Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  “How did you get on with our local neighbourhood tennis coach?” Slater asked Norman when he came back a little later.

  “He was full of all that ‘I know my rights’ shit when we started asking about Beverley, but as soon as we mentioned being her driver, he went a funny colour and started crapping himself. We didn’t need to do any more than that. Trust me, he’s looking seriously shaky right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does a runner, so Steve’s up there now keeping a look out. He’s going to follow him if he does anything suspicious.”

  “Yeah. That figures,” said Slater happily. “Care to guess why he’s crapping himself?”

  “Well, you obviously know,” said Norman. “So, instead of sitting looking like the cat that got the cream, why don’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sure we’ve got the wrong man,” said Slater.

  “But doesn’t all the DNA evidence prove Paul Green was there?” said Norman. “I thought he got the idea from a TV show, had sex with her, planted the killer protein in the process, and then waited for her to die. Case closed.”

  “That’s all correct up until the point where he waited for her to die,” agreed Slater. “I don’t believe he knew she was going to die.”

  “So what are we saying?” said an irritated Norman. “That this is some sort of accident?”

  “Not exactly,” said Slater. “While you were out, Beverley Green came in. When I told her why we’d arrested Paul, she remembered he’d watched the infamous TV show with her, and she says he was very interested in it.”

  “Ok,” said Norman. “Now I’m getting interested. Tell me more.”

  “Right,” continued Slater. “When Steve saw that TV show the other week it was a repeat, so he thought he’d check out when it was first screened. That’s what he was doing when you two rushed off to find Sebastian, so it was there on his computer. It was first shown on September 12th, last year. So that’s what? Nine months ago?”

  “I’d say that fits into our Paul Green theory pretty well,” said Norman. “So what’s the problem?”

  “September 12th was a Wednesday,” said Slater.

  The significance eluded Norman for a couple of seconds, but then he realised what Slater was saying.

  “A Wednesday night?” said Norman, finally. “So Green would have been up in Clapham with Ruby.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” agreed Slater. “I think maybe we need to have another little chat with Paul, don’t you?”

  Suddenly the door burst open and an excited Steve Biddeford rushed in.

  “What the hell are you doing back here?” asked Norman. “You’re supposed to be keeping tabs on Shaky Sebastian.”

  “He’s downstairs,” said Biddeford, looking very pleased with himself. “Waiting to talk to us.”

  “What?”

  “I was sat watching his house,” explained Biddeford. “I hadn’t been there 20 minutes and he came out to the car and asked me if we could talk. Then he asked me if he could do a deal. Would we keep him out of trouble if he came clean? I told him I didn’t have the authority to make such a promise but if he came in voluntarily and helped with our enquiries, we might be able to help him. He jumped in the car, and here we are.”

  “Did he say anything on the way down?” asked Norman.

  “Not a peep. But he has been crying. He’s in a right old state. He’s guilty as hell about something, that’s for sure.”

  “Come on lads,” said Slater. “Let’s go and see what he’s got to say for himself.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Slater and his two colleagues had decided to wait until mid-morning to make sure the children were at school and out of the way before they made their way up to Old Shrubs Cottage. Their usual banter was missing, but then, bringing Beverley Green up to speed regarding her sister’s killer was no joking matter.

  They lined up at the front door and Slater rang the bell. Beverley Green must have been at the back of the house because it took a good few seconds before the door opened. She was dressed in her tennis outfit once again, and was looking back into the house as she opened the door.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” she asked angrily, turning to face them.

  The look of shock on her face made it clear they weren’t the visitor she was expecting.

  “Expecting someone else?” asked Slater. “Sebastian, perhaps?”

  “Very clever deduction, Sergeant,” she said, drily. “Why else would I be dressed like this?”

  “Some might say over-dressed for mixed doubles,” said Norman, unable to stop himself.

  Her eyes flashed angrily.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said. “Are you trying to imply-”

  “I’m not trying to imply anything, Mrs Green,” Norman assured her, putting great emphasis on the word ‘trying’ but she either missed it, or chose to ignore it.

  “What do you want?” she said, glaring at Slater.

  “I did say I’d come up and see you when we’d finished our enquiries,” he explained.

  “Does it really need three of you?”

  “These are the two colleagues who’ve helped me complete this inquiry, Mrs Green,” he said. “It seems only right they should be here to help me explain everything to you.”

  She looked as though she was going to tell them to go away.

  “Isn’t it bad enough I have to deal with my sister being found dead, learning my husband had made her pregnant, and then that he was a murderer?” she cried. “And now I have to put up with three of you turning up unannounced. What more can you possibly expect from me at a time like this?”

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” interrupted Norman. “You look as if you’re coping extremely well with your grief.” He indicated her tennis outfit. “I mean, if I didn’t know all the things that have just happened, I would never have guessed how grief stricken you must be feeling right now.”

  It looked, briefly, as if she was going to explode, but somehow she managed to keep her temper.

  “We all have our own way of coping with situations,” she said, snootily. “I do it by trying to carry on as though nothing has happened.”

  “Wow!” said Norman. “That’s very heroic of you.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” she snapped.

  “Who me?” asked Norman. “No ma’am. Humour and me just don’t go together. I just think it’s great you can carry on like nothing happened. I mean most people would be in bits, but you? Well you’re something else, you really are.”

  Beverley Green glared at Norman, and Slater knew she was trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic or not.

  “Is this going to take long? Only I’m very busy and my tennis coach will be here any minute.”

  “If you mean Sebastian, he said to tell you he wasn’t coming today,” said Slater.

  A faint look of alarm flashed across her face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

  “Typical man,” she tutted. “So bloody unreliable.”

  “I guess that means you’re not quite so busy, right now,” said Slater, making sure she knew it wasn’t a question. “So why don’t you let us in and we’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “Oh, come on in then.” She sighed impatiently. “But make it quick.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be long.” He smiled.

  She turned her back and led the way through to the huge kitchen. Slater couldn’t help but admire her tanned, toned legs as she walked ahead of him. He thought it was a pity her personality didn’t match.

  “Right,” she turned on them, once they were all in the kitchen. “Get on with it.”

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?” asked Slater.

  “Absolutely none,” she said firmly, crossing her arms.

  Slater made a mental note of her changed body language, from attacking to defensive. Then he made a big deal out of finding his notebook, ignoring her heavy sigh of impatience.

  “There are just a couple of questions I need to
ask you. Little details, you know?” He smiled.

  “What questions? What details?” she snapped. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Mmmm,” he said, mulling over her last few words. “The thing is, I’m not sure you have told us all you know.”

  “It’s a fact,” added Norman. “We often think we’ve told everything we know about something, and then when someone asks the right questions they can get a whole lot more out of us.” He smiled encouragingly at her. “Sergeant Slater here is very good at asking the right questions.”

  She looked down her nose at Norman. Slater got the distinct impression she regarded him as nothing more than a nuisance.

  “Is there any chance this person could be removed from here?” she asked Slater.

  “Who? Norman? Absolutely not.” Slater smiled, shaking his head. “He’s a key part of my team.”

  “I find that very difficult to believe,” she sneered.

  “Yes, you probably do,” agreed Slater. “But I don’t give a damn what you find hard to believe. He stays.”

  He smiled sweetly at her. She scowled back at him.

  “Now then, Mrs Green,” he began, looking at his notepad. “Just a few short questions.”

  “Yes, alright. If it means you’ll go away and leave me alone, ask your damned questions!”

  “Question one. Where were you on the night of September 12th last year?”

  “Good God. That’s months ago. How am I supposed to remember that?”

  “It was a Wednesday, does that help?” he said.

  “Then I would have been out with my girlfriends, playing bridge,” she said.

  “How about 26th September?”

  “Is that a Wednesday too? Then I would have been playing bridge that night too?”

  “October 10th?”

  “That’s another Wednesday. I would have been playing bridge. I always play bridge on a Wednesday night. What’s this got to do with my sister’s murder anyway?” she cried, her patience clearly in shreds.

  “You’re sure about this?” asked Slater, carefully.

  “Of course. Wednesday night is bridge night. Every week, without fail.” She was getting really angry now.

  “Tell her Steve,” Slater nodded to Biddeford who thumbed to a page in his own notebook.

  “According to your bridge partners you didn’t show up on the 12th or 26th of September, or on 10th October.”

  “They must be mistaken,” she said, red-faced.

  They said nothing.

  “Oh wait.. The kids were ill around that time. They all had colds, one after the other. I was probably at home looking after them. You can’t go out and leave them when they’re ill, now can you?”

  “Apparently you can,” said Norman cheerfully. “According to your babysitting service, you had babysitters for all those nights.”

  She began to pace nervously. They could see she was thinking hard.

  “We’re not here to judge whether you were right to leave your kids with a babysitter when they had colds, Beverley,” Slater soothed her. “We’re not here to question anyone’s morals either. We’re just curious to know where you were and who you were with.”

  “Perhaps you were with Sebastian,” suggested Norman. “Playing the other sort of mixed doubles. If that was the case, then everything would be okay.”

  “Yes. Alright,” she said, seizing the lifeline Norman had thrown her. “I was with Sebastian, but there’s no need for anyone to know about this, is there? Especially not my husband, although I suppose it doesn’t really matter what he thinks anymore, does it? Not where he’s going for the rest of his life.”

  “Where were you with Sebastian?” asked Slater.

  “In bed, of course,” she snapped.

  “In bed where?” he persisted.

  “What bloody difference does it make?” she shrieked. “What’s my private life got to do with this, anyway? You’re just prying for the sake of it, aren’t you? Well, you won’t embarrass me. I’m not ashamed, I can tell you that for sure.”

  “Oh, we’re quite sure you have no shame, Mrs Green.” Norman said, smiling. “But we’d still like an answer to the question.”

  “Well hard luck. I’m not going to answer any more of your nosy, privacy invading questions until you tell me why.” She stamped her foot to emphasise her determination.

  Slater shook his head and tutted. Norman and Biddeford joined in.

  “Now that’s a pity,” said Slater. “Because we were rather hoping you could confirm what Sebastian said, and then we could all go home.”

  “What? What did he say?” She was sounding desperate now.

  “You tell me,” said Slater. “If you’ve got nothing to hide, and you’re not ashamed, you’ve got nothing to worry about have you?”

  “Perhaps you were in his bed that night,” suggested Norman.

  “Oh, alright.” She sighed. “I give in. I was at his house, in his bed.”

  “You sure you weren’t in his car?” asked Slater.

  “Oh Sergeant, please! I stopped having sex in cars when I was a teenager. Doing contortions in the back seat is definitely for the young or desperate. A girl like me needs a bit of space so she can really enjoy the experience.”

  Slater pursed his lips.

  “Now that’s a pity,” he said, sadly. “You were doing so well up to that point.”

  She looked shocked, but said nothing.

  “Now you have a problem,” added Norman. “You see Sebastian has told us a different story. According to him, you weren’t in his bed at all. You didn’t even go to his house. But you were in his car, right?”

  She said nothing.

  “You know a place called Mistral Court, Beverley?” asked Slater. “It’s in Clapham, but then you know that, don’t you? You know, because Sebastian drove you up there on September 12th, and 26th, and again on 10th October. The first two times you just sat outside and watched one of the houses, but on the third occasion you brought something back with you, didn’t you?”

  “He’s lying,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s making this all up.”

  “Call’ em in Steve,” Slater advised Biddeford.

  Biddeford pulled his mobile phone from his pocket as he left the room.

  “What’s he doing? Call who in?” she stammered. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you, shall I, Beverely?” said Slater. “You found out what your husband was up to with your sister. You got Sebastian to drive you up there to make sure, and then you planned her murder.”

  “This is rubbish,” she said. “I was the one who wanted you to find her. I wouldn’t have done that if I had killed her would I?”

  “Yeah, that was pretty clever,” agreed Norman. “But we’re not always as stupid as people think we are, so we never completely exclude anyone. All the clues led to your husband, but you made a couple of mistakes that made us re-examine our evidence.”

  “I want my lawyer,” she demanded, heading for the phone in the hallway.

  “Don’t worry,” Slater assured her. “You can make that call from the station. Ok Norm, take her away.”

  Norman read Beverley Green her rights, and then led her towards their car. As they got to the front door, a van pulled up and the forensic technicians began to gather their equipment, ready to go through the freezers with a fine-toothed comb. They weren’t sure they would find anything, but according to Sebastian, they needed to take a good close look at the one in the garage.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was 9pm on Friday evening. Dave Slater climbed from the shower and towelled himself dry. It had been a late finish, and he was tired and hungry, but he felt pretty good. And so he should, he thought. It wasn’t every week you got to solve so many major crimes at once.

  He’d thought about getting dressed up and going down the pub but, quite frankly, he just couldn’t be bothered. Instead of dressing up, he dressed down in his pyjamas. He figured
by the time he’d thrown together some sort of meal and watched an hour’s TV he’d be ready to hit the sack anyway. He knew he was being pretty boring, but that’s just how he felt tonight.

  He made his way into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door. He wasn’t really surprised to find there wasn’t much inside. A few limp vegetables and a pack of sausages that were a full week past their sell-by date didn’t exactly inspire his inner chef. He gathered the contents from the fridge, stepped on the pedal and dropped the lot into the bin. Oh well, he could always phone for a takeaway.

  He was trying to decide if he fancied Chinese or Indian, when his doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Who the hell was ringing his bell at gone nine? He thought about ignoring it, but whoever it was wasn’t going to give up. The bell rang again.

  “‘Bollocks!” he said quietly to himself. Then, much louder, “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

  He swung the door open. A woman stood before him, her face hidden behind the carrier she was holding aloft in her left hand, obviously filled with food. It was Indian, he could smell the spices. The carrier slowly lowered and Jenny Radstock peeped over the top.

  She smiled cautiously, and then brought her right arm from behind her back. In her right hand, she held a bottle of champagne by the neck. Her red hair had been released from the bun she often wore when working, and it flowed over her shoulders, framing her face.

  “I come in peace,” she said. “I heard you’d got a result so I thought congratulations were in order. I thought you might be hungry. And I was hoping you might like some company.”

  He looked at her in surprise. They hadn’t parted on very good terms last time they had spoken and he really hadn’t expected to see her again, so this really was a surprise.

  She looked disappointed.

  “I can go away if you’d prefer,” she said. “I do understand. I was a bit selfish, wasn’t I?”

  She’d lowered the bag and the bottle to her sides now, and he could see she was dressed in jeans, designer, of course, and a thin tee shirt. He could see quite clearly there was nothing under the tee shirt. And she had open-toed shoes with four-inch heels and ankle straps. Oh my. How had she known he had a thing about ankle straps and high heels?