by Ian Andrew
“Copy. Chaz are you good?” Tien asked.
“Yep all good. I’m just coming up to the lane turning.”
The Lexus was about a hundred yards ahead of Tien and Eugene with no traffic between them.
Tien had finally got the map in focus, “Eugene, once you clear the first buildings on the left, there’s a stretch of empty fields, then the next buildings on the left are opposite the turning for the nursery.”
“Okay. Roughly how far?” he asked, concentrating on keeping his distance from the Lexus, near but not too near.
“Less than a mile.”
A little under two minutes later Tien, still huddled in the foot well, heard Eugene put the indicator on.
“This is us,” Eugene said.
“Chaz. You’re in,” Tien said.
“Copy that.”
Chaz watched as Eugene turned off down the even narrower lane to the nursery and just glimpsed the brake lights of the Lexus as it negotiated a gentle left hand bend ahead. Avey Lane was lined with high hedgerows and had the occasional passing place cut into the verge. He hoped nothing was coming the other way that would cause the Lexus to stop and mean he would close right up on the target. He calculated that if he could keep at least a bend between them he would be safe from detection and still be able to follow. But he didn’t get the chance. Less than half a mile further on he rounded the next bend and almost drove into the back of the target car. It was making an acute left turn into the driveway of a house set back some distance from the road. Chaz didn’t flinch but merely slowed enough to allow the Lexus time to make the manoeuvre. Then he drove straight past, checking all he could in his mirrors.
“Target has turned into a house on Avey Lane. No opportunity for observation. Now what?” he asked.
“We meet at RV1. Copy?” Kara said.
Chapter 21
Thursday Evening. Huntingdon
Paul Harris parked on his small concrete drive and stepped from his car. Like the rest of the 1950’s semi-detached houses in the narrow cul-de-sac, the parking space had come at the cost of most of the former front garden. But at least his house had retained some greenery. His neighbours had either concreted the whole space to cater for two cars or attempted to plant rose bushes in the remnants of exposed soil. Paul had stuck with simple lawn. Well-tended and neat but with a size less than the smallest of putting greens, it didn’t require much maintenance to keep it that way.
Moya and Anna had arrived earlier and with no answer from the house had parked up, half on, half off the pavement, a few yards further along on the opposite side of the road. They’d spent the last twenty minutes listening to the coverage of the Wimbledon tennis on the radio. Now they waited a little longer until Harris was putting the key into the front door. He turned at the sound of their footsteps.
“Mr Paul Harris?” Anna called.
“Yes,” he said, a little startled by the approach of the tall young woman and her shorter, older companion.
“We’re from the Tri-County Major Crimes Unit. Can we have a word with you?”
Moya kept her expression neutral but smirked inwardly at Anna’s use of the Major Crimes title. It was always a good thing to throw at someone when you wanted them knocked off balance. She watched the colour drain slightly from the man’s face. She knew he was the same age as the nightclub charmer Steve Lyttle; they had been at school together. But where Lyttle was tall, trim and confident, Paul Harris was shorter, slightly heavier than he should have been for his height, appeared a good few years older and looked distinctly unsure of himself. Moya considered the pictures she had seen of him and the girl leaving the nightclub together. She thought, and considered it unkind even as she was thinking it, ‘You must have money or a great personality, or just had one helluva lucky night, Mr Harris.’
Stepping back against his front door, he stammered through the usual responses trying to find out what they wanted, what this was all about, why did they want to speak to him, but Anna deflected all of his questions very ably. Moya was impressed. It only took a few minutes until they’d identified themselves formally and Harris had invited them to sit down in his living room.
“Are you married Mr Harris?” Anna asked.
“No, no I’m not,” his voice was hoarse, strained and he sat forward on the edge of his chair.
“Have you ever been married?”
“No. Never. Look what is this about a major crime?” he directed the question at Anna but Moya interjected.
“We’ll get to that Sir. But first, we really need to know, do you have a long-term partner?”
Moya thought he looked like a spectator at Wimbledon as he turned first to look at her, then Anna, then back to her again. His movement was smooth but his expression was getting increasingly perplexed.
“No. No I don’t. I don’t have a partner. And it would be a woman, so you can save the political correctness,” he said, a little more strain noticeable in his voice.
“Are you currently seeing anyone, even casually?” Anna asked.
His tennis spectator action began to slow a little but he continued to alternately stare at both of the detectives. His breathing was steadying from the initial surprise and Moya could see his eyes searching their faces for clues as to what was going on.
“Sir?” Anna prompted.
“No. Not seriously,” he said with a hesitancy.
Moya nodded and Anna took out the photo of Harris and his female companion exiting the nightclub.
“Who’s this Sir?” Anna asked.
Moya watched as Harris’ face reddened even more rapidly than it had drained to white at their arrival. The intensity and speed of the blush was startling. He went to speak but then closed his mouth. He did that a few times. Moya thought he had gone from Wimbledon spectator to fish out of water.
She decided it was time to ease his worries, “Mr Harris. You are not in any trouble. We’re merely trying to ascertain a few things in the progress of an inquiry. We believe you and this woman were the subject of a surveillance operation last Friday night. We suspect a private investigator photographed and followed you and your companion. All I need to know is why. So, if you are not married and you don’t have a long-term partner. Sorry,” Moya corrected herself, “Girlfriend. Then can you think of any reason that someone would have you followed?”
Harris’ mouth had come fully open now. He stared back at Moya with a deeply furrowed brow and an almost comedic expression of confusion. She waited.
“Sir?” Anna prompted a little more severely. It had the desired effect.
“No. I’ve not got a wife or a girlfriend. I have some women I see off and on but that’s it. There’s no reason for anyone to follow me.”
“What about work? Is there anyone from there that might want to know what you’re up to?” Anna asked.
“No. I’m self-employed. I don’t have any staff.”
“What do you do Paul?” Moya asked.
“I’m a mechanic.”
“Did you set that up after Lola closed?” Moya asked and knew she was taking a slight risk. If her previous information was wrong then it could make Harris less amenable but if it was right then it would cause him to think she knew more about him than she actually did.
His confused expression became shaded with even more concern. “Uh, yeah. How did-”
“Any customers that you’ve maybe had a run in with?” Anna interrupted him.
“No, no. I get on well with them. They’re all mostly regulars. Seriously I don’t have any reason to be followed.”
“Any debts Paul?” Moya asked.
“No. I got paid out for Lola. I got enough to clear the house and set up my business. Seriously, you have the wrong man.”
“Has anyone been in touch about last Friday?” Anna asked.
Harris answered quickly and a little aggressively, “Only you.”
Anna raised her eyebrows and looked like she was about to retaliate but Moya spoke first, “Okay Paul. Let’s just take th
is one step at a time. If no one is following you then they must be following your date. Who is she?”
His redness, that had begun to recede, flared anew.
They waited for a moment and with nothing forthcoming Moya sensed Anna was about to go on the attack again. She thought that might do more harm than good so she played a hunch and spoke first, “It’s okay Paul. We’ve all been there. Do you know her first name at least?”
He looked down and nodded his head.
“And you either didn’t get a last name or you don’t remember it?” Moya asked with a gentler tone.
His voice was resigned, “I don’t remember it. I’m not even sure she told me it.”
Moya looked sideways at Anna and saw what she thought was quite a disapproving look on her young face. She’d have to have a word later. Personal feelings and displays of emotion were not helpful in stimulating empathy in an interview.
“Okay, look it happens,” Moya said. “You haven’t heard from her since?”
“No,” he said it with a trace of real sadness.
“So this was a one night stand. You’ve never seen her before?
“No. She was only up here for a conference.”
“But you really liked her?”
“Yeah. Look at her,” he pointed to the photo, “She was really pretty, funny, clever and-” he stopped short.
“And?” Moya asked.
Harris raised his head and looked at her, “And, you know,” he gave a strange tilt of the head which Moya could only guess meant one thing.
“Good in bed?”
Harris blossomed red again and went back to gazing at his knees. He nodded.
“In the morning, did you swap phone numbers?”
“I gave her mine,” he said, continuing to stare down.
“So you gave her your number. Didn’t you ask for hers?”
“Yes,” he said the single word like a truculent child being forced to admit a misdemeanour.
Moya waited but Harris said nothing else.
“And?” she prompted.
“And she wrote a number down. I rang her on Sunday but it was…,” his voice tailed off completely and he stopped again.
“It was?” Moya asked a little more sternly.
“It was a mobile dog washing service.”
Moya was relieved that Harris still had his eyes cast down at his knees so he didn’t see her nearly bite through her lip to stop from laughing. She thought that when she spoke to Anna about masking her emotions she would have to have a word with herself.
She swallowed hard and went on in a steady and sympathetic voice, “Okay Paul. That’s fine. Let’s tell me what you do know about her. First name, this conference she was attending, where she lives, anything you have.”
He looked up, the redness beginning to dissipate and his voice a little steadier, “Her name’s Diane. She said she was from Hayes in London and she’s a civil engineer but that might all be rubbish.”
“What conference was she attending?”
“She said it was a conference on engineering. She was up for Thursday, Friday and Saturday but was going back to London on Saturday night. After I tried to ring her on Sunday and got nothing I Googled it. There was a conference in the Marriott about engineering.”
“The Marriott in Huntingdon?” Moya said referring to the large hotel to the west of the town.
“Yeah.”
“That’s great Paul. We’ll go and have a chat to the hotel and see if-” Moya was cut off by Harris.
“But that’s not where she was staying. I dropped her off early on Saturday morning at the George.”
“In town?”
Paul nodded and Moya decided the chances of finding Diane had just improved dramatically. The Marriott was a large modern hotel. She had no idea how many rooms it had but it must have been in the hundreds. Whereas the George was a sixteenth century coaching inn and Moya reckoned they couldn’t have more than a dozen rooms. Of course there was no guarantee Diane had actually stayed there.
“That’s great.” Moya said and turned to Anna.
Anna picked up the questioning, “How did you two meet Mr Harris?”
“I went out for a drink with some mates. We were in the Three Tuns and she wandered in on her own. I was at the bar and she just started talking to me. My mates left me to it. When it was closing time I asked if she fancied going to a club.”
“Did you notice this woman at all?” Anna showed him the picture of the blonde leaving the nightclub.
He stared at it for some time and then shook his head, “No. But you can’t see her face. Do you have one that shows it?”
Anna shook her head.
“Then no, I don’t recognise her at all. Is this who you think was following us?”
“Yes,” Anna said. “This was taken on Friday night so this is what she was wearing. You don’t remember seeing a woman like this, dressed like this?”
Harris thought about it for another few moments and again shook his head, “No. I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with Diane.”
Anna finally softened her tone, “Don’t worry Mr Harris. From what you’ve told us I would imagine she was following Diane and not you.”
“Yeah but what if Diane was married and I’m in the middle of some weird thing with her husband. I mean he could be a psycho. What happens if he comes after me?” Harris had begun to look strained and anxious again.
“I’m sure nothing like that is going to happen,” Moya said. “It’s incredibly unlikely and even if Diane was in a divorce you’d have nothing to answer for Paul. And anyway, we know about it now so if anyone contacts you then you contact us and we’ll come running. Okay?”
“I guess so,” he said a little unconvinced.
Moya stood, “That’s all for now Paul. We’ll keep you informed if we find out what this is about and why you were being followed. But in the meantime, if there’s anything else you can think of, anything at all, no matter how trivial, I want you to get in touch with us directly. My colleague will give you her card and if you think of anything, or you get contacted by Diane, or anyone else claiming to be associated with her, you ring us straight away. Understand?”
Harris nodded and taking Anna’s card he led the two police officers to the door.
The George Hotel was less than a half-mile walk from Paul Harris’ house but to get there by car meant a near two mile journey around the ring road and various one-way streets. As they pulled in to the small car park a team of workmen were on high ladders taking down large canvas banners that had been strung across the rear entrance of the hotel’s four hundred year old courtyard.
“Ah, that’s that for another year,” Moya said as Anna swung the car into a parking bay.
“How’d you mean?”
“The banners. They were advertising the Shakespeare they always put on here in the summer. It finished last week.”
The pair walked across the car park and around the ladders.
“Did you go?” Anna asked.
“Yep. I always try to go. This was my fifth year.”
Anna made a sort of non-committal grunt.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it Anna. Anyway, if you stay in the town for a while you’ll end up going. Shakespeare at the George is a local institution. You’ll have to embrace your cultural side,” Moya teased.
The reception counter displayed a small desk stand announcing that not only was the George delighted in welcoming them but that the bright and effervescent head receptionist who smiled warmly at them was called Rhiannon.
Once she was satisfied with Anna and Moya’s credentials it took less than five minutes for her to help identify Paul Harris’ date. It transpired the hotel had more than twice the number of rooms Moya had first thought but the twenty-six potentials soon became seven that matched with a check-in on the Thursday and a check-out on the Saturday. The seven reduced with the dismissal of the two family rooms that had been occupied by parents and accompanying children.
&
nbsp; “That just leaves these five guests,” said Rhiannon.
“Would you mind showing us the short registration cards?” Moya asked.
“Certainly, but there’s only one female,” Rhiannon said as she handed over a single card.
Moya was immediately grateful for the security requirements of hotels in the post 9-11 world. The short registration card showed the name, address, phone number and car registration of the individual checking-in. Anna copied down all the data, they both thanked the helpful Rhiannon and made their way back out through the old courtyard.
The one-way system worked in their favour this time as they drove the less than half-mile back to the Police Station.
“Her name is Diane Worrell. She’s listed as living in Daleham Drive, Hayes, in the west of London. It seems to be a pleasant area and the house is a nice looking semi-detached according to Google. She drives one of the new Vauxhall Insignias and was up here for a Civil Engineering conference. No record of marriage and the only other person listed at the address is the owner of the property, a Miss Catherine Boon. So either she’s house sharing and a fiancé or boyfriend is having a private-eye check up on her, or she’s in a relationship with Miss Boon and it’s Boon that’s doing the checking, or we have missed the reason completely and it’s so far out of right-field that Anna and I haven’t thought about it.” Moya ended her report to Reynolds.
“Good. Nice work, the pair of you,” he said. “I assume you want to go to London tomorrow?”
“Yes please Gov.”
“Alright. Just give the Met a ring and let them know what we’re up to. Okay?”
“Yep.”
Reynolds sighed, “At least it’s a way forward. Unlike Costa.”
“Have the lads not turned anything up?”
“On the contrary. We thought we’d hit the jackpot. The general waste bins up in Lark Crescent are only collected every other week and they’re not due to be picked up until next Thursday. Costa’s red shoes were in it. One heel broken off just like she said. Gary got John to rush them straight to the lab but the Med Tech’ on duty reckons the actual shape and size of the stiletto doesn’t match the profile identified by Doctor Rowlands. He still has to do a full blood check to see if there’s any forensic match with the victim but he’s not hopeful.” Reynolds sighed again and rubbed his hand over his face.
