All Quiet on Arrival (14 page)

Charlene gave me a strange questioning look, probably wondering what a man was doing in a woman's hairdressing establishment, and then turned her attention to Kate. ‘How may I help you, madam?' she enquired politely, but without managing to disguise her native Essex accent.

I'd already decided to let Kate do the talking. Without a word, she held her warrant card in front of Charlene's nose, and sat down in the chair provided for clients.

‘It's about the party at twenty-seven Tavona Street on Saturday the twenty-seventh of last month.'

Charlene was clearly alarmed by this terse introduction. ‘What party?' she blurted out. Obviously a knee-jerk reaction.

‘We can do this here, or down at the nick,' said Kate quietly.

‘Barry said you'd been to see him.'

We'd already decided that Charlene Hoyle would have nothing to add to what we knew already, but we were keen to discover more about Bernie and Samantha, the mystery couple mentioned by Gaston Potier.

‘There was a guy there called Bernie who was with a girl called Samantha. What d'you know about them?'

‘Excuse me a minute.' Charlene took a credit card from a departing customer, and ran it through her machine. Once the woman had entered her PIN, and been given her receipt, Charlene turned her attention once more to Kate. ‘Bernie was an old guy, about fifty at least, I should think. He kept trying to chat me up, but Barry threatened to chin him if he didn't clear off, and he never bothered me again.'

‘And what about Samantha?'

‘Stupid cow, she was.'

‘How old?'

‘'Bout my age, I s'pose.'

‘Which is?'

‘Twenty-nine.'

‘Did you speak to her? Did she have a foreign accent?' Having read the statement of my interview with the Hortons, Kate was obviously making a connection with Katya Kaczynski.

‘Dunno. I never spoke to her.'

Another client entered the salon, and Charlene spent a few minutes dealing with her.

‘What d'you reckon, guv?' asked Kate.

‘Waste of time,' I said.

‘OK, Charlene, that'll be all,' said Kate, once the girl had finished with the latest client. ‘For now.' She always managed to leave a threat hanging in the air.

We walked out into the sunlight of Oxford Street, and I hailed a cab. I wasn't going to risk another walk through the tourist-thronged West End.

‘What d'you think, guv? Could they have been Horton and Katya?'

‘No idea,' I said. ‘Seems unlikely, but Horton could've been lying when he said he hadn't seen Diana since the divorce. Somehow, I can't see Faye Horton letting her husband off the leash that easily. In my experience women who are married to millionaires are loath to let them out of their clutches.'

‘Mind if I do a bit of digging on the Hortons?' asked Kate.

‘Not at all, but I don't know what you expect to find.'

But in the event, the result proved to be surprising, and turned the enquiry on its head.

As we were in the West End, I decided to take the opportunity to speak to Liz Edwards, with whom Gaston Potier enjoyed what he called ‘an occasional flirtation'.

The restaurant had an air of catering mainly for the upmarket business expense customer. The white napery was of the finest linen, the chairs – at first sight – very comfortable. And the premises were carpeted with thick pile throughout.

The young woman who glided toward us was tall, blonde and endowed with a splendid figure. From the description given us by Tom Hendry and Barry Pincher, who'd both enthused over the woman's long blonde hair and big boobs, this was obviously Liz Edwards.

‘A table for two, sir?'

‘Are you Mrs Edwards?' I asked, wanting to make sure.

‘Yes, I am.' A frisson of concern crossed the woman's face.

‘We're police officers, Mrs Edwards. Would it be possible to have a word with you in private?'

Liz Edwards glanced around and beckoned to a waiter attired in a long white apron.

‘Charles, would you take over for a minute or two. I have to speak to this lady and gentleman.'

‘
Oui, madame
.' Charles nodded, and turned to deal with two men who had followed us in.

Mrs Edwards led us through the restaurant to a small office at the rear. Once inside, she closed the door. ‘Are you the officers who spoke to Gaston?'

‘That's correct. I take it he's not here today.'

‘No, he's taken the day off,' said Liz Edwards. ‘Please sit down, but I'm sorry that the chairs are not very comfortable.' She smiled an apology and sat down behind the desk.

‘Mr Potier probably told you that we're investigating the murder of Diana Barton, Mrs Edwards,' I began, as Kate and I sat down. ‘I'm told by Mr Potier that you accompanied him to a party at her house the night she was killed.'

‘Yes, that's right. What a dreadful thing to have happened.'

‘We're anxious to trace everyone who was at the party, Mrs Edwards, and I was hoping that you might be able to fill in some of the gaps for us. Mr Potier has provided us with a few of the names, but are you able to help?'

‘Not really. I was horrified at some of the people there, and the things they were doing. Most of the women were wandering about half naked. It's not the sort of party I'm accustomed to. To be perfectly honest, I did my best to distance myself from them. In fact, it seemed to be getting so out of hand that I asked Gaston to take me home.'

‘What time was that, Mrs Edwards?' asked Kate.

‘Half past nine or thereabouts.' Liz Edwards seemed to be very self-assured, and her poise tended to confirm her claim that it was not her ‘sort of party'.

But it was at that point that Kate decided to burst Mrs Edwards's bubble. ‘Mr Potier told us that at half past eight you and he went down to the Jacuzzi in the basement, and that you were both naked. Is that true?'

Liz Edwards blushed scarlet, and looked down, staying silent.

‘Mrs Edwards?' said Kate.

‘Yes, it's true. I wasn't wearing anything,' said Liz quietly, and flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes.

‘And I understand from Mr Potier that you didn't object when he earlier disappeared to Mrs Barton's bedroom for the purpose of having sex with her.'

‘I was hardly in a position to object, was I?' snapped Liz defiantly.

Kate smiled. ‘I suppose not.'

I got the impression that being questioned by a woman officer was discomfiting Mrs Edwards, and that she would far rather have spoken to me alone. I've noticed in the past that women are far more open with a male officer when talking about their adulterous relationships and sexual proclivities.

‘And you're adamant that you didn't know the names of any of the other guests at the party. What about a man called Bernie?'

‘Oh, yes, I do remember him. He was about fifty, I should think. He had a worn expression about him, as though he'd seen life. Which was more than could be said for the others there. There were a couple of men who were quite rough diamonds, not at all sophisticated. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that they worked on a building site.'

‘But you didn't discover their names,' I said, although I was certain that she was referring to Hendry and Pincher.

‘No. As I said, I tried to avoid the other people there, and I spent most of the time talking to Gaston.'

‘What about the girl you met in the Jacuzzi? Mr Potier said you went there at about half past eight,' said Kate. ‘D'you remember her?'

‘A tart,' said Liz dismissively. ‘I think she was called Shelley, or some TV soap name like that. One of the rough men joined her later on, and that's when we left.'

‘And presumably they were naked too?'

‘Yes.' But then there was a spark of fire. ‘Look, is all this really necessary? I mean does it help you find whoever murdered Mrs Barton?'

‘We never know until we ask, Mrs Edwards,' I said smoothly. ‘Do you recall an Australian man called Bruce?'

‘I didn't talk to him, but I do remember hearing an Australian accent. A rather uncouth man. Muscular, with a good conceit of himself.'

‘What about a girl called Samantha?' asked Kate. ‘Do you recall seeing her?'

‘The name doesn't mean anything.'

‘Thank you for your assistance, Mrs Edwards,' I said, finally deciding that this woman couldn't, or wouldn't, help. ‘I doubt we'll need to trouble you further.'

Liz Edwards gave a curt nod, and showed us to the door of the restaurant without another word.

‘Stuck up bitch,' said Kate as we reached the street. ‘I wouldn't mind betting she was up for it. All this nonsense about the wrong sort of people, but she was quick enough to get her kit off and jump into the Jacuzzi. I think she knew more than she was telling.'

‘Probably, Kate,' I said, ‘but I doubt if it would've been of any assistance to us. And if her attitude is what she professed it to be, I wouldn't give much for Potier's chance of continuing his “flirtation” with her. Particularly since he'd told us about their naked frolics in the Jacuzzi.'

‘I telephoned Gaston Potier at home, guv.' Dave was in the incident room when Kate and I returned. ‘He didn't talk to either Bernie or Samantha at the party, so he doesn't know whether the girl had a foreign accent. So, it's still possible that it was Maurice Horton and Katya.' He was clearly loath to abandon that idea.

‘No more than I expected,' I said. ‘Any luck with tracing the other people at the party who we haven't yet identified?'

‘Not so far,' said Dave. ‘It's virtually impossible with only their first names to go on.'

It was what Nicola Chance had implied, and I knew it to be true.

It was on Tuesday morning that Kate Ebdon came up with the information that changed the course of the enquiry.

‘I spent yesterday afternoon on the computer to Companies House in Cardiff, guv. I thought it might be interesting to find out a bit more about Maurice Horton.'

‘And did you?'

Kate sat down and balanced a pile of computer printouts on her knee. ‘Certainly did.' She glanced at the first page. ‘Among other interests, Maurice Horton's venture capitalist outfit owns a property development company that doesn't seem to be doing much in the way of business. But here's the interesting bit. Horton is a majority shareholder of that company, fifty-five per cent, and Diana Barton owns the other forty-five per cent. And they're both directors.'

‘And he claimed not to have seen her since the divorce,' I said.

‘That might be true,' said Kate. ‘According to the latest figures the dividends, which were substantial up to two years ago, are paid into her bank account, but the address shown for her in the company records doesn't exist. Not that it matters; being the majority shareholder, Horton would be able to make all the decisions without reference to Diana. At a guess, I'd say that the false address was deliberately to hide her whereabouts from Horton.'

‘Providing a false address could be an offence.'

Kate glanced up and laughed. ‘Bit difficult to prosecute her now, guv,' she said. ‘Anyway, I called in a favour from a guy I know in the Divorce Registry at Holborn.'

‘What did he have to say?' I wondered briefly what sort of favour this individual owed Kate, but thought it best not to pursue it.

‘It appears that Diana Barton's retention of her shares and her directorship were part of the divorce settlement. On her marriage to James Barton, her name was changed in the records from Horton to Barton. But there was no provision for her to cede the shares to Horton on her remarriage.'

‘And because he had access to the records, Horton must've known that Diana had married again.'

‘Looks like it,' said Kate.

‘And yet he claimed not to have known, or at least was vague about it.'

‘I reckon it's a thorn in his side,' suggested Kate. ‘And I think that he'd be very keen to lay hands on those profitable shares all for himself.'

‘Or even more likely that Faye Horton was keen for him to do so.'

‘Exactly,' said Kate. ‘It's a funny thing about millionaires: they always want even more money than they've got.'

‘Strange that a man with his resources wasn't able to find out where Diana lived,' I said.

‘Maybe he did try, and maybe he did find out, guv.'

‘But if he did, it poses the question of why he bothered. I doubt that Diana would've parted with the shares in any event. I think we'll need to have another word with Maurice Horton, Kate, and try to discover what dark secret he's hiding. But I'm loath to drive all the way to Pinner on the off-chance that he's there.'

‘When were you thinking of going?'

‘Right now if possible. But he might not be there.'

‘I'll make a phone call, guv,' said Kate, and disappeared to her own office. She returned a few minutes later. ‘He's at home, guv.'

I laughed. ‘I suppose you did your wrong number trick, did you?' Kate's ploy was to make a call and immediately start talking as though she was connected to the right number. When eventually the person at the other end identified himself, usually in desperation, Kate would claim it was a wrong number. In that way she knew he was at home.

Kate laughed too. ‘Always works,' she said.

T
he Mercedes and the Lexus were parked side by side when we arrived at En Passant.

Once again it was Katya Kaczynski who answered the door. ‘Oh, it is you,' she said. ‘It is Mr Horton you are wanting to speak at, yes?'

‘Yes,' I said, and Kate and I followed Katya into the house.

Faye Horton was alone in the sitting room, watching television. She crossed to the set and switched it off as Katya showed us in.

‘I suppose you're wanting to speak to Maurice again,' she said, a measure of irritation in her voice.