Deadlock

by Graham Ison

  ‘Her body was found in Canbury Gardens,’ said Kate.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Beside the river between Kingston and Ham.’

  ‘Had she been, you know …?’

  ‘As far as we know so far, Mr Warner,’ I said, ‘she had not been assaulted sexually, but the post-mortem examination might tell us differently. Can you tell me where she was going last night?’

  ‘Yes, to a wine bar in Richmond. The Talavera. She works there, you see.’

  ‘She works at the Talavera?’ asked Kate, thinking that we were at the beginning of a breakthrough. If Denise Barton had worked at the wine bar frequented by Rachel Steele and Lisa Hastings, it might confirm that the murderer was one of its regular clients.

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Warner’s reply was a scathing dismissal of the implication that he had been engaged to a barmaid. ‘A year or two ago she and a friend set up an online business producing custom-designed greetings cards for businesses and charities. Their office was in Richmond. After they’d finished work she was going to the wine bar for a few drinks with this friend. I’ve always warned her against drink-driving and I told her to get a taxi home, for which I would pay.’

  ‘Does she always work on a Saturday?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s when they do most of their business, so she told me. Look, d’you have to keep asking all these questions?’

  ‘If we’re to find out who murdered your fiancée, Mr Warner, yes,’ said Kate. ‘You said that on this occasion you’d told her to get a taxi home. Does she normally go to work by car?’

  ‘Yes, she does, but this time I drove her there. One of the Minis outside is hers; the other one is mine. His and hers, you might say.’ Warner gave a bleak laugh. ‘But not any more.’

  ‘What time did you take her to Richmond?’

  ‘I dropped her off at about half past eight, maybe a quarter to nine, yesterday morning.’

  ‘Did you actually see her enter her business premises?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to make sure she was safe. You hear of so many random stabbings these days. But she said I worried too much, and it looks as though I had cause to,’ Warner added sadly.

  ‘What did you do when she didn’t come home last night, Mr Warner?’ asked Kate. ‘Did you inform the police?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Oh, where were you?’

  ‘I spent last evening playing chess with a friend of mine in Ripley.’

  ‘What’s his name and address?’ I asked.

  ‘Justin Lane,’ said Warner, and gave us a Ripley address. ‘I suppose you want to check up on me.’

  ‘That’s the general idea, Mr Warner,’ said Kate, making a note of the friend’s details. ‘It’s called a routine enquiry.’ Like many detectives, Kate often resorted to that meaningless cliché rather than telling the questioner that he was a suspect until he’d been ruled out. ‘What time did you get back here last night?’

  ‘It must’ve been close to midnight.’

  ‘And what did you do when you found that Denise still hadn’t arrived home?’

  ‘I just assumed that she’d stayed overnight with her friend – she does that sometimes – and that she’d come home this morning. In fact, I thought it was her when you rang the bell.’

  ‘But she had her house keys with her,’ commented Kate.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that,’ Warner replied vaguely.

  ‘Didn’t you think to ring your fiancée’s friend and ask if she was there?’

  ‘I didn’t want her to think I was fussing too much.’

  ‘We’ll need her business partner’s name and address, Mr Warner,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s Abigail Robinson and she lives in Richmond.’ Warner reeled off the address from memory.

  ‘And perhaps you’d give us the address of Miss Barton’s parents,’ I said. ‘We’ll need to inform them, and ask them a few questions.’

  ‘What about?’ It sounded as though Warner didn’t much like the idea of us speaking to Denise’s parents.

  ‘Just standard questions about her education and upbringing, that sort of thing,’ said Kate. ‘Building a profile of a victim often helps us to identify the killer.’

  ‘They live in Tolworth,’ said Warner and gave us the address, again from memory.

  ‘How did you and Miss Barton meet, Mr Warner?’

  ‘At a tennis club. We’re both keen players. Only amateur standard, of course. Not in the Wimbledon class by any means. It was as much for the social side as anything. And then we found we had a mutual love of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. We got engaged about a year ago.’

  ‘And she’s lived with you at this address since your engagement, has she?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’ snapped Warner defensively, as though we’d accused him of blatant immorality. Or living in sin, as my mother used to call it.

  ‘Nothing wrong with it at all,’ said Kate mildly.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Warner,’ I said, ‘and we’re sorry to be the bearers of such bad news. You have our condolences. We can arrange for a family support officer from the Surrey Constabulary to visit you, if you wish.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ said Warner curtly. ‘When will I be able to fix up Denise’s funeral?’

  ‘Once the coroner has authorized release of Miss Barton’s body,’ I said. ‘We’ll let you and Mr and Mrs Barton know. And we’ll probably need to see you again,’ I added, ‘but we’ll telephone beforehand. I take it you work during the week?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a schoolteacher.’

  We left Malcolm Warner to get on with whatever he was doing. And to worry about cancelling the wedding plans and returning the food processor and all the other things that people give newlyweds.

  ‘It’s only about ten miles from here to Tolworth, Kate,’ I said as we drove away from Malcolm Warner’s cottage. ‘We’ll speak to the Bartons on our way back to London.’ I paused. ‘And while we’re in the area we’ll call in on this Justin Lane, the friend Warner said he played chess with last evening.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Kate.

  ‘What was your take on Malcolm Warner?’

  ‘Definitely someone to be looked at more deeply,’ said Kate, skilfully avoiding an idiot cyclist who seemed to think he was entitled to ignore the rules of the road. ‘He didn’t seem at all keen on us speaking to Denise’s parents. I wonder what they’ve got to tell us.’

  ‘I got the impression that he couldn’t have cared less about his fiancée not coming home last night and not showing up this morning.’

  ‘That was a pretty lame excuse he made about her not wanting him to fuss too much, Harry. He went on about seeing her through the door but wasn’t worried enough to find out why she hadn’t come home last night. Mind you, as Dave said the other day, it wouldn’t be the first time a boyfriend finished up in the dock for murdering his girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes, but given the similarity between Denise Barton’s murder and the two previous ones, could he have committed all three?’

  ‘We could pull him in and ask him?’ said Kate.

  ‘Not yet, Kate,’ I said. ‘Let’s wait and see what scientific evidence Linda can produce.’

  ‘If there’s any to produce,’ said Kate gloomily.

  It was five miles down the A3 from Cobham to Ripley, and we were knocking on Justin Lane’s door within fifteen minutes of leaving Malcolm Warner.

  ‘You can do the talking, Kate,’ I said as I rang the bell.

  ‘Hi!’ The barefooted man who answered the door was wearing white shorts and a navy-blue shirt, and his sunglasses had been pushed up on top of his shaved head.

  ‘Justin Lane?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Lane, smiling and affording Kate’s figure an admiring glance.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon of the Murder Investigation Team at Scotland Yard, and this is my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Brock.’

/>   ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Lane. Kate’s awesome announcement had wiped the smile from his face, and presumably removed any lascivious thoughts he might have been harbouring. ‘Are you sure it’s me you want? There must be more than one Justin Lane in the world.’

  ‘Has your friend Malcolm Warner phoned you recently?’

  ‘How on earth did you …?’ Lane stuttered to an abrupt stop, clearly impressed by the apparent omniscience of the police.

  ‘Has he or hasn’t he?’ demanded Kate.

  ‘Er, well, yes. A few minutes ago, as a matter of fact. But how did you know?’ Lane opened the door fully. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, ‘although I don’t know how I can possibly help you. I don’t know anything about any murders. Was it local, here in Ripley?’

  I didn’t bother to explain that if that had been the case, the Surrey Police would have been doing the investigating. Interesting, I thought, that he didn’t mention Denise’s murder.

  We were shown into a large room which appeared to be a combination of sitting room and studio. There was an easel bearing a canvas upon which was a half-finished painting of what appeared vaguely to be a reclining nude. On the other hand, it could have been an abstract, although it might just be that whoever was painting it was a lousy artist.

  A young woman holding a magazine was spread on a chaise longue. She looked up briefly, stared blankly at us and returned to her reading.

  ‘My girlfriend,’ said Lane by way of introduction, but didn’t tell us her name. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Mr Warner told us that he was here all last evening, and that the two of you played chess together. He said that he left here in time to get back to Cobham at around midnight. Is that true?’

  ‘Oh yes. Absolutely,’ began Lane, but got no further.

  ‘He bloody well wasn’t here,’ said the girlfriend, without looking up from her magazine. ‘Justin was in bed with me. We hit the sack at about eight last night and didn’t get up until ten o’clock this morning. Justin’s bloody insatiable. Aren’t you, darling?’ she added sarcastically. ‘He spent most of the night screwing the arse off me.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Lane. ‘You’ve got some room to talk.’

  ‘Can we get back to the point of this conversation, Mr Lane?’ snapped Kate. ‘Was he here, or wasn’t he?’

  ‘Er … no!’ Lane passed a hand over his hairless head, inadvertently knocking off his sunglasses. ‘He wasn’t here, but he has been on numerous occasions,’ he admitted lamely.

  ‘And that, presumably, is why he telephoned you a few minutes ago, to arrange an alibi?’

  ‘Yes, but why does he need an alibi? What’s happened?’

  ‘I hope you appreciate that it’s a serious matter to lie to police who are investigating a murder, Mr Lane,’ said Kate sternly, ignoring Lane’s questions.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I thought it was to cover him for what he was really doing.’

  ‘And what was he really doing?’ demanded Kate.

  Before Lane had a chance to reply, the girlfriend looked up. ‘Shafting his bit on the side most likely,’ she said.

  ‘What is your name, miss?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Amber Clark.’

  ‘And what d’you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m an artist’s model.’ She drew out the word so that it sounded more like ‘muddle’, and on reflection perhaps that’s what she meant, if the painting on the easel was any indication.

  ‘Do either of you know the name of this woman you call his “bit on the side”?’ Kate switched her gaze from Amber to Lane.

  ‘No,’ they both said at once.

  Kate turned her attention once more to Lane. ‘How did you come to meet Mr Warner?’

  ‘We’re colleagues.’

  ‘You’re a teacher, then.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how we got to know each other,’ said Lane. ‘But why are Murder Squad detectives taking an interest in what Malcolm was doing last night?’

  ‘Because Mr Warner’s fiancée, Denise Barton, was murdered sometime yesterday evening,’ said Kate in matter-of-fact tones.

  ‘Good God!’ Lane, who until now had been standing up, suddenly sank into a canvas structure that was supposed to be some sort of easy chair. ‘Why on earth didn’t he mention that on the phone?’ he said, shaking his head and tugging briefly at his beard.

  ‘Is this a bloody joke?’ asked Amber Clark, at last closing her magazine.

  ‘Shut up, Amber,’ said Lane. ‘What happened, Inspector?’

  ‘Her body was found this morning in Canbury Gardens in Kingston.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Poor old Malcolm. He won’t know what on earth to do with himself. He doted on that girl.’ Lane suddenly looked up. ‘And he told you he was playing chess here with me last night?’

  ‘He did,’ said Kate, and left it at that to see what Lane would have to say.

  ‘Ye Gods! And you think he murdered her?’

  ‘We don’t know who murdered her yet, Mr Lane, but we’re interested to know why he lied to us.’

  ‘Like I said just now, he was probably having it off with another woman,’ said Amber. ‘That’s all you men ever think about.’

  ‘Just wind your neck in, Amber, or—’

  ‘Or what?’ Amber swung her legs off the chaise longue and stood up, hands on hips. ‘You’ll throw me out? Where will you go for a quick fuck after that, eh, Picasso? Got a reserve lined up, have you?’

  ‘I think that’s all you can assist us with, Mr Lane,’ said Kate, sensing that a ‘domestic’ was about to erupt, ‘although we may need to talk to you again at some time in the future. But I must warn you that if you now speak to Malcolm Warner about this interview in an attempt to arrange another false alibi for him, it will be regarded very seriously. And we will find out, I can assure you. Perverting the course of justice carries a sentence of life imprisonment.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Lane, who paled quite significantly as the gravity of Kate’s warning sank in.

  ‘I reckon that any minute they’d have started to throw things at each other, Kate,’ I said as we returned to the car. ‘I think we just got out of there in time. That so-called model Amber seems a bit of a spitfire.’

  ‘I know what she needs,’ said Kate bluntly, but didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Right. Back to Cobham.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you again.’ Malcolm Warner didn’t seem at all surprised at our return so soon after leaving him.

  ‘Why did you lie to us, Mr Warner?’ demanded Kate, as he admitted us to his sitting room. ‘And before you say anything, we have just spoken to Mr Lane, who told us that you didn’t spend last evening with him playing chess. His live-in partner, who described herself as an artist’s model, suggested that you were with someone else. Someone who was not your fiancée.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it would look good if I told you the real reason.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ said Kate who, over the years, had had a few run-ins with philandering males in her private life. ‘So, now might be a good time to tell us exactly where you were last evening.’

  ‘I spent the night with a colleague of mine.’

  ‘A woman?’ asked Kate, wishing to make absolutely certain.

  ‘Of course it was a woman.’ Warner sounded quite annoyed at the implication that he might be homosexual.

  ‘You said she was a colleague. Does that mean she’s a teacher too?’

  ‘Yes.’ Warner’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

  ‘In that case, we’d better have her name and address.’ Kate made a big thing of taking out her pocketbook and pen.

  ‘Oh God!’ Warner ran a hand through his untidy blond hair. ‘She’s married.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Kate sarcastically. ‘Name and address,’ she repeated, more firmly this time.

  ‘Shirley Manners. Mrs Shirley Manners.’ Warner gave us an address in Effingham.’ After a moment’s pause, he added a mobile phone number. ‘It’d be safer to c
all her on that number,’ he said. ‘If you must.’

  ‘You’ve lied to us once, Mr Warner,’ said Kate brutally. ‘We just want to make sure you’re not doing it again.’

  ELEVEN

  Denise Barton’s parents lived in a modest end-of-terrace house in Tolworth.

  ‘Mr Barton?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ The man who’d answered the door wore a pair of baggy cord trousers and, despite the warm weather, a green cardigan over a Paisley shirt. He was probably still in his fifties but his stooped posture, together with his ragged moustache, receding hairline and the grey-rimmed spectacles suspended from a cord around his neck, gave him the appearance of someone twenty years older.

  ‘We’re police officers, Mr Barton.’

  ‘Whatever can you want at this time on a Sunday afternoon?’ Barton’s tone implied that people of his calibre should not be disturbed by police officers on Sunday afternoons. ‘And how do I know you’re the police?’ He stared suspiciously at Kate, attired as usual in jeans and a white shirt.

  ‘I can assure you we are, Mr Barton. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t be too careful these days,’ said Barton grudgingly, once he’d examined our warrant cards. ‘Please come in and tell me what you want.’

  We followed him into a large sitting room where a grey-haired woman was watching a wildlife programme on television.

  ‘Who was it, Mark?’ she asked, without diverting her gaze from a pair of cavorting gibbons who seemed well aware that the camera was on them.

  ‘The police are here, Patricia. They want to speak to us.’

  Only then did the woman look up. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said and, seizing the remote control, turned off the television.

  ‘I’m afraid I have bad news,’ I began, and introduced myself and Kate to Mrs Barton. There’s never an easy way to deliver a death message, something I learned early in my police career. ‘It’s your daughter, Denise.’

  ‘Is she hurt?’ asked Patricia Barton. ‘Was it an accident?’ The questions were almost identical to those posed by Malcolm Warner. And a score of other people to whom, over the years, I’d delivered news of the death of a loved one.