The Mercedes and the Lexus were parked side by side when we arrived at En Passant.
Once again it was Katya Kaczynski who answered the door. ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said. ‘It is Mr Horton you are wanting to speak at, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and Kate and I followed Katya into the house.
Faye Horton was alone in the sitting room, watching television. She crossed to the set and switched it off as Katya showed us in.
‘I suppose you’re wanting to speak to Maurice again,’ she said, a measure of irritation in her voice.
‘Yes please, Mrs Horton.’
‘He’s working in his study. I’ll get him,’ said Faye, but instead of leaving the room, or sending for Katya, she picked up the handset of an internal phone from the table beside her chair, and summoned her husband. She spent the intervening moments carefully appraising Kate’s outfit. Fortunately it was one of those rare days when she’d opted for a light grey business suit, court shoes and gold earrings.
‘Good afternoon.’ Horton, attired in a white shirt and designer jeans, his bare feet in expensive sandals, exuded confidence and charm. ‘Please sit down, and tell me how I can help you.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Ebdon, Mr Horton,’ I said, appreciating that Horton had not met Kate before. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I understand that Diana Barton was a shareholder in your property company. A substantial shareholder.’
‘My goodness, you have been doing your homework, Chief Inspector.’ I noticed that he emphasized the ‘chief’. ‘Does this have some relevance to her murder?’
‘I don’t know. Does it?’
Horton smiled. ‘You tell me, Mr Brock. You’re the one investigating this matter.’
‘I was wondering why you hadn’t told me this when I was here last.’
‘Perhaps my husband didn’t think it was relevant,’ said Faye Horton. ‘And I have to say I can’t see that it is.’
‘Leave this to me, Faye,’ said Horton sharply.
‘Well, it seems that this is an unnecessary intrusion into your affairs, darling,’ said Faye, clearly not intending to be silenced.
‘I have to agree with my wife, Mr Brock,’ said Horton. ‘Why are you so interested in this business of the shares?’
‘Was there any provision for the disposal of them on your wife’s death?’
‘Not that I know of. To be honest, I never visualized that she would die before me. I suppose it’s a possibility I should have considered. As a matter of interest, have your enquiries revealed what happens to them now?’
Kate decided to make a contribution, and I was happy for her to do so; she’d done the search of company records and was more familiar with the set-up than me. ‘Presumably her entire estate would have passed to her husband James. But as he died within twenty-eight days of her demise, his estate will go to Diana. Providing it’s a standard form of will, Diana’s estate – including what James left her – will revert to her nominated heirs. We don’t know who they are at this stage, but I suppose it’s likely to be her son. Of course, details of the legacies won’t be known until both the Bartons’ wills are proved at probate. However, specific provision might have been made for the shares to revert to you, Mr Horton.’
Both Horton and his wife stared at Kate, apparently surprised that a detective, and a woman detective at that, should be so familiar with testamentary law.
‘I see,’ said Horton eventually. But he’d probably had as much trouble as me in following Kate’s explanation.
‘Did you have any contact with Mrs Barton after the divorce, Mr Horton?’ I asked.
‘No, I didn’t,’ snapped Horton. ‘I told you that the other day.’ He was beginning to get a little rattled.
‘I understand that the shares were part of the divorce settlement,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Horton.
‘You never told me that, Maurice,’ said Faye, shooting her husband a withering glance. ‘Why on earth did you do such a stupid thing?’
‘There were a lot of tiresome negotiations about the divorce, my dear, and that was the agreement that was eventually arrived at,’ said Horton patiently, but it sounded defensive, and I thought that he was in for a bit of a rough ride once Kate and I had left.
‘Did you at any time attempt to buy the shares from Mrs Barton, Mr Horton?’ queried Kate.
‘I didn’t know where she was,’ replied Horton.
‘Did you attempt to find out where she was living?’
There was a distinct pause before Horton answered, and he gave the impression of a man who was being backed into a corner. ‘I did have someone make a few enquiries, yes. I wanted to approach Diana, and make her an offer for the shares.’
‘And did your representative find her?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Was this person a private detective?’ Kate continued to press the venture capitalist.
‘As a matter of fact, he was. A chap called Simkins I think, with offices in London somewhere. I can’t exactly remember now. I might even have got his name wrong.’ Horton realized that he’d spoken too quickly, and pretended ignorance of the address. But we’d find him.
‘Well, that seems to have cleared things up, Mr Horton,’ I said, as Kate and I stood up. ‘I’m sorry that we had to bother you again, but we’re never quite sure what relevance these matters might have until we’re able to clarify them.’
‘Not at all,’ said Horton warmly. ‘Only too glad to assist.’ He appeared relieved that we were going, and escorted us to the front door.
‘Miss Kaczynski seems a pleasant girl,’ said Kate. ‘She’s Polish, I believe.’
‘Er, yes, she is,’ said Horton, but I could see he was wondering how the hell we knew her full name and nationality.
We walked out to our car. Kate paused briefly to admire Faye Horton’s Lexus LS600hL. ‘Nice car for shopping, guv,’ she said, and sighed enviously.
‘Well, what d’you think, Kate?’ I asked, as we drove back to London.
‘That Faye Horton is a right bitch. I almost felt sorry for Maurice. She didn’t miss a word of our exchange, and I’ll wager that she’s giving him a right ear-bashing at this very moment.’
‘See whether you can track down this enquiry agent called Simkins, Kate. We might be able to get something out of him, but he’ll probably plead client confidentiality.’
‘I think I’ll be able to persuade him to tell us what we want to know,’ said Kate.
I had no doubt about that. If I were a recalcitrant witness I wouldn’t want to be interrogated by Kate.
Private detectives are not difficult to find. Because it’s a highly competitive game they have to advertise to survive. Countless ex-coppers think that becoming an enquiry agent is an easy way to supplement their police pension. They set up business, usually in well-appointed offices with a good address that they can ill afford, and have business cards and headed stationery printed that proclaim them to be ex-Scotland Yard, whether they are or not.
In the heyday of contested divorces, where infidelity had to be proved to the hilt, they prospered. But now that divorce is much easier for those couples that bother to get married in the first place, it is much harder for the private eye to make a living. Gone are the days when a prostitute would be provided – at an exorbitant fee, of course – to be photographed in a compromising position with a husband keen to be parted from his wife. But in these enlightened days, most of these ‘confidential investigators’ eventually give up, and try to work out how to settle the debts they’ve accrued since retiring from the police force.
Arnold Simkins was one of the survivors. Kate Ebdon had thumbed through Yellow Pages, and found that he had an upstairs office in a back street of Clapham, sensible fellow. There was no receptionist, no fancy furniture, no carpet, and no gold lettering on a glass-panelled door. In fact, there were no frills of any sort, and Simkins’s office was nothing like the American TV portrayal of a PI. This was clearly a workshop. And it was cold, even at this time of year.
‘Mr Simkins?’ I asked.
‘At your service.’ Simkins glanced at Kate and me, and stood up to shake hands. ‘What can I do for you?’
I told Simkins who we were, and he nodded as though he’d already worked it out.
‘I’m ex-Job myself,’ said Simkins. ‘Did most of my time down the East End. Finished up as a DS. Have a pew.’ He was slightly stooped, and was wearing a faded woollen cardigan, a striped shirt and a tie. His unfashionable wire-framed spectacles had a piece of sticking plaster across the bridge holding the two halves together. He would not have inspired confidence in his clients, but I knew that he was the type of detective sergeant who, whilst lacking ambition for promotion, was totally dedicated to the Job. And to the career he now pursued. I was sure he’d approach any enquiry like a terrier.
We sat on the black bentwood chairs that Simkins had provided for his clients. From their lack of comfort I deduced that clients were not meant to tarry here for long.
‘I’m investigating two murders, Mr Simkins,’ I began, and went on to tell him about the death of Diana Barton, the subsequent fire at 27 Tavona Street, and followed all that by mentioning the killing of James Barton.
‘So it was Diana Barton, then. I read about the fire, and recognized the name. The press reports implied that she’d died as a result of the fire, but I suppose you wisely kept the fact that she was murdered to yourself for the time being.’
‘You knew that’s where she lived, then, Mr Simkins.’
‘Call me Arnie, guv.’ I could see that old habits died hard with ex-DS Simkins. ‘I was always known as Arnie when I was in the Job. Yes, I knew that’s where she lived.’
‘I don’t know how much you’re able to tell me, Arnie,’ I said. ‘Client confidentiality being what it is.’
‘To hell with that, guv. My loyalty’s to the Job. Always has been. What d’you want to know?’
‘Maurice Horton was your client?’
‘That’s right,’ said Simkins. ‘Didn’t take to him too much. Not a likeable bloke at all. A stuck-up bastard actually, begging your pardon, miss,’ he said to Kate.
‘Did you tell him that that’s where Diana Barton lived?’
‘Yes, of course. That’s what he was paying me for.’
‘How long ago did you tell him?’
Simkins flicked through a few pages of a large desk diary. ‘Six months ago,’ he said. ‘I sent him some photographs of Diana Barton, and a report saying that she was married to James Barton, a director of a hotel chain.’ He looked up. ‘I also told him that the two of them lived at twenty-seven Tavona Street, Chelsea, and that she’d been there for the preceding six and a half years. I think that Barton himself had already lived there with his previous wife until she died.’ He crossed to a filing cabinet, and took out a folder. ‘There it is,’ he said, handing me a copy of the report.
I glanced through it, but it only contained what Simkins had just told me in summary. ‘You say you sent the original of this to Maurice Horton.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, anyone could’ve read it, like his wife Faye for instance.’ I had doubts about Faye Horton and her interest in money.
‘What he did with the report was down to him, guv,’ said Simkins.
‘Was there anything else?’ asked Kate.
‘Like what?’
‘We’ve had a report of a riotous party, Arnie.’ Kate went on to tell Simkins about the gathering that had concluded with Diana’s murder and the fire. ‘I wondered if you’d noticed anything else when you were near the premises, like people coming and going. Regular parties, maybe. We’ve learned that she seemed to be pursuing a lifestyle that was contrary to what we’ve been told by James Barton, and her first husband who, of course, was Maurice Horton.’
‘Hang on a mo.’ Simkins opened a drawer and took out a thick A4-sized book. ‘My daybook,’ he explained. ‘Always kept one in the Job. You never knew when someone might come asking questions.’ He thumbed through it until he found the right page, and then looked up. ‘I only kept a brief obo on the Barton pad. There was no point in doing anything else once I’d established that that’s where Diana lived. That’s all Horton wanted to know. By the way, he has a son Gregory who lives in Australia. Horton told me he’s a mining engineer, and is married to Elizabeth aka Beth née McDonald. From what Horton told me the lad’s settled there now.’ He closed his daybook. ‘I don’t know if it’s of any interest, but there was a sign outside from some firm doing a kitchen installation.’
‘Did you take a note of the name, Arnie?’ queried Kate. ‘Or a phone number.’
Simkins gave Kate a crooked smile, and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Like I said, guv, you never know when these things might come in handy.’ He wrote the details on a slip of paper, and handed them over. ‘You making progress with this topping, guv?’ he asked, turning his attention to me.
‘Not a lot,’ I said. ‘So far, Horton seems to be the only one with motive, but we’re a long way from proving it.’
‘In my experience it was ever thus,’ said Simkins, a realistic statement clearly based on years of trying to solve unsolvable crimes. ‘Well, be lucky, guv. If I hear anything else, I’ll give you a bell. Got a card, have you?’
We now had the address of the company that had fitted Diana Barton’s new kitchen, but whether that would advance our enquiries remained to be seen. But you’ve got to try. Kate and I set forth.
Tucked away in a street near World’s End, Fulham, the front office of the kitchen company was the usual set-up: a desk, a computer, and a disinterested girl. She had spiky blonde hair and her heavy arched eyebrows had been painted on, giving her the appearance of a startled porcupine.
‘Help you?’ asked the girl listlessly, and moved her chewing gum from one side of her mouth to the other.
I told the girl who we were, and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.
‘You’ll be wanting Mr Barnes. It’s through there.’ The girl pointed at a door on the far side of the office, and carried on reading a magazine and filing her nails.
‘Good morning.’ The man behind the large desk was poring over a sheaf of plans. ‘How can I help you?’
Once again, I explained who we were, and said that I’d learned that his company had installed a kitchen for Mrs Diana Barton.
‘Yes, I remember that job. Number twenty-seven Tavona Street, if memory serves me correctly.’
‘That’s the one, Mr Barnes,’ I said.
‘Is there a problem, then?’
‘Yes, but it’s my problem, not yours,’ I said. ‘Mrs Barton’s been murdered.’
‘Blimey!’ This information produced an interesting reaction. Barnes hurriedly tapped a few details into his computer before looking back at us with an expression of relief. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘She settled the account.’
‘What was the name of the man who did the installation, Mr Barnes?’ asked Kate.
‘Bruce Metcalfe, an Australian. He was a good worker, and completed the job single-handed.’
‘From when to when?’
Barnes referred to his book again. ‘Seventeenth to the twenty-third of June, but I eventually had to sack him. Pity really because, like I said, he was a good worker. In fact, he was more than that. He came in one morning and said he’d approached Mrs Barton – what we call a cold call in the trade – and persuaded her to have a new kitchen put in. And that was only four days after I’d taken him on. Not bad during a recession. You don’t get many workers like that, I can tell you.’
It was easy to understand how Metcalfe could have persuaded Diana Barton that she needed a new kitchen. Knowing what we did about her, Metcalfe would have had no problem in sweet-talking the willing Diana straight into bed. But why had he picked on her?
‘Why did you sack him, then?’
‘He was on drugs.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I caught him in the stockroom one morning when he was supposed to be putting together the gear he needed for that day’s work, and he was snorting the bloody stuff. Bold as brass. So I gave him the push on the spot. I won’t have that at any price. They might injure themselves on the job, and then I’d have the health and safety Gestapo down on me like a ton of bricks.’
‘What date did you sack him?’ It was looking very much as though this was the Bruce who had been mentioned as one of the guests at Diana’s party.
Barnes interrogated his computer again. ‘Twenty-ninth of July,’ he said.
‘Do you have an address for this Metcalfe?’ I asked. The date was significant, and I tried not to get too excited about the fact that it was the Monday following the murder of Diana Barton.
‘Sure do. It was number nineteen Dakar Road, Fulham. It’s not far from here. I gather it’s a bit of a doss house, but he was a single guy, so I suppose it was good enough for him.’
‘It looks to me as though Metcalfe made a point of seeking out Diana Barton, Kate,’ I said, as we left Mr Barnes. ‘And persuaded her that she needed a new kitchen. But I wonder why he should’ve picked on her, unless he knew her previously. Or knew of her.’
‘I wouldn’t mind betting that he bedded her almost immediately, too,’ said Kate. ‘Food for thought.’
‘Talking of which, Kate, I think we’ll grab a bite to eat,’ I said. ‘There must be a half decent pub around here somewhere.’ It was now almost half past one.
Number 19 Dakar Road proved to be an old Victorian house with steps leading up to the front door. Three stories high with a basement area, it was in poor condition. Some of the stucco facing had broken away to reveal the brickwork beneath. The windows were dirty, and what used to be the front garden had been concreted over to accommodate an ageing Volvo. A broken wash-hand basin was lying next to a couple of overflowing wheelie bins.
‘Looks like a fun place,’ said Kate, as she hammered on the front door.
The balding, middle-aged man who answered was wearing jeans and a singlet, each as dirty as the other. Several complicated tattoos adorned his muscular arms.
‘We’re police officers,’ said Kate.
‘Oh, and what does the law want with me?’ The man gave us a glance that combined apprehension with suspicion.
‘Are you the owner of these premises?’ Kate asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who are you, then?’
‘Fred Makepeace, if it’s any of your business.’
‘Well, it is my business.’ Kate placed a finger firmly on Makepeace’s chest and pushed him back into the entrance hall. ‘How many rooms have you got here?’ It certainly seemed to be the sort of doss house that Barnes had described.
‘What’s this about? There ain’t nothing wrong here. I run a respectable house.’
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ said Kate. ‘How many rooms?’ she asked again.
‘Six. All bed-sits.’
‘All let out, are they? And am I going to find any toms here?’
‘No, you ain’t. I wouldn’t take no prostitutes or your lot’d be round here quicker than you can say knife. I pay me taxes, and I have the bleedin’ council round here about once a month. He’s some geezer from environmental health, he is. Makes me life a bleedin’ misery.’
‘We’re looking for a man called Bruce Metcalfe.’
‘Gone,’ said Makepeace.
‘Gone where?’
‘Search me.’
‘Not without rubber gloves,’ said Kate, ‘and I haven’t got any with me.’
‘Mr Makepeace,’ I said, finally tiring of the man’s churlish lack of co-operation, ‘we are conducting a murder enquiry, and I suggest that you assist us to the best of your ability, because right now my temper is shortening quite dramatically. That might provoke me into continuing this little chat down at the nick, and there’s no telling what else I might find out about you once I start having a trawl through our records.’
Makepeace took a pace back. ‘I don’t know nothing about no murder,’ he protested. The manner in which he’d replied left me in no doubt that he was familiar with police station charge rooms. He might even know his way round some of Her Majesty’s prisons.
‘In that case, you’d better tell me where Metcalfe is.’
‘I don’t know, guv’nor. He never said where he was going.’ Makepeace adopted a wheedling tone. ‘He paid up to the end of the week, and cleared off. He said something about going back to Australia. That’s where he said he came from.’
‘What date did he leave?’
‘I don’t rightly remember.’
Kate took a step towards the recalcitrant boarding-house owner, invading his personal space. ‘Then you’d better look it up in your register, hadn’t you, sport. I’m sure you keep proper records for the Revenue and Customs people, because they might just come round and do a bit of checking.’ She paused. ‘And they certainly will if I have a word with them.’
‘You’d better come in the office,’ said Makepeace hurriedly.
What passed for Makepeace’s office was a tip. A dilapidated vacuum cleaner, a couple of buckets and a worn out mop stood in one corner on the bare boards of the room. Under a window so dirty it was difficult to see out of it, stood a table piled high with paper, letters and several copies of the Daily Mirror. A mangy tabby cat was asleep on top of a heap of telephone directories.
‘It’s here somewhere,’ said Makepeace, pushing the cat on to the floor, and ferreting through the mess. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He produced a dog-eared ledger. ‘Yeah, he went on the twenty-ninth of July.’
It was the same date that Metcalfe was sacked from his job as a kitchen fitter. He must have returned to Dakar Road straight away, packed his belongings and moved out. Perhaps he had gone back to Australia.
‘Are you sure you don’t know where Metcalfe went from here?’ asked Kate menacingly.
‘Sure I’m sure.’
‘Did any letters arrive for him?’
‘Yeah, now you come to mention it.’ Once again Makepeace sifted through the piles of paper on his desk. ‘Here you are. This was the only one.’ He handed Kate a letter bearing an Australian stamp.
‘We’ll take that,’ said Kate, and peered at the postmark. ‘It’s from Darwin in the Northern Territory. Why am I not surprised.’
I assumed that Kate had no very high opinion of people from Darwin.
‘Ain’t you supposed to have a warrant to take things like that?’ protested Makepeace. ‘I mean he might come back for it.’
‘Are you trying to tell me my job, mate?’ demanded Kate, staring straight at Makepeace with a threatening look in her eye.
‘No, but I just wondered,’ whined Makepeace, wisely deciding not to fence with Kate.
‘Well, I should stop wondering if I was you,’ said Kate. ‘It’ll hurt what passes for your brain. But if he does come back, he can collect it from Scotland Yard. Tell him to ask for Detective Inspector Ebdon.’ She turned to me. ‘I reckon that’s all we can do here, guv.’
And so it seemed to be. It had been a fruitless sort of day. If Bruce Metcalfe was the Australian who’d been at Diana’s party, it was possible that he had gone back to Australia as Makepeace had suggested. On the other hand, he could just as well have remained here. But finding an Australian in London is fraught with difficulty. I know; I’ve tried before.
‘Metcalfe might be living in the Bayswater area, guv,’ suggested Kate.
‘Why there?’
‘Well, James Barton’s body was found in Sussex Square. It could be that Metcalfe, if he’s the murderer, didn’t want to stray far from where he’s living now. Wherever that is.’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Kate,’ I said.
‘What else is there to clutch at, guv?’