by David Beard
‘So, Golding was right.’ Smalacombe pulled in and stopped the car on the brow of the hill beneath Haytor and looked over his left shoulder. The morning sun was reflecting off the Teign estuary in the distance. There was a patchwork of fields, some verdant green; others ploughed up to reveal the deep red sandstone of the area which contrasted with swathes of bright yellow rape seed. Further to the right he could pick out St Marychurch and Babbacombe church steeples side by side and behind them a large ship out in the bay. ‘Just take a look at that, Clive,’ he said.
Tiley took a quick glance but could see nothing he was supposed to spot and carried on with the conversation. ‘Yes, and that’s not all. He set up a web site with his accountant offering financial services; the accountant had the expertise and he had the money. With the depressed market that bombed too. I’m told it cost him about fifteen million.’
Smalacombe moved off, bewildered and saddened at his colleague’s complete disinterest in the countryside around him. ‘Peanuts, eh!’
‘They spent a fortune on the manor as well; the swimming pool complex alone cost three quarters of a million. The heating bill for it is more than my salary I reckon.’
‘Thirty quid a week, eh. How the other half live.’ Smalacombe giggled.
Tiley smiled, vaguely amused by his boss’s observation. ‘Not quite as much as that, as you well know. Anyway, unlike him I pay my bills. He’s got court orders coming in against him like confetti, from all sorts of trades. These weekend parties don’t come cheap either. Everybody seems to think he will pay, but a lot of people can’t wait that long. Golding got her money but she knew who she was dealing with, it seems.’
‘It’s money up front in her business. So, who exactly does he owe?’
‘Builders, caterers! He owes one caterer six grand. Greengrocers!’
‘Greengrocers? What do they do, eat boiled cabbage?’
‘No, it’s fruit isn’t it. There’s a cleaning firm who comes in to clean up the mess after these do’s. He owes them, too. It’s just a matter of time before someone sues for bankruptcy: probably the Inland Revenue.’
‘Booze?’ Smalacombe queried laconically.
‘That’s interesting, boss. We can find no recent payments for booze but there are no summonses. Significant do you think?’
‘How the hell should I know? Probably not! You’ll just have to check the paper work a bit more. It’ll be interesting to find out who supplies it.’
‘So, what can you tell me about Winsom, Cooper, or whatever we should call her?’
‘She was on good money, something like eight grand an episode in Twenty Four Seven plus residuals, plus other appearances, magazine articles and things.’
‘What the hell are residuals?’
‘Well, when it’s sold to Australia or somewhere they get another fee, a percentage of the original,’ Tiley explained. ‘Anyway, good as it is, it would never be enough to finance their lifestyle or to plug the holes. She doesn’t seem to owe anybody herself though, that’s all done through him, but there are things I don’t understand.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, she paid Anna Turle ten grand in April, for instance.’
‘Services rendered,’ Smalacombe said emphatically.
‘No. If its extras, we know she doesn’t come cheap but come on! How many shags will you get for ten grand?’
‘Well, if it was Lill, who you picked up in Baker’s Row a few weeks ago, it would be about forty thousand.’
‘Different class! Golding said the arrangement was that Hillman paid a fee and the punters paid for extras. But, this money to Anna didn’t go into the escort agency’s account. This money went into Anna’s private account.’
‘Perhaps she was ripping Golding off. ’
‘There’s something else,’ Tiley paused and gathered his thoughts. ‘Since April, there have been cash withdrawals from Winsom’s account; two grand then, two grand in May, but in June it was four.’
‘Shopping? She’s rich enough,’ suggested Smalacombe.
‘I don’t think so; she uses her card for everything. The problem is, looking back there have never been cash payments out of that account before, except for a few quid here and there. You know, cash in hand stuff.’
‘When was the June one?’
‘On the Friday before Anna Turle died.’
‘Tell me more!’
‘I wish I could,’ Tiley said.
As they came to the top of Widecombe Hill Smalacombe slowed and selected the low gear before descending. He didn’t much care how slow he went; he just wanted to absorb the beauty spread out before him. He studied the cluster of Bonehill Rocks to his right, Corndon Tor on the left in the far distance, further to his left was Sharp Tor, and straight ahead, peeping over the horizon, the top of the television mast of North Hessary Tor was clearly visible. Hambledown rode high on the other side of the combe. Below them was the hamlet dominated by a magnificent ancient granite church tower built by the tinners all those years ago: the Cathedral of the Moor, no less. Tiley thumbed through his note book to see if there was any further information he had omitted to convey to his boss.
Another quarter of an hour of travelling passed by and they found themselves turning into the lane leading up to Longtor Manor.
Nigel Hillman let them into the house. He looked tired and unkempt, as if he had not slept since the time they saw him the previous day. He made no offer of welcome, neither did the officers and nothing was said until they were both introduced to Mr. Bowles, Hillman’s lawyer.
‘I must begin, Chief Inspector by conveying to you my client’s deep concern at the way he is being treated.’
‘I think we’re pulling out all the stops, what more can we do?’ Smalacombe answered, deliberately misunderstanding the inference of Bowles remarks. ‘What does he expect? He’s been treated with the best protection that money can buy. It is for his own safety, sir,’ Smalacombe explained.
‘Oh come on, I’ve been around a long time. That’s just pretence and you know it,’ Bowles answered impatiently.
Smalacombe shrugged and pulled a face.
‘The consequences will be very costly for you if Mr. Hillman’s movements are restricted without good cause.’
‘Imagine the consequences if we arrived here to find that Mr. Hillman had been the victim of a third murder, Mr Bowles,’ Smalacombe answered with a broad smile. ‘That’s why I have made absolutely sure I am doing the right thing on his behalf in his best interests.’
‘His best interests are back on the film set, as well you know. Are you going to record this interview?’
‘It was not my intention to do so as we are just seeking information at the moment. I really don’t know what all the fuss is about. This is not going to be a cross-examination. If we find further evidence that may implicate your client, well, that will be a different matter.’
Bowles nodded and opened his briefcase. ‘Well, in that case perhaps you won’t object if I record it for our own reference purposes,’ he said as he put a portable tape recorder on the coffee table between them.
‘Feel free, and perhaps you would be kind enough to give me a copy.’
‘Quite so,’ said Bowles rather formally.
‘We’re going to be here a long time, Mr. Bowles if we are to dwell on procedures and complaints. We have two murders on our hands, one on these premises; Mr. Hillman’s wife. I’m sure he has things he can tell me which will help us with our enquiries.’ When Smalacombe finished he deliberately focussed his intention away from Bowles and on to the actor.
‘Mr. Hillman, I need to know, what was your relationship with Anna Turle?’
Hillman glanced across to his brief who nodded gently.
‘We have fun weekends here fairly regularly and she was often a guest.’
‘A guest?’
‘Yes, people come from all over, some we know better than others.’
‘And into which category would Miss Turle fall?’
&nbs
p; ‘She was just one of the beautiful people who came along for the ride.’ Smalacombe never answered but waited for him to continue. At first Hillman resisted but when he realised he was expected to elucidate a little more, he added, ‘Well, she wasn’t a member of the top table if you know what I mean. I just knew her as a face in the crowd.’
‘You weren’t lovers then?’
‘I’m married, Inspector…’
‘Chief Inspector!’ Smalacombe corrected but Hillman deliberately ignored it. It was beginning to be a habit and Smalacombe knew it was quite deliberate.
‘Rebecca and I had everything going for us, why would I wish to jeopardise that?’
‘Why indeed! You see, what bothers me, Mr. Hillman, is that Anna Turle could best be described as a high class prostitute.’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Bowles chimed in, ‘If that is how she chooses to live, then so be it.’
‘Chose to live,’ Smalacombe corrected and gave the solicitor another broad smile, which he knew would irritate the man.
Bowles ignored the interruption and ploughed on, ‘How does that affect my client’s position?’
Smalacombe leaned forward in the low easy chair, rested his forearms on his knees and fiddled with his fingers. He studied what he was doing and without looking up, he said, ‘Have you ever heard of the Ritandanna Escort Agency?’ Once he had uttered it he then raised his head and stared directly at Hillman who was looking particularly uncomfortable. Hillman studied the floor in front of him for some time.
‘Take your time Mr. Hillman, I wouldn’t wish you to say something you may later regret. Do you know a Miss Rita Golding?’
‘I do know of an agency called that, yes,’ he admitted after much delay, ‘but I can’t see what that’s got to do with Miss Turle.’
‘Well, it doesn’t take much working out does it. Ritandanna, the name, you really don’t need me to explain it to you, do you?’
‘No, but what she does in London is her affair. How she chooses to earn her living….’
‘So, it’s in London is it?’ Smalacombe interrupted.
‘Well, she comes from there. Whatever!’ Hillman answered very irritably.
‘Well now, you have made regular payments to Ritandanna.’ He paused for it to sink in. ‘Are you really trying to tell me that you have no idea who the bosses are? Who runs it?’ he kept the stare, unblinking, right through Hillman’s tinted contact lenses deep into his soul. ‘You told me yesterday that she was a business acquaintance, Mr. Hillman. Perhaps, now that Mr. Bowles is here, you would be kind enough to tell me just what this business arrangement was?’ There was yet another long pause. ‘Mr. Hillman,’ Smalacombe began again, ‘would you like me to go outside and come in again so that we can start this interview all over? Like we did yesterday?’
‘My client feels it is not in his interests to discuss his private business arrangements. In any event this is becoming an interrogation, Chief Inspector and as you well know it is quite irregular.’
‘I’m sorry Mr. Bowles, I don’t agree. You are here to represent him. There is no need for all this cat and mouse stuff because Mr. Hillman knows full well what I’m talking about. In which case this should just be a friendly conversation comparing notes. Nothing more, I can assure you.’
‘You’re treading on dangerous ground, Chief Inspector.’ Smalacombe chose to ignore him. It was worth the risk. When someone lies consistently and refuses to co-operate on every detail, he must be guilty of something. The art is to find out what it is.
‘Well, perhaps then he would care to explain why his wife paid Miss Turle ten thousand pounds in April?’
‘What my wife does…did, was purely her own affair. I was not privy to everything she did; we were very independent. We were certainly financially independent.’
‘Were you running a disorderly house Mr. Hillman; was Anna Turle plying her trade here? It’s a serious offence you know.’
‘My client is not prepared to continue with this badgering any longer. He’s just lost his wife. Have you no sensitivity?’ Bowles said with considerable anger in his voice. ‘You can see from his demeanour, he is not a well man, he’s under dreadful stress, he hasn’t slept since goodness knows when; he just can’t answer these questions coherently. I think we must stop this now before he inadvertently says something misleading.’ Bowles switched off the tape recorder and replaced it in his brief case. ‘Thank you gentlemen,’ he added, indicating that the interview was over and he stood up to reinforce his decision. ‘If you wish to interview him again it will be done formally at the police station. Is that clear?’
Smalacombe took the hint, nodded to Tiley and they got up and moved to the door. As was his habit however, he was determined to have the last word. He turned and faced them. Tiley put his notebook back in his inside pocket.
‘Absolutely clear! You should remember, Mr. Bowles, it is likely that the next time we speak to Mr. Hillman it may well be on a much more formal basis as you suggest, at our request though, not yours and I shall be the one who will decide when the interview is concluded.’ He turned to Bowles’ client, ‘Mr. Hillman. I must ask you before I leave, where were you on the night your wife died?’
‘I was in France, you know that.’
‘Your wife told me your work is in Spain. Never mind, perhaps you would provide us with some evidence to support your claims? Just for the record, you understand.’ He gave them both a broad smile.
He turned again and opened the door and then he repeated his previous activity one more time. He paused and looked back to the pair. ‘I intend to keep the security arrangements intact, at least for a couple more days. In any event, as Mr Hillman is clearly ill, he won’t want to travel very far will he? Oh, and Mr. Bowles please don’t forget to forward me a copy of the tape. Thank you! We’ll let ourselves out.’
Smalacombe sat in the driver’s seat of his car and fumed. ‘What a fucking waste of time that was,’ he said unnecessarily loud for such a confined space. Sergeant Tiley decided it was best to say nothing as he agreed with him wholeheartedly.
‘That bastard is up to his neck in this. I’m sure of it, Clive. Fucking lawyers!’ Smalacombe’s bad language reflected exactly his bad temper.
‘Well, we got him on possession; we could charge him with that.’
‘It’s a waste of time. There’s no stigma attached to it in his circles. Even the tabloids recognize that now. It’s what they all do. They’d expect bail anyway and I want bloody custody.’ He looked out of the side window at nothing and brooded for a while longer. ‘We need something a lot stronger than that.’
‘It could be a jail sentence. Class A drug!’
‘No chance! Clever Dick lawyers will see to that I can assure you. I’ll bet a month’s salary they’d get him off. How many times have we seen that in the past?’
‘Yea, but we’d have a good reason to hold him, legit. Confiscate his passport. It will be cheaper than round the clock surveillance.’
They both thought long and hard. Tiley started up again. ‘Perhaps we’re going over the top a bit? I mean, the poor sod’s just lost his wife and I can’t see how he could have been implicated in that.’
‘That still leaves the other murder. If he isn’t implicated with that one then why is he lying to me? I’m beginning to feel that the same person did not commit these murders. They may be connected in some way, but it’s all too pat. Too similar, if you know what I mean.’
‘We’ll just keep delving.’
‘Delve away! Now, whilst we’re here we may as well give Mrs. Cooper a visit,’ he said, as he switched on the car, started it up and drove the twenty yards or so to Mrs. Cooper’s cottage.
‘I’ve been expecting you, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Cooper as she opened the door and showed them in. The cottage was a converted nineteenth century granite, workman’s house, probably erected for a tinner and his family. Originally it would have had just one room with an earthen floor and no ceiling, but over the y
ears it had been modified into a cosy country idyll. The small porch over the front door was festooned with Nelly Moser clematis, its huge white and mauve flowers hanging down from the top, which required Smalacombe to duck under them as he passed through. She showed them into her front room, which was cleverly furnished with modest antique furniture that exactly suited the architecture. In the far wall was a large open hearth with a settle facing it and a Windsor chair to one side. Billy’s basket was in the ingle, which was clearly his home territory. On the wall above the fireplace was a highly polished old brass bed warmer with a long black oak handle. The room was cluttered but not untidy and although the fire was not lit the whole ambience of the place was one of warmth and friendliness.
‘I’m deeply sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Cooper,’ Smalacombe commiserated with the lady. Her lips trembled and she took a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
‘You know?’
‘Well, of course we know. It’s not the sort of thing we overlook.’
Mrs. Cooper was clearly taken aback by the officers’ knowledge and their assertiveness. She hoped it didn’t show. ‘She was so successful, Mr. Smalacombe, and a wonderful and considerate daughter. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.’
‘I do understand. I know how I would feel if it was my daughter,’ Smalacombe said and he decided to hold back until she had regained her composure.
‘She got it from me. I was an actress too, you know; not nearly as good as Joan, I must say. I went to RADA, did all the training, and began my career in rep and then I was at Stratford for two seasons. I shared the stage with Olivier, you know, and Sir Ralph. Then, I had Joan. My husband left me and my little girl was more important to me than my career. So, I gave it all up. I married again to a man who had absolutely no interest in the theatre or show business. And, in case you’re wondering, Joan took his name.’ She suddenly realised it sounded like a sob story. ‘Oh, I never regretted it, Mr. Smalacombe, not for one moment. The stage is not nearly as glamorous as people think. Now, can I make you a cup of tea?’
