by Graham Ison
‘Please come this way, sir. Her ladyship is expecting you.’ The manservant led the way into a large room on one side of the house. On the walls were huge canvases, many of which, Fox thought, must be worth a small fortune. He nodded approvingly and walked across to the large mullioned windows which looked out on to a mulberry tree set in the centre of an immaculate lawn that was bounded by a high ivy-covered brick wall.
‘Chief Superintendent Fox?’ The woman who entered was tall, nearly as tall as Fox, and her long brown hair was held back from her face by a black velvet bandeau. She wore a scarlet skirt, a sweater of navy blue and stockings to match. She was, Gilroy thought, a classic beauty.
‘Yes. Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad. And this is Detective Inspector Gilroy.’
‘We spoke on the telephone. I’m Jane Sims.’ She held out a hand and Fox was surprised at the firmness of her grip. ‘You weren’t exactly forthcoming. In fact this is all rather mysterious. Do sit down,’ she added, almost as an afterthought, before settling herself into a chair opposite him, and arranging her skirt.
‘I wasn’t able to say very much, Lady Jane, because I’m not sure of my facts.’
‘Oh, that’s unusual for a policeman.’ There was a twinkle in Jane Sims’s eyes and Fox had a feeling that she was mocking him.
‘Do you have a sister called Dawn?’
‘Yes, what about her?’
‘And is she known as Dawn Mitchell, with an address in the Edgware Road?’
‘You’re beginning to worry me, Mr Fox. Yes, that is correct.’
‘In that case, Lady Jane, I’m sorry to have to tell you that she’s dead.’
‘Oh!’Jane Sims looked sadly at the embroidered screen that stood in a fireplace now made redundant by the efficient central heating. Fox waited until eventually she looked back at him. It was a very direct gaze, and he noticed that her eyes were a deep brown. ‘When did this happen?’
‘On Sunday or Monday last. That, I’m afraid, is the nearest that the pathologist can get to fixing a time of death.’
‘Pathologist?’ Jane Sims’s eyes narrowed slightly and suddenly she understood why a senior officer from Scotland Yard had come all the way to Yorkshire. ‘She was murdered, wasn’t she.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes. It wasn’t until yesterday that we were able to identify her. Well, not until now, in fact. You see, one of my officers found a letter from you to her, but we couldn’t be sure until we had spoken to you. Obviously I didn’t want to discuss it on the telephone.’
‘Obviously.’ For a moment Fox thought she was being sarcastic, but then she went on. ‘I’m very grateful for your consideration,’ she added. ‘But I don’t know how I’m going to break it to my father. He’s seventy, you see. The shock could well kill him. She was the apple of his eye. I’m the one who did it all wrong.’
‘Did what all wrong?’
‘Married the wrong man.’ Jane Sims sounded quite phlegmatic about her admission. She stood up and walked across to an ornate side-table. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I could do with a drink. What would you like?’
‘A Scotch, please.’
‘And you, Inspector?’
‘The same, if I may,’ said Gilroy.
Jane Sims poured three stiff measures of whisky and handed the glasses round. ‘What can you tell me about Dawn’s death?’
Fox was surprised at the woman’s constraint, but put it down to her aristocratic breeding and the tradition that families such as hers had developed of keeping a stiff upper lip. ‘She was found in a lock-up beneath a railway line in Lambeth.’ He saw no point in trying to soften his account of the circumstances under which Dawn Mitchell’s body had been discovered. There was no way to do that. ‘She had been strangled.’
‘My God, how awful.’ Jane Sims stared at the fire-screen again and lapsed once more into silence. ‘Do you know who killed her?’ she asked after a while.
‘No,’ said Fox. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to help.’
‘Me? Why me?’
Fox looked at the woman with a level gaze. ‘You concluded that she had been murdered before I had mentioned it. Why was that?’
‘Because, Mr Fox, I didn’t imagine for one moment that a Scotland Yard detective would come all this way to discuss a traffic accident,’ said Jane with a half-smile on her face.
Fox waved a hand of dismissal. He had come to the rapid conclusion that this woman was nobody’s fool. ‘Did you know any of her friends in London?’ he asked.
‘Why d’you ask that? Do you suspect someone?’
‘Not at the moment, but it’s where we have to start.’
‘I knew hardly any of her friends.’
‘Did she ever confide in you about boyfriends?’ asked Fox.
‘Sometimes, but she never seemed to keep one for long. I think she was frightened that she might get too involved.’
‘Too involved?’
‘Yes. She was thirty last birthday, but she showed no signs of wanting to settle down. Liked the good life too much, I suppose.’ Jane toyed absently with a ring on the little finger of her left hand. ‘She was always talking about the next party.’ There was a pause. ‘She wasn’t a virgin, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh yes, I suppose the pathologist …’
‘Exactly,’ said Fox. ‘Incidentally, Lady Jane, why did she call herself Dawn Mitchell?’
Jane Sims smiled. ‘She had this crazy notion that she wanted to be a model,’ she said. ‘But I think she imagined that if she used another name, Daddy wouldn’t get to hear about it. She thought he might disapprove.’
‘And did she have any success?’
‘Not really. Not as far as I know, anyway.’ Jane crossed to the table and poured more Scotch into her glass before nodding at Fox’s drink. ‘Another one?’
‘Not for the moment, thanks.’
‘To be frank, I saw very little of Dawn over the past few years. She’d settled in London and although I’ve got a flat in Knightsbridge and work in the West End, we had very little to do with each other, apart from talking on the phone. We did that quite often.’
‘If she had little success as a model, how did she support herself?’
Jane Sims smiled. ‘Daddy paid her an allowance. Quite a substantial allowance, as a matter of fact.’
‘D’you know if there was anyone, outside the family, that she was particularly close to?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. She was a very attractive girl and whenever I spoke to her, she was always talking about going out to dinner, or to yet another party. She seemed to live a very full social life.’
‘Did she come here very often?’ asked Fox.
‘Only very occasionally. Daddy would ring her from time to time, particularly when he was worried about her. Which was quite often. He worried about her terribly. He didn’t like her being in London. He thinks it’s an awful place.’
‘I take it your father doesn’t go to London often.’
‘Never. He hates it.’
‘Not even to the Lords?’
‘Not at all. He’s got no time for politics.’
‘Who’s got no time for politics?’ The man who had appeared in the doorway was stooped and leaned on a stick. He wore a Harris tweed sports jacket that had seen better days and which now hung on him as though it had been tailored for him when he was more robust. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise you had visitors.’
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Fox as he and Gilroy stood up. The old man hooked his walking stick over his left arm and slowly grasped Fox’s outstretched hand.
‘Daddy, this is Mr Fox. He’s a detective from Scotland Yard. Now come and sit down.’ Jane Sims moved quickly to her father’s side and gently helped him across to a chair.
‘Scotland Yard, eh?’ said Lord Sims. ‘And what have you been up to, Jane?’
‘These gentlemen have brought some bad news, I’m afraid
.’ Forced by his sudden arrival into telling her father of Dawn’s death, Jane knelt down and took one of his hands in her own.
‘Oh, what bad news?’
‘It’s about Dawn, Daddy. I’m afraid she’s dead.’
The old man looked at his daughter, his watery blue eyes staring, apparently unable to comprehend what she had just said. ‘Dead? What d’you mean?’
Fox and Gilroy sat down again and waited.
‘Tell me about my daughter,’ said Lord Sims, looking directly at Fox. ‘Was it an accident?’
Fox glanced briefly at Jane Sims who nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it was.’
‘Damned motor cars, I suppose.’ The earl shook his head wearily. ‘I think I’d better have a glass of brandy, Jane, if you don’t mind.’
Jane Sims appeared to be on the verge of cautioning her father about that, but thinking better of it, stood up and poured it for him.
The old man drank it down at a swallow. ‘I think I’ll go and sit in the study for a while,’ he said and easing himself painfully out of his chair, walked slowly out of the room.
‘Will he be all right?’ asked Fox. He and Gilroy had stood up once more as the earl left the room, and remained standing.
‘I hope so. He did the same thing when my mother died. Sat in his study for days, just looking at family photographs.’ Jane Sims twisted her hands together in a moment of anguish. It was the first emotion Fox had seen her display. ‘Thank you for being so considerate,’ she said. ‘I think to know that she had been murdered would have been too much for him.’
‘But what about the newspapers? There’s bound to be a lot of coverage once they discover that a peer’s daughter has been murdered.’
‘He doesn’t read them any more. Hasn’t done for years. Never looks at television, either. I think the world’s getting too much for him.’
Sensing that there was little more that he could do there, Fox said, ‘There’s the question of the funeral arrangements.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. What happens about that?’
‘The inquest will be opened, probably tomorrow. There’s no reason why the coroner shouldn’t release your sister’s body after that. There’ll certainly be no police objections.’ Fox paused. ‘I may need to see you again, Lady Jane,’ he said softly.
‘Yes, of course.’ Jane fumbled in her handbag and produced a card. ‘That’s my London address,’ she said. ‘I spend most of my time up there. Please contact me any time you want to.’
‘What about your father? Will he be alone here?’
‘No. I’ll make arrangements for a permanent nurse. Should have done it ages ago, but now that Dawn’s gone, he could become quite maudlin. I’ve been worried about him for some time.’ Jane looked at Fox with that same direct gaze. ‘There’ll be no need for you to contact him, will there?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it,’ he said, ‘Should it be necessary, I’ll get in touch with you first.’
‘Thank you.’ The woman gestured towards the card which Fox still held in his hand. ‘My office number’s on there as well, should you need it.’
Fox glanced at the slip of pasteboard. ‘What business are you in?’ he asked.
‘I’m an architect,’ said Jane Sims and smiled.
‘Good Lord!’ said Fox.
*
‘And what have you discovered during my absence, Denzil? Anything of world-shattering importance?’
‘We’ve been going through the list, sir,’ said Evans.
‘What list?’ asked Fox, leaning forward on his desk to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray.
‘We compiled a list of all Dawn Mitchell’s known acquaintances, sir, from the telephone account and from her address book.’
‘Go on.’
‘A lot of people seemed to know her —’
‘I gathered that, Denzil, but is there anyone worth talking about?’
‘Most of them met her at parties or at dinner at someone’s house.’ Evans flicked over a few pages in the file of statements that rested on the corner of Fox’s desk. ‘The general opinion is that she was a bubbly, happy girl who had everything to live for.’
‘Haven’t they always,’ said Fox.
‘Do what, sir?’ Evans looked up.
‘Every female murder victim under the age of about thirty-five that I’ve ever come across is described like that, Denzil. Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘It doesn’t look like it, sir. In fact …’ Evans broke off while he turned up a statement. ‘Yes, here we are. One of the people in the address book, well it’s a married couple actually, invited her to dinner about three months ago. They asked her to bring someone with her, but she said that she hadn’t got a current boyfriend, so the hosts invited a man to make up the numbers.’
‘Name?’
‘Jason Hope-Smith, sir,’ said Evans.
‘Reckons,’ said Fox. ‘Spoken to him, have you?’
‘Haven’t been able to yet, sir. He’s abroad.’
‘Where?’
‘Kuwait, sir. He’s something to do with oil apparently.’
‘And what did the hosts of this splendid dinner party tell you about this chap, Denzil?’
‘Only that they’d met him through a friend of their daughter. He’s apparently in his thirties, divorced and has problems meeting women in London because he spends so much time travelling.’
‘Know the feeling,’ said Fox, who was still recovering from his journey to Yorkshire. ‘Did he feature in Dawn Mitchell’s address book?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I think we’ll go and talk to these party-givers, Denzil. What’s their name?’
‘Crawley, sir. Mr and Mrs James Crawley.’
SIX
COMMANDER RAYMOND WILLOW SAT IN his office above Edmonton Police Station and stared moodily at the file on his desk. Then, with a gesture of annoyance, he slammed it shut and looked at Sergeant Clarke who was sitting respectfully in an upright chair near the door, poring over his pocket book.
‘We are not making any progress with this complaint, skip,’ said Willow.
‘So it seems, sir,’ said Clarke.
‘This woman Nash —’
‘Stedman’s common-law wife, sir?’
‘Yes. The American Embassy don’t seem to know where she is, or even if she’s in the States at all.’
‘It’s a big place, sir.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, I know it’s a big place, but until we can get hold of her, we shan’t be able to get the full story. Particularly as Mr Fox is being stubborn about making a statement.’
‘Well, he is entitled not to make a statement, sir. I mean to say, if he —’
‘Don’t you start,’ said Willow.
*
The office that Detective Sergeant Rosie Webster was shown into was cluttered. There were piles of fashion magazines everywhere and a bolt of taffeta leaned drunkenly against a wall. The desk was a rubbish dump of telephones, papers, files and sketches of women’s dresses. Behind this desk sat the woman who owned the fashion house. About forty-five, fifty even, she was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and a pair of spectacles hung round her neck on a chain. ‘Be with you in a second, darling,’ she said, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone with heavily-ringed fingers.
Finishing her conversation, she studied the photograph of Dawn Mitchell through a haze of cigarette smoke. ‘She may have applied to us for a job,’ she said, ‘but sure as hell she never worked here. I always remember our girls. Hundreds of young kids want to be models, but only a few make it. And of that few, only a handful get to the top. God knows why they want to do it. It’s a bloody awful job.’ She returned the photograph to Rosie Webster with a half-smile of apology. ‘Sorry, darling.’
Rosie Webster put the photograph back into her briefcase and ticked another name off her list. ‘Twenty-seven,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I don’t know why people do my job either.’
‘The grass always looks gr
eener on the other side,’ said the couturière. She looked at Rosie’s figure. ‘I s’pose you don’t want a job, do you, darling?’
‘I’ve got one,’ said Rosie.
*
The Crawleys lived in a tall narrow town house in one of the turnings off the Brompton Road. James Crawley was something in television and Constance was a resting actress. A small boy, seven or eight perhaps, whose hair was long enough to make him look like an understudy for Little Lord Fauntleroy, played with a toy car on the floor.
‘What a dreadful thing to have happened,’ said Constance Crawley. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘How well did you know Lady Dawn, Mrs Crawley?’ asked Fox.
‘Lady Dawn?’ Constance looked up sharply.
‘She was the daughter of Earl Sims,’ said Fox, ‘although she preferred to be known as Dawn Mitchell.’
‘Good heavens, I didn’t know that. Your inspector, the one who came the other day, didn’t mention that.’ Constance glanced at her husband. ‘Did you know that, darling?’
‘No. No, I didn’t. What an extraordinary thing,’ said James Crawley in a tired voice.
‘It would appear that she was murdered sometime during the evening of the fourteenth of October,’ Fox continued. ‘But I am told that she came here for dinner on the fourth of August — a Saturday. Is that right?’
Constance Crawley stood up and crossed the room to a secretaire. For a moment or two, she rummaged among its contents before picking up a slim leather-bound book. ‘Ah, here we are,’ she said. ‘My social diary.’ She spent a further second or two riffling through its pages before turning to face Fox once more, the book held open in her hands. ‘Absolutely right,’ she said.
‘And I believe you invited a man called Jason Hope-Smith to make up the numbers?’
‘More to balance the sexes really, but yes, that’s so.’
‘Where does he live, Mrs Crawley?’
Constance Crawley thumbed through her diary again. ‘I think he’s got a place in Chelsea somewhere,’ she said. ‘But I’ve only got a phone number for him. It’s a 352 number …’ She looked up. ‘Is that Chelsea?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Fox. ‘If I may make a note of it, I can find his address.’ Denzil Evans had already tried to locate Hope-Smith, but Fox thought that this might be a different address. It was worth a try anyway.
