A Killing Karma (20 page)

‘Great. Just
give me time to get changed and I'm all yours.’

She
disappeared into the wings and Casey waited. She was soon back, carrying her
cased violin and the black dress she had performed in. ‘Where are we going?’
she asked as they left the theatre and made for the car.

'A little
place Catt told me about,’ he told her. ‘New restaurant. Just opened.’ Catt
knew all the best haunts in the surrounding area; given his multiplicity of
girlfriends, such knowledge was essential to his love life, or so he believed.

Not long
after, they were seated at a table for two at a small Italian restaurant that
exuded intimacy. Romantic Italian ballads wafted their love themes around the
room followed by attentive waiters. They ordered spaghetti and Chianti. It
wasn't long before Rachel asked him about his parents and their dilemma.

Casey
shrugged, poured Rachel more wine and wound some spaghetti around his fork.
‘Nothing much to tell, beyond the fact their suspicions of one another seem to
be growing. Oh, and two of commune have cleared out, bag and baggage.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Funnily
enough, it's the two I had least reason to suspect of murder. The two
homosexuals, Randy Matthews and Scott Johnson.’

Rachel
laughed. ‘Why didn't you suspect them, Will? Because they're queer? You should
play in the orchestra and see just how queer men can nurse grudges. Some of
them have come to blows over accusations of getting off with one another's
boyfriend.’

'I don't doubt
it. No, it's not because they're homosexual. It's because, when I saw them,
they were so clearly wrapped up in one another there could have been no room
for anyone else, not even in the free-loving commune in which they lived. They
didn't seem to take any interest in the murders, they never asked me one
question, unlike the others; it's as if they thought the killings were nothing
to do with them.’

‘They seem to
have thought it enough to do with them to do a bunk,’ was Rachel's response.

'Touché.' He
poured Rachel another glass of wine — her thirst after performing under the hot
lights was always as strong as her appetite for food. Casey just sipped at his
water, as one glass of wine was all he allowed himself whilst driving..

‘So, have you
any idea where they might have gone?’

‘No. But Moon
seemed of the opinion they would be somewhere that didn't feature muddy fields
and caravans.’

‘That gives
you plenty of scope.’

Casey nodded
and addressed himself to his spaghetti, glad it wasn't he who was responsible
for finding the errant pair.

They didn't
linger long over their meal. They were both tired and a reasonably early night
beckoned.

The following
morning brought the news that Max Fallon hadn't remained in his nightclub till
the early hours of Saturday morning as he had claimed. One of his neighbours said
he had passed Fallon around nine fifteen on Friday evening, close to the alley
where Oliver had been found. Had he been leaving the scene of the crime? Casey
wondered. Unlucky for Fallon if so and that he had been spotted, and spotted by
someone with reason to recognise him.

The demands of
the case had interrupted Catt's viewing of the CCTV footage, so he was, as yet,
unable to confirm the sighting from the tapes.

‘I'll get
straight back to it as soon as we've spoken to Fallon,’ Catt promised. ‘Though
now his neighbour has confirmed where and when he saw Fallon and that he was
driving his own car when he spotted him, it'll be quicker.’

Casey nodded,
though the knowledge made him uneasy. If Fallon had left his club with the
intention of waylaying and murdering Gus Oliver, it was strange that he hadn't
taken the precaution of borrowing the car of one of his staff as the
superintendent had suggested he might. It would have been the sensible course
to follow.

Fallon was
still at his kitchen table enjoying a late and leisurely breakfast when Casey
and Catt arrived at his home. The kitchen, more tastefully furnished than the
living room, with its granite worktops, huge American fridge and bright red
Aga, spoke as loudly of money as the rest of their home.

Carole Brown
propped herself against the double sink after she had let them in, careful,
this time, to keep her black eye turned away from them.

‘Glad we
managed to catch you, Mr Fallon,' Casey told him.

Fallon’s gaze
narrowed at this. It was almost as if a guilty conscience had made him assume
Casey was alluding to Oliver's murder when it came to ‘catching’ him. Now, why
should that be? he wondered.

Fallon folded
his newspaper and asked with a studied casualness, ‘What can I do for you
gentlemen?’ It was apparent that doing
anything
for them was the last
thing on his mind.

‘Perhaps you
can clear something up for us,’ Casey began. ‘You told us you were in your
nightclub until the early hours last Saturday morning. Yet now we learn that
you were seen much earlier, in your car close to the scene where Mr Oliver's
body was found. Perhaps you can explain this discrepancy?’

Max Fallon
chewed on a piece of toast while he considered his answer. Then he said,
‘Whoever told you that must be mistaken. Mine isn't the only silver Porsche
about, you know. I presume you’ve already questioned my staff and they
confirmed what I told you. I don't know what else I can say.’

So he was
going to deny it. Casey could only hope the evidence turned up on the CCTV
footage that Catt had yet to check. ‘We are investigating a particularly
vicious murder, sir,’ Casey reminded him. Fallon simply continued to munch on
his toast. ‘What clothes were you wearing that night?’

‘My usual rig.
A monkey suit. I like to look the part as my club attracts high-end punters.’

The latter
caused Casey to smother a smile. Self-absorbed as he was, Fallon had failed to
catch it.

‘They expect
the owner to take some trouble.’

Someone had
certainly taken trouble in killing Gus Oliver, Casey thought. Was Fallon the
type, he wondered, to commit such a vicious crime? Or maybe, as Catt had
suggested, whatever he had done in the past, these days he would be more likely
to pay one of his violent criminal associates to dispose of his love rival for
him. Fallon struck him as the type who had learned to keep his nose clean when
possible; not for him the night in the cells on suspicion. And he would be sure
to have an expensive brief to get him out of such insalubrious surroundings if
ever he were again careless enough to find himself cautioned and locked up.

Carole Brown
had been silent during this exchange. Now she spoke up, turning towards them so
the black eye was in evidence. And in spite of the yellowing remains of the
black eye arguing the contrary, she told them defiantly, ‘My Max isn't a violent
man, Chief Inspector. He wouldn't kill anyone. Surely, you must have someone
else, someone of a violent tendency, to get your claws into?’

‘I'm not
“getting my claws”, as you put it, into anyone, Ms Brown. I just want to know
why Mr Fallon lied.’

‘What do you
expect him to do when you come round to our home virtually accusing him of
murder?’

'I expect him
to tell the truth like any other law-abiding citizen. Besides, I don't think
any accusations of murder have been levelled at Mr Fallon,' Casey pointed out.

‘Not yet, no.
But you police have a down on him because he has money and a nice life, not to
mention his own string of nightclubs. It's just jealousy.’

While Casey
wouldn't mind being wealthy — who wouldn't? — owning a string of nightclubs had
never featured as an ambition. It was clear that neither Fallon nor Carole
Brown were about to break down and sob out a confession. So unless they found
another witness who saw Fallon with the victim, or the CCTV footage confirmed
the neighbour's story, they were stumped for the present.

‘What now?’
Catt asked after they had left Fallon and his girlfriend and were in the car,
considering their options. Decisively, he added, ‘You can get back to studying
the camera footage.’

Catt, who far
preferred to be out and about, gave a disgruntled nod.

’As for me,
I’m going to organise another house-to-house. There's sure to have been some
neighbours we missed first time around, such as teenagers, for instance,
hanging around near that alley on Friday evening who saw Max Fallon. His car
wasn't bought for invisibility.’

The silver
Porsche was parked in the drive; beside it, Carole Brown's more humble
hatchback looked like the poor relation. ‘By the way,’ Casey added, ‘you know I
visited the commune again last night?’

'Yes.' Clearly
still disgruntled at again being lumbered with studying the tapes, Catt added,
'I hope you didn't bring any fleas back with you.’

‘Moon would
probably have demanded them back if I had,’ Casey responded lightly, determined
not to let Catt rub him up the wrong way. ‘She seems to have become very keen
on personal possessions all of a sudden. Anyway, it seems two of the commune’s
members have decamped from their love-in: Randy Matthews and his lover Scott
Johnson.’

‘First I've
heard of it,’ Catt muttered in aggrieved tones.

‘Your
Lincolnshire contact will probably confirm it for you. They only left yesterday
morning. The police hadn't been round to check on their possible whereabouts by
the time I left. They mightn't have gone far. Hopefully, the official
investigators will turn them up shortly.’

‘Any idea why
they left?’

‘Not really.
Though young Randy struck me as the nervy type. Moon told me he tried to
persuade Scott Johnson to leave with him before, but Scott convinced him they
should stay. Randy must have worked on him as the tempers got more frazzled.’

Casey turned
on the ignition and drove off the apartments' frontage and on to the road. ‘We’ll
get back to the station. Checking out the CCTV footage is the priority for now.
I need someone I can rely on to check it out.’ Casey smiled to himself as,
beside him, Catt sat up straighter ‘If it corroborates the neighbour's story,
Fallon will have some questions to answer.’

'I suggested
to my contact that the Lincolnshire cops do DNA tests on the hippie lot,’ Catt
told him. ‘But they'd already put it in motion.’

‘Good,’ said
Casey. ‘Though we mustn't rely too much on the results. We know there are
several possible scenarios over the two commune murders: that DaisyMay was
having an affair with Callender and Dylan found out about it; that Kali found
out about it — and while it might seem that there was little love lost between
Kali and her husband, she didn't strike me as the type to take any infidelity
lying down. She'd strike back, probably by trying some infidelity of her own,
but it's possible she thought murder good enough for him. Lastly — and this
applies to any member of the commune — that one of them took great exception to
Kris Callender cheating them over their produce, such as it was, and decided he
had to go — permanently.’

‘Still leaves
the field wide open,’ Catt remarked.

'Mmm,' was all
Casey said. The worst of it was, Casey thought as they arrived at the station
and he parked up, that the latter equation still left Moon and Star in the frame
along with the rest of them.

Once back in
Casey's office and before Catt went off to finish his study of the camera
tapes, they discussed their official investigation.

‘Interesting
that Max Fallon lied to us,’ Catt remarked. ‘There would have been enough
people about to take note of his fancy car. It was stupid of him.’

‘True. And he
doesn't strike me as a stupid man. Over-confident, perhaps.’

‘Probably
liked to think he'd got one over on the idiot plods,’ said Catt.

‘True again.
Let's hope the knowledge that we know about his little drive shakes some of his
confidence. Anyway, he's still a definite possible. Let's consider the rest:
Carole Brown; Sarah and Carl Garrett; Roger and Amanda Meredith; and Mrs
Oliver. Somehow, I can't see this as a woman's crime, even if one or all of
them had discovered he was cheating on them with other women. Besides, two of
them are small and slim and surely easily disarmed. Which leaves us with Fallon
and the other two men, neither of whose alibis is strong. We'll need to dig a
little deeper and see if we can't unearth some motive; maybe the same motive as
applies to Fallon—’

‘That he
passed on a dose of clap to their partners.’ Catt nodded and swigged his
machine tea. ‘Though I can't see that forming a motive for murder, especially
as it's easy enough to cure.’

‘An
embarrassing condition, though,’ Casey pointed out.

‘Being seen
going into the clap clinic, you mean?’

Casey nodded.
‘Particularly for a successful man like Fallon.’

‘Surely he
would get the cure from a private quack? He's not likely to mingle with the
diseased proles at an NHS clinic. Want me to check out if he's a private
patient with one of the local doctors?’

Casey nodded. ‘Do
that after you've finished with the tapes.’ Casey glanced at his in-tray; more
statements awaited his attention. ‘While you're doing that, I'll make a start
on this lot.’