All Quiet on Arrival (11 page)

‘Very well,' I said, standing up. ‘I shall admit you to police bail to return to this station in one month's time, or earlier if we send for you. Is that clear?'

‘Why should I?'

‘Because you're very close to being charged with the murder of Diana Barton, Pincher, that's why.'

‘I told you that I never had nothing—'

‘Shut it,' said Dave.

How on earth Diana Barton had gathered such a collection of low-lifes around her was a mystery. But we knew why she had. Given what her late husband had told us about her, Pincher's story that Diana simply liked to have young people around sounded a trifle specious. The question remained: could all of these men have had affairs with her in the past, or would she actively solicit any available man? If so, we were about to descend into a veritable cesspool of depravity.

Once out of Pincher's hearing, I asked Kate to arrange an observation on his house, and find out where Charlene Hoyle worked.

‘D'you think she might've topped Diana then, guv?' asked Kate.

‘Not necessarily, but she might know who did.'

Having left the custody sergeant to deal with the vast amount of paperwork that is involved in bailing an individual, Dave and I made for Harrow on the Hill and, we hoped, an interview with Gaston Potier. It was now five o'clock.

Rawton Way, Harrow on the Hill was a pleasant street of neat detached houses, each with white fencing and beautifully manicured front lawns. The driveways of these houses were occupied, for the most part, by top of the middle-range of family cars. Clearly Rawton Way was
the
place to live if you wanted to be regarded as a success, but I couldn't begin to imagine what mundane lives they must lead. Unless they were like Potier, or what I suspected him of being. There again, one never quite knows what goes on behind the Laura Ashley curtains of quiet London suburbs.

‘Yes, what is it?' The woman who answered the door was of angular build and tall, as tall as me. Her short brown hair was cut in an unfashionable style, and she regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. I wondered what was passing through her mind at the sight of two large men on her doorstep, one white and one black.

‘We're police officers, madam,' I said. ‘We'd like to speak to Mr Gaston Potier.'

‘How do I know you're policemen?' the woman asked, a question doubtless prompted by the useless sticker on the glass panel of the door proclaiming the Potiers to be believers in Neighbourhood Watch.

I produced my warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard,' I said, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.'

‘You'd better come in,' said the woman, apparently satisfied that we were the real thing, and showed us into a fussily furnished sitting room that abounded with all manner of ghastly ornaments. ‘Sit down. I'll fetch Gaston for you.' Judging by her accent, this woman was English, and was definitely not the well-endowed, long-haired blonde called Liz that both Hendry and Pincher had enthused about.

Gaston Potier was a short man, shorter than the woman I presumed to be his wife. He was, I imagined, in his late thirties or early forties, with thinning black hair, and a moustache that was little more than an erratic line above his top lip. He certainly didn't look like the sort of French Lothario who I thought would have attracted Diana Barton, or even less, the woman called Liz.

‘My wife tells me you are from Scotland Yard,' said Potier confidently, as he sat down opposite us. Seconds later his wife joined him.

‘We are investigating the murder of James Barton,' I began, although that was not the principal reason we were there. I realized that any mention of the pneumatically constructed Liz in the presence of Mrs Potier was likely to be difficult. Not for us, but for Potier. I had, however, foreseen that eventuality, one I'd faced many times before when dealing with adulterous husbands, and had written two names on a piece of paper. I handed the slip of paper to Potier. The next move was up to him.

‘I was wondering if you are in a position to help us with this matter, Mr Potier,' I said.

Potier scanned the names – Diana Barton and Liz – and a brief expression of anxiety flitted across his face before he regained his composure. He turned to his wife.

‘You remember that I used to work for James Barton before I got a better job, my dear, but that was some time ago. I doubt whether I'll be able to assist these officers, so I shouldn't waste your time listening to all this. You might as well get on with whatever you were doing.' Potier might be French, but he had an excellent command of English, and was smooth and masterful with it.

Mrs Potier obviously didn't take kindly to being summarily dismissed. Nevertheless, she rose from her seat, nodded briefly in our direction and left the room.

‘You were at a party at Diana Barton's house last Saturday evening.' I made the statement confidently, in a way that brooked no denial.

‘What makes you think that?' Potier cast a furtive glance at the sitting room door, even though it was now firmly closed.

‘Other people who were there told me,' I said, now fairly sure that we'd got the right Gaston. Nevertheless, even though he'd admitted having once worked for James Barton, it didn't necessarily mean he was the Gaston at the party. But it was a pretty safe bet.

‘But what has this to do with James Barton's murder.'

‘I don't know, but it certainly had something to do with Diana Barton's murder.'

‘Diana is dead?
Mon dieu!
' Potier finally resorted to his native language.

‘Didn't you read about it in the newspaper?' I asked, amazed that he should have been unaware of her death.

‘I read of the fire there, of course. When did she die?'

‘The night of the party.'

‘But she was all right when I left.'

‘Where is Liz?' asked Dave suddenly.

‘Liz? Who is Liz?'

‘Oh come on, Mr Potier,' said Dave. ‘For a start her name was on that piece of paper that you're still clutching in your hand, and it was doubtless that name that gave you a bit of a nasty turn. Furthermore she was at the party that Mr Brock mentioned. What's her surname, and where does she live?'

Potier's shoulders slumped, and his face assumed an expression of despair. ‘If my wife gets to hear of this—'

‘Not from us, she won't,' I said. ‘Perhaps it would be easier for you to speak to us elsewhere,' I suggested. ‘Where d'you work?'

‘I am the manager of a restaurant in the West End,' said Potier, and quoted the address.

‘And Liz?'

‘Liz Edwards is my
maîtresse d'hôtel
.'

‘What time do you start work tomorrow?'

Potier thought briefly. ‘On Saturdays I begin at about half past eleven in the morning,' he said.

‘Very well. I'll expect to see you at West End Central police station at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. That'll be the nearest station to your restaurant. You know where that is, do you?'

‘Yes, of course,' said Potier.

‘Good. Well, don't make it necessary for me to come looking for you.'

‘I will be there, Chief Inspector, I promise you. And thank you for your consideration.'

‘Well, guv, what d'you think?' asked Dave as we walked back to the car. ‘Think we should've nicked him?'

‘On what grounds? Going to a party with a bird who's not his wife. The prisons would be full to overflowing, Dave.'

‘Thought they were already, guv,' said Dave. ‘Unfortunately they let the buggers out too soon.'

I rang Kate Ebdon on my mobile. ‘Kate, I've made an appointment to see Gaston Potier tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. Can you go to Westminster Magistrates Court tomorrow with Tom Hendry?'

‘No probs, guv,' said Kate.

‘Good. Ask for a remand in custody on the grounds that he might interfere with witnesses.'

O
n Saturday morning, John Appleby brought me the result of the Fingerprint Branch officer's examination of the debit card that had been recovered from the ATM at Kensington. But it was negative. Although Appleby had placed it in a plastic bag, there were no discernible fingerprints on it. The bank staff had handled it carefully; they were apparently aware that any fraudulent use of a debit card could have the user's prints on it. It seems that police ‘soaps' on TV do have some value, after all. But whoever had attempted to use the card had been careful, too. It looked very much as though he'd worn gloves, or had wiped the card clean after stealing it, and then inserted it into the ATM holding the edges. We all knew that the ATM itself would not produce any fingerprints capable of comparison; dozens of people would have used it after our villain.

However, it looked as though James Barton's killer had forced his victim to part with his PIN before murdering him. Assuming, of course, that it was the killer who'd attempted to use the card. On the other hand, it was possible that someone had chanced upon Barton's body after his murder, and before it was discovered by the traffic police, and had stolen his credit and debit cards. But that was irrelevant: the cards would've been of no value without the PIN, unless Barton had been stupid enough to make a note of the PIN in a diary. There hadn't been a diary or any form of notebook on his body when he was found. He may, however, have been in possession of a BlackBerry, or some similar technical gimmick, but if he had, that had gone too. Such are the complexities that frequently confront detectives in the course of an enquiry that had all the hallmarks of a random killing.

As John Appleby left, Nicola Chance came into my office. ‘I've got details of Diana Barton's first husband, sir.'

‘Well done, Nicola. What have you found out?'

‘His name's Maurice Horton, sir, and he divorced Diana just over seven years ago. Diana was then married to James Barton a month later.'

‘She didn't waste any time in getting hitched again,' I said.

‘Perhaps Diana's new husband was another of her studs, sir,' said Nicola. ‘For all we know he might've been screwing the arse off her for ages before they were married. And we know she'd hop into bed with anyone who was prepared to shaft her.'

I was always amused, and slightly taken aback, when Nicola Chance came out with a bawdy comment of that nature. She always gave the impression of being a demure young woman to whom such language would be completely alien.

‘If that was the case, it must've been going on for a long time before her divorce from Horton,' I said. ‘We know James Barton was seventy-two and probably past it when he died. Any indication of Horton's whereabouts, Nicola?'

‘The address given on the divorce papers is Roget Drive, Pinner. The house is called En Passant. I've done a check on the electoral roll, and Maurice Horton appears to be living there along with a Faye Horton. I then did a check with the General Register Office at Southport. Maurice Horton is fifty years of age, and four years ago he was married to the said Faye Horton, who is thirty-five.'

‘Good work, Nicola.' I made a note in my daybook. ‘I shall have a word with him whenever I can fit it in.'

When Dave and I arrived at West End Central police station at ten o'clock, Potier was already waiting in the foyer. We conducted him to an interview room.

‘I understand from our conversation with the late James Barton that you had an affair with his wife, Mr Potier.' I decided to get straight to the point.

‘Mr Barton told you that?' Potier expressed surprise.

‘He said he returned home one afternoon and found you in bed with Diana.'

‘It was a mistake that he found us.'

‘I imagine it was,' I said. ‘Why on earth did you visit her at her home?'

‘When we made the arrangement, she'd told me that James was attending a board meeting in Norwich that day, and that he would be away overnight. I got there at about two in the afternoon, and we went straight upstairs. It seemed safe enough, but while we were in bed – by then it was about three o'clock – the door to the bedroom was suddenly thrown open, and there was James. He seemed to be very furious, you know.'

I suppressed a laugh. ‘I imagine he would've been,' I said. ‘What happened next?'

‘He told me to get out of his house, so I grabbed my clothes, ran downstairs and dressed, and then I left. But the next day he came to the hotel and fired me. I was the manager of the company's hotel in Bayswater at the time.' Potier didn't seem at all embarrassed by his admission. In fact he shrugged, as though it were one of the little misfortunes that occasionally befell an adulterer. ‘Previously Diana had always come to the hotel, usually in the afternoon, and we would use one of the guest rooms. It was easy for me to arrange, being the manager. The staff wouldn't dare to ask questions.'

‘Pity you didn't make such an arrangement on that occasion,' commented Dave.

Potier nodded sadly. ‘You are so right, Sergeant Poole,' he said.

‘How long have you been married?' I asked.

‘Eight years. I met my wife when I was the assistant manager of one of the hotels in Ibiza. She was there on holiday by herself.'

‘Was that one of the hotels owned by James Barton's company?'

‘Yes, it was. I'd been with them for ten years. I started with the company as a reservations clerk and worked my way up to become a manager. It was a terrible shock when Mr Barton dismissed me.'

‘But you didn't tell your wife that you'd been sacked, did you? Or the reason.' I guessed that to be the case from the brief conversation he'd had with her when we called at Rawton Way.

‘Of course not. I told her I'd resigned. Shortly afterwards I got my present position as a restaurant manager.'

‘But you maintained your affair with Mrs Barton even after you were sacked by Barton.'