All Quiet on Arrival (7 page)

‘But I don't suppose it'll be on the database,' I commented gloomily. We'd not had a great deal of luck so far.

It was nearly half past two in the morning by the time we'd finished at Sussex Square, and there was nothing else that we could do at the scene.

‘Go home, Dave,' I said, ‘and don't come in before midday.' It was meant to be an order.

‘Right, guv, thanks,' said Dave, but I knew damned well that he'd be at Curtis Green before me in the morning.

I decided not to go back to Gail's house. Leaving her at midnight was one thing; returning at gone three in the morning and disturbing her was quite another, something that would be guaranteed to destroy what little domestic bliss we shared. Even though she was remarkably tolerant, I thought it best to go home to my flat in Surbiton.

It seemed to have been an age since I was last there, but everything was in order. I tend to hang up my clothes on the floor, and leave my shoes where they can be tripped over. But the previous day's chaos had been restored to normality, the breakfast things had been washed up and put away, the bed made, and everything cleaned and polished.

This is all thanks to my cleaner Gladys Gurney. She is an absolute gem, and why she puts up with me is a mystery. But I'm glad she does. Still, I ought to try mending my disorderly ways otherwise she might quit.

There was a charming little note on the worktop in the kitchen. Beside it, carefully washed and placed in a plastic bag, was one of Gail's thongs. My girlfriend seems to make a habit of leaving items of underwear about the flat. It obviously doesn't faze Mrs Gurney; she just washes them and leaves them for me to return to Gail.

Dear Mr Brock

I found a pair of Miss Sutton's backless knickers by your bed, so I've washed them for her. Also I found a pair of your shoes what needed the heels doing so I took them to the snobs. They will be ready next Monday. It will cost seven pounds the man said. Perhaps you'd leave it for me. Hope that's all right.

Yours faithfully

Gladys Gurney (Mrs)

I think that Mrs Gurney is the only person I know who still uses the term ‘snobs' for a shoe repairer.

I turned in, and set the alarm for nine o'clock.

I arrived at Curtis Green at ten that same morning, and had the misfortune to meet the commander in the lift.

‘What progress have you made in the death of James Barton, Mr Brock?' he asked, bowing his head to sniff at the carnation in his buttonhole.

Strange how he always asks questions about the things I don't want him to ask me about.

‘Enquiries are in hand to determine why he was found in the middle of Sussex Square at just before eleven o'clock last night, sir.' At least, I hoped that I could rely on the team to have done something to that end. ‘It seems he'd been missing from his hotel from some time after two o'clock yesterday afternoon.'

‘Mmm! Yes, good. Keep me informed, Mr Brock.'

‘Of course, sir.'

Despite my admonition, Dave was already at work. ‘I've been on to the hotel in Bayswater where Barton was staying, sir, to see if they could shed any light on his movements yesterday. All they could come up with was a check of the switchboard records, which showed that Barton made a telephone call at two o'clock yesterday afternoon. We can only assume that he left the hotel at some time after that. And that fits in with what the restaurant manager had told me earlier, that Barton had lunched in the hotel restaurant.'

‘Any clue as to who he phoned, Dave?'

‘No, they just note the time and duration so they can put it on his bill. And it was too late to do a trace this morning, if ever. But I'm wondering if someone lured him out of the hotel for the express purpose of killing him. And, if so, why.'

‘Post-mortem's at eleven thirty, sir,' said Colin Wilberforce from behind his desk. ‘Will you be attending?'

‘No. Where's Miss Ebdon?'

‘Here, guv,' said Kate, appearing in the incident room holding a cup of coffee.

‘Dave and I are going to Southampton to follow up on the two stewards who were on the Bartons' cruise liner, Kate. Perhaps you'd cover the post-mortem.'

‘No worries, guv,' said Kate. As usual, she was wearing a man's white shirt, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. That should ruin the commander's day if he happens to catch sight of her. But at least she was wearing high-heeled shoes.

First of all, however, I had a telephone call to make to a friend of mine in Hampshire.

Jock Ferguson is a detective superintendent in the Hampshire Constabulary, and when he and I were inspectors, we'd wasted three months together at the Police College at Bramshill.

The Police College, which is regarded by its devotees as the Holy Grail of policing, is an establishment in the depths of Hampshire that has the audacity to convince itself it's the policeman's university. In an attempt to prove how clever they are, the instructors all talk their own gobbledygook and write in strangulated prose that no one else can understand. And they spend valuable time trying to persuade their students to do likewise. And they seem to be very successful at it, but perhaps I'm a cynic.

Fortunately, being a Hampshire copper, Jock knew all the decent pubs in the area, and that's where we'd spent a great deal of our time. When we weren't listening to lectures on subjects we knew more about than the lecturers, that is. The only benefit to accrue from those three months was that I'd made a lot of friends and contacts. On the downside, I probably did my liver irreparable damage.

A few years ago, Jock and I had worked on a murder case that involved an Aldershot-based soldier and his wife, along with many others. But I knew that he had since been transferred from Aldershot to Southampton, and that might just prove to be useful.

Having got through to Jock, I told him that I was coming down to the city later on that day, and briefly explained about the two murders.

Typical of Jock, he immediately named a pub where he would meet us.

It was almost half past twelve by the time Dave and I arrived at Southampton Central railway station. From there we went straight to the pub mentioned by Jock Ferguson and found him holding up the bar. After the customary exchange of insults, we settled for a pie and a pint: the policeman's usual substitute for a midday meal.

Once we'd finished discussing the appalling state of the Job and had criticized a few senior officers, Jock left us, but told me to get in touch with him if we needed any help.

Half past two found us at Birley Road, the last known address for Thomas Hendry, sometime seagoing steward. It was a short street of old houses close to the city centre.

The woman who answered the door was in her late twenties, had shoulder-length black hair, and bits of metal embedded in various parts of her face and ears. There was a gap between her crop-top and her jeans, presumably to give us a good view of the two butterfly tattoos homing in on her navel. She looked at us with a puzzled expression on her face. Perhaps she thought we were peddling encyclopaedia or religion, but I soon disabused her of that. From the brief description PC Watson had given us, there was little doubt that she was the Shelley he saw in a thong on the night of the disturbance.

‘I'm a police officer,' I said, but that was all I had time to say. Unfortunately I'd said it too loudly.

There was a crash from the rear of the small house, as if a table had been overturned, followed by the sound of breaking glass. It was apparent that the man we'd come to interview had taken flight, assuming that it was Thomas Hendry. This, of course, is something CID officers know all about. Fleeing felons are an all too frequent occurrence in the humdrum life of a detective.

Dispensing with the niceties of asking if we might come in, Dave and I sped through the house. In the kitchen, we found that the table had been turned on its side, and the large windowpane had been smashed. There were smears of blood on the jagged edges of the broken glass. I presume that Hendry had scarpered the moment he heard me announce who we were, and had taken a header through the window.

‘Where does that lead to?' I asked the startled woman, pointing at the paved area at the back of the house.

‘To the garage at the back. It's where we keep the car. There's a service road from there out to the main road.'

As if to confirm what she'd said, I heard the sound of an engine starting, and a vehicle driving away at speed.

Well, that was something. This woman obviously wasn't too worried about telling me how the man had escaped. I tested her even further.

‘D'you know the registration number of the car?'

Without a pause, she reeled it off.

‘Have you got a telephone here?' I asked, forgetting that my mobile was in my pocket.

‘Yeah, of course. It's in the lounge.'

I moved rapidly into the tawdry sitting room that she'd dignified with the term ‘lounge', and dialled 999. Having identified myself, and assured the police control room operator that Detective Superintendent Ferguson knew what we were doing, I relayed the details of the car, and the fact that our man could be bloodstained. Now we could relax and hope, and obtain as much information from the helpful woman as she was prepared to give.

‘What's your name, Miss?' asked Dave.

‘Shelley Maxwell,' she said, confirming that she was the woman who'd been seen by PC Watson. ‘What's this all about?'

‘And I presume the guy who just disappeared out of the kitchen window was Thomas Hendry,' continued Dave.

‘Yeah, that was Tom.'

‘Why did he make such a hurried exit, Shelley?'

‘I haven't got a clue. He's never done nothing like that before.'

Dave showed the girl the photograph of Hendry that we'd obtained from the shipping office. ‘Is this your man Tom?'

‘Yes, that's him.'

‘You and he were at twenty-seven Tavona Street last Saturday night.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

Dave seemed to be doing all right without my intervention, so I let him get on with it.

‘I think you do, Shelley,' persisted Dave. ‘But if you'd rather, I can take you down to Southampton Central police station, and I'll send for the officer from London who spoke to Tom early last Sunday morning about a riotous party at the house. He recalls that you were scantily dressed at the time. It could all take time, of course,' added Dave, implying that Shelley Maxwell could finish up spending a lot of time at the nick.

‘We never had nothing to do with it,' Shelley blurted out.

‘Nothing to do with what?'

‘The dead woman.'

‘What dead woman is this?' asked Dave, affecting an air of innocence.

‘Diana. It was her party.'

We were getting close to having to caution Shelley Maxwell, but she might just have a little more to tell us before we resorted to arresting and charging her with murder. I decided to take a hand.

‘Shelley, we are investigating the murder of Diana Barton whose body was found at twenty-seven Tavona Street the night you and Thomas Hendry were there.'

Predictably, Shelley Maxwell burst into tears. ‘It was nothing to do with us,' she protested, in between sobs that might even have been genuine.

I made a decision, a bit of a rarity for me. ‘Miss Maxwell, I'm taking you to Southampton Central police station where I shall question you further. That interview will be recorded for your protection.'

More tears followed this announcement and I got the impression that Shelley Maxwell was in this affair over her head, and couldn't really cope with the resulting stress.

I called Jock Ferguson on my mobile, and asked him to arrange transport to the nick.

Once the plethora of forms had been duly completed, a procedure necessary whenever anyone is brought into a police station, we got down to business in one of the interview rooms.

‘You and Thomas Hendry live together, do you?' I asked for openers.

‘Yes,' murmured the girl.

‘Where do you work?' I was thinking that she was probably an exotic dancer, or a striptease artiste, or even a prostitute. But I was wrong.

‘I'm a supermarket check-out assistant.'

Well, that was a first.

‘And you were both at a party at twenty-seven Tavona Street, Chelsea on the night of Saturday the twenty-seventh of July.'

‘Yes,' said Shelley, her voice almost inaudible.

‘You must speak up,' I said, ‘otherwise the tape recorder won't pick up your answers.'

‘Yes,' she said again.

‘What time did you arrive there?'

‘About half past four, I suppose.'

‘And was Thomas Hendry with you?'

‘Yeah, course he was.'

‘So, you travelled all the way up from Southampton just to attend a party in Chelsea.'

‘No, not exactly. Tom had booked us into a hotel for the Saturday night. He said as how we was going to have the weekend in London. But he did say we was going to a party an' all.'

‘And which hotel did you stay at?'

‘We never. See, Tom changed his mind, and said we'd come back here.'

‘Why was that?'

‘I don't know. He just said we ought to go home.'

‘Why did he give police the name of Carl Morgan when the officer spoke to him?'

‘Did he? I didn't know that. I suppose it was because he didn't want to get mixed up in this business.'

‘Did he set fire to the house before you left?'

There was a pause, long enough for me to know that she was going to lie.

‘No. I don't think so.'

‘Where's Tom gone?'

‘I've no idea.' Shelley sniffed.

‘If he wasn't involved in the death of Diana Barton, why did he run away when we arrived at your house?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Do you know the names of any of the other guests at this party?'