The Missing Earring

by David Beard

  ‘With pleasure,’ he mumbled. It was something he intended to do anyway.

  When he walked through the main office on the way to his own, Sergeant Tiley buttonholed him. ‘What did she want?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s just scared you’ll become famous,’ he mocked. Tiley looked pleased with himself. ‘You look like you’ve just kissed Rebecca Bloody Whats-her-name,’ he added.

  ‘I had a phone call this morning.’

  ‘What a surprise. Does that happen fairly often? By, you have an exciting life.’

  ‘No, it was from the Met. They emailed me down a photo and a name.’

  ‘From the Met? See, Helen Mirren is right. You are becoming famous.’

  ‘Listen, I’m serious. Here’s the email.’

  ANNA TURLE, 33, 1.6M IN HEIGHT, APPROX. 55 Kg., BRUNETTE (PHOTO ATTACHED).

  ‘Who the fuck is Anna Turle?’

  ‘A Rita Golding, who is a worker in the sex industry, has reported a colleague, Anna Turle as missing. And, she has links with the westcountry. They also believe she has recently had an abortion.’

  ‘She’s a worker in the sex industry?’ Smalacombe queried, ‘what’s wrong with good old-fashioned whore?’ He studied the photograph. ‘Good looker though. Abortion, eh?’

  ‘Stunner! Get the drift? They’re not all on the game anyway. Perhaps she’s a lap dancer or a photographic model or something,’ Tiley reasoned.

  ‘Don’t give me that old bollocks, Clive, its PC gone mad. No wonder we never get anything done around here. Why the fuss all of a sudden? Hundreds of people go missing every day. If the Met contacted us every time a tom went missing...’

  Tiley shook his head. ‘Oh come on, we always chase things up.’

  ‘How many contacts like this do we have? I reckon somebody’s been asked to do a favour they can’t refuse?’

  Tiley laughed aloud this time. ‘Somebody’s been wick dipping where they shouldn’t have, you mean?’

  ‘It’s been known.’ He casually dropped the photograph back onto the desk. ‘And, how high is 1.6 bloody metres? Why can’t they do it in real measurements?’

  ‘It’s illegal to deal in feet and inches.’

  ‘Fuck off. And what the hell is fifty five kay gee?’ Once he had got that off his chest, he found a chair, sat back and smiled broadly. ‘Pretty good though eh?’ He popped a triple X peppermint in his mouth and threw the tube to his colleague who helped himself and replaced the packet on the desk.

  ‘And it gets better. Guess what address they referred to?’ said Tiley, nodding his head as if he anticipated his boss’s answer.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Smalacombe exclaimed, already ahead of the game and certain of Tiley’s response. He sat forward in his chair, unable to feign nonchalance anymore.

  ‘Longtor Manor,’ Clive Tiley confirmed.

  ‘Bingo! Our boss is going to need a change of knickers before the day’s out,’ Smalacombe concluded. ‘Get Turle’s dental records, get them faxed down, and tell Angela. You never know, she might just have enough to go on. She will be able to produce something with a trace of DNA I’m sure. Oh, and find out who Golding is?’

  ‘And who’s knocking her off?’

  ‘Give it a rest.’ Smalacombe thought for a moment. ‘I think we need to see nurse what’s-her-name again, don’t you?’

  ‘Winsom,’ Tiley corrected. ‘And she’s not a nurse.’

  ‘Will the Met be pushing to take this over? Did they say?’

  Tiley reassured his boss. ‘No, there won’t be any rank pulling on this one. I think they’ve got more than enough on their plate at the moment. At least, that’s what came across on the phone. If there are connections down here they are happy for us to handle it and they will give us all the background we need ’

  ‘Have we got any door to doors in yet?’

  ‘A few are coming in but nothing that flags anything up.’

  Smalacombe raised his eyebrows, fished out another peppermint and returned the tube to his jacket pocket. ‘You’ve read Mrs. Cooper’s?’

  ‘It’s what we expected. It doesn’t pose any questions. Others confirm she always walks her dog at that God forsaken time, summer and winter.’

  Smalacombe pulled the corners of his mouth down, caressed the flesh under his chin and thought for a moment. ‘She must be bloody mad. Get Sheldon to check it out again,’ he ordered. ‘It’s all we’ve got to go on at the moment. There might be something she’s missed.’

  ‘What, with the way she rabbits on?’

  ‘That’s a point. Have they checked everyone?’

  ‘No, there are a few who are away for various reasons but we’re keeping tabs on them.’

  ‘Have forensics come up with anything?’

  ‘A few things! There are some tracks on the ground and some marks near where the body was found but that’s all.’

  ‘What sort of tracks?’

  ‘Well,’ Tiley hesitated, ‘from a buggy, something like that. Might be it’s nothing.’

  ‘No, that’s good; it fits. Angela made a similar reference. I reckon it’s a wheelbarrow.’

  ‘That’s it then, we’re looking for somebody with a wheelbarrow who makes scones.’

  ‘Piece of piss, eh?’

  ‘We’ll have it cracked by this evening!’

  CHAPTER 4

  Wednesday June 28th

  The following morning Tiley and Smalacombe mulled over the completed post mortem report together. Everything fitted into place; Tiley handed the folder back to his superior.

  ‘So, according to the dental records it is possibly Anna Turle then.’

  ‘Possibly you note, but not probably. There wasn’t much left to go on, was there? Anyway, everything that’s still there matches. It’s a good start but not conclusive.’

  ‘And traces of Palmolive,’ Smalacombe elaborated inventively after reading what was found in the lungs. ‘That’s good enough for me, Clivey boy. It’s down to Longtor Manor for us two, don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t forget the SIO.’

  ‘How could I? What have you found out about Rita Golding?’

  ‘Quite a lot. She’s a high class pro…’

  ‘Is that possible? What are you saying? A high class cleaner is a lavatory attendant at Buckingham palace?’ Smalacombe argued with a note of cynicism.

  ‘Not really, but if you knew what she charges. She’s not looking for business outside the Job Centre I can tell you. Golding and Anna Turle shared the same house; a really posh pad in Knightsbridge apparently and they are… were,’ he corrected himself with regard to Turle, ‘making a lot of money.’

  ‘So, she is high class then.’

  ‘They run an escort agency too, the Ritandanna Agency.’

  ‘You had better arrange a meeting with her, PDQ. I want all the ammunition I can muster. Make sure you do it through the Met. We’ll need to keep them informed at all times. Tell them we think we’ve found Turle.’

  Within the hour an interview with Rita Golding had been arranged in a hotel close to Heathrow. Smalacombe and Tiley were soon driving up the outside lane of the M4 with one eye constantly on the rear view mirror. It wasn’t so much the thought of being stopped for speeding, as a quiet word would solve the problem. It was more to do with the inconvenience and time lost if they were. Time was of the essence, as they knew it was going to be a very long day.

  They walked into the reception area of the hotel and checked their bearings. It was, as Tiley had correctly observed, all glass and poncy. To the right was a coffee bar, which immediately attracted them. Tiley wondered if they should first check with the reception desk to see if there were any messages for them. Smalacombe concurred and waited as Tiley walked across to the counter.

  A tall, elegant and extraordinarily beautiful woman strolled across to Smalacombe. She was about the same age as Anna Turle. Smalacombe noted that everything about her reeked of money; the cut of her clothes, her leather strapless high heeled shoes were clearly not from a market
stall, she carried a Gucci handbag and her long blond hair almost resting on her shoulders was probably cut by a disciple of Mr. Sassoon himself. A pair of expensive looking sunglasses was pushed up above her hairline to complete an air of urban sophistication. Her whole appearance was immaculate and she oozed confidence and classy sexuality.

  She seemed very used to approaching strange men in hotels and when she spoke, rather softly, there was no hint of a regional accent. ‘You seem lost, are you the gentleman I’m waiting for?’ she asked. At first Smalacombe wasn’t sure; she was out of his league and in any case he wasn’t in the habit of picking up whores, classy or otherwise. ‘Are you the policeman from Devon?’ she asked again.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ he replied, with another question and held out his hand. A beautifully manicured hand folded around his, her touch was sensuous. ‘You looked lost, that’s all,’ she breathed. ‘Anyway, I’m used to sussing out who I’m waiting for.’

  Tiley felt very aggrieved. When he turned back from the receptionist he saw his boss entertaining this Hollywood vision and he was excluded from the action. He rapidly returned to his superior and collided with two people in quick succession; the second one a porter with a trolley of luggage, which spilled out over the foyer’s floor. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. Soon he was hovering at his boss’s side waiting to be introduced.

  ‘And this is Sergeant Tiley, Miss Golding.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he smarmed and shook her hand warmly. Her touch, like a mild electric shock, sent tingles up his arm and he felt himself redden.

  ‘If we sit over there,’ Rita Golding indicated some plush red leather seats in the far corner, away from the rest of the action, ‘we’ll be left alone. A waiter will get us some refreshment,’ she added.

  After some small talk and arrangements with a waiter for coffee and biscuits, Smalacombe realised that whatever her profession, Rita Golding was well educated and articulate. He explained to her that she was not being interviewed because of any actions on her part and that he only wanted information from her: whatever she was prepared to give, concerning Miss Turle. Ms Golding had a lot to say.

  ‘My only concern, Mr. Smalacombe is that this interview will become known to people who could do me real damage.’

  ‘You have my assurance that people will not know where our information came from. We’re not interested in your activities; that may be a matter for others, but not us. We will leave it to them.’ She raised her eyebrows at this comment and he wished he hadn’t said it. ‘All we really want to know is, can we be sure the body is Miss Turle’s, what is her connection with Devon and why was she down there?’

  Ms. Golding looked close to tears. ‘You’re not sure it is Anna then?’ she queried.

  ‘Well, it’s almost certainly her. We have checked the dental records and they match as far as is possible. I’m afraid she was badly damaged. We will have to try to find a family link for a DNA,’ he answered with gravity. Rita Golding wiped a few tears from her eyes and murmured ‘Bastards’ under her breath. She composed herself and after a short while she began to talk.

  ‘She has no family.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘There may be an aunt in Canada but I’m not even sure about that. Her parents both died some years ago and she was an only child. There are certainly no relatives in the UK.’

  She stopped to compose herself once again.

  ‘Sergeant Tiley asked you to bring along a good photo of Anna,’ Smalacombe said and Rita Golding searched in her handbag and produced two. One was in a kitchen and she was dressed informally in jeans and a T-shirt covered by a butcher’s apron, in the other, taken on a foreign beach, she was in a skimpy bikini.

  ‘She was very beautiful,’ he said. Golding smiled but said nothing. ‘So what more can you tell us?’

  ‘We all used to go to Longtor Manor for weekends and such,’ she paused as she saw from her questioners’ expressions that they wanted some clarification. ‘It was purely a business arrangement; I mean you can’t lose a weekend for nothing can you?’

  ‘You said, all used to go?’ Smalacombe asked.

  ‘Well there’s a pool of us. We run our own escort agency, that’s Anna and me. We did run….’ she corrected herself and paused again to hold back the tears. She felt the need to explain. ‘We don’t see handing the dosh over to pimps as a necessary business arrangement, Mr. Smalacombe.’ The chief inspector nodded.

  ‘You’re not telling me you’re living off immoral earnings are you?’ he asked with an engineered note of surprise.

  ‘Are you going to charge me?’ Smalacombe sensed he was dealing with an extremely beautiful lady, very self-assured and someone bright enough to have assessed his position with accuracy.

  He smiled broadly. ‘No. We’ve been through that.’

  She continued, ‘Hillman had a thing about Anna, he fancied her like mad but he thought he could have freebies; commission Anna called it, but she didn’t want to know.’

  ‘So, who paid you to come and entertain?’ Clive prodded.

  ‘Well, Hillman thought we would bring the girls down for nothing. You would not believe how tight he is. In the end he agreed to pay a flat rate for the weekend, which we demanded was paid up front.’

  ‘And did he always pay?’ Tiley asked.

  ‘You bet he did. Either that or we didn’t turn up. There’s no credit in our line of business, Mr. Tiley. It’s money first, services afterwards. We simply provided escorts you understand. Any extras? Well, that was up to the girls. The punters paid for that.’

  ‘He’s not short of a bob then?’ Tiley commented.

  ‘He gets a couple of million a film as I understand it and there’s always something on the go. He’s busy, and she does pretty well too, I’d say, but not in his league. So yes, they should be able to afford it but he never acts like it. It’s hard to put a finger on it. I mean, I’ve even heard rumours of bouncing cheques although we were always OK. There’s something about him I can never quite grasp. Mind you he has a very expensive habit.’

  ‘The white stuff you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and plenty of it. He’s always got money for that,’ she confirmed.

  ‘And, what about Rebecca Winsom, is she into drugs too?’ Tiley asked.

  ‘No, definitely not,’ she paused and then understood what was coming next, ‘and not Anna either,’ she added. ‘Anna was too much like me, gentlemen; we want the money and we want to keep it. What’s the best deal, property in Knightsbridge or to be a cokehead?’

  ‘Where does the nurse fit into all of this?’ Smalacombe interrupted her flow. Rita looked puzzled.

  Clive Tiley explained, ‘Miss Winsom.’

  ‘They had an open marriage. She is always well catered for anyway, she never goes without. The only difference is, she is for free.’

  ‘Bit cynical isn’t it?’ Smalacombe observed.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s true,’ she answered defiantly.

  Dexter Smalacombe was confused. ‘Ms. Golding, you are a beautiful woman if I may say so, you’re clearly well educated…’

  ‘Double first at Cambridge, Chief Inspector,’ she confirmed. ‘So, how come I’m mixed up in all of this?’ She stared at him defiantly. ‘That’s the next question, isn’t it?’ Smalacombe shrugged and pulled a face. This lady was smart in more ways than one but on this occasion she had misjudged him. He’d been around too long to fall into that trap. He decided not to reintroduce the question but she carried on, driven by her assumption.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ She stopped to watch the reaction. The two policemen remained silent. ‘However, since you ask, I’m told that graduates earn more than those without a university education. Now, on a bad week, a very bad week, I make around five grand, give or take a few hundred. How does that compare with your salary, Chief Inspector? On a good week I earn…’

  ‘Nobody would take me for five quid,’ he butted in to ease the tension. ‘Why are you telling me so much about y
our business arrangements?’

  ‘I’m telling you because you want to know and because I want the bastard who killed Anna. Anyway, as you’ve already told me, you’ve got bigger fish to fry than a little bit of prostitution, right?’

  ‘True.’ This time she had judged him correctly although he didn’t assess her enterprise as just a “little bit”. ‘How long were you in partnership, Miss Golding?’

  Rita Golding’s mouth trembled when she heard Smalacombe use the past tense. She swallowed hard. ‘Since we left uni, about eleven, twelve years.’

  ‘One final point, could you account for your movements last Sunday evening?’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t interested in me?’ She bristled.

  ‘It’s just routine. We have to ask everyone,’ Clive Tiley explained.

  ‘I was working, all night.’

  ‘Have you anyone to corroborate this?’ Tiley pressed her further.

  ‘I doubt it. Cabinet ministers are pretty secretive about their private lives. I don’t fancy bringing the government down at the moment. Now, if you don’t mind I do have an appointment shortly and I don’t like to let people down.’

  Smalacombe and Tiley looked at one another and Smalacombe raised his eyebrows. A wry grin spread across his face. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Miss Golding. We may need to contact you again, is that all right?’

  ‘Is that for my business or yours Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Oh mine, Miss Golding, I’m not keen to go anywhere where a bloody cabinet minister has been.’

  Just as they were about to leave Smalacombe turned because he had just realised she may be the only one who could help him. ‘If Miss Turle has no relatives, we may have to ask you to identify her. It will be pretty unpleasant I’m afraid. Her face is a mess; she’s probably unrecognisable.’

  ‘If that’s the case, how do you expect me to help?’

  ‘It seems no one knew her better than you and we have no one else we can turn to. Maybe she has distinguishing marks on her body that you would know about. Tattoos perhaps?’