was naked in each one of them.
“Well, well, well,” said Kate to herself, and closed the book. She spent the next ten minutes searching the rest of the flat but discovered nothing else of immediate interest. There was certainly no evidence of either hypodermics or any of the other paraphernalia that would indicate habitual drug abuse.
Taking the two books of photographs with her, Kate closed the front door behind her and double-locked it again. Then she rang the bell of the other flat that shared the small landing. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a man of about thirty. He was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt with a meaningless message on it. He was muscular, had blond hair that Kate suspected may have been dyed, and wore the inevitable gold chain around his neck.
“Hi!” The man openly appraised Kate’s figure and placed a hand high on the doorjamb, supporting himself.
“D’you know Karen Nash?” asked Kate.
“Sure. You a friend of hers?”
“No, I’m a police officer.”
The man took his hand away from the jamb and folded his arms. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said, staring at Kate’s red hair and the neat hips clothed in blue denim.
“It’s no joke, mister,” said Kate, well versed in dealing with men who thought they were God’s gift to women. “She’s dead.” She decided that there was no point in concealing that fact from this macho male. If he was the murderer, he would know it already. And if he wasn’t, it would certainly remove the smirk from his face.
It did. “Christ! When? What happened?” The man was clearly shocked by what Kate had told him.
“She was murdered,” said Kate in matter-o
f-fact tones. “Can I come in, or d’you want to carry on this conversation out here in the entrance hall?” she asked.
“Er, no, come on in.” The man shook his head and showed her into a sitting room identical in size and shape to the one that Kate had just left. “Sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
Kate shook her head. “No thanks, Mr—?”
“Chappie. Kevin Chappie.” Chappie sat down opposite the Australian girl. “What happened then?” The bravado that he had first displayed had clearly been deflated by the news that his neighbor was dead.
“She was murdered on a yacht in the Mediterranean, about four or five days ago, Mr Chappie. Along with a man and another woman.”
Chappie’s eyes opened wide. “D’you mean the one they found with three bodies on it?”
“That’s the only one I know about,” said Kate drily.
“Good God!” Chappie shook his head once more in disbelief. “Well, I’m going to have a drink. Are you sure you won’t have one?”
“Perfectly,” said Kate. “How well did you know Karen Nash?”
“Just as a neighbor,” said Chappie. He went into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with what looked like a large Scotch in his hand. “I did think about dating her when she first moved in, but to be perfectly honest, I never really fancied her. And there’s always the old saying about not doing it on your own doorstep. In this case, literally. It makes it much more difficult to shake them off when you get tired of them.” He grinned at Kate, his earlier vanity having returned. “Anyhow, I’m not short of girl-friends. It’s more a case of fighting them off.” He grinned again and stared insolently at Kate’s breasts.
“That’s nice,” said Kate sarcastically. “What did she do for a living, Mr Chappie? Any idea?” Kate thought she knew, at least from a study of Karen Nash’s book of photographs.
“She called herself an exotic dancer, whatever that is,” said Chappie without hesitation. “Topless, I suppose. You don’t need any talent to flash your boobs around in a night-club, do you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Kate. “Did she ever mention where she performed these exotic routines?”
“No idea, I’m afraid. She was sometimes out every evening, often weeks at a time, which seems to imply that she was working then, but other times she was what they call resting, I suppose.”
“As a matter of interest, Mr Chappie, what d’you do for a living?”
“I’m a ballet dancer,” said Chappie.
“Really? Well, that knocks one theory on the head,” said Kate, determined not to let this chauvinistic pig have the last word.
Chappie got the implication immediately and grinned. “Want proof?” he asked.
Kate ignored Chappie’s comment and stood up, fishing in her handbag for a card. “I’m Detective Constable Ebdon of Scotland Yard,” she said, and scribbling her new extension on the card handed it to Chappie. “If you think of anything else, perhaps you’d give me a ring, but I’ll probably have to come and see you again, anyway.”
“It’d be a pleasure,” said Chappie and paused. “Are you doing anything this evening, by any chance?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a maniac who machine-gunned three people to death on a yacht in the Med.”
Six
Fox swiveled his chair so that he was facing Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster. “Did you turn up anything interesting about Leighton Leisure Services, John?”
“I got DS Stone to give them a run through at Companies House, sir,” said Craven-Foster. “As I expected, there was very little there except for the names of the two directors.”
“Leighton and Webb?”
“Yes, sir,” said Craven-Foster. “Leighton held ninety-eight per cent of the shares and Webb the other two. Patricia Tilley was shown as company secretary, but that, I suspect, was a mere formality to comply with company law. I think,” he added. Craven-Foster was not too well versed in company law.
“Sounds like bribery to me,” said Fox cynically. “I wonder why he didn’t just pay her for her favors.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t doing him any, sir. From what Kate was saying, I think the favors came from Karen Nash.”
“Really? Then what was Tilley doing on Leighton’s yacht, stark naked?”
“Perhaps it was hot, sir,” said Craven-Foster with a grin. “Yes, well, talking of heat, I think it’s time we turned some on Mister Webb. Did you get the warrants, Denzil?”
“Yes, sir. For the business premises and for Webb’s home address.” Evans laid two search warrants on Fox’s desk. “You hang on to them, Denzil. You’re coming with us.”
“But what about this Harry Pritchard character that Kate mentioned, sir?” asked Craven-Foster.
“He’ll keep,” said Fox. “Probably just some sort of pimp. First we’ll do Leighton’s.”
“Did you say ‘we’, sir?” asked Craven-Foster, unused to Fox’s interference in matters that a commander ought not to be interfering in.
“Indeed, John. It’s time I got involved.”
Denzil Evans shot an insolent smirk at the detective superintendent. Mr Craven-Foster was about to discover what it meant to have Tommy Fox as a governor.
*
The two unmarked police cars swept into the forecourt of Leighton Leisure Services’ offices and stopped, blocking the entrance. Telling his driver, Swann, to remain where he was, Fox alighted from his Ford Scorpio and waited until the others had joined him.
The same disinterested receptionist who had been there when Evans and Kate had called, was sitting behind her desk, once again reading a copy of The Sun. “Yes?” she said.
“We’ve come to see Mr Webb.” Fox gave the girl a comforting smile.
“I’ll see if he’s available. Who shall I say it is?” The receptionist had obviously not recognized either Denzil Evans or Kate Ebdon from their previous visit.
“We are the police,” said Fox, gazing around the office and frowning at its disordered state.
Moving languidly, the girl picked up the handset of her telephone and pressed down a switch, idly tapping the edge of the desk with a ball-point pen while she waited for an answer. “Ray, there’s some more coppers to see you.” She laughed at Webb’s response – a response that Fox was unable to hear – and replaced the receiver. Pointing at the door leading to the stairs, she said, “You can go up.”
“How kind,” murmured Fox and led the way.
Raymond Webb was standing at the top of the staircase and looked surprised – and not a little apprehensive – to see five police officers coming towards him. He laughed nervously. “What’s this?” he asked. “A raid?”
“Exactly so,” said Fox, and ignoring Webb’s outstretched hand, moved past him into the office.
“Er, what seems to be the problem?” asked Webb, hurriedly following Fox.
For several seconds, Fox surveyed Webb, making him feel even more anxious than he was already, but said nothing. Then he spoke. “I am Commander Thomas Fox… of Scotland Yard. And the problem is that someone murdered one Michael Leighton and two women aboard a yacht in the Mediterranean, Mr Webb.” Uninvited, Fox sat down. “But then you’ll know about that because my Detective Inspector Evans had a conversation with you about it, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what—”
“I have therefore caused to be obtained a search warrant for these premises and I now propose to execute it.” Fox had no intention of telling Webb that he also had a warrant for his home address. At least, not yet.
Webb sat down behind his desk and scowled at Fox. “I suppose this is all because I did a bit of time back in the seventies,” he said.
“Did you really?” Fox affected surprise. “I didn’t know that.” He turned towards Evans. “Did you know that, Denzil?”
Confronted, yet again, by one of Fox’s sarcastically ambiguous questions, Evans found himself in the usual position of being unsure what his chief wanted him to say and merely confined himself to a shrug.<
br />
“What was that for?” Fox turned back to Webb.
“They reckoned it was fraud,” said Webb sullenly, “but it was all a mistake.”
Fox nodded. “Alas, life is full of little injustices,” he said. “Tell me, Mr Webb, what is your precise status in this company?”
“I’m a director,” said Webb. “The only director now that Mike’s dead. And I’m the accountant.”
“Are you really? How interesting.” The fact that Leighton had employed an accountant with a previous conviction for fraud fascinated Fox. And merely caused his suspicions to deepen. “Now then, perhaps you can point my officers in the direction of the late Mr Leighton’s office.”
“Perhaps I ought to see your warrant first,” said Webb. He did not intend to give in easily.
“Of course.” Fox smiled disarmingly. “Denzil, show Mr Webb the documentation, there’s a good chap.”
Evans withdrew the search warrant and laid it on Webb’s desk. But he kept one hand firmly on it; he had seen warrants torn up before.
Webb leaned forward and pretended to study it closely. In fact, it was the first time he had seen a search warrant and had no idea whether it was genuine or not. “Yes, well, that all seems to be in order,” he said grudgingly. “Mike’s office is next door. It’s not been touched since he left.”
Originally a bedroom, Leighton’s office was on the front of the house. A large desk stood across one corner of the carpeted room and there were two armchairs, a side table, a cabinet and a floor-mounted safe. Fox walked first to the cabinet, but it was locked.
“That’s only got booze in it,” said Webb.
“D’you have a key?” asked Fox, “And while you’re about it, one for the safe?”
Webb leaned against a wall, his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, no. I haven’t got any keys.” He was determined to be as obstructive as possible.
“Pity,” said Fox and turned to Kate Ebdon. “Kate, pop down to the car and get a case-opener, will you. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to do some damage here, Mr Webb,” he added, turning back to the sole remaining director of Leighton Leisure Services. Then he addressed Evans. “Denzil, get on the radio to the Yard, will you, and arrange for someone to come along and open that safe. Might try Wormwood Scrubs for a start. Sure to find a few expert locksmiths in there. Was that your experience, Raymond?” He smiled at the luckless Webb.
