Malice in London

by Graham Thomas

  “If you ever decide to run for prime minister,” Powell commented acidly, “I’ll vote for you. In the meantime, I’m going to make it my business to make your life bloody miserable.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “There are two ways of looking at it, Mr. Mansfield. Perhaps you simply suffered a lapse in judgment and allowed yourself to be drawn into a petty political vendetta. I have no doubt that you believe Adrian Turner made the phone call alleging your financial interest in Dockside. And you’ve more or less admitted that you feel justified in taking revenge. However, it is the alternative interpretation of your actions that interests me more.”

  Mansfield stared at Powell with morbid fascination, like a snake sizing up a mongoose.

  “Whoever murdered Richard Brighton did you a very large favor by eliminating your chief political rival and, as an added bonus, enabling you to claim credit for Dockside if and when it eventually gets the green light. All that remained for you to do was to come up with some way to discredit Adrian Turner, thereby virtually assuring your selection as mayor next year. And then on to bigger and better things, no doubt. The question is, Are you simply a tenant in this glittering tower of political opportunity or its chief architect?” Pretty thin gruel, Powell realized, but it seemed to strike a nerve.

  The councillor’s eyes bulged alarmingly in his pudgy, red face. “You must be bloody mad!” he sputtered.

  The day was damp and dreary, unlike the previous occasion when Detective-Sergeant Evans had driven out to Rotherhithe, and despite the fact she had the car heater going full blast, she could not get warm. Across the river was her old neighborhood of Stepney, the familiar landmarks appearing indistinct and ambiguous in the mist like the memories of her East End childhood. As she pulled into the council estate car park she could not help wondering if the sympathetic feelings that admittedly clouded her assessment of Tess Morgan and her cause had something to do with her own upbringing. In many ways, Tess reminded her of her mother, fiercely independent and single-mindedly dedicated to her family. For all that, Evans considered herself an excellent judge of people and could not bring herself to believe that the community activist had anything to do with the Dockside murders. Evans knew, however, that Powell would have to be convinced. Not that there was any particular reason to suspect Tess Morgan—it was simply one of many possibilities that needed to be systematically considered and eliminated.

  It seemed to Evans that the connection between the murders of Richard Brighton and Clive Morton and the Dockside development was unlikely to be the obvious one. This was partly because she tended to be suspicious of simplistic solutions. People and their motivations were hopelessly complex, so why should one expect the crimes they commit to be anything else? She mulled over the possibility that something else besides Dockside connected Richard Brighton and Clive Morton. Morton’s alleged drug use suggested a possible avenue of investigation, and she wondered if a drug screen had been run on either of the victims as part of the postmortem investigations. She made a mental note to speak to Powell about it. However, her woman’s intuition (the possession of which she would never dream of admitting to her male colleagues for fear of appearing nonanalytical) told her that drugs were too obvious. She still felt, as she had when Powell had first discussed the case with her in the cafeteria that day, that Richard Brighton was the key to the whole affair. But just how, exactly, continued to elude her. It was in this distracted frame of mind that she knocked on Tess Morgan’s door.

  The door opened and Ms. Morgan smiled unconvincingly. She seemed tense. “It’s good to see you again, Sergeant Evans. Please come in.” She ushered Evans into a small sitting room that appeared to also serve as her office. Papers, books, and magazines were piled everywhere. Occupying the far wall was a computer workstation, above which a poster depicting giant moss-covered trees proclaimed SAVE THE GREAT BEAR RAIN FOREST. Against the adjoining wall, facing the window, was a threadbare sofa and on the wall opposite the computer desk was a shelf unit housing a television and stereo system.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’m just finishing lunch—can I get you something?”

  Evans smiled. “No, thank you.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Lovely” said Sergeant Evans. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

  As her hostess organized things in the kitchen, Evans conducted an internal debate over how to approach the task at hand. She was torn between her innate inclination to be sympathetic when conducting an interview with someone who is not actually a suspect, particularly with a person she felt some connection with, and the need at times to aggressively seek direct answers to difficult questions. On balance, she felt that the softer approach was often the more effective one, but in this case she decided that it was time to cut to the chase in order to satisfy Powell and, she admitted, to assuage her own doubts.

  Tess Morgan returned with the tea things and set them on the coffee table. “I’ll let you fix your own,” she said.

  A few moments later, Evans felt a reviving glow radiating outward from the center of her being. Nothing like a hot cup of tea, she thought contentedly, the traditional English recreational drug.

  “I assume this is not a social call, Sergeant Evans,” her hostess was saying.

  Evans set her cup on its saucer. “No, Ms. Morgan, I’m afraid it’s not. I need to ask you a few more questions. You see,” she said, taking the plunge, “we keep coming back in this investigation to Richard Brighton’s support for Dockside, the fact that he took an unpopular stand in some people’s eyes—”

  “You think I killed him,” Tess said matter-of-factly.

  “I didn’t say that, but one has to ask the question: Could someone have been so opposed to Brighton’s position on Dockside, they were prepared to take desperate measures to stop him?”

  “All right, you’ve asked the question.”

  “Ms. Morgan, I understand that you represent the tenants in this block of flats. Is there some sort of residents’ association?”

  “There’s an ad hoc committee that was organized to oppose Dockside.”

  “And you’re the chairperson?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many others are there on this committee?”

  “Apart from me, about a half dozen regular member.”

  “Could you provide me a list of their names?”

  “I speak for the group, Sergeant Evans—”

  “I’d still like to talk to the other members,” Evans persisted.

  Tess nodded reluctantly.

  “I have to ask this next question, Ms. Morgan: Can you think of anyone on your committee who might have had a particular ax to grind with Brighton?” It came out more awkwardly then she had intended.

  Tess looked more disappointed than anything else. “We all had the same ax to grind, as you put it: the prospect of being turned out of our homes. However, we’re a community action group, Sergeant Evans, not a band of bloodthirsty vigilantes.”

  Evans felt annoyed at herself for feeling slightly defensive. “I understand why you might be offended by my question, but the fact remains, Ms. Morgan, there is a cold-blooded murderer at large. He’s killed twice already, and there’s a possibility he may strike again—”

  “Twice?” A puzzled look on her face.

  “You must have read about Clive Morton in the papers? We haven’t advertised the fact, but we have reason to believe that he was killed by the same person who murdered Richard Brighton.”

  If Evans had expected this revelation to evoke a reaction, she would not have been disappointed. Tess Morgan turned white as a sheet; she looked as if she were going to be sick. She swallowed. “I—I don’t understand.”

  Evans tried to read her face. “Morton had a financial interest in Dockside,” she explained. “We think that’s why he was killed.”

  Tess did not say anything for a few seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice was oddly emotionless. “That b
astard,” she said. “That perverted, unspeakable bastard.”

  As Evans turned out of the car park onto Rotherhithe Street, she felt a bit like Pandora. Tess’s reaction to the mention of Clive Morton’s name was unexpected as well as inexplicable. She wondered what could possibly connect a person like Tess Morgan with the likes of Clive Morton. Whatever it was, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  CHAPTER 24

  As she drove, preoccupied, along Rotherhithe Street, Detective-Sergeant Evans noticed a redbrick school-house off to her left. On the spur of the moment, she took the next turning and doubled back on a parallel side street to the school. She was directed by the secretary to the office of the headmistress, a Ms. J. S. Finlayson.

  Ms. Finlayson looked up from her desk, removed her reading glasses, and regarded Evans impassively. She was a small, gray woman with penetrating eyes who exuded an air of competent efficiency.

  “Sit down, Sergeant Evans.”

  Evans had to suppress the urge to respond with a subdued “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I understand that you are here about Rachel Morgan,” Ms. Finlayson said.

  Evans knew she was on shaky ground. “I’ve just come from visiting her mother—I was passing by—and it occurred to me that this might be Rachel’s school.”

  “You guessed correctly,” Ms. Finlayson observed antiseptically.

  “I won’t go all around the houses, Ms. Finlayson,” Evans began carefully. “I’m in the process of making various inquiries related to a serious crime. At the outset, I can assure you that Rachel is not suspected of having any involvement in this crime. I simply want to ask you a few questions about her.”

  The headmistress eyed Evans shrewdly. “If she’s not involved in anything illegal, why are you here?”

  Evans smiled. “I’ll be honest with you, Ms. Finlayson. I’m not quite sure why I’m here. Call it woman’s intuition. The thing is—” she hesitated “—I’m wondering if Rachel Morgan has ever had any problem with drugs.”

  Ms. Finlayson did not speak for a few moments. “You should be aware, Sergeant Evans,” she said eventually in a dry voice, “that I am constrained by requirements of confidentiality in such matters. Furthermore, I dislike fishing expeditions on the part of the police. The children in this area have enough problems without being persecuted simply for who they are and where they happen to live.”

  Evans blushed. “Believe me, that is not my intent. I know as well as anyone—” She checked herself.

  “Yes, Sergeant Evans?”

  “I can’t force you to talk to me about Rachel, Ms. Finlayson.”

  The headmistress frowned. “You said that you just came from visiting her mother. Is she in some sort of trouble?”

  “I don’t think so,” Evans replied honestly.

  “Pleased don’t misunderstand me, Sergeant Evans, if you had a legitimate reason for your interest in Rachel, I might view things differently. However, as things stand, I am afraid I can’t help you.”

  Evans sighed. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Ms. Finlayson. The crime I referred to is murder, and the victim is known to have been involved with drugs. I am concerned that there may be other victims in this case, victims of drug abuse, who may have been influenced by this person.”

  The headmistress regarded her speculatively. “This is all very cryptic. However, I sense that you are motivated by concern for Rachel’s welfare, so I am prepared to tell you this much. Rachel has had her share of problems, but I believe that she has put them behind her. She is quite a creative girl—she wants to be a artist, you know—but, unfortunately, she spent too much time last term hanging about in Soho getting into the sort of trouble that young people seem to get into these days. Without putting too fine a point on it, I can tell you that the poor girl went through some very dark days, some very dark days indeed. And, yes, drugs were involved. However, with her mother’s help, she’s managed to straighten herself out and has been applying herself at school this term. Rachel is a good girl, Sergeant Evans, and I have every confidence that she will make something of herself.”

  Looking back on it, Evans did not remember thanking the headmistress, walking out of the Rotherhithe Comprehensive School, or even getting into her car. Her first recollection was driving across Westminster Bridge and being struck by the realization that she may have just unearthed a plausible motive for Clive Morton’s murder.

  Powell bumped into Evans in the Back Hall on his way out of the building. “You don’t look too good,” he remarked.

  “Thanks,” she said sourly. “I need to talk to you—”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow morning? I’ve made arrangements to see Mrs. Brighton this afternoon.”

  “Right, tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “Would you mind if I gave Sir Reggie a call? I’d like to have a drug screen run on both Morton and Brighton.”

  Powell smiled. “It’s your funeral.” He turned to leave.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Evans?”

  “Sergeant Black told me about your friend, Jill Burroughs. I’m glad.”

  He looked at her with a curious expression on his face. “Some stories do have happy endings. Take it to heart, Evans.”

  After a cheese sandwich and limp salad in the cafeteria, she went back to her office and wrote down a list of points she wished to discuss with Sir Reginald Quick. She steeled herself for a few moments, then placed the call.

  The pathologist answered on the first ring. “Quick,” he barked ambiguously.

  Evans promptly introduced herself.

  A brief pause. “Ah, yes, the Yorkshire moors affair. I remember you, Sergeant Evans. You were a damn sight better company than your superior, I can tell you that. I nearly caught my death on that outing,” he muttered. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering, Sir Reginald—”

  There was an ominous rumble on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry, er, Reggie. I was wondering whether any drug tests were done as part of the Brighton and Morton postmortems.”

  “Drug tests? You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Oh, you know, alcohol and the usual blood screen for illicit drugs,” she replied lamely.

  A rustling of papers. “Let me see … Brighton was checked for alcohol, as is usual in cases of drowning in which it could be a contributing factor. There was alcohol in his blood, but the concentration was relatively low, equivalent to a glass or two of wine. No tests were done on Morton as far as I can see, but the cause of death in his case was, er, rather clear-cut. Ha ha!”

  Evans chuckled politely. “What about cocaine—can you test for that?”

  Sir Reggie grunted in the affirmative. “It can be readily detected with an immunoassay, followed by quantification using GC-MS, er, gas chromatography and mass spectroscopy. If, that is, there is ample justification for doing so. It comes down to an assessment by the pathologist of the cost of the analysis versus the potential benefit to be derived. As I am sure you are aware, Sergeant Evans, we live in difficult budgetary times,” he added austerely.

  “Would blood samples from both victims have been retained?”

  “In homicide cases, samples are kept for six months in the event that further analysis is required.”

  “Would it be possible then to have both victims’ blood tested for cocaine?”

  “There is a small problem with that: Cocaine and its metabolites are unstable in blood, so it’s not likely you’d find anything.”

  “Oh,” Evans said, the disappointment sounding in her voice.

  “However,” he continued mischievously, “it can be detected in urine, samples of which were taken in both cases. But, as I said a moment ago, you’d first have to convince me to order the tests.”

  Evans could visualize Sir Reggie’s carnivorous grin. She gave the pathologist a rundown on Morton’s alleged cocaine abuse and the importance of exploring any possible links between him and Brighton.

/>   “Powell didn’t tell me any of this!” the pathologist roared. “How the hell are we supposed to know what to look for if we don’t have the complete picture?”

  Evans did her best to defend her superior’s honor, explaining that the information about Morton’s drug use had only recently come to light. Sir Reggie did not seem entirely convinced. “Nonetheless, I will order the tests,” he said grudgingly. “I should have the results tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Reggie. You’re a dear,” she said, emboldened by her success.

  The pathologist mumbled something unintelligible and rang off.

  CHAPTER 25

  Powell stepped out of Sloane Square tube station into the afternoon sunlight. The paved square with its Venus fountain and plane trees, in spring bud that day, was basically a glorified roundabout collecting traffic from Knightsbridge, the King’s Road, and Pimlico. Once a tiny fishing hamlet on the Thames, in the last century the old village of Chelsea became a thriving colony of literary and artistic talent, including the likes of Carlyle, Whistler, and Oscar Wilde. A revival of sorts occurred in the Swinging Sixties when rock stars and other celebrities of the day converged on the trendy boutiques and coffee bars that lined the King’s Road.

  As property values soared in recent years, the Bohemian spirit of the place inevitably withered, and Chelsea is now perhaps best known as the home of the young upper-class Sloane Rangers, with their smart-casual country outfits from Peter Jones, bright bijou-terraced homes, and glossy magazine conformity in every aspect of life from the decor of their drawing rooms to their ski holiday destinations.

  As Powell set off down the King’s Road, once the private route for royalty traveling from Whitehall Palace to Hampton Court and other royal retreats farther to the west, past the line of shops, trattorias, bistros, and pubs, it occurred to him that the main artery of Chelsea had at least escaped the tat of Carnaby Street and had moved on from the hippie era and the punk period. It still managed to retain a certain vibrancy, as well as an indefinable sense of village despite the fact that you won’t find a baker or a butcher’s shop.