When we returned to Curtis Green, I asked Colin Wilberforce to enter Metcalfe’s name on the Police National Computer with a direction that I was to be contacted if he was found. I also got him to pass the information to the drugs section of Revenue and Customs, and to that branch of the Specialist Crime Directorate – another pompous title – that dealt with the enforcement of drug legislation. But I had no great hope that either of these agencies would find Metcalfe for me.
‘I don’t know if this will help, guv.’ Kate handed me the letter she had seized from Fred Makepeace at Dakar Road.
Headed Waimatutu Station, Tamorah, Darwin, and dated Saturday the thirteenth of July, it was signed ‘Your loving cousin Ethel.’ Kate told me that ‘station’ was the Australian term for a large farm. The content of the letter described the day-to-day happenings on the station, inconsequential news about nearby neighbours, problems with the weather, and how much the veterinary surgeon’s bills had risen since Bruce left there. Finally, in a postscript, it reported that someone called Marlene had given birth to a twelve-pound-seven-ounce boy.
‘It might give us a lead, Kate,’ I said. ‘I’ll give Steve a ring.’
Inspector Steve Granger of the Australian Federal Police was an attaché at his country’s high commission in the Strand.
‘Steve, it’s Harry Brock at the Yard.’
‘G’day, Harry. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for an Australian, Steve,’ I began.
There was a guffaw of laughter. ‘Aren’t we all, mate. I’ve got a list of wanted Australians as long as your bloody arm. What’s this particular mongrel been up to?’
I explained about the murders of Diana and James Barton, and the fact that Bruce Metcalfe could well be the Australian who was at Diana’s ‘kitchen’ party.
‘A kitchen party?’ queried Granger. ‘You pommies sure have some bloody strange customs.’
‘It’s like a barbecue, but indoors, Steve,’ I countered. ‘Look, I know it’s a long shot, but if this guy has DNA that matches samples we’ve recovered from the two victims, he’s got some questions to answer.’
‘You got anything to go on, Harry?’
‘We picked up a letter addressed to him at the last place he was known to be living,’ I said, and gave Steve the address of Bruce Metcalfe’s ‘loving cousin Ethel’. ‘Any chance you could have enquiries made at this Waimatutu Station? They might be able to tell us Metcalfe’s present whereabouts.’
‘Sure, Harry, no worries,’ said Granger. ‘D’you want him arrested?’
‘Not at this stage, Steve. On the evidence we’ve got so far we’d never get a fugitive offender’s warrant. All I want to do at the moment is to find out where Metcalfe is now. And there’s one other thing, Steve …’ I explained about Horton, and that he’d got a son in Australia who was married to a woman called Elizabeth née McDonald, known as Beth. ‘He’s said to be a mining engineer, but I don’t know where he lives. Is there a professional association of mining engineers that might have an address for him?’
‘Only if he’s qualified, Harry. A lot of them aren’t, but they still call themselves engineers. Leave it with me. I’ll give it my best shot.’
I gave the letter back to Kate. ‘It’s a case of wait and see,’ I said.
‘Are we going to have another word with Horton, guv?’
‘Not yet, Kate. We need more before we can have another go at him. He’s too bloody smart, but if we wait, he might just slip up.’ It was a vain hope. I’d no idea if he had anything to slip up about, but it’s the sort of thing detectives always say when they haven’t a clue what to do next.
It seemed that Kate had been giving some thought to finding the errant Metcalfe. ‘Earls Court is a popular place for Australians, guv,’ she said when I walked into the incident room. ‘And I should know.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting we should carry out door-to-door enquiries there,’ I said.
‘No, guv. But I’ve got a few informants in the area. It might be worth putting out feelers. If Metcalfe’s gone to ground, I can’t think of a better place to hide than among a load of other Australians.’
I was not wholly convinced that Kate’s suggestion would yield any useful results, but I had to admit that she knew more about Australians than I did. ‘Metcalfe is not exactly an uncommon name,’ I said. ‘Even if we assume it’s his real name. Anyway, we don’t really know what he looks like.’ The description that we had obtained from Barnes and Makepeace might just as well have been of two entirely different men. But it was ever thus.
‘And I understand that the name Bruce is quite popular among you antipodeans, guv,’ put in Dave, directing a mischievous glance at Kate. ‘But we know that quite a few people at Diana Barton’s party actually saw Metcalfe.’
‘That’ll only help once we’ve got him in custody and can hold an ID parade,’ I said. It seemed to me that we were all getting a little desperate in our attempts to find Bruce Metcalfe, and it might turn out, even if we did, that he wouldn’t be the man we wanted anyway.
‘There is another way,’ said Dave. ‘Computer-aided graphics might help.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ I asked. I was always wary of Dave when he started venturing into the field of computer technology. Mainly because I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
‘If we get one of the Yard’s E-fit technicians to interview the people who actually saw Metcalfe, he might be able to produce a composite picture of what the guy looks like.’ Dave leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face, the sort of smile that suggested he’d thought of something the guv’nor hadn’t thought of. In this case, it was justified.
‘OK, Dave, organize it,’ I said.
Dave brought the computer E-fit technician into my office and made the introductions. Rather than being the ‘he’ that Dave had suggested, the computer expert turned out to be a mature woman dressed stylishly in a scarlet sweater and a black calf-length skirt. A pair of glasses hung from a cord around her neck. And she was called Marilyn Munro.
‘Before you ask, it’s spelled M-U-N-R-O, unlike the film star,’ said Marilyn. ‘It was my father’s idea. He thought Marilyn Monroe was the sexiest woman on two legs. Unfortunately for him, our family name was spelled differently, but he was so besotted with the bloody woman that I’m surprised he didn’t change it to the same as hers.’ She obviously bore a lasting grudge against Marilyn Monroe just for having existed.
Having got that bit of her family history out of the way, I explained to Miss Munro what we required of her.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ she said. ‘But I’m not one of those technicians who has a dogmatic faith in what I do. I know from experience that there’s only a remote chance of getting a similar likeness from each of your witnesses, but I’ll do what I can. I even did one once of a serial burglar that turned out to be the spitting image of the Commissioner. And at the end of the day, it might even be necessary to get a police artist to enhance what I’ve produced. It sometimes helps.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll do your best, Miss Munro,’ I said. It was refreshing to find someone who did not have an undying belief that the system they operated was foolproof and superior to all others.
‘Oh do call me Marilyn,’ said Miss Munro. It was a name that did not seem to suit this rather academic woman who, I hoped, would eventually help in identifying Bruce Metcalfe.
‘One of the witnesses, Tom Hendry, is in prison on remand for arson, Marilyn,’ I said.
‘Not a problem. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d ventured into a nick to knock up a likeness. I think I’ve done all the London ones: Brixton, the Scrubs, Wandsworth, Pentonville, Holloway and Belmarsh, plus Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight. I even went to Dartmoor once. Lovely views, but a bit bleak.’
‘I’ll send DS Poole with you,’ I said.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’m a big girl now.’
‘I appreciate that, but Tom Hendry might just have remembered something else that’s relevant to our murder, and it’ll be useful for Dave to put a few questions to him. Apart from anything else, you’ll need him to guide you to the places where the other people live. Some are in Southampton.’
It took Marilyn Munro until Monday morning. She arrived in the incident room and handed me a sheaf of prints.
‘They’re the best I can do, Mr Brock.’
I glanced through the results. Admittedly, there were similarities in the six depictions that Marilyn had produced, but there were also significant differences. It was more or less the result that she’d predicted.
‘I’ve made a composite of those six,’ continued the helpful Marilyn, and handed it to me. ‘I don’t know if it’ll be of any use.’
‘It’s all we’ve got,’ I said, ‘and thank you for your efforts.’
Once Marilyn Munro had departed, I handed the prints to Colin Wilberforce, and waved a hand at his computer. ‘Can you send those to Inspector Granger at the Australian High Commission on that machine of yours, Colin?’ I asked.
‘It’s possible, sir,’ said Colin doubtfully. ‘I could scan them in and transmit them as an attachment to an email – provided Mr Granger’s software is the same as ours – but it might be better if they were delivered in person. In that way you won’t lose any of the definition.’
It would have been unwise of me to argue with Colin’s technical expertise, mainly because computers are a foreign country to me. I telephoned Steve Granger and told him I was on the way over.
‘Good,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
As his office was only in the Strand and less than a mile away, I decided to walk. Avoiding the inevitable tourists and their inane questions, I opted to go by way of Victoria Embankment, up the steps into Lancaster Place, and across to Australia House.
‘The local Northern Territory constable who covers Waimatutu Station at Tamorah knows the people there very well, Harry,’ Granger began, once I was seated in his office.
‘Good news?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I doubt that it’ll help much,’ said Granger. ‘The station’s run by an old couple called Paterson, Colin and Mary, and they’ve never heard of a Bruce Metcalfe. There isn’t anyone on the station called cousin Ethel, and neither is there a woman in the area called Marlene who’s recently had a baby. I suppose Metcalfe might’ve been a jackaroo, a casual worker, for the season. They get plenty of them, but the Patersons denied ever taking on someone of that name. Of course, if Metcalfe was there, he might’ve used a different name. But frankly, I don’t think he was ever there. I say that because these local constables keep an eye on itinerant workers. They’re often on the run.’
‘Like Ned Kelly, you mean?’ It wasn’t often I got the chance to have a dig at Steve Granger.
‘Ha, ha!’ said Granger. ‘But what it comes down to, Harry, is that we’ve no idea who wrote the letter. But in my experience, anyone who makes up names and news like that is up to no good, mate.’
‘I agree, Steve. Did your people turn up anything on Gregory and Beth Horton?’
‘Not so far, Harry. I’ve got the guys at HQ in Canberra working on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got something.’
I handed Granger the E-fit prints that Marilyn Munro had compiled from the descriptions given to her by our witnesses. ‘There’s not much chance that these will help, Steve, but it’s the best we can come up with so far.’
Granger glanced at the prints. ‘I don’t know how useful these things are here in the Old Country, Harry, but in Australia we only use them as a last resort.’
‘So do we, Steve. But my DI, Kate Ebdon, is going to show them around the Australian communities in London. You never know, she might strike lucky.’
‘If anyone can find your drongo, Harry, it’ll be Kate,’ said Granger. ‘She’s a smart sheila, that one. Give her my regards, and tell her she owes me a drink.’
Once back at Curtis Green, I called Kate and Dave into my office and told them what I’d learned from Steve Granger. Which didn’t advance our enquiries one little bit, apart from making Metcalfe appear more of a suspect than ever.
‘But the thing that puzzles me,’ I continued, ‘is how the hell a letter comes to be posted from there without the knowledge of the Patersons.’
‘Doesn’t mean it came from there specifically,’ said Kate. ‘Darwin is the capital city of Northern Territory. Any letter posted there, or in the surrounding outback, will almost certainly have a Darwin postmark. I reckon that Bruce Metcalfe was in the Darwin area at some time, and that he wrote and posted the letter to himself. The question is why he should have done so.’
‘And it was postmarked the thirteenth of July,’ I said, ‘so he must’ve been there then, assuming it was he who posted it.’
‘If he didn’t, he probably got a mate to post it for him,’ said Dave. ‘By the way, when I visited Brixton prison with Marilyn, I asked Hendry if he knew anything about Bernie and Samantha, the two mystery guests at Diana’s party. He didn’t.’
‘And Barry Pincher and Charlene?’
‘Drew a blank there as well, guv. The names didn’t mean a thing, although he reckoned he vaguely remembered an older guy who could’ve been Bernie.’
It was then that I decided to authorize a news release stating that Diana Barton had been murdered. When her body was first discovered, I didn’t contradict the newspapers’ assumption that she’d died accidentally in the fire as a result of smoke inhalation. Consequently press reports of the incident, in most papers amounting to a column-inch tucked away on an inside page, had appeared on one day only.
I spoke to the press department at the Yard, which some time ago had taken unto itself the fancy name of Directorate of Public Affairs and Internal Communication, and arranged for the news release to go out as soon as possible. In that release, I linked Diana’s death to that of her husband, and hinted that the same person might have been responsible for both murders. I made no mention of the DNA evidence we possessed, or of Bruce Metcalfe. I didn’t want to give too much away.
Then I sat back and waited to see what would happen next.
I was working on a report at half past six that same evening, when Gavin Creasey, who had not long taken over from Colin Wilberforce for the night duty stint, came into my office.
‘I’ve just had a telephone call from a man named Dale Sims, sir. He saw our piece on Sky News about Diana Barton’s murder, and thinks he might have something to tell us.’
‘I wonder if he’s the Dale who was at the kitchen party. Got the address and phone number, Gavin?’
‘Here, sir.’ Creasey handed me the details.
‘Is Dave in the incident room?’ I asked, having scanned the message.
‘No, sir.’ Creasey grinned. ‘He said to tell you that he’s downstairs in the car with the engine running. And he’s got the E-fits of Bruce Metcalfe with him.’
Tapert Road, Fulham, was in that maze of streets bounded by New Kings Road, Wandsworth Bridge Road and the River Thames. Dale Sims lived on the top floor of number 13, an old Edwardian dwelling that had been converted into flats.
‘Mr Sims?’
‘That’s me. Are you from the police?’
‘Yes, we are.’ I introduced Dave and me, and Sims invited us in.
‘This is my partner Debbie Clark.’ Sims indicated a young woman who was reclining on a sofa reading a book.
‘Hello,’ said the girl. She closed the book, and swung her feet to the floor.
‘I understand that you have something you wish to tell me,’ I said, as Dave and I accepted Sims’s invitation to sit down.
‘We were at Diana’s party the night of the fire, but we had no idea that she’d been murdered, Mr Brock,’ Sims began. ‘When we read the newspaper report of the tragedy we assumed that it had been an unfortunate accident.’
‘I’m afraid not. Mrs Barton had been stabbed several times, and the house was set on fire deliberately.’
‘Oh God, how awful,’ said Debbie. It was the sort of shocked reaction that most people express when they hear of the murder of someone they knew.
‘I read about her husband’s murder, too,’ Sims continued. ‘But I gather that wasn’t at the house, was it? I can’t remember.’
‘His body was found in Sussex Square in Bayswater,’ I said, ‘although the two murders might be connected. We’re particularly interested in tracing a man called Bruce Metcalfe whom we believe to be Australian. We think he was at the party.’
‘Yes, there was an Australian there.’ Sims turned to his partner. ‘You remember him, don’t you, Debs?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Debbie. ‘I think he was on drugs. I didn’t like him at all. He was stripped to the waist and showing off his muscles.’
It was useful to have confirmed what Barnes, Metcalfe’s erstwhile employer, had said, although I wasn’t sure if it would be of any help.
‘Why were you at the party?’ asked Dave.
‘Diana had invited us.’
‘Yes, I gathered that,’ said Dave patiently, ‘but why were you invited?’
‘Oh, I see. I’m an interior designer,’ said Sims, ‘and some time ago I’d advised Diana and her husband on a suitable decor for their sitting room. Mr Barton left it to his wife, but she eventually decided against going ahead with my design. Pity really, it would have made a real showpiece of that room. Anyway, she invited us and a few others who’d either installed her kitchen, or done some decorating.’
‘At what time did you arrive, Mr Sims?’ continued Dave.
‘About seven, I suppose. The invitation said the do started at four, but that was too early for me. I was at an up-market fashion outlet in Mayfair until about five thirty, advising the owner on its refurbishment.’
‘And what time did you leave the party?’
Again Sims turned to his partner. ‘It would’ve been about ten o’clock Debs, wouldn’t it?’
‘About then, yes,’ said Debbie. ‘It wasn’t really our scene. We hadn’t been there long before several of the women were running about stark naked. We’d only been there half an hour before I wished we hadn’t come. They weren’t a very nice lot at all, apart from Gaston. He was a Frenchman, and as I speak a little French I thought it was a chance to try it out. He came from the Loire Valley apparently, and we went there for a holiday last year. But he told me that he hadn’t been back there for years.’
‘I have a rather delicate question to put to you, Mr Sims,’ I said. ‘Did Diana Barton at any time solicit you for sex?’
Sims laughed outright. ‘Good God no. Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Just something I’d heard from others who were at the party.’ I left it at that, declining to tell Sims what we’d learned of Diana’s sexual history.
‘She did disappear from time to time,’ said Debbie, clearly more observant than her partner. ‘And some of the men disappeared at the same time.’
‘D’you remember which of the men?’ asked Dave, busily making notes in his pocketbook.
‘There was a rather louche character called Tom. He had a girl with him called Shelley, one of the naked ones. Tom certainly went upstairs with Diana at one time.’
Dave seemed to be impressed by Debbie’s use of the word ‘louche’. ‘What d’you do for a living, Miss Clark?’ he asked.
‘I’m a librarian at London University,’ said Debbie.
‘Really? I graduated from there,’ said Dave, ‘but I don’t remember you.’
‘I’ve only been there for a year,’ said Debbie. ‘Before that I worked at a public library. Pretty dull.’
‘Was anyone else absent at the same time as Mrs Barton?’ I asked, steering Dave and Debbie away from their cosy tête-à-tête. ‘Apart from Tom.’
‘Yes, Bruce the Australian. I recall Diana coming back into the room and taking his arm. I didn’t hear what she said, but they both disappeared.’
Dave produced the E-fits that Marilyn Munro had produced. ‘Have a look at these, Mr Sims, and tell me if any of them are like the Bruce you saw.’
Sims studied each one of the E-fits carefully. Eventually he selected one. ‘That’s the nearest,’ he said. It was the one that Tom Hendry had compiled.
Dave handed the prints to Debbie Clark. After looking at them closely, she picked out the same one.
‘Have either of you seen this man since?’ I asked, taking in Sims and his partner with a glance.
‘No,’ said Sims.
‘Nor me,’ said Debbie. ‘Is he the man who murdered Diana?’
‘We don’t know,’ I said. ‘But we think he might be able to assist us with our enquiries.’
Dale Sims laughed. ‘You policemen always say that,’ he said. ‘At least they do on television.’
I declined to dignify that comment with a reply. ‘Thank you both for your time,’ I said, as Dave and I stood up. ‘I don’t suppose that we’ll need to see you again.’
‘I hope you catch him,’ said Sims, as he escorted us to his front door. ‘Diana was a nice woman.’
It was getting on for ten o’clock that evening by the time we got back to Curtis Green. I told Dave to go home for what we in the CID call an early night.
Although it was nearly eleven o’clock by the time I got back to Surbiton, I was in the office by half past eight on the Wednesday morning.
No sooner had I stirred my coffee and lit a forbidden cigarette – to hell with the law – when Colin Wilberforce came into my office with a message form in his hand.
‘What is it, Colin?’
‘Bruce Metcalfe’s been found, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Fifty-four Talleyrand Street, Earls Court, sir.’
So Kate Ebdon was right in thinking that he tried to lose himself among fellow Australians, I thought. ‘Is he in custody?’
‘No, sir, he’s dead.’ Wilberforce flourished the message form. ‘And it’s described in this as a suspicious death. The owner of the house identified him, and among his possessions was a credit card in the name of James Barton. Mr Cleaver is acting commander and he directs that you investigate.’
If Alan Cleaver said it was down to me there was no argument. He was a career CID officer, and knew what he was doing.
‘As a matter of interest, where is the commander, Colin?’
‘He’s taken a couple of days off, sir,’ said Wilberforce. ‘Apparently something to do with refurbishing his caravan,’ he added with a grin.
That I could believe. Our illustrious commander always struck me as the sort of individual who’d spend his holidays in a caravan. But to me a week or two in a caravan with Mrs Commander sounded like a holiday to be avoided like the plague. ‘What’s happened so far?’ I asked.
‘Local CID are on scene and dealing, sir, but when they did a check on the PNC and found you had an interest they referred it to us. Dr Mortlock’s been called, as has Linda Mitchell and her team.’
‘Any indication of how he was murdered, Colin?’ asked Dave.
‘None at all, Dave,’ said Wilberforce. ‘The message merely said a suspicious death.’
‘Looks like we’re off again, guv,’ Dave said. ‘I’ll get the car.’
‘It’s the rush hour, Dave. Get a traffic car to take us,’ I said with some misgiving. ‘I want to get there before the locals make too much of a mess of our crime scene.’
So once again, I placed my life in the hands of the Black Rats, arguably the finest drivers in the world. That said, there was a story circulating in the Metropolitan Police some years ago that a senior politician, on urgent business, was taken from the Foreign Office to Heathrow Airport at high speed. Conveyed in a police car, he was accompanied by a motorcycle escort. He had intended to work on his dispatch box during the journey, but by the time he arrived – a bare twenty minutes later – he’d screwed up its contents in sheer terror. On staggering white-faced from the traffic car he expressed the opinion that his life seemed to be in grave danger only when he was surrounded by the police.
I knew how he felt.