by T J Walter
But Brookes had every confidence in his team of detectives; he had, after all, hand-picked them. Well, almost. Jacqui Rose had not been his choice. And for that reason he would not let her out of his sight until he discovered whether she was reaching the standard he set.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He looked at his watch; it said 7am precisely. At least she was on time.
After exchanging pleasantries, they completed the journey to Leman Street in silence; she was shrewd enough to see that he was not in a talkative mood.
Short was already at his desk when they arrived. He handed Brookes the reports of the previous evening’s house-to-house enquiries.
He said, ‘One of the cars was identified. It turned out to be a yellow Fiesta. It belongs to a Gary Shelton. He was visiting the woman who lives in flat forty-two, Riverside Mansions.’ He smiled. ‘She wasn’t too happy to admit it at first ‘til Liz leant on her a bit. Shelton is married but not to her. Apparently he didn’t leave till after two. He checks out though; they were just having some innocent rumpy-pumpy.’
Brookes returned his smile. ‘He’s not a Premier League footballer by any chance, is he?’
‘No chance, boss, not in that motor. He’s a local plumber. Apparently he did some pipe work for her a few months ago and she liked his style.’
Whilst they’d been talking, Rose had brought them all coffee.
She said, ‘What’s our position when we find out things like that, sir?’
Brookes took a cup from her. ‘Thanks, Jacqui. As long as it has no bearing on the case, it’s none of our business. We log it and ignore it.’ Then to Short he said, ‘So we’re left with the BMW. Had any of the neighbours seen it there before Saturday night?’
‘No, boss; they all said it was new to them. Apparently, the old dear who lives opposite is a bit of a Nosy Parker. She said it has definitely never been there before or she would have noticed.’
Brookes smiled and nodded. ‘Have we interviewed all the neighbours now?’
‘Everyone in a fifty yard radius. Do you want us to extend that?’
Brookes shook his head. ‘No, not at this stage.’ He frowned. ‘Do we know if there’s any off-street parking facilities nearby?’
‘No, boss, none that we know of.’
‘So this BMW might be important; the killer must have got there somehow.’ He paused, then added, ‘OK, I’m going to spend an hour on the bloody paperwork, then Jacqui and I are going to see the Wilson woman again.’
*
At the top of his in-tray was a note that simply said, “Phone Lynne”. The two words brought a smile to his face. When his wife had tired of the neglect his dedication to work had brought to their marriage, she had found someone else. Like most cuckolded husbands, he had suffered the pain of rejection for a while. Eventually, he’d learned to live with it and thrown himself even more into the job. But no matter how he had tried to ignore his need for love and affection, the need had persisted and troubled him.
Since then he’d had two other relationships. But neither had lasted, as his job had always been his first priority and each of the women had tired of playing second fiddle. Then, two months ago, he’d met Lynne Brandt.
Lynne too had been through a painful divorce. She too sought a casual relationship without the strong emotional ties that usually went with it. She ran a restaurant near Brookes’ home, one he frequented whenever he had time to relax over a meal. They had become friends and fallen into a relationship, almost literally. When one wanted the company of the other, they simply lifted the phone and called. It happened usually once or twice a week and seemed to satisfy them both.
Brookes picked up the phone and dialled her number. When she answered, he said, ‘Hi, Lynne, I got your message. How are you?’
‘Good, Brooksie, and you? I haven’t seen you for a while and wondered if you’re free this evening.’
‘Not a good time, love, I’ve just picked up another case.’
‘Well you have to eat, drop by. It doesn’t matter how late it is.’
‘I’ll try; I’ll ring you when I finish this evening.’
‘Make an effort, I could use the company.’
Brookes frowned as he put the receiver down. She usually didn’t pressure him when he was busy, but he would do as she had said; he would make an effort.
He brought his mind back to the job at hand and attacked the pile of paper. First, he looked at a case progress report prepared by DI Short. He read and signed it. Copies would go to the division’s senior management and would keep them off his back for a day or two. Then he worked his way through the remainder of the pile.
By just after nine, he’d made a dent and put down his pen. He walked back to the incident room. Jacqui Rose was sitting beside Sally Barnes, looking at her computer screen. Sally was talking animatedly, obviously flattered by her attention.
Brookes walked to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. Back at Short’s desk, he sat sipping it.
‘Did you let Joan Wilson know we want to see her?’ Brookes asked.
‘Yes, boss, she’s expecting you at ten.’
‘Who’s gone to Alison’s office?’
‘Fred and Bob. Dave and Liz are doing the dustbins; they’re not due to be emptied ‘til tomorrow. Stumpy is doing phone records and Bill is doing her bank accounts. The parents are due this morning. I’ll talk to them.
‘We’re still getting calls on mispers. I’m transferring them to main CID office; DCI White is not happy, he’s got enough on his plate anyway.’
Brookes nodded. ‘We’ve all got our problems, Derek.’ He looked at his watch: 9.30. ‘Right, has Jacqui got Wilson’s address; we’d better be off.’
Short smiled. ‘Yes, boss, and she’s looked it up on the A to Z.’
*
Bow Common Lane, East London.
Shortly before 10am, Brookes and his new sergeant arrived at Jane Wilson’s studio apartment. She too lived in a converted warehouse but, unlike Riverside Mansions, there was nothing up-market about its location. It was at the unfashionable end of Bow on what had once been a sprawling industrial estate alongside the River Lea. Many of the old buildings had already been demolished; a few remained. She lived in what had been the processing plant of a peanut distributor; the company logo was still on the wall above the main entrance and the smell of the nuts still hung in the air.
Wilson answered the door with a paintbrush in one hand and paint-spattered rag in the other. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a pink tee shirt daubed with paint. The tee shirt did little to hide the shape of her generous bust. Her shining black hair was pulled back off of her forehead with an elastic band, her face devoid of make-up. It was obvious that she had made no effort to pretty herself up for the interview, yet she still looked very attractive. Standing beside Brookes, Jacqui Rose smiled to herself, thinking of his remark about all women attempting to look their best when expecting company. But she wisely said nothing.
Wilson said, ‘Sorry I’m covered in paint, Superintendent, I’ve been trying to work to take my mind off Alison’s death.’
Brookes responded gallantly, ‘Please don’t apologise, Miss Wilson, you look delightful anyway.’
She invited them in and Brookes introduced DS Rose. Wilson showed them to the only two comfortable chairs in the room and offered to make tea.
Brookes looked around him. The large room was both living and working space. Its walls had never been plastered and the shapes of the brickwork showed through several coats of faded cream paint. An old, metal-framed window took up the whole of one wall, providing the natural light that was obviously what attracted the artist. The ceiling was one vast slab of concrete with strip lighting spaced across it. The concrete floor beneath their feet showed around the edges of a faded living room carpet laid in the centre of the floor space.
A half-finished oil painting stood on a work easel. A table with a metal top stood beside the easel, its surface covered i
n brushes, tubes of paint and mounds of dried oil paints in a variety of colours. A stack of finished paintings leant against one wall; other partly finished canvases were scattered about the floor, leaning against walls and furniture. A shelf on one wall contained well-thumbed art books, their covers stained with paint. In one corner stood a divan bed, the bedclothes carefully folded on top of it. A bedside cabinet stood beside it, an island of tidiness surrounded by the scattered paraphernalia of the working artist.
The purpose of their visit was not raised until each had a mug of steaming tea in front of them on a low table. Jane sat with them on an oak chest, the only other seat available.
Brookes said, ‘I saw two of your paintings on Alison’s wall, they are very good.’
She smiled wanly. ‘Alison loved the one I did from her balcony.’
‘Did you spend much time at her flat?’
‘You can see that there isn’t much room for entertaining here. Alison and I spent a lot of time there, yes.’
Brookes sipped his tea; it was strong enough to stand a spoon in. He smacked his lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to find someone who makes tea that you can taste.’
She smiled again, already more relaxed in their presence.
He went on, ‘We’re sorry to have to disturb you again, but we have a few more questions.’
‘No problem, I’d like to help if I can.’
‘Good, there’s just a few things. First, a neighbour heard Alison’s doorbell ring at about eight on Saturday night. Then she heard a male voice talking to Alison. We’re fairly sure she then let him in. We need to know who that might have been; have you any ideas?’
She took a long time to answer. Eventually she shook her head. ‘No, I can’t think of anyone. She didn’t have a current boyfriend and I can’t think of any of our friends who would call on her unexpectedly. Unless she had invited someone earlier, I suppose that’s possible.’
‘Bearing in mind she was wearing her old cardigan and carpet slippers, is that likely?’
Wilson smiled sadly at a memory. ‘She loved to wear that old cardigan about the house. But no, she was always very particular about her appearance when she was meeting someone; especially if it was a man.’
‘We’ll need a list of all her male friends and acquaintances. We can’t find an address book anywhere; did she keep one?’
‘It’s on her laptop, she kept everything on that.’
‘What else did she keep on that?’
‘Just about everything, as I said. She kept a diary and all her dates and appointments. She’d be lost without that.’
‘And she kept that at home, did she?’
Wilson nodded. ‘Yes, always. She sometimes took work home with her on a memory stick, she was very conscientious.’
‘Did you ever see what was on it?’
‘Sometimes, yes. Someone used to send her jokes on the e-mail; we would occasionally read them together.’
‘Anything else you can remember?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘What about her ex-boyfriend; what can you tell me about him?’
‘Well, he was a bit possessive. She told me something about an incident in a restaurant. A friend saw her there and came to say hello. He gave Alison a hug and a kiss, just a friendly one. Richard got angry. I think that was what finally finished the relationship; he acted as if he owned her.’
‘Was he ever violent when he was jealous?’
‘No, nothing like that; just a few angry words, that’s all.’
‘Do you think there was anything on her computer that someone would kill her over?’
She shook her head violently. ‘No, of course not. She was a nice person, everyone liked her.’
‘You mention that she sometimes brought work home with her. Did she have that on her computer?’
‘I think so. But I don’t really know.’
‘Do you know exactly what she did at work?’
This brought another smile. ‘She took after her father, he was an accountant. I asked her once; she said that she dealt with the sales ledger. She accounted for all the money people paid for their holidays. You know there was a great deal of money involved. The places these people rented started at a thousand pounds a day and some were much more expensive.’
Brookes asked, ‘Do you know anyone that drives a black BMW, Miss Wilson?’
She frowned in concentration then shook her head slowly. ‘No, I don’t think so. Certainly none of our friends, none of us could afford one.’
‘But Alison must have been doing quite well financially, being able to afford a flat by the Thames.’
‘No, you’ve got it wrong. Alison’s aunt died a year ago; she left her some money. It was just enough for the deposit for her flat but it left her stretched to the limit just to pay the mortgage. That's why she was so pleased that she got a raise last month.’
‘I see.’
Brookes paused again for a long moment and scratched his head. ‘You say that she had a drink occasionally with her work colleagues; was that the men as well as the women?’
‘No, there’s only the boss and the manager. The manager’s a bit of an old stick in the mud and the boss moves in a different league.’ She smiled, adding, ‘I think she would have liked to have a drink with her boss; she fancied him but he wasn’t interested.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘Yes, she invited me to a reception at the office once; he’s quite dishy but a bit stuck up.’
Brookes asked, with a smile, ‘I don’t suppose you know if he drives a BMW, do you?’
‘No, I never saw his car.’
There was another long pause before Brookes said, ‘You’ve had some time to think about this, Miss Wilson. Is there anyone you know who might have wished her harm?’
‘No, I’ve thought about it a lot but I can’t think of anyone who disliked her.’
*
Driving back to Leman Street, Brookes said, ‘Well, what do you think, Jacqui?’
She frowned in concentration, finally shaking her head. ‘Nothing, sir; I can’t think of anything she said that takes us any further. Could Alison have been chosen at random?’
‘Anything’s possible I suppose. But she let the guy in; if he’d forced his way through the door I’m sure the neighbour would have heard something. I don’t think it was random. Anyway, there’s no point in speculating. When we get back, I want you to get a report typed of the interview and get it put on the computer.’
*
They entered the Incident Room to a buzz of excitement. A crowd of detectives surrounded DI Short’s desk.
As he spotted them approaching, Short waved the crowd to silence and said to Brookes, ‘Things are happening, boss. At last we’ve had some breaks.’ He turned to DS Middlemiss. ‘I’ll leave it to you to fill the boss in, Fred.’
Middlemiss had a broad grin on his face. He said, ‘This place Alison worked, boss, Luxury Homes Abroad. It’s a small set-up staff-wise, just the boss-man, his manager, and three girls apart from Alison. But it’s a big swanky office; must cost a fortune to rent. I spoke to the manager first. He’s a bit of an old codger but seems straight enough. He confirmed that Alison dealt with the accounts. The three other girls are all booking clerks. They weren’t a lot of help. All they could say was that Alison got on well with everyone.
‘She told one of them that she was going straight home on Saturday. They don’t remember her having any calls that day and she didn’t have a steady friend as far as they knew.
‘Then things got interesting. I asked the manager if I could see the boss-man. He said no, he was too busy. I pulled his chain and finally got past him. The boss is named James Fleming, late thirties and dresses like a pimp. He’s a right arsehole, reckons he’s the bee’s knees. And his office reeks of money: leather chairs, fancy desk, art on the wall; the lot.
‘At first he tried to bullshit me; reckoned I had no right to take up his valuable time. Then I yanked his chain and he lost hi
s blob.’ Middlemiss smiled. ‘Threatened to throw me out and report me to the commissioner. But he was sweating like a pig. He was a bundle of nerves and if he’s not hiding something I’m a Dutch tulip farmer. Reckoned he knew nothing about Alison’s life outside the office. I didn’t push it after that and just walked out.’
Brookes said, ‘I can just see you surrounded by flowers, Fred. Perhaps you missed your vocation.’
Middlemiss smiled. ‘Now for the good bit, boss. The office is on the ground floor of a big tower block; got its own underground garage. I went down there and got chatting to the parking attendant. I asked him about allocated parking spaces and came up trumps. Mr ‘Stuck Up’, ‘Full of his own importance’ Fleming runs a black BMW with tinted windows; it was parked there bold as brass.’
‘Great, Fred; are you sure you didn’t show out?’
‘Positive, boss. I didn’t ask Fleming what he was doing Saturday night; figured you’d want to follow that up.’
‘Good, anything else?’
‘I’ve done a criminal records check on him; he’s clean as a whistle.’
Brookes gathered his thoughts. Then he said, ‘OK, we concentrate on him. I want a full background check on him and his company.’ He turned to Short. ‘Get onto the Fraud Squad, see if they know anything about them.’ Then to Middlemiss he said, ‘Get onto your contact at Telcom, Fred; see if you can get hold of their phone records. And check the mobile companies; see if he has a contract with any of them.’ Then to Gerrard, ‘I want a photograph of the BMW, Stumpy. But don’t show out whatever you do, I don’t want this Fleming spooked. Then show the photo to the neighbour just to make sure we’ve got the right model.’
*
Some hours later, Brookes looked at his watch. It said 8.32pm. He picked up the phone and dialled a number. When it was answered, he said,
