by Clare Curzon
‘That – woman! I’d rather shit pins.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then?’
‘Rosemary agreed we’d go to ER together, but once I’m there, I’ll stay on. Will you tell her? Explain there’s less blood and guts to cope with in hospital.’
Superintendent Yeadings sat in on the DI’s briefing next morning. The three crimes were scrawled in chalk across the blackboard. Sheila Winter, Murder by Stabbing; DS Zyczynski, Attack with a Blunt Instrument ( ceramic table lamp); Paul Wormsley, Murder by Blunt Instrument (not found).
‘We don’t know,’ Salmon admitted, ‘if these were crimes committed by the same person or persons. We’ll look at the first murder first.’
He looked rattled. By nature a one-suspect man, he found them now crawling out of every available bit of woodwork. He faced up to it, though; had the crime scene photos pinned on the wall and wrote the full list up there for all to see. The first three names were Barry Childe, Jonathan (Nat) Baker, Frank Perrin.
‘Any of those singly, or as a pair or a threesome,’ Salmon said truculently, as if expecting an explosion of protest.
Everyone sat silent. A hand went up. ‘Sir, wasn’t there a Dutch connection with one of them?’
‘Jan Nederkamp,’ Salmon said. ‘A fax from Amsterdam police has provided him with a watertight alibi. He was in Stuttgart at a business meeting arranging to supply forced hyacinths for Christmas to German retailer. So if we can believe they still remember Christmas out there, he gets crossed off the list. In any case he is thought to have broken off his relationship with Sheila Winter last July, when he became engaged to a Belgian banker’s daughter. They were married in September. According to a statement he made to a police brigadier, the break-up was by mutual consent and neither party had reason to feel resentment towards the other.’
He moved back to the blackboard to add the next name: Gabriel Fenner, D.Sc.
‘Dr Fenner – (not a medical man, for those of you not familiar with academics) – is Winter’s ex-husband, who held some shares in Sheila’s garden centre. He is a don at Cambridge University and his subject’s Archaeology.
‘He claims to have had a good relationship with his daughter although he hadn’t seen her since she was eighteen years old. They each wrote once a year. He was on bad terms with his ex-wife with whom the dead woman shared a home. Since the murder he has shown fresh interest in his daughter’s affairs and holds a copy of her will, to which he is the sole executor.
‘Despite this apparent sign of trust, it’s noted that she left her 12% of the business to her mother who had never shown any interest in it as a working project. As a result of this, the future of the business depends on whether Mrs Winter allies herself to her ex-husband’s 40% or the bank’s 48%.
‘This appears to be causing Dr Fenner some considerable upset. He is not a rich man and he expects Mrs Winter to sell out to the bank, who will dispose of the business as a whole. So upset in fact is Dr Fenner that he has been in touch with Mrs Winter’s GP with a view to applying to have her sectioned under the Mental Health Act, with which you should all be familiar.’
He stared round accusingly. ‘If she is declared incompetent a proxy would be appointed, over whom Dr Fenner might expect to have some influence as executor of the will. Until now we have found no one to recognize Dr Fenner’s photograph either in the Henley area, the garden centre or the locality of Ashbourne House.’
He paused, and in the silence someone from the back muttered, ‘He’s hardly likely to kill his own daughter. Why not the ex-wife?’
A curious expression passed over Salmon’s face. It seemed a mixture of relief and suppressed triumph. ‘The fur coat,’ he said with great significance, ‘was interesting because the slits in it did not correspond with the injuries to the body. The fact that she wasn’t wearing it when stabbed seemed to indicate sexual circumstances. I believe now it was a double bluff, meant to distract attention from someone unlikely to see her in that state.
‘Dr Fenner claims to have spent the night of November 9/10 alone in his rooms in Cambridge. We have no proof that he didn’t.’
With a sigh Salmon turned back to the blackboard and added two further names: they were Martin Chisholm and Neil Raynes. ‘The couple upstairs,’ he reminded the assembly. There came a snigger from somewhere.
‘We continue to examine their movements closely,’ he said. ‘Chisholm disappeared immediately after the attack on DS Zyczynski, and could have been the intruder searching Mrs Winter’s rooms. An alibi given by his assistant at the car showrooms is worth no more than his wish to retain his job. We are working backwards to reveal any connection between Chisholm and either of the Winters before they met up at Ashbourne House.
‘His young friend Neil Raynes, the hospital porter, has a history of delinquency according to his father, and is mainly dependent on Chisholm whose home he shares. Shortly before the lethal attack on Paul Wormsley, Raynes had admitted to DS Zyczynski that his friend had been “spied on” and followed in his car by Wormsley. We need to know what Wormsley discovered and whether that was of such importance that he had to be silenced. A search of his rooms today may bring something to light on that. The apartment has elaborate security and it’s unlikely anyone could have got in to remove evidence.’
It was stultifying, Yeadings admitted. Here they were, almost into the second week of the investigation and they could eliminate nobody. He stroked his chin and held up a finger at Salmon to raise a point. In with a penny, he thought mischievously, in with a pound.
‘Maybe we should add Wormsley to the others. If he had killed Miss Winter, somebody might have wished to take revenge.’
He watched Salmon’s jaw sag before it snapped shut again. Now, that was almost malicious of me, Yeadings chided himself. The man is befogged enough without adding to his miseries.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A full day of relaxation with his family had given Yeadings the opportunity to sort his ideas and consider a line to pursue. ‘How do you fancy a half-day in London?’ he asked Nan casually at breakfast next day.
‘Not if it means hanging about Scotland Yard while you swap memories with the Old Guard.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of going there. I thought perhaps Knightsbridge, a little window-shopping at Harrods and Harvey Nicks. Might even go in and spend a small amount of cash. Then lunch somewhere interesting.’
‘You can’t spend a small amount of cash in Knightsbridge,’ declared practical Nan. ‘In that area you go the whole hog or nothing. And it’s nobody’s birthday that I know of. I hope this isn’t the sign of a guilty conscience.’
‘I’m innocent as the day. Ring Maisie and ask her to child-mind Luke. Then put on some glad rags and we’ll drop Sally off at school on the way.’
‘On a Monday?’ she queried, half won over. ‘At such short notice?’
‘Yes. Wicked! Wear the new cream suit. Here’s an offer. I’ll do the school run while you organize the event.’
Nan whipped off her apron. ‘Consider me seduced.’
She knew there was an ulterior agenda but the offer was irresistible. She observed the large fibre suitcase being loaded in the car’s boot but said nothing. When Mike returned she was ready and waiting. The entire operation went according to promise until, after coffee and a mooch around Harrod’s, Mike retrieved the suitcase and steered her towards Harvey Nichols where it appeared he was expected. Her feelings were mixed as they entered the furs department and the suitcase was opened. Within, swathed in acid-free tissue sheets, was a black mink coat. A memory stirred in her head and she put out a hand to turn back the front edge. As suspected, there was a smear of blood on the lining.
Nan accepted a chair and was prepared to wait, relieved at least that she hadn’t to face the embarrassing offer of dead animal pieces to hang on her shoulders. It wasn’t that she objected to fur farming. The cyclical preying of one species on another was a fact of life. She accepted the nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw thing. What she r
ecoiled from was inciting the rabid anti-humanity of those – mainly women – who judged otherwise. Years before, Mike had brought her back a snug sable hat from a stint of work in Poland, and she hoped one day to feel free to wear it again.
Past history was what Mike was delving into here at this moment. An elderly man was introduced and clearly commanded a deal of respect from the present head of department. ‘Our Mr Knowles’, expressly brought back from retirement, examined the coat minutely, recoiling in horror at the stains and slashes to the skins. ‘Yes, definitely one of ours. You saw the label, of course, and here in the lining are the lady’s initials embroidered in gold thread by our workroom. This was customary, a complimentary service carried out before the article was delivered.
‘You will understand that this was in the days before plastic cards, when payment was normally by cheque and it took three days at least to clear through the banks. The little service we offered was to cover that lapse in time.’
‘A wise precaution with valuable items,’ Yeadings agreed.
‘And one that pleased the ladies. Now the initials in this case – yes, here they are, tucked discreetly into the Paisley pattern – would appear to be A.F. Does that help you at all, Superintendent?’
‘Thank you, Mr Knowles. I am hoping now that you may be able to trace who actually signed that cheque.’
The old man’s smile produced tortoise wrinkles. ‘Since you warned us earlier of the period in which the purchase probably took place, I have had the relevant ledgers retrieved. Mr Stanley, forward please.’
Nan watched Mike pore over the book, running the pages through his fingers. When they stopped, he looked up with a broad grin. ‘Have you any objection if I photograph this page?’
Mr Knowles looked doubtful.
‘There will be no harmful publicity,’ Yeadings assured him. ‘I should merely use it to remind the purchaser, in case he has forgotten.’
‘Very well, Superintendent.’
A need to remind someone that he, or she, bought an expensive item like a full-length black mink coat, female skins? Nan asked herself. Hardly likely; though to the Harvey Nichols staff such a casual memory appeared quite possible. She hummed quietly to herself. True: the rich were different.
Mike returned the coat in its suitcase to the car parked under cover, having been assured that the damage to the skins could be skilfully repaired. He doubted there would be any call for that.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘lunch, and I know the perfect place.’
‘Not quite yet,’ said Nan. ‘Food isn’t sufficient compensation for having been brought along on a job. Let’s have a good look around first. There’s a nice little pendant I saw in Harvey Nick’s as we were passing through.’
She was only teasing and he knew it. But they went back all the same and Yeadings produced his plastic. ‘Lunch now?’ he asked meekly.
‘Fine by me, love, but I’m getting a taste for being spoilt; so it’ll have to be Italian. It’s the only way to be sure they’ll stock Punt e Mes.’
With the sapphire pendant tastefully boxed and consigned to her handbag, she was content to be sent home by train after lunch, while Mike pursued inquiries elsewhere.
They took him to Putney, to the GP with whom the Winters had registered when they lived there. Crossing the Thames, he smiled fondly on the dull pewter gleam of the water broken by a dazzling sheet of white as the sun broke through behind him. A light wind feathered the water in patches, and over by the boathouses four young men were toting a shell, ready to drop it in the river.
He remembered Neil Raynes reported as having once rowed at Henley for his school and Thames Club; Neil, who nowadays had a health problem. Well, the nature of it was a mystery no longer. Yeadings had traced press coverage of the fatal crash in which he’d been involved. The young man’s injuries had been serious enough for a sympathetic judge not to have sentenced him to a stretch. Neil had attended the court hearing on a charge of manslaughter still in a wheeel-chair and desperately in need of a kidney transplant. The medication he would need to continue for the rest of his life was to prevent his immune system rejecting the alien organ. It seemed that even such misfortune hadn’t ruled out paternal rejection; but Raynes senior had made financial provisions for his son, channelled through Martin Chisholm who would act as his minder. That was a sentence a youngster might well rebel against, and it spoke well for the man that Neil appeared to remain on good terms with his flatmate.
Again Yeadings was prompt on his appointment and, while reluctant to breach patients’ confidentiality, Dr Fielding eventually confided the name of a Harley Street consultant he had recommended before the ladies moved away. ‘Correspondence on this matter was included in the case notes sent on to the new GP in Mardham, a Dr Stephen Barlow,’ he explained, ‘but whether he would act on my suggestion was entirely up to him.’
On the journey home Yeadings remembered to switch his mobile phone back on. There were three messages for him, or simply one with two repeats. The ACC (Crime) required his immediate attendance at Kidlington HQ. The first call had been timed at 09.05.
On arrival, the eating of Humble Pie was obligatory, but Mr Medlar was sufficiently worried to cut the performance short. He chewed his lips as Yeadings briefly accounted for the apparent gap in his official existence. The information gathered on the black mink coat and the Winters’ health while in Putney, Medlar found less than riveting.
‘It’s the other murder that must take priority,’ Medlar snapped at the recital’s end.
‘Wormsley’s?’
‘Worsley’s,’ the ACC thundered. ‘God, the insufferable man and his insistence on retaining that typist’s error. It was bound to draw attention. Whoever heard a real name like that? I would have disallowed it here.’
Yeadings sat quiet and let his mind’s clockwork tick towards an assumption. Not a real name? So a pseudonym: Wormsley was a man with a closed past and a synthetic present. Only he hadn’t a present any more, now he was defunct. Small wonder the ACC was dancing on hot embers. Someone local had badly boobed. The skilfully embroidered new persona was wasted. ‘Witness Protection?’ he guessed aloud.
‘It’s obvious that his new identity was blown! West Midlands is seething. Who’s going to trust the system again if a report of this gets out?’
‘That’s their worry,’ Yeadings pointed out. ‘Ours is to follow up the professionals who’ve penetrated our patch. If indeed his death is due to earlier involvements. I have to know the whole story, sir.’
‘Is there any chance he was killed for some scam he’s been running since he became Wormsley? He was a photographer, I believe; ran a small studio for portraits and such, with a single girl assistant.’
‘He wasn’t exactly popular among the other residents where he lived, but I know of no reason why anyone would want him dead. On the other hand, he was coshed, not gunned down or knifed, and inside the house where he had an apartment. That doesn’t strike me as a professional’s job. I suppose West Midlands arranged for his new identity themselves. That would be where the leak occurred, sir. If there was one.’
‘I want you in charge of this case personally. Let Samson keep on with the Winter case.’
‘Er, Salmon, sir; not Samson. And what if the two killings are connected? It’s possible that the attack on my Sergeant Zyczynski is a link between the two. Like Wormsley she was struck with a blunt instrument, though obviously not the same one. And it happened when she disturbed an intruder in the murdered woman’s flat.’
‘But there’s no reason to connect the Winter woman with the crime Wormsley received a reduced sentence for.’ The ACC sounded increasingly exasperated.
Yeadings assumed his most dependable plod expression. ‘Before we can decide whether the whole series of attacks was local, I need to know the extent of the operation this Wormsley was protected from.’
‘I was afraid of that.’ Medlar was giving in. ‘I have a For-Your-Eyes-Only report here. Just go through it while I have te
a sent in. Don’t take notes, and keep it under your hat, Yeadings. We don’t need to aggravate an already bad situation.’
Left alone, Yeadings read, sipped Earl Grey and munched chocolate digestive biscuits. The story wasn’t an impressive one, but a great deal of money had been involved. It was a brilliant scam while it lasted, and rested on the fact that in Japan cars were right-hand drive and used the left half of the road as in the British Isles and indeed most of South East Asia and the Commonwealth. Valuable cars were stolen in the main Japanese cities where, crime being minimal by Western standards, there were fewer precautions taken or investigations rigorously pursued. Instead of being unloaded under some scrutiny at Southampton, Dover or Liverpool, the stolen cars were shipped via Dubai to the Irish Republic where crime and investigative levels were almost as low as in Japan. There they were either sold off or re-crated for the UK. Several routes were used, but mainly direct from Dun Laoghaire or driven into Northern Ireland and sent on from Belfast.
‘Wormsley’ – real name Piers Wilson – was one of four principals, the others being toughies, two from Ireland and one from Brum. Peader O’Rourke, Micky Hennigan, Mark Sloan and Piers Wilson had been cashing in nicely on the scam until Micky got greedy and started running his private venture of drug-running alongside. And the IRA hadn’t cared for the competition. A whisper got to the Gardai and the next consignment was ambushed. They were lucky to escape being caught, fleeing for their lives to Limerick, then separating to cross to the mainland and meet up again in Birmingham.
Micky blamed Piers for the leak, purely on the grounds that he was an Englishman. Piers threw the accusation back on Peader who went for him with his bare hands. At the end of an all-in barney there was Micky Hennigan on the floor with his own knife between his ribs and the other three covered in his blood.
That was when Piers Wilson went for the safest way out and turned State’s evidence. The other two were found guilty of murder and he took a short term for theft and fraud in an open prison. When he came out there was a new life waiting for him.
