by David Beard
‘Did he know he had impregnated her?’
‘Of course! You don’t play the little woman and stand the racket yourself, do you? That’s probably why she kept coming down here. It was his job to foot the bill.’
‘For the abortion?’
Rita Golding nodded.
‘And was he OK about that?’
‘No. Absolutely not; that was the other problem. She threatened to go to the police about the rape if he refused to cough up.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police anyway?’
‘Have you checked out how often a working girl’s claim of rape gets to court? And even if she does get that far, how often she wins? Forget it!’
‘So, he paid for the abortion?’
‘I couldn’t say. I would think it was highly unlikely. I mean from Anna’s point of view, it was all about principle really. It wouldn’t have been great amounts of money, but he’s tight. He wants the high life but doesn’t want to pay for it,’ she answered.
‘You said that the last time we met.’
‘Well, he earns a fortune.’
‘He’s lost a packet on some films I think.’
‘It figures.’
They both stopped to sip their drinks. It was as if there was a natural break to the proceedings. It was Smalacombe who restarted the conversation. ‘Rebecca Winsom paid Anna ten grand in April. Did you know about that?’
‘Vaguely.’ Smalacombe looked surprised by her answer. ‘For a long while now we haven’t seen the need to discuss what is coming in. The only thing that concerned us was what we had to pay out.’
‘But this was in her private account, not through the business.’
‘So? That’s not unusual, we’re earning all the time for ourselves. The agency covers the income from the girls who work for it.’
‘Ten grand is a lot of money.’ Rita Golding shrugged. ‘Was Winsom paying to be laid?’
‘No! Come on! She wasn’t into plastic dicks, I can tell you. No, I’m not sure what it was about to be honest. It might have been to do with the rape, but then again, a wife wouldn’t be prepared to dig up for that, would she? I think there was some sort of scam. I don’t mean anything seriously illegal you understand, but she was doing something on Rebecca’s behalf. That’s all I know really.’
‘You were very close and you shared the same home. I can’t believe you had secrets from one another.’
‘We didn’t! We are called upon to do all sorts of things and we’d done it all before a thousand times. You know, BTGTTS: been there, got the T shirt. We’ve been doing it so long it didn’t interest us any more at a gossipy level. You get blasé. There was a time we would confide in each other with every detail, but not anymore. Do you tell your wife every single thing about your work? It was just business, Mr. Smalacombe.’
‘Winsom withdrew four grand on the Friday before Anna’s death. Would that have been for the abortion?’
‘I can’t see it. She was besotted with Hillman but as I’ve said, would she finance the reparations of his indiscretions? Would any woman?’
‘Probably not! Did Anna mention anything in passing, a name perhaps?’
Rita Golding thought long and hard. ‘Yes, come to think of it, she did. Johnnie….Johnnie Hampton I think. I remember pulling her leg, you know cockney rhyming slang; Hampton Wick. I think she said it didn’t quite fit. I don’t know…’
‘Because it’s Hempson,’ Smalacombe interrupted. ‘Rita, on this rape thing, would you be prepared to make a formal statement? I really want to nail that bastard. In fact, I’ve got to and quick.’ He waited for a reply but she hesitated. ‘We can do it now, it can be done within the hour I’m sure.’
Golding nodded, ‘OK.’
‘There is one final thing Rita, what was your relationship with Anna?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh come on, I don’t have to spell it out do I? You were very close, right?’
Golding smiled broadly. ‘Is this for you to get off on, or is it relevant to the case?’
Smalacombe was embarrassed and it showed. Golding raised her eyebrows and waited for a reply. He realised she was a formidable woman and always capable of turning the tables to ensure it was she who was in charge.
Smalacombe knew he was blushing but he managed to compose himself. ‘Frankly, I don’t give a stuff what you get up to in the bedroom; I’m long past getting off on that. But, you know as well as I do, that I need a complete profile of the victim if I am ever going to crack this case.’ He looked at her long and hard. ‘Of course it’s bloody relevant to the case.’
‘Can I smoke?’ Golding asked looking around the room to see if there were any no smoking signs around.
‘I’d rather you didn’t. This is classed as a public space you know.’
She ignored his riposte, took a packet from her handbag. Smalacombe was shaking his head vigorously. She hesitated and returned the packet to its compartment. She looked him straight in the eyes to return his stare. ‘Men are my work, Mr. Smalacombe, nothing more. Of course we were lovers, from the first day we met at uni. We fucked regularly like any other couple. Satisfied?’
‘Thank you, Rita, I didn’t wish to embarrass you.’
‘Who’s embarrassed?’
‘Would you be prepared to put that in your statement?’
‘If you want.’
When Golding left, Smalacombe raised two fists in the air and breathed out a long almost inaudible ‘Yeeeees.’ He rang Tiley.
‘Where are you, Clive?’
‘I’m with a taxi driver; I’ve had a really good morning…’
‘Not as good as mine I’ll bet.’
‘I bet I have, unless you’ve had your leg over.’
‘I shall ignore that, Sergeant,’ Smalacombe answered, falsely pulling rank. There was a chuckle down the line. He outlined what had transpired with Rita Golding. ‘What time will you be back at the headquarters?’
‘I’ve got two more calls to make; I’d say about three thirty.’ Smalacombe looked at his watch. ‘OK. I’ll make arrangements to have Hillman brought in and charged first thing tomorrow. I’ll get one of the DC’s to set it up and to sort out the paper work and make the arrangements for him to surrender his passport. I’ll see the boss too and then we must sit down and compare notes. You’ve had a good day you say?’
‘A few interesting turns, I’d say. I’ll see you later.’ Smalacombe switched off and went to the SIO’s office. Sheila Milner was not available, as she was in a meeting (was she ever anywhere else, he wondered) so he left a message that he wished to see her before the day’s end.
For the first time since the investigation began he felt relaxed enough to let his mind wander. He thought about the family, his garden, whether he should get a takeaway for him and Freda. He felt at ease and wondered if Freda would be up for it when he got home? Now, that would finish off a very good day. Depends how good the takeaway would be, he decided. Perhaps a bottle of sparkling wine would do the trick? He was also sure his news would give Sheila Milner an opportunity to switch off and enjoy her private life. The thought gave him a jolt; did she have a private life? It was something that had never occurred to him until now. He didn’t even know if she was married. He wondered if she was as ignorant of him.
CHAPTER 8
Monday July 3rd
Whilst Smalacombe was interviewing Rita Golding, Clive Tiley was busy in Exeter re-tracing Anna Turle’s steps during the days before she died. One of the team had discovered that she had booked in at the Harewade Clinic on the Wednesday prior to her death. As he walked through the glass doors and walked towards the receptionist he was still rehearsing his questions. The receptionist was a young girl with a friendly smile trained in the art of persuading people that here was an establishment where nothing was too much trouble. Tiley’s cynical mind registered this with the qualification that all was available provided you were prepared to pay for it.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ In respo
nse, Tiley showed her his ID and announced that he had made arrangements to see the matron.
‘I thought matrons had disappeared ages ago,’ he said.
‘Well they have, but not here, Mr. Tiley. We ensure that we provide what our clients want and almost universally they want a matron. Who are we to argue?’
‘Who indeed?’ Clients, he wondered, not patients.
The receptionist directed him to an office at the end of a long corridor and a stout middle-aged lady met him wearing a dark blue uniform, I’m-in-charge-no-nonsense lace up shoes, black tights and a white headdress. Tiley had reminiscences of Hattie Jaques. ‘Sergeant Tiley?’ she asked sternly.
Tiley was soon to find out that she was as redoubtable as the popular conception of her profession suggested and not at all like Hattie. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Matron.’ Tiley began his interview after all the preliminaries, when they were both comfortably seated, she behind her desk and he in a low easy chair facing her. ‘I’m interested in a recent patient of yours, Anna Turle.’
‘Before we begin, Mr. Tiley I must warn you that much of what we know is strictly confidential, between the patient and us. There is much I will not be able to divulge.’
‘Matron, we are dealing with a murder here.’ She looked shocked. ‘Surely you’ve seen the papers?’ Matron hesitated and it was clear to Tiley that she had not made the connection.
‘Well, of course I read the papers,’ she said indignantly lifting The Times from her desk and slapping it down again. ‘To which murder are you referring? We seem to be inundated with them these days.’
Was this lady so divorced from reality? ‘I’m referring to the young woman found in the river Dart, a Miss Anna Turle. She was a client of yours just four days before she was murdered.’
‘The Ms. Turle who was here came from London. I don’t dwell on these sordid things too much.’
‘Surely you’ve seen her photograph in the papers?’
‘Not in the ones I read,’ she answered brusquely picking up The Times once more and then dropping it.
It occurred to Tiley, as she spoke, that a couple of decades ago she would have been seen as an abortionist, a criminal and part of the more squalid side of life. Probably something she would have looked down upon herself. ‘Are you saying this is the same girl?’ She paused and then began again. ‘In any event, I must remind you that medical confidentiality can never be compromised.’
Tiley let it pass but he noted a complete lack of compassion; he expected at least an acknowledgement of the tragedy, a “poor girl”, or something. Further, he wasn’t too concerned about the medical details with one exception. He felt sure that most of what he wanted to know would compromise no one. He decided to leave the tricky bit to the last. He began to realise that the low chair he was sitting on was probably there to intimidate him. Matron seemed to tower over him from her desk, talking down. All that was missing was a leather skirt, high boots and a whip.
‘Did she come alone?’ Tiley asked.
‘Yes, by taxi I believe. She did not garage a car here anyway,’ she answered in clipped tones.
‘And when did she leave?’
‘We advised her to stay overnight and she left on the Thursday morning.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
‘No. She left by taxi I believe.’
‘No one came to pick her up?’ The matron shook her head. ‘Do you know the name of the taxi firm, Matron?’
‘No.’ Matron communicated a bizarre pleasure every time she answered in the negative. She stared down at him and Tiley was even surer by now that she had missed her true vocation as a dominatrix. He could feel himself becoming increasingly impatient with her.
‘Matron, I will need a list of all the phone calls she made from her room…’ He reasoned that she would not have used her mobile, perhaps to preserve her anonymity.
‘Oh, I don’t think we would have a record.’
‘I bet you do,’ he said, with great satisfaction, as he decided to stand his ground. ‘And may I say you could provide it now if you wanted.’ There was a long silence as they both looked hard at one another. She never took her eyes from him and he reciprocated. Tiley realised it was a battle of wills, but he was determined that “she who is always obeyed” was not going to win.
Matron was not used to being faced down. Realising the determination of the police officer, she finally looked away and her body language revealed extreme irritation as she picked up the phone and made a short call. When she replaced the receiver she sat in silence, determined to make no further communication until the list arrived. Tiley assumed it was some sort of retribution for being so forward. Eventually, the receptionist appeared and handed the matron a folder. She studied the list carefully.
‘Do you recognise any local numbers, Matron?’ She handed it to him.
‘Yes, the last one is West Cabs I believe.’
‘Thank you. May I keep this? I’m keen to trace the other calls too. Do you have a copy?’
‘Our records are complete, Sergeant,’ she answered huffily. Tiley stood up to go.
‘One other thing, Matron, can you tell me how far gone she was?’
‘I can’t possibly divulge that, Sergeant; you should know better than to ask,’ she answered, once again on her high horse and taking control.
‘Matron, this girl has been murdered; there is every reason to suspect that the father of this child may be connected in some way. I will check the rules but I don’t think confidentiality continues after death, especially in these circumstances. Now, it would be much easier and much less expensive to do it between us than to go through the rigmarole of forcing the information out. I doubt the resulting publicity would do you much good either.’
‘Thirteen weeks,’ she said abruptly and added with even greater acidity, ‘Will that be all?’
‘For the time being.’ Tiley could not bring himself to say “thank you for all your help” and he left without further ado.
His time at the taxi firm was much more amenable. The co-ordinator soon checked his records, contacted the driver concerned, and called him in. He made Tiley a mug of tea and the sergeant sat on a bench in the depressing, unkempt waiting room. Previous occupants had not even bothered to close the newspapers that were spread like scrap over the low table in front of him. They dripped over the side and much of them had fallen onto the floor in an untidy heap. From the mess he extracted most of a copy of The Western Morning News. He was interested in its slant on the case he was pursuing. It emphasised the lack of progress and Detective Chief Inspector Dextor Smalacombe, it appeared, was not having a very good press.
Eventually Ted Johnson arrived, shook hands with him and showed him through to a small untidy space that served as a store cupboard. He switched on the light and shut the door behind him.
‘This is the only place where we can be private,’ he explained. ‘Sorry there’s no chair, but it’s the best we can do.’ He took a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light up.
Tiley looked around at the windowless walls. He was extremely averse to passive smoking. ‘Can’t we sit in your car, Ted?’
‘Good idea, Sergeant. I never thought of that.’ Indeed as the sergeant was soon to find out, Ted rarely thought about anything very much.
When they had settled in their more amenable surroundings, Tiley opened the window and got down to business, ‘I want to ask you about a fare you picked up from the Harewade clinic a week ago last Thursday.’
Ted’s eyes brightened immediately, it was one fare he would never forget. ‘Oh, I remember her. Who wouldn’t? Caw, she was beautiful, I tell you: tall, brunette, bloody stunning.’ He realised that this wasn’t what the sergeant wanted to know so he redirected his conversation. ‘I took her to the Timbletown hotel. Actually, I was fortunate because I was on, on Sunday too and I picked her up again, from there, in the morning.’
‘Where did you take her? Was it back to Exeter; St David’s station?’
&nbs
p; ‘No, she wanted to go to Dartmoor first and then she said she would want me take her to Newton Station after…’
Tiley interrupted him, ‘Let me get this down, Ted,’ he said as he opened his notebook and searched for a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Just where on Dartmoor, can you tell me exactly what you did?’
‘I took her to Longtor, up a lane to a small cottage. She said for me to wait for her. A woman came down from a big house behind the trees. I sort of recognized her; she looked familiar. It was almost as if I knew her but I couldn’t place where I had seen her. You know what I mean?’
‘Bloody hell, Ted, don’t you read the papers?’
‘Well, yea, all the time. I’m a bloody taxi driver for fuck’s sake.’ He thought for a moment and then a look of astonishment crossed his face, ‘Fuck me, Sarge, are you saying…’
‘Bloody right I am.’
‘Fuck me; I never gave it a thought, honest.’ Ted stared wide eyed at nothing through the windscreen. His unease was palpable and he suddenly felt it necessary to try and justify himself. ‘Well, come on, it isn’t every day you get mixed up in something like that. It’s, well, just something you read in the fucking papers, isn’t it?’ He shook his head. ‘Well, what can I tell you?’
‘Everything you know would be a good start.’
‘Well, this woman came down and went into the cottage. I waited more than an hour, I would think. I was getting a bit worried, you know, ‘cos the meter was ticking on and I wondered if I was going to get paid. Anyway, an older lady comes out and tells me, all posh, that my fare had been taken ill and that she was staying. She paid me in cash with a tenner tip too, and I fucked off.’
‘Did you see or hear anything else? Was there a man around?’
‘No, there were just the two women and the fare. I got back about three I think.’ He was nonplussed by the revelation of what he had been involved in and his difficulty in expressing himself left him resorting to the one repetitive expletive. ‘Fuck me! I never gave it a thought,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I did think, when I read it…. Fuck me, I was down there the day before, but you know, well, it was the fucking day before wasn’t it. I mean I would have got in touch if it had registered. Fuck me! If I had seen a photo I would have known; she was someone I shall never forget. What a prat!’
