'I see.’
Now that they had a confirmed ID, Casey said gently, ‘There are one or two matters we need to put to you.’
She frowned. ‘What matters? I've already told you what time he left home. What else can you possibly want to know? Unless I was mistaken about his identity?’ She broke off and stared at Casey. Tell me,’ she said, ‘tell me, please. Could I have been mistaken or is the man found dead in that alley really my husband?’
Casey was quick to dispel any rising hope. ‘I’m afraid the similarities are too apparent for there to be any doubt. I'm sorry.’
She nodded and gave him a brief, wavering smile. 'I just hoped—' She broke off. ‘Never mind. I suppose everyone in my position indulges in some wishful thinking. But I see I must face facts.’ She got up and made for the door. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. I'm sure you'd like tea.’
Once she had left the room Casey turned as Catt touched his arm. Catt whispered that he had rung the station from the mortuary to alert the murder team that they had a definite confirmed ID. During the call he had learned that several women had rung in after they had seen the dead man's photograph on the news bulletin — the media hadn't rested on their laurels — but then neither had Casey. He had asked the police photographer to forward the man's photo plus the bare details, which was all they had themselves, to one of his contacts amongst the local television news team. The item had featured in the final slot that morning.
It had certainly hit the target, because these women, too, had given the dead man's name as Gus Oliver.
Mrs Oliver came back with the tea. She had even troubled to fill a plate with biscuits. It was a thoughtful gesture in the midst of her grief and Casey was touched.
It was clear she had been thinking whilst in the kitchen, because as she placed the tray with the tea things on a small side table, poured the tea and passed the cups, she said, ‘If my husband is dead, murdered, surely, isn't it more important for you to set about finding who killed him than questioning me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Casey answered. ‘But your answers to my questions will hopefully help us find his killer, so they’re important. For instance, we need to know of anyone who might have had reason to harm your husband. Do you know if he had any enemies?’
‘Enemies? No. Everyone loved Gus. He was a very popular man.’
Casey was careful to avoid meeting Thomas Catt's eye, as he helped himself to milk, certain he would see the message ‘popular with the ladies, anyway’ writ large there. According to the information Catt had whispered, the late Mr Oliver wasn't of a retiring nature where the ladies were concerned. Of course that might mean they had just been friends or business acquaintances of Oliver's. Casey would not let himself be influenced by Catt's knowing wink. As yet, he had no way of knowing if Gus Oliver's widow had been aware of her husband's extra-marital activities — if such they were — and now was not the time to question her on the matter. Certainly she was unaware of the number of women in his life who, like her, had already contacted them and identified him. But given the apparent number of them, he found it improbable that she could have remained in ignorance. He frowned as he realized that Catt's knowing wink and manner were already influencing him towards the extra-marital romances scenario. She must at least have suspected what her husband was up to. Determinedly, he added to himself — if he was up to anything.
Still, for now, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. They were likely to find plenty of indications from other witnesses as to whether Mrs Oliver had known of her husband's women friends.
Mrs Oliver hesitated, sipped her tea as if she hoped to gain strength from the hot liquid, then added, ‘Though, I suppose, as he was such a successful businessman, he must have attracted some ill-wishers. After all’, she shivered, then continued, ‘someone hated him enough to murder him.’
‘Do you know where he went on these all-night trips?’ Casey questioned.
‘Rarely. Gus didn't confide in me about business matters. Why do you ask? Do you suspect that he might have been killed by a business rival?’
‘It's one possibility.’ Casey paused, then, thinking of the viciousness of the murder that, as Catt had remarked, held the hallmarks of a gangland slaying, asked as delicately as he could, ‘Did he have any dealings with shady types? People on the fringes of crime, perhaps? So many of the more clever criminals nowadays have bona fide businesses alongside their illegal ones, so it's possible he might have, unknowingly, done business with one or two.’
‘I've no idea. As I said, my husband didn't confide his business dealings to me.’
That was a pity, was Casey's immediate thought. It meant they would have to do some serious digging into these presumed violent business rivals.
‘You might contact his secretary,’ Alice Oliver said. ‘She should be able to give you more information. She's a nice young woman, by the name of Caroline Everett. I believe she's worked for Gus for several years. '
Casey nodded as Catt noted the name, then asked, ‘Did your husband have a home office? Somewhere where we might find an address book of friends and business contacts?’
‘Yes. It's in the spare bedroom. I'll show you.’ She put her cup down and led them across the hallway to the stairs. But before they ascended, Casey said, ‘We'd also like to see your husband's bedroom, Mrs Olive.’
‘If you must. It's the door at the top of the stairs.’
‘We'll look at the office first. Have we your permission to take away with us anything we think might be relevant to your husband's death?’
‘Take what you like and welcome,’ she said. 'I have no use for any of it.’
Fortunately, Gus Oliver had been a tidy man; everything was neatly compartmentalized — much like his love life, thought Casey. They quickly found a business address book. A search through his filing cabinet and desk drawers revealed little of interest. He seemed to use both just for household bills and other domestic paperwork.
Next, they investigated the bedroom. Catt eyed the single bed with a narrowed gaze. ‘Looks like things weren't hunky-dory on the marital front.’
‘Not necessarily. Lots of married people prefer to sleep separately. Perhaps Gus Oliver was a champion snorer?' Still, it was, as Catt had said, an interesting aspect of the Olivers' life together, though he refused to give a fillip to ThomCatt's salaciousness on the matter. But, taken together with the other women who had telephoned ...
As in the office, they found little of interest in the bedroom. There were no incriminating slips of paper in the pockets of Oliver's jackets or trousers or anywhere else; either the dead man had memorized his women friends' addresses and telephone numbers or he kept such incriminating details at work. After obtaining the location of Gus Oliver's business premises, they asked Mrs Oliver if she would like Shazia Khan to stay with her. She refused the offer, telling them she preferred to be alone. ‘After all, it's something I'm going to have to get used to.’
They bid her farewell as there was nothing else they could offer by way of comfort and made for the station.
‘It's unfortunate that Gus Oliver gives every appearance of being a serial philanderer,’ Catt commented as they drove away. ‘Just think of the number of jealous women and angry husbands who could have wanted to off him. Not to mention a possibly jealous — with reason — wife.’
‘Don't,’ Casey pleaded. ‘I’m trying not to think about the potential number of suspects. Don't forget, there's also the business angle. Mr Oliver, to judge from his home, was a wealthy and successful man. It's possible he didn't always use nice methods to bring in the cash.’
‘Judging from the ugliness of his death, it looks like he wasn't the only one with less than nice ways to him.’
Once back at the station, Casey stopped off at the newly-set-up incident room. Several more women had rung up to identify the dead man during the time they had been out; foolishly, although failing to give their names or other details, in their distress, they had rung from their home telephone
numbers and were thus easily traced. He handed the details to Catt. ‘Go and see them and the others who have rung in. Find out if any of them have alibis for the relevant times. Check if they hold water. Take Shazia Khan with you. Meanwhile, I'll go to Oliver's business premises and see what I can find out.’
Catt nodded, took the list and left the office.
Casey shrugged back into his coat and set off for Oliver's work place.
The business premises of Oliver's International was on the edge of King's Langley, on the industrial estate that had been built five years ago just off the bypass. The building was three stories high. Sleek, black and glossy, it was starkly modern with lots of glass and with a car park for around thirty cars in front.
The glossy theme continued inside. The floor was black marble, as was the large reception desk. Casey thought it somewhat funereal, as all the black was only relieved by modern, abstract pictures which, from what he gleaned by a quick peer at the paintings, were by Jackson Pollock. Piles of the firm's literature were heaped on the small tables dotting the reception area. He helped himself to one of each before he crossed to the reception desk. After producing his ID and telling the elegant, much-painted young woman behind the desk that he needed to speak to Mr Oliver's secretary — thinking she would be the quickest route to finding out about Oliver's business affairs — he was instructed to sit down while she rang through to the secretary’s office. He settled down to reading the firm's literature while he waited.
It seemed Oliver's International dealt in the import of decorative exotica from around the world; everything from African wooden masks to rugs and other textiles, as well as skilfully crafted metalwork from India and the Middle East. The business was aimed at the wealthy and successful and its goods seemed to be priced accordingly, as per a separate price list which Casey had picked up. Briefly, he wondered if their imports had included drugs: it would certainly explain the gangland appearance of Oliver's killing. But before he ventured down that road he wanted to find out a lot more about the victim and his lifestyle. Certainly, from what they had learned so far they had a more than sufficient number of potential suspects for the moment without seeking out Colombian drug barons.
The office of Caroline Everett, Oliver's secretary, was also large and glossy. It adjoined Oliver’s. She proved very helpful once she got over the shock of her boss's murder. She was an attractive girl, a strawberry blonde with a willowy figure, but given Oliver's propensity for numerous affairs, which propensity Casey was gradually coming to accept, he supposed it was a prerequisite that his female staff should be young and good-looking.
Once seated in her office, Casey asked Ms Everett if Gus Oliver had had any rancorous disputes with one or more of his rival business acquaintances that might have led to his brutal death.
To Casey's surprise, she said, ‘I’m afraid so.’ Her accompanying smile was long-suffering and wry. 'I don't like to speak ill of the dead and he wasn't a bad boss to work for, but if you were a business rival who trod on his corns — look out.’ She sat down behind her desk and invited Casey to take a chair.
‘Mr Oliver could be ruthless. He liked to get his own way and often played dirty. He loved nothing better than a good row, the more acrimonious the better. He was always involved in some dispute or other. In fact, we're currently involved in several court cases.’
‘Is that so?’ Casey sat up and whipped out his notebook. ‘I'd appreciate the details of the other parties and what the disputes were about.’
They didn't take long to produce. Casey returned his notebook to his pocket as Caroline quickly typed the details and the nature of the various disputes and printed them out. Attractive and efficient, was Casey's thought. Not a common mix. Beautiful people, in his experience, were seldom expected to be other than decorative. But he supposed Gus Oliver had been the sort of man to demand the best in all things. Competence, like beauty, was undoubtedly another prerequisite.
‘You said Mr Oliver wasn't a bad boss to work for,’ Casey remarked.
‘That's right. Most of the time, anyway. It was only when he got deeply involved in some rancorous dispute that he could become snappy. But, on the whole, once he'd got over the fact that I had no intention of joining his harem, he wasn't a bad boss to work for.’
‘So you knew about his infidelities?’
‘Hard not to as I was the one deputed to buying Valentine's cards and birthday flowers and jewellery.’
‘What about his wife? Did you know her well?’
Caroline shook her head. ‘Hardly at all. She rarely came to the office and telephoned almost as seldom. As far as I could tell they mostly seemed to lead separate lives.’
‘Did she know about her husband's affairs?’
‘I've no idea. But she must have done, surely? As I said, I can't know for sure, but it seems likely given the amount of time he must have spent away from home at evenings and weekends. I know the frequency because, of course, I booked the flights and hotel rooms. But Mrs Oliver is not a gossipy woman. She's always been perfectly civil to me but we never got on first name terms. Not that she rang very often. I've always thought her quite a formal, reserved type. Maybe the neighbours will know more?’
Casey doubted it from what Alice Oliver had said. ‘Perhaps you could supply me with a list of your boss's lady friends?’ It would be interesting to see if the list Caroline supplied matched the list they had already compiled from the phone calls made by Oliver's various female acquaintances.
List in hand, he thanked Caroline Everett for her help and made for the car park. Later, they would have to go through Oliver's office files and see if they discovered more likely killers amongst the paperwork. But, for the meantime, they had enough, between his love trysts and his business disputes, to keep them busy.
Chapter Eight
As Casey, assisted by the wind which was still blowing with gusto, walked back to the car to return to the station, he acknowledged that he and Catt would need to speak to Mrs Oliver again and find out what — if anything — she knew about her husband's extramarital affairs.
But first, they would concentrate on the ladies who had so carelessly telephoned without taking the precaution of using a public phone or of dialling 141 on their home phones to conceal their identity. He'd let Catt finish checking them out before he spoke to Mrs Oliver again and see if they could provide alibis. It would be interesting to get Catt's take on the women. Any who failed to provide a verifiable alibi he would go to see himself.
On the drive back to the station, he mused about the case. On the face of it, by ringing the incident room to tell them of the dead man's identity, these women friends of Oliver's had given themselves the aura of innocence. 'I rang you as soon as I recognized him,’ they would say, ‘but as for knowing anything about his death ...'
But it was an innocence Casey put no trust in. Because innocent or guilty, each of the women must secretly believe that their liaisons with Oliver would come out. If one of the women had murdered him, by phoning in, they were covering their tracks and making themselves appear virtuous by helping the police in their investigation. More suspicious for them not to telephone, they would surely have thought, when Gus Oliver's photo had received such wide publicity in the local media and their identities had been known to Oliver’s secretary.
Once back at the station and before he left again to attend the post mortem, Casey rang the three business rivals with whom Oliver had been in dispute to make appointments. He wondered how Catt was getting on in questioning Oliver's harem. More ladies had since rung in, so he hoped Catt would be able to quickly eliminate one or two of those from the first list. But he didn't worry about it unduly. He'd find out the results of Catt's interviews soon enough. Meanwhile, he had interviews of his own to arrange. He'd told Catt he'd see him at the mortuary. He would speak to his sergeant after the PM and find out what he had discovered.
Dr Merriman adjusted the microphone under his chin and began the post-mortem. Not by nature a garrulous
or sociable man, he didn't pause to provide asides to Casey and Catt; rather, once he'd identified the cadaver on the slab and given his measurements, he directed all his words to the mike.
‘Deep knife wound to the left groin area. Femoral artery severed, which is the probable cause of death. A kitchen carving knife could have done it. He would have bled to death fairly rapidly. The removal of the victim's penis looks to have occurred after death, but I'll confirm that one after toxicological analysis. The hypostasis evidence shows the victim was moved after death and didn't die in the alleyway where his body was found.’ Dr Merriman's thin, dry voice droned remorselessly on. As usual, he had been noncommittal at the murder scene, but now, with the post mortem underway, he confirmed his previous suspicions with that irritating, lecturing tone that had always grated on Casey. But he didn't let his feelings show any more than Merriman. He simply watched, impassively, as Merriman made his first, long incision, from chest to groin.
Unusually for him, Casey had begun to drift off. He now had a definite cause of death as well as the identity of the victim. Dr Merriman had already confirmed his findings that the victim had been dead for between forty-eight and sixty hours when he had been found. Now all he lacked was the location of the murder and its perpetrator. Although he had little liking for the pathologist, Casey was grateful to him for confirming the body had been moved after death. It might just reduce the number of suspects who could have relocated it. And even if it didn't do that, any car used in its transportation would surely not escape without some bloodstains.
The post mortem eventually drew to a close. Casey and Catt left immediately, Merriman being no more inclined to chat after the procedure than he was during it. Anyway, they had their answers.
A Killing Karma Page 7
