“Philip Turnbull?” said D.C.I. Stanway, as he wrote the name down. He lifted his pen from the paper, looked at Angela and raised an eyebrow. “Your reason for keeping him in the frame?”
“He could think Petar was in with Stewart on the blackmail that prevents Philip ever beating him. It may have been gnawing away at him for a couple of years. He could even think that Lavinia is part of the conspiracy.”
Stanway made a note. “And are you thinking that if Philip has killed Petar he might now set his sights on Stewart and Lavinia?”
“It had crossed my mind, sir.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “You mustn’t allow yourself to become too scrupulous, Angela. We are mostly in the business of detecting crimes after they’ve been committed. If we get the chance to prevent a crime we do so, that’s only right. But if we don’t manage to prevent a crime, the blame for it rests fairly and squarely where it has always been: with the perpetrator.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
Stanway allowed a small, avuncular smile to pass across his features before continuing. “Danny Moore?”
“He was Petar’s business partner and he’s been up to no good with the company funds. According to our informant, Petar was about to pull the plug on the company and ruin him.”
“What does the Financial Investigation Unit say?”
“We’re still waiting for them to get back to us.”
“OK. Stewart Bickerstaff?”
“Petar had discovered that he dealt in drugs and might have been about to blow the whistle on him. His career would have disappeared down the toilet overnight and he really likes the limelight.”
“Hmm, there’s a crossover here between option one and option three, but the investigation is a work in progress, so we’ll live with it for the time being. Lavinia Bannister?”
“He was my man and he done me wrong, sir.”
Stanway gave a bark of laughter. “That old favourite! I see.” He finished writing and leaned on the desk, steepling his fingers.
“How normal would it have been for any of these people to be sitting in Petar Belic’s car between half-past midnight and one o’clock last Monday morning?”
“Probably not very normal, but then probably not so very strange either. Danny Moore, by his own admission, was in a nearby restaurant until at least midnight. He knew that Petar had gone for a meal, and could have texted or phoned on the off chance that Petar was still up and around. Philip has already indicated to me that Petar helped him with his game, but discreetly so Stewart’s feathers wouldn’t be ruffled. He could even have spoken quietly to him during the meal and they might have arranged to meet later after he’d seen Tessa home.” She went on, “With Stewart it could have been the same sort of thing, on some pretext or other; pre-tournament nerves – ‘I’m feeling very nervous, coach; please come and stroke my ego’ would probably do. It would be arranged that Petar comes to meet whoever near the club.”
Stanway nodded as she continued.
“They sit and chat in Petar’s car. It’s the same with Lavinia Bannister. She’d been clinging on to Petar for several weeks, from what I can gather, running a ‘we’ve got to talk’ scenario that she was spinning out.”
“OK,” said Stanway, writing again.
“You know, sir, I wouldn’t be surprised if the venue was Petar’s choice. Say one of them asked to meet up with him. He’d just spent an evening in their company and although he’d want to help with whatever problem they said they had, he probably wouldn’t want anyone calling at his flat because it could all go on a lot longer than he would like. It can be hard to get rid of a guest from your own home sometimes.”
“Indeed it can. He lived in Wimbledon Village, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. So, whoever, feigning a desire to talk, asks if they can meet up. Petar, wanting somewhere neutral and away from his own place, might think that Church Road is convenient and discreet. He would assume a need for discretion.”
“Of course. Otherwise the conversation could have been had openly earlier in the evening, either at the club or the restaurant. That’s a good point. There are no houses on the other side of the street there. So he or she parks near the club and walks into Church Road and gets in beside Petar in his own car exactly as if a cosy chat is about to ensue.”
“With all four, I don’t think it would have raised any suspicions in Petar if their hand had gone round his shoulders or down the back of the front seats. He would have been at ease with all of them.”
“Ah, yes, it’s just a nice cosy midnight chat about this and that, there’s an arm coming round the back of Petar, a friendly gesture, and then suddenly it turns into something else. It would have happened very quickly. It must have done; the murderer would have needed Petar relaxed and unsuspecting.”
“Matey injects the insulin. Petar’s not a stupid man. He would realize immediately that this is something serious, that there is intent to kill. Who knows, maybe in that instant a few things fall into place for him – whatever. Petar does what I suspect anybody would do in those circumstances – gets straight out of the car and heads off into the safety of the club, finding himself very wobbly on his legs as he goes. Matey, realizing that the final part of his plan has been thwarted and that he’d better get out of the area, hops into the driving seat and pulls away without realizing that this ‘W’ girl is close by. He leaves the car in a side street where it’s later taken to the police pound.”
Stanway pursed his lips. “And what if Petar hadn’t got out of the car?”
“Sir?”
“Petar’s sitting in the driving seat. The murderer can’t drive the car with a dead man behind the wheel.”
“He doesn’t need to, sir. Plan ‘A’ is that he gets out of the car and legs it. He’s well covered with the hood and rather helped by the fact that the meeting is in such a place. It hangs together, sir.”
“Yes, yes it does. Well, it’s a good theory as far as it goes, Angie. There’s just one little sticking point.”
Angela sighed. “Yes, I know. Who was the person in the hoodie and how do we get the proof?”
“The Crown Prosecution Service tends to be hot on this detail.” Stanway riffled through the papers on his desk. “Is this the only sighting you’ve got from that time? The ‘W’ girl?”
“Oh yes, otherwise known as Michelle Davies. She was the fan wandering around the area in a high dudgeon because she’d had a row with her friend.”
“Hmm.” Stanway looked through the statement. “The defence would make mincemeat of this testimony. No sign of Petar’s mobile?”
“No, sir; it’s probably at the bottom of the Thames by now. Either that or smashed into little pieces somewhere.”
“Yes, yes, a non-starter really; the perp knew what he was doing. What about dabs on the car?”
“Stewart’s, more or less everywhere. He’d driven the car on several occasions, as had Danny and Lavinia once or twice. Nearly everybody in the group who went to the restaurant had been in the car at one point or another. Still, at least we’ve got all their fingerprints on record now in case something turns up in an unexpected place.”
“Well, that’s always useful.” Stanway smiled. “I’m not without sympathy, Angie, but I’m afraid there’s only one thing for it.”
Angela grimaced and nodded. “I keep digging.”
“Indeed you do.” Angela got up to leave but as she reached the door Stanway spoke again. “I think you’re doing a good job, Angie, but be very careful to keep all your options on the boil. One of them is going to emerge as the front-runner.”
“Yes, sir,” Angela assured him as she headed out into the corridor.
“So, do we lean on them, then, Angie?” asked Jim some time later, in the incident room.
“No, you leave the suspects to me for the moment,” replied Angela, not allowing Jim’s comment to cause even the mildest flutter of irritation. After her meeting with Stanway she had called them all together and they’d been batting her theory back and forth for the past half-hour.
“In the case of Stewart,” said Jim, “he’s been sha… er, going out with this Candy Trueman lately, hasn’t he? She’d have known if he went out during the night.”
“Not if she’s anything like my mum,” said Derek. “My dad reckons she’d sleep through an earthquake.” A light-hearted laugh went around the room.
“Naturally that occurred to me,” said Angela, “and there’s a reason why I haven’t looked into it yet. I keep getting this elusive memory of something that’s already been said which answers that question. Rick, you and Jim go through everything we’ve got on Candy. I’m sure it’s in there.”
“OK,” said Rick.
“And then what, Angie?” asked Jim.
“We’ll carry on in the best tradition of police work – we’ll proceed with caution. We’ll keep our minds open and we’ll continue to gather all the evidence we can.” She looked at Gary. “No sign yet of repetitive strain injury with you, is there?”
Gary grinned. “I don’t think so, guv. Do you want me to take some more notes?”
“Mmm. I rather fancy rattling Mr Bickerstaff’s cage a little.”
“You’re not worried that he’ll moan to his mum and dad and they’ll complain to ‘Stanners’ about it?”
Angela laughed. “Well that would be a result, of sorts. Come on, young Houseman, let’s get going.”
Angela was aware of a certain buzz in the air when she arrived back at the club a short time later. A quick check on the scores gave her the reason for it. Stewart had won his fourth-round match and a place in the quarter-finals, where he would play Philip Turnbull, if Philip also won his next match.
Philip’s fourth-round match was scheduled for later in the day, so the British fans would be on tenterhooks for a while yet. Angela gazed up at the scoreboard with mixed feelings. Stewart and Philip were the last two British players left in the men’s draw, and only one of them could win their next match. She thought back to Philip’s dejected, frightened face at their last meeting, and her own shoulders slumped sadly as she thought about the weight that he was carrying on his.
Oh dear, she thought, and hadn’t realized that she’d said it out loud until Gary said, “Guv?”
Angela looked at him, shaking herself out of her reverie. “Oh, nothing, Gary. Come on; let’s go and find Stewart.”
Stewart sat opposite Angela ten minutes later looking rather pleased with himself. As well he might, she conceded. She tried to keep an open mind but it was impossible to un-hear what Philip had told her, and very difficult not to imagine the outcome of his next match and the reason for it. She congratulated Stewart on his fourth-round win through not quite clenched teeth.
He received her congratulations with a pleased smile. “Thank you. It looked a bit tricky in the third set when I was a break down and my serve seemed to desert me for a moment. Happily, it all came together and I was able to get back on track.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Angela. “However, pleasant though it is to talk tennis, that’s not why I’ve asked for this interview.”
“Of course.”
“Petar’s car was seen outside the club in the early hours of Monday morning.”
A frown creased Stewart’s brow. “Oh, really?”
“Do you not think that’s odd?”
Stewart shrugged. “I don’t know where he went after he left the restaurant. Perhaps he came back to collect something he’d left here.”
“Maybe,” agreed Angela. “Somebody answering your description was seen sitting in the front passenger seat.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Now that’s odd. Very odd.”
It was no more than she expected. “Was it you, Stewart? Were you sitting with Petar in his car in the wee small hours of Monday morning?”
He didn’t even blink. “Is this an accusation, Inspector?”
“No, it’s a straightforward question. And I have another one for you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Did you kill Petar Belic?”
Thunder gathered behind Stewart’s eyes and he gave the impression he was having difficulty controlling himself. He allowed a small pause to develop before speaking in a very sombre tone. “I hope you’re making a very bad joke, Inspector,” he said in a deliberately slow voice. “If not, that’s outrageous.”
“So is murder,” answered Angela levelly, aware that she was supposed to be intimidated by his show of fury. She stared into the smug face opposite her. Get a grip, Angela, she told herself. You might not like the man and you certainly don’t like the way he’s treated Philip, but that doesn’t make him the murderer.
“I would like you to know that I take the greatest possible objection to the… question.” He took a couple of deep breaths as if he was having difficulty in speaking. “I’m outraged,” he said, staring down at his hands.
“Why so?” asked Angela in a reasonable tone. “If somebody says they saw a person answering your description in a particular place and time relevant to our enquiry, the police have a duty to follow it up. We can’t dismiss it on the grounds that Stewart Bickerstaff is a nice bloke and the witness must therefore be mistaken.”
Stewart snapped his head up and met her gaze. Aha! Angela’s heart gave a small leap. A look of chagrin had flashed across his features as he suddenly realized that his show of anger had been hasty and he’d now put himself on the back foot. She could see him considering his position.
He opted for injured innocence. “Yes, well. Of course I see that. It just gave me a turn, that’s all. This is a very difficult time, Inspector. My great friend and mentor has been killed at a time when I needed him most.”
Angela played it straight. “I do understand, Stewart,” she said. “And believe me, I sympathize. My job isn’t always a pleasant one.”
Stewart nodded and gave the smile of one who has allowed himself to be mollified. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I’m unable to help you. I don’t know anything about Petar’s car being seen near the club. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”
“For the moment, yes. Thank you for your cooperation.” There was a hint of irritation in his face as he picked up on Angela’s suggestion that she might not have finished with him, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He wasn’t going to let himself be caught out again.
“He’s a cool one, isn’t he?” remarked Gary after the door had closed behind him.
“As a cucumber,” agreed Angela. She felt depressed. She could see no way forward. “Look, Gary. I want to sit in the sun with a coffee for a while. Meet me at the car in half an hour, OK?”
“Sure thing, guv,” answered Gary.
Angela immediately felt better when once again she found herself sitting at a table in bright sunshine amidst a host of enthusiastic, excited tennis fans. She let her mind be invaded by the chatter and hum of the many conversations going on around her and regretted that she wouldn’t be able to sit there for longer. She had closed her eyes for only a few moments when someone called her name and she looked towards the source of the voice. Edith Charlton was coming towards her through the constantly moving crowds.
“Hello, Angela,” beamed Edith. “I’m so glad I saw you. I was hoping for a word.”
Angela had wanted to spend a little time on her own and would have found some polite excuse about needing to be elsewhere, but she was puzzled by the site of Gracie lagging behind her friend with a hesitation in her step and what Angela could only describe as a reluctant expression on her face. Gracie met her gaze and dropped her eyes sheepishly. Edith bustled forward, gathering a couple of chairs from other tables as she did so and pulling them to the one where Angela was sitting.
“Come along, Gracie. Angela’s a busy woman, you know. We’re lucky to have caught her.” Edith plumped herself down on one of the chairs and waited as Gracie took the other one.
“Edith, please,” Gracie demurred.
Edith looked at her friend. “Now come along, Gracie. We’ve had all this out and we agreed.”
“But…” Gracie cast an agonized glance at Angela before appealing to Edith. “Perhaps I should speak to them first, and –”
“Pshaw!” snorted Edith. “Don’t be such a silly goose. The thing is,” she continued, turning her attention to Angela, “she’s somewhat invisible in the house, so people are not as careful in what they say and do in front of her as they should be. And Gracie doesn’t always know how to interpret things. But I can put two and two together without any problems, d’you see?”
Angela nodded, hoping that she would in a minute.
“Oh dear,” muttered Gracie. “This is all so worrying. I hate the thought of being mixed up in this. It isn’t nice.”
“Gracie!” Edith fixed her friend with a very firm expression. “Think of that little flat in West Ealing.”
Angela suddenly got an angle on where this conversation was going and slowly started to rise. She didn’t want to get caught up in a discussion of the dispositions of the late Margaret Bickerstaff’s perfectly legal will. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got to meet my detective constable in the car park.” She continued to move slowly so as not to seem eager to get away, but Edith’s eyes didn’t waver from her face.
“You remember me telling you that I’ve been reading up on the case since I came back?” she said. “And with what Gracie’s got to say, I think we may be able to help you.”
Angela had a sudden memory of Gracie telling her that “most of Stewart’s tennis friends” had come to the house on one occasion or another.
Intrigued, she sat down again.