On Saturday morning, John Appleby brought me the result of the Fingerprint Branch officer’s examination of the debit card that had been recovered from the ATM at Kensington. But it was negative. Although Appleby had placed it in a plastic bag, there were no discernible fingerprints on it. The bank staff had handled it carefully; they were apparently aware that any fraudulent use of a debit card could have the user’s prints on it. It seems that police ‘soaps’ on TV do have some value, after all. But whoever had attempted to use the card had been careful, too. It looked very much as though he’d worn gloves, or had wiped the card clean after stealing it, and then inserted it into the ATM holding the edges. We all knew that the ATM itself would not produce any fingerprints capable of comparison; dozens of people would have used it after our villain.
However, it looked as though James Barton’s killer had forced his victim to part with his PIN before murdering him. Assuming, of course, that it was the killer who’d attempted to use the card. On the other hand, it was possible that someone had chanced upon Barton’s body after his murder, and before it was discovered by the traffic police, and had stolen his credit and debit cards. But that was irrelevant: the cards would’ve been of no value without the PIN, unless Barton had been stupid enough to make a note of the PIN in a diary. There hadn’t been a diary or any form of notebook on his body when he was found. He may, however, have been in possession of a BlackBerry, or some similar technical gimmick, but if he had, that had gone too. Such are the complexities that frequently confront detectives in the course of an enquiry that had all the hallmarks of a random killing.
As John Appleby left, Nicola Chance came into my office. ‘I’ve got details of Diana Barton’s first husband, sir.’
‘Well done, Nicola. What have you found out?’
‘His name’s Maurice Horton, sir, and he divorced Diana just over seven years ago. Diana was then married to James Barton a month later.’
‘She didn’t waste any time in getting hitched again,’ I said.
‘Perhaps Diana’s new husband was another of her studs, sir,’ said Nicola. ‘For all we know he might’ve been screwing the arse off her for ages before they were married. And we know she’d hop into bed with anyone who was prepared to shaft her.’
I was always amused, and slightly taken aback, when Nicola Chance came out with a bawdy comment of that nature. She always gave the impression of being a demure young woman to whom such language would be completely alien.
‘If that was the case, it must’ve been going on for a long time before her divorce from Horton,’ I said. ‘We know James Barton was seventy-two and probably past it when he died. Any indication of Horton’s whereabouts, Nicola?’
‘The address given on the divorce papers is Roget Drive, Pinner. The house is called En Passant. I’ve done a check on the electoral roll, and Maurice Horton appears to be living there along with a Faye Horton. I then did a check with the General Register Office at Southport. Maurice Horton is fifty years of age, and four years ago he was married to the said Faye Horton, who is thirty-five.’
‘Good work, Nicola.’ I made a note in my daybook. ‘I shall have a word with him whenever I can fit it in.’
When Dave and I arrived at West End Central police station at ten o’clock, Potier was already waiting in the foyer. We conducted him to an interview room.
‘I understand from our conversation with the late James Barton that you had an affair with his wife, Mr Potier.’ I decided to get straight to the point.
‘Mr Barton told you that?’ Potier expressed surprise.
‘He said he returned home one afternoon and found you in bed with Diana.’
‘It was a mistake that he found us.’
‘I imagine it was,’ I said. ‘Why on earth did you visit her at her home?’
‘When we made the arrangement, she’d told me that James was attending a board meeting in Norwich that day, and that he would be away overnight. I got there at about two in the afternoon, and we went straight upstairs. It seemed safe enough, but while we were in bed – by then it was about three o’clock – the door to the bedroom was suddenly thrown open, and there was James. He seemed to be very furious, you know.’
I suppressed a laugh. ‘I imagine he would’ve been,’ I said. ‘What happened next?’
‘He told me to get out of his house, so I grabbed my clothes, ran downstairs and dressed, and then I left. But the next day he came to the hotel and fired me. I was the manager of the company’s hotel in Bayswater at the time.’ Potier didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his admission. In fact he shrugged, as though it were one of the little misfortunes that occasionally befell an adulterer. ‘Previously Diana had always come to the hotel, usually in the afternoon, and we would use one of the guest rooms. It was easy for me to arrange, being the manager. The staff wouldn’t dare to ask questions.’
‘Pity you didn’t make such an arrangement on that occasion,’ commented Dave.
Potier nodded sadly. ‘You are so right, Sergeant Poole,’ he said.
‘How long have you been married?’ I asked.
‘Eight years. I met my wife when I was the assistant manager of one of the hotels in Ibiza. She was there on holiday by herself.’
‘Was that one of the hotels owned by James Barton’s company?’
‘Yes, it was. I’d been with them for ten years. I started with the company as a reservations clerk and worked my way up to become a manager. It was a terrible shock when Mr Barton dismissed me.’
‘But you didn’t tell your wife that you’d been sacked, did you? Or the reason.’ I guessed that to be the case from the brief conversation he’d had with her when we called at Rawton Way.
‘Of course not. I told her I’d resigned. Shortly afterwards I got my present position as a restaurant manager.’
‘But you maintained your affair with Mrs Barton even after you were sacked by Barton.’
‘Yes. She was an attractive woman, and we enjoyed each other’s company. She would take a room in a hotel for the afternoon, and I would join her there for a few hours.’
‘D’you mean that she paid for the room?’
‘Of course. Diana was a very rich woman.’
I thought it was more likely that James Barton had footed the bill, albeit unwittingly, and I found that rather amusing in a sadistic sort of way.
‘So, what did she think when you turned up at her party with Liz Edwards?’
Potier smiled. ‘She didn’t mind. She was a very broadminded woman.’
‘So I gather,’ I said.
‘How long have you been conducting an affair with Miss Edwards?’ asked Dave. ‘Or is it Mrs Edwards?’
‘Yes, she’s married, but it’s not an affair.’
‘What is it, then, if it’s not an affair?’ queried Dave.
‘Just an occasional flirtation. We meet at a hotel from time to time.’ Potier spoke as though this was normal behaviour, and that there was a subtle difference between an affair and a flirtation. ‘Sometimes it’s just a quickie in my office at the restaurant.’ He’d obviously mastered a few English colloquialisms.
‘Does your wife know?’
Potier expressed shock. ‘Of course not,’ he protested. ‘But I work long hours, and late. She does not suspect.’
‘How old is Mrs Edwards?’
‘She’s twenty-two.’
‘About this party,’ I said. ‘What was that for?’
Potier laughed. ‘Diana said it was to celebrate her new kitchen, but it was a joke. She didn’t need an excuse for a party.’
‘She’d had other parties at her house, then?’
‘Possibly, but if she had, I wasn’t invited.’
‘What time did this so-called kitchen party begin?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘Four o’clock?’ Diana Barton obviously believed in social and sexual marathons.
‘Yes. It was a good time.’ Potier spoke as though this was not out of the ordinary.
‘Presumably you had sexual intercourse with Diana at some time during that evening, Mr Potier.’
‘Of course. At about six o’clock. Then at half past eight Liz and I went to the basement. We both got undressed and spent an hour in the Jacuzzi. That’s where we met a girl called Shelley. She was there by herself, but a few minutes later a man called Tom joined her.’
‘Didn’t Liz object to you having sex with Diana?’ I asked. ‘If she knew.’
‘Of course not.’ Potier smiled. ‘She was hardly in a position to object, was she?’
This guy seemed to have no conscience at all. ‘When was the last time you saw Diana, or spoke to her?’
‘She went upstairs at eight o’clock, and as far as I know she never came back down again.’
This was getting much too complicated for my liking, and I was glad to see that Dave was taking copious notes. Potier’s recollection of the times conflicted with Pincher’s statement that Diana had gone upstairs at nine o’clock and didn’t return to the party. But, there again, Potier admitted having gone to the Jacuzzi at eight thirty and staying there for an hour, so Diana might have come back downstairs while he and Liz were cavorting in the whirlpool. None of that surprised me however; it is rare to find two witnesses who tell the same story.
‘Are you certain of those times?’
‘Of course. In my job I have always to be aware of details, Mr Brock.’
‘As you’re so aware of details, Mr Potier,’ said Dave, ‘perhaps you can tell us the names of the other people who were at this party.’
‘I know only the first names of some of them. There was a man named Dale who came with Debbie, an attractive girl who spoke a little French. We talked for a while of the Loire Valley. I come from there. I was tempted to make a date with her, but Dale never left her side, and I wasn’t able to arrange anything. Then there was Barry with Charlene, and the man Tom I mentioned who was with Shelley, the girl in the Jacuzzi.’ Potier sighed, and glanced at the ceiling. ‘In no time at all Charlene was walking about with almost nothing on. She was a very attractive girl, too.’ Potier sighed, presumably at a lost opportunity. ‘They were all attractive girls.’
This was getting us nowhere, except to underline that both Gaston Potier and Diana Barton had the morals of alley cats. And in Potier’s case an inflated concept of his appeal to women. But then, at last, came something important.
‘Also there was a man called Bernie. His girlfriend was Samantha I think, but I’m not sure. I didn’t pay much attention.’
‘Do you know their surnames?’ These were people whose names hadn’t cropped up in our enquiries so far, and there was nothing to say that they’d used their real names anyway.
‘I’m afraid not. Everyone seemed to be at pains only to use first names.’
‘How old were these two people? Bernie and Samantha.’
Potier thought about that. ‘He was quite old, fifty perhaps, and the girl was twenty-five or thereabouts, I should think. But there was another man there. His name was Bruce. I think he was from Australia, perhaps New Zealand. Even South Africa, or maybe from the north of England. It is hard for me to tell different English accents.’
‘Did he bring a girl?’
‘Possibly. It was difficult to know who had brought whom.’
Dave nodded his approval at the construction of that sentence.
‘And did this Bruce go upstairs with Diana?’
‘Yes, I think so. Yes, he did. I remember now that she took his arm and said that it was his turn.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Eight o’clock,’ said Potier without hesitation.
‘And did you see him again?’
‘Yes, just after Liz and I came up from the Jacuzzi at half past nine. That’s when we left. I drove Liz home, and then went to my own place.’
‘Wasn’t Liz Edwards’s husband surprised that you drove his wife home?’
‘No, not at all. It often happens. I think I told you that she is my maîtresse d’hôtel. We both work late, and I don’t like her to take public transport at that time of night, and a taxi that far is expensive. It’s not a problem because she only lives in Lisson Grove. It’s on my way.’
This was another variation from what we’d been told by Hendry. Hendry was adamant that all the guests left at the same time, just before the police arrived. But, as he hadn’t mentioned Bernie and Samantha, we had to accept that his recall might be flawed, or downright obstructive.
I asked Potier for Liz Edwards’s address, in the hope that she would have something to add to what Potier had told us.
‘It would be better if you spoke to her at the restaurant, Mr Brock. For the sake of propriety, you understand.’
‘Of course. You said just now that you work late at your restaurant. How did you manage to get to Diana’s party at four o’clock in the afternoon? And you were at home yesterday when we called in the early evening.’
‘I have a very good assistant manager,’ said Potier. ‘And Liz has a deputy,’ he added, forestalling my next question. ‘We have a shift system, I think you call it.’
‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Potier,’ I said. ‘Should there be anything else, we know where to find you.’
‘Of course. I’m very sad to hear of Diana’s death. But if you wish to speak to me again, perhaps you would be so good as to contact me at my restaurant. And, as I said, that goes for Mrs Edwards as well.’ Potier smiled apologetically, and handed me a business card. ‘You would be welcome to have a meal there any time. On the house, of course,’ he added with a wink.
‘Thank you,’ I said, but it was dangerous practice for a detective to accept free meals from someone who could turn out to be a suspect. I knew of detectives who’d come unstuck over what the Job regards as bribery and corruption. I was fairly sure that Potier had not been implicated in Diana Barton’s murder, but you never know.
Dave and I called in at Curtis Green to see if anything of consequence had occurred. Nothing had.
‘I got a remand in custody to Kingston Crown Court for Hendry, guv,’ said Kate. ‘Monday the second of September.’
‘Is it in the diary, Kate?’
‘Of course, guv.’ Kate gave me one of those looks.
It was now half past one on a Saturday, I was hopeful that Maurice Horton would be at home, and that he might be able to shed some light on Diana’s life before she married James Barton.
Roget Drive, Pinner, overlooked Pinner Park. The house – En Passant – appeared large enough to have at least six bedrooms, and was probably worth a million pounds at least. It was set back from the road in its own grounds, and a winding, hedge-lined, gravel driveway, shielded from the road by a row of leylandii conifers, led to the front door. A Mercedes CL 65 AMG, definitely top of the range, was parked close to the house.
‘Funny name for a house, Dave,’ I said, as we alighted from our bottom-of-the-range police car.
‘It’s French, guv. It means “in passing”,’ said Dave. ‘I suppose it means that he’ll be moving on before long.’ Such is Dave’s whimsical logic.
The woman who answered the door studied us carefully before enquiring what we wanted.
‘Is Mr Horton at home?’ I asked.
‘Who is it what I shall say?’ The woman, an attractive girl in her twenties, spoke haltingly, and with a thick accent, possibly East European.
‘We’re police officers.’
‘Just step inside the house, thank you.’
We followed the woman, presumably a housekeeper or maid, into a large entrance hall from which a broad sweeping staircase wound its way up one side.
The woman entered a room on the left of the hall, only to reappear moments later. ‘Please this way come,’ she said, and led us into a spacious sitting room with tall windows that looked out on to the drive.
A tall man dressed in tan linen slacks with an open-necked shirt and brown loafers, stood in front of a massive York stone fireplace.
‘Mr Horton?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m Maurice Horton.’ We knew that Horton was fifty years of age, but he looked older. ‘Katya tells me you’re from the police.’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ I said, and introduced Dave and me.
‘How can I possibly help the police? Is there something wrong? My wife’s out shopping for clothes. She’s not had an accident, has she?’ Horton asked the question with a worried expression. But he probably didn’t know that detective chief inspectors don’t call to tell someone of a road accident.
‘Not as far as I know, Mr Horton. I rather wanted to talk to you about your first wife.’
‘Diana? Why on earth d’you want to ask me questions about her?’ Horton invited us to take a seat, and sat down opposite us. ‘We were divorced over seven years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that she’s dead, sir.’
‘Really? Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but our marriage is all in the past. I’ve moved on, and remarried. What happened, a road accident?’ Horton did not seem unduly concerned at news of his ex-wife’s death.
‘No, sir, she was murdered.’
‘Good God! But there was nothing in the papers about it.’
‘No, we deliberately withheld that information from the press, Mr Horton.’ Nevertheless, I was surprised that he hadn’t read of the fire, but perhaps he hadn’t made the connection even if he’d known Diana’s current address.
‘How can I help, then?’ asked Horton again.
‘We’re trying to establish a motive for Diana’s death, sir.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘A week ago she held a party at her house in Tavona Street, Chelsea, apparently to celebrate the installation of a new kitchen.’
‘You’re joking.’ Horton gazed at me with a half smile on his face. ‘She hated parties, and why on earth should she have held a party for something as banal as that?’
‘I have to say I found it rather odd,’ I said, ‘but that’s the information I’ve received from several sources.’
‘What an extraordinary thing to do.’ Horton appeared as mystified as I’d been when first told of the reason for the party. But I now knew that the kitchen story was merely an excuse for what had probably been planned as an orgy in the first place.
‘However,’ I continued, ‘at just after midnight last Sunday police were called because of the noise, although by then the noise had abated. But a short while later the house caught fire, and the fire brigade found Mrs Barton’s body in the master bedroom. She’d been stabbed.’
‘And you’ve no idea who was responsible?’
‘Not at this stage, Mr Horton, no.’ I thought it unnecessary to tell this man that I’d arrested Thomas Hendry for setting fire to the Bartons’ house. And there’d been no mention of it in the press.
‘How d’you think I can assist you, then?’
‘It would help if you could start by telling me what sort of person Diana was, and what led to your divorce?’
‘I don’t see how that can help, but it was …’ Horton paused. ‘I imagine it’s best described as incompatibility. For one thing I play a lot of golf. But my golf – an obsession, I suppose you’d call it – combined with a love of frequent exotic holidays, in particular the Caribbean, or touring in France, didn’t interest Diana and led us to split up after twenty years of marriage. We really had nothing in common.’
‘Were there any children?’ I asked.
‘Yes, just the one, a son Gregory. He’s a mining engineer and lives in Australia. He married an Australian girl, I believe, and it looks as though he’s settled there for good now.’
‘Do you have an address for him, Mr Horton?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. We’ve not been in touch with each other since I divorced Diana. I got the impression he thought I shouldn’t have left her.’
‘Would I be right in thinking that Diana wasn’t interested in being little more than a housewife, then?’ I asked, reverting to my original line of questioning.
‘Very much so. That and helping out at a charity shop twice a week. She got involved in a lot of charity work. Oh, and she belonged to the Women’s Institute when we lived in Wiltshire. Took a great interest in organising the annual WI flower competition while we were there.’ Horton took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. As an afterthought he offered one to Dave and me, but we both declined. ‘I suppose the best way to describe her was domesticated.’
This was an entirely new slant on the character of the adulterous, fun-loving Diana Barton. I hesitated before posing my next question.
‘Were you aware of any extra-marital affairs Diana might have had?’
‘Affairs?’ Horton laughed scornfully. ‘Who, Diana? Good heavens no. Whatever makes you ask that?’
I outlined what we had learned about Diana’s sexual activities, including the affair on the cruise, and the one with Gaston Potier, although I didn’t mention the names of either of her paramours. Neither did I tell Horton what we’d heard had taken place at the kitchen party.
‘Well, I have to say I’m surprised. This doesn’t sound at all like the woman I was married to. Are you sure we’re talking about the same person, Inspector?’
‘It’s chief inspector, sir.’ I was always irritated by TV detective chief inspectors who not only allowed themselves to be addressed as inspector, but sometimes introduced themselves as such. There is quite a difference: about eight grand a year, in fact.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector,’ said Horton, but his slight smile gave the impression that he didn’t think it all that important.
It crossed my mind that Diana might have had affairs during her first marriage, but had been sufficiently devious to keep them from Horton.
Dave produced a copy of a studio portrait of Diana Barton that we’d recovered from James Barton’s smoke-filled study on the first floor of the house at Tavona Street. ‘Is that her?’ he asked, handing the print to Horton.
Horton glanced at it. ‘Yes, that’s the Diana I was married to.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbelievable. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in sex,’ he said suddenly. ‘That was another of our problems.’
I’m glad Horton had said that. It wasn’t the sort of intrusive question that I’d been prepared to ask, but it was useful to know, even though it conflicted with what we knew of the woman. Or thought we knew.
Horton paused for a moment. ‘I understand that she married again. We’ve not kept in touch, you see.’
‘Yes, she did, to a James Barton. He was murdered last Thursday.’
‘Good God!’ Horton shook his head, as though trying to come to terms with what I’d told him. ‘It’s not the James Barton who was involved in hotels, is it?’
‘Yes. Did you know him?’
‘Not all that well,’ said Horton. ‘Our paths did cross occasionally. I’m a venture capitalist, you see.’ He gave a diffident smile, and waved a hand in the air. ‘As you can see from this house, I’ve been rather successful at it.’ He paused to stub out his cigarette. ‘Do you think the same person was responsible for both murders?’
‘We don’t know at this stage,’ I said, although the DNA evidence seemed to point to it. But I had no intention of telling Horton that.
There was a sound of a car approaching the house, and the crunching of gravel. I glanced out of the window in time to see a woman alighting from a white Lexus that she’d parked next to the Mercedes. Moments later, the front door slammed, and a woman’s voice called out ‘Hello, darling.’
‘Ah, that’ll be my wife,’ said Horton as the sitting room door opened.
The woman who entered was obviously much younger than Maurice Horton; in fact, we knew there to be a difference of fifteen years in their ages. She had cropped blonde hair, and was stylishly dressed in an elegant trouser suit. It looked expensive, and I’m sure my girlfriend would’ve been able to put an exact price on it. Mrs Horton carried two large bags bearing the names of well-known West End fashion houses.
All three of us stood up, and she gazed at Dave and me. ‘I see we have company, darling. I didn’t recognize the car on the drive.’
‘These gentlemen are from the police, Faye.’ Horton turned to us. ‘This is my wife Faye,’ he said.
‘Are we in trouble?’ Faye Horton shot an engaging smile in our direction, put her shopping bags on the floor near the door, and sat down in an armchair opposite her husband.
But it was Maurice Horton who replied. ‘They’re enquiring about Diana. She’s been murdered.’
‘Your first wife, you mean?’
‘Yes, and her husband has been murdered as well.’
‘Well, you haven’t seen her since the divorce, have you?’ There was an element of suspicion, accusation even, in the glance Faye Horton gave her husband. But apart from that the news had no impact on her.
‘Of course not. I didn’t even know where she lived until these officers told me.’
We had learned a little more of the enigma that was Diana Barton, but it didn’t help very much.
‘Thank you, Mr Horton,’ I said, as Dave and I stood up.
‘D’you know where and when the funeral will be held?’ asked Horton.
‘Not at the moment.’
‘You’re not thinking of going, surely?’ asked Faye Horton sharply. It sounded like an order.
‘Er, no, not really, darling.’
I got the impression that all was not well in the Horton marriage, and wondered whether Maurice Horton had had a different reason for divorcing Diana. A reason he’d not furnished. But that was of no concern to me or my enquiry. Maybe.
‘Thank you, Mr Horton,’ I said, as Dave and I stood up. ‘I don’t think either of you can help us further.’ But in that I was wrong.