All Quiet on Arrival (27 page)

‘I don't know a Bruce Metcalfe.'

It was a pitiful and expected denial, but I doubted that she could think of anything else to say.

‘Your perfume, one of Jo Malone's, was detected at Talleyrand Street, which is where he was murdered,' said Kate.

‘So what? I'm not the only woman to use it.'

‘You were living with him for a while, though, weren't you?'

‘Could've been anyone,' said Beth, still attempting to distance herself from the murder.

‘Perhaps so,' I said, ‘but your fingerprints were found there. I shall, therefore, charge you with Bruce Metcalfe's murder.' I waited until Kate had cautioned her yet again.

Beth Horton shrugged. ‘Well, that's it, I suppose,' she said. ‘At least that bitch Faye won't get any of the money now.'

I forbore from saying that I didn't think Beth would either, but there was no point in unnecessarily antagonising the woman, not until I'd got the full facts.

‘Is there anything else you want to tell me? I have to remind you again that you're entitled to the services of a solicitor.'

‘What good would that do? No thanks. It's all gone bloody wrong.'

‘Would you care to tell me why?'

‘Diana sent Greg a copy of her will, and I found it. But Greg was a no-hoper, a bludger, and he never fitted into the Australian way of life. He opened a bar in Blair after we were married, but it went bottoms up in no time at all. The locals didn't take to him, and Greg drank most of what little profit there was. He always seemed to get into punch-ups with the customers, and that was no bloody good for trade, I can tell you. So, when I saw that he was likely to inherit a load of money it just made me sick. I knew what he'd do with it: he'd just have pissed it up against the wall, and I wouldn't have got a look in.'

‘And Bruce Metcalfe?'

‘I knew Bruce before I was married; he was a jackaroo on my grandparents' station near Tamorah. I told him about the will, and he said he could make sure that I got the money provided I split it down the middle with him. But first we had to get rid of Greg, so I topped him and dumped his body in the outback near Tamorah.'

And so Elizabeth Horton finally admitted to the murder of her husband.

‘Yes, go on,' I said.

‘Well, to cut a long story short, Bruce came over here and did in Diana and her old man.'

Beth spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though the whole conspiracy was a business arrangement, and an opportunity that was too good to miss. Unfortunately for her, neither she nor Bruce Metcalfe was bright enough to see that the plan had no chance of succeeding, mainly because neither of them was conversant with the law of testacy.

‘And you went to a party at Diana Barton's house the night she was murdered.'

‘Yes. It wasn't a bad bash either. Bruce had it away with some bird called Liz, and I got laid by some journo called Bernie.'

That was an interesting revelation. Despite Liz Edwards's disdainful dismissal of the party as ‘not her sort of thing', she'd obviously been lying. As for Bernard Graves, well, he
was
a journalist, and they do have problems with the truth. And that lack of honesty doubtless accounted for Graves's statement that he'd hardly spoken to Beth Horton, or Samantha as she'd called herself.

The enigma was that Graves had later telephoned me to report a sighting of Beth Horton in the West End, a sighting that led eventually to her arrest. I could only speculate on what sort of vengeance had prompted that. Or maybe it was his nose for a story that took priority over any other feelings or thoughts he might have had. He'd struck me as the sort of man to whom a one-night stand was meaningless.

But despite all that, I still found it hard to believe that a woman, even this woman, could be so hard-hearted and calculating as to kill her husband and be complicit in the murders of Diana and James Barton.

‘Have either of you got a cigarette?' Beth asked.

One of the more ridiculous pieces of legislation to emanate from Westminster prohibited smoking even in police station interview rooms, but what the hell?

I produced my packet of Marlboro, and offered her my cigarette lighter.

Beth lit her cigarette, returned my lighter with a lingering smile of thanks, and blew a plume of smoke into the air. ‘But after that greedy bastard Bruce had done the job, he demanded three-quarters of the inheritance instead of the half we'd agreed, and said that if I didn't come across he'd dob me in to the police. Well, that was bloody stupid because I could've done the same for him, but I realized that he was a bloody drongo, and that made him a danger, so I had to get rid of him. If he'd had his way, we'd both have finished up doing time.' She stubbed out her half smoked cigarette. ‘But now it looks as though I will anyway,' she added in matter-of-fact tones.

And that was it: a full confession, and the single incredible motive behind each of the four murders.

Our next task – and an onerous one that took us a whole week – was to prepare the report and submit it to the Crown Prosecution Service.

Another week went by before we met the lawyer who was handling the case.

‘A pretty kettle of fish, Mr Brock.' The lawyer leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘Clearly a charge of murdering Bruce Metcalfe in the case of Elizabeth Horton. And as far as Faye Horton is concerned, I think we've a more than fifty per cent chance of getting a conviction for assisting an offender. From the statements she and Elizabeth Horton made, it is patently obvious that she was aware that Elizabeth Horton was wanted by the police. I think we'd be safe in giving it a run.' He paused, and leaned forward again. ‘Elizabeth Horton will obviously have to be put up first though. Once we get a conviction there, we'll have a better chance of getting Faye Horton sent down. But if Elizabeth Horton's acquitted, the case against Faye Horton falls apart. Such is life, Mr Brock.' He sighed, and placed the weighty file on top of a pile of similar dockets. ‘All done and dusted, then.'

‘What about the fugitive offenders warrant?' I asked, determined to throw a verbal spanner into this urbane lawyer's works, if only slightly. ‘Elizabeth Horton's wanted by the Australian authorities for murder in Darwin.'

‘Ah, yes, so she is.' The lawyer shot forward in his chair, and linked his hands on his desk. ‘Frankly, Mr Brock, that's a bit of a pain in the arse. Probably the best idea is to get the Metcalfe murder dealt with, and leave it to the judge to decide what to do about the Australian question, eh what?'

‘You're the lawyer,' I said.
And a clever one at that
, I thought.

T
he first of the three trials was held in late September at Kingston Crown Court.

Thomas Hendry was indicted on one count of arson at 27 Tavona Street, Chelsea on Sunday the twenty-eighth of July, and pleaded not guilty. As Jock Ferguson had predicted, the Crown Prosecution Service had decided not to proceed with the dangerous driving charge for the time being. Consequently, it had been left on file pending the outcome of the arson trial.

I gave evidence of my interview with Hendry, and produced a copy of his signed confession.

Following a brief conversation with Hendry, his barrister, a young white-wig, rose and changed Hendry's plea to one of guilty.

‘It's a pity he didn't plead guilty in the first place,' said the judge. ‘That would have saved the time and expense of empanelling a jury.' And with that acid comment, he sentenced Hendry to ten years' imprisonment.

‘The nearest our ex-steward will get to any seafaring for a while, guv,' said Dave as we left the court, ‘is a trip across the Solent to Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight.'

The trial of Elizabeth Horton began in court thirteen at the Central Criminal Court a month later. The Australian Government had made a few token noises about the warrant for her arrest and return, but they realized that it would not be acted upon until Beth's trial for the murder of Bruce Metcalfe had been dealt with. And if she were convicted of that murder, the Australians accepted that a very long time would elapse before they would have the opportunity of trying her for her husband's murder.

Probate of the Bartons' wills was being handled in London, while that of Gregory Horton's will would be dealt with in Australia in due course. I understood from Steve Granger that the authorities there had wisely put it on hold pending her return. As Granger had told them, it could well be some time before they were able to interview her.

Nevertheless, despite being apparently penniless, Elizabeth Horton had still managed to acquire an expensive barrister to defend her. Dave cynically pointed out that the British taxpayer was probably footing the bill.

Elizabeth Horton was arraigned and pleaded not guilty. Counsel for the Crown, an eminent silk, immediately rose to his feet. As was customary, he first introduced himself and counsel for the defence.

‘However, My Lord,' he continued, ‘there is a matter that should be raised before the jury is sworn. My Lord, I am in some difficulty here. As Your Lordship is aware, an Australian warrant is in existence for the arrest of the accused on a charge of a murder unrelated to the case before this court. However, it will be necessary for me to make reference to it in the course of this trial. Nevertheless, I shall attempt to limit such reference in an attempt not to prejudice the jury.'

The judge glanced at defence counsel. ‘Do you wish to make an application?'

‘No, My Lord. I quite understand my learned friend's difficulties.'

‘Very well,' said the judge. ‘The jury may be brought in.'

After the jury had been accepted by both leading counsel and sworn-in, and all the other panoply and flummery of getting the proceedings under way had been completed, the trial began in earnest.

Prosecuting counsel's opening address began with a description of Diana Barton's ‘kitchen' party, finished with Beth Horton's arrest at her Clarges Street apartment, and her virtual admission of guilt following the discovery of the humane killer.

‘I shall prove, My Lord and members of the jury, that Elizabeth Horton's murder of Bruce Metcalfe was premeditated and prompted by avarice. Her perpetration of this foul crime was motivated by greed and greed alone. It was a murder that she imagined would make her richer by some eighteen million pounds.'

There were a few gasps from the jury at the enormity of the sum involved.

I was the first witness. I started my evidence by repeating what Crown counsel had said about the party at Diana Barton's house. But that was as far as I got.

Although it had been mentioned in prosecuting counsel's opening address, by convention not challenged, defence counsel immediately objected on the grounds that details of the party were irrelevant and prejudicial. But he was overruled by the judge who said that what had occurred at Tavona Street was an integral part of the chain that culminated in Metcalfe's murder.

I was allowed to continue uninterrupted to the point where I gave evidence of Elizabeth Horton's arrest at her Clarges Street apartment, and produced a transcript of her recorded interrogation.

Once I had finished, the other police officers involved followed. After a break for lunch, Henry Mortlock, Linda Mitchell and two forensic scientists, trooped into the witness box to give their damning evidence.

Once the prosecution's case had been concluded, Elizabeth Horton's counsel, an eminent QC, attempted in his opening address to justify his client's actions by claiming that she was strongly under the influence of Bruce Metcalfe, and he likened their relationship to that of Svengali and Trilby. But judging from the blank expressions on the faces of the jurors, it appeared that they were unfamiliar with the plot of George du Maurier's novel about an artist's model and a musician.

Elizabeth Horton's counsel had wisely decided not to call his client to give evidence in her own defence. The only witness he produced was a forensic scientist who unsuccessfully attempted to dispute the evidence regarding the humane killer. It was to no avail; the telling scientific details of Beth's fingerprints and Metcalfe's DNA found on the humane killer were overwhelming. After that, the case was as good as over, and her counsel found that there was little he could do to prevent the inevitable outcome.

After retiring for just two hours, the jury found Beth Horton guilty. With an expression of cynicism, the stony-faced judge listened to the eloquent plea in mitigation by her counsel, but there was little that the latter could do in the face of the armoury of evidence that had been adduced, and to which no real defence could have been mounted. There was little doubt in my mind that the account of the lewd goings-on at the Barton house on the night of Diana's murder, even though they had played no part in proving the murder of Metcalfe, had swayed the jury in favour of a guilty verdict. Yes, it is unfair, but that's the way the English trial system works.

Years ago it was the practice that sentence was imposed at the close of a trial, but these days we have to wait several weeks to learn the penalty that follows a conviction. All manner of reports have to be prepared regarding the convicted person's state of mind, her social standing and income, and her family background. Believe me, there aren't many cases that come before the courts nowadays without some contribution from psychiatrists, the social services and the probation service. Most of it, I have to say, of little value.

Six weeks later, we returned to the Old Bailey to hear the sentence. After dismissing the psychiatric and other reports, and delivering a lengthy little homily about avarice and immorality, His Lordship sentenced Elizabeth Horton to life imprisonment. After a short pause, during which he appeared to be considering the matter, he imposed a tariff of twenty years before she could apply for parole. I thought that was a tad on the lenient side.