“I take it this is where Galliers’ car stalled?” Quinn consulted the screen on his phone, replaying the CCTV footage, which showed the Rolls Royce stationery, with cars banking up behind it. Behind their dark lenses, his eyes flicked around the street, noting details that ensured they were standing in the correct spot.
Curious pedestrians pressed close before one of Stockley’s men shooed them away. Stockley pointed to the road where a few shards of red glass rested. “That’s from the Rolls Royce. It was rear-ended here by a Toyota.”
“Right.”
Sighing deeply, Quinn moved onto the black top, dropping to the ground, running his eyes over the tire marks. To get the burst of speed needed to hit the bridge parapet and cause the car to become airborne, the driver must have floored the accelerator. His fingers rubbed lightly over the dense rubber streaks left on the road. Gouges had bitten into the asphalt. There was no doubt that Galliers had put the pedal to the metal. Using his smart phone Quinn snapped several shots.
Coming back to his feet, he stomped back along the road towards the bridge. It struck him that there was no wavering in the driver’s course until the tire marks took an abrupt turn over the curb. He paused at the spot, angling his body in the same direction. In this position he was looking straight at the alcove cradled into the start of the bridge, the top of the stonework parapet smashed where the undercarriage of the car had hit with brutal force, but otherwise the bridge remained in tact. It was a million to one shot that Bon Galliers’ car had struck the stone balustrade at the exact angle that turned it into a fulcrum, launching the car over the stonework instead of through it.
He moved closer to the rubble, peering over the side. The fact that Galliers’ car had been launched like a missile had given it the momentum to reach the water’s edge. If it had gone straight through the parapet wall it would likely have toppled directly onto the path below, possibly injuring more innocent people.
“Looks like a pretty straight drive until the driver lost control,” Stockley said, staying put under the shade of the sycamore tree that arched high above them to protect his fair skin from the sun.
Quinn remained thoughtful. He moved back onto the road. “These marks don’t indicate a loss of control to me,” he replied. “See here.” He pointed to where he was standing. “If the driver had lost control and swerved accidentally, I’d expect to see skid marks that indicated under steer inertia with the tires slipping through the turn. But that’s not evident. There’s no indication prior to this point that the tires had brushed the curb, nothing to indicate the driver lost control before hitting the curb here. These tire marks suggest to me that Galliers made a deliberate turn to the left. On top of that, there’s no sign that any brakes were applied.”
Stockley scratched his chin, his forehead wrinkling at the same time. “You’re saying the driver turned deliberately to hit the girl?”
That was exactly what it looked like to Quinn, but he had no intention of saying so. Instead he shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal motion, snapping a few more photos.
He circled around, looking back to the white marks near the center of the road. Photos had been taken and the body of Clara Butterworth had been removed, leaving only an outline on the asphalt to indicate this had been her last resting place.
“Have you ordered a condition report on the road and weather to determine if any extraneous factors could have affected the car’s trajectory?”
“Of course.” Stockley’s body stiffened and the affronted look returned.
“I’d appreciate a copy cc’d to me as soon as you get it. You saw the car in the drink, last night?” Quinn turned towards Stockley.
“Yes, it was tipped on a thirty degree angle, right side in the water. The water level was up past the window. Left side was higher up because of how it sat on the steps. It broke through the skiffs tied up on the river.” Stockley ventured out of the shade and both men looked out over the water, where the sun danced like diamonds on the surface.
Quinn could see broken hulls and other splintered fragments resting on top of the water.
“I think getting tangled up in the boats saved the car from sinking fully under water.”
Quinn glanced down the embankment. “The impact would have been a nasty one. It must be eight or nine meters drop from here to the water’s edge.”
“Yeah, well, it all depends on the season as to how high the water level is. If it had been spring, I’ve no doubt the car would have been submerged very quickly. You finished here?”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah, tell your men they can wrap things up here. I think I’ve got an idea of how events played out. I’d appreciate it if you could radio George I’m on my way to Charlton, so they’ll be expecting me at the pound.” If Wynter wanted him to do a thorough check of the crash scene, that’s what he’d do. He glanced at his watch. He didn’t want to make the one-hour trek out to the police pound only to find they’d closed on him. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he wasn’t going to let Wynter ream him out for only doing half the job.
Chapter 10
Wednesday 5 July
Bex had applied for her international driver’s license before leaving New York, but eyeing the steady stream of traffic driving on the opposite side of the road, she was content to let Reuben take the steering wheel. He navigated the traffic without once using the GPS to locate the Galliers’ Mayfair residence.
When she remarked on it, he simply grinned and informed her, “One of the perks of being an estate agent. No street is unknown to me. I tell you, I could pass the London cabbies’ Knowledge test with my eyes blindfolded.”
Bex ignored Reuben’s ramblings to flip through the details he had pieced together on the Galliers. Her eyes traveled down the bare bones list.
Name: Charles Henry Galliers, Viscount Dunreath.
Occupation: Member of House of Lords for the Conservative Party since 2012. CEO of Dunreath Orthodontics.
Age: forty-nine.
Wife: Penelope Ann Galliers, Viscountess Dunreath.
Occupation: Homemaker. Patron of a dozen charities and organizations, ranging from the Richmond Society for Homeless Animals to the Friends of Martyr Nicholas Ridley Association.
Age: forty-seven.
Children: Phillip Charles Galliers, aged twenty-two. Recently graduated from King’s College London Dental Institute to join his father’s orthodontic practice. Richard Bonneville Galliers, aged seventeen, student at Harrow, deceased.
She raised her eyes from her screen, idly glancing out her side window. They were passing buildings coated in a patina of age and stability and sidewalks where well-dressed pedestrians strode purposefully, all amidst a courteous flow of traffic. The Galliers definitely lived on the upscale part of town, she concluded.
“Whereabouts are we, Reuben?” She’d better start getting to know her new territory.
“City of Westminster.” Reuben pulled up at a red light at Abemarle Street and she watched a garishly bright double-decker bus veer around the corner, frighteningly close to their vehicle. The lights changed and Reuben roared away. A shadow crossed his face. “It’s a real shame about that young girl, Clara Butterworth. If only we had self-driving cars on the road, we could eliminate these types of accidents.”
“You’re forgetting about the override mechanism. I’ll bet a driver could disengage the automatic self-drive to turn his vehicle into a weapon to run someone over. So if Bon Galliers’ actions were pre-meditated, a self-driving car wouldn’t have saved Clara Butterworth.”
They were now maneuvering down a narrow one-way street with two cyclists doing their best to pace Reuben’s car. Used to New York traffic, Bex still found herself cringing as they almost scraped the side door’s paintwork.
“So, you’re saying, human nature will always be evil and police will always have a job to do?” As Reuben turned his doubtful expression in her direction, she quickly motioned for him to return his eyes to the road.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be so hard-boiled?” His eyes slid questioningly towards her, eliciting another flick of her hand towards the windshield to direct his eyes straight ahead.
She was twenty-seven this year, the year that Zane died. The same age that Zane had been when she was born. She found an odd consolation in the coincidental mathematical symmetry of these numbers.
While Zane had joked that he wasn’t getting any younger, she never considered him old. Despite their age difference, he kept pace with all her physical activities from lifting weights and jogging to bedroom marathons where he was always up for more action. She had so badly wanted to make her next promotion that she had brushed aside Zane’s hints about having kids, putting him off with the promise of pregnancy after she made lieutenant. She ran a distracted hand through her hair. Now it was too late.
“Here’s some advice from a jaded homicide detective. Cops are like bloodhounds and the scent of a murder case goes cold very quickly. We’ve got about three days to grab what evidence is around and try to solve this case before we get buried under the next one.”
Reuben grinned at her harsh assessment. “If you’re trying to scare me back to sales it won’t work.”
He turned into a residential street and came to a rolling standstill at a crosswalk. Beyond the old woman and her walking frame haltingly crossing from one side to the next, she could see a cluster of bikes and some serious looking riders, fully decked out in cycling jerseys and padded shorts. She hoped Reuben could get through the intersection before they took off.
“Never take anything for granted, Reuben. That’s what I’ve learned. And if Galliers’ is guilty of murder, proving his actions were pre-meditated won’t be easy.”
She looked out the passenger side window as Reuben parked the car. A definite air of money hung around the quiet street and it reminded her of the swankier parts of Fifth Avenue. The buildings’ facades had a look of old world charm and at the same time a closed expression as though they didn’t welcome drop-ins. “You called ahead, right?” she queried Reuben. It was six o’clock, late enough, she hoped, to catch Charles Galliers at home.
“Yeah, I did. Hey, get a load of this.” He held out his phone to her and she watched a news article discussing the crash, flashing up Bon Galliers’ photo, then showing some moving footage of Charles Galliers outside the House of Lords as it connected him with the driver.
She swiveled her head from side to side scouting the area to determine if there were any lurking media, but the street seemed clear. “So, these places look old but well kept.”
“Nah, it’s all fake. This is a brand new area and these houses would probably only be five to seven years old. I know for a fact this land used to be a dairy farm, hence the street name: Farmland. Houses in this street will probably set their owners back about twenty to thirty mill.”
“Pounds?!” Bex did some quick calculations to dollars in her head. That was serious money indeed. “Does Galliers get his money from his orthodontics company or is it inherited?”
“Definitely Dunreath Orthodontics. He’s got a chain across the country. Seems to be a regular cash cow.”
As they stepped out of the car, Bex patted her side automatically, but her trusty weapon wasn’t there. This wasn’t New York, this was London and weapons weren’t regular issue, she reminded herself sternly. Nevertheless, she felt the lack, like part of her anatomy was missing.
Craning her neck upwards, she counted windows. The Galliers’ place was massive, probably covered nearly ten thousand square feet. A garage door was closed on the right hand side of the double oak front doors. Above her head balconies enclosed three sets of French windows, trailing mimosa blossoms. She caught a flicker at the curtains in the window next to the door as Reuben pressed the bell.
“Who is it please?” A lightly accented voice, definitely European, echoed through the speaker and Bex guessed it was the Galliers’ maid.
Reuben held out his identification for the security camera. “DC Richards and DCI Wynter to see Lord and Lady Dunreath.”
Bex flinched, realizing again what Standing had been referring to. She would have simply called them Mr and Mrs Galliers, thereby making another faux pas.
Head lowered, the maid, an older woman who had a definite air of being browbeaten, opened the door and led them to a small reception room off the main entrance. As they waited for the Galliers, Bex forced her tired eyes to take in the details.
A rolled arm sofa in tweedy looking material lodged on one side and a backless, brocaded daybed scattered in cushions faced it. Between them rested a glass-topped coffee table carefully strewn with expensive-looking travel photo books, an orchid reposing in a ceramic pot and a large crystal bowl filled with mints. The spray of delicate burnt-ochre flowers supplied the only splash of vivid color in a room awash with subdued beiges and neutral creams.
The furnishings were understated to the point that they almost disappeared from consciousness. Yet the room reeked of hothouse flowers and overspent money. Bex wondered how bad English teeth were to fund Charles Galliers’ ostentatious lifestyle.
Chapter 11
Wednesday 5 July
Charles and Penelope Galliers entered the room together. Charles was a large man with thinning gray-streaked hair, hefty bags under his eyes and the ruddy complexion of an English outdoorsman. His wife by contrast was diet-thin, with a professional blow-dry, a face devoid of wrinkles, thanks to botox, and nervously twitching hands. He looked stone-faced and she looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The four of them met in the center of the room, like a set of square dancers. After introductions, Charles invited them to sit and Bex perched as daintily as possible on the daybed next to Reuben, opposite Charles and Penelope on the tweed sofa.
Charles spoke first, his sentences short and choppy, his voice as poshly flavored as a BBC broadcaster. “I take it you’re here to update us on the investigation. Have you found the cause of the accident? Was it road conditions? Weather? At that time of day it’s likely the sun was in his eyes at the very least.”
“Actually, Lord Dunreath, the investigation is ongoing. Right now, we’d very much like your cooperation in trying to piece together your son’s state of mind on Tuesday, the fourth of July,” Bex replied, taking a cue from Reuben on how to address the Viscount.
“What would you like to know?” Penelope answered before her husband could say anything.
“Could you tell us when was the last time you saw your son?”
“I saw him Monday night when we dined together en famille,” Penelope said.
“Could you confirm who was at the dinner?”
“Myself, Bon, of course, and Charles. Phillip went to St Tropez for a long weekend and didn’t return until Tuesday morning.”
“Did Bon live at home during the week?” Reuben asked. He looked very serious as he typed notes into his phone.
“He lives at Harrow but he sometimes visits home on the weekends. Never misses Monday dinners. Basically, since he got his car he comes and goes as he pleases.” Charles’ navy blue chalk-stripe suit looked as conservative as his steady expression. If he was shattered by the death of his youngest son, he was showing no signs of it. A closer look at Penelope, on the other hand, revealed strain around her eyes. Nervously, she leaned towards the glass-topped coffee table straightening the already tidy pile of books.
“And was he with you at home, this weekend?” Bex pressed.
“Bon and I went up to Highgrove for a spot of shooting. He drove us there on Saturday. We came home on Sunday night. He left early Monday morning for Harrow and I went into the office to see to a few administrative things in Phillip’s absence,” Charles answered.
“How was he over the weekend?” Bex murmured blandly.
“What do you mean?” Charles stalled.
“I mean, what was his temperament while you were together. Was he happy? Was he upset? Did he seem bothered?”
“He seemed perfectly at ease. I didn’t notice anything different.”
It was difficult to tell whether Charles was covering up for Bon or whether he genuinely hadn’t connected with his son’s feelings. Bex had heard a lot about the stoicism of English men, and wondered if that’s why she found it difficult to judge Charles’ flat answer. Instead she turned her tired, bloodshot eyes towards Penelope, searching for clues that would uncover the truth.
“And what about you, Lady Dunreath, how did Bon seem at dinner on Monday night?”
Penelope twisted awkwardly, half-facing Charles, as she answered. “It was a quieter dinner than normal, because Phillip wasn’t there, of course. I think both Bon and Charles were exhausted after a strenuous weekend in the country, so the conversation wasn’t lively. Bon said he was tired. I asked him if he wanted to stay here the night, but he said he had early morning classes, so he left.”
“Did he use his phone at all during the evening?” Reuben leaned forward eagerly.
“No. I have a strict no electronics policy at the dinner table when we dine together.”
“The car he was driving was a very expensive, high-powered car. Do you know how long he’d had it?” Reuben changed tack.
“We bought it for him for his seventeenth birthday in March. He’d passed his driver’s test with flying colors. In fact everything Bon did he did with excellence. I just can’t believe he’s gone!” Penelope’s voice ended on a whimper. Charles lifted a hand to her back, rubbing it up and down like he was washing a window. It was the first physical contact he had shown her.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Lady Dunreath,” Bex said huskily, before Reuben could slip in more questions. She maintained a tight rein on her voice, keeping it professional with only the barest hint of sympathy. She couldn’t afford to feel empathetic. The flash of Penelope’s genuine pain triggered a flood of remembered emotions: disbelief, horror, shock. All suffused within the overwhelming gush of grief. It was like a river coursing non-stop, just below the surface of her composure. She couldn’t afford a chink in the dam. “Your older son, Phillip, does he live here?”
Driven to Death Page 6
