FOUR

At twenty minutes to eight that evening Dave returned from Bayswater, and came straight to my office.

‘There’s a problem, guv,’ he announced.

‘Not another one,’ I said wearily. ‘What is it this time?’

‘James Barton seems to have gone missing.’

I waved Dave to a chair. ‘What’s the SP?’

‘I spoke to the receptionist at Barton’s hotel and she told me that he was out, and had gone out at about half ten this morning. As far as she knew, he hadn’t returned. She said that that was unusual because he’d always taken all his meals in the hotel since he’d arrived last Monday when he booked in.’

‘I suppose he could’ve been visiting relatives, or attending a business meeting. He does seem to travel all over the place.’

‘I don’t think that’s what happened on this occasion,’ said Dave. ‘In case the receptionist had missed Barton coming in, I checked with the restaurant manager, and he said that Barton was in the habit of speaking to him at breakfast time. He would make a point of ordering lunch and dinner, and specifying what he wanted, whether it was on the menu or not. But being a director, I suppose he could have whatever he liked.’

‘And did he do so this morning?’

‘Yes. But I was right about the receptionist. She had missed him, but that’s not surprising particularly when the hotel is busy. Apparently a tour party booked in at about half past twelve, forty of them. It so happened that Barton did have lunch in the restaurant, but he didn’t show up for dinner. And he always had dinner at seven o’clock on the nail. What we don’t know, and neither does the receptionist, is what time he went out again. He certainly wasn’t in his room when the duty manager checked for me.’

‘I suppose he could have met someone. Maybe dropped into his club – he seems the sort of guy who would belong to one – and decided to stay there for dinner. I think it’s a bit early to start worrying about him.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Dave. ‘Anyway, I’ve asked the hotel manager to ring the incident room if Barton doesn’t turn up later on this evening.’

‘It seems rather odd, but I daresay he’ll reappear. Frankly, I don’t see anything sinister in it. After all, he’s not a suspect because we do know that he was in Cyprus trying to buy a hotel at the time his wife was murdered. Well, I suppose we do. That has been verified, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, guv, Miss Ebdon checked it out.’

‘In that case, I don’t see that it’s relevant, Dave. Showing him the photograph of Morgan’s not really going to prove anything. In any case, he’s a free agent, not a suspect, and he can do whatever he wants. He might’ve got held up arranging for his wife’s funeral. He could be anywhere, or doing anything. Everyone’s got to be somewhere.’

And he was somewhere, but he wasn’t doing anything. He was dead.

At ten o’clock, Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident room sergeant, had received a telephone call from the duty manager at Barton’s hotel to say that Barton hadn’t returned.

Then, at eleven fifteen, a call came into the incident room from the CID at Paddington reporting that James Barton’s body had been found in the gardens in the centre of Sussex Square, just to the north of Bayswater Road. He had been brutally attacked, and stabbed several times. Both the Bartons’ names were on the PNC showing me as the officer in the case, and Paddington CID had reported the murder to HSCC as a matter of routine. The commander had been informed, and promptly directed that it was down to me. He came to that decision simply because ‘there seems to be a connection with the Diana Barton case’, he told Creasey. I think the commander’s got it in for me.

All this was imparted to me at about midnight, an hour after Gail and I had gone to bed.

When my mobile rang, Gail’s only comment was: ‘Oh, not again!’

I know how she felt.

Having consumed a couple of whiskies, and half a bottle of wine over dinner, I felt it unwise to drive myself to the scene. The Black Rats, as the traffic boys are affectionately known to those of us of the Department, delight in finding a CID officer with a positive breathalyser reading. Instead, I decided to wreak a little revenge. I rang the Yard and arranged for a traffic car to take me to Sussex Square. The crew got me there in about twenty-four minutes. Frightening!

The scene of James Barton’s murder had been shrouded in a tent, and floodlit with Metrolamps. Henry Mortlock was already there, as was Dave Poole. Linda Mitchell and her forensic technicians were waiting in their vans, now bearing the impressive title ‘Evidence Recovery Unit’, for the pathologist to finish his initial examination. A detective inspector from Paddington was also there, together with a detective sergeant. ‘Did anybody search the scene?’ I asked.

‘I carried out a brief visual, guv,’ said the DS. ‘There was no sign of a weapon, but I didn’t want to foul up the scene by going any further.’

Thank God! A CID officer who knew the routine.

‘Probably took it with him and chucked it in the river,’ I said. ‘Who identified him?’

‘I did, guv,’ said the DI. ‘He had his photo driving licence on him, but there weren’t any credit cards or cash, so I s’pose the motive was robbery.’

‘If only it was that simple,’ I said, but that was too much of a coincidence in my book. I told the local DI about the murder of James’s wife. ‘What about his mobile phone? Did he have that with him?’ We knew he had one; he’d told us.

‘No, guv. That was probably nicked as well.’

‘Who found him?’

‘A Traffic Division crew.’ The DI waved a hand at two PCs standing beside their car.

Like me, the Paddington DI obviously could not get out of the habit of calling it Traffic Division, but it was now known as the Traffic Operational Command Unit. If you’re wondering why, the best people to ask are the boy superintendents who believe that their way to the top is to come up with clever titles, and who staff the funny names and total confusion squad at Scotland Yard. After all, what was wrong with calling it Traffic Division?

‘OK. You might as well get back to the nick. There’s nothing more you can do here. It’s all down to me now.’

The DI grinned. ‘Be lucky, guv,’ he said, and he and his DS departed, no doubt pleased to be shot of what appeared to be a random mugging that had ended up as a murder. And we both knew that they’re bloody difficult to solve. But I didn’t believe it to be random.

‘What’s the verdict, Henry?’ I asked, when Mortlock emerged from the tent wherein lay the victim.

‘I’m fairly certain that death was due to multiple stab wounds, Harry, but I’ll confirm that once I’ve cut him open.’

‘Time of death?’

‘You’ll have to wait for that. He’s been here for some time, I should think.’

I introduced myself to the traffic PCs. ‘What’s the SP, lads?’

‘We were on our way back to the garage and passed through here, sir,’ said the driver of the car. ‘My mate spotted what seemed to be a bundle of clothing just inside the gardens in the centre of the square.’ He waved at the tent. ‘That was at twenty-two fifty hours. But when we took a closer look it turned out to be a body, and he was well dead. It was obvious that he’d been stabbed, because there was blood all over him. That’s when I put up a shout to Paddington nick.’

‘Had you patrolled this area previously during this tour of duty?’

‘No, sir. Well, yes, but not since about four this afternoon.’

‘So there’s no telling how long the body had been there,’ I mused aloud.

‘I suppose not, sir.’

‘It wasn’t really a question. Was there any sign of a weapon?’ I’d asked the Paddington CID officers, but they acknowledged only to having made a cursory examination, and I like to make sure.

‘No, sir. And we had a good look round while we were waiting for the local lads, but we didn’t see one,’ said the PC, confirming what the Paddington DS had said.

‘OK. Thanks. DS Poole will take a statement from you, and then you can get back on patrol. Or are you finished?’

‘Should’ve booked off at eleven, sir,’ said the driver’s colleague.

‘Oh well, that’s a couple of hours overtime.’

‘Be nice to have the time to spend the money,’ muttered the driver. He was not pleased.

‘I wonder where Barton was between lunch and when he was found, Dave.’

‘Despite what the restaurant manager said, Barton might’ve had dinner somewhere else, guv. And if the killer had phoned him, we know that the call would eventually be connected to Barton’s mobile. But as far as timing’s concerned, I reckon we’re up a gum tree.’

And there was no arguing with that. I turned to Linda Mitchell who had now started work on the scene. ‘Anything important, Linda?’

‘We found what looks like a few strands of head hair clasped in the victim’s right hand, Mr Brock. With any luck it might belong to his attacker. If there are some roots attached. I’ll get it off for DNA analysis.’

‘But I don’t suppose it’ll be on the database,’ I commented gloomily. We’d not had a great deal of luck so far.

It was nearly half past two in the morning by the time we’d finished at Sussex Square, and there was nothing else that we could do at the scene.

‘Go home, Dave,’ I said, ‘and don’t come in before midday.’ It was meant to be an order.

‘Right, guv, thanks,’ said Dave, but I knew damned well that he’d be at Curtis Green before me in the morning.

I decided not to go back to Gail’s house. Leaving her at midnight was one thing; returning at gone three in the morning and disturbing her was quite another, something that would be guaranteed to destroy what little domestic bliss we shared. Even though she was remarkably tolerant, I thought it best to go home to my flat in Surbiton.

It seemed to have been an age since I was last there, but everything was in order. I tend to hang up my clothes on the floor, and leave my shoes where they can be tripped over. But the previous day’s chaos had been restored to normality, the breakfast things had been washed up and put away, the bed made, and everything cleaned and polished.

This is all thanks to my cleaner Gladys Gurney. She is an absolute gem, and why she puts up with me is a mystery. But I’m glad she does. Still, I ought to try mending my disorderly ways otherwise she might quit.

There was a charming little note on the worktop in the kitchen. Beside it, carefully washed and placed in a plastic bag, was one of Gail’s thongs. My girlfriend seems to make a habit of leaving items of underwear about the flat. It obviously doesn’t faze Mrs Gurney; she just washes them and leaves them for me to return to Gail.

Dear Mr Brock

I found a pair of Miss Sutton’s backless knickers by your bed, so I’ve washed them for her. Also I found a pair of your shoes what needed the heels doing so I took them to the snobs. They will be ready next Monday. It will cost seven pounds the man said. Perhaps you’d leave it for me. Hope that’s all right.

Yours faithfully

Gladys Gurney (Mrs)

 

I think that Mrs Gurney is the only person I know who still uses the term ‘snobs’ for a shoe repairer.

I turned in, and set the alarm for nine o’clock.

I arrived at Curtis Green at ten that same morning, and had the misfortune to meet the commander in the lift.

‘What progress have you made in the death of James Barton, Mr Brock?’ he asked, bowing his head to sniff at the carnation in his buttonhole.

Strange how he always asks questions about the things I don’t want him to ask me about.

‘Enquiries are in hand to determine why he was found in the middle of Sussex Square at just before eleven o’clock last night, sir.’ At least, I hoped that I could rely on the team to have done something to that end. ‘It seems he’d been missing from his hotel from some time after two o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Mmm! Yes, good. Keep me informed, Mr Brock.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Despite my admonition, Dave was already at work. ‘I’ve been on to the hotel in Bayswater where Barton was staying, sir, to see if they could shed any light on his movements yesterday. All they could come up with was a check of the switchboard records, which showed that Barton made a telephone call at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. We can only assume that he left the hotel at some time after that. And that fits in with what the restaurant manager had told me earlier, that Barton had lunched in the hotel restaurant.’

‘Any clue as to who he phoned, Dave?’

‘No, they just note the time and duration so they can put it on his bill. And it was too late to do a trace this morning, if ever. But I’m wondering if someone lured him out of the hotel for the express purpose of killing him. And, if so, why.’

‘Post-mortem’s at eleven thirty, sir,’ said Colin Wilberforce from behind his desk. ‘Will you be attending?’

‘No. Where’s Miss Ebdon?’

‘Here, guv,’ said Kate, appearing in the incident room holding a cup of coffee.

‘Dave and I are going to Southampton to follow up on the two stewards who were on the Bartons’ cruise liner, Kate. Perhaps you’d cover the post-mortem.’

‘No worries, guv,’ said Kate. As usual, she was wearing a man’s white shirt, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. That should ruin the commander’s day if he happens to catch sight of her. But at least she was wearing high-heeled shoes.

First of all, however, I had a telephone call to make to a friend of mine in Hampshire.

Jock Ferguson is a detective superintendent in the Hampshire Constabulary, and when he and I were inspectors, we’d wasted three months together at the Police College at Bramshill.

The Police College, which is regarded by its devotees as the Holy Grail of policing, is an establishment in the depths of Hampshire that has the audacity to convince itself it’s the policeman’s university. In an attempt to prove how clever they are, the instructors all talk their own gobbledygook and write in strangulated prose that no one else can understand. And they spend valuable time trying to persuade their students to do likewise. And they seem to be very successful at it, but perhaps I’m a cynic.

Fortunately, being a Hampshire copper, Jock knew all the decent pubs in the area, and that’s where we’d spent a great deal of our time. When we weren’t listening to lectures on subjects we knew more about than the lecturers, that is. The only benefit to accrue from those three months was that I’d made a lot of friends and contacts. On the downside, I probably did my liver irreparable damage.

A few years ago, Jock and I had worked on a murder case that involved an Aldershot-based soldier and his wife, along with many others. But I knew that he had since been transferred from Aldershot to Southampton, and that might just prove to be useful.

Having got through to Jock, I told him that I was coming down to the city later on that day, and briefly explained about the two murders.

Typical of Jock, he immediately named a pub where he would meet us.

It was almost half past twelve by the time Dave and I arrived at Southampton Central railway station. From there we went straight to the pub mentioned by Jock Ferguson and found him holding up the bar. After the customary exchange of insults, we settled for a pie and a pint: the policeman’s usual substitute for a midday meal.

Once we’d finished discussing the appalling state of the Job and had criticized a few senior officers, Jock left us, but told me to get in touch with him if we needed any help.

Half past two found us at Birley Road, the last known address for Thomas Hendry, sometime seagoing steward. It was a short street of old houses close to the city centre.

The woman who answered the door was in her late twenties, had shoulder-length black hair, and bits of metal embedded in various parts of her face and ears. There was a gap between her crop-top and her jeans, presumably to give us a good view of the two butterfly tattoos homing in on her navel. She looked at us with a puzzled expression on her face. Perhaps she thought we were peddling encyclopaedia or religion, but I soon disabused her of that. From the brief description PC Watson had given us, there was little doubt that she was the Shelley he saw in a thong on the night of the disturbance.

‘I’m a police officer,’ I said, but that was all I had time to say. Unfortunately I’d said it too loudly.

There was a crash from the rear of the small house, as if a table had been overturned, followed by the sound of breaking glass. It was apparent that the man we’d come to interview had taken flight, assuming that it was Thomas Hendry. This, of course, is something CID officers know all about. Fleeing felons are an all too frequent occurrence in the humdrum life of a detective.

Dispensing with the niceties of asking if we might come in, Dave and I sped through the house. In the kitchen, we found that the table had been turned on its side, and the large windowpane had been smashed. There were smears of blood on the jagged edges of the broken glass. I presume that Hendry had scarpered the moment he heard me announce who we were, and had taken a header through the window.

‘Where does that lead to?’ I asked the startled woman, pointing at the paved area at the back of the house.

‘To the garage at the back. It’s where we keep the car. There’s a service road from there out to the main road.’

As if to confirm what she’d said, I heard the sound of an engine starting, and a vehicle driving away at speed.

Well, that was something. This woman obviously wasn’t too worried about telling me how the man had escaped. I tested her even further.

‘D’you know the registration number of the car?’

Without a pause, she reeled it off.

‘Have you got a telephone here?’ I asked, forgetting that my mobile was in my pocket.

‘Yeah, of course. It’s in the lounge.’

I moved rapidly into the tawdry sitting room that she’d dignified with the term ‘lounge’, and dialled 999. Having identified myself, and assured the police control room operator that Detective Superintendent Ferguson knew what we were doing, I relayed the details of the car, and the fact that our man could be bloodstained. Now we could relax and hope, and obtain as much information from the helpful woman as she was prepared to give.

‘What’s your name, Miss?’ asked Dave.

‘Shelley Maxwell,’ she said, confirming that she was the woman who’d been seen by PC Watson. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘And I presume the guy who just disappeared out of the kitchen window was Thomas Hendry,’ continued Dave.

‘Yeah, that was Tom.’

‘Why did he make such a hurried exit, Shelley?’

‘I haven’t got a clue. He’s never done nothing like that before.’

Dave showed the girl the photograph of Hendry that we’d obtained from the shipping office. ‘Is this your man Tom?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘You and he were at twenty-seven Tavona Street last Saturday night.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Dave seemed to be doing all right without my intervention, so I let him get on with it.

‘I think you do, Shelley,’ persisted Dave. ‘But if you’d rather, I can take you down to Southampton Central police station, and I’ll send for the officer from London who spoke to Tom early last Sunday morning about a riotous party at the house. He recalls that you were scantily dressed at the time. It could all take time, of course,’ added Dave, implying that Shelley Maxwell could finish up spending a lot of time at the nick.

‘We never had nothing to do with it,’ Shelley blurted out.

‘Nothing to do with what?’

‘The dead woman.’

‘What dead woman is this?’ asked Dave, affecting an air of innocence.

‘Diana. It was her party.’

We were getting close to having to caution Shelley Maxwell, but she might just have a little more to tell us before we resorted to arresting and charging her with murder. I decided to take a hand.

‘Shelley, we are investigating the murder of Diana Barton whose body was found at twenty-seven Tavona Street the night you and Thomas Hendry were there.’

Predictably, Shelley Maxwell burst into tears. ‘It was nothing to do with us,’ she protested, in between sobs that might even have been genuine.

I made a decision, a bit of a rarity for me. ‘Miss Maxwell, I’m taking you to Southampton Central police station where I shall question you further. That interview will be recorded for your protection.’

More tears followed this announcement and I got the impression that Shelley Maxwell was in this affair over her head, and couldn’t really cope with the resulting stress.

I called Jock Ferguson on my mobile, and asked him to arrange transport to the nick.

Once the plethora of forms had been duly completed, a procedure necessary whenever anyone is brought into a police station, we got down to business in one of the interview rooms.

‘You and Thomas Hendry live together, do you?’ I asked for openers.

‘Yes,’ murmured the girl.

‘Where do you work?’ I was thinking that she was probably an exotic dancer, or a striptease artiste, or even a prostitute. But I was wrong.

‘I’m a supermarket check-out assistant.’

Well, that was a first.

‘And you were both at a party at twenty-seven Tavona Street, Chelsea on the night of Saturday the twenty-seventh of July.’

‘Yes,’ said Shelley, her voice almost inaudible.

‘You must speak up,’ I said, ‘otherwise the tape recorder won’t pick up your answers.’

‘Yes,’ she said again.

‘What time did you arrive there?’

‘About half past four, I suppose.’

‘And was Thomas Hendry with you?’

‘Yeah, course he was.’

‘So, you travelled all the way up from Southampton just to attend a party in Chelsea.’

‘No, not exactly. Tom had booked us into a hotel for the Saturday night. He said as how we was going to have the weekend in London. But he did say we was going to a party an’ all.’

‘And which hotel did you stay at?’

‘We never. See, Tom changed his mind, and said we’d come back here.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I don’t know. He just said we ought to go home.’

‘Why did he give police the name of Carl Morgan when the officer spoke to him?’

‘Did he? I didn’t know that. I suppose it was because he didn’t want to get mixed up in this business.’

‘Did he set fire to the house before you left?’

There was a pause, long enough for me to know that she was going to lie.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Where’s Tom gone?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Shelley sniffed.

‘If he wasn’t involved in the death of Diana Barton, why did he run away when we arrived at your house?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you know the names of any of the other guests at this party?’

‘No.’

I imagined that to be a lie, too.

‘Why did Mrs Barton hold a party?’ I continued to press the girl even though I thought she perhaps didn’t know any of the answers to my questions. ‘From what I heard, she was a quiet sort of woman. Not the type to have a party where loud music was being played to such an extent that the neighbours complained to the police. And where half naked girls were running about.’

Shelley dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and then blew her nose. ‘She said she wanted to celebrate having a new kitchen installed. We all had to have a look at it, and say wow.’

‘A new kitchen?’ I’d heard of some strange reasons for holding a party, but that was a new one on me. I went on to a different tack. ‘Were you aware that Thomas Hendry had had sexual intercourse with Mrs Barton?’

‘When? On Saturday?’

‘No. I’m talking about the beginning of this year. That’s why he was sacked as a steward.’

‘Oh that. Yeah, Tom told me about that. I thought you meant last Saturday. He said that when he was on the cruise this woman paid him to screw her. He said it happened about six times. I think it was very unfair of them to sack him for something that was the woman’s fault.’

‘Did you know that that woman was Diana Barton?’

‘No, he never said who she was.’

‘I suggest that he murdered her out of revenge for having lost him his job.’

‘No, of course he never. He was annoyed about getting the push, but he wouldn’t kill no one. That’d be a daft thing to do. Anyway, like I said, I never knew it was Diana.’

I doubted that somehow, but I nodded to Dave, and let him take over.

‘How long have you and Tom been living together?’ asked Dave.

Shelley paused for a moment. ‘About a couple of years, I s’pose. Mind you, he’s at sea a lot. Or was.’

‘And you didn’t mind him having sex with other women?’ Both Dave and I knew, from what Captain Richards had said, that Hendry had made a practice of bedding willing women passengers.

‘No, of course I never. He was away for long periods at a time, and you can’t expect him to go without,’ said Shelley with a candid admission of her tolerance. ‘That last cruise he was on, when he got the sack, lasted over a month. So he has it off when he can get it.’ Shelley paused again. ‘And the same goes for me when he ain’t here.’

‘Are you sure you don’t know where he’s gone, Shelley?’ I took the questioning back.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Does Tom have any relatives, any friends, where he might’ve gone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where was Tom yesterday evening?’

‘He picked me up from the supermarket when I finished me shift, just after four o’clock that was, and took me home. We went out for a pizza at about eight, had a drink at a pub and then went back home.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘About eleven, maybe quarter past.’

That might have been the truth, but there again it might not. However, I concluded that there was little else that we could obtain from Shelley Maxwell. I admitted her to police bail, and sent her home. I told her that she should advise the police if and when Hendry returned home. But I doubted that she would.