Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  She bustled across to Slater, holding the cutting out to him.

  “I saw this and I thought of you, so I cut it from the paper,” she said, handing it to him.

  “It’s a good job you said you was coming or I might have forgotten all about it. I suppose you calling must have made me more aware or something like that.”

  It had been cut from a local paper. It was a story about a donation being made to the local community. Slater didn’t get the point at first, then he looked at the photograph accompanying the story. It showed a man in a suit presenting a cheque. He was smiling to the camera.

  “That bloke in the photo,” she said. “The paper says he’s some banker or something. I wouldn’t know about that, of course, but I knew his face as soon as I saw it. ‘E used to visit. Every Wednesday, like clockwork. He’d arrive mid-afternoon and stay all night, sometimes on a Thursday as well.”

  Slater was staring at the photograph. He’d seen that face before. This was a surprise. He handed it across to Norman.

  “Does it help?” she asked.

  “Oh, I think it might be quite useful Mrs Webster. Thank you very much.”

  When they finally got back into Norman’s car, he handed the cutting back to Slater.

  “I saw his photo earlier, right?” he asked.

  “You certainly did,” Slater confirmed.

  “You think he’s the mystery boyfriend?”

  “That thought had crossed my mind,” said Slater.

  “He’d have an awful lot to lose if there was a big scandal, wouldn’t he?”

  “Indeed, he would.”

  “That’s one hell of a motive, don’t you think?”

  “The best one yet,” agreed Slater.

  Not long after Slater and Norman had left, Biddeford became aware of the muffled sound of a mobile phone ringing. He knew by the awful ringtone that it was Slater’s phone. It stopped before he found it, but then as soon as he sat down it started again. He figured this meant it was probably important so he hunted in earnest this time and soon found the phone behind a seat cushion.

  “DS Slater’s phone,” he said.

  “Is he there?” asked a voice.

  “He’s out,” said Biddeford. “But I can take a message.”

  “I’m not sure about that. Who am I talking to?” said the voice.

  “It’s DC Steve Biddeford.”

  “Oh, that’s ok then. I can tell you. It’s Sid Murgatroyd here. I’ve got a blood result for you.”

  “Hi, Sid. That’s quick work. Let me just grab a pen.”

  “It’s an easy test these days,” explained Murgatroyd. “Especially when you’ve got a nice big lab of your own to get things done.”

  “Right. Fire away,” said Biddeford, pen at the ready.

  “The blood group is AB Rhesus negative.”

  “That’s quite rare isn’t it?” asked Biddeford as he scribbled away.

  “Just nought point five percent of the population,” confirmed Murgatroyd. “Which sounds great on paper, but with the population of London being about eight million that means you’ve still got 40,000 people to choose from.”

  “Christ!” said Biddeford. “Not exactly pinpoint accuracy, then?”

  “Best I can do, I’m afraid,” agreed Murgatroyd. “If you had the budget I could do DNA. That’s the only really accurate thing these days. The blood group helps but it’s not DNA.”

  “I think Dave will be pushing for DNA, but the boss won’t okay it unless we’ve got good grounds for doing it.”

  “Pity,” said Murgatroyd. “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

  “Since you’re offering,” said Biddeford. “Can I run something by you?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “She died of anaphylaxis, from Brazil nuts, right?” he began. “Now there was a TV show on a few weeks ago where a girl died of the same thing. It wasn’t a murder, but she’d had sex shortly before she died. The boyfriend had eaten Brazil nuts beforehand. They reckoned she died because his semen carried something from the Brazil nuts and that’s what caused her anaphylaxis. But that was just a TV show, wasn’t it?”

  “You mean is it for real, or not?” asked Murgatroyd. “It sounds really unlikely doesn’t it? But it is genuine. It’s called seminal plasma protein allergy, or SPPA for short. If a guy eats Brazil nuts, waits a few hours and then has sex with a girl who’s allergic, then yes, she can easily die as a result. It’s a genuine allergic reaction to a protein derived from Brazil nuts.”

  “Is there any way of checking this out?” asked Biddeford. “Only Dave and Norm think I’m being stupid.”

  “I can test the semen. If the protein’s there it’ll show up alright. I’ll do it right now, and get back to you.”

  “You can do that?” asked Biddeford, surprised by what he was hearing.

  “Sure I can. It’s not a difficult test to do. I know exactly what I’m looking for and I know exactly what to do to identify it. It’s either there or it’s not. Simples, as they say. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Great,” said Biddeford, smiling happily as he ended the call. Maybe it wasn’t such a wild theory after all, he thought.

  The moment Slater and Norman got back, Biddeford knew they’d had a successful trip. There was a spring in Slater’s step that hadn’t been there earlier, and Norman was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  “What do we know about Paul Green?” Slater asked him.

  “He’s Beverley Green’s husband?” said Biddeford, hopefully.

  “Is that it?” asked Slater.

  “Up until now he’s not been mentioned,” Biddeford pointed out. “So there’s been no reason to check him out.”

  “Well there is now,” said Norman.

  “He’s in the running now, is he?” asked Biddeford.

  “He’s just come from nowhere and taken the lead down the home straight,” said Norman, beaming. “It looks like Pauly boy is the mystery boyfriend. He’s been poking his wife’s little sister for quite some time, and if she got pregnant without him realising, that gives him one seriously strong motive. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when Beverley finds out. I reckon she’s the sort who would make sure he was totally ruined, and then she’d want revenge on top.”

  “You don’t happen to know his blood group do you?” asked Biddeford.

  “Oh no,” said Norman to Slater, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I knew there was something we forgot to ask Mrs Webster.”

  “You’ve heard from the lab?” asked Slater. “Do we have a blood group?”

  “AB Rhesus negative,” said Biddeford, grandly. “It’s pretty rare.”

  “Now we’re starting to get somewhere, at last.” Slater sighed happily. “If Paul Green’s a match he’s in serious trouble.”

  “Do you think we should ask Beverley?” asked Norman.

  “No!” said Slater, shaking his head vehemently. “I want him picked up and brought down here tonight. I don’t want him warned and given a chance to run. We can check his blood group when we’ve got him here.”

  While he was talking, the annoying ringtone of Slater’s mobile phone began to sound. Biddeford watched Slater check his pocket, and then, with a start, looked down at the phone in front of him. He checked the incoming number and snatched it before Slater could have the chance to ask him what was going on. “Hello, Sid. Steve here.”

  Biddeford saw Slater look at Norman quizzically. No doubt he was confused as to why he had Slater’s phone – and was answering it. “Really? It’s there? You’re quite sure? Fantastic! They won’t believe this when I tell them. Yeah.” He laughed. “I’ll do that if they don’t believe me. Yes, thanks. This is fantastic. Cheers.”

  He cut the call and turned to Slater.

  “Sorry about that.” He nodded at the phone. “You left it here and it kept ringing earlier so I had to answer it in case it was urgent.”

  “So who was calling earlier?” asked Slater.

  “It was S
id from the lab with the blood test results.”

  “Fine,” said Slater. “And who was it this time?”

  “It was Sid again. I asked him to check something out for me.”

  “Well? Are you going to tell us what it was? Or is it a secret?”

  “Remember that wild theory I had before you went out? About Brazil nuts being killers on a TV show?”

  They both looked doubtful, and Norman heaved a heavy, impatient, sigh. But Biddeford didn’t back down. This time he had scientific backing. It wasn’t just a wild theory anymore.

  “Well,” he continued. “Sid confirms it is possible for someone to be affected by the protein that causes the Brazil nut allergy without actually eating Brazil nuts themselves.”

  “Right. So how does that work?” asked Norman. “It sounds unlikely to me.”

  “That’s exactly what Sid told me,” said Biddeford. “His exact words were, ‘it sounds really unlikely, but it is genuine’. It’s called seminal plasma protein allergy, or SPPA for short.”

  “Did you say seminal plasma?” asked Norman. “Isn’t that something to do with having sex?”

  “Exactly,” said Biddeford, smugly. “It’s transferred in the seminal fluid. If a guy eats Brazil nuts, waits a few hours and then has sex with a girl who’s allergic, then yes, she can easily die as a result.”

  “Jesus!” said Norman. “So he literally screws her to death? I swear this is the weirdest case I’ve ever worked on.”

  Slater hadn’t said a thing so far, but now he spoke.

  “So let me get this straight. If Paul Green’s blood group is AB Rhesus negative we can prove he was the person who had sex with Ruby before she died, and if we can prove he’d eaten Brazil nuts at some stage before that, we can prove he killed her.”

  “That’s what Sid reckons. Of course, DNA would be better, but the blood group is pretty conclusive,” said Biddeford.

  “You know,” Norman said to Slater. “I thought we were pretty good at this detecting stuff, but you know what? We’re pretty ordinary against this guy here. Don’t you agree?”

  “I certainly do, Norm,” agreed Slater. Then, turning to Biddeford, “Steve, you’re a bloody genius, mate. Next time I suggest you’re barking up the wrong tree, please tell me to shut up and listen.

  “Now then we’d better locate Paul Green and send a set of uniformed chauffeurs to pick him up. We’ll start questioning him in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Slater had never really considered the effect a night spent in a cell might have on someone. Of course, for the hardened criminal it was nothing more than an inconvenience that came with the territory. However, for someone like Paul Green, used to being able to afford only the very best in life, it must have come as an enormous shock.

  Looking across the table at him now, Slater thought he appeared to be even more untidy and crumpled than Norman, sat alongside him. His face bore the haunted look of a man caught in a trap, desperately seeking a means of escape.

  “I want it put on record that my client is extremely unhappy with the way he’s been treated. He was brought here under the impression he was under arrest and then locked up in a cell all night. Now you tell him he’s not under arrest. If you want to play games, Sergeant, you’ve chosen the wrong opponent. We’re leaving right now, and I can assure you, you have not heard the last of this.”

  The speech was delivered by Melvyn Spencer, Paul Green’s oily-looking lawyer. He’d done nothing but complain and make loud tutting noises ever since he had arrived. Slater waited until Spencer began to push his seat back to stand up before he responded.

  “Your client is not under arrest, yet,” he said quietly. “But the choice is entirely yours. He can volunteer to help us with our enquiries, or we can arrest him right now.”

  “And what trumped-up charge do you propose arresting him for? It had better be good,” sneered Spencer.

  Slater made a big deal of thumbing through his paperwork, as if to make sure he got it right.

  “Let me see, now,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Oh yes. Here’s one we thought we’d try. How about suspicion of murder? Is that good enough for you?”

  “Suspicion of murder?” repeated Spencer scornfully. He was so full of his own importance he didn’t notice Paul Green bury his head in his hands. His client began to cry quietly and then a low moan began to escape from him.

  “No, no,” he groaned quietly. “I didn’t murder her. It wasn’t like that!”

  “Keep quiet, Paul. Say nothing” hissed Spencer to his client. Then he turned his attention back to Slater, raising his voice to add extra emphasis to his words.

  “This is preposterous. My client happens to be a man of excellent character. He’s a very well respected banker in the City of London. A man of impeccable integrity-”

  “Who just happens to have been having an affair, with a high-class hooker, who just happens to be his sister-in-law, and who just happens to be dead,” Slater interrupted.

  There was a stunned silence from Spencer while he tried to take in what Slater had said.

  “Your blood group is AB Rhesus negative. Isn’t that right, Mr Green?” asked Slater. “You were the last person to see Ruby alive weren’t you? You had sex with her shortly before she died.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” burbled Green. “I would never have hurt her. She had some sort of fit or something. I just panicked. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “My client has nothing to say,” said Spencer. “We’re leaving. Now!”

  Once again, Spencer began to push back his chair.

  “Come on Paul, we’re leaving,” he said, pulling at Green’s arm.

  “Very well,” sighed Slater. “If you want to do it the hard way.” He nodded to Norman, who climbed to his feet.

  “Paul Green,” began Norman. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Ruth Thornhill, aka Ruby Rider, on or around-”

  “Wait!” yelled Green. “There’s no need for that. I’ll talk to you. I want to talk to you.”

  “No you don’t,” snapped Spencer. “As your lawyer I’m advising you-”

  “And as your client,” Green said, glaring at him. “I’m telling you I want to talk to them.”

  “But you can’t-” began Spencer.

  “Yes I can, and I’m going to. I’ll discharge you if I have to.”

  “But I can’t let you-”

  “Then you’d better go home, Melvyn,” said Green decisively. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want your advice. I promise you I didn’t murder her, but I want to get this all out in the open. I can’t live with it anymore.”

  Green slumped in his seat, seemingly exhausted by his little speech. Spencer looked around the room, obviously realised he wasn’t going to change Green’s mind, and then, muttering things like “wasting my time,” and “ignoring sound advice”, he finally settled back in his seat. But he wouldn’t look Slater or Norman in the eye. “Right, Paul,” said Slater, once they’d all settled again. “Why don’t you tell us all about Ruth, or was it Ruby?”

  And so Paul Green told them all about Ruth. About how she’d been his wife’s little sister, and how she had always been treated pretty badly by her family, especially by Beverley. Apparently it was Beverley who insisted Ruth wore those awful clothes and looked like a 50s throwback.

  “Why do you think that was?” Norman asked.

  “Because Beverley could see Ruth was much prettier than she would ever be,” he replied. “Beverley had to work bloody hard to look as good as she does, but under those dreadful clothes, Ruth was beautiful, and it was effortless. Beverley couldn’t have that, could she? So she bullied Ruth, tried to wear her down, and break her spirit. But Ruth knew what she was doing. I used to try to stop Beverley. I never realised Ruth knew what she was trying to do all along. She just played Beverley for years and years.”

  Then he went on to explain how one day, when he was at home on his own and Beverley was away, Ruth had co
me to his bedroom dressed as Ruby.

  “She was sensational,” he marvelled. “Absolutely stunning. And all the time I’d thought she was the hen-pecked little sister.”

  “And that’s when the affair started?” asked Slater.

  “I just couldn’t resist her,” said Green. “She was amazing. After that we’d get together any time we could when Beverley was out of the way, but it was risky, and when we nearly got caught we decided we’d have to do something about the situation. That’s when I got her the job in London, and the flat. I used to stay there with her one or two nights a week”

  “So it was your flat,” said Slater, as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. “Did you know she was working as a hooker out of there?”

  Green looked disappointed.

  “I didn’t know at first, and I certainly didn’t want her to do it,” he said sadly. “But she said if I wasn’t going to leave Beverley, she needed to make sure she could make a decent living on her own.

  “It was a tough decision, because it meant leaving the children. But I was in love with her, and I wanted to be with her, so I agreed to leave as soon as she stopped working. We even planned to get married and have children of our own.”

  Slater was beginning to feel this story was just a little too convenient, but then again, it was also plausible. They couldn’t deny Ruth/Ruby could play both characters and did so very successfully. And there was no denying she put Beverley into the shadows when she was Ruby.

  He pushed a piece of paper across in front of Norman. On it, he had written “ask about the night”. Norman glanced at it and then cleared his throat.

  “This is all very nice and cosy Paul, but what about the night she died? You were there, right?”

  “I swear I didn’t kill her,” he said, becoming upset again. “I shouldn’t have left her, but I didn’t kill her. Honestly. On my children’s lives.”

  “Whoa,” said Norman. “Just try and calm down. Can you just try to talk us through what happened that night?”

  “It was a Wednesday. I always used to stay over on Wednesday nights. We’d had dinner, gone to bed, made love and we were lying together talking about our future plans when she suddenly started struggling for breath. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to do anything. Before I knew it she was dead.”