All Quiet on Arrival (12 page)

‘Yes. She was an attractive woman, and we enjoyed each other's company. She would take a room in a hotel for the afternoon, and I would join her there for a few hours.'

‘D'you mean that she paid for the room?'

‘Of course. Diana was a very rich woman.'

I thought it was more likely that James Barton had footed the bill, albeit unwittingly, and I found that rather amusing in a sadistic sort of way.

‘So, what did she think when you turned up at her party with Liz Edwards?'

Potier smiled. ‘She didn't mind. She was a very broadminded woman.'

‘So I gather,' I said.

‘How long have you been conducting an affair with Miss Edwards?' asked Dave. ‘Or is it Mrs Edwards?'

‘Yes, she's married, but it's not an affair.'

‘What is it, then, if it's not an affair?' queried Dave.

‘Just an occasional flirtation. We meet at a hotel from time to time.' Potier spoke as though this was normal behaviour, and that there was a subtle difference between an affair and a flirtation. ‘Sometimes it's just a quickie in my office at the restaurant.' He'd obviously mastered a few English colloquialisms.

‘Does your wife know?'

Potier expressed shock. ‘Of course not,' he protested. ‘But I work long hours, and late. She does not suspect.'

‘How old is Mrs Edwards?'

‘She's twenty-two.'

‘About this party,' I said. ‘What was that for?'

Potier laughed. ‘Diana said it was to celebrate her new kitchen, but it was a joke. She didn't need an excuse for a party.'

‘She'd had other parties at her house, then?'

‘Possibly, but if she had, I wasn't invited.'

‘What time did this so-called kitchen party begin?'

‘Four o'clock.'

‘Four o'clock?' Diana Barton obviously believed in social and sexual marathons.

‘Yes. It was a good time.' Potier spoke as though this was not out of the ordinary.

‘Presumably you had sexual intercourse with Diana at some time during that evening, Mr Potier.'

‘Of course. At about six o'clock. Then at half past eight Liz and I went to the basement. We both got undressed and spent an hour in the Jacuzzi. That's where we met a girl called Shelley. She was there by herself, but a few minutes later a man called Tom joined her.'

‘Didn't Liz object to you having sex with Diana?' I asked. ‘If she knew.'

‘Of course not.' Potier smiled. ‘She was hardly in a position to object, was she?'

This guy seemed to have no conscience at all. ‘When was the last time you saw Diana, or spoke to her?'

‘She went upstairs at eight o'clock, and as far as I know she never came back down again.'

This was getting much too complicated for my liking, and I was glad to see that Dave was taking copious notes. Potier's recollection of the times conflicted with Pincher's statement that Diana had gone upstairs at nine o'clock and didn't return to the party. But, there again, Potier admitted having gone to the Jacuzzi at eight thirty and staying there for an hour, so Diana might have come back downstairs while he and Liz were cavorting in the whirlpool. None of that surprised me however; it is rare to find two witnesses who tell the same story.

‘Are you certain of those times?'

‘Of course. In my job I have always to be aware of details, Mr Brock.'

‘As you're so aware of details, Mr Potier,' said Dave, ‘perhaps you can tell us the names of the other people who were at this party.'

‘I know only the first names of some of them. There was a man named Dale who came with Debbie, an attractive girl who spoke a little French. We talked for a while of the Loire Valley. I come from there. I was tempted to make a date with her, but Dale never left her side, and I wasn't able to arrange anything. Then there was Barry with Charlene, and the man Tom I mentioned who was with Shelley, the girl in the Jacuzzi.' Potier sighed, and glanced at the ceiling. ‘In no time at all Charlene was walking about with almost nothing on. She was a very attractive girl, too.' Potier sighed, presumably at a lost opportunity. ‘They were all attractive girls.'

This was getting us nowhere, except to underline that both Gaston Potier and Diana Barton had the morals of alley cats. And in Potier's case an inflated concept of his appeal to women. But then, at last, came something important.

‘Also there was a man called Bernie. His girlfriend was Samantha I think, but I'm not sure. I didn't pay much attention.'

‘Do you know their surnames?' These were people whose names hadn't cropped up in our enquiries so far, and there was nothing to say that they'd used their real names anyway.

‘I'm afraid not. Everyone seemed to be at pains only to use first names.'

‘How old were these two people? Bernie and Samantha.'

Potier thought about that. ‘He was quite old, fifty perhaps, and the girl was twenty-five or thereabouts, I should think. But there was another man there. His name was Bruce. I think he was from Australia, perhaps New Zealand. Even South Africa, or maybe from the north of England. It is hard for me to tell different English accents.'

‘Did he bring a girl?'

‘Possibly. It was difficult to know who had brought whom.'

Dave nodded his approval at the construction of that sentence.

‘And did this Bruce go upstairs with Diana?'

‘Yes, I think so. Yes, he did. I remember now that she took his arm and said that it was his turn.'

‘What time was that?'

‘Eight o'clock,' said Potier without hesitation.

‘And did you see him again?'

‘Yes, just after Liz and I came up from the Jacuzzi at half past nine. That's when we left. I drove Liz home, and then went to my own place.'

‘Wasn't Liz Edwards's husband surprised that you drove his wife home?'

‘No, not at all. It often happens. I think I told you that she is my
maîtresse d'hôtel
. We both work late, and I don't like her to take public transport at that time of night, and a taxi that far is expensive. It's not a problem because she only lives in Lisson Grove. It's on my way.'

This was another variation from what we'd been told by Hendry. Hendry was adamant that all the guests left at the same time, just before the police arrived. But, as he hadn't mentioned Bernie and Samantha, we had to accept that his recall might be flawed, or downright obstructive.

I asked Potier for Liz Edwards's address, in the hope that she would have something to add to what Potier had told us.

‘It would be better if you spoke to her at the restaurant, Mr Brock. For the sake of propriety, you understand.'

‘Of course. You said just now that you work late at your restaurant. How did you manage to get to Diana's party at four o'clock in the afternoon? And you were at home yesterday when we called in the early evening.'

‘I have a very good assistant manager,' said Potier. ‘And Liz has a deputy,' he added, forestalling my next question. ‘We have a shift system, I think you call it.'

‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Potier,' I said. ‘Should there be anything else, we know where to find you.'

‘Of course. I'm very sad to hear of Diana's death. But if you wish to speak to me again, perhaps you would be so good as to contact me at my restaurant. And, as I said, that goes for Mrs Edwards as well.' Potier smiled apologetically, and handed me a business card. ‘You would be welcome to have a meal there any time. On the house, of course,' he added with a wink.

‘Thank you,' I said, but it was dangerous practice for a detective to accept free meals from someone who could turn out to be a suspect. I knew of detectives who'd come unstuck over what the Job regards as bribery and corruption. I was fairly sure that Potier had not been implicated in Diana Barton's murder, but you never know.

Dave and I called in at Curtis Green to see if anything of consequence had occurred. Nothing had.

‘I got a remand in custody to Kingston Crown Court for Hendry, guv,' said Kate. ‘Monday the second of September.'

‘Is it in the diary, Kate?'

‘Of course, guv.' Kate gave me one of those looks.

It was now half past one on a Saturday, I was hopeful that Maurice Horton would be at home, and that he might be able to shed some light on Diana's life before she married James Barton.

Roget Drive, Pinner, overlooked Pinner Park. The house – En Passant – appeared large enough to have at least six bedrooms, and was probably worth a million pounds at least. It was set back from the road in its own grounds, and a winding, hedge-lined, gravel driveway, shielded from the road by a row of leylandii conifers, led to the front door. A Mercedes CL 65 AMG, definitely top of the range, was parked close to the house.

‘Funny name for a house, Dave,' I said, as we alighted from our bottom-of-the-range police car.

‘It's French, guv. It means “in passing”,' said Dave. ‘I suppose it means that he'll be moving on before long.' Such is Dave's whimsical logic.

The woman who answered the door studied us carefully before enquiring what we wanted.

‘Is Mr Horton at home?' I asked.

‘Who is it what I shall say?' The woman, an attractive girl in her twenties, spoke haltingly, and with a thick accent, possibly East European.

‘We're police officers.'

‘Just step inside the house, thank you.'

We followed the woman, presumably a housekeeper or maid, into a large entrance hall from which a broad sweeping staircase wound its way up one side.

The woman entered a room on the left of the hall, only to reappear moments later. ‘Please this way come,' she said, and led us into a spacious sitting room with tall windows that looked out on to the drive.

A tall man dressed in tan linen slacks with an open-necked shirt and brown loafers, stood in front of a massive York stone fireplace.

‘Mr Horton?' I asked.

‘Yes, I'm Maurice Horton.' We knew that Horton was fifty years of age, but he looked older. ‘Katya tells me you're from the police.'

‘That's correct, sir,' I said, and introduced Dave and me.

‘How can I possibly help the police? Is there something wrong? My wife's out shopping for clothes. She's not had an accident, has she?' Horton asked the question with a worried expression. But he probably didn't know that detective chief inspectors don't call to tell someone of a road accident.

‘Not as far as I know, Mr Horton. I rather wanted to talk to you about your first wife.'

‘Diana? Why on earth d'you want to ask me questions about her?' Horton invited us to take a seat, and sat down opposite us. ‘We were divorced over seven years ago.'

‘I'm sorry to have to tell you that she's dead, sir.'

‘Really? Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but our marriage is all in the past. I've moved on, and remarried. What happened, a road accident?' Horton did not seem unduly concerned at news of his ex-wife's death.

‘No, sir, she was murdered.'

‘Good God! But there was nothing in the papers about it.'

‘No, we deliberately withheld that information from the press, Mr Horton.' Nevertheless, I was surprised that he hadn't read of the fire, but perhaps he hadn't made the connection even if he'd known Diana's current address.

‘How can I help, then?' asked Horton again.

‘We're trying to establish a motive for Diana's death, sir.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘A week ago she held a party at her house in Tavona Street, Chelsea, apparently to celebrate the installation of a new kitchen.'

‘You're joking.' Horton gazed at me with a half smile on his face. ‘She hated parties, and why on earth should she have held a party for something as banal as that?'

‘I have to say I found it rather odd,' I said, ‘but that's the information I've received from several sources.'

‘What an extraordinary thing to do.' Horton appeared as mystified as I'd been when first told of the reason for the party. But I now knew that the kitchen story was merely an excuse for what had probably been planned as an orgy in the first place.

‘However,' I continued, ‘at just after midnight last Sunday police were called because of the noise, although by then the noise had abated. But a short while later the house caught fire, and the fire brigade found Mrs Barton's body in the master bedroom. She'd been stabbed.'

‘And you've no idea who was responsible?'

‘Not at this stage, Mr Horton, no.' I thought it unnecessary to tell this man that I'd arrested Thomas Hendry for setting fire to the Bartons' house. And there'd been no mention of it in the press.

‘How d'you think I can assist you, then?'

‘It would help if you could start by telling me what sort of person Diana was, and what led to your divorce?'

‘I don't see how that can help, but it was …' Horton paused. ‘I imagine it's best described as incompatibility. For one thing I play a lot of golf. But my golf – an obsession, I suppose you'd call it – combined with a love of frequent exotic holidays, in particular the Caribbean, or touring in France, didn't interest Diana and led us to split up after twenty years of marriage. We really had nothing in common.'

‘Were there any children?' I asked.

‘Yes, just the one, a son Gregory. He's a mining engineer and lives in Australia. He married an Australian girl, I believe, and it looks as though he's settled there for good now.'

‘Do you have an address for him, Mr Horton?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. We've not been in touch with each other since I divorced Diana. I got the impression he thought I shouldn't have left her.'

‘Would I be right in thinking that Diana wasn't interested in being little more than a housewife, then?' I asked, reverting to my original line of questioning.