Malice in London

by Graham Thomas

  He soon located Helen Brighton’s Inner Harmony interior design shop. She was occupied with a customer, so he browsed mindlessly amongst the wallpaper and draperies.

  “Can I interest you in something?”

  He turned around to face Mrs. Brighton. “My wife is always telling me I have absolutely no sense of style,” he replied wryly.

  She laughed. “You’re the best kind of customer then.” She glanced around. “Why don’t we go somewhere where we can talk?”

  “Fine.”

  They bought coffees to take away at the cafe next door, then walked to a leafy square around the corner. They settled themselves on one of the wooden benches that lined the square around a central blaze of orange and yellow tulips, and Powell asked her how long she had had the shop.

  “About ten years now. I owned it before I met Richard. It used to be a fashion boutique back then, but these days feng shui is much hotter than miniskirts.”

  “I hear they’ve rearranged the furniture at Number Ten in order to energize the PM,” Powell observed dryly.

  “You might be interested to know I was the one who advised Tony and Cherie Blair to rearrange their furniture, as you put it, to promote tranquility and harmony.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I also advised the PM to put a fish tank in his office: three goldfish for finances and two dark fish, loaches preferably, to look after his health and the health of the nation. It is good to have movement in an office, Chief Superintendent. It stimulates mental activity.”

  Powell could not help but be impressed by her clientele, if not her New Age sensibilities. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, regarding her with a renewed interest. There was a vitality in her manner that had been absent on the occasion of their first meeting.

  “I expect you’re wondering how an interior design consultant ended up marrying a politician,” she said.

  He smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “My father was the Member of Parliament for this constituency in the Callaghan years, so I literally grew up in the Labour Party. I met Richard at a party convention in ’ninety-two. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Mrs. Brighton,” he began, having dispensed with the preliminaries, “you are no doubt wondering why I’m bothering you again. I’m afraid we haven’t made a tremendous amount of progress in your husband’s case, and I’m hoping you can help me fill in a few of the blanks.”

  She hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision. “Before we begin,” she said, “I have a confession to make. When we first spoke at my flat, you may have sensed that I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of Scotland Yard getting involved in the investigation of Richard’s death. In a strange way, I found it rather frightening. It’s not that I didn’t want desperately to find out what happened to my husband, to have some sort of closure. It’s just that—I don’t know—I suppose I preferred to believe that he was a victim of some random, senseless act rather than something more sinister. Am I making any sense?”

  “Perfect sense, Mrs. Brighton.”

  “Anyway, I’ve come to accept the absolute importance of getting to the truth about Richard’s death, however unpleasant it may turn out to be. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  Powell briefly summarized the results of the investigation to date. “The question I keep coming back to,” he concluded, “is what connection could your husband possibly have had with Clive Morton other than the fact that they were both involved in quite different ways with Dockside?”

  She looked mystified. “None that I can think of. I’m not even sure that Richard was aware of Morton’s interest in the project. If he was, he never mentioned it to me.”

  Powell had feared as much. “Would you mind if we went back to the beginning of your husband’s involvement with Dockside? I must admit that it continues to strike me as odd that a local Labour politician would support a project that would result in the eviction of a hundred or more council tenants.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t be being entirely honest if I told you that he didn’t have doubts about it. Whatever else one might say about Richard, he was deeply committed to the welfare of the working people in Southwark. But he was also a realist. It is a deplorable fact, Chief Superintendent, that due to years of neglect, the borough needs to spend nearly a billion pounds to repair and upgrade its rotting, leaking council housing. That kind of money will never be forthcoming from the central government, so the council has been forced to consider other options, such as selling off its more valuable housing near the Thames to pay for upgrading the rest. In the case of Dockside, Richard felt that the project struck an acceptable balance, although I can tell you he lost a considerable amount of sleep over the plight of the tenants. It is not widely known, but Richard negotiated a deal with the developer to reduce the commercial component of the project so as to save one of the council blocks from demolition.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, did you agree with your husband’s position on Dockside?”

  She looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “No, I didn’t, actually. But then I’m not a politician. Richard was convinced that it was the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing or the expedient thing, Mrs. Brighton?”

  “Is there a difference? To do anything in politics, Chief Superintendent, you first have to get elected.”

  “Point taken. However, you did mention that your husband had some doubts about the project. Would you say that his views changed over time?”

  “I think he was becoming increasingly receptive to the concerns of the local residents. There’s a well-organized group representing the council tenants—”

  “The one led by Tess Morgan?”

  Helen Brighton nodded. “She’s a very determined woman.”

  “She has a lot to lose.”

  “Yes, Chief Superintendent, she does.”

  “I understand that the council was divided over the matter.”

  She pulled a face. “That’s the understatement of the year. Richard was getting it from both sides—from his own party as well as the opposition.”

  “From Adrian Turner and Charles Mansfield, you mean?”

  “In the main, yes.”

  “Why don’t we start with Mr. Turner? I don’t imagine the party was too thrilled when an internecine squabble erupted over a high-profile project like Dockside.”

  “Is that a question or a statement, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Call it an inference, Mrs. Brighton.”

  “We prefer not to air our dirty laundry in public—that was Adrian’s mistake. That being said, unlike the Tories, we have always welcomed a diversity of opinion and open debate in the Labour Party. It is true that Adrian represents the more radical left-wing element of the party, while Richard favored a more middle-of-the-road approach, the ‘Third Way,’ if you like.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Brighton?”

  She regarded him coolly. “What about me?”

  “Which approach do you favor?”

  “That’s my business, Chief Superintendent.”

  Touché, thought Powell. “Would it be fair to say that there were bad feelings between Turner and your husband?”

  “I can’t speak for Adrian, but I know that Richard respected his views as a legitimate expression of one element of opinion within the party. He never took political debates personally.”

  “Debate is one thing, but what about personal attacks? I understand that Turner was quite vocal in accusing your husband of selling out Labour’s principles over Dockside.”

  “Adrian tends to get carried away at times,” she said in a flat voice.

  The thought occurred to Powell that that could well turn out to be the understatement of the year. “What about Charles Mansfield?” he continued. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand that Mansfield shared your husband’s views on Dockside.”

  Her expression hardened. “Mansfield has always supported development for development
’s sake. In the case of Dockside, he had the gall to accuse Richard of being an opportunist—of stealing from the Conservative program, as if they had one! Although I suppose screwing the most vulnerable members of society might qualify as a platform,” she added bitterly.

  “I will tell you something, Mrs. Brighton, if you promise to keep it in strict confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  “We received an anonymous phone call a couple of days ago accusing Mansfield of having a financial interest in Dockside—of being in a conflict-of-interest position, in effect. I’d be interested in hearing your reaction.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I find it difficult to believe that even he could be that stupid.”

  “That was my initial reaction as well, but Mansfield seems to be taking the whole thing quite seriously. I think he believes that Adrian Turner made the call for political reasons.”

  “That’s impossible! Adrian would never do anything like that.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I—I just know, that’s all.” There was something in her voice.

  “I don’t know quite how to put this, Mrs. Brighton, but there was a second call, possibly from a different person. The caller suggested that you and Adrian Turner have been seen together lately.”

  “Seen together? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The suggestion was, I think, that you and Turner are having an affair.”

  Her eyes flashed angrily. “It was Mansfield, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “That pompous little prig!”

  “There isn’t actually any hard evidence that he made the call.”

  “Who else would stoop to using such tactics?” she asked, the question obviously intended to be rhetorical.

  “All right, let’s assume for the moment that it was Mansfield who made the call. Do you have any explanation for why he might do such a thing?”

  She appeared to consider this for a moment. “Petty spitefulness,” she suggested unconvincingly.

  Powell had the impression she was holding something back.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I mean, if Mansfield thought that Adrian had accused him of wrongdoing, he was probably just trying to get back at him.”

  Powell was still not satisfied. Time to cut to the chase, he thought. His eyes met hers. “Have you been seeing Adrian Turner, Mrs. Brighton?”

  “That’s my business, don’t you think?” Her gaze was unwavering. Before Powell could reply, she continued in a measured voice, “If you must know, yes, I’ve seen quite a lot of Adrian recently. However, the reason has to do with politics, not romance—if that is what you were thinking. A short time after Richard was killed, Adrian contacted me. He wanted to talk about ways of healing the rift that had developed within the party over Dockside. It was too soon—I mean politics was the last thing on my mind, but he persisted. I eventually agreed to see him about a week ago at his office. We’ve met a couple of times since at my flat.”

  “I’m a bit puzzled, Mrs. Brighton. Why would Turner want to meet with you to discuss an issue about which he and your late husband disagreed so strongly?”

  “For the good of the party. He knows I have some influence and there is an election coming up in two years. If we don’t get our act together, the only beneficiaries will be Charles Mansfield and his gang of bandits.”

  “What was the upshot of these meetings?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “If I tell you, will it go beyond here?”

  “Not if it has no bearing on the case.”

  “All right. I agreed to lend my support to Adrian’s bid for mayor and to try to bring along as many of Richard’s supporters on the council as I can. And, in case you’re wondering, Chief Superintendent, I did think about what my husband would have wanted.”

  “And what might that be, Mrs. Brighton?”

  “To do whatever it takes to keep the Conservatives from winning.”

  “I’ve been told that your husband had political ambitions beyond Southwark Council …”

  She stared at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Richard had a certain quality, call it charisma, leadership ability, whatever you like. He was young, quick on his feet, and not unattractive, which seems to be a prerequisite in politics these days. To answer your implied question, Chief Superintendent, I think he could have gone as far as he wanted.” She looked up at him.

  Now for the tricky bits, he thought. “Just one or two more questions, Mrs. Brighton, and I’ll let you get back to your shop. I have to ask you something that may be upsetting, so please don’t take it personally.”

  “I’m a big girl, Chief Superintendent.”

  “I mentioned before the importance of exploring any possible association between your husband and Clive Morton. We’ve learned that Morton was a heavy user of cocaine; is there any possibility that your husband was in any way involved with drugs?”

  “Absolutely none,” she replied without hesitation. “One or two glasses of wine with dinner was the extent of Richard’s dependence on drugs.”

  Powell nodded. “One last question, Mrs. Brighton: If your husband was confronted by a thief or thieves on the night in question, do you think he would have tried to run away?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “It would depend on the circumstances, wouldn’t it? I don’t know … If I had to guess, I’d say he would probably have stood his ground and tried to talk his way out of it.” She smiled sadly. “He was a politician, after all.”

  As Powell walked back to Sloane Square tube station, he reflected on his conversation with Helen Brighton. He was disappointed, having hoped for more, unaware that he now had everything he needed.

  CHAPTER 26

  Powell spent the next morning dodging Merriman, who had been sending him a steady stream of increasingly belligerent e-mail messages demanding to know how he was getting on with his assignment. He had been tasked by Merriman to contribute to the Assistant Commissioner’s blueprint for the future of the Metropolitan Police Service by writing the section on “Administrative Streamlining and Client Service Enhancement in the New Millennium.” As he read the latest message, he felt like puking. He tried not to think about the close call he had had earlier that morning when he had nearly been trapped by the AC in the library on the twelfth floor, only managing to elude detection by hiding behind one of the reading desks. Turning off his computer, he decided that it might be prudent under the circumstances to fall back to a more secure position. He left messages for Black and Evans to meet him for lunch at the Fitzrovia and then sneaked out of the building by way of the underground car park.

  The sky was a hazy gray dome with a faint hint of sun, so he decided to take his chances and walk. Through Queen Anne’s Gate with its early-eighteenth-century houses, mellowed dark brick, black iron railings, and painted doors; across Birdcage Walk into the Horse Guards Road—which separated the green jewel of St. James’ Park, sparkling with flowers and its lake filled with exotic ducks—from the austere backside of Whitehall; then across the processional sweep of the Mall into Waterloo Place under the watchful eye of the Duke of York (who it is said was placed on his high granite pillar one hundred and twenty-four feet above the pavement to put him beyond the reach of his creditors). Before proceeding into Lower Regent Street, Powell paused to light a cigarette and to compare notes with Captain Scott, with whom he felt a certain kinship.

  Twenty minutes later, he was safely ensconced in the Fitzrovia Tavern chatting with Celia Cross about Jill Burroughs.

  “You can’t imagine what a load off my mind it was to see ’er face, Mr. Powell,” Celia said.

  Powell took a blissful sip of beer. “Believe me, I know what you mean. The poor girl feels terrible about the way things turned out.”

  Celia drew herself up to full height behind the bar. “Well, it wasn’t ’er fault, was it? It was that toffee-nosed boyfriend of ’ers. S
he won’t be sorry to see the back of ’im, I reckon.”

  “Did she say when she was leaving?”

  “She was trying to book the first available flight to Toronto.” The publican paused thoughtfully. “I’d ’ave her back in a minute, but I suppose it’s the best thing really. She’s seen a bit of the world, ’ad a bit of a fling, but there’s no place like ’ome I always say.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Powell responded, raising his glass.

  He was interrupted by a familiar voice. “You’re incorrigible, sir.”

  He turned to see the smiling face of Sarah Evans, with Black filling the doorway behind her. “We were wondering what happened to you,” she remarked.

  He sighed heavily. “It’s a harrowing tale, Evans. Perhaps I’ll tell you about it some day.”

  “Merriman is looking for you, by the way.”

  “Really? I wonder why he doesn’t just send me an e-mail.” He turned to Celia. “Would you mind if we used the Writer’s Bar? We’d prefer not to be disturbed.”

  She winked knowingly. “Say no more, Mr. Powell. I’ll bring you down some sandwiches.”

  They ordered their drinks and then made their way downstairs to the dark-paneled room where Powell had interviewed Simon Snavely, the drug-addled Phantom of the Fitzrovia.

  When they were settled, Powell turned to Detective-Sergeant Black. “Why don’t you start, Bill?”

  “Well, sir, a couple of things. First off, I talked to Samantha Jones again—Morton’s dinner companion the evening he was killed—to try to narrow down the timing. Apparently, Morton received a phone call at the restaurant sometime between eleven and eleven-thirty. She says she doesn’t know who it was. They left together a short time later, and she says she never saw him again.”

  “That would only be an hour or so before Morton was murdered, perhaps considerably less than that,” Powell observed.

  “Yes, sir. And Covent Garden isn’t that far from Leicester Court.”