A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

  Jeff led the way through part of the shopping centre, past the bare wall where the plaque had been situated and dived suddenly down a passage between the Ellis Brigham outlet and Country Casuals. He’d phoned ahead and Maggie and Serena were waiting for us.

  ‘The security here is not as state of the art as we’ve been led to believe,’ Jeff was explaining. ‘The fire doors are supposed to be monitored but there’ve been so many false alarms most of the audible warnings are switched to the mute position. If a warning flashes up on a VDU the chances of someone noticing it without an audible signal are slim.’

  We’d arrived at a pair of emergency fire doors, designated West 14, which led, I presumed, out into the car park. Jeff was saying: ‘According to the CCTV these doors are on the route taken by Graffiti Boy on the night before the incident. We found the coat hanger in a flower bed, earlier this morning, and in the next bed we found these.’ He pulled a pair of trainer laces, tied end to end, out of his pocket. ‘And now my assistant Serena will demonstrate just how easy it is to break into the multimillion-pound Curzon Shopping Mall and Conference Centre.’

  Serena leant on one of the panic bars that stretched across each door and half of it swung open. No bells rang; no sprinkler system soaked us with foam; no U-boat klaxon told us to crash-dive. She stepped outside and pushed the door shut behind her.

  Jeff knotted one end of the laces around the panic bar and let the rest of it dangle on to the floor. ‘Ready when you are,’ he shouted.

  We stood looking at the bottom of the door. After a few seconds the bent end of the coat hanger worked its way through the gap and moved from side to side. It was a tight fit, but Serena soon hooked the lace and, with a struggle, pulled it under the door at her side. With a good yank the panic bar was disengaged and the heavy fire door swung open again. The glow of Serena’s smile rivalled that of the sun.

  We called in Thornton’s for a coffee and a discussion. The coat hanger and the lace had been swabbed for DNA but the chances were slim. ‘They said we’d have to take our turn,’ Maggie told me. ‘We’ve used up all our goodwill and now we’re at the back of the queue.’

  ‘But they’re working over the weekend on our other case,’ Serena said. ‘They’ve promised to have something for us Monday morning.’

  ‘The pit bulls?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Good. So what have we learnt from today’s escapade?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Jeff admitted, ‘except how it was done. I’d say it’s an inside job, though.’

  ‘Anybody could have left that lace dangling.’

  ‘True, but anybody wouldn’t know that most of the alarms are disabled.’

  ‘Or which specific alarms were disabled. That would narrow it down a bit.’

  Maggie said: ‘You mean, did he make a lucky guess or did he know all the time that emergency exit West 14 wasn’t alarmed?’

  ‘Cor … rect.’

  I popped the free chocolate truffle that came with the coffee into my mouth and let it melt there, my eyes half closed and a smile playing about my lips. Serena said: ‘So how was your visit to Curzon House?’

  I swallowed and cleared my mouth for a few seconds, before telling her that my visit had gone well.

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who!’

  ‘I saw lots of people.’

  ‘Her! Did you see her?’

  ‘Are you referring to Miss Curzon?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well I don’t expect you to believe this, but at about one o’clock this morning I was enjoying a moonlit stroll through the grounds of Curzon House, hand in hand with a certain Miss Curzon.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  I gave a rough approximation of the Boy Scouts’ salute and said: ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Jeff said: ‘Ah, so that’s why you were worried about the creases in your pyjamas.’

  ‘Eggsackley,’ I replied.

  Serena shook her head and Jeff never noticed Maggie pinching his chocolate.

  Back at the nick I called in the ground floor toilets for a pee. I was just finishing when I heard the door go and a few seconds later the shadow of big Geordie Farrell, one of the traffic cops, fell across me. He took a quick peek over the porcelain barrier that separated the stalls we were using and said: ‘Flippin’ ’eck, Mr Priest, for a minute I thought you were being attacked by a one-eyed albino boa constrictor.’

  For the second time in a few hours I was lost for words. I could have said: ‘An easy mistake to make, George,’ but I was halfway up the stairs by then.

  Mr Wood had left me a note. It said he’d asked for some help for me and the ACC had suggested that a certain Superintendent Kent might be gainfully employed taking an overview of the murder enquiry. ‘Great!’ I hissed as I crumpled the sheet of paper and hurled it into the basket. Karen Kent looking over my shoulder was just what I didn’t need.

  I brought the crime diary and logbook up to date and wrote the mileage in my personal diary. The report reader’s summary was there for me. Identifying the spectators at the Curzon Centre opening was progressing and a good few had been interviewed. I took the report and left it in Jeff Caton’s in tray. He could deal with that. We now had a list of Threadneedle’s cronies that he played golf and drank with and there was a note saying the inquest had been opened and adjourned. I found the number for Janet Theadneedle’s sister and picked up the phone.

  They lived in a big pre-war semi with bay windows, on the Knaresborough road out of Harrogate. I parked in a side street near the football ground and walked back to the house. Sister June made us tea and introduced me to her husband, Mike. He’d taken early retirement from a managerial post with the NHS after a heart bypass operation and was now looking for a part-time job with no responsibilities.

  ‘Lollipop man,’ I suggested. ‘That’s what I’m going to do. Helping all the young mothers across the road.’

  ‘That might aggravate my condition,’ he said, earning a ‘Huh!’ from his wife.

  I tactfully asked if I could talk to Janet in private and they took their teas into another room. We made small talk about the inquest and the investigation until I told her about the humane killer and steered the conversation back to when they lived in East Yorkshire and owned the stables.

  ‘Mr Curzon asked how you were and sends his condolences,’ I told her. ‘I said you were being remarkably strong.’

  ‘That was kind of him. Tell him “thank you” if you see him again.’

  ‘He spoke very warmly of you and your playing. “Magical” was the word he used. He also told me about the fire. Do you remember it?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was something you’d never forget.’

  ‘I have to ask: where were you and your husband at the time?’

  She was wearing a fine woollen cardigan the colour of tinned peaches and was fiddling so much with one of the buttons that I expected it to come off in her hand. ‘I was in bed.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He told me he’d gone to a club in York. A nightclub.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘I know. He said none of his pals were there so he just sat by himself, having a drink, watching the dancer. Next morning, while the fire brigade were clearing up and the police were asking questions, he said it might be better if I said he’d stayed in all evening. He said it could look suspicious when he made an insurance claim if he had no witnesses.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Say he’d stayed in?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘No. Nobody asked me.’

  ‘Did he make an insurance claim?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure if it was successful. All I know is that he was like a bear with a sore head for months afterwards. We had to tighten our belts for the first time in our marriage and eventually moved to a smaller property in Heckley. That’s when …’ She stopped in mid sentence.
<
br />   ‘Sorry. That’s when …?’

  ‘That’s when I started enjoying a drink. Or two.’

  ‘How are you coping now?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Well, stick at it. It can’t be easy.’

  I asked about the gun but she’d never seen it, neither at the stables nor in Heckley. Our forensic people were still looking over the house, I told her, and asked if we could stay there until the following Tuesday. I didn’t mention that we’d be doing a reconstruction of her final supermarket trip on the Monday, round all the counters she’d bought from, to the same checkout she’d used and out to a Day-Glo orange Focus just like the one outside her house.

  The husband, Mike, walked me to the door after I’d expressed my thanks, and I gestured for him to come outside. He pulled the door closed behind him and stood close to me like a fellow conspirator.

  ‘How did you get on with your brother-in-law?’ I asked.

  ‘Not very well,’ he admitted. ‘He thought I was a bit of a failure because I opted for security and a steady income while he was a gambler. He claimed that his father left him a run-down business with lots of debts, but I suspect he was OK. Arthur played his cards close to his chest where money was concerned. He’s done well, though. I have to give him that.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about his horse racing exploits?’

  Mike grinned at the memory. ‘Oh yes. He certainly did.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ha ha! The Shergar conspiracy. June and I have had some good laughs over that one.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, it was a horse he bought. We went over to see it at his stables, at Arthur’s invitation, and it certainly was a magnificent animal. He showed us some photos of a horse just like it winning various races and parading in the winner’s enclosure with lots of posh people hanging on to it. Women in big hats, the men in toppers, that sort of thing. It looked exactly like Arthur’s horse, quite distinctive, with a white stripe down its nose and four white socks on its feet. Turns out the horse in the photos is Shergar, the Derby winner kidnapped by the IRA, and the implication – nudge nudge, wink wink – is that Arthur owns one of its pups. And guess what? For the trivial sum of fifteen grand I could be a joint owner, with a dozen other suckers. We politely declined and the invitations to visit ceased after that, which upset June but not me. Is that what it’s all about?’

  ‘Probably. How did he pitch the sale? Did he try to impress you with his successes so far? I’m trying to find any members of the syndicate, but nobody’s admitting it.’

  ‘Well you wouldn’t, would you? Family and friends; that’s who snake oil salesmen approach first. He did tell me one name – thought it would impress me.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Hmm, I’ve forgotten. Owned a stately home over that way. The faded gentry, down on his uppers like the rest of them.’

  ‘Try Curzon for size.’

  ‘That’s him: Lord Curzon.’

  We spun Threadneedle’s house without finding anything incriminating. Unless you call a wad of calling cards for young ladies who taught French while dressed as maids incriminating. There was an office and we found lists of names and numbers but our fraud people couldn’t make any sense of them. He had secrets, but he kept them well buried. His company offices were in Halifax and we turned them, too. He had a small staff but they were the legitimate front of his activities. The general picture was that he could do quite nicely within the accepted business practices of palm greasing and ‘entertainment’ without overtly breaking the law. I gave the cards to Maggie and told her to look one or two of them up, see what they could tell us. I wasn’t hopeful: you don’t bite the hand that fondles you.

  Janet Threadneedle was our numero uno suspect, much as it pained me to admit it. She had motive aplenty and might even sail a manslaughter rap if she confessed. She had opportunity and she may have had a gun. Trouble was, what did she do with it? And with her clothes? The boffins assured me that they’d be spattered with bits of Arthur George, but where were they?

  We drew routes from the house to the supermarket and back, and searched every dumpster, litter bin and hedge bottom within shouting distance. We had the mounties on the towpath, the underwater search unit frolicking in the canal and the task force on their knees in the park, all to no avail. We found enough used condoms to rubberise an airship, several dead animals, a Honda C90 and the statue of Buddha that vanished from outside the Bamboo Curtain in about 1995. No gun, no bloodstained shoes, no outer clothing. I began to think about other suspects.

  Friday morning it rained, and the shorts and tees that had predominated gave way to umbrellas and rain hats. Office girls who’d had a week of clacking about in flip-flops with exposed midriffs were suddenly clad in oilskins and sou’westers, like Whitby lifeboat crew. I sat in the car at the traffic lights, wipers slapping to and fro, and wondered how they did it.

  Most of the team were in the office, doing reports to leave the weekend clear. I hung my wet jacket up and joined them, after checking the kettle. It was empty, as usual.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Serena said, rising to her feet.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I told her, and went to fill it.

  We had tea, regular coffee, decaffeinated coffee and a couple of sachets of hot chocolate. I made myself a hot chocolate, because I deserved it, and tipped a spoonful of creamer into it, purely for the vitamins and trace elements it contained. I watched the clouds it made swirl and fold for a few seconds, wishing I could capture the moment on canvas, then carried it to the chair Dave had shoved my way.

  ‘So what have we got?’ I asked, sitting down.

  ‘You’re invited to Frankie & Benny’s tomorrow afternoon,’ Dave told me. ‘It’s Dan’s birthday. We were hoping to have a barbecue but the forecast’s terrible, so we asked him where he wanted to go and he said Frankie & Benny’s.’

  Dan is Dave’s teenage son and a pal of mine. ‘Who are Frankie and Benny?’ I asked.

  ‘No idea. Just two blokes who started a restaurant, I suppose. In America, of course.’

  Brendan said: ‘Maybe they were a couple of celebrities, like the film stars who started Planet Hollywood.’

  ‘You mean, like, it could be Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jeff said: ‘Sammy Davis Junior and Ella Fitzgerald were the first to open a celebrity restaurant.’

  ‘Gerraway.’

  ‘Yeah. It didn’t do very well, though, but what did they expect with a name like Sam ’n’ Ella’s?’

  We tried not to laugh but it was difficult. The ringing of the phone saved me. Dave picked it up and caught my eye as he listened.

  ‘I’ll put him on. James Curzon, for DI Priest,’ he said, proffering the handset.

  ‘Hello, James,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. I’m sorry to ring you at work but I’m trying to find out about restorative justice. Do you know if there’s a scheme in East Yorkshire?’

  ‘Umm, I’m not sure. The probation service is the place to ask. Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Toby. She’s been arrested for stealing.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I sometimes see myself as a salesman. Or a sales manager. Make that an executive. I fly about all over the country, taking orders, finding new markets, spreading goodwill. Then I call in the troops to do the dirty work, stack the shelves, take the flak. I wasn’t sure where keeping a precocious thirteen-year-old out of the juvenile court fitted into the template, but there was some leverage in it, that was for sure. I told Curzon that I’d be over about ten the next day, which was Saturday.

  He’d filled me in over the phone. The Country Homes Association ran the commercial side of Curzon House and now owned most of the furniture and stately home trappings that went with it, including a collection of egg cups.

  ‘Egg cups?’ I’d queried, before remembering that he’d been making a display unit for t
hem when I saw him in his workshop. He told me that the history of the decorated egg cup was the history of the nation. In the days before satirical television the subversives in our fair land resorted to any means available to promote their views, of which the humble egg cup was just one avenue.

  ‘It’s still going on,’ Curzon told me. ‘Even today,’ he said, ‘a certain sector of the population like to start the day by bashing in the prime minister’s skull.’

  ‘I’ll believe you,’ I’d said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I am overselling them a little,’ he’d replied. ‘But when we handed over to the CHA there was a modest collection, which they have built up to be one of the biggest in the country. We didn’t have Chippendales in every room, or a Harrison clock – had to make do with what we had.’

  An antiques dealer in Scarborough had bought five egg cups over the previous weeks from a youth who’d called in his shop with them. Recently, the dealer had paid a visit to Curzon House, seen the collection and guessed that it was the origin of his egg cups. He’d reported to the security staff and the police were informed. CCTV was rigged up and yesterday Toby was filmed palming one from the collection.

  ‘What does she say?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s upset and shamefaced, but defiant. Hasn’t said anything. She can be a proper little madam when it suits her. I’ll be grateful for any help you can offer, Charlie. She looks up to you. I’m just her stupid old dad; you’re a figure of authority. I’m not asking you to pull any strings. I could do that myself but she’ll have to have what’s coming to her. I was hoping you might have a word with her, point her in the right direction … Oh, I don’t know what I wanted. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘What does Grizzly think you should do?’

  ‘She’s down at Sandringham again, doesn’t know about it.’

  ‘How old is Toby?’

  ‘Thirteen. She’s older than she looks.’