An hour or so later, both men arrived at the precinct, though as usual, they ducked out of the office as soon as they had clocked in, delegating their paperwork to an intern whom was none the wiser to their ways. Today, though, they jumped into an unmarked squad car, a navy-blue BMW, since Andy was worried about the well-being of his car's paintwork should he need to venture into any parking lots again, and his refusal to sit in the messy interior of Mike's wagon, which had been decorated with an array of fast-food wrappers.
During their journey, one which at the current point in time had no particular destination, Mike drew out the tablet computer which was in his bag and began to browse the footage, which had now been enhanced by the I.T department, whilst Andy drove the car, reluctant to allow his colleague to take over the driving duties. Andy glanced over at the footage once he had pulled into a grid-locked lane.
“We should really find out who that girl is. I don't like Fenton for the murder, though I do think he's lying about not knowing who she is – I mean, if she's a guest of Sandy's, she must have been staying in the hotel too, right? He must have seen her at one point or another, even if only for a brief second.”
Mike nodded, agreeing that they should question him once more.
At the next opportunity, Andy darted the car into the next lane along to take into heed their new destination. They eventually arrived by the time the sun had risen into the sky, though it's shining golden beacon proved to be distrustful, as the air around them was filled with unpleasant lashings of ice-cold particles that pierced the protective layers of their clothes. Knowing their way, they rushed to the top floor of the building before Jonathan could pre-occupy himself with any more acts of big-headedness, and strode towards his room, rapping their knuckles against the door.
After a brief pause, he answered with a dressing gown around his body, and a cigar hanging from his lips. Mike's hatred for the man resided by the slightest bit – at least he did have a good taste in cigars, even if he was a man with a thoroughly annoying presence.
“Mr. Fenton, we have a few more questions to ask you,” Spoke Andy coolly, “Do you have a few minutes?”
“I suppose, but make it quick; I'm busy.”
“You certainly look it,” Quipped up Mike, remembering why his hatred had formed in the first place.
The detectives began to make their way into his room, but Jonathan did not move the frame of his body one inch, letting them know that they were not welcome into his room and that they would have to ask any questions here, at the door.
“Are you sure you didn't know that woman, Jonathan?” Asked Andy, “I mean, she's not English, that's for sure – Her skin's too tanned, she's dressed as if she's stepped foot in the Arctic with that thick fur jacket, and the style of her make-up heavily matches what I saw of your cast yesterday evening. All the girls use the same make-up artist, right?”
“You're saying I'm lying to you gentleman? That's rather distasteful, is it not?”
“You're right,” Sighed Andy, “I do apologise, but I've just got to cover all angles. Last question; we've had this picture enhanced, are you sure you haven't seen this hand-bag during any of your shoots?”
“Certain, now if you don't mind gentlemen, I've had enough of you probing me. As I said, Sandra is nothing more than an acquaintance. I know nothing of her evening as I was having dinner with a lady and her father, who I'll have you know, is a well-respected diplomat. You can check the footage yourself because I know you have some absurd reason for not trusting me. I was at the Golden Bouquet restaurant.”
Andy looked back towards Mike. Both knew what this meant – yet another drive across town. Neither of them complained though, after-all they were paid on quite a generous hourly basis, and there was no better way to kill time than cruising past London's museum of landmarks in a luxurious BMW. Once again, they made their way to the parking lot sinking into the cream leather seats of the car before it began to navigate the streets.
The Golden Bouquet restaurant had a small parking lot, and the BMW's engine let out one last proud purr as Andy parked it under the shade of a decorative palm tree, which seemed somewhat out of place in the frozen winter wasteland around them, not even the ice-blue sky made it seem more at home. They strolled over towards the entrance which was marked by a grand red carpet, and made their way in through the large double doors.
A large rounded man with bushy hair and a greying moustache half-jogged, half-stumbled to the detectives, waving his arm frantically.
“We're closed! Sorry, gentlemen, we're closed! Please come back in two hours – I can take a booking for you if you'd like.”
“No thanks,” Spoke Mike coolly, “We're actually wondering if you could help us with something. We're with the police force working a case, and we were just wondering if you gave hospitality to a certain Jonathan Fenton two nights ago,”
“Why, yes, certainly! It's not often that we get Hollywood directors as prestigious as him come in, so yes, I certainly do remember that!”
“Oh, that's fantastic,” Spoke Andy, brandishing a picture from his pocket, “Would you be able to tell us if you recognise this lady at all?”
The restaurant owner took the photograph into his open palm and inspected it. It showed the woman from the CCTV footage that had been speaking to Sandy. He began to nod his head slowly.
“Yes, yes I think that was the young lady that was with Mr. Fenton.”
“Hmm,” sighed Mike, raising his eyebrow, “You're sure of that?”
“Yes, I'm certain – they were sat in that booth over there -” He turned and pointed at an exclusive looking table in the corner, away from the rest of the restaurant, “There were three of them, Fenton, the girl, and the girl's father.”
Mike pointed upwards towards a surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling.
“Do you have the tape from last night at all?” He asked softly.
“No, no, that's just for show. It puts people off, see, and saves money on a proper CCTV system.”
“Oh okay,” responded Mike suspiciously, for the restaurant was a wealthy and established business; in his mind, they would surely be able to afford the equipment but without a warrant, Mike knew that he was powerless to try and find any proof that the camera may be functioning, so the two detectives abandoned the restaurant to pursue other leads.
They left the building feeling more puzzled than when they first entered. If the restaurant owner and therefore Jonathan were telling the truth, then something was not right. Unless the girl had been in two places at once, either the time of Fenton's meal, or the time-stamp on the security footage had to have been wrong. Either that or the girl had a twin.
As they drove along, Mike couldn't help but share his view. “I'm telling you, Andy, Fenton had something to do with it. Hell, I reckon he paid the restaurant guy to lie. The girl probably had something to do with it, too. The alibi is just too perfect.”
“You're like a dog holding onto a bone, you are, my friend,” responded Andy, “You just won't let go of an idea once it gets into your brain. I admire that, but we need to keep open minds, it's possible that the girl left the restaurant and went to the opera afterwards. We'll check with the I.T guys – we'll see whether the time stamp is valid.”
“So, you don't find it at all suspicious that Fenton lied about not knowing the girl?”
“A little, Mike, but 'Suspicions' won't hold up in court, we need evidence to nail whoever did this.”
“Hmm,” Grunted Mike, “I suppose, or maybe we just stick on Fenton's arse until he admits to something or makes a mistake.”
In somewhat of a rare occurrence, the partners returned to the precinct before the end of their shifts. Andy stopped at the coffee machine in the entrance hall before they rode the elevator up towards the I.T floor. A 'ping' sounded through the lift as it drew to a halt, Andy sipping from the brim of his mug as he made his way out into the hallway beyond. It was dingy and dimly lit, hence their preference to stay out in the
field. It seemed like a never-ending maze of hallways and doors, though somehow, they found their way to the desk of their I.T analyst, Jason.
Jason was a younger guy in his twenties, slightly nerdy in appearance with dark, scruffy hair that was combed to no recognisable style, a pair of oval-rimmed glasses, and a striped top. Andy and Mike often made jokes at his expense, but they could not deny that he was mentally astute and had a very bright future.
“We need you to do us a favour,” began Mike, “The tapes from the case – can you review them and compare the time-stamps to the planned times of the intermission, just to see if the time is all accurate? We're in a spot of bother here, and it seems as if our last person to see Sandy alive was in two places at once... a twenty-minute lapse in the correct time would make this a little more understandable. Now, we have reason to believe that Fenton is lying, and may even have bribed other people to lie to make his alibi hold up.”
“Hmm interesting, well, I'll need to get in touch with the Opera House to get their schedule, I'll get on the tapes and compare it all – I'll be in touch.”
Mike and Andy grouped together around a whiteboard which Andy began to scrawl over with a pen, creating a time-line. It all seemed impossible – even if Jason discovered that the time-scale on the CCTV footage was incorrect, they still had to contest with the coroner's report from Dr. Vickers. Something had to give somewhere, and the two men were desperate to find out what. Much to Mike's delight, this was turning into much more of a complex case, and however the two of them approached it be it from different angles, both had to admit that it seemed like there was much more motive behind it than just a mugging. But who exactly had driven the pipe into the back of the girl's head? There was just one thing to find out; would Vickers budge on his time of death?
They took the elevator to the basement floor where the coroner carried out the comprehensive post-mortem reports. No matter how much Andy tried to get used to the scent, it still stung his nose every-time he entered Vickers' lair. Mike, however, was more acclimatised to the pungent stench, somewhat thanks to the bags of rotting trash that he had been promising to take out from his room since his birthday bender, almost three months ago, to the date. It was a rather menacing environment, with surgery-room lighting hanging from the ceiling and rows of steel capsules stacked upon one another where most London's murdered bodies would rest after having their organs removed and inspected.
Their footsteps sounded across the linoleum floor, alerting Dr. Vickers of their presence. He approached them wearing a rubber apron over his scrubs, with a bogey-coloured liquid dripping down his chest, of which neither of the detectives dared to question its origin.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” Greeted Vickers, reaching out his hand in greeting.”
Mike and Andy both retreated away from his outstretched palm, not knowing who, or how many people his hands had been plunged into this morning despite his rigorous cleansing procedures.
“I see, anyway, how may I help you?” Vickers continued.
“We're just curious... How certain are you that the time of death is accurate?” asked Andy.
“100%.” Responded Dr. Vickers confidently.
It was just moments after he had responded when a hip-hop ring-tone began to escape from the pocket of Mike's jeans, much akin to the ones which many teenage boys thought to be 'cool' when mobile phones were an invention.
“Mike?” Spoke Jason.
“Well, yes, it is my number,” responded Mike sarcastically.
“Well... It appears the tape has the correct time displayed on it, I referenced the time at which the file was created, and double checked when the intermission was during the show. Both things point to the fact that the time rings true.”
“Drat,” hissed Mike, “Thanks Jason.”
“You know,” said Andy, “I'm not sure how much help it's going to be... but I think we should consider whether that purse was authentic or a replica. If it's authentic, that's worth £50,000. A £50,000 purse doesn't just disappear Mike, someone's got to have it and if someone's got it, they're probably going to flog it. We just need to know how or where, so it's back to square one. Find the purse, and we find the perp.”
Chapter Four
With the clock's arms crawling ever further towards rush hour, the detectives decided that they would ditch the idea of a car and would travel on the tube. With his arm buried in the arm-pit of an overweight, sweaty stranger, Andy realised his mistake in judgement almost immediately, much to the amusement of Mike whom was covering his mouth with the tatty arms of his jacket to stifle his laughter. Looking a little sheepish, Andy rose to his feet once they had arrived at their stop.
Pushing through the station's crowds, they eventually found themselves in a rather up-market London street, pearl-shaped street lights illuminated several iconic London features. Scarlet phone boxes, the black taxis, and red buses all as much a part of London's landscape as landmarks themselves. Andy nearly had a heart attack upon peering into one of the windows, discovering that a watch that had caught his eye would set him back almost two year's worth of wages, he abruptly moved on. Mike meanwhile, displayed as little interest as usual when passing by the shops displaying the latest fashion.
They eventually reached the boutique, Chanel’s House of Haute Couture, and Mike looked up in awe; the shop was as large as a museum. He couldn't even begin to realise why one would even need such an array of handbags.
“Andy,” he called, “I think I'm going to take a pass on this one; I'm not really dressed the part.”
“Andy looked him up and down, his attire was a stark contrast to the luxurious exterior of the shop. He chuckled to himself and nodded his head. “I think you're probably about right with that call, Mike!”
Within seconds, Andy had vanished from Mike's vision, obscured by the building's elegant features.
Inside, Mike approached the clerk, a younger blonde girl wearing a fashionable silky white dress which hugged her fine form as she walked towards him. She looked him up and down, noting that he did not match her usual demographic of customers, but he then showed her his badge. Even after twenty years in the force, there was nothing more satisfying than pulling his badge out of his pocket and flipping it out to show people – it felt just like being in the detective shows on television.
“How can I help you?” The girl smiled helpfully.
Andy pulled a photograph of the purse from his pocket and unfolded it.
“Have you seen something like this in this store?”
The girl's smile faded. “Yes, well, that looks like a Chanel purse, yes.”
“Is there any way to see if it's... well, genuine?” Asked Andy.
The girl reached out and took the photograph from Andy. She disappeared into the backroom for several moments before returning with a purse in her hand, identical to the one in the photograph, aside from several personalised features such as an engraved set of initials that were etched into its skin.
“This is an identical purse, feature wise, so it is indeed a Chanel model. Can I tell you if it is genuine? Not without seeing the purse's CC number. I will say though, detective, if it's a copy, it appears to be a very high end replica.”
Andy sighed; once again he had made very little progress. It could be real, it could be fake, another idea that had led to nothing but more vital hours wasted.
“Thank you for your time, ma'am,” he said politely, falsifying a light smile before he began to re-trace his footsteps out of the store. But then he had an idea; perhaps the women may be able to identify the woman in the photographs, if it was the real article and she had been anywhere near the store to collect it.
“Do you recognise this woman by any chance?” He asked, pulling another photo from his pocket.
“I'm really sorry I... don't know who she is. I've never seen her.”
Andy sighed with a little relief – perhaps he wasn't falling out of trend after-all if a fetching young woman such as this clerk didn't watch S
andy's soap opera, though he quickly disguised his sigh with a short cough.
“Okay no problem, one last question – would it be possible, for say, a film director or an actress to loan an article from the store for a shoot?”
“No definitely not. All our articles are sold without any use whatsoever, and many are even personalised, rendering them pretty much useless for anybody else's use – as you can see by the handbag here.”
Something in Andy's mind began to click; Monica said that the purse had been loaned. She must have been lying. It had to have come from somewhere else. He dashed out of the store and greeted his partner outside, who looked somewhat lost as he strolled one of London's most high-end streets in his tattered faded clothing.
“Come on Mike,” Exclaimed Andy, “We're going back to the hotel, we've got some questioning to do. This is the only registered Chanel outlet this side of Paris, and Monica claimed that the purse had been loaned from London. Something just doesn't add up, you can't loan purses here; you got to buy them.”
After another sweaty tour of the underground system they arrived at the hotel once more. The effect of its grandeur had now worn off and it seemed like just another boring, repetitive location to the detectives. They punched in their destination on the polished steel console of buttons, and stared precise at the doors as they rode upwards. The elevator ground to a halt and even before the heavy doors had slid open, they could hear a commotion coming from the hallway beyond. They stepped out cautiously, poking their head around the corner as they tried to assess whether there was any danger involved in the situation.
Murder Backstage: Detectives Ruskin & Ashley Gripping Murder Mystery Page 3
