The gleaming Lexus glided smoothly to a halt in front of the players’ entrance and the people inside allowed a small pause to elapse before opening the doors and stepping out. A smartly dressed middle-aged couple emerged first. They gazed around with satisfaction. One crowd of tennis fans, contained some distance away, were waving and calling greetings to the new arrivals. Another group, in the street on the other side of the fence, were also eager to see which of the stars had just arrived. This second group included a couple of young women with large, lurid initials appliquéd to the fronts of their T-shirts. Having successfully managed to jostle for positions at the front, they had already recognized the couple as Stewart Bickerstaff’s parents.
“Ooh, he’s here, he’s here,” breathed one of them in a tone that came close to awe. She brought her hands up to her mouth, squashing the “A” on her frontage as she did so.
Her companion, a “W” stretched across an ample bosom, preferred a more forthright approach. “Oh, Stewart! Hi, Stewart!” she called.
The offside rear door of the car now opened and the remaining occupant got out and stood up. He paused for a moment, took in the crowd and bestowed a special nod and smile in the direction of the women with the initialled T-shirts, knowing from previous tournaments that the letters of the whole group spelled out his name.
“Good luck in your games, Stewart,” called the “W” girl as Stewart collected his kit from the boot. Her cry was taken up here and there and several calls of “good luck” echoed from different parts of the crowd. Stewart raised a hand to acknowledge the good wishes and went into the club as the car pulled away.
A young man and woman in a car immediately behind had waited patiently for the Lexus to move off so that they could advance.
“Stewart’s got a lot of fans,” said the man, Philip Turnbull, as he watched his fellow player disappear.
His companion looked across at him with a grin. “Well, at least eighteen,” she remarked in an attractive Mid-Western drawl.
Philip cast a quizzical glance across at Tessa Riordan. “Eighteen? What d’you mean?”
“Eighteen letters in his name.”
Philip laughed. “Oh yes, I see. But there are lots more.” He waved an arm vaguely in the direction of all the waiting tennis fans.
Tessa Riordan smiled. She’d recognized the choreographed entrance of the Bickerstaffs for what it was. She glanced affectionately across at Philip. She knew she was falling in love with him but she was doing so with her eyes open and had already recognized the mildly naïve strain running through his personality. For her, it added to his charm. “The rest of them aren’t Stewart’s fans, specially,” she said. “He knows how to work a crowd, that’s all.”
“You’re probably right,” said Philip as he put the car into gear and moved forward.
The women with the initialled T-shirts made their way back to where the rest of their friends held their places on the centre court. At first they were silent; a row two days ago had left a lingering frostiness.
Then: “Love that warm-up suit,” said Chloe, of the letter “A”.
“It must be new,” replied the “W” girl, Michelle Davies, who had been a devoted fan of Stewart for a good while longer than her friend and considered herself something of an authority figure in the group. “He wasn’t wearing it at Queens the other week.”
“It looks good on him,” said Chloe. A brief pause followed and then she spoke again, allowing appeasement to creep into her voice. “Was he wearing it, you know, when…?”
Michelle considered getting on her high horse but changed her mind. After their row she’d stormed off and while separated from the group had, wonder of wonders, managed to get a precious glimpse of Stewart. She’d rushed hurriedly back to the tent she shared with Chloe only to find that her story wasn’t believed. At least Chloe said she didn’t believe it. This led to an accusation of jealousy, which brought forth a counter-charge of showing off and resulted in an uncomfortable silence in the tiny tent. Michelle had nursed her sense of grievance for a further twenty-four hours but now she smiled suddenly at her friend. She didn’t want to continue the row. And she really did want to revel in the details of her sighting with a fellow devotee. Perhaps, if she discussed it, what she had seen wouldn’t seem so strange. She leaned into her friend and they bent their heads together and chatted as they walked.
Nursing a hot cup of tea, Angela sat on the edge of a desk in front of a huge whiteboard in the incident room and faced her newly formed team. In spite of the tea her mouth felt dry, she had butterflies in her stomach and she felt sure everyone in the room could see her nervousness as they waited for her to begin the first briefing. Come on, Angela, you’re a big girl, she told herself sternly. Get on with it. She put the cup down.
“OK, folks, so what have we got?” she said to no one in particular.
For an answer, Jim held up a copy of a tabloid newspaper he had been leafing through. She glanced at the bold headline: Petar Belic Dead at Wimbledon.
“Thank you, Jim. You have a very firm grasp of the obvious.” This was greeted with a couple of nervous chuckles from some of those present and Angela let her gaze roam over the room. As Stanway had promised, apart from Rick and Jim she had two detective constables, Derek Palmer and Leanne Dabrowska, and the new man, Gary Houseman. He wore the same new suit as yesterday with an almost snazzy tie, and looked alert and intelligent. She couldn’t ask for much more at this stage.
“Right,” she said. “I’ve now gone through the PM report. Petar Belic died between 11 p.m. Sunday night and two o’clock Monday morning. The cause of death has not yet been established, but the circumstances are suspicious and that’s why we’re here. As you know, he was found lying on Court 19 and there is a puncture mark in the back of his neck, quite possibly made by someone unused to handling a syringe.”
“We’ll cross all the known druggies off our list then, Angie,” murmured Jim with just the merest hint of hesitancy in his voice. A tiny wave of uncertain laughter went through the room.
Angela considered glaring at him to put him in his place but she very quickly realized that this was a mark of her own nervousness. Lighten up, woman, she thought. Get over yourself. A little levity in a team is a good thing, right? She found herself able to grin at him. “Yeah, but keep the snorters and pill-poppers in the frame for the moment though, Jim,” she said. The laughter in the room was heartier this time and there was a definite relaxing of the atmosphere. “OK,” she continued. “We know the first three questions we have to ask, don’t we?” She formed her mouth into the shape necessary for saying “M”.
“Motive, means and opportunity.” Rick was right on cue.
“One brownie point for you, Rick; this leads us, of course, to all the “W”s – who, what, when, where, why and how. And the person who tells me that ‘how’ doesn’t begin with a ‘W’ will be doing the tea run the entire time we’re on this case.” This was met with an open guffaw; more, in fact, than the weak quip warranted, but it signalled that the ice had been broken. Angela breathed an inward sigh of relief.
“Right, it’s about time we had some information on the board. Leanne, what’s your handwriting like?”
“Not too bad, guv,” answered Leanne, going over to the board and picking up a marker.
“Petar Belic, natch,” said Jim. Angela noticed that the moodiness of yesterday seemed to have completely disappeared.
“Yep,” she nodded. “Let’s keep our focus. Stick him at the top, Leanne. Have we got any photographs?”
“Yes, here,” came the voice of Derek Palmer. He came forward with a picture cut from a magazine.
“Well done, Derek,” said Angela as the image of Petar appeared beside his name. “We’ll get proper stills as we go along but this is good enough for now.”
Within ten minutes a small collection of names and the relationship each had had with Petar had been written up for all to see. Stewart Bickerstaff, after a brief discussion, was listed as a pupil/player. Una Belic and Lavinia Bannister were marked as wife and girlfriend respectively. Angela stood looking at the board with a thoughtful expression. “Danny Moore,” she said.
“Who’s that?” asked Rick as Leanne wrote the name up.
“Ex tennis player and very good friend of Petar.”
“Oh, right. Do we know anything about his last known movements?”
“Not a lot so far. Petar was having a drink with Danny Moore in one of the bars at about half-four or five Sunday afternoon, but in a place like Wimbledon he must have been seen by any number of other people. Leanne, stick ‘security staff’ up and ‘ground staff’ and…” she turned round to face the room. “Sorry, everybody, but we have to add ‘crowds’.”
A groan went around the room.
“We’ll need to check it out first,” she said. “Keep them in the picture until we’ve got a clearer idea of how Petar’s body got to where it was found. As far as I’m aware there aren’t any campers out in the street any more. They keep to the park.”
“Actually…” began Gary, then stopped as he saw that all eyes were suddenly on him.
“Yes, Gary?”
A slight blush came and went very quickly on the new boy’s face. “Well, I don’t know if it’s worth following but I’ve got a mate in uniform and he’s working with the crowds there. He told me there’s a particular group of fans that support Stewart Bickerstaff. They camp out, apparently. Several of them wear T-shirts with letters that spell out Bickerstaff’s name. My mate’s been talking to one or two of them and they’re very keen – well, you know, it’s just the same as being a pop star’s fan and hanging round the stage door hoping for a glimpse. They’d be looking out for Stewart and they might have seen something.”
“It’s Petar’s movements we’ve got to track,” began Jim, but Angela cut across him. She’d seen where Gary was coming from.
“You’re thinking maybe that at tournament time, where Stewart is, Petar couldn’t be far away?”
“Yes, guv, something like that.”
“That’s good thinking, Gary. We’ll cover that angle. This friend of yours – he’s not Martin Pearse by any chance, is he? The constable that was called in when the body was found?”
“Yes, guv, that’s the one.”
“OK, tell him to stay alert.” She nodded at Leanne, who started another column on the board. “We need to find his car. You get on to that, Derek. Try all the car parks there first and if you draw a blank get back to the guys here to put out a general alert. As well as that, it’s probably a futile exercise, but given this puncture wound we’ve got to look for a syringe of some sort. That means a search of the lockers. I’ll sort out the warrants for that. Rick and Jim, you get started on the security and ground staff. Leanne, you go with Derek; you can take the crowds. I think Gary’s idea is a good one and you shouldn’t have too much difficulty. From what I’ve seen, Stewart Bickerstaff’s most ardent fans are instantly recognizable.”
“OK,” said Derek.
“And we’ll need to check whether or not he left a will.” She made a note. “Leave that with me for the time being.” She looked up at the board. “It would be helpful to have a map of the club and grounds. Derek, before you do anything else, can you get on to one of the uniforms at the club and ask if they can get us one? Gary, you wait here, please; I think I might need you. OK, everybody, you all know our starting point.”
“Last known movements and who he was sharing them with,” said Jim, ambling past her, crushing a paper cup.
Just at that moment the telephone rang, and Angela picked it up. “D.S. – oops – D.I. Costello,” she answered.
“D.I. Costello, excuse me, ma’am. It’s the control room at Wimbledon here. I believe you’re the officer dealing with the case of Petar Belic.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a lady here at the club who’s demanding – er, she’s wondering why nobody has interviewed her yet.”
“That’s because we’re barely off the starting blocks, but don’t tell her that. Who is she?”
“The name’s – er…” There was a brief pause and Angela could hear the rustle of paper as a notebook was consulted. “Lavinia Bannister.”
“Ah, right.” Angela remembered Patrick’s account of Lavinia Bannister’s behaviour at the coroner’s mortuary and thought that “demanding” was probably an apt word. “Will you please tell Ms Bannister that I’ll be at the club shortly and will contact her in due course.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Angela finished the call and looked across at the names on the board. Still gazing at it, she said, “Right. Gary, of the people closest to Petar, one of them is at the club now and waiting for us.”
Gary looked up at the board. “Stewart Bickerstaff will be there, I s’pose.”
“Actually I was thinking of Lavinia Bannister; she’s there and creating a fuss about not having been interviewed yet. I’m not sure where Stewart will be because he’s not playing today but we might be lucky and catch him at practice.” She looked at Gary. “You’ve drawn the short straw, I’m afraid.”
He met her gaze; no hint of a blush this time. “Guv?”
“You get to ride shotgun with the boss.”
He smiled. “Great. Thanks, guv.”
He seemed able to combine confidence and modesty. Angela was impressed. “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s get started. I hope you’re good at taking notes.”
The second day’s play was in full swing by the time Angela drove back into the club, and despite the seriousness of the circumstances she couldn’t repress a feeling of pleasure at the prospect of her licence to come and go freely during the tournament. She asked the first constable they came across for directions to the police room; the journey there meant weaving through a constantly shifting throng of excited, chattering tennis fans dressed in summer clothes and clearly enjoying themselves enormously.
Once in the room, she sat behind the desk and made herself comfortable. “Will you go and see if you can track Stewart Bickerstaff down, please, Gary? Start with the practice courts.”
“Oh, OK. You’re not worried about Lavinia Bannister, guv – since she’s been making a fuss, I mean?”
Angela smiled up at him. “I’m fully aware of my position as a public servant. But that doesn’t mean that when the public says ‘jump’ I have to ask how high.”
Gary grinned and set off on his mission. Within ten minutes he was ushering someone into the room.
The tall figure of Stewart Bickerstaff appeared in the doorway and paused. Angela had the impression that he did so in order to give her the chance to register that a celebrity was standing there. She reasoned that his life must be full of people seeing him, doing a double take, and wondering if it was really him before approaching and asking for an autograph.
Gary, behind him, obviously couldn’t see why he was held up from entering. Being the shorter man, he raised himself on tiptoe to see into the room. His puzzled expression peering over Stewart’s shoulder made Angela want to laugh but she kept her face straight.
Gary tucked himself into a corner with his notebook open on his lap as Angela introduced herself. She indicated the chair on the other side of the desk, studying Stewart as he arranged himself in the chair. His expertly cut blond hair framed an unlined face in which the points of colour – deep blue eyes and generous red lips – showed well against his light tan; a smooth, handsome appearance overall. He wasn’t Angela’s type – she liked her men a bit craggy – but it was no surprise that he’d attracted a coterie of followers who were prepared to wear T-shirts spelling out his name.
“Congratulations on your win yesterday,” she began. “It must be a relief to get the first-round match out of the way.”
A set of perfect white teeth flashed into a smile. “Thank you. Things have improved among British players in recent years but we haven’t completely lost our reputation for falling at the first fence. So yes, I’m glad to be through to the next round. And as I’ve already said to the media, after the tragic circumstances of yesterday… well… I wanted to win for Petar.” Stewart turned a candid blue-eyed gaze on Angela. “I’m not a religious man, Inspector, but I like to think there’s something ‘out there’. And I truly hope that Petar is in a better place now.”
Angela nodded at this speech and let a moment pass.
“When did you last see him alive?”
“Sunday evening. We had a meal together in a restaurant near here.”
Ah, thought Angela, this beats a late-afternoon drink. “Just the two of you?”
“No, we were, let me see…” Stewart narrowed his eyes. “There was Vinni – Lavinia Bannister, that is – but she went early.” There was the merest of pauses. “Candy came with us, and Joanna and Philip. Tessa joined us later. All in all we had a very pleasant evening.”
Angela noted the order he used. He mentioned Candy first and almost made it seem as if his official, long-standing girlfriend, Joanna, was actually there with Philip Turnbull.
“So there were – what – seven of you altogether? But not everybody was there all the time?”
“That sounds about right.” Stewart crossed his legs in a relaxed manner. “I dare say you want the name and address of the restaurant.”
“Yes, please.”
“It was Le Grand Accueil in the high street,” he said, his faultless pronunciation indicating a good all-round education. “I think I’ve got their card in my locker.”
“Thank you, I’m sure we can find it. I’d also like to know, if you remember, exactly what time Lavinia Bannister left and what time Tessa Riordan joined you.”
The dark blue eyes narrowed again as Stewart thought about his answer.
“Vinni flou… Vinni left about half past nine and Tessa arrived… oh, gone ten, I think, but not much after. She just joined us for a coffee.”
Angela considered this. Given the gossip she had already heard this opened up interesting possibilities.
“How long had Petar and Lavinia been going out with each other?”
“I’m not entirely sure when the relationship began, as such,” he said. “What I can be certain of is that they met two years ago, shortly after Petar became my coach. I know that because I was the one that introduced them.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, Vinni’s family and mine have a friendship stretching back to before I was born, so I grew up knowing her. We socialize a fair bit on and off.”
Angela made a note. She thought Lavinia was in her mid to late thirties and knew that Stewart was twenty-two, so whatever socializing they did at anything other than family parties would probably only have happened once Stewart had reached adulthood.
“Neither of them told you that they’d started going out with each other?”
“Well, not really. The relationship took a while to get off the ground; I got that impression, anyway. I thought that Vinni was very keen from the beginning, but I didn’t like to ask. Of course, I was younger then. She might be a bit more willing to confide in me if it was happening now. Anyway, after about six months they were definitely going to parties and restaurants and stuff as a couple.”
Angela nodded. “Did you leave the restaurant together – those who were still there at the end of the meal, that is?”
“Yes, we all did. We didn’t go on to a club, though, and our cars were parked just outside on the road.”
“Right. Did Petar drive away on his own, or was someone with him?”
“He was by himself.”
“May I ask who you went home with?”
He hesitated and a definite suggestion of embarrassment appeared on his face before he answered. “I took Candy home,” he said. Angela nodded and let a silence develop. It bore fruit. “It made most sense,” he continued after a moment. “Candy lives on my way back, but Joanna is in the other direction – so she got a lift with Tessa and Philip.”
Ah, so Philip’s with Tessa now, is he – not with Joanna after all? thought Angela, “About what time was this?”
“Eleven-ish.”
Angela nodded. “So you dropped Candy off and went on home?”
Stewart dropped his gaze to his hands and paused before answering. “No. No, I stayed with Candy.”
“The whole night?” Angela had long since got over any embarrassment she ever felt at asking potentially awkward questions.
Stewart met her gaze this time. “Yes, the whole night.”
Angela made another note. So Stewart was happy to dine at the same table as Joanna but went home with Candy. It was looking very much like yet another fluid situation.
“Do you know if Petar was involved in anything that would have made him enemies?”
Stewart gave a short burst of unbelieving laughter. “Petar, enemies – it doesn’t compute, Inspector.”
Angela nodded. She hadn’t really expected anything else.
“How long have you known Petar?” she asked.
“About two and a half years. After my success in the juniors, my parents and I – we’re quite a tight-knit family – were aware of the need for a coach who could take me on to the next level. We approached Petar and he was happy to work with me. It turned out to be a good decision as he’s guided me through some gratifying wins on the satellite circuit. I’ve had a good year, in fact, which is why I’ve been given a wild card for this tournament.”
“Oh, really? That’s a step up; you’ll get a seeding next,” she said, aware of a lurking temptation to get stuck into a conversation about tennis.
“I hope so.”
“OK, well, I think that’s all for the moment, Stewart. Thank you for your cooperation. It might be necessary for me to speak to you again but I’ll try to keep the questions to a minimum.”
“Not at all,” said Stewart. “Mind you, I’m certain you’ll discover the cause of death to be perfectly natural. I can’t believe that anybody would want to kill Petar. Not only was he a good friend but I’ve lost a darn fine coach. I don’t know how I’m going to find someone who can help me as he did. It’s going to be quite a problem.”
After he had left the room, Angela turned to Gary, raising her eyebrows. “Did you get all that, Gary?”
“Yes, guv.”
“I’ll be interested in seeing the transcript later. He almost made it sound as though Joanna was with Philip Turnbull at the restaurant – at the beginning of the meal, anyway.”
“Yes; I’d heard that Stewart and Joanna are splitting up and he’s getting it together with Candy Trueman.”
“Well, spending the night together might seem pretty conclusive evidence, but you can’t always tell these days, can you?” replied Angela, considering this morsel. Then she looked at Gary with a quizzical expression. “You’re very up on tennis circuit gossip. Is it coming from your friend in uniform?”
“Martin, yeah. He’s quite keen on one of the fans.”
“Oh, one of the T-shirt wearing ones?”
“Yeah, he’s been bending my ear about her and bringing in all the gossip he’s picked up on the way. The fans have been hanging around a fair bit because the players are in and out of the club quite a lot in the week before the Championship, and he’s listened to all the talk. They seem to have all the low-down on Stewart’s private life. It makes you wonder how they know.”
“I see. And what sort of things were they saying?”
“Just what I’ve said really, guv; they’re Stewart’s fans so he can’t do any wrong for them. They were all for him needing to move on in his life. They seemed to think that Joanna’s holding him back. She’s been a bit of a drag recently, according to them, looking downcast and worried all the time. Her game’s been off, apparently.”
Angela nodded, remembering the commentary she’d listened to on the car radio the previous morning.
“OK, Gary, this meal on Sunday evening means a rethink on the order in which I was planning to see people, as we’ll need to speak to all those who went to the restaurant. We’ll do Lavinia Bannister next. I’ve kept her waiting long enough.”
“Yes, guv.” Gary was nearly out of the door when Angela called him back.
“Oh, and Gary –”
“Yes, guv?”
“Keep pumping your friend for all the gossip.”