Malice in London

by Graham Thomas

  He arrived at the coffeehouse a few minutes before eight. Eschewing the caffé mochas, caramel macchiatos, and double low-fat lattés in favor of a huge cup of something strong and black, he selected a seat near the window where he could watch the comings and goings in Shaftesbury Avenue. The street was alive with colored lights and honking taxis and last-minute theatergoers rushing to their shows. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a play since Marion had gone away, although he supposed that he got more than his share of comedy and tragedy every day at work. Wasn’t it Sophocles who wrote a play about the irresistible urge to murder one’s superior?

  There was suddenly a reflection in the window. He turned.

  It was Jill, looking a little lost. “Hi,” she said in a small voice.

  It was hard to know what to say. “Can I get you something?” he said.

  She smiled weakly. “No, thanks, I’m coffeed-out.” She sat down across from him. “After I talked to you,” she began before he could say anything, “I rang Stephen to ask him why he hadn’t told Celia I was going away—”

  “You mean he knew?” Powell interrupted.

  She nodded. “I left a note. I told him I needed to get away to think things through. I asked him to let Celia know that I wouldn’t be able to work for a while. I felt badly about it at the time, but I knew she’d understand.” She hesitated. “Something happened on my last night at work …”

  “Celia told me about it,” Powell said gently.

  She stared out the window at her own reflection. “Stephen was so angry, he tore up the note without telling anyone about it.” She looked into Powell’s eyes. “You can’t imagine how badly I feel about all of this. Poor Celia must have been frantic. I tried to ring you from the train station before I left, but I couldn’t get through.”

  Powell felt a twinge of guilt for not taking her call that morning. Moreover, it seemed likely that the vindictive behavior of Jill’s boyfriend had been precipitated, at least in part, by his own irresponsible behavior. If he hadn’t had considerably more than sufficient one night and used Jill’s flat as a hotel, perhaps none of this would have happened.

  “It was you who got me thinking,” Jill was saying.

  Powell groaned inwardly, bracing himself for the worst.

  “You told me to follow my heart, remember? You helped me see what an empty existence I was leading. I had a boyfriend who was using me, a job that exposed me to abuse and harassment, and more than anything else, I realized I was homesick.”

  “I didn’t say follow your heart, exactly,” Powell protested weakly. He felt more like an accomplice in some sordid little peccadillo than someone in a position to be giving advice.

  “Don’t be so modest, Powell,” Jill rejoined with a flash of her old spirit. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be stuck in the same old rut. As it is, my only regret is that I worried my friends.”

  “Where did you go?” he asked, somewhat deflated.

  “Northumberland. I ended up in a little seaside town called Alnmouth near Alnwick. Do you know it?”

  He nodded.

  “I stayed at a charming bed-and-breakfast with English breakfasts and a cozy fire at night, long walks on the sand, and no one to tell me what do to—just oodles of time to read and think. I was being selfish, I know, but it was exhilarating and liberating at the same time.” She searched his face for a glimmer of understanding. “Do you know what I mean, Powell?”

  He sighed. “Yes, Jill, I know what you mean.”

  She regarded him with an expression of concern, searching for the right words. “I know you feel guilty about what happened that night. If Stephen wants to fly off in a jealous rage, that’s his problem. I never want to see him again.”

  An appropriate response eluded him. “Why did you decide to come back now?”

  She flushed. “I heard a bulletin about me this morning on the radio. A Canadian girl, Jill Burroughs, reported missing, et cetera. I was mortified, as you can imagine. I’d purposely avoided newspapers and listening to the news, so it came as quite a shock. I called the local police to let them know I was all right. When I was unable to get in touch with Stephen to find out what was going on, I rushed back to London as quickly as I could.”

  “What will you do now?” Powell asked.

  She shrugged. “It will be hard to go back to the Fitzrovia after all that’s happened.”

  “You might be interested to know I had a little chat with your secret admirer, Simon Snavely.”

  A blank look on her face.

  “The poet.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you caught him?”

  “Not exactly. He’s the one who followed you, all right. He maintains, however, that he only intended to present you with his latest collection of poems, dedicated to you.”

  She screwed up her face. “That guy is weird. Are you going to charge him or something?”

  “That rather depends on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you willing to bring forward a formal complaint?”

  “He did scare me half to death … I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

  “The question is did he intend to threaten or harm you? It might be difficult to prove, coming down in the end to his word against yours. As an accused person, he would of course receive the benefit of any doubt.”

  Jill appeared to consider this. “I suppose you’re right. But I don’t see how I could go back to working at the pub with him skulking about.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  She frowned. “I don’t suppose I do, really. Actually, I’ve been thinking about going home. There’s nothing to keep me here now. I’ve been away for nearly two years, and I think it’s about time I decided what I want to do with my life.”

  Powell nodded. Ah, to be young, footloose, and fancy free again. Jill struck him as a sensible young woman who knew her mind and would undoubtedly make the right decision. Certainly Stephen Potter was no loss. He was taking a sip of his coffee when something suddenly occurred to him. “You’ve heard about Clive Morton, I expect.”

  She looked puzzled. “The restaurant critic?”

  Powell nodded. “He was found murdered in Soho the morning after you left.”

  She looked as if she had seen a ghost. “What—what happened?”

  “It wasn’t very pleasant. Someone cut his throat.”

  She stared at him, her face expressionless. “He was in the pub Saturday night. I didn’t like him very much.”

  “I understand he’d been bothering you.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t feel very well. I think I should be going.”

  “Of course. Where are you staying?”

  “At a hotel. Near Paddington Station.”

  “I’ll walk you to the tube.”

  She stood up. “No, I’ll be fine. I need to clear my head. Goodbye, Powell, and … thanks for everything.”

  Then she turned abruptly and walked out the door, merging into the stream of passersby. Well, that’s that, Powell thought as he drained his cup. He had no way of knowing how wrong he was.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next morning, Detective-Sergeant Black made arrangements to meet Samantha Jones at a video production studio in Wardour Street. She was working apparently and agreed to spare him ten minutes during her morning break.

  He inquired at the reception desk and was directed to the cafeteria downstairs. He located her at the far end at a table with two muscular and unseasonably tanned young men, who Black assumed were models as well.

  “Get lost, boys, it’s the cops.” she said laconically when he approached their table.

  The two men scattered. She tossed her long black hair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a skintight, black vinyl bodysuit adorned with metal studs that left little to the imagination. “Take a load off your feet, Sergeant.”

  He tried not to stare. “Yes, er, thank you, miss.” He settled himself carefully on one of the molded plas
tic chairs. “Doing some modeling this morning?” he asked by way of making small talk.

  She smiled archly. “You could say that, Sergeant. More of an educational video, really. And we’re shooting the, um, climax of the piece in about fifteen minutes, so if you don’t mind …”

  “Yes, of course, miss. This shouldn’t take long. You mentioned when we last spoke that you accompanied Clive Morton to a restaurant on the Monday evening before he was killed.”

  “Yes, he was doing a review on the Golden Quail in Covent Garden. I thought it was marvelous, but of course Clive hated it.”

  “Did anything out of the ordinary happen when you were there?”

  “You mean apart from Clive carrying on and making a complete arse of himself as usual?”

  “Yes, miss, if you like. Apart from that.”

  She shrugged. “Not that I can recall … Wait a minute, he was called away to the phone, but he didn’t say who it was. It was just before we left.”

  “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

  “I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Could you try, miss? It’s important. We know from the pathologist’s report that Mr. Morton was murdered sometime between eleven-forty-five Monday night and a quarter past twelve Tuesday morning, so it’s important that we trace his movements up to that point.”

  She frowned as if in deep concentration. “I don’t know … It must have been between eleven and eleven-thirty. I remember I got home just before midnight.”

  “Did he say anything about meeting someone else?”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “Not in so many words, but I wouldn’t have put it past him.”

  “What do you mean, miss?”

  “You must know enough about Clive by now that I don’t have to draw you a picture.”

  “You didn’t like him much, did you?”

  “I don’t think about it in those terms. This business is all about self-promotion, Sergeant. Love him or hate him, Clive Morton was a well-known personality in this town, and being seen with him helped raise my profile. End of story.” She looked slightly uncomfortable. “I still have to do things I don’t particularly like, but it won’t be long before I’ll be calling the shots. I hope I haven’t shocked you, Sergeant.”

  “It’s not for me to judge, Miss Jones. Getting back to the night in question, you’re sure he didn’t say where he was going after he left you?”

  “I told you—I’m sure. It was getting late. I told him I had to go. We left the restaurant together, and that was the last time I saw him. What he did after that was his business.”

  “Oh, he did some business with someone all right, and he left an odd sort of calling card.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not common knowledge, miss, but the person who slit his throat and left him to bleed to death stuffed an apple in his mouth.” He paused for effect. “As a sort of garnish, like.”

  She shuddered. “What sort of animal would do something like that?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, miss.”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “I told you before, I don’t have a clue—” She hesitated. “Unless …”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “It sounds ridiculous, but I wonder if Clive could have pissed someone off to the point where … I mean, his restaurant reviews were getting more and more out there, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Not really. You could check his newspaper columns, I suppose—I never read his stuff myself.” She glanced significantly at the wall clock. “I’m sorry, but I’m on in a few minutes and I should get, um, warmed up.” She smiled. “Would you care to stay and watch?”

  Sergeant Black flushed profusely. “Er, no, thank you, miss. I’d better be off.” He mumbled a goodbye and fled the cafeteria.

  Powell sat in Adrian Turner’s tiny office in a lane off Tooley Street, a five-minute walk from the cafe where they had first met. It consisted of one room, one desk and computer, one file cabinet, and three posters—one on each of the dingy inside walls—depicting clear-cutting in British Columbia, soil erosion in Nepal, and a large pipe discharging some sort of black liquid into an inhospitable-looking body of water. Aside from representing his constituents on Southwark Council, Powell wondered what Turner actually did for a living.

  The councillor was obviously not happy. “You think I made the frigging phone call? See here, Chief Superintendent, I have absolutely no respect for Charles Mansfield or anything he stands for, but that doesn’t mean I’d sink to his level and start making personal attacks, let alone anonymous phone calls to the police about his financial dealings.”

  “So you deny accusing him of having a conflict of interest over Dockside?”

  Turner scowled. “I told you.”

  “All right, but do you think there could be any truth to the allegation?”

  “How the hell would I know? Mind you, I wouldn’t put anything past him. His type always considers his own interests above everything else.”

  “Just for the sake of argument,” Powell persisted, “if you did become aware that a fellow councillor had an undisclosed financial interest in a matter that was under consideration by the council, what would you do?”

  “I would do my duty, Chief Superintendent, and bring it to the attention of the council.”

  “Duty? Independent of any political advantage?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Please bear with me, Mr. Turner. I’m trying to figure out why someone in possession of such information would go to the police rather than raise the issue in the political forum. If one of your own supporters, for instance, had the goods on a rival politician, why not just come to you and let you inflict the political damage, if that was the intent of the exercise?”

  Turner regarded Powell warily. “This is all highly hypothetical, Chief Superintendent. As I just told you, I had no knowledge of any allegation against Charles Mansfield until you brought it up.”

  “I imagine your party will be looking for someone to take up the torch from Brighton,” Powell observed casually.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Turner demanded.

  “I would have thought that you would be the leading candidate to oppose Charles Mansfield and the Tories on council. However, if Mansfield were to become embroiled in some sort of political scandal …”

  Turner smirked. “I find your heavy-handed innuendoes rather amusing. Why don’t you just come out and say it, and save us both a lot of time and aggro.”

  “All right, Mr. Turner, I’ll come out and say it. There is something funny going on, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Two days ago, someone accuses Charles Mansfield of improper financial dealings, then yesterday we get a call about you and Mrs. Brighton.”

  The color drained from Turner’s face like claret from a glass. “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I know her of course—I mean, we’re just acquaintances.”

  “Who said you were anything else?”

  Without warning, Turner leapt to his feet. “My relationship with Helen Brighton, or anyone else for that matter, is my business and my business alone. I have nothing more to say. If you want to ask me any more questions, I’d like to have my solicitor present.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Turner,” Powell said evenly. “Because I may need to talk to you again.”

  When Powell had gone, Turner picked up the telephone. He pressed the keys mechanically, his face taut. The urgent double tone continued for several seconds before someone answered. He inhaled sharply. “We need to talk.” He described Powell’s visit in considerable detail. “It’s laughable, isn’t it?” he said without humor. “Who else could it be? Luckily the stupid bastard didn’t get it quite right. The thing is if anyone ever found out about us, it would be very damaging—my political objectivity would be compromised, wouldn’t it?” His expression darkened. “And Mansfield w
ould have a bloody field day with it.” He listened to her reply. “Right. I think that would be wise.” After disconnecting, he sat motionless in his chair, staring out the rain-splattered window at the distorted image of the traffic streaming by in Tooley Street.

  CHAPTER 23

  After leaving Adrian Turner’s office, Powell stopped in unannounced to see Charles Mansfield.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Chief Superintendent?” Mansfield drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Powell exploded. “Do you think this is some kind of bloody game—an opportunity to score political points?”

  Mansfield was clearly taken aback by Powell’s attack. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied in a brittle voice. “And I must say I don’t much care for your tone.”

  “You made that telephone call, didn’t you? You insinuated that Adrian Turner is having an affair with Helen Brighton, as if anybody cared. I can only assume that you wanted us to leap to the conclusion that there must be some connection with Richard Brighton’s murder. It’s so bloody amateurish, it’s laughable.”

  Mansfield’s eyes narrowed. “I could say that I don’t know what you’re talking about. I will say this, however: I’ll not sit idly back and have my good name dragged through the mud by a whining little Trotskyite like Adrian Turner.” He smiled coldly. “You’re quite right, Chief Superintendent. It is a game, and one has to fight fire with fire if one is to prevail. You of all people, a policeman, should appreciate that. In your line of work, the criminal is given every advantage—you are prevented by the system from fighting back on an equal footing. Consequently, crime is running rampant in this country, and you are powerless to do anything about it.”