The telephone call came at just gone midday on the day after my visit to the bank.
‘Chief Inspector, it’s Bernie Graves. D’you remember you came to see me at Golders Green about the party at Diana’s place?’
‘I do indeed, Mr Graves. How can I help you?’
‘It’s more a case of how I can help you,’ said Graves. There was a note of triumph in his voice. ‘I spotted Samantha this morning. That’s to say, the woman you said was Beth Horton. The girl who was at the party.’
It was ironic, but somehow predictable, that a journalist should eventually be the one to point us in the right direction.
When I’d handed Bernie Graves my card, I’d thought no more about it. I always gave my card to witnesses with a request that should anything more occur to them they should let me know. It rarely did, but now Bernie Graves proved that there could always be an exception.
‘Where was this, Mr Graves?’
‘She was shopping in Knightsbridge.’
‘What were you doing in Knightsbridge?’
‘Shopping, of course.’ The tone of Graves’s response indicated that he thought it a pointless question.
‘What time was this, that you saw her?’
There was a pause. ‘First off, at about eleven o’clock, I suppose.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘No, but I followed her. We journalists can be quite good at that sort of thing.’
‘Where did she go?’ I asked. God preserve me from amateur sleuths.
‘She went on quite a tour of the shops in that area, and seemed to be spending a lot of money,’ said Graves, and went on to list the establishments that Beth Horton had visited. ‘It was pretty bloody obvious that she was on one hell of a spending spree.’
‘Did you happen to notice how she paid for her purchases?’ I asked, hoping that, in addition to his surveillance skills, Graves also possessed a journalist’s eye for detail.
‘With a credit card, but I wasn’t going to get close enough to see the details. Not without her sussing me out. She might’ve remembered me from Diana’s party, you see.’
‘And where did she go after she’d finished shopping?’
‘She hailed a taxi and took off.’ Graves paused in his narrative. ‘I’m afraid I lost her. There wasn’t another cab in sight. But there never is when you want one. Bit like coppers really.’
‘Well, thanks for your help, Mr Graves. That’s all been extremely helpful.’ And I meant it. Assuming that it was Beth Horton that he had seen, there was a chance that we could trace her through her credit card. Providing that she’d used her own name to acquire it, and that we could link it to the shops Graves said she’d patronized. And if it happened to be an Australian credit card, that would simplify the enquiry, but life was never that easy.
I got hold of Charlie Flynn, an ex-Fraud Squad sergeant who knew his way around credit card companies, repeated what Graves had told me, and asked him to make a check on the shops that he’d told me our suspect had visited. ‘See if you can get details of the plastic she was using, Charlie,’ I said, and gave him a list of the shops and the approximate times she had entered each one.
It was not until three o’clock on the following afternoon, Friday, that Charlie Flynn was able to produce an answer of sorts.
‘I visited all the shops that were on the list that Graves gave you, guv. Based on the times he said Beth Horton went into each one, I was able to get details of the credit card that was used on each of those occasions. It’s in the name of Samantha Crisp. I then went to the company that issued the card, but the bad news is that the address they have for her is En Passant, Roget Road, Pinner. I think that’s the address of her in-laws.’
‘Yes, it is, Charlie, and I’m not surprised. But how the hell did she get a card that she was able to use so quickly? They seem to chuck these things around like they’re going out of fashion. Did the company do a credit rating check?’
‘Yes, guv, but not the usual one. The credit manager told me that this Samantha Crisp referred her to a Mrs Faye Horton, and Mrs Horton vouched for the girl. Apparently Mrs Horton, Mrs Faye Horton, that is, has a card with the same company and agreed to stand as guarantor. I took a statement from the woman who made the phone call.’
‘I think we’re getting somewhere at last, Charlie,’ I said.
Flynn looked surprised. ‘Is that good news, then, guv? It looked to me like it was a dead end.’
‘On the contrary, Charlie, it’s great. I’ve had my suspicions about Faye Horton from the word go. Ask Miss Ebdon to come in.’
‘Charlie Flynn said you were pleased about something, guv,’ said Kate, appearing in my office moments later.
She already knew what Graves had told me, and now I brought her up to speed on the result of Flynn’s enquiries. ‘I reckon that Faye Horton has a lot of questions to answer, Kate, and the sooner we start asking them, the sooner we might track down her step-daughter-in-law.’
It was just on six o’clock by the time that Kate and I arrived at the Horton residence at Pinner. I’d decided against bringing Dave; three was a somewhat oppressive crowd in the circumstances, and the presence of Kate would be useful. Particularly if it got to the point of arresting Faye Horton, a course of action that was beginning to look more and more likely. And with that in mind, I’d arranged for a car with a driver.
The Mercedes and the Lexus were outside, together with a Rolls Royce and a Jaguar. There was also a maroon Bentley parked there.
‘Crikey!’ exclaimed Kate, pointing at the Bentley. ‘I hope that’s not the Queen paying a visit. If it is, I don’t suppose they’ll be having a barbie in the backyard.’ As those of us working in the capital knew, many of the royal fleet of cars had maroon livery.
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘That Bentley’s got a number plate, and the Queen’s hasn’t.’
Katya Kaczynski opened the door. This evening she was dressed formally in a black dress, albeit with a very short skirt, black tights and shoes, and a white frilly apron. It looked as though we were about to interrupt a dinner party. ‘Ah! The police persons. You wish the Mr Horton, is it?’
‘We wish indeed, Katya,’ said Kate.
The reaction of the Hortons was predictable.
‘My God, this is intolerable!’ exclaimed Maurice Horton, staring at us malevolently. In a group around him stood an elderly grey-haired man smoking a cigarette, a younger man with a moustache, and an olive-skinned fellow with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. They were all wearing dinner jackets and holding crystal tumblers. Faye Horton and another woman, a rather overweight blonde of about forty, were seated in armchairs, sipping champagne. Two other women were seated side by side on a wide sofa. All four were elegantly attired in full-length evening gowns that must have cost a small fortune. Kate told me later that Faye Horton was wearing silk sandals by Jimmy Choo. It meant nothing to me, but doubtless would have impressed my girlfriend.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Horton,’ I said, ‘but it’s important that I speak to you, preferably alone.’
‘Won’t this wait?’ demanded Faye Horton. ‘It can’t have escaped your notice that we’re entertaining guests. And we’re proposing to sit down to dinner very shortly.’
‘This gentleman is my solicitor.’ Maurice Horton indicated the grey-haired man, but didn’t mention his name.
I hoped that Kate wouldn’t make some smart remark about guilty conscience, but fortunately she remained silent. Nevertheless, it was interesting that Horton saw fit to mention the occupation of only one of his guests.
‘It won’t take long, Mr Horton.’
Horton glanced at his solicitor friend. ‘I’m sorry about this, Geoffrey, but the police have been plaguing the life out of us recently. It’s all to do with Diana’s death.’ He turned to face me. ‘You’d better come into my study.’ Still holding his glass, he led the way.
The study, on the far side of the spacious hall, was a snug thickly carpeted room. In addition to a custom-built workstation on which were a hi-tech computer and all the gismos that went with it, the room had a number of leather club armchairs. I suspected that they had been selected for their appearance rather than their comfort. However, we were not immediately given the opportunity to test my theory. At one end of the room stood a faux antique desk with an inlaid leather top; a captain’s chair was positioned behind it.
‘Well?’ Maurice Horton stood near the desk beneath a tasteful full-length life-size painting of a naked woman. She was standing side-on to the artist, but she was looking directly at him. I recognized the subject of the portrait as Faye Horton.
‘Well?’ snapped Horton again. His feet were apart, his stance implying extreme annoyance, animosity, and a general lack of willingness to co-operate.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your son has been found dead, Mr Horton.’ There was no easy way to break news of this kind, and I’d found over the years that a straight, bald statement was the best way of doing it.
‘Oh God, no!’ Horton’s jaw dropped and, swaying slightly, he reached out to the desk for support before sitting down in the chair behind it. ‘How did he die?’ he asked. All his initial hostility had vanished.
‘I’m afraid he was murdered, Mr Horton.’
‘Murdered!’ Horton suddenly realized that we were still standing. ‘Please sit down.’ He glanced at Kate. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said, ‘I’m forgetting my manners, but this has come as a terrible shock.’ Slowly lifting a whisky decanter from his desk, he poured a substantial measure into his glass with a shaking hand. ‘Are you in a position to give me any of the details, Chief Inspector?’ He paused, confused. ‘Oh, er, would you like a drink?’
‘No thanks.’ I emphasized my refusal by making a staying motion with my hand. ‘Your son’s body was discovered on the fifteenth of this month, but we’ve only just been advised of it by the Australian authorities,’ I said, bending the truth only a little. ‘He was found in the outback near a place called Tamorah in the Northern Territory. It’s not far from the City of Darwin.’
‘Do you know who was responsible for his death?’
This was the part that I knew would distress Horton even more. ‘The Northern Territory Police have obtained a warrant for the arrest of your daughter-in-law Elizabeth Horton. We’ll be receiving papers seeking her return to Australia under the provisions of the Fugitive Offenders Act.’
‘His wife murdered him? But why? This is the most terrible news.’ Horton shook his head like a boxer who’d just received a debilitating blow to the solar plexus.
‘And I have certain evidence that causes me to believe she might also have been responsible for the murder of Bruce Metcalfe. He, of course, was the man who, scientific evidence seems to indicate, was guilty of the murders of Diana Barton and her husband James.’
‘Have you any idea where Elizabeth is?’ Horton spoke haltingly, as though all this information was too much for him to take in at one time.
‘Not at the moment, Mr Horton, although we have reason to think that she’s still in this country. Enquiries have been put in hand to trace her. However, we believe that your wife might be able to assist us in that regard.’
‘Oh really? How can you possibly think that Faye might have anything to do with it?’ Some of Horton’s hostility returned with that question.
I explained about the credit card, and that we had a statement from the credit manager at the Visa company that issued it, testifying that Faye Horton had stood as guarantor for Beth Horton.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Horton, although his expression indicated that he was merely making a token denial.
‘When your wife was telephoned by the credit manager, it was explained to her that a woman named Samantha Crisp was applying for a credit card, and claimed to be living at this address. Your wife confirmed that that was the case, and offered to guarantee her repayments. We believe Samantha Crisp and Elizabeth Horton to be one and the same.’
It was opportune that, at that moment, Faye Horton entered the study. ‘Are you going to be much longer?’ she demanded haughtily. Although she looked at her husband, the question was meant for me. ‘We’re waiting to sit down to dinner.’ Paradoxically, her very hauteur made her more attractive. Her emerald-green silk gown was strapless, and displayed her elegant shoulders to advantage, their tan suggesting hours spent on a sun bed. A single string of pearls and matching stud earrings completed the picture of a stylish, rich and pampered woman.
‘Sit down,’ said Horton curtly.
‘I beg your pardon, Maurice!’ Faye’s very pose emanated fury, but at once revealed an animal magnetism that had not been apparent before.
‘I said sit down. The chief inspector has some questions to ask you.’ Horton’s brusque tone of voice brooked no refusal.
Without another word, Faye Horton took a seat in the only vacant club chair. She crossed her legs, linked her hands in her lap, and gazed imperiously at me. ‘Well?’
But I let Kate kick off.
‘You undertook to stand as guarantor for a woman called Samantha Crisp when she applied for a credit card, Mrs Horton.’ said Kate. ‘You were told that that woman claimed to reside at this address, and you confirmed it. We have a statement to this effect from the credit manager.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Faye, but her sudden breaking of eye contact with Kate belied her denial.
‘How long have you known Samantha Crisp?’
Faye looked at her husband. ‘D’you think I need Geoffrey up here, Maurice.’
‘Why should you need a solicitor?’ asked Horton coldly. ‘Have you done something wrong?’
‘These people are trying to confuse me.’
‘Really? Then you must be easily confused. It all seems perfectly straightforward to me. Did you get such a telephone call, Faye?’
I decided to intervene. ‘Perhaps you’d let Inspector Ebdon establish what happened, Mr Horton.’ If Horton carried on with his questioning it could well have an adverse effect on the outcome of any charges we might bring against Faye Horton. And right now that was becoming more of a likelihood.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Faye quietly. Her confidence had completely vanished in the face of Kate Ebdon’s relentless accusations.
‘And you knew that Samantha Crisp was, in fact, Elizabeth Horton,’ continued Kate. ‘Gregory Horton’s wife.’
‘Yes.’
Kate glanced at me. I knew what that look was asking, and I nodded.
‘Faye Horton,’ said Kate, turning back to Horton’s wife, ‘you are not obliged to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when further questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’ And to emphasize what she had just said, Kate took her pocketbook from her handbag, opened it on her knee and made a note.
‘You’ve known all along where that damned woman is, haven’t you, Faye?’ said Horton. ‘Well, you might be interested to know what Mr Brock has just told me. Gregory’s dead, and the police in Australia have a warrant for Elizabeth’s arrest for his murder.’
‘They have?’ Faye’s two-word response managed to convey shock at what her husband had just told her.
‘Where is Elizabeth?’ asked Kate.
‘I don’t know,’ said Faye. ‘But I have a phone number for her.’ She opened her silk ruched clutch bag and took out a small diary. Finding the relevant page, she handed the book to Kate. ‘That’s it there, Inspector.’ She pointed to a scribbled entry.
‘I’m seizing this diary as evidence,’ said Kate, placing the book in her own handbag. ‘I’ll give you a receipt for it later.’
‘I take it you knew that the police wanted Elizabeth Horton,’ said Kate.
‘Yes, but I didn’t know exactly why. She said that you suspected her of a murder in London, but that she hadn’t murdered anyone. The way she said it convinced me that you had got it all wrong, and that there’d been some terrible mistake.’ Even then, as we later discovered, Faye Horton was not telling the whole truth.
But that was good enough for me. ‘Faye Horton, I’m arresting you for assisting an offender, namely Elizabeth Horton. I would remind you that you’re still under caution. I’m also obliged to tell you that other charges may follow.’
Faye looked at her husband, a pathetic, sympathy-seeking expression on her face. ‘Can they do this, Maurice?’ she implored.
‘Yes, they can. That woman murdered my son.’ Horton seemed to have no doubt that the Northern Territory Police had got it right, and had promptly abandoned his wife to her fate. It was only later we learned the reason. ‘Why, for God’s sake? You had everything. What possible excuse could you have had for helping that fucking woman? You’ve betrayed me.’
Faye Horton looked a little stunned at her husband’s outburst, but otherwise took no exception to his obscene language. Perhaps she’d heard it too often, and it made me think, yet again, that the Hortons’ marriage was more than a bit rocky.
‘That’ll do, Mr Horton,’ I cautioned. I turned to Faye. ‘You might wish to change into something more suitable, Mrs Horton. Inspector Ebdon will come with you.’
Kate escorted Faye from the room, watched by Maurice Horton, a look of utter contempt on his face.
‘What will happen now, Chief Inspector?’ Horton asked.
‘Mrs Horton will be taken to Charing Cross police station for further enquiries to be made,’ I said. ‘Depending upon what we learn, she may well be charged.’
‘Does she need a solicitor?’
‘That’s a matter for her,’ I said. ‘But if your friend decides to act, you can tell him where she’s being taken.’
‘I doubt that he’d be of any help,’ said Horton dismissively. ‘Geoffrey’s speciality is property deals and drawing up wills for the rich and famous.’
Fifteen minutes later, Faye and Kate returned to the study. Maurice Horton’s wife was now attired in a sober grey trouser suit and high-heeled shoes, and she’d applied fresh make-up. An expensive shoulder bag hung from her left shoulder.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
What I didn’t know at the time, however, was that the Hortons’ entire performance that evening had been a charade. And I could only admire their dramatic skills when eventually I learned the truth.
Before we escorted Faye Horton from the house, I stepped outside, called Dave on my mobile, and gave him the telephone number from Faye Horton’s little book.
Ten minutes later Dave rang back with the answer. ‘The number goes out to a flat in Clarges Street, guv,’ he reported.
‘I want you to get round there with a couple of female officers and arrest Beth Horton, Dave,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want you to arrive there only to find that she’s out.’
‘I’d thought of that, guv. I’ve already sent Nicola Chance and Sheila Armitage round there to see what they could find out. Discreetly, of course.’
I was happy with that. The two DCs Dave had picked for the job were extremely good detectives.
We took Faye Horton out to our car, and set off for London.
Just before we reached Charing Cross police station, Dave rang again.
‘Sheila spoke to the resident janitor, guv. It’s an expensive apartment, previously occupied by an up-market call girl who catered for very rich men. The janitor said that Beth Horton does live there, but she’s out at the moment. Or at least, the woman who occupies the flat is out. However, the janitor reckons she is an Australian, but he doesn’t know her name, so he said.’ Dave had no high opinion of janitors, and gauged their worth as informants against the value of the Christmas gifts they received from grateful residents.
‘I just hope it is the Horton woman,’ I said. ‘Where are Sheila and Nicola now?’
‘In the vicinity in case Beth Horton returns,’ said Dave.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then, Dave. DI Ebdon and I will take Faye Horton to Charing Cross nick and start questioning her. I’ll see you later when, and if, you’ve got Beth Horton in custody.’
‘I will have, guv,’ said Dave confidently. ‘Sooner or later.’
But Beth Horton did not return that night. And that caused two other officers a great deal of annoyance and loss of sleep.