Casey joined the crowd. He was surprised to see Roger Meredith in the crush; he wouldn't have thought the rugby-playing Meredith inclined toward the arts. He was in deep conversation with another man at the corner of the bar. Casey edged closer to try to overhear what they were saying, but all it turned out to be was one of those rugger buggers' conversations about the merits of various wing-halves. He turned away before he was seen and, moving to the other end of the bar, he finally managed to attract the barman's attention and order a tonic water. Casey, unlike Catt, made it a point to never drink and drive.
The bell for the end of the interval rang soon after and he was carried along by the crowd back to the auditorium. He found his seat, and prepared to enjoy the orchestra's rendition of Brahms, but he found himself nodding off barely halfway through the piece and shrugged himself awake. It wouldn't do for Rachel to spot his drooping head. Even though she was unlikely to see him in the dim theatre, Casey sat up straighter and concentrated. He smiled at Rachel's serious face above her violin, her concentration fierce on her music; she made it a point to ignore the conductor as much as possible, Casey noted with amusement as he watched her. He found himself relaxing and getting into the music. The orchestra was good and the audience was appreciative in their applause as the concert drew to a close.
Casey fought his way against the human tide to the stage and caught up with Rachel before she disappeared into the wings.
‘Why didn't you say you were coming?’ Rachel asked. ‘I'd have got you a front row seat.’
And catch me snoozing? Casey thought. 'I didn't know I'd be able to make it,’ he excused himself. ‘You were good. I enjoyed it. And knowing how hungry you always are after a concert, I thought I'd take you for a meal.’
‘Great. Just give me time to get changed and I'm all yours.’
She disappeared into the wings and Casey waited. She was soon back, carrying her cased violin and the black dress she had performed in. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as they left the theatre and made for the car.
'A little place Catt told me about,’ he told her. ‘New restaurant. Just opened.’ Catt knew all the best haunts in the surrounding area; given his multiplicity of girlfriends, such knowledge was essential to his love life, or so he believed.
Not long after, they were seated at a table for two at a small Italian restaurant that exuded intimacy. Romantic Italian ballads wafted their love themes around the room followed by attentive waiters. They ordered spaghetti and Chianti. It wasn't long before Rachel asked him about his parents and their dilemma.
Casey shrugged, poured Rachel more wine and wound some spaghetti around his fork. ‘Nothing much to tell, beyond the fact their suspicions of one another seem to be growing. Oh, and two of commune have cleared out, bag and baggage.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Funnily enough, it's the two I had least reason to suspect of murder. The two homosexuals, Randy Matthews and Scott Johnson.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Why didn't you suspect them, Will? Because they're queer? You should play in the orchestra and see just how queer men can nurse grudges. Some of them have come to blows over accusations of getting off with one another's boyfriend.’
'I don't doubt it. No, it's not because they're homosexual. It's because, when I saw them, they were so clearly wrapped up in one another there could have been no room for anyone else, not even in the free-loving commune in which they lived. They didn't seem to take any interest in the murders, they never asked me one question, unlike the others; it's as if they thought the killings were nothing to do with them.’
‘They seem to have thought it enough to do with them to do a bunk,’ was Rachel's response.
'Touché.' He poured Rachel another glass of wine — her thirst after performing under the hot lights was always as strong as her appetite for food. Casey just sipped at his water, as one glass of wine was all he allowed himself whilst driving..
‘So, have you any idea where they might have gone?’
‘No. But Moon seemed of the opinion they would be somewhere that didn't feature muddy fields and caravans.’
‘That gives you plenty of scope.’
Casey nodded and addressed himself to his spaghetti, glad it wasn't he who was responsible for finding the errant pair.
They didn't linger long over their meal. They were both tired and a reasonably early night beckoned.
The following morning brought the news that Max Fallon hadn't remained in his nightclub till the early hours of Saturday morning as he had claimed. One of his neighbours said he had passed Fallon around nine fifteen on Friday evening, close to the alley where Oliver had been found. Had he been leaving the scene of the crime? Casey wondered. Unlucky for Fallon if so and that he had been spotted, and spotted by someone with reason to recognise him.
The demands of the case had interrupted Catt's viewing of the CCTV footage, so he was, as yet, unable to confirm the sighting from the tapes.
‘I'll get straight back to it as soon as we've spoken to Fallon,’ Catt promised. ‘Though now his neighbour has confirmed where and when he saw Fallon and that he was driving his own car when he spotted him, it'll be quicker.’
Casey nodded, though the knowledge made him uneasy. If Fallon had left his club with the intention of waylaying and murdering Gus Oliver, it was strange that he hadn't taken the precaution of borrowing the car of one of his staff as the superintendent had suggested he might. It would have been the sensible course to follow.
Fallon was still at his kitchen table enjoying a late and leisurely breakfast when Casey and Catt arrived at his home. The kitchen, more tastefully furnished than the living room, with its granite worktops, huge American fridge and bright red Aga, spoke as loudly of money as the rest of their home.
Carole Brown propped herself against the double sink after she had let them in, careful, this time, to keep her black eye turned away from them.
‘Glad we managed to catch you, Mr Fallon,' Casey told him.
Fallon’s gaze narrowed at this. It was almost as if a guilty conscience had made him assume Casey was alluding to Oliver's murder when it came to ‘catching’ him. Now, why should that be? he wondered.
Fallon folded his newspaper and asked with a studied casualness, ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ It was apparent that doing anything for them was the last thing on his mind.
‘Perhaps you can clear something up for us,’ Casey began. ‘You told us you were in your nightclub until the early hours last Saturday morning. Yet now we learn that you were seen much earlier, in your car close to the scene where Mr Oliver's body was found. Perhaps you can explain this discrepancy?’
Max Fallon chewed on a piece of toast while he considered his answer. Then he said, ‘Whoever told you that must be mistaken. Mine isn't the only silver Porsche about, you know. I presume you’ve already questioned my staff and they confirmed what I told you. I don't know what else I can say.’
So he was going to deny it. Casey could only hope the evidence turned up on the CCTV footage that Catt had yet to check. ‘We are investigating a particularly vicious murder, sir,’ Casey reminded him. Fallon simply continued to munch on his toast. ‘What clothes were you wearing that night?’
‘My usual rig. A monkey suit. I like to look the part as my club attracts high-end punters.’
The latter caused Casey to smother a smile. Self-absorbed as he was, Fallon had failed to catch it.
‘They expect the owner to take some trouble.’
Someone had certainly taken trouble in killing Gus Oliver, Casey thought. Was Fallon the type, he wondered, to commit such a vicious crime? Or maybe, as Catt had suggested, whatever he had done in the past, these days he would be more likely to pay one of his violent criminal associates to dispose of his love rival for him. Fallon struck him as the type who had learned to keep his nose clean when possible; not for him the night in the cells on suspicion. And he would be sure to have an expensive brief to get him out of such insalubrious surroundings i
f ever he were again careless enough to find himself cautioned and locked up.
Carole Brown had been silent during this exchange. Now she spoke up, turning towards them so the black eye was in evidence. And in spite of the yellowing remains of the black eye arguing the contrary, she told them defiantly, ‘My Max isn't a violent man, Chief Inspector. He wouldn't kill anyone. Surely, you must have someone else, someone of a violent tendency, to get your claws into?’
‘I'm not “getting my claws”, as you put it, into anyone, Ms Brown. I just want to know why Mr Fallon lied.’
‘What do you expect him to do when you come round to our home virtually accusing him of murder?’
'I expect him to tell the truth like any other law-abiding citizen. Besides, I don't think any accusations of murder have been levelled at Mr Fallon,' Casey pointed out.
‘Not yet, no. But you police have a down on him because he has money and a nice life, not to mention his own string of nightclubs. It's just jealousy.’
While Casey wouldn't mind being wealthy — who wouldn't? — owning a string of nightclubs had never featured as an ambition. It was clear that neither Fallon nor Carole Brown were about to break down and sob out a confession. So unless they found another witness who saw Fallon with the victim, or the CCTV footage confirmed the neighbour's story, they were stumped for the present.
‘What now?’ Catt asked after they had left Fallon and his girlfriend and were in the car, considering their options. Decisively, he added, ‘You can get back to studying the camera footage.’
Catt, who far preferred to be out and about, gave a disgruntled nod.
’As for me, I’m going to organise another house-to-house. There's sure to have been some neighbours we missed first time around, such as teenagers, for instance, hanging around near that alley on Friday evening who saw Max Fallon. His car wasn't bought for invisibility.’
The silver Porsche was parked in the drive; beside it, Carole Brown's more humble hatchback looked like the poor relation. ‘By the way,’ Casey added, ‘you know I visited the commune again last night?’
'Yes.' Clearly still disgruntled at again being lumbered with studying the tapes, Catt added, 'I hope you didn't bring any fleas back with you.’
‘Moon would probably have demanded them back if I had,’ Casey responded lightly, determined not to let Catt rub him up the wrong way. ‘She seems to have become very keen on personal possessions all of a sudden. Anyway, it seems two of the commune’s members have decamped from their love-in: Randy Matthews and his lover Scott Johnson.’
‘First I've heard of it,’ Catt muttered in aggrieved tones.
‘Your Lincolnshire contact will probably confirm it for you. They only left yesterday morning. The police hadn't been round to check on their possible whereabouts by the time I left. They mightn't have gone far. Hopefully, the official investigators will turn them up shortly.’
‘Any idea why they left?’
‘Not really. Though young Randy struck me as the nervy type. Moon told me he tried to persuade Scott Johnson to leave with him before, but Scott convinced him they should stay. Randy must have worked on him as the tempers got more frazzled.’
Casey turned on the ignition and drove off the apartments' frontage and on to the road. ‘We’ll get back to the station. Checking out the CCTV footage is the priority for now. I need someone I can rely on to check it out.’ Casey smiled to himself as, beside him, Catt sat up straighter ‘If it corroborates the neighbour's story, Fallon will have some questions to answer.’
'I suggested to my contact that the Lincolnshire cops do DNA tests on the hippie lot,’ Catt told him. ‘But they'd already put it in motion.’
‘Good,’ said Casey. ‘Though we mustn't rely too much on the results. We know there are several possible scenarios over the two commune murders: that DaisyMay was having an affair with Callender and Dylan found out about it; that Kali found out about it — and while it might seem that there was little love lost between Kali and her husband, she didn't strike me as the type to take any infidelity lying down. She'd strike back, probably by trying some infidelity of her own, but it's possible she thought murder good enough for him. Lastly — and this applies to any member of the commune — that one of them took great exception to Kris Callender cheating them over their produce, such as it was, and decided he had to go — permanently.’
‘Still leaves the field wide open,’ Catt remarked.
'Mmm,' was all Casey said. The worst of it was, Casey thought as they arrived at the station and he parked up, that the latter equation still left Moon and Star in the frame along with the rest of them.
Once back in Casey's office and before Catt went off to finish his study of the camera tapes, they discussed their official investigation.
‘Interesting that Max Fallon lied to us,’ Catt remarked. ‘There would have been enough people about to take note of his fancy car. It was stupid of him.’
‘True. And he doesn't strike me as a stupid man. Over-confident, perhaps.’
‘Probably liked to think he'd got one over on the idiot plods,’ said Catt.
‘True again. Let's hope the knowledge that we know about his little drive shakes some of his confidence. Anyway, he's still a definite possible. Let's consider the rest: Carole Brown; Sarah and Carl Garrett; Roger and Amanda Meredith; and Mrs Oliver. Somehow, I can't see this as a woman's crime, even if one or all of them had discovered he was cheating on them with other women. Besides, two of them are small and slim and surely easily disarmed. Which leaves us with Fallon and the other two men, neither of whose alibis is strong. We'll need to dig a little deeper and see if we can't unearth some motive; maybe the same motive as applies to Fallon—’
‘That he passed on a dose of clap to their partners.’ Catt nodded and swigged his machine tea. ‘Though I can't see that forming a motive for murder, especially as it's easy enough to cure.’
‘An embarrassing condition, though,’ Casey pointed out.
‘Being seen going into the clap clinic, you mean?’
Casey nodded. ‘Particularly for a successful man like Fallon.’
‘Surely he would get the cure from a private quack? He's not likely to mingle with the diseased proles at an NHS clinic. Want me to check out if he's a private patient with one of the local doctors?’
Casey nodded. ‘Do that after you've finished with the tapes.’ Casey glanced at his in-tray; more statements awaited his attention. ‘While you're doing that, I'll make a start on this lot.’
Catt was soon back, clearly having disregarded Casey's instructions on the order of his priorities. 'Yep,' he said. 'Fallon had a private quack and the bastard’s discretion itself. Insisted I made an appointment to see him.’
‘Have you done so?’
Catt nodded. ‘It's for two days' hence.’
‘Check out Carole Brown too. I want medical confirmation that they were both infected, rather than just take their word for it, which they could retract at any time. If Fallon's doctor doesn't confide in us, we might have more luck with Ms Brown's doctor — I don't suppose she attended the private practice.’
Catt grinned. ‘Psychic, me. I've beaten you to it. I've already asked and you suppose right. Seems Fallon wasn't only tight-fisted about the car she drove. She's with an NHS practice in the town. I checked.’
‘And what did you find out?’
'I was lucky. Her doctor's young and hasn't yet learned how to erect a wall against unwanted questions. And although she didn't actually confirm that Ms Brown had caught a dose of the clap, her manner more than gave the game away. So it seems likely she did infect Max Fallon as she claimed.’
‘Interesting that she should have been so quick to admit it. Makes you wonder why she did so.’
‘If she knew about Oliver's death, could be she wanted to place Fallon under suspicion in payment for the black eye.’
‘Maybe. Strange, though, if he's the guilty party that he should also be so ready to admit to having caught the disea
se.’
Catt shrugged and made for the door. ‘I’ll get back to studying those tapes.’
Half an hour later, Catt interrupted Casey's unproductive study of the latest reports from the house-to-house teams by bursting into the office. ‘Guess what? We've only had a result on the CCTV footage. Who do you think I spotted in his fancy silver Porsche not a million miles from where Gus Oliver was found?’
'Fallon.' Casey smiled. Got him, he thought. But even as he had the thought, the fact that Fallon had taken his own car niggled him. Surely, if he had set out with murder in mind, he would have taken the precaution of using a car that was more pedestrian in appearance? The dimmest criminal knew he would be caught on camera several times when driving around the town. Why make himself so conspicuous? Perhaps the man was simply playing with him . . .
But if Casey had doubts about these latest findings it seemed Catt had none.
'I reckon the man's too cocky for his own good. Let him argue with this evidence. This time it won't just be a case of his word and that of his staff against his neighbour. Do you want me to have him brought in for questioning?’
'I certainly do. As you said, ThomCatt, let him lie his way out of this evidence.’ Catt's reaction to this latest news made Casey question his own response. But, at the very least, it would rattle the man. Which, if he was their murderer, was all to the good.
Max Fallon didn't even try to pretend he hadn't lied. He merely shrugged and said, ‘Okay. I admit it. I popped out for some air. The club was packed and I had a headache, so I drove around the town for a bit to see if I could clear it. That's all. The lie was worth a try to get myself off your suspect list. But I didn't kill Oliver and your CCTV footage can't prove I did. If a man can't drive around his hometown without having accusations hurled at him—’
'I don't think I accused you of anything, Mr Fallon,’ Casey said. ‘But the evidence puts you in the right vicinity at the right time.’ And he had had the means and the motive to go with the opportunity.
Fallon’s lip curled. 'A mere coincidence. And why am I supposed to have murdered him? Tell me that. Because he gave my girlfriend the clap?’ Fallon laughed. ‘Carole's history anyway and so I told her before I left the apartment. She can pass her disgusting diseases on to some other poor guy. This one's taken the cure and will soon be back on the market.’
A Killing Karma Page 15
