“Do you know what I think,” she said. “I think you wish it had been you on that street with that gun. Perhaps you should never have given it up; perhaps that’s what you were put on this earth to do!”
He watched her leave the room, thinking she was probably right.
CHAPTER 5
The following morning – Wednesday – just after 7.30 am, during her first routine check of the day, Internal Investigative Assistant Vicky Barrowclough noticed that a name had appeared on her PC screen that should not have been there. She printed off the relevant information and placed it straight away in pole position on her boss’s desk.
Tom entered the kitchen where he found Mags already dressed and seated at the large central island unit which was designed as an all-round breakfast bar. Tom sat down across from her.
“Morning,” he offered.
There was no reply to break the frosty silence.
“You must have been up early,” he ventured further.
She glared at him with fierce eyes but said nothing.
“Come on, Mags,” he said, with a little whine. “I think you’re over-reacting to this. Look, I know there’s still a lot… ”
“Over-reacting!” she spluttered. “Do you mean over-reacting to the biggest over-reaction in the history of civilisation as we know it?”
“Look, Mags. I know we are on a subject here where we have radically different views. Your opposition to just about everything I stand for is legend in the corridors of power at Westminster. You’ve never tried to keep it a secret from anyone. We always have had those differences, even before we were married, so there’s nothing new here. But, for Heaven’s sake, what was all that about last night? I shared my ideas with you because I genuinely respect your opinions. I like to get to a balanced perspective and you always pick up on the things I need to consider… ” He lost his thread as she continued to glower at him. “I wish to God I hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Really?” said Mags. “Because I’m glad you did. It’s always best to find out what sort of a person you’re living with, even though it might turn out to be a major disappointment.”
“Right,” said Tom. “I have to meet with a lot of rational, fully-hinged people today, and this is no preparation for that sort of thing. So I’ll leave you to wallow in your uncomplicated, self-righteous idealism. Mind you don’t drown. See you tomorrow night.”
He walked from the room.
Tom’s constituency headquarters was a single storey prefabricated building on Westbourne Avenue in Marlburgh, East London, just a short distance from the Cullen Field Estate. The premises comprised a reception area cum waiting room leading through to a large inner office accommodating ten workstations and a wall full of filing cabinets, with four smaller rooms off it down one side. The two end rooms of the four were the offices of Tom and Grace Goody. The middle two were set up as small meeting rooms with a folding partition separating them which could be pulled aside to provide a single larger one.
Grace entered Tom’s office and sat down at his invitation on one of two leather wing chairs, positioned at ninety degrees to each other, close to and facing one of the windows. Tom was seated in the other chair and was annoyed that he was unable to stop himself looking as she crossed her beautiful legs, leaving enough of them visible to cause him to hesitate over his first few words.
“Er… you know when we visited Cullen Field Estate a few days ago?”
Grace was a stunning-looking woman. Tall and elegant, she almost invariably wore the uniform of her position, formal suits – usually with a skirt, rather than trousers – which were close fitting without being body-hugging, but clearly displayed her slim and rounded figure. Her rich brown hair was very simply pulled straight back from her face in a tight bun, sometimes a ponytail, and she wore rather heavy-rimmed glasses. She was thirty-nine years old – the same age as Mags.
“Yes, I can just about remember it,” she said, smiling. “Wasn’t that the visit after which you decided to change the world by ridding it of everyone you didn’t like?”
“That’s the one,” said Tom, smiling back. “Though not exactly everyone,” he added. “Andrew’s safe – for the moment.”
“And me?”
“Oh, you’re way down the list; I might never get to you. Anyway, I’ve had some constructive feedback from my two bosses. Actually, more destructive from the one at home.”
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” said Grace. “It might not have been the best idea at this stage to share your ideas with her. Not while you’re still in the process of formulating them, I mean.”
“You’re right – again,” he said, in mock exasperation. “The thing with Mags, though, is that she does come up with objections that need addressing. She’s really useful like that.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you think she’s useful,” said Grace, still smiling.
“You know what I mean… ” He leant back, as if suddenly not sure of himself.
“Look, Grace, all the stuff we talked about after the visit – you know, trying to achieve for the people what this one guy pulled off in about ten minutes; new system of justice to give us extra powers, etcetera, etcetera – it is all a bit extreme, isn’t it? You know, put together in the excitement of the moment and all that. Now we’re sort of calm and detached, what do you really think?”
“There’s no need to put that emphasis on ‘really’ you know,” she said, genuinely affronted. “I’ll only ever give you one opinion, and that will always be what I really think.”
“I know that, Grace. What I meant to ask is do you think this is a step too far?”
“No, I don’t. The biggest question we can expect to have to answer will be ‘is it fair?’ and we’ll be able to stand up and shout ‘yes!’ to that one. If we lay out the rules beforehand, and everyone understands them, and it’s only going to affect the ones who choose to ignore them… Who can argue?”
“Thanks, Grace. That’s what I hoped – and expected – you to say. Actually, I’ve decided I’m going to do another tour of the estate this afternoon and see if everybody is still ecstatic with life. I’ll just take Gerry and Mick, and get going straight away – kiss a few babies, open a couple of supermarkets. Now, unless you particularly want to come – in which case, of course, you’re very welcome – I was planning to go on my own, except for the men in black. I just want this to be low key and unexpected. You know, to get a spontaneous reaction.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Grace. “And I’m sure I might find something to gainfully occupy me in the meantime.”
“Great, can we get together later, say, five o’clock?”
“Right.”
She uncrossed her legs and stood up. This time the movement went unobserved, but only because her boss had very deliberately looked away.
“Thanks again, Grace. See you later.”
Fred, having printed off his extra copies of the debate notice, had no trouble persuading the local library, the main supermarket, the college and the leisure centre to display them. He asked the person he met at each place if they would mind trying to get a feel as to how many were likely to go, suggesting they placed a form next to the notice for people to sign if they planned to attend.
At 11.30 am, Captain Peter Drake entered Riverside South, Tower 2 on Canary Wharf, where Germaine and Rolland’s Investment Managers occupied the whole of the twenty-fifth floor. The Captain was slim, medium height and immaculately dressed in a light blue suit and blue and white striped shirt. His perfectly-knotted tie was a reminder of his days as a promising all-rounder at Surrey County Cricket Club. He was sandy-haired and clean-shaven except for a pencil-thin moustache. He took the security lift down to the lower basement. The first thing he noticed was a printed sheet on his desk which someone had leant up against his PC screen to make sure he didn’t miss it. He read it quickly and stepped out into the main office.
“Vicky!”
Corporal Barrowclough ha
d been waiting for the summons and rose from her desk to join him straight away. Vicky was almost as tall as the Captain in her two-inch heels; she was shapely – if not exactly slim – and attractive, with a round pleasant face and naturally-curly dark-brown hair which she wore long and loose onto her shoulders.
“Morning, sir.”
“Morning, Vicky. This looks exciting.”
“Could be, sir. I’d have waited until I had more, but it’s Page One and it’s linked to the recent Cullen Field incident which, as you know, is attracting a lot of attention. Thought I’d better raise it straight away.”
“Source of the TIE?”
“Usual, sir. National Police Database. I picked it up this morning at seven-thirty from the daily dump. I’ll say it again, sir, but direct access or even a twice-daily download would help a lot to keep on top of these things. We could have had this as early as midday yesterday.”
“Point taken – again, Corporal, and I have raised it. Do we know why the name came up?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Early ideas?”
“Could be a nominal, sir. It’s not a common name but I’ve found twelve other matches. I’m halfway through checking them and nothing conclusive’s come up. Still trying to find a link.”
“Okay, thanks, Vicky. But keep right on top of this one. If you have to go deeper than the NPD, we can get any access code you need. Because if this is an actual, and not a nominal, then we sure as hell have one big problem.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I was thinking.”
David and Jo entered the premises of Blount of Hammersmith at 2.00 pm that same afternoon and rang the bell on the reception counter. A thin middle-aged man in a smart grey suit, white shirt and black tie came through to meet them.
“Chief Inspector Gerrard?”
“Mr Blount? This is Detective Sergeant Cottrell. Thank you for seeing us.”
Henry Blount led them through to his office at the rear of the building and waved them to be seated. His expression seemed immovably mournful, as if this was a prerequisite of his profession.
“As you know,” said David, “we’re here to find out some details about Mrs Alma Deverall’s funeral. We understand you handled this some weeks back. She was known at the time as Alma Coleridge.”
“Yes, that’s right, Chief Inspector, although the gentleman did make sure the headstone included her married name. A bit confusing really. Can I ask why you are interested in this burial?”
“Well actually, it’s the person who notified you of the death that we’re interested in,” said David. “Presumably the gentleman you just mentioned.”
Mr Blount turned to his PC and clicked onto a document.
“A Mr Alex Anderson, her carer.”
Jo wrote down the name on her pad.
“Have you any details about this man?” asked David. “An address? Contact number?”
Mr Blount scrolled down the screen.
“No, nothing other than the address of the deceased and the phone number of that apartment. She wasn’t the owner, apparently; she was there on a short-term lease.”
“Can you describe Mr Anderson?” asked Jo.
“Tall, slim, short dark hair: very well dressed and nicely spoken. Genuinely upset by Mrs Coleridge’s death. He seemed very fond of her.”
“Did he have a beard or stubble or anything?”
“No, clean shaven.”
“Accent?”
“Home Counties at a guess. Hardly any at all really.”
Jo turned back a couple of pages in her notebook.
“Mrs Deverall – Coleridge – died on the 25th of April and was buried on the 28th. Is that right?”
Yes, that’s right,” said Mr Blount, consulting his screen.
“Isn’t that rather quick for a suicide? Wouldn’t you have expected a longer period in between? For a post mortem, for example.”
“Yes, normally, but there were no suspicious circumstances. Apparently there had been two previous suicide attempts, and Mr Anderson wanted to go ahead as quickly as possible.”
“And who attended the funeral?” asked David.
“Well, only Mr Anderson himself, apart from the bearers and myself, of course. He said that Mrs Coleridge had no living relatives and he knew of no close friends.”
“So he was the only one at the graveside?”
“Apart from my own people, yes.”
Jo checked her notes again.
“Who paid for the funeral, Mr Blount?” she asked. “And how were you reimbursed?”
“Mr Anderson paid, and in cash. It was a very inexpensive affair,” he added with his first genuine display of sadness. “He said Mrs Coleridge always kept a large amount of cash around in the apartment – as many elderly people do, of course. He used some of it to pay for the funeral on the advice of the executors of the will.”
“Do you know who the executors are?” asked David.
He clicked onto a few more files but shook his head.
“No information. I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine, you’ve been really helpful. Many thanks.”
“And now you’d like to see the grave, I believe.”
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble. And the address where you attended the deceased, please. Do you have the owner’s name?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Jo read aloud from the inscription,
“Rest in Peace
Alma Elizabeth Deverall, nee Coleridge
Devoted Wife of Maxwell John Deverall
Loving Mother of John Alexander Deverall.
Died 25th April… ”
They stood in silence for half a minute or so, before they walked carefully round the headstone, in front of which there was laid a small bunch of flowers – relatively fresh – and examined the ground between it and the pathway. In spite of the ground being soft, there was no sign of any footprints.
“Okay, let’s get the SOCO team down here and give Mrs D some company for a few hours. Might as well get them going straight away. I’ll pay a visit to her last-but-one resting place. You stay and brief the gang, then get a lift down there. ”
“Yes, sir,” said Jo, reaching for her mobile.
David pulled up in front of the large, Edwardian, three-story terraced house which was 23 Darlington Road and pressed the button at the side of the front door for Apartment B.
Alan Venables was in his mid thirties, medium height, medium build, medium everything except his tan, which was very prominent and accentuated by a mass of blond hair which was almost shoulder length. He was dressed in old jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. Any hopes David harboured of this being the man they sought were dashed the moment he opened the door.
“You’re lucky to catch me in, Chief Inspector. I’m working from home today. How can I help you?”
“We’re following up on the death of a lady who you knew as Mrs Coleridge. I am right in saying this is where she died?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Alan Venables looked suddenly anxious. “But I wasn’t here at the time. I was in Dubai.”
“And very nice, too, Mr Venables. There’s really nothing for you to worry about, but could I have a look round the place, please? And then I just need a few minutes of your time.”
Alan took him through the apartment, which was a galaxy away from the accommodation in St George’s Close. As they sat down in the spacious lounge after the brief tour, the buzzer sounded.
“That will be my sergeant, I expect,” said David. “Could you tell us about the tenancy, Mr Venables?” he asked, when Jo had joined them.
“Well, the place was taken by Mrs Coleridge on a short term lease effective from the middle of October last year when I started a three-month expat assignment to Dubai. She paid me the full rental in advance. My assignment was extended by three months and she wanted to stay on, so she made a further payment, again for the whole period in advance.”
“And how did Mrs Coleridge come to take the flat
, Mr Venables?” asked Jo.
“It was very simple,” he replied, “and please call me Alan. I got the nod from my boss that I was going on this expat deal and I thought I’d try to let the apartment while I was away. I think it’s better not to have a place standing empty for too long these days, don’t you? So I just banged an ad in the local paper and on lettings.com to see what happened. I was dead lucky, because I was due to leave within a fortnight of placing the ad and this guy Anderson got in touch just a few days before I went. If I hadn’t got someone right away I would have had to leave it empty anyway. That’s it really. He said he was acting on behalf of this lady – Mrs Coleridge – and thought it would be perfect for her.
“Anyway, she came to look round, loved it and, as I said, paid the full three months in advance and moved in the day I left. I didn’t ask her to pay the lot up front, but she said she’d rather not bother with monthly transfers.”
“And how did she pay?” asked David.
“By cheque. It cleared the day before I left the country.”
“Could I ask how much you asked for the apartment?”
“Actually, I didn’t get chance to ask,” said Alan, smiling. “I’d told this guy the reason I was letting the flat before the subject of cost came up. So he offered me a thousand a month, which is around a third of what it’s worth. I laughed at first, thinking he was taking the piss; until he pointed out that I had less than a hundred hours to get someone else. He was a shrewd bugger, I’ll give him that. Anyway, it was great for me, to be honest – one elderly person occupying the place, and it was all profit anyway. The company were paying all expenses abroad and what with no income tax to pay over there – this was the icing on the cake really. So I agreed and we shook on it.”
“And what about other charges – utilities and such?”
“The rent covered all those costs. So council tax, heating, and the like went out as direct debits from my account as normal while I was away. It didn’t leave hardly anything for me, but the main benefit was that I got my house-sitter.”
Catalyst Page 8
