Fatal Act

by Leigh Russell

  LEAVING THE POLICE STATION the following morning, Piers issued a stream of futile threats.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,’ he fumed, pointing an accusatory finger at the officer in charge. ‘You haven’t heard the end of this yet.’

  The custody sergeant took no notice. He had heard tirades like that many times over. They both knew it was just so much hot air.

  ‘I’ll be talking to the media about my wrongful arrest,’ he blustered.

  ‘You have that right, sir,’ the sergeant responded stolidly.

  Two hours later, showered and pristine, Piers was sitting at home savouring the aroma of freshly ground coffee. No one brewed coffee as well as Maria. He had found his dumpy little housekeeper over ten years ago on a film set where she had been working as a cleaner. Observing how industrious she was he had recruited her to work for him, and she had been with him ever since, progressing from cleaning to running the entire household. Now she was in charge of a cleaner who came in two mornings a week.

  His morning cafetiere was one of the things Piers had missed most when he had been banged up. The memory of that night still made him feel sick. He wondered how anyone could survive being locked up, night after night, in a bare cell stinking of piss and antiseptic. It was disgraceful that a man in his position should be subjected to such barbaric treatment. He shuddered at the memory. Glancing at one of the tabloids, he set his cup carefully down on the table and stared at a grainy picture of Bethany hanging onto his arm under a headline: ‘In Bed with Suspected Killer.’ Piers swore aloud. The little cow had got wind of his visit to the police station, and blabbed to the papers. Everyone must have read about it by now. The police had released him, but he remained a suspect in a murder investigation.

  He could hardly bear to read what the paper had published about him. His face twisted in disgust as he read what Bethany had said. With a sigh, he helped himself to another cup of coffee before reading through the article again, slowly.

  ‘When glamour model and actress, Bethany Marsden (22), was seduced by an older man, she had no idea he would soon be helping the police with an enquiry into the death of another one of his conquests. Blonde bombshell Bethany said, ‘I was shocked when I heard the police wanted to talk to him. I had no idea Piers was two timing me.’

  ‘60-year-old Piers Trevelyan is being questioned by the police as part of an ongoing investigation into the brutal murder of Anna Porter (20), star of the small screen, playing the part of Dorothy in Down and Out.’

  Piers slapped the paper down on the table, making the crumbs on his plate jump. The reporter described Bethany as a ‘glamour model and actress’. That was as good as calling her a sex worker. His frown relaxed slightly. At least the paper had knocked four years off his age. As for the lying bitch who had sold her story, that kind of tawdry publicity would do her no favours. Once his name was cleared no one in the industry would touch her. She had branded herself as toxic. All the same, her name was on the front page of the papers. By the time his innocence was established a lot of people would have forgotten the details of the case, but they would remember her name. All in all, the article was likely to further her career, unless he stepped in to scupper it. He bit thoughtfully into a slice of brown toast, planning how to make sure she never worked again.

  The shrilling of his mobile phone startled him out of his reverie.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Hello Zak.’

  ‘Dad, have you seen the papers?’

  Zak’s agitation had a calming effect on Piers.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘It answers the question.’

  ‘Hardly. Have you seen the crap they’re printing about you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Anna’s dead. I have no control over what the papers say about it. Now control yourself and don’t make a drama out of the situation.’

  ‘They’re saying you killed her –’

  ‘Because she was driven into by a van belonging to me. But I’m not the only person who had a key to the van.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you trying to frighten me now? Because you know that hasn’t worked since I was in short trousers. You don’t scare me.’

  ‘Oh, grow up, for Christ’s sake. I’m warning you. You do know they’re going to come after you once they’ve finished with me. You need to be prepared, that’s all I’m saying. You know what these reporters are like, not to mention the police.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing we can do other than tell them the truth, that we had nothing to do with Anna’s death. But whatever you do, don’t say a word to the papers. Anything you say will be misquoted or twisted to big up their “story”.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Ignore it, Zak. All this will soon blow over, believe me.’

  ‘How can I ignore it? Everyone’s going to see the papers. They’ll all be talking about it. How will I be able to look anyone in the eye ever again?’

  ‘Stop that, Zak. Calm down.’

  Piers felt a wave of resentment. After all he had done for his son, the boy was concerned only about the impact of his father’s problems on his own life.

  ‘But what am I supposed to do now?’ the boy was burbling.

  ‘Carry on with your life. There’s nothing else you can do. And stop fussing. This will all die down soon enough. It’s of no consequence. Believe me, son, I’ve had far worse stories circulated about me, all lies, and no one even remembers them a week later. It’s just part of the media circus. And anyway, this isn’t about you. It’s about me. Stop behaving like a hysterical narcissist and grow up for fuck’s sake.’

  Having issued that piece of fatherly advice, Piers hung up.

  Chapter 28

  PIERS’ NEIGHBOUR WAS A prosperous solicitor who worked for the London office of an international law firm, which was located near Baker Street. Leaving the station, Geraldine made her way north, away from Regents Park. The pavements were crowded and traffic crawled along the busy roads. After walking for about ten minutes she reached Marylebone House, a tall brick and glass block of offices. The woman on the central reception desk directed her to the fourth floor where she found Garnett’s secretary in a small smart office. The secretary looked up enquiringly as Geraldine entered the room.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Garnett.’

  ‘Anthony or Gerald?’

  ‘Anthony.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  Geraldine explained she had telephoned earlier and showed her identity card. With a perfunctory nod the secretary asked her to take a seat.

  ‘Mr Garnett will see you soon,’ she added politely, as though Geraldine was a client.

  Anthony was a portly man in his mid-fifties. His greying hair was thinning on top, white above his small flat ears. He looked a model of respectability in a pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt and sober tie. He sat very upright, diminutive behind his large polished wooden desk, and greeted Geraldine in a formal tone.

  ‘How can I be of assistance?’

  He raised his eyebrows when she explained the reason for her visit.

  ‘My next door neighbour?’ he repeated. He sounded faintly exasperated. ‘What has he been saying about me now? Frankly I’m surprised at the police, spending so much time on what is essentially a disagreement between neighbours. I take it you are aware there’s a long running dispute between us, and I’ve had occasion to lodge a complaint on more than one occasion about the behaviour of his latest companion. His late companion, I should say. Do you know she was almost the same age as his own son?’

  ‘It’s about the death of Anna Porter that I wanted to speak to you.’

  Garnett’s expression grew more solemn.

  ‘Oh yes, I heard about her accident. It was in all the papers.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I had no idea she was such a celebrity.’

  ‘What do you k
now about her?’

  ‘Only what I read in the papers, and what I saw for myself. I don’t like to insult the dead, but the truth is the girl had no idea how to behave, and precious few morals. Of course that was her affair, but when she turned up in the street at all hours, drunk and making a terrible din, that was no longer a private issue. And then she had the gall to complain because I happened to see her from my bedroom window when she was sunbathing naked in their back garden. She was on display there, I could hardly miss seeing her when I looked out. But the worst aspect of her antisocial behaviour was that she regularly parked her car right outside my house.’

  ‘I’m not here to enquire about your disagreements with your neighbours,’ Geraldine interrupted quietly.

  ‘What then? Only I have a lot of work –’

  He glanced down at the file on his desk and tapped it with a plump manicured finger.

  ‘I’m investigating Anna’s death.’

  ‘As I said, I don’t like to speak badly of the dead. And it was certainly a tragedy. What a terrible waste of a young life.’

  ‘Mr Garnett, I work for homicide and serious crime command.’ In case he hadn’t registered the significance of her words she added, ‘We don’t investigate accidents.’

  His expression didn’t alter. He carried on speaking in an even, matter-of-fact tone. Like Geraldine, he was accustomed to dealing with human atrocities.

  ‘So you’re telling me the girl’s death wasn’t an accident?’

  She nodded.

  ‘She was murdered, eh? I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. Shocked, of course, but not overly surprised, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I assume you’ve come to tell me Piers ran her down. Well, that doesn’t come as a surprise. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s a suspect?’

  The lawyer raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong. I thought it was generally the husband, or the boyfriend, in these cases. God knows, she gave him reason enough to want to be rid of her, but not to kill her.’

  ‘What reason?’ Geraldine asked. ‘You said she gave him enough reason to want to be rid of her. What did you mean by that, exactly?’

  The lawyer hesitated before speaking.

  ‘I don’t like to malign the girl, now she’s dead, but the truth will come out anyway. A young man used to visit her when Piers wasn’t around.’

  ‘Could it have been his son?’

  ‘No. I know Zak. He’s very dark. This was a blond chap who went to see her when Piers was out. I saw him leaving the house quite a few times.’

  Geraldine thought of Dirk Goodbody.

  ‘Could this visitor have been a friend of hers?’

  Garnett gave a short laugh.

  ‘He was more than a friend. I saw them kissing in the garden.’

  ‘I believe actors kiss a lot.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out? They were kissing on the lips, and his hands were all over her. This was a sexually active relationship she was carrying on behind Piers’ back. It wasn’t only the kissing. There was something furtive about the way he skulked off down the street, as though he didn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  It wasn’t an easy exchange. The lawyer grew tetchy as the questioning progressed. At some point he realised that he might be a suspect himself, and became reserved. Geraldine was constantly aware of the need to be careful, both in what she asked, and in her manner. He would be the first to lodge a complaint if she overstepped her authority, and he would be sure to follow the correct procedures.

  ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ he asked her point blank at one point.

  She denied it as convincingly as she could.

  She felt drained by the time she left Marylebone House. It was sunny outside and she realised she had been too preoccupied by the investigation to enjoy the recent spell of good weather. On a whim she walked past the station and on down Baker Street, passing the London Underground Lost Property office, the Sherlock Holmes museum, and a few cafes, and on into Regents Park. Ahead of her a lake glistened. White and brown ducks scudded around and a few swans glided lazily on the water. She turned right and crossed a wide bridge. To her right, at the water’s edge, a heron stood motionless, as though suspended in time. The peace of the scene overwhelmed her and she stood spellbound. As the daylight faded, the air grew chilly. People sauntering along the paths, chatting and laughing, began to walk more quickly. There were only a few people left on benches, staring at the lake. Leaving the park, she made her way slowly back to her empty flat, wondering what she was doing with her life.

  Chapter 29

  A RECENT GRADUATE FROM their drama school was performing in a production at the studio theatre in the Barbican. When one of her classmates offered Bethany a ticket, she agreed at once. She had nothing else planned for the evening. The set was sparse, the production edgy. While they were manoeuvring their way to the exit, the other girl said she was going to wait and congratulate her friend. Bethany didn’t want to hang around. She hadn’t known the actor very well, and in any case the theatre was stuffy and she had a slight headache, probably brought on by the stress of waiting to hear about her audition. It was possible she would have a second recall. She might be asked to read with other members of the cast with very little notice, and she couldn’t afford to look burned out if the call came.

  ‘Tell him it was fantastic and he was brilliant!’ she gushed before leaving her friend in the foyer.

  The play had been oppressive but her threatened headache disappeared outside in the cool air, and her spirits lifted. It was a pleasant evening, mild and fresh. It wasn’t late, so instead of taking the train from Barbican station, which was just across the road, she decided to walk to Chancery Lane. It was less than a mile away. From there she could catch the Central line straight back to Mile End, where she lived. She could have saved herself a walk by taking the train at Barbican station but, apart from the added hassle of changing trains at a busy station, she fancied walking along the bridge that spanned the main road.

  She went South and turned right at the roundabout, heading down Newgate Street to Holborn Viaduct which would take her right over the top of Farringdon Street. This was the real purpose of her walk. She had seen the Victorian road bridge from below, with its carved stone pillars, ornate decorative cast iron ramparts, old-fashioned street lamps, and statues set on high plinths. Stone dragons or griffins – she wasn’t sure which – dominated the wrought ironwork. She hadn’t been able to see the statues clearly from below, and wanted to walk across the top of the road bridge to take a look at them close up. Her anticipation grew as she approached the bridge and saw larger than life statues illuminated in the glow of huge round lamps.

  As she strode along the pavement, she could hear other people scurrying behind her. She hurried on to the roundabout, ignoring a homeless man slumped in a doorway, a mangy dog at his side. The lace on one of her trainers was loose. Crouching down to tie it up properly, her attention was caught by a figure in a grey hood who stopped at exactly the same time as she did and stood a few paces behind her, as though waiting for something. It reminded her of the tall woman who had appeared to be following her on the way to her audition. Momentarily shocked, Bethany froze. The stranger pulled a phone from her pocket, and began talking. Rebuking herself for her stupidity, Bethany straightened up and glanced over her shoulder. The hooded figure had disappeared. Reassured, she turned and continued on her way. Nothing had happened, yet the incident had unnerved her. She walked faster.

  Reaching the bridge, she glanced behind her and felt a shiver of fear. This time there could be no doubt. A grey figure was walking along the pavement, head lowered, a few paces behind her. She couldn’t make out the face, couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but she could see sunglasses gleaming b
eneath the hood. That was odd at this time of night. It was enough to convince Bethany she was being followed by the same person she had spotted watching her from the street outside her flat. She knew this was something celebrities had to suffer. Although she wasn’t exactly well known yet, she had played some major roles in productions at drama school. Anyone could have seen her on stage. She felt sick, remembering one scene where she had stripped down to her underwear. It must be a crazy fan stalking her.

  Whether the stranger was curious to find out about her life, or just wanted to feel close to her, the whole idea gave her the creeps. Knowing that her pursuer knew where she lived, she shuddered. With a brief flash of anger she was tempted to turn round and confront her stalker, but apart from cars zooming past, the street was deserted. It could be dangerous to engage with a fanatical admirer who might turn violent. Bethany glanced around. They were alone together on a busy London street at night. No one would notice if Bethany was suddenly knifed and slumped to the pavement, bleeding to death. If anyone did pass by, they would assume she was drunk, or homeless. The truth might not emerge for days.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps. All her senses were alert. Tingling with adrenaline, she could feel her heart beating. It was dark, but the road was well lit. She hurried along the bridge without even glancing up at the statues, no longer interested in the intricate ironwork. She didn’t pause in her stride to look down over the parapet at the busy road far below. All she wanted to do was reach the station quickly, go home and lock the door. She hoped her flatmate would be in. Cars roared under the bridge, but other than vehicles on the road below, the Viaduct was deserted. Apart from a crazy stalker who had followed her all the way from the Barbican, she was alone. She tried calling her boyfriend, but he didn’t answer. She considered running into the road and flagging down a car but when she looked back over her shoulder, there was no one behind her.

  She breathed freely again, dizzy with relief. Her legs felt wobbly and she blinked to clear her blurred vision. She was glad there was no one else there to witness how she had allowed her fears to get the better of her. She didn’t have a stalker. No one was following her. It was coincidence that she had recently happened to see two, maybe more, people in grey hoodies. It was hardly an unusual kind of jacket. One day, when she was famous, she might find herself the object of unwanted attention, but that time hadn’t yet come.