by Graham Ison
‘Really?’ said Tipper sarcastically.
‘There’ll be no need for my wife to know about this, will there, Chief Inspector?’ For the first time he sounded concerned, and had it not been for the evidence of Wallace’s fingerprints, Tipper would have been inclined to disbelieve what this rather pathetic civil servant had been telling him. He knew from experience that men who boasted of their conquests were often inventing them.
‘No,’ said Tipper. ‘I shan’t tell your wife.’ But he didn’t see why he shouldn’t be a little more brutal with Wallace. ‘Did you really have sexual intercourse with this woman?’
Wallace actually blushed. He was unused to direct language of that sort; was a master of euphemism. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said, as though Tipper had just called his masculinity into question. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Only because I know for a fact that she was a lesbian.’
Wallace opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said at length. ‘She couldn’t possibly have been.’
Tipper leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming a little tattoo on the table top. ‘I didn’t say exclusively a lesbian. She was what we in the trade call bi-sexual.’ And before Wallace had an opportunity to recover from that shock, he went on the attack again. ‘Now, about the photographs you took. Where are they?’ He had no evidence; just a feeling.
Wallace didn’t answer immediately, but remained staring stoically at the table.
‘I can get a search warrant if you prefer.’
‘At the office — locked in my desk,’ said Wallace miserably.
For a few moments, Tipper considered the implications of what he was about to do. ‘I’m going to put you on trust, Mr Wallace. I want those photographs delivered to me at Scotland Yard at midday tomorrow. If you don’t I shall obtain search warrants for both your home and your office. I needn’t explain the embarrassment that that would cause with both your wife and your employers.’
Wallace nodded slowly. ‘You’ll have them — I promise. As a matter of fact I won’t be sorry to get rid of them. I’ve been worried that someone will find them.’
Tipper had taken a chance deliberately. He wanted this man’s co-operation still. Didn’t want particularly to alienate him — not at this stage. Whether he really did wait until noon tomorrow for the photographs, which were probably irrelevant anyway, or whether he sent Markham to get them now, rather hinged on Wallace’s answer to the next question. An answer which might put Wallace unsuspectingly, into the frame.
‘How often did you go to France with Penny?’ he asked.
Wallace looked up, staring at the Chief Inspector in disbelief. ‘France? We never went to France. A couple of weekends in the New Forest was about all we ever managed. And that was when we were living together. We couldn’t have afforded to go to France.’ He helped himself to another cigarette from the open packet on the table. ‘It’s funny, you know,’ he said, ‘but she never seemed to be able to keep a man for very long.’
‘Or a woman,’ said Tipper acidly.
Wallace shot him a sharp glance. ‘I suppose if she had a fault, it was that she was too friendly. She wasn’t a one-man woman. She had to play the field.’ It was exactly what Charley Godley had said about her.
‘One more question. What exactly were you doing between the eighteenth and the twenty-fifth of August last?’
‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’
‘Because it was between those dates that Mrs Penelope Lambert, otherwise Gaston, was murdered.’ The pathology report had narrowed the date much more accurately than that, but Tipper was not in the habit of giving gratuitous information to suspects.
‘Good God!’ said Wallace. ‘You don’t think I killed her, do you?’
‘I don’t know who killed her, Mr Wallace, that’s why I’m asking the question.’
*
It was twenty past one the following afternoon when Markham tapped on Tipper’s office door and came in holding an envelope. ‘The photographs, sir. Wallace just came into Back Hall with them.’
Tipper emptied the prints onto his blotter and spread them across his desk.
‘They’re half plate exposures,’ said Markham helpfully.
Tipper whistled. ‘You can say that again. Naughty little civil servant.’
‘Naughty little Penny,’ added Markham.
‘Have these been exhibited, Charlie?’
Markham grinned, avoiding the answer that so obviously presented itself. ‘Yes, sir. He made a statement, and produced those as exhibits JW one to six.’
‘Does he say when he took them?’
‘May the tenth, sir.’
‘Damn!’
‘I know,’ said Markham. ‘Doesn’t help, does it!’
They both knew that the entry in Penelope Lambert’s diary that read ‘J took photographs’ was for the seventeenth of June.
‘Is he certain of that date, Charlie?’
‘Yes, sir — he had it in his diary.’
‘He would have done.’ Tipper reached across for a file. ‘This is a copy of the statement I had taken from him last night. There’s a reference in it to his visits to Penny’s flat in Wimbledon. He implies, without any evidence, I may say, that she was being financed by someone else. His view was that a third party was paying the rent. But supposing for a moment, that her financial support was coming from a bit of private trading. There’s a lot of it in the West End. You get these screwballs who just want to take obscene photographs of birds — that’s how they get their satisfaction.’
‘Mystery to me,’ said Markham.
‘And to me, Charlie. But she might have been making money by letting any punter who wanted to, drop by and take a few snaps.’
Markham looked dubious. ‘They don’t usually do that at home, guv’nor. They’re like toms — they have a place in Soho.’
‘They’re the professionals, Charlie. This girl was an amateur — a gifted amateur certainly — but an amateur all the same. If a bloke like Wallace asked if he could take a few shots, she might just have realised that there was money in it. She was a professional model, after all. And you’ve only got to look at those photographs to see that she has a certain talent — even for porn.’
‘So where does that get us, sir?’
‘Dunno,’ said Tipper with a rueful smile. ‘But I’m still concerned about the other fingerprints in the flat. So far we’ve matched hers, Mrs Mason’s — dear, uninquisitive Mrs Mason — and Wallace. There are still about three or four others we’ve got to identify.’
‘What do we do next, then?’
‘Take these.’ Tipper pushed the packet of photographs across the desk. ‘Take these to Photographic, get a blow-up of the best two faces — only the faces — and get one of the lads to show them round. Tell him to have a word with Clubs Office at West End Central, and the blokes on Toms; see if they can come up with someone who knew her.’
Markham shrugged. ‘I think it’s a vain hope, guv — you know what they’re like — but I’ll give it a go. You never know your luck. Bit risky though, isn’t it?’
‘Risky?’
‘Well if she was worried about her job at the Foreign Office — and that was only when she was doing straight modelling — think what would have happened if these had got out.’ He waved the photographs in the air and chuckled.
‘Yeah — but don’t forget that she had resigned. It might just be that she had realised that there was a hell of a lot more money in porn than diplomacy — if you take my meaning — and was going to go into it full time.’
‘If that’s the case,’ said Markham, ‘that could put an entirely different complexion on her murder.’
‘How so?’
‘Blackmail! Wallace is the sort of bloke whose career — and his marriage — could have been wrecked by those photographs.’
‘He wasn’t in them,’ Tipper reminded him.
‘No, he wasn’t — but he had them in his possession. Now just supposi
ng that there was someone who was in them — with her — and she put the squeeze on them. You know the sort of thing. Pay up or else.’ He grinned. ‘Bingo! Motive for murder.’
‘Are you suggesting that it’s down to Wallace then?’
‘Not necessarily. He was perhaps only one of several and he hadn’t any money. If she’d got her hooks into someone more important, someone whose reputation was nationally known, for instance …’
‘Like a politician, or big-business man, you mean?’
‘Yes. We’ve met them before, sir. Bloody good at their jobs — never get caught out, but the moment a pretty woman appears on the scene, they go all to pieces. Well it’s possible.’
‘Yes, Charlie — it’s possible. But we’re guessing. There’s nothing substantial to support it. All we’ve got so far — apart from her sordid life-style — is a bunch of photos that Wallace admits he took. And that’s all. He said that he took them, but we don’t know. Perhaps he was just boasting. I must say they look fairly professional. It could have been Charley Godley who took them — she’s a professional photographer. Penny might have given them to him. Or he might have nicked them when he was at her place one night.’
‘But why say he photographed her if he didn’t?’
‘Oh ye of little knowledge, Charlie. Simple. It’s no offence to take porn photographs for your own use. But theft — that is.’
‘I can see why you’re a chief inspector, Guv, and I’m only a sergeant.’
‘Got nothing to do with it, Charlie. That’s because I was industrious enough to take the exam — you were too bloody idle. Anyway, get those photographs done and put about, and get someone to start checking Wallace’s statement — the one from last night. He’s accounted for his movements in the week leading up to Penny’s death, but get someone to start talking to faces.’
‘But some of his collateral is his missus — neither compellable nor competent.’
‘So? I’m not thinking about calling her, and she knows about Penelope Lambert anyway, don’t forget. Everyone knows how we eliminate murder suspects — there’s enough crap about it on television these days.’
Chapter Eight
Twenty-seven Mexico Road, Hampton Wick, was a three-storied late Victorian house probably built at around the turn of the century. It looked unimpressive: the paintwork was an unremarkable brown; the front garden, although not overgrown, was very ordinary; and the lawn had the unmown look of so many gardens in mid-October.
The man who answered the door must have been about fifty-eight years old. He looked quizzically and uncertainly at the two detectives. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Chambers?’
‘That’s right.’ He still made no move to open the door any wider.
‘We’re police officers, Mr Chambers,’ said Tipper and showed the man his warrant card.
‘Oh!’
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He led them into a comfortable front room, beautifully decorated, and tastefully furnished — a complete contrast to the exterior.
‘What a lovely room,’ said Tipper.
‘I’m a builder by trade,’ said Chambers, clearly pleased at the compliment. ‘This is my wife, incidentally.’ He indicated a middle-aged grey-haired woman sitting knitting. ‘These gentlemen are from the police, dear.’
‘How d’you do,’ said Mrs Chambers, and carried on knitting. ‘You don’t mind if I carry on with this, do you?’ she asked. ‘It’s my daughter — she’s expecting in three weeks’ time and I’m all behind with the baby clothes.’
‘I wonder if you would look at this photograph, Mr Chambers, and tell me if you knew the girl.’
‘That’s Penny,’ said Chambers, without any hesitation. ‘Look, Mother, it’s Penny.’ He handed the photograph to his wife.
‘Oh, yes, that’s Penny.’
‘Penny who?’ asked Markham.
‘Penny Gaston — she used to live here. Why? What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead, Mrs Chambers.’
‘Oh, no. Oh, how awful. Car accident was it?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. She was murdered.’
Mrs Chambers put her hand to her mouth. ‘How dreadful; the poor girl. What happened?’
‘She was murdered in France, Mrs Chambers, and we’re investigating her death. Now, can you tell me when she lived here?’
‘Ah, now let me see,’ said Chambers, running a hand round his mouth. ‘It must have been, what — July or August two years ago.’
‘It was August,’ said Mrs Chambers decisively. ‘It was just after Julie had her first — don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, of course. Can always rely on Mother to remember the date of anything,’ said Chambers proudly.
‘And when did she leave?’
‘That would have been … yes, January the year after next, if you see what I mean. This January, in fact. She was here for two Christmasses. We were sorry to see her go. Such a nice girl.’
‘Do you happen to know what she did for a living — at that time?’
‘She was a model. She used to do those fashion poses. She showed us a magazine once — a foreign one, it was. I’m not surprised, mind you — she was a beautiful girl.’
‘Yes,’ echoed his wife. ‘A beautiful girl.’ She paused for a moment, the clicking of her knitting needles temporarily silent. ‘And now she’s dead — what a tragedy.’
‘Did she have any visitors while she was here?’ asked Tipper. ‘Or do you know of anyone she was particularly friendly with?’
Mrs Chambers smiled, almost conspiratorially. ‘Oh, yes. Penny was in the top flat, and she got very friendly with the gentleman in the middle flat. We always call them that — top, middle, and ours is the bottom. So much more friendly than giving them numbers, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ murmured Tipper. ‘Do you happen to recall his name?’
‘It was Webster — Jimmy Webster,’ she said.
‘Is he still here, Mrs Chambers?’ He glanced briefly at Markham. They had found another ‘J’ — perhaps the one who took photographs?
‘No, bless you. He left just before Penny did. He went quite suddenly — just before Christmas. She was really upset about it.’ She thought about that for a moment. ‘Well not upset, but cross. No — almost a bit afraid.’ She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. ‘To be perfectly honest I did wonder if she was — you know, pregnant.’
‘And was she?’ Tipper knew that the French pathologist’s report had stated the view that she had become sterile after the birth of her first and only child, but Tipper had known doctors to be wrong before — and particularly doctors who were pathologists.
‘We never found out.’ She looked at her husband as if expecting confirmation. ‘A fortnight later and she’d gone too.’
Tipper nodded. ‘You say the man Webster left suddenly. Have you any idea why?’
‘His father died. He came in here one morning — this very room. I remember he had a big bunch of flowers for me — he was a lovely boy. He said as how his father had died suddenly and he was going to have to go back to …’ She hesitated and looked at her husband. ‘Where was it, Dad? Canberra or Cape Town, I can’t remember now.’
Tipper looked at Chambers.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I know he was foreign — well not foreign, but Commonwealth — he was white, of course,’ he added, and Tipper thought that he had been about to say that he wouldn’t have any blacks, but remembered that he was talking to policemen. ‘I’m not good at accents,’ he said. ‘But I reckon he was either Australian or South African.’
‘We had a row about the rent,’ continued Mrs Chambers. ‘He insisted on giving me a month’s rent in lieu of notice, and I said that wasn’t necessary. I mean, it wasn’t his fault that his father had died. But he made me take it. He said it wasn’t my fault either, that Dad and I shouldn’t lose money just because he had to go home.’ She stopped knitting, tucking needles and wool down
the side of the settee. ‘Then the police came about him.’
‘When was that?’ asked Tipper. He knew this damned enquiry was going too easily; there had to be a problem somewhere.
‘A week or so after he’d gone home,’ said Chambers.
‘Longer than that,’ said his wife in definite tones. ‘It was after Christmas. Don’t you remember? Penny had gone as well.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘I don’t know. From the local police station, I suppose. I don’t remember them saying, do you, Dad?’
Chambers shook his head. ‘I don’t think they said.’
‘What did they want?’ asked Tipper.
‘They didn’t say,’ said Chambers, reasserting himself as head of the household, and obviously the one who dealt with police enquiries. ‘Just wanted to talk to him. Well he’d gone. They asked if we had a forwarding address, and I told them what I’ve just told you, about his father, and going back to … I wish I could remember whether it was Canberra or Cape Town.’
‘And they seemed satisfied with that?’
‘Well they had to be, didn’t they. There was nothing else I could tell them. Oh, they did ask if they could have a look round his room. We hadn’t let it again. They had a quick look and went off.’
‘And you heard nothing more?’
‘No.’
‘Would it be possible for us to have a look in the room Penny was in?’ Tipper hadn’t much hope of finding anything useful, but it was something which had to be done — just in case.
Chambers looked doubtful. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘There’s a new tenant in there now. A Miss Lawrence …’
*
Pauline Lawrence was a secretary in an advertising agency, she told the policemen. She wore jeans and a sweater, and no shoes. She was about twenty; of a generation which held the police in much less awe than did the Chambers downstairs. Cheerfully admitting that her flat was a shambles, she invited Tipper and Markham in and offered to make them a cup of coffee, which they politely declined.
They explained briefly that they were interested in the woman who had occupied the flat before she moved in and asked her if she had left anything behind. No, she said, the flat had been cleared out completely, but they were welcome to have a look round.
