TWO

‘Tell me about this suspicious death that you’re dealing with, Mr Brock.’ On Monday morning the commander appeared in the incident room on the stroke of ten o’clock. He would never call a murder a murder just in case it turned out to be manslaughter or suicide, or was eventually proved to be an accident that did not call for police action. In common with real detectives, I call a murder a topping, but the commander is not only a careful man, he is one who abhors slang. He would never call me Harry either. I suppose he was afraid that I’d address him by his first name, and that would probably cause him to have a seizure.

I explained what we knew of Diana Barton’s death, which wasn’t very much. In fact, we weren’t even sure that she was Diana Barton. Linda Mitchell had taken fingerprints from the body, but there was no match in the central records. No surprise there; I didn’t expect her – assuming it to be Diana – to have any previous convictions.

‘Doctor Mortlock has recovered semen from the body, sir,’ I told the commander, ‘and we’re awaiting the result of DNA tests.’

‘House-to-house enquiries?’ asked the commander loftily, as though he were thoroughly conversant with what we call ‘first steps at the scene of a crime’.

‘Enquiries are ongoing, sir,’ I said. ‘The only witnesses, if they could be called witnesses, were a man called Porter who lived next door, and a Donald Baxter who lived opposite. He was the one who called the fire brigade.’

‘Good, good. Keep me informed,’ said the commander, and turned on his heel, doubtless to take refuge in his piles of paper. He loves paper, does the commander. I doubt that he’d be much good in the field of criminal investigation, but he can write a blistering memorandum when the mood takes him.

What I hadn’t told the commander, because he would immediately think of disciplinary sanctions, was that Mr Porter of 25 Tavona Street had earlier called the police to a disturbance at the Bartons’ house.

I was now awaiting, with eager anticipation, the arrival of the two officers who had attended. They were off duty today, but murder enquiries take no account of officers’ welfare. First thing this morning, Dave Poole had sent a message to Chelsea police station demanding their attendance at Curtis Green at three o’clock.

At five past three, Dave ushered the two PCs into my office.

‘PCs Holmes and Watson, sir,’ said Dave, a broad grin on his face.

‘You wanted to see us, sir?’ asked one of the PCs nervously. Both were dressed in what passes for plain clothes among young coppers today.

The PC’s apprehension was understandable. There is a constant fear among policemen that whenever a senior officer from another unit sends for them, they immediately think ‘complaint’.

‘Are you really called Holmes and Watson?’ I asked, as I indicated that Dave should remain.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Watson.

‘How come you finish up doing duty on the same instant response car? Coincidence, is it?’

‘No, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘It’s the duties sergeant’s idea of a joke. Unfortunately, whenever I say I’m PC Holmes, and this is PC Watson, people think we’re having them on.’

I laughed, and putting aside the Chelsea duties sergeant’s impish sense of humour, got down to the business in hand. ‘Which one of you called at twenty-seven Tavona Street on Saturday night? Or did you both call?’

‘It was me, sir,’ said Watson. ‘And it was actually Sunday morning. We got the call at twelve ten and arrived on scene at twelve sixteen.’

‘I’m the driver, sir, and I remained in the car,’ said Holmes, ‘in case there was another call.’ He seemed pleased at having made such a decision now that Watson’s actions were being questioned.

‘Of course,’ I said, and turned to Watson. ‘So tell me about this disturbance.’

Having heard that a dead body had been found at 27 Tavona Street not long after he had called there, Watson was justifiably anxious. I suppose he could visualize disciplinary proceedings for neglect of duty, and everything else that went with such a charge. He was probably wondering whether he should ask for the attendance of his Police Federation representative. Believe me, once an investigating officer starts digging, you’d be surprised what he can come up with. Like incorrectly completed forms, inaccurate incident report book entries, a disparity between the times in said document and in the car’s logbook, and Lord knows what else. I know because I’ve been on the wrong end of a disciplinary enquiry, and it’s not a comfortable experience. And to think that the public is convinced that we whitewash complaints.

Personally, I felt rather sorry for Holmes and Watson – there but for the grace of God et cetera – but their commander would probably take an entirely different view once the facts were laid before him.

‘A man called Carl Morgan answered the door, sir,’ said Watson, referring to his notes.

‘Did you verify that name?’ I asked. ‘Did you ask for proof of identity, for example?’

‘Er, no, sir. I didn’t think it was necessary.’

‘Go on.’

‘The man Morgan was wearing jeans, and was stripped to the waist. Oh, and he was holding a woman’s bra, sir.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He apologized for the disturbance, and told me that it was now quiet, and that most of the guests had left the house. Then a woman appeared, sir. She was dressed in a thong and nothing else. Oh, and she had two butterflies tattooed on her stomach.’

‘Did the bra he was holding belong to this woman?’ asked Dave as though it were of vital importance.

‘I don’t know, Skip.’ Watson, in common with many others, including me, didn’t always appreciate when Dave was exercising his sense of humour. ‘Anyway, the man Morgan called her Shell, presumably short for Shelley. She only stayed at the door for a minute or so, and then went back into the house.’

‘How old was this woman?’ I asked.

Watson thought for a moment or two. ‘Middle to late twenties, I should think. She had long black hair, shoulder-length,’ he added, as though that might help. ‘And she had a bit of meat on her. Good figure, not like some of those anorexic models you see in women’s mags.’

‘And I suppose you didn’t take her full name,’ suggested Dave, with sufficient scepticism in his voice to imply that Watson had not done his job properly.

‘No, Skip.’ Watson was beginning to look quite miserable by now. Meanwhile, Holmes stood silently aloof, undoubtedly thankful that he’d stayed in the car while Watson was making his enquiries. Even so, he probably wasn’t too hopeful that he’d escape any flack that was going. He knew instinctively that once an investigating officer started issuing Forms 163 – notice of complaint – that he’d get one too.

‘And you marked the log “All quiet on arrival”, did you?’ I asked, well knowing the answer.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Watson unhappily. I imagined that he was thinking how easy it was for blokes like me to be wise after the event. ‘It’s all right for the bloody guv’nors’ is a phrase often heard among ‘canteen lawyers’.

‘We’ve not told the press that this is a murder enquiry, so I don’t want them to hear about it from you. Understood?’ Regrettably, there were coppers who’d happily part with confidential information for the price of a large Scotch, but perversely would be outraged by the offer of a straightforward bribe.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the two PCs in unison. They were probably hoping that no one else would hear about it either for fear that a finger, most likely mine, would point in their direction.

I turned to Dave. ‘Take these two officers into the incident room, and get as full a description as possible of the two people at Tavona Street he spoke to.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dave, and frowned. He always called me ‘sir’ in the presence of strangers: police and public. If he called me ‘sir’ in private it usually meant that I’d made a ridiculous comment. As for his frown, I assumed that was because I’d ended a sentence with a preposition.

‘And then take Watson to the mortuary. I want to be certain that the woman he spoke to was not the woman whose body was later found in the master bedroom.’

‘From Watson’s description, sir,’ said Dave, ‘there would appear to be quite a disparity in the ages of the two women.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but from what we know of Watson’s action so far, he could have been mistaken about that, too.’

Watson looked decidedly dejected, as well he should.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dave.

As Dave and the PCs departed, Colin Wilberforce came into my office. ‘I’ve just taken a call from Chelsea, sir. A Mr James Barton went into the nick about ten minutes ago, wanting to know why his house was boarded up, and what had happened.’

‘Tell Dave Poole to hand over those two PCs to someone else to take descriptions, Colin, and to get hold of a car. Oh, and tell him not to bother about getting someone to take Watson to view the body. At least, not yet. I think we might be about to solve that particular problem.’

Minutes later we were on our way to Chelsea police station.

James Barton was a tall, spare, silver-haired man of advancing years. He stood up when Dave and I entered the lobby of the police station. We escorted him into an interview room.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Mr Barton, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. Please sit down.’

‘What on earth has happened, Chief Inspector?’ asked Barton. ‘I got home from a trip abroad this morning, and found that my house had caught fire. The police here seemed unwilling to tell me what had happened. Either that or they don’t know. And where’s my wife?’

This was the difficult part, the part that policemen dislike the most. Over the years I’ve had occasion to tell many people of the death of their nearest and dearest, and it doesn’t get any easier. The worst is having to tell parents that their young daughter has been the victim of some paedophiliac killer.

‘After the fire was put out, sir, one of the brigade officers found the dead body of a woman in the main bedroom. We think it might be your wife,’ I said quietly.

‘It couldn’t have been anyone else. We live there alone.’

‘So I understand, sir,’ I said. ‘However, before we can be certain that the body is that of your wife, I’m going to have to ask you to identify it.’

‘Was it the fire that killed my wife, Chief Inspector?’ Despite not having seen the body, he seemed convinced that the victim was his wife.

‘No, sir, it wasn’t the fire. The brigade put it out before it reached the upper floors.’

‘Was it smoke inhalation, then?’ Barton asked the question in an absent manner, as though he was having great trouble in taking in this news.

‘She had been stabbed several times, Mr Barton.’

‘You mean murdered?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘But who could have done such a thing?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to discover, sir.’

‘It couldn’t be anyone else but my wife, surely?’ Although Barton looked at me with a piercing, questioning stare, he was really expressing his thoughts aloud.

‘As I emphasized just now, Mr Barton, we shan’t know until the body’s identified. What’s more, our enquiries are being hampered to a certain extent because there had been a party at your house,’ I said, and went on to tell him about the call to a disturbance that Holmes and Watson had attended.

‘A party? But why on earth should there have been a party at my house? We’ve always lived a sober existence. Perhaps this isn’t Diana that was found. I mean she might have gone away for the weekend. Is it possible that someone could have broken in and held a party? You hear all sorts of things these days about people just turning up somewhere, and holding one of these … what do they call them, a rave party?’

‘Perhaps you’re free to go to the mortuary now, sir?’ I suggested. I felt sorry for Barton. He was obviously hoping against hope that the dead body was not his wife. But it was time to remove his doubt, and put his mind at rest. Not that learning it was Diana would do that.

‘Yes, I suppose so. How do I get there?’

‘We’ll take you, Mr Barton,’ said Dave.

‘All right, then.’ Barton stood up, and glanced at his watch. He now appeared more stooped than when we had entered the interview room, but that was hardly surprising.

‘Had you been abroad on business, Mr Barton?’ I asked, as we escorted him out to the police station yard where Dave had parked the car.

‘Yes. I’m a director of a hotel chain, and I visit our hotels abroad from time to time.’

I was surprised at that. Given Barton’s apparent age, and having seen the house in which he had lived, he was obviously not short of money. Had I been in his position, I think I’d’ve called it a day years ago, and enjoyed myself doing nothing.

The identification at the mortuary took only a few seconds. The attendant flicked back the sheet – just enough to uncover the victim’s head – and stood back.

For a few moments, James Barton stared impassively at the woman’s face, and then turned away. ‘Yes, that’s my wife, Chief Inspector,’ he said softly.

‘I’m afraid we’ll need to ask you some more questions, Mr Barton,’ said Dave, as the three of us walked out into the sunshine of Horseferry Road. ‘Might I ask where you’re staying?’

‘Staying?’ Barton stopped and stared vacantly at Dave.

‘Yes, sir. Your house is obviously uninhabitable. Are you perhaps staying with friends? We’ll need your current address, you see.’

‘Oh, I see. No, I’m staying at one of the company’s hotels in Bayswater.’ Barton took a business card from his pocket and scribbled the name of the hotel on the back of it. ‘Incidentally, I’ve arranged to have any calls made to my home to be transferred to my mobile.’ He added the phone numbers to the card.

‘When would be a convenient time to see you again, sir?’ I asked.

Barton glanced at his watch. ‘I suppose the sooner the better as far as you’re concerned,’ he said.

‘Yes, that would be helpful,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s five o’clock now. Give me a chance to unpack and have a shower. Shall we say half past seven?’

We found James Barton in the cocktail bar of his Bayswater hotel, a large whisky in front of him. He stood up as we approached.

‘May I offer you gentlemen a drink?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you, Mr Barton.’

‘Ah, not when you’re on duty, I suppose.’

I didn’t bother to reply to that widely held fallacy. Detectives are not averse to drinking on duty; in fact, drinking on duty is often called for. I’d even heard of one detective, a teetotaller, who had taken to drink because informants, of whom he had many, wouldn’t trust a detective who refused to take a drink with them. But this was not the case here. I made a habit of not drinking with anyone who might turn out to be a suspect, and I was not satisfied that Barton could yet be excluded from that category.

‘D’you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your wife, sir?’ I began. It sounded a stupid question to pose, but it had to be asked, and sometimes – just sometimes – it had given us the answer that had led to an arrest.

‘No, nobody. She was a bright, friendly sort of person.’

‘Is there anything at all you can tell me that might assist?’ I asked, almost in desperation, but held out no great hope that he would know of anything useful. But in that I was surprised.

Barton’s chin dropped to his chest, and he appeared to be deep in thought. Eventually, he looked up. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that my wife was not above having the occasional affair, Chief Inspector.’ He went on, quickly. ‘She was much younger than me, you see, and I … Well, I …’ He lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t necessary for him to complete the sentence for me to understand the problem.

But before I was able to ask another question, Barton went on. ‘Diana was forty-five, and I’m seventy-two. It’s a second marriage for each of us.’

‘You mentioned the occasional affair, sir. Does that mean there was more than one?’

Barton nodded sadly. ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Brock. The last occasion was on a cruise in January this year. We went from Southampton, and spent just over a month going around Spain, Italy, Greece, Israel and Egypt. I have preferential rates because my hotel company – I think I told you I’m a director – is associated with the cruise company.’

‘And it was on this cruise that the affair took place, was it?’ I asked. I wouldn’t have thought that Barton had to worry about cut-price cruises, but I’ve met several millionaires who are very careful with their money. I suppose that’s how they became millionaires, and then couldn’t get out of the habit.

‘Yes, on the last day before we docked at Southampton, although I got the impression that it had been going on for some time.’

‘What date was that, Mr Barton?’ asked Dave.

‘Early February, I think. Yes, it was the sixth if memory serves me correctly. Anyway, I discovered that she’d been consorting with a steward, for God’s sake.’ Barton picked up his glass, stared into it, and put it down again. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a first-class passenger.’

That struck me as an odd and rather snobbish comment to make. ‘How did you find out?’

‘I’d been to a lecture given by some fellow who claimed to be an expert on wine. Between you and me, I don’t think he knew much about it, but these chaps wangle themselves a free cruise on the basis that they can talk knowledgeably about something. However, that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I gave up halfway through his banal chat, and returned to our stateroom. As I was almost there, I saw the steward coming out. But stewards were always coming and going, and I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed that Diana had ordered tea or something, but when I entered, she was getting dressed. I asked her if she’d ordered tea, and she said no. So I said I’d seen the steward emerging from our stateroom, but she denied that he’d been there. Said I must’ve made a mistake.’

‘And did you let it go at that, sir?’ asked Dave, looking up from his pocketbook.

‘No, I didn’t. For God’s sake, she was in her underwear at three o’clock in the afternoon, and I knew damned well that the steward had come out of our stateroom. Diana had played away before, so to speak, so I put it to her straight.’

‘What did she say?’ I asked.

‘She eventually admitted, somewhat shamefacedly, that she’d had sex with the steward. She burst into tears and said that she was terribly sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again. But I knew that it had happened before, and I’d forgiven her on those occasions, but this was the last straw. I told her that that was the end of the marriage, and that when we got home to Chelsea I’d be leaving her, and that I’d file for divorce.’

‘But you didn’t, I take it?’ queried Dave.

‘No.’ Barton took a sip of his whisky. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool, so they say, and I really did love her very dearly. So I relented. Although I left the marital home for a few weeks, I eventually returned. It was a tearful reunion. She said, yet again, that it wouldn’t happen again. And I forgave her, yet again.’ He sighed, finished his whisky, and beckoned to a waiter for another.

‘Have you any idea who this steward was, sir?’ asked Dave.

‘Yes, he was our personal steward, and his name was Hendry.’

‘Did you do anything about it, Mr Barton?’ I asked.

‘I most certainly did,’ said Barton vehemently. ‘I complained to the captain about Hendry’s conduct. I asked, rather sarcastically, if it was company policy that stewards were allowed to take advantage of vulnerable women on his ship.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He was extremely annoyed, and said that he would deal with the matter. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem at all surprised when I mentioned the name of Hendry, and I got the impression that it wasn’t the steward’s first lapse.’

‘And did the captain deal with it?’

‘Yes. He made a point of seeing me the next day and telling me that he’d dismissed the steward. To be honest, I felt rather sorry for the fellow because I knew how persuasive Diana could be.’

‘Do you recall the captain’s name, sir?’ asked Dave.

Barton paused in thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think he was called Richards. Captain Richards.’

‘And the name of the cruise line?’

Barton ferreted about in his pockets, eventually producing a card. ‘There it is. You can keep that, Sergeant.’

It was not unknown for cruise-line stewards to take advantage of willing women on their ship. The most notorious case, one that was described to us on the junior CID training course by a senior detective from Hampshire, was that of James Camb, a steward on the RMS Durban Castle. In 1947, he’d murdered an actress called Gay Gibson, and pushed her body out of a porthole. Camb’s thinking at the time was that he couldn’t be convicted of murder without a body. He was wrong. Although escaping the scaffold – Parliament was debating the death penalty at the time – he served eleven years for his crime.

‘You mentioned that your wife had had other affairs,’ I said. ‘Are you willing to give me details?’

‘I can, but is it necessary?’

‘One of them might have murdered her, Mr Barton.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Barton leaned back in his chair, and thought. ‘About three years ago I was supposed to be attending a board meeting in Norwich at the company’s head office there, but it was cancelled, and I went home. It was about two thirty in the afternoon. I let myself into the house—’

‘This was your house in Tavona Street, was it, sir?’ asked Dave.

‘Yes. Diana and I had lived there for about seven years. Since our marriage, in fact. I’d lived there for longer, much longer, and I’d shared it with my first wife until she died. Now, where was I?’ Barton looked vague, and sipped at his whisky. ‘Ah, yes. I got home, and found Diana in bed with this man.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘He was the manager of this very hotel. Ironic, isn’t it. Anyway, I threw him out, and sacked him the next day.’

‘What was his name, sir?’ Dave’s pen was poised over his pocketbook.

‘Gaston Potier. He was French.’

‘Have you any idea where he lived, Mr Barton?’

‘In this hotel, of course.’ Barton stared at Dave, as though he’d asked a question to which the answer was obvious.

‘Yes, I understand that, but do you know if he had a private address, or where he went after you sacked him?’

‘Oh, I see. No, I’m afraid not.’ Barton passed a hand over his forehead. ‘I am really rather tired, Mr Brock,’ he said, turning to face me. ‘I wonder if we could continue this another day.’

‘If we need to,’ I said. ‘Just one other thing: were there other affairs, apart from Potier and the steward?’

‘I’m sure of it, but I never found out who the men were.’

‘Well, thank you for your assistance, Mr Barton,’ I said, as Dave and I rose from our seats. ‘As I said, I don’t suppose we’ll have any more questions for you, but I’ll keep you informed of any progress. Incidentally, you said you’d been abroad on business, and arrived back here to find your house had burnt out.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Where had you been?’

Barton frowned, and for a moment I thought he was going to refuse to reply. But he relented. ‘Cyprus. To Paphos. We only have the one hotel there at the moment, but we’re hoping to expand. I was looking at one or two so-called promising prospects.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’m not sure any of them will do. We’ll probably finish up building our own.’

‘He’s not having a lot of luck, is he, guv?’ said Dave as we walked out of the hotel’s main entrance.

‘Neither are we, Dave,’ I said, glancing at my watch: it was nearly nine o’clock. It had been a long day. ‘Incidentally, I don’t intend telling the press that the death of Diana Barton is now a murder enquiry. Not until we’ve dug a bit deeper.’

‘Good idea, sir,’ said Dave.