“The ability to discern patterns and relationships amidst a chaos of clues is the hallmark of a good detective, Evans.”
She flushed but didn’t say anything.
“By coincidence, it turns out that Morton had a business interest in the very development scheme you alluded to.”
“You once told me that you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“In this case, I’m not so sure … It also seems that Morton had a predilection for ladies of the evening; it may be that one of them didn’t appreciate his critical review of her performance.”
Evans looked doubtful. “A little drastic, don’t you think?”
“You never know—a woman scorned …”
She ignored this. “Did he have his wallet on him?”
“You impress me, Evans. Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.”
Sarah pondered this for a moment. “I used to read Morton’s column occasionally for a laugh. It seems to me that he often referred to a companion—you know, ‘my companion had to endure the execrable escargot’ sort of thing. It might be interesting to find out who she was and what she thought about his extracurricular activities.”
“That’s a good point, although his housekeeper maintains that no one would put up with him.”
“I’m not surprised.” She paused thoughtfully. “If you want my advice, I’d concentrate on Brighton. If there’s a connection with the Morton case, that’s the place to look.”
“Thank you for your advice, Evans. Now then, if you’ve finished your tea, I really should be getting back to work.”
“I can take a hint,” she said with good humor. She stood and picked up her tray. “But if you want to bounce any more ideas off me …” She trailed off hopefully.
Powell looked at her speculatively. “I just may do that, Evans. What about lunch tomorrow? I seem to recall promising you in Yorkshire that I’d take you to the K2 sometime.”
She hesitated only for an instant. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
“I’ll meet you in the Back Hall at noon tomorrow.”
After a slightly awkward moment, she replied, “Right. I’ll see you then.
When Evans had gone, he turned once more to the pathologist’s report and began humming to himself.
“There’s no shortage of bad feelings on the local council, that seems clear enough,” Detective-Sergeant Black concluded later in Powell’s office. I chatted up the clerk at the council office—a Miss Froy—who was most helpful. She indicated that the councillors basically fall into two camps on the Dockside project—those for it, led by Brighton, and those against it, with no in-between as far as I can tell. She mentioned two individuals in particular. One is a solicitor named Charles Mansfield. He’s a Conservative who supports the project but who felt that Brighton was an opportunist trying to hijack the Conservative agenda. Interestingly, Mansfield was also Brighton’s chief rival for mayor and was generally considered to be the underdog, given the composition of the council. The other bloke is Adrian Turner, a Labour activist and the leader of the anti forces who accused Brighton of selling out his socialist principles.”
“Sounds like a microcosm of contemporary British politics,” Powell observed.
“Yes, sir,” Black said tolerantly. “And there’s more. The most vocal opponent of the scheme is a woman named Tess Morgan. She represents the tenants of the council block that gets demolished if the project goes ahead. Apparently she’s threatened to do whatever it takes to stop it, including lying down in front of the bulldozers, if it comes to that.”
“Keep poking around and see if you can come up with anything else. In the meantime, I’ll have a chat with our two political rivals and the community activist.”
Black nodded. “Anything new in the Morton case, sir?”
Powell described his conversation with Mrs. Hobson the housekeeper. “It seems old Clive liked to look for love in all the wrong places,” he concluded.
“Maybe he got in a dispute with a pimp,” Black ventured.
“It’s a possibility,” Powell agreed. He recalled what Sarah Evans had said and mentioned it to Black. “According to Mrs. Hobson, Morton wasn’t involved in a long-term relationship, but we should probably find out who his dinner companions were.”
Black frowned. Something was clearly bothering him. “What about Morton’s connection with Dockside, sir?”
“I’ll follow that up,” Powell replied absently. He was thinking about the postmortem report. Something was scrabbling around in a dark corner of his brain.
Helen Brighton picked up the telephone, her hand moving in slow motion. “Yes …? I’m all right, thanks … You didn’t have to—I’ve told you, it’s too soon. I need time to think …” Her voice was reluctant. “He was still my husband …” She sighed. “I know you don’t.”
She closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of his voice, her face expressionless. She could hear the hum of traffic through the open window. She had heard it all before, had even tried to convince herself with the same reasoned arguments. There was no escaping the fact that her life had changed utterly. He was dead now, and she was free to do as she wished. Why shouldn’t she think about what she wanted for once? His voice was passionate, persuasive, awakening something in her she hadn’t felt for a long time. The relationship would have to be on her terms—she could never again be content to simply serve someone else’s ambition. She was motivated by something much more basic. She wanted desperately to believe in something again. A sudden cooling breeze pressed the fabric of her dress against her body, and she opened her eyes. She knew there were those who wouldn’t understand, who would draw their own conclusions, but she no longer cared what other people thought. There was a silence on the other end of the line. She took a deep breath. “Yes, all right. In twenty minutes.” She replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat motionlessly, watching the restless stirring of the curtains.
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, Powell was en route to the Southwark Police Station to see Inspector Boles, the officer who had been investigating Richard’s Brighton’s murder. He had put it off as long as possible, as he could well imagine how the locals felt about having the rug pulled out from under them, but it came down to a matter of common courtesy. And he could not deny that he was motivated in part by self-interest: It was possible, indeed likely, that Boles would have something to contribute that hadn’t made its way into the official report.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Powell passed through the claustrophobic confines of Clink Street, past the notorious prison of the same name—now a tourist trap—where color tellies and fitness facilities, or at least their historical equivalents, would have been an anathema. It was raining lightly, and he thought about the umbrella he had left propped in the corner of his office behind the door. Ahead was the massive stone tower of Southwark Cathedral, dark and brooding above a labyrinth of brick warehouses and a hulking, clanking railway viaduct. Powell followed underneath the viaduct to Borough High Street. By the time he got to the police station, he was damp and cold and not in the best of moods.
Inspector Boles, a donnish-looking man with a pallid complexion, didn’t look particularly happy to see him, but, to his credit, he was pleasant enough and ushered Powell into a tiny windowless office. After the usual formalities, Powell got straight to the point.
“I won’t try to justify the fact that I’m here, Boles, but suffice it to say I had about as much choice in the matter as you did. In any case, here we are.”
Boles smiled a paper-thin smile. “Let me put you at ease, Mr. Powell. I’ve been around long enough to have learned that Lord Tennyson got it about right: Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. I don’t take it personally.”
“I’d appreciate your views on this business, Boles. You’re much closer to it than I am.”
He regarded Powell thoughtfully. “I must admit,” he said, “I had mixed feelings about this one from the start. On the one hand, it seemed lik
e a piece of cake. Brighton goes for a walk along the river near his home one night and has the misfortune to encounter someone desperate for a few quid—a junkie perhaps. A struggle ensues, and Brighton is struck on the head. When he realizes what he has done, our assailant panics and pushes his victim over the railing into the Thames. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing has happened in Bermondsey. This used to be a pretty rough area—still is in some parts despite the recent development boom.” He paused.
“And on the other hand …” Powell prompted.
Boles frowned. “Mention Richard Brighton to anyone in the borough, and you’re sure to get a strong reaction one way or the other. People either loved him or hated him. The traditional Labour types accused him of selling his soul to Mrs. Thatcher, the Conservatives were jealous of his success, and the yuppies—who have flocked here in the last few years—loved him. He won his seat on the council by a landslide last election, and he was being touted as the next mayor. And I personally think that his ambition extended well beyond that. He was charismatic and articulate, with an attractive wife who is a successful businesswoman in her own right.”
Powell smiled crookedly. “Sounds like your typical Blairite.”
“You’re right. But in Brighton’s case, one got the impression there was a worm in the apple. Even some of his most die-hard supporters felt that he’d gone beyond the pale with the position he’d taken on the proposed Dockside development in Rotherhithe.” He looked at Powell with a questioning expression.
Powell nodded. “I know about it.
“Brighton said all the right things, of course,” Boles continued. “How the increased revenue would allow the council to provide better services and facilities for the greater good of the people of Southwark.” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “But it seemed out of character somehow, even for him. Promoting development is one thing, but turning upward of a hundred council tenants out into the street is quite another.”
“Do you think,” Powell asked carefully, “that someone could be so set against the project he or she would resort to murder?”
Boles’s eyes blinked slowly in his pale face. “It beggars the imagination doesn’t it? On the other hand, the only thing tying Brighton’s murder to a robbery is the fact that his wallet was missing.” He looked at Powell. “All I know is my instincts tell me it was something personal.”
As Rashid Jamal, clucking like a broody hen, cleared away the dishes from their table, Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans leaned back in her chair and sighed contentedly. “Mere words cannot do justice to that korma.”
Rashid flashed a grin. “Thank you, miss. You are most kind.”
When they were alone again, Evans regarded Powell speculatively. Because it was ostensibly a social occasion, she felt she could dispense with the usual formalities, although it was admittedly a fine line she was treading. “Although I’m certainly not complaining, you didn’t ask me here to discuss the Brighton case, did you?”
Powell smiled thinly. “You’ll make a great detective someday, Evans. To answer your question, no I didn’t actually. Apart from an excuse to enjoy your company, I wanted your views on another matter. As a woman, I mean.”
She looked at him suspiciously, oblivious to his compliment. “What do you mean, ’as a woman’?”
He frowned. “It’s about this young friend of mine—more of an acquaintance, really … She works at the pub next door …” He went on to tell Evans about Jill Burroughs and the events leading up to and following her disappearance.
Evans listened intently. When Powell had finished his account, she thought about it for a moment. “I think you can call her a friend,” she said pointedly, “since I take it she wasn’t running some sort of doss house in Bloomsbury.”
Powell screwed up his face. “Ouch!” he said.
“You know what I mean. She sounds like a very nice person, and I can understand why you’re worried. But try and look at things from her point of view.”
“What do you mean?”
“It sounds to me like the poor girl had a weekend from hell. I’ll leave aside the events of last Friday night and the psychological impact of having a policeman commandeer her couch for the night—”
“Very funny.”
“That bloke who was always hanging about the pub watching her—the so-called poet—is obviously completely crackers. It must have worn on her nerves, and when he tried to follow her home that night, it was the last straw.”
“So she ran away?” Powell ventured doubtfully.
Evans looked disappointed in him. “She was living away from home in a foreign country, she was being pursued by some screwy sonneteer, and from what you’ve said, she was involved in an iffy relationship with a young man whose family wasn’t thrilled with the idea. And come to think of it, working in a pub can’t be all fun and games—having to put up with the Clive Mortons of the world, for instance.”
“Yes, well, look what happened to him,” Powell said to no one in particular.
Evans shrugged. “Perhaps she just needed to get away for a while to think things through. God knows I wish I could sometimes. Anyway, that’s my gut reaction, based on what you’ve told me.”
“But why not tell someone? Her employer for instance.”
Evans looked thoughtful. “I think it’s the kind of thing one would tend to do on the spur of the moment if one felt really hard-pressed, without necessarily thinking about the consequences.”
“There are, of course, more sinister possibilities,” Powell said, stating the obvious.
Evans looked at him with her clear blue eyes. “You asked me for my opinion, and I’ve given it to you. As a woman,” she added dryly.
He smiled warmly. “And an exceedingly pleasant luncheon companion, at that. Thank you, Evans. You’ve been most helpful.” His expression turned serious. “And I sincerely hope you’re right about Jill.”
Powell escorted Detective-Sergeant Evans to the tube station, then, motivated by the need to clear his head, decided to go for a walk alone with no particular destination in mind. He stepped into the Tottenham Court Road under an equivocal gray sky. During the course of his discussion with Evans, he had come to realize on a conscious level just how worried he was about Jill Burroughs. In an irrational way, he felt that he was partly responsible for complicating her life, perhaps even contributing to her decision—if that is in fact what it was—to run away from her problems. And that was the most optimistic scenario; the others didn’t bear thinking about. He had been carelessly free with advice that morning in Jill’s flat, advice that he had rarely followed in his own life. Follow your bloody heart indeed. He shook his head in disgust. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it now. Time would tell whether Evans’s intuition was sound. He found the acceptance of this self-evident fact strangely liberating.
As he walked past the endless line of discount computer and stereo shops, he concentrated his attention on the disparate murders of Richard Brighton and Clive Morton. A popular Labour councillor is found floating in the Thames, an apparent robbery victim. Then, a month later, Clive Morton, the notorious restaurant critic and a thoroughly disagreeable chap by all accounts, has his throat slit in a Soho alley. In Morton’s case, there was no indication of robbery; however, the corpse had been garnished with an apple, which was, to say the least, suggestive. Morton had often boasted in his newspaper column that he could make or break a restaurant’s reputation, and the sheer number of London restaurateurs who were the victims of a scathing review, and who would no doubt have taken great pleasure in personally administering the coup de grâce, boggled the mind. At this point, Powell had to suppress a mental image of a maniacal Rashid Jamal furtively feeding his tandoor.
At the corner of New Oxford Street, a green-glass and concrete office tower dominated the skyscape like an obscene finger. Powell turned into the nearest pub. The only apparent similarity in the two crimes, he mused as he sipped his beer, was the fact t
hat both men had been initially struck on the head before being dispatched in dramatically different ways. On the surface of it then, here were two unrelated events: one a random act of violence of the type so prevalent nowadays, the other something more personal perhaps. There was, however, one potential fly in this particular ointment and without a doubt the most intriguing revelation in the case so far: Clive Morton’s connection—via his proposed restaurant, Chez Clive—with the Dockside development scheme in Rotherhithe, the very same scheme on which Richard Brighton had staked his political future.
As he watched the steady stream of passersby on the pavement outside, it occurred to him that his approach up until now had been hit-and-miss. Even Black had politely made the point. It was time to sweep the personal clutter from his mind and get down to business. He drained his pint, then reached into his pocket for his mobile phone.
CHAPTER 11
Forty-five minutes later, Powell found himself once again in Shad Thames. The office he was looking for was sandwiched between a gourmet food shop and a clothing boutique. P. K. ATHERTON, PROPERTY DEVELOPERS AND ESTATE AGENTS the sign in the window proclaimed discreetly. Powell announced himself to the secretary, a smashing young redhead with green eyes who invited him in a lilting brogue to take a seat while she went to inform Mr. Atherton. Presently he could hear the murmur of voices.
A few minutes later, she returned to escort him through a door at the rear of the main reception area. There was no sign of any other employees. At the end of a short hallway, she ushered him into a large office that was sparsely furnished with a few good pieces of furniture (to give an impression of richness, he surmised) in addition to the usual file cabinets and office paraphernalia. A man about his age, fit-looking in a short-sleeved white shirt, tie loosened casually, sat behind a massive desk. He smiled and stood up, extending his hand across the desk. “Paul Atherton,” he said as they shook hands. He gestured for Powell to sit down in a green leather–upholstered chair across from him. “Please shut the door, Ms. Kelly, and hold my calls.”
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