by Adam Croft
“Now, you better make this quick as I'm losing money every minute I'm in here,” Roxanne de la Rue stated. She sat down on the sofa and Hardwick signalled for an evermore embarrassed-looking Ellis Flint to sit down next to her. Flint's body language signified unease: his legs crossed away from Roxanne de la Rue, his eyes flitting from side to side. Hardwick began to pace back and forth across the room.
“Now, what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Dave Spencer?”
“Was? What do you mean 'was'?” she replied.
“I mean Dave Spencer collapsed and died on Friday night while performing at a pub near where he lived.”
“Died? Oh God. What? How?”
“That's what we're trying to find out. We heard from one of his colleagues that he may have entered into a relationship with you recently.”
“Well, I dunno about relationship. I mean, I get pretty close to a lot of guys who come in here. Nature of the job, really, innit?”
Hardwick noted that Roxanne de la Rue seemed to be more than a little short of natural human emotion.
“I should imagine so. How would you describe your relationship with Dave Spencer?” Hardwick asked.
“Profitable,” she replied, honestly and simply.
“Profitable?”
“Well, let's just say certain things earn more money than others in here. There's a reason there are separate rooms, Inspector.”
Ellis Flint interjected. “Oh, we're not–” before Hardwick interrupted him.
“So your relationship was purely...”
“Sexual, yes. In my eyes it wasn't even that. It was business. Listen, Dave Spencer was like any other guy who comes in here. They think they've got something special with you and you have to let them believe that. Keeps them coming, if you'll pardon the pun.” Ellis Flint tittered, but the joke was largely lost on Hardwick.
“What made Dave Spencer think he had something special with you?” Hardwick asked. “Surely if his only contact with you was in a strip club,that keeps business and pleasure separate,” Hardwick suggested.
“Inspector, this is exactly the sort of place that mixes business and pleasure very nicely, if you catch my drift. Besides, we didn't always conduct 'business' in the club. That's not to be repeated, mind,” she said, leaning in towards Hardwick. “I could lose my job if that gets out.”
“You mean you charged Dave Spencer for sex outside of the club?”
“I never charged him for nothing outside of here, Inspector. Thing is, he was a regular customer. Used to pay well. If he rang up and asked me to meet him for a drink or come out to dinner with him, who am I to say no? Suppliers and customers entertain each other all the time in any other line of work. What's wrong with me getting a few free meals and drinks and the promise of more business?”
“The problem is that Dave Spencer might not have quite seen it like that,” Ellis Flint remarked.
“Well, that's his stupid fault, innit?”
“Miss de la Rue,” Hardwick said. “I'm not quite sure I believe your version of events. We have it on good authority that you've been conducting a relationship with Dave Spencer for quite some time. Up until his death, that is.”
Roxanne de la Rue said nothing.
“Miss de la Rue, were you engaged to Dave Spencer?” Hardwick asked directly. Roxanne looked up sharply at Hardwick, her eyes revealing the whole truth.
Finally, she spoke. “Who have you been speaking to?”
“No-one.”
“Well there's no way you could possibly know that,” she said, her interest clearly piqued.
“Oh, there is. I can see from here that you have recently worn a thin ring on your fourth left finger for a quite considerable period of time. The mark which is still visible shows that you very rarely took it off, thereby suggesting a wedding or engagement ring. We already know you're not married, so that leaves only one possibility. The fact that you're now no longer wearing it suggests a recently-ended engagement; one which didn't end on the best of terms, judging by the small lacerations you made trying to wrench the thing off.”
Ellis Flint cocked his head in amazement at Hardwick.
“And there's me thinking you were readin' me bloody mind,” Roxanne de la Rue said, settling back into the sofa. “Right. Well, seeing as you're so cock-sure, why don't you tell me what happened, Inspector?”
“That's what we're here to find out, Miss de la Rue. Whichever way you look at it, Dave Spencer is dead and we need to find out every last detail about his life in order to find his killer. You do want us to find his killer, don't you?”
“Of course I bloody do!” the woman exclaimed as she began to break down into tears. “Listen, Dave and I might have gone our separate ways recently, but I still love him and want to know what happened to him.” Her voice under pressure betrayed what now appeared to be her cockney persona, a far more refined accent cutting through the tears and sobs. “Don't get me wrong, I hate him too. He promised me for months that we would get married. He even bought me an engagement ring.”
“Did you know he was already married?”
“Yes, of course I did. He told me his marriage was on the rocks and that he was sorting out the details before he and I would be together. For good. We'd talked about our future together. We were going to be so happy.”
“Miss de la Rue, if you don't mind me saying so, it sounds like a rather odd relationship.”
“All sorts of different people fall in love, Inspector. You must know that.”
“I'm afraid love isn't near the top of my list of priorities, Miss de la Rue. Tell me, what exactly did you see in Dave Spencer?”
Roxanne de la Rue looked towards the floor. Hardwick glanced over at the bowl full of cash and back at Roxanne.
*
“Goodnight, gents,” the doorman said as Hardwick and Flint exited the club and made their way back down Greek Street.
“So she just wanted him for his money?” Ellis Flint asked.
“Predictably so, yes. I had suspected as much.”
“He'd promised her marriage, she'd seen the pound signs, and then it all went belly up. So what, she killed him?”
“It's not to be ruled out, but somehow I can't quite see it. There are thousands of women in the world who attempt to marry for money, and thousands more who have their hearts broken. That doesn't necessarily turn them into killers.”
“Well,” Ellis Flint said, “You've got to be pretty disjointed to have a job like that, haven't you? I mean, perhaps Charlie Sparks's money was going to be her escape route out of there. At worst, maybe she did really love him and couldn't bear to be without him. It's hardly a new concept, Kempston. Even Romeo and Juliet met their fate because their love wasn't meant to be.”
Hardwick stopped in his tracks and stared at Ellis Flint. “I hardly think Charlie Sparks and Roxanne de la Rue are comparable to Romeo and Juliet, do you?”
“True. More Ronald and Janet, I suppose.” Ellis Flint glanced at Hardwick for any sign of his recognition of the joke, but saw none. “Anyway, there's something not quite right about her. She's clearly a bloody good actor – you saw the way she flitted from a cheap cockney persona back to her real personality. What's to stop her being able to cover over a murder?”
“No, I think the suspicion swings back the other way, if anything.”
“How do you mean?” Ellis asked.
“Well, logically it seems that Marianne Spencer will have caught wind of her husband's philandering with Miss de la Rue and been somewhat angry, don't you think?”
“I think that'd probably describe it, yes.”
“In which case, the hatchet of suspicion now sways above her head. No, I think there's something not quite right about the Spencers' marriage. I'm almost sure that will provide the key to unravelling what went on at the Freemason's Arms that night.”
Ellis Flint chuckled slightly as he spoke. “Well, it's a blasted shame that Marianne Spencer won't let us within a hundred yards of her house
then, isn't it?”
“Since someone let slip that we weren't police officers, yes,” Hardwick said accusingly.
“Now steady on, old boy. In fact, I–” Ellis Flint's protestations were halted by Hardwick's continuing monologue.
“But I don't suppose that should matter too much. In my experience, the interview process is the weakest point of the investigation. I mean, what have we actually discovered through speaking to people? That Charlie Sparks had a mistress in London? That his wife was on the take from a company he ran with an old school friend? Ellis, there are deep and dark secrets in every single life. We all have skeletons in our cupboards, but what we've found out so far doesn't even constitute a pile of bones. No, there's definitely more to this than meets the eye. I say we should head to the Spencer house and see what we can dig up.”
“For Christ's sake, Kempston, didn't you listen to a word I said? If we set foot anywhere near Marianne Spencer, she'll call the police on us!”
“I didn't mention anything about going near Marianne Spencer,” Hardwick replied innocently.
15
The bracken rustled as two branches parted to reveal the impassioned face of Kempston Hardwick as he observed the Mercedes rumbling away from Manor Farm (which still wasn't a farm), one Marianne Spencer occupying the controls. A small tortoiseshell cat mewed its discontent at having been ejected from its lair some minutes earlier.
‘Been quite some time since I spent my days making dens in bushes, Kempston.’
‘Nonsense. I bet you were quite the reconnaissance man in the Army,’ Hardwick replied, with his tongue slightly in his cheek.
‘Well, not exactly, no.’
‘How long were you in the Army for, exactly, Ellis?’
Ellis Flint ignored the question. ‘Say, I bet you were the sort of child who used to make dens and tree-houses as well.’
‘I was never one for practicalities, Ellis. Besides, one can make oneself practically invisible anywhere one wishes, if one knows the right ways.’
‘So why have we just spent the past ten minutes crouched in a bush, staving off cramp?’
‘You struck me as the “sort of child” who'd make dens. I thought you might like to revisit the good old days,’ Hardwick said, in such a way that Ellis Flint could have no idea as to whether he was being sarcastic, facetious or plain honest.
‘So, how do you propose we get in, exactly?’
‘Quite simple, really. Did you notice that Marianne Spencer left the property by way of the side gate?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘In which case, one can presume one of two things. Either she intends to re-enter the property by way of the side gate, meaning that it'll be easily opened — have you ever seen a lock on a side gate? We certainly didn't see her locking this one. Or that it only locks from the inside, in which case it won't be locked at all.’
‘Well, let's just hope she's left her signed confession note in the back garden, then,’ Ellis Flint remarked sarcastically. The comment went either unheard or ignored by Hardwick.
‘Ah-ha, almost right,’ Hardwick said, as he reached the wooden side gate. ‘There's a catch on the inside, but the Spencers often operate it from the outside, it seems. Can you see the length of green twine sticking out between the fence panels there? I'd be willing to bet that the other end is tied to the gate's latch on the inside.’ With that, Hardwick tugged the stiff twine, observing the metallic clunk of the latch lifting on the inside of the gate as the door shifted an inch or so. ‘Not the most security-conscious way of locking one's gate, but I'm hardly complaining in this instance.’
Hardwick and Flint followed the path round towards the back garden, treading carefully and evenly on the flagstones which were set within the gravel path. Despite gravel being perfectly suitable for walking on in any other circumstance, it struck Hardwick as rather odd that the presence of flagstones meant that the gravel was almost never walked on.
On reaching the back garden, Hardwick surveyed the scene. Glancing up at the first floor, he groaned loudly as he noticed the open bathroom window.
‘Surely that's a good thing?’ Ellis asked.
‘It certainly helps, but it does nothing to provide a challenge, does it?’
‘Oh, I don't know. Watching you shimmy up the drainpipe should provide some entertainment.’
And entertaining it was, as a route consisting of water butts, drainpipes and window-sills led the pair slowly but surely to the Spencers' bathroom window. Although he attempted to climb through the window with the grace of Hardwick, Ellis Flint did find himself in something of a tighter situation, his build being far from fat but still unavoidably stockier than the slim frame of Kempston Hardwick.
From the bathroom, the pair stepped lightly across the cream carpet towards the front of the house — the usual location of the master bedroom in most traditional British homes.
‘What are we actually looking for?’ Ellis Flint asked.
‘I’m not entirely sure. Files of some sort. Something concrete which could help give us some sort of direction. Something that is a little more than just plain odd.’
The door to the master bedroom creaked slightly as it was opened, leaving Ellis Flint frozen to the spot. After being reminded by Hardwick that Marianne Spencer, now the sole tenant of Manor Farm, had left by car some minutes earlier, he regained his composure and entered the bedroom.
A large wooden-framed bed stood proud from the far wall, its light dressing adorned with two plush red cushions and a small ragged teddy bear. An old framed-photograph of Charlie Sparks bowing slightly to meet Her Majesty the Queen was hung on the wall above the headboard. The gilt caption-plate showed the date and location as the 1981 Royal Variety Performance at the Theatre Royal. Hardwick doubted very much if Her Majesty would have actually enjoyed Charlie Sparks's act all that much. He pondered that she must actually get quite exasperated with much of the abysmal tripe she was subjected to on such occasions, always being obliged to tell the performers how much she had enjoyed their act, whilst quietly dying a little inside. Hardwick was pleased to be a man who told things exactly as he saw them. No false frontage, no lying to oneself, no dying a little inside. Not that he ever knew any other way, that is.
The bedroom struck Hardwick and Flint as being remarkably normal; the en-suite bathroom leading off to the right and a sweeping arc of wardrobes joining the en-suite to the main bedroom door. Hardwick was immediately attracted to the wardrobes, looking as he did for anywhere that files might be kept.
‘Kempston. There's a safe at the bottom of this one,’ Ellis Flint exclaimed, lifting a menagerie of sparkling dresses and blouses to reveal a dark grey metallic box, its frontage empanelled with a black plastic panel, revealing a selection of numbers with two additional buttons labelled “Complete” and “Cancel”. ‘Looks as though we'll need a combination. Bloody hard luck.’
‘Not at all. We've already seen how security conscious the Spencers are. What's the betting that the combination is easy to remember as well? It's a Burlington SecureSafe, which, if I'm not mistaken, requires only a four-digit security code. Tell me, Ellis, what is the first four-digit number you think of?’
‘Well, my year of birth, I suppose.’
‘Quite. Now, that's a little too obvious, even for the Spencers. What would you look at next?’
‘Children's birth years?’
‘Indeed. Now, we know the Spencers didn’t, or couldn’t, have children, so that's ruled out. No, I have a funny feeling that we're looking at both years of birth here. According to the newspaper reports, Dave Spencer was born in 1955, and Marianne in 1958, correct?’
‘So I believe, yes.’
Hardwick punched 5-5-5-8 into the safe's keypad, followed by the “Complete” button. No noise was audible, but a tug on the plastic handle revealed the safe to be very much open.
‘The rule is, Ellis, if it's easy for you to remember, it's easy for someone else to guess.’
‘And you're not mistaken
when you refer to yourself as “someone else”, Kempston. I've never seen anything like it!’
‘Human psychology is remarkably simple and predictable. That's why it is, in essence, so incredibly boring.’
The safe itself contained very little in the way of obviously valuable pieces. No cash or jewellery was contained within it; only envelopes and documents. Hardwick rifled through the slabs of paper, revealing performance contracts in the name of Dave Spencer, as well as his driving licence counterpart, birth certificate and various other documents.
‘Nothing at all in the name of Marianne Spencer,’ Ellis Flint noted, as Hardwick murmured in agreement.
‘Ah-ha. The Last Will and Testament of Mr David Francis Spencer.’
“‘Now, Kempston, we can't go reading the man's wi—‘ Ellis found his words cut off again, this time by the sound of Hardwick's index finger ripping the seal from the envelope. He unfolded the paper concealed within and began to read.
‘Looks pretty short to me,’ Ellis noted.
‘Indeed it is. Primarily because he's left everything to one person.’
‘Marianne, presumably.’
‘Oh no. He wouldn't have needed to write a will in that case, as his estate would pass to her as his next of kin regardless. This completely changes everything, Ellis. Charlie Sparks left his entire estate to Roxanne de la Rue.’
16
The Fox and Bugle was a heavily-extended thatched pub which sat on the cross-roads in the centre of Fettlesham. The low ceilings proved to be a challenge for Hardwick, who meandered towards the bar via the path of least resistance.
The pub was decorated with all manner of Italian-style trinkets, the walls adorned with pictures and photographs which seemed to have no relationship to each other, yet appeared to fit perfectly within the surroundings. Hardwick sat himself down on a sofa near the front window and watched the cars passing, stopping occasionally in acquiescence to the pedestrian crossing a few yards further up the road. Ellis Flint returned a few moments later with two drinks and wasted no time in getting straight to the point.
