by Deborah Lucy
Temple went outside into an office area to write up his notes and make calls. Yardley joined him an hour later.
‘So Inspector, I can confirm cause of death as strangulation. It appears that her windpipe was compressed, which would have prevented her from drawing in any air and although there is some local bruising, I’ve seen a lot worse. This isn’t a throttling. This was quite a controlled act; consciousness would have been lost as quickly as ten to twenty or so seconds.’
‘Could this have occurred during sex?’ Temple asked.
‘Well, we know she had sex prior to death, she was tied when found and there is nothing under her fingernails to suggest any sign of a struggle prior to them being tied. However, there is significant bruising where the ties held her arms to the bed – and the ankles I might add, suggesting they were tied too at some point and also suggesting some resistance to the ties – but there are no other significant bruises on her body, all of which may suggest some compliance with the act. This could very well be a case of auto-erotic asphyxiation. I’m inclined to bet she was strangled by someone who knew what they were doing. What I mean is, knew where to put their hands – their thumbs have found the windpipe and closed it off spectacularly. Your victim would not have had much of a chance of a struggle and death would have occurred quite quickly, I’m talking seconds not minutes.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’
‘Well, it depends. It’s a possibility that during the throes of passion they got carried away and forgot the release … that’s one for you. But if she hadn’t been restrained and she wasn’t compliant, we would have been looking at a significantly different scene. As I said, there is an amount of bruising from the ties that bound her so that would have restricted her movements somewhat.’
‘Sex after death?’ asked Temple.
‘Not sure about that. It floats some people’s boat I know.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
It was early evening when Temple left the mortuary and drove back to Marlborough Police Station to meet Sloper and Kelly for a debrief. During the drive, he turned the post mortem over in his mind. Bruising from being tied to the bed. Who had been with her? Not her husband by all accounts. Strangled during sex. He’d get a DNA profile at least. Pregnant, Yardley had said. He’d also get a DNA profile on the foetus. He touched the radio button. The sound of Andy Williams came out. ‘Oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you stay, and let me love you, baby, let me love you …’
Temple pulled his car into the nick. He found Sloper and Kelly in the main office where Sloper was writing Greta’s details on a whiteboard. Temple informed them of the results of the post mortem and Sloper recounted details of the initial statement he had taken from Dianna Forrester.
‘I felt sorry for her. There’s no love lost between her and Brett Forrester, or it seems, between her and Greta. She says she hasn’t seen Forrester for many years and she refused to go to Greta and Maxwell’s wedding. Brett Forrester walked out on her when Greta was two years old. She was young and inexperienced when they married. He was a journalist and went away for long stretches at a time, trying to carve his career. She says he went away one day and basically never came back. Her relationship with Greta was difficult; Dianna Forrester is quite a religious woman, a practising Catholic and Greta was convent educated.
‘She describes Greta as quite a wilful and wayward child and admits that she brought her up quite strictly. After Brett walked out, Dianna and Greta lived with Dianna’s father, a retired Army Major. Yes, Forrester sent money to her, but he never came back. It appears that Greta rebelled against the constraints of the convent and home life. The usual stuff; truancy, wearing make-up, then boyfriends – Dianna says that she was strict with her because she was obviously pretty and became more so in her early teens. But she says she also found her difficult to control, that she was moody, which she put down to her being a stroppy teenager. At some point, Greta ran away from home and turned up at her father’s home in London. He was a photographer and journalist. Dianna Forrester described him as selfish and self-absorbed.’ Sloper continued to read from his notes. ‘Seems then, from about aged fifteen, Greta moved in with her father. Having tracked him down, after all those years, he welcomes her with open arms. Greta practically shut her mother out after that. I’ve run him through PNC, no show.’ Sloper finished and turned his attention again to the whiteboard, before finishing. ‘She’s right uptight and despite her quiet demeanour, I bet she could be a bitch when the situation demanded.’
‘She’s just lost her daughter …’ stated Kelly, wide eyed, expecting more respect for the victim’s mother.
‘I’m telling you what I think. Giving you the benefit of my experience, take it or leave it, love …’ Sloper answered, turning back to the whiteboard.
Ignoring the pair, Temple remembered how Brett Forrester looked when he told him he would need to question him about Greta. He logged onto a computer and put Forrester’s name into Google. Described as a gifted and award winning photographer, Temple discovered he had freelanced for all the major press outlets: Reuters, Associated Press, The Times, the Press Association and National Geographic.
He found numerous entries of examples of Forrester’s work from around the world, including Northern Ireland in 1981 when, for The Times, Forrester had photographed the inside of an IRA stronghold, complete with hooded men standing with their weapons drawn facing the camera. He had also been to Sudan, Israel, Palestine, Mexico and Columbia, covering internal conflicts and all manner of drug barons, as well as being in a party of journalists who travelled from Bangkok to the Thai border at the end of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Temple found a photo of him dated 1979, taken in Palestine; the suntanned and bearded Forrester was pictured on a dust track, in front of a car shot through with bullets, wearing a black and white shemagh around his neck, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his camera slung over his shoulder. Forrester was right. He had seen it all, he was fearless. He would be, after seeing all that. Then by contrast, from 2000, his photographic work began to feature women and be exhibited in art galleries.
‘Well, we’ll get Brett Forrester’s side of the story tomorrow. In the meantime, capture all this about him.’
‘Irene Creswell gave me some interesting stuff, boss,’ Kelly followed on, looking at the screen over Temple’s shoulder.
Sloper turned to watch her. She was irritating him and he couldn’t quite nail why. She was slim and well dressed in her aubergine coloured trouser suit, he’d give her that. A lot of the women at work, especially policewomen, dressed like maiden aunts in his experience. But there was something that irked him. As he watched her, he knew what it was. Ambition. That was it. There was nothing worse, a pretty dyke with ambition. He’d seen it before. They’d stab you in the back to get a pencil, rather than ask you for it, he thought.
‘Greta and Maxwell had been married for twelve years; his son James is from his first marriage to his wife, Olivia. She was an air hostess and drowned in a swimming pool in Saudi Arabia when their son was three years old.’
Temple and Sloper exchanged knowing looks. Sloper wrote in his notebook, just as a mobile went off in his pocket. He ignored it, leaving it to ring as Kelly spoke.
‘Greta and Maxwell married within a year of meeting; she was also an air hostess. James goes to boarding school, coming home most weekends, Irene says that Greta told her he would not be home this weekend as he was staying with one of his friends instead. She’s been cleaning for them for six years, starting when Greta was still flying; she stayed on when Greta gave up work four years ago.’
‘Did she say why she gave up work?’ asked Temple.
‘No, and I didn’t ask, sorry, boss,’ replied Kelly, annoyed at herself. Sloper snorted and muttered under his breath, taking his two mobiles out to check for the caller.
‘That’s all right, we’ll find out,’ Temple reassured her, watching Sloper.
Kelly carried on. ‘She felt there had been a change i
n the relationship between Maxwell and Greta in the last eighteen months, with Maxwell spending more time away, leaving Greta on her own. She also said, pointing to her head, that Greta was a bit troubled. She wouldn’t say any more than that on the matter. A regular visitor to the house when Maxwell is away is his friend, Jonathan Silvester. He’s a retired pilot and dabbles in investments, she thinks he managed some of Maxwell’s money for him. Greta has a girlfriend, Caroline Black, another hostess, who she says she saw intermittently; they travelled the world together when Greta was working. With time on her hands, Irene says that Greta ‘got about a bit’ with other men, one being the local builder. Despite all this though, Irene says she liked her. Greta treated her well, gave her stuff, bits of jewellery, handbags. She said she loved working for her because it gave her a window to a different world.’
‘Thanks, Kelly, that’s great. We’ll need to follow up the friend and the builder. We also need to find out what happened in Saudi Arabia – Ashton-Jones has got two dead wives now – that gives us an obvious insurance motive and puts him at the top of the list as a suspect. Anything on the other actions?’
Sloper nodded. ‘I’ve pulled a favour with the Financial Crime Unit and they’ve come up with some initial inquiries into bank accounts. Maxwell has a joint bank account with Greta and also a separate one, using the middle name of Thomas to distinguish the two. There’s also a savings account in this name too. They’re not short of a bob or two, either; there’s about £25k in the joint bank account and £200k in the single bank account, with £96k in the single savings account. There’s signs of investments in an offshore account which we probably won’t be able to access, so who knows how much that’s holding.’
‘Nice work. We need to find out how much the insurance paid out for the first Mrs Ashton-Jones and what Greta is insured for. Let’s find out how he’s getting all this money. How the other half live,’ said Temple, drily. ‘What about Maxwell’s movements, Si?’
‘Well, BA have provided me with an itinerary. Maxwell would have been away for nine days but that’ll be cut short. He left Gatwick on Thursday evening at 21.45, arriving at Singapore at 10.30 on Friday for a forty-eight hour stopover. He left for Sydney at 12.05 on Sunday afternoon, arriving at Sydney at 19.50. He’s actually in Sydney now on a further forty-eight hour stopover. I explained the situation to the head of their HR. They are going to break the news to him and ring me when he’s on the plane back. We can then make arrangements for him to be met this end. I reckon we’ll be seeing him in twenty-four hours.’
‘OK, when they ring you back I want to know how he took the news. So at the time of Greta’s death, he would have been in Singapore?’ Temple asked.
‘By my reckoning, yes,’ said Sloper, ‘on a forty-eight hour stopover before going on. It actually takes twelve hours give or take, from here to Singapore. I’ll see what I can find out about Saudi – I’ll start with the coroner’s office.’
‘We need to make sure we capture all this stuff.’ Temple reached inside his pocket to answer his mobile. It was PC Gregory on scene guard duty.
‘Sir, I’ve got a guy here called Marcus Hussain, he’s turned up in the red Porsche. I thought I’d better let you know.’
CHAPTER 7
THE PORSCHE WAS parked opposite the gates of Wedwellow House when Temple arrived. In the dark he could see there was a man standing next to PC Gregory. Temple approached the pair, as Kelly and Sloper drew up behind and joined him. Marcus Hussain, dressed in a sharp suit, was handcuffed and clearly agitated by the situation he found himself in.
‘Marcus Hussain, sir,’ said Gregory, addressing Temple. ‘I have detained this man under Section 1 of the Theft Act.’
‘I want to make a complaint,’ spat Hussain.
‘You can take the handcuffs off, Gregory,’ instructed Temple. ‘We’re dealing with a major incident at this address, sir, a murder, in fact.’
‘Murder?’ Hussain repeated, his eyes widening.
‘Yes, Mr Hussain,’ replied Temple, satisfied that he had said enough to distract Hussain from pursuing any grievance with Gregory.
In his late twenties, Hussain was neatly groomed with close cropped hair and a sharply tailored electric blue suit. There was a gold ring on his little finger and a gold chain visible at his expensive, open neck, black striped shirt. Temple immediately sensed his self-assured, cocky attitude.
‘This car, does it belong to Greta Ashton-Jones?’
Hussain made a show of rubbing his wrists before he answered.
‘Yes, I’m bringing it back for her, it’s been at the garage. I’m the assistant manager at the Green Range Porsche garage at Great Western Way in Swindon.’ He drew himself up to his full height as he spoke.
‘It’s quarter to ten in the evening – do you usually work this late?’ asked Temple.
‘Greta’s an important client. It was actually before nine when I got here but this monkey wouldn’t let me through the gates,’ replied Hussain, staring at PC Gregory.
‘When did you last see Mrs Ashton-Jones?’
‘Saturday evening,’ replied Hussain. ‘Look, who’s dead, who’s been murdered?’
‘At what time?’ Temple asked, ignoring the question.
‘I don’t know, man,’ replied Hussain.
‘I think you do,’ said Temple.
‘I don’t.’ Hussain’s voice was rising.
‘That’s quite an expensive watch you’ve got there on your wrist, are you trying to tell me that you don’t use it?’ Temple asked.
‘Look, I don’t know what time I saw her, all right.’
‘Mr Hussain, you probably have important information in relation to my inquiry and you’ve turned up in the victim’s car. You’re obstructing my inquiries. You’re coming with us to the station.’
‘Hey, hang on, hang on, man,’ Hussain protested, as Sloper and Kelly moved in to take hold of Hussain. ‘What victim? D’you mean Greta? Get off me. Are you talking about Greta?’ Hussain was working himself up.
‘Greta Ashton-Jones has been found murdered at this address. You had her car and you’ve come back to the scene and are not cooperating. You’re being arrested on suspicion of theft.’
Hussain was left speechless as Sloper and Kelly put him into their car and drove off to Gable Cross Police Station on the outskirts of Swindon. Temple joined Sloper and Kelly in the custody suite.
‘He’s been processed, boss, and he’s in the interview room,’ said Kelly. ‘We’ve got his clothes, DNA and a photograph.’
‘Right, I’ll go in and interview him, you and Sloper go and carry out a Section 18 search at his house.’
Temple entered the interview room and sat down. He unwrapped the cellophane from a pair of discs.
‘Do you want legal representation, Marcus?’ asked Temple.
‘I don’t need it, man, because you’re going to let me go,’ he said quietly.
‘It’ll speed up your release from custody if we can commence this interview now. Just so that you know, I’ve instructed my officers to conduct a search of your home address …’
‘Oh fucking hell, man.’ Hussain rose in his seat. ‘You’ve got no right, you need a warrant. I haven’t done anything.’
‘You watch too much telly, mate. Now, sit down and tell me about Greta Ashton-Jones.’
‘Look, I’m no murderer, why would I kill Greta? I thought she was great, she was beautiful …’ Hussain’s voice trailed off.
‘Did you have a sexual relationship with her?’
‘No, it was a strictly professional relationship.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ replied Temple.
‘Look, man, I want a brief now, we’re having no more parley until I get one.’
‘OK by me, we’ll take you to a cell and you can wait for one to turn up.’
While waiting for the solicitor, Kelly returned to the station from Hussain’s address in Swindon.
‘Sloper sent me back with this, boss, thought you might want it for y
our interview.’ She handed Temple a sealed bag with an A4 brown envelope and some latex gloves for him to take out the contents. Temple pulled out a series of A4 photographs.
‘Just what I needed. The lying bastard.’
‘We’ve also found a small amount of cocaine, enough for personal use.’
With a solicitor representing him, within the hour, Marcus Hussain was brought back to the interview room. Hussain was keen to get the interview over and be released. In company with Sloper and with a series of sealed bags resting on the table in front of him, Temple began his questioning again.
‘Marcus, the last time we sat here an hour and a half ago, I asked you if you’d had sexual relations with Greta Ashton-Jones. You told me you had a strictly professional relationship with her. Is that a true representation of what you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to change that response?’
‘No,’ replied Hussain, locking eyes with Temple.
‘Officers have searched your home and during the course of their search, they have found this envelope. Do you know what’s in here?’ Temple pushed a sealed evidence bag containing the envelope across the table.
Hussain looked at the ceiling.
‘Yes, I know what’s in there.’
‘Perhaps you can tell us what the contents are?’
‘You fucking know what the contents are, man, you’ve been looking through all my personal stuff.’
‘Can you tell me what was in the envelope, Marcus?’ Temple’s tone was calm in contrast to Hussain, who was becoming more and more agitated.
‘You know what’s in the fucking envelope, man. Photographs. Of me and Greta. Having a fuck in Savernake Forest.’
Temple slowly placed a sealed bag containing each photograph onto the table in front of Hussain.
‘So, you lied to me. And do you know what I’m thinking now, Marcus? If you lied to me about that, you could be lying to me about the last time you saw Greta.’
‘Look, man, I did see Greta on Saturday, about 7 p.m. and I left her at the house. I didn’t tell you about us because for one, she’s married and two, my boss has warned me not to get involved with clients or I’ll be fired.’
