by David Smith
‘How on earth did she get in here by herself?’ said Izzie.
‘I don’t know,’ the other nurse said defensively. ‘One of the consultants was here and I left him to it while I went and helped with the tea.’
‘Was he male or female?’
‘Male.’
‘You’re kidding me? You left her alone with a man? And how often do we see a consultant here on a Saturday?’
*
Downstairs, in the laundry room, a dark-skinned slightly portly man with gold-rimmed glasses pulled off the white coat he had been wearing and dumped it into the laundry basket. He exited the building unseen through the side entrance and over the fence into the back lane.
Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,
At the gray, decaying face,
As the calm of a Leamington ev’ning
Drifted into the place.
Betjeman, Death in Leamington
*
It was now getting on for 6pm and at Hunter’s orders I had reconvened the crime squad in the incident room in Police HQ. During the afternoon, Detective Sergeant Jones had been directing most of the manpower in following up our various leads. I had been trying to get more answers from Asia before it was too late and chasing forensics on the autopsies, ballistics and now the package salvaged by Dan from the river.
As Sergeant Jones was about to start the briefing, he took a call and scowled.
‘Well now we have another body, Sir. Winifred Norbury, the actress, our witness, has just been found dead in a bath at the care home. There is nothing to indicate foul play but all the same.’
I gasped at the news; I had only seen her with Izzie a few hours earlier and although unbalanced she certainly did not seem to be near death’s door.
‘Please go on, Sergeant,’ urged Hunter, a little callously perhaps but keen to avoid the briefing getting derailed before they had more facts.
Jones summarised what we had found out so far from the autopsies and the search for the black cab. Although we did not yet have the full reports from the various bodies, the picture continued to build of a botched attempt to knife Nariman followed by a calculated assassination, probably from a moving car. Hunter whispered to me that he was also already wondering whether the Tamils were then run over deliberately to silence them.
‘DC Dore, anything yet on the bag we found in the river?’
‘There are no trace marks, Sir, the lab is taking a closer look but they are not hopeful – they look like random used notes. But they did find something else in the bag which is more promising.’ I pointed to a photo on the table of a small leather pouch that had been found inside the envelope contained with the money.
‘There are three newspaper cuttings in a Sinhalese script inside the pouch.’ I handed the photographs to Hunter. ‘We got Transtec to come in and help with a quick translation; apparently they are all about a factory accident in Tamil Nadu that killed a load of workers. I’ve done some more research: take a look, Sir.’
*
I had followed up immediately on the incident reported in the newspaper cuttings with further questions to the local authorities. However, given the time difference, I did not expect any answers until the following morning. A brief Internet search had revealed that several men of similar facial features to the assailants were wanted by the police as members of a terrorist organisation connected with these incidents. This organisation also had links to K-Company, a mafia ring that ran a large swathe of the underworld in Colombo. They had been responsible for one or two bombings and attacks on the property of a chemical company that was part of Arish Nariman’s empire. Further investigation had revealed that there were three sisters and a number of child workers that had been killed following an explosion in a local factory. The factory had poor safety and environmental standards but the company, with the involvement of the local police, had covered up the incident initially. The men’s involvement in the terrorist group dated from that time. They were brothers and uncles of the women and children who had died.
‘Forensics are analysing the fingerprints we found on the knife. If we can confirm that connection, then I think we might be quite close to a motive for the knife attack at least then, Sir?’ I volunteered.
‘This is excellent work, Dore. But I am not sure that retribution can be the only motive, where for instance did they get the money from to fly over here, and why did they do that rather than make an attempt on his life in Sri Lanka?’ pondered Hunter. I agreed that there must be more to this than a revenge attack by some embittered relatives but still thought this lead was important. He must have seen this on my face.
‘What are you thinking, Dore?’ he asked me in front of the whole squad. I was somewhat embarrassed that he had singled me out in front of a number of more senior officers.
‘Maybe they did it here because there was less security around him, Sir?’ I ventured.
‘True, but even so someone must have paid for it. These two weren’t exactly dressed like international travellers and the money to finance this had to come from somewhere. I wonder if there is a connection to the gentlemen from the car park. And if there is a connection, where does that leave us with our sniper?’
‘I’ll get on that straight away, Sir,’ I said somewhat too enthusiastically, which elicited a ripple of amusement from my colleagues. I would definitely be getting a ribbing for this later.
‘Well, we can’t do so much more on this tonight, I think we had better get back to seeing Sir William to see if he can give us any insights to what is going on here,’ said Hunter. Like him, I was now convinced that we were going to have to get deeper into Sir William’s affairs if we were going to understand this case. He was right; someone with a lot of money must have bankrolled this assassination. The question was who, and why?
*
Dottie was just finishing preparing supper for herself and Baxter. They usually spent Saturdays quietly at home together in Leamington and she had travelled up the previous evening, bringing provisions for the weekend. Claudia would normally have joined them as well, but she was out for the evening, so they had the luxury of the whole place to themselves for once. Of course the events of the morning had been very upsetting; to have such things happen right outside their house was unsettling and there were still a lot of police and reporters milling about outside.
Baxter and Dottie had provided statements on what little they saw to the police. The rest of the day had gone remarkably calmly given the storm outside and Baxter continued to give his composition classes intermittently to groups of students during the afternoon. Dottie had supplied them with tea and scones as each new batch arrived.
She began to serve up supper in the drawing room upstairs. They did not usually bother with a formal dinner setting unless they had guests, preferring supper on their knees on the nice padded trays she had found in the pound shop in town. She was just about to open a bottle of elderberry wine when she noticed something different about the wall. There was a space amidst Baxter’s cherished collection of Wild West artefacts, the ones that he never allowed her to clean.
‘Something is missing, Richard.’ A note of alarm crept into her voice as she pointed to the dusty space where a Browning revolver had once rested.
Chapter Twelve
Sweet Basil – (Andante) ‘B.G.N.’
We found a roaring fire, an elegant dinner, a snug room, and capital beds all ready for us at Leamington, after a very agreeable (but very cold) ride. We started in a post chaise next morning for Kenilworth, with which we were both enraptured, and where I really think we MUST have lodgings next summer, please God that we are in good health and all goes well. You cannot conceive how delightful it is. To read among the ruins in fine weather would be perfect luxury. From here we went on to Warwick Castle, which is an ancient building, newly restored, and possessing no very great attraction beyond a fine view and some beautiful pictures; and thence to Stratford-upon-Avon, where we sat down in the room where Shakespeare was bor
n, and left our autographs and read those of other people and so forth.
Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son
It was early evening and Pearl had dressed up properly for dinner. She sat on a bar stool in The Regency Brasserie in the old Regent Hotel building, by common consent the town’s premier meeting place. Pearl was chatting to the rather handsome young Italian barman and sipping Manhattans. Sam the pianist was playing ‘It Had To Be You’. It could have been a set straight out of a movie.
Pure diva and radiant, she looked about a million dollars more sophisticated than the townies that were spread lazily around the settees in the lounge. Pearl was wearing a black sequin and sparkle cocktail dress with sheer panelled sleeves. The outfit coordinated beautifully with her glowing ebony skin, sophisticated jewellery and beautifully manicured nails. The contrast with the other women in the room was stark, making them appear rather shabby in their high-street cocktail dresses, fake tans and rip-off designer shoes.
After a very successful afternoon, she was now contemplating the next stage of her plan and looking for her next victim. Her interest was piqued immediately when two men in their mid-thirties entered the bar, unattached but clearly in search of company. She did not react to them openly. Instead she continued to sip her Manhattan coolly, smiling to herself, wondering if either of them would dare to make a move or whether she would have to make the running herself. She felt like a black widow spider marking out her prey. In this respect, she was immediately surprised. The elder and uglier of the two came up beside her at the bar and ordered from the barman, then turned to her with a fawning smile, delivering one of the least original pick-up lines she had ever heard – and she’d heard a lot.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Manhattans,’ she replied. From his blank expression, the name obviously meant nothing to him. ‘Whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters,’ she explained.
‘Sounds interesting, can I order you another?’
‘Well, that would be most kind,’ she answered and gave him her most gracious smile. ‘But before I accept, do I know you from somewhere?’ she asked, intent on making him work a little bit harder.
‘No, but I always make a point of talking to the most beautiful woman in the room,’ he answered. The sheer cheesiness of this line made her want to laugh out loud at him, but she maintained her poise.
‘Well I’m truly flattered, young man, but I think some of the pretty ladies in here tonight just might take issue with that appraisal.’
‘They bear no comparison to a real woman like you,’ he rebutted, seeming quite genuine.
‘Well, on age at least, I’m guessing I could be the mother of most of them.’
‘I can assure you that neither they nor their mothers ever looked anywhere near as good as you do. You’re a picture of sophistication and what’s more you’re gorgeous. Frankly, you’re in a different league from them. Anyway, I’m forgetting my manners, I should introduce myself properly, my name’s Basil, Basil Nevinson to be exact.’
‘Pearl Taylor,’ she said offering him her hand, allowing herself to be somewhat flattered despite the lounge lizard act. From his lack of reaction, she realised that he clearly did not recognise her name. She was going to have to make the running here. The pianist had moved on to ‘As Time Goes By’. She stared intently at her admirer, painting his face with her eyes.
‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ she said and clinked his glass against her own in a reversal of roles that her admirer also seemed to completely miss the meaning of.
‘I love your outfit and that divine scent you’re wearing, Miss Taylor – Chanel?’
She rolled her eyes – is this guy for real? This was too easy; he was just perfect for her plan.
‘Actually, it’s my own brand, and very originally it’s called ‘Pearl’s’.’
This time she had scored easily, his mouth dropped and his eyes nearly popped out of his head exactly as she had intended. His expression was precisely that of a man who had just realised he was hitting on a woman that had her own perfume brand. The pianist in the corner continued to play the 160-year-old Collard & Collard grand piano, moving on now to ‘Perfidia’.
How appropriate, she thought. Maybe I should just tell him now that I’m a singer, she wondered before adding seductively, ‘Maybe with your evident good taste this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…’
*
We left the police station and drove the mile or so back up to the murder scene in Hunter’s battered old Volvo. We got out of the unmarked car and crossed the police lines again. I noticed Lucy Fleming again, evidently now one of Hunter’s more enthusiastic fans. She had clearly spotted him getting out of the car. She ran over to him and asked him breathlessly for an update, flashing her eyelids and touching his arm. To my annoyance he caved immediately and promised that he would talk to her again later. She’d clearly already partly got her claws into him. A case like this could make her career if she got the inside story. I’d have to watch this one like a hawk.
We approached the front door of No. 6, knocked and were let in by one of Sir William’s servants. Hunter remarked approving on the stained glass fleur-de-lys set into the door as we passed into the hall. We had apparently just missed my stepsister Julia, who had been there consoling Nadia. She had left ten minutes earlier. Hunter was disappointed but as it turned out we would later have an opportunity to catch up with her in the brasserie. We were shown straight into the library.
I had not been inside No. 6 before; my relationship with Sir William’s ex-wife meant that I was now even less likely to get a social invitation. The library had the feel of a well lived in room, with a fire roaring in a massive marble fireplace. The walls were well stocked with formal looking leather-bound volumes, probably bought by the yard Hunter said, including a practically complete set of Wisden. Every nook and cranny not taken up by the books was filled with dubious oil paintings, mainly nudes and valuable-looking but again, in Hunter’s opinion, poorly-chosen erotic bronzes and artefacts. Hunter was clearly already making an inventory in his mind. He studied an Edward Ward engraving of the Disgrace and Fall of Clarendon (Edward Hyde, 1st Earl of Clarendon) above the fireplace.
‘Possibly very prescient,’ he said authoritatively.
The floor was covered with a patterned Wilton carpet on which were scattered a variety of button armchairs and small card tables. It all had the smell and feel of what I imagined one of those more archaic London clubs was like. All had been transported wholesale to this provincial town house, complete with the overpowering smell of leather and stale tobacco mixed with the warm smoke from the hearth. The combination made my stomach turn slightly. The butler brought each of us a glass of sparkling water, as we had requested. I gulped mine down. When Sir William came in he looked slightly flustered to see us and clutched a glass containing something a great deal stronger. I could tell he was already half-cut. He looked at Hunter but did not acknowledge my presence.
‘Good evening, Inspector, do you have an update for us?’ he said, his voice somewhat slurred. I noticed at once the use of the regal ‘us’.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, Sir William, but yes, there have been some developments this afternoon and I wanted to see if you could cast any light on a couple of things for me,’ replied Hunter. I was watching Sir William’s face closely and thought I could detect signs of nervousness in the lack of eye contact from one usually so forceful and full of bluster.
‘Of course, well, please fire away – so to speak,’ Sir William winced and appeared to immediately regret his poor choice of words. Hunter had asked me already to check on gun licenses for the property. I was certainly aware that Lady Mary kept a fine set of hunting rifles next door and the news about Baxter’s missing revolver was worrying.
‘We now have suspicions that the two assailants could have been associated with a Tamil terrorist group that is known to have made attacks and threats on Mr Nariman’s company. Do you know if he was aware o
f any such threats being made recently?’ Hunter asked.
‘My goodness, are you serious, terrorists here in Leamington? No, I certainly wasn’t aware of that and as I told you he was always very relaxed about security, too relaxed in my view. But I’m sure he would have said something to Nadia or me if there had been a recent terrorist threat. In fact, even before he arrived I had offered to organise some personal protection for him and he said there was really no need in a country as peaceful as England. Does the Home Office know about this?’ Sir William did seem to be genuinely surprised by this information.
‘Well, at the moment it is only a suspicion. We are hoping to have more information on this in the morning, but I suggest we do take some additional precautions, just in case. We don’t know exactly what the motivations are for this attack and it is possible there is still an extant threat to your family. If you don’t mind I am going to recommend we station a couple of armed police officers on duty outside the premises for the night.’
‘Of course, Inspector, if you think that is needed. I certainly won’t object.’
‘Now, I know that you and Mr Nariman had a variety of business interests, Sir William, but is there anything that you could think of that could have triggered this attack, especially something that could have caused it to have occurred here rather than in Asia? Are there any arrangements or deals that you might have been discussing with Mr Nariman that would affect the UK?’
‘Well, I’m really not sure what you might mean, Inspector, I don’t and never have represented his company, it’s purely a family relationship resulting from my marriage. There are absolutely no business connections between us.’
I noticed now that although Sir William’s voice was raised and firm, his body language was showing signs of nervousness. He had raised his hand to his mouth and he was now definitely avoiding direct eye contact with Hunter. I saw my chance to insert myself into the conversation.
