by Graham Ison
Bill Hunter, whose sweater must have cost more than my suit, opened the door and almost dragged me inside.
‘Thank God you’re here, Harry. I had a nasty feeling that you’d been called out at the last minute. I know these things happen in your line of business, but if something crops up to ruin one of Charlie’s dinner parties she’s apt to vibrate gently until steam comes out of her ears. And the air turns deep blue when actresses start swearing – but you’d know all about that.’
‘Sorry, Bill, but I couldn’t get a cab. I should have phoned. Believe me, I wouldn’t miss one of Charlie’s dinners if I could possibly avoid it.’
‘You’re here, Harry, that’s the main thing. Come on through to the drawing room and let me fill you up with Scotch. Incidentally, Charlie has arranged a surprise guest for you – our new neighbour.’
Lydia Maxwell was seated in an armchair at one side of the Yorkstone fireplace. ‘How lovely to see you again, Harry.’ The sexy, husky voice evoked memories of the first time we’d met, albeit in different circumstances from these. Putting her champagne flute on a table, she stood up and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘I’d have phoned, but I misplaced the card you gave me with your number on it.’
Gail Sutton had once said that the famous little black dress was a lazy woman’s party frock and didn’t require any forethought. But that comment didn’t apply to Lydia Maxwell.
Her LBD outfit was classically simple, and her discreet gold jewellery completed the picture of an elegant woman. I noticed that her engagement ring and wedding band were again missing.
‘What a dreadful thing, that young policeman being murdered, Harry. I was tempted to stay for the whole trial after I’d given my evidence at the Old Bailey, but I eventually decided it would be too harrowing an experience listening to all the gory details. Was Mr Appleby married?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said, as I accepted a large Scotch from Bill.
‘How awful for his poor widow. It takes a long time to get over the sudden death of one’s husband. Even if you didn’t get on,’ she added rather bitterly. ‘Did they have any children?’
‘No, they didn’t, which is something to be grateful for, I suppose.’
I feared the conversation was about to become increasingly mournful, and Bill, silently nursing a whisky, wasn’t helping, but fortunately our hostess interrupted.
‘Harry, it was good of you to come.’ Charlie Hunter swept in from the kitchen attired in a scarlet silk sheath that must have cost a fortune. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed and she’d managed to preserve her usual serenity despite being immersed in preparing one of her masterclass meals. But she did have a cook to help her. ‘I just popped in to say hello, so you’ll have to excuse me, both of you, while I put the finishing touches to the first course.’ She took my arm and steered me towards the door that led to the kitchen. ‘If you’re thinking of buying perfume for anyone in the near future, Harry,’ she whispered, ‘Lydia’s wearing Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Charlie,’ I said.
‘What, me, Harry? Perish the thought,’ said Charlie, and poked her tongue at me before addressing her husband, now chatting animatedly to Lydia. ‘Dinner in five minutes, honey.’
The Hunters are charming and generous hosts, but on this occasion Charlie was clearly matchmaking: the dining room was lit solely by a battery of candelabra. The meal was a gourmet’s delight, particularly for a man like me who tended to live on ready meals from the supermarket, and the wines were superb. And I’m sure that Charlie had read somewhere that avocados are supposed to possess aphrodisiac qualities. The conversation sparkled and Lydia seemed quite at ease, chatting away as if she’d known the three of us for years. But I had to remind myself that she was probably as wealthy as Bill Hunter, who spent his working day juggling stocks and shares and effortlessly amassing large amounts of money in the process. And that sort of money gives the people who possess it a lot of confidence when it comes to the social graces. I just hoped that Bill wasn’t about to suggest some risky scheme for Lydia to invest in.
Then I thought about what I’d just thought about; I was looking out for Lydia Maxwell’s welfare already.
When the meal was over, Bill tossed down his napkin and stood up. ‘Let me show you two the garden and the pool. I’ve put the lights on especially.’
‘Bill!’ Charlie spoke sharply and glared at her husband.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Harry’s seen the garden and the pool dozens of times, and I’m sure he’s capable of showing Lydia around without getting lost. In any case, I need you to clear the table and make the coffee.’
I knew that the table would be left for the staff to clear in the morning and that the cook would have made the coffee. Nevertheless, I was aware of exactly what our hostess was up to, and I have to admit I was rather pleased to be able to spend a few minutes alone with Lydia now that questions about murder wouldn’t dominate the conversation.
The threat of rain had disappeared and it was a pleasant if slightly cool evening. Lydia had draped a cashmere stole around her shoulders prior to leaving the house, and we strolled across the extensive and well-kept gardens, illuminated now by a dozen or more post lights, and into the wooden chalet that enclosed the swimming pool. ‘It’s got all mod cons: heaters, showers and changing cubicles,’ I said, and pointed across the pool, ‘and the sliding doors over there lead to the patio and a state of the art charcoal barbecue, and then there’s a set of—’
My little spiel came to an abrupt stop as Lydia burst out laughing. ‘You’re beginning to sound like an estate agent, Harry,’ she said. ‘I know all that. I’ve been shown around the pool house and the garden before, and Bill and Charlie have told me I can use the pool any time I like – which I have done – until mine’s ready. At the moment, mine is open air, which is not exactly conducive to swimming in this sort of weather, but I’m arranging to have it enclosed like this one.’ As we left the chalet and began to stroll around the lawn, she suddenly changed the subject. ‘I suppose you’ve worked out what Charlie Hunter’s up to, haven’t you, Harry?’
‘Yes, Lydia, I have.’ I knew exactly what she was talking about. ‘The one thing I’ve learned about Charlie over the years that I’ve known her and Bill is that she’s not the subtlest of women. When she has a plan in mind, she goes for it with frightening determination, and makes no attempt to disguise her motives.’
‘You mean we’ve no chance of escaping?’ Lydia glanced sideways at me and smiled.
‘That about sums it up.’
‘D’you mind awfully?’
‘No, I don’t, Lydia,’ I said, perhaps a little too quickly.
‘Good. Neither do I.’ She linked her arm through mine as we turned towards the house. ‘It’s getting rather chilly out here. D’you mind if we go in?’
‘Before we do, there’s something I want to ask you.’
‘Which is?’ She stopped and turned to face me.
‘That you’ll have dinner with me one evening in the not-too-distant future.’
‘Of course I will, Harry,’ she said, and squeezed my arm as we carried on walking towards the house.
I had reservations about dating a wealthy widow. My salary, comparatively meagre when set against the money Lydia Maxwell was accustomed to, wouldn’t run to the sort of restaurants which I’m sure she frequented. And I said as much.
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Harry.’ Once again, Lydia stopped and faced me. ‘I’d settle for a sandwich on a park bench. It’s the company that’s important, my dear.’
It was then that I decided Gail Sutton was history. What was over was over.
But that was all last November. Now I had a murder to deal with.
On Wednesday morning, Dave and I journeyed to Henry Mortlock’s carvery.
‘Confirming what I told you at the venue, Harry, she died as a result of manual asphyxiation,’ began Mortlock, ‘and I’d think by a fairly strong man. She was
definitely attacked by someone standing behind her, and as there were no defensive wounds I imagine the attack took her completely by surprise.’
‘Could the assailant have been a woman?’ I queried.
‘I’ve just told you that in my opinion she was attacked by a fairly strong man,’ snapped Mortlock, but then moderated his sudden temper. ‘D’you have a reason for asking that?’ He raised both of his bushy eyebrows.
I told him what we’d learned so far about the woman purporting to be Rachel Steele. ‘According to the neighbour we spoke to, this mystery woman is about six foot tall, spends a lot of time at the gym and is a very strong swimmer. Of course, this is all hearsay.’
‘It would be possible, I suppose,’ said Mortlock, backtracking cautiously. ‘Far be it from me to tell you your job, Harry, but is the dead woman likely to have been in the Isabella Plantation with another woman? Surely, it’s more likely to have been a man.’
‘Oh, come on, Henry! This is the twenty-first century. Women do have affairs with women these days. They even get married to each other.’
‘Could the body have been moved from where she was killed, and dumped where Mrs Kowalska found it?’ asked Dave, intervening just in time to prevent what promised to be a heated discussion about modern-day sexual mores.
Mortlock shook his head. ‘The hypostasis indicates that she was killed where she was found, and as I said yesterday, I’m of the opinion that she’d been dead between twelve and fifteen hours.’
‘Was she pregnant?’ I asked. Unwanted pregnancies, particularly arising as the result of an extra-marital affair, were often a motive for murder.
‘No. She wasn’t pregnant and she wasn’t a virgin, but she hadn’t engaged in recent intercourse, by which I mean in the hours leading up to her death. The only other thing I can tell you is that she took the birth control pill. Oh, and one other thing – she had a termination some years ago.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’ I didn’t ask how Mortlock had come to the latter conclusion, but who am I to query the findings of our learned pathologist. For all I know, he might’ve been guessing.
We were just leaving the mortuary when I got a phone call from Colin Wilberforce.
‘Rachel Steele’s credit card company came up with an address for her, sir. It’s a luxury flat in Richmond.’ Wilberforce reeled off the address.
‘Thanks, Colin. Dave and I will have a look at it this afternoon.’
So much for that. We’d not added very much to what we’d learned yesterday.
We arrived back at the office at half past ten to be greeted by Linda Mitchell, the crime-scene manager.
‘What have you got for me, Linda?’ I asked, as she, Kate Ebdon and Dave settled in my office.
‘Not very much, I’m afraid, Harry, but what we have got may prove useful in the long run.’ Linda opened a folder and rested it on her knee. ‘There was still a dew when we arrived at the scene, but once it had lifted we were able to carry out a close inspection of the ground. There were no discernible signs of a struggle, and although there were footmarks aplenty, we couldn’t obtain a clear shoe print from any of them. Not that that means anything; thousands of people must roam around the Isabella Plantation in the course of a summer. We did, however, find a cigarette butt. There aren’t so many people who smoke nowadays and—’
‘You speak for yourself, Linda,’ muttered Dave.
Linda laughed. ‘You should try, Dave. It’s easy to give up.’
‘I know it’s easy to give up,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve done it dozens of times. It’s knowing how to stop starting again that I have trouble with.’
‘What about this cigarette butt, Linda?’ I said, steering the conversation back on course.
‘I’m having it tested for DNA. But even if we’re lucky, it could turn out to have been anybody’s. And even if we find a match in the database it still won’t prove that it belongs to the murderer.’
‘But he’ll have a few questions to answer, especially if he’s on the sex offenders’ register,’ said Kate Ebdon, who relished interrogating sex offenders to the extent that I almost felt sorry for them. Almost, but not quite. Kate is very feminine, an image she likes to foster when it suits her, but heaven help any man who tries to take advantage. She has a black belt in judo and I once saw what happened to a fifteen-stone baggage handler from Heathrow Airport who tried it on with her. I’d swear she didn’t move a muscle, but the next moment this guy was flat on his back moaning loudly and complaining of police brutality.
That little scene had an amusing corollary. When the ‘victim’ had finished dictating his complaint against Kate, the detective superintendent dealing with it read through it and gave it to the baggage-handler to sign. Taking back the statement, he’d assumed a straight face. ‘Let me get this right. The nub of what you’ve just told me is that this slightly built young woman officer threw you on the ground? And you’re, what, about fifteen stone? You realize, of course, that any disciplinary proceedings will take place in public and be reported in the media. When your baggage-handling mates hear about that, they’ll laugh themselves sick, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The baggage handler swore, grabbed his statement and tore it up before marching out.
‘If you eventually find the murderer,’ continued Linda, ‘and there is DNA from the cigarette butt which matches his, you’ve got additional evidence. But, like the footmarks, it could belong to anyone.’
‘Anything else, Linda?’ asked Kate. ‘Like, for instance, something that’ll help us find this bastard?’
‘We recovered some fibres from the victim’s dress which don’t match anything she was wearing. We’ve not done a complete analysis yet, but they could’ve come from the assailant’s clothing or even from the cloth upholstery of a car, not that many cars have cloth upholstery these days. None of this gets you any further forward, of course, but everything we amass is in the bank for when you arrest a suspect.’
‘You did mention yesterday that you might be able to get a fingerprint from the impressions on the woman’s neck, Linda,’ suggested Dave hopefully. ‘Did you have any luck?’
‘No, I’m afraid it wasn’t possible. It was a long shot anyway, and as I said at the time, he might’ve worn gloves despite the weather.’
‘Any joy with the victim’s smartphone?’ I asked.
‘Now, that could prove to be quite useful.’ And by way of a reply, Linda handed me a list of phone numbers. ‘The ones that have names against them were on her speed dial.’
‘If her killer called her, I’ve no doubt he had a throwaway mobile phone,’ I said, injecting some pessimistic realism into our murder inquiry. ‘Any photographs?’
‘I’ve had the photos developed, but there were some videos on there, too, and I’ve had stills taken from those where the victim features,’ said Linda, handing over a sheaf of eight-by-ten prints. ‘It’s a selection of bucolic scenes as well as some indoor shots. There are quite a few which show either men or women – occasionally both; some are selfies and include the victim. What might help you is that the victim had the foresight to switch on location services.’
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked. Linda was moving into foreign territory, at least as far as I was concerned.
‘It’s an app that records where the photograph was taken, when it was taken and the time. It also links a photograph to any others taken nearby or close in time. The details are on each of those prints.’
‘That’ll be something for Harvey to get his teeth into,’ said Dave, glancing at the prints over my shoulder. He was all for involving newcomers to the team as soon as possible.
‘Take care of it, Dave,’ I said, and handed him the phone list and the photographs.
‘I’ll let you know of anything we find as soon as we find it,’ said Linda as she got up to leave.
Kate returned to her office and Dave and I went into the incident room.
Harvey had been sitting next to Colin Wilberforce, presumably finding out what he did, but leaped to
his feet the moment I appeared.
‘Sit down, Steve,’ I said. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ He was probably still conscious of the ticking-off he’d been given by Dave. ‘Sergeant Poole’s got something for you.’
‘The guv’nor has just appointed you the official phone number and photograph investigating officer,’ said Dave, and handed over Rachel Steele’s phone list and the photographs that Linda Mitchell had prepared. ‘I know you go in heavy-handed on the Squad, but here we like to do a bit of background before we go blundering in.’ Dave had no high opinion of the Flying Squad, possibly because he’d never been selected to serve on it, and clearly didn’t much care for Harvey, but that will probably soften. New arrivals on the team had to prove themselves in Dave’s eyes before he accepted them.
Harvey gazed apprehensively at the document and photos. ‘What am I supposed to do with these, skip?’
‘Give them to me, Steve,’ said Wilberforce. ‘I’ll show you what’s what.’
‘Colin, have you checked to see if there’s any footage from cameras at the Richmond and Kingston gates to the park that might give us a few car numbers to work with?’ I asked.
‘There aren’t any cameras, sir,’ said Wilberforce, somewhat smugly, ‘although I understand there has been talk of installing them.’
‘You’re such a comfort, Colin,’ said Dave.
We had found a set of keys among the possessions that the killer had left with Rachel Steele’s body, but as we’d discovered they were for her Camden Town address, that came as no surprise. There was, though, one other unexplained key on the ring. However, Colin Wilberforce had relentlessly pursued credit card companies until he had discovered where she was living at the time of her murder. It proved to be within walking distance of the Talavera wine bar in Richmond.
The giveaway, in terms of finding her latest address, was that she had transferred her balance from one credit card to another. But that newer credit card was not among the possessions found on her body.
