Exit Stage Left (10 page)

‘I do, sir,’ I said firmly. I was not prepared to be messed about, and if necessary I’d go over his head and speak to the deputy assistant commissioner. The DAC was a real detective and knew the dangers that could face working detectives. ‘I could go to the DAC if you’d feel happier about it, sir,’ I added, putting my thoughts into words.

‘No, no, that’s all right, Mr Brock. You may draw firearms.’ My veiled threat had its effect; the commander was frightened of the DAC. He opened the file he’d been working on, indicating that as far as he was concerned the interview was over.

‘In writing, sir, if you please.’ I handed him the requisite form.

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Yes, sir. One must think ahead. If in the meantime you had a heart attack and died, it would be difficult to prove that firearms were authorized. It’s particularly important in case we shoot someone.’

‘Oh, um, yes, very well.’ The commander appeared shocked that I thought he might succumb to a fatal coronary, and that we might actually
use
firearms. God knows what he’d do if someone actually died at the hands of police. He took the form and scribbled his signature on it.

I returned to the incident room and told the three sergeants to go ahead and draw weapons, and I drew one myself.

It was fifteen miles from Belgravia to Robert Miles’s address in Harrow, but we’d be travelling during the end of the evening rush hour, and there was no telling how long the journey would take. I decided that to be on the safe side we’d leave Central London at seven o’clock.

I
t was a quiet road in Harrow, an area of London described by its residents as a leafy suburb, more out of self delusion than reality. The BMW that we had seen at the crematorium was parked on the drive of a very ordinary detached house. The property could have belonged to a middle-class, middle-income, middle-management, upwardly mobile man with a medium sized family. A man who was struggling to pay the mortgage, the golf-club subscription and the school fees of his children at an overpriced second-rate private school. All in all, the occupants could have been a family desperately trying to keep up with the neighbours and impressing them by hosting lavish dinner parties they could ill afford.

But I was certain that Robert Miles did not fit into that category.

That his car was on the drive seemed to indicate that Miles was at home, even though it was only a quarter to eight. He had been specific about the time: eight o’clock.

I’d radioed Flynn and Challis and told them to park a few yards down the road, but to alight and cover Dave and me as we approached the house. When we reached the front door, I noticed a CCTV camera covertly positioned in the porch. Dave, pistol held discreetly against his leg, stood to one side of the door.

I rang the bell, and then I moved to the other side and drew my firearm. It was not unknown for a suspect – and right now Miles was one – to open fire through a door. There was no answer. I tried again, but there was still no answer. I signalled to Flynn and Challis to move up and told them to cover the door. All the windows were closed and, I suspected, locked and alarmed.

‘We’ll try round the back, Dave.’ We moved round to the side of the house and were confronted by a pair of six-foot high wooden gates that were wide enough to admit a vehicle. I tried one of them, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s locked.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dave, and without hesitation placed his hands on top of one of the gates and vaulted over. I think he must’ve been taking lessons from his ballet dancer wife.

‘Any luck, Dave?’ I asked, but there was no reply.

A few minutes later, I heard some object being dragged towards the gate, and I imagined that Dave was moving something to stand on. Then his head appeared over the top. ‘D’you want the good news or the bad news, guv?’

‘Start with the good news, Dave.’

‘There isn’t any, but the bad news is that there’s a body lying on the floor in the room at the back. I’m pretty sure it’s Miles, and it looks as though he’s snuffed it. Either that or he’s smashed out of his brains from all the booze at Lancelot’s wake.’

‘Oh, bloody marvellous,’ I exclaimed. ‘Any sign of blood?’

‘No, guv.’

‘Is there any chance of getting into the house at the back?’

‘No way. Everything’s locked up. We’d even have a job smashing a window: they’re triple-glazed.’

‘I’ll get Charlie and Tom to give me a hand and see if we can break in through the front door. You hang on there, Dave.’

‘I was planning on doing that … sir.’

I returned to the front of the house to find that Flynn and Challis were in conversation with two uniformed constables. A police car was parked across the entrance to the drive.

‘These two officers got a call from a concerned neighbour opposite, guv, who saw a suspicious looking black man—’ Flynn stopped and dissolved into laughter. ‘Sorry, guv,’ he said, once he’d recovered. ‘She saw a sussy looking black guy hopping over the back gate and seemed to think he was breaking in. I explained who we were and where we’re from.’

‘We’re
about
to break in, Charlie.’ I turned to the two PCs. ‘Have you, by any chance, got a forty-pound key in your car?’ I asked, using police slang for a battering-ram.

‘Never go anywhere without one these days, sir,’ said one of the PCs, and fetched the rammer from the boot of the police car. ‘Front door, sir?’ He didn’t ask if I had a warrant, but as I was the senior officer I suppose he didn’t really care. I’d be the one carrying the can if it all went pear-shaped.

‘Yes, please.’

The PC swung the battering-ram against the door, but it took several blows before it finally gave way, with a splintering of the woodwork surrounding the lock.

Telling the uniformed officers to stand well back, Flynn, Challis and I drew our pistols and entered the house.

Once we were satisfied that the ground floor was clear, I sent the two sergeants to search the upstairs while I made for the back door. It was safeguarded by two huge deadbolts of the sort more often seen in American apartments and that secured the entire width of the door.

‘This place is like a fortress, Dave,’ I said, when he joined me. ‘And the front door’s got deadbolts on it similar to the back door.’

‘How did you get in, then?’

‘Only the latch was on. The deadbolts hadn’t been engaged.’

We went through to the room at the back of the house where Dave had sighted the body. Several armchairs and a settee, all in black leather, were placed at intervals around the room, on a thick pile carpet. A small bookcase contained a number of popular paperbacks, none of which indicated any particular interest that Miles may have had. There were no signs of a fight having taken place, and nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Each of the windows, which were triple-glazed, as Dave had said, was secured with high-quality window locks. As I’d surmised, they were protected by an alarm system. Miles was obviously a man who took no chances.

‘Why the hell didn’t the alarm go off when we broke in?’ I said, thinking aloud.

‘It wouldn’t, would it?’ said Dave. ‘Miles obviously turns it off when he’s at home, sir.’

A quick examination of Robert Miles’s body confirmed that he was indeed dead, and to my unpractised eye it appeared that his neck had been broken; it was certainly positioned at an unnatural angle. And that was how Lancelot Foley had been topped too, but I’d have to wait for Dr Mortlock to confirm it.

‘Looks very much as though he was got at before he could tell us what he knew, Dave.’

‘I reckon the guy who killed Foley must’ve found out that Miles was going to grass on him.’

‘And that means that his phone was hacked, despite all his precautions. Miles said he was out and about until eight, but that was probably an excuse to cover a meeting here with whoever topped him. He was very specific about the time.’

‘We’ll have to see if any fingerprints are found that might help us,’ said Dave. ‘But I’ll bet my pension none will be.’ He made a call to the incident room requesting a full murder-investigation turnout. ‘The supporting cast is on its way, guv.’

Flynn and Challis joined us. ‘All clear, guv,’ said Flynn. ‘Nothing appears to have been disturbed anywhere, so I don’t reckon it was a burglary. On the other hand, if the murderer was looking for something in particular, he was certainly a tidy bastard. There was no sign of a search; not that that means there wasn’t one.’

‘I don’t see how anyone
could
have got in,’ I said. ‘The place is as tight as a drum.’

‘That leaves only one alternative,’ said Dave. ‘Whoever topped Miles must’ve been known to him and was let in. When he left he just closed the front door after him. That would explain why only the night latch was on, the deadbolts hadn’t been engaged and the alarm was dormant.’

‘I think you’re right, Dave. I get the impression that Miles was so security conscious that he wouldn’t have left those bolts undone.’

‘What exactly is going on here?’ A youthful inspector appeared in the doorway. His attitude was one of pompous officialdom.

‘And you are?’ I asked.

‘The late-turn duty officer, and who are you?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Murder Investigation Team.’

‘Ah, I see, sir.’ The inspector wrote it down in his pocketbook and then waggled his pen at Dave. ‘And who are you?’

‘Colour Sergeant Poole, ditto … sir.’ Dave frequently described himself thus when he sensed that he was dealing with a graduate-entry accelerated promotion officer who set great store by diversity and political correctness.

‘I see,’ said the inspector with a frown. He was probably wondering how to deal with a black sergeant who made racist remarks about himself. But he obviously decided not to try and instead turned to me. ‘Can you tell me what’s going on, sir?’

I explained that we were dealing with a murder, but that was all. The rest had nothing to do with him. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to arrange for your officers to guard the property, Inspector. And I’d be obliged if you’d wait outside. You’re contaminating a crime scene.’ It was a fact of life that rubbernecking police officers were more likely to corrupt a scene than anyone else.

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir.’ Somewhat red faced, the inspector withdrew, doubtless to collect more names.

‘While we’re waiting for the team, Dave, we’ll have a word with the woman opposite who put up the suspects call.’

Dave got the details from the PCs who’d responded to the call, and we crossed the road.

The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her late twenties and wore jeans and a crop-top. A small child clutched the woman’s right leg and gazed up at Dave and me with wide-eyed innocence. Another child, a little older, stood behind his mother and peeked round her.

‘Mrs Hughes?’

‘Yes, I’m Emma Hughes.’

‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. We’d like to talk to you about the house opposite.’

‘Have you got any identification?’ Mrs Hughes was clearly the cautious type. I wished there were more about like her; it would make our job that much easier. Trusting tenants all too often gave bogus police officers, utility workers and sundry other would-be thieves unfettered access to their properties. And would subsequently complain that the police weren’t doing enough to protect them.

Dave and I produced our warrant cards, and I was pleased to see that the woman examined them closely.

‘Please come in.’ Mrs Hughes smiled as she opened the door wide and showed us into a sitting room that was overpoweringly hot. The central heating must’ve been on full blast. The Hughes family was obviously not worried about paying its energy bills. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess, but I was in the middle of housework. I work part-time at a nursery school, and I never seem to have time to catch up.’ She spent a few moments rushing around gathering up children’s toys, magazines and some odd pieces of clothing. ‘Do sit down,’ she said breathlessly, and flicked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Glancing at her children, she said, ‘Now, sit down over there and keep quiet while I talk to these gentlemen.’

‘Do you know the man who lives opposite you, Mrs Hughes? A Mr Miles.’

‘Not to speak to. We only moved in about three months ago, and we’ve not really had time to get to know anyone. As I said, I work part-time, and my partner works long hours in Wembley.’

‘I understand that you called the police earlier.’

‘Yes, I did. I saw some men at the house looking through the windows, and then I saw one of them jump over the side gate. I thought they were up to no good, so I dialled nine nine nine.’ Emma blushed and put a hand to her mouth. ‘I feel such a fool now that I’ve found out it was you.’

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mrs Hughes,’ said Dave. ‘I can assure you that the police are always grateful for calls of that sort. We don’t mind genuine mistakes, and we’d rather have that than miss something important.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone calling at the house opposite, Mrs Hughes?’ I asked.

‘I’m not one for spying on my neighbours,’ said Emma, a little defensively, ‘but I have noticed men calling there from time to time. They seemed like businessmen, always smartly dressed.’ Emma Hughes paused in thought. ‘But, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a woman there. I suppose the man must live alone.’ She paused again. ‘Oh my God! Is he one of those paedophiles? You hear such terrible stories about these men who abuse young children. Is that why you’re here?’

‘I don’t think that he was a paedophile, Mrs Hughes,’ I said. ‘In fact, he has been murdered. That’s why we are here.’ That wasn’t quite the truth, but Mrs Hughes didn’t need to know that we’d come across Robert Miles’s dead body almost by accident. The thought that Miles might’ve been a paedophile was a wild but intriguing one; it hadn’t occurred to me, but the idea opened up the possibility that his death might have had nothing to do with the murder of Lancelot Foley. Unless Foley was
also
a paedophile …

I dismissed those idle thoughts from my mind; the situation was complicated enough as it was.

‘Murdered! Oh, good heavens. When did this happen?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Dave. ‘Did you see anyone calling at the house today, particularly within, say, the last few hours? Did you perhaps see a car parked outside the house?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. As I said, I’ve been busy around the house.’

‘Have you
ever
seen a car parked outside the house? Apart from Mr Miles’s BMW, which would probably have been on the drive.’

‘I’m sorry, no. I don’t seem to have been much help, do I?’

‘But you have, Mrs Hughes,’ I said. ‘However, we may need to speak to you again, and it’s possible that you may later recall having seen something. In the meantime, we’ll let you get on with your housework.’ I gave her one of my cards. ‘If you do think of anything, perhaps you’d give me a ring.’

The team had arrived by the time Dave and I returned to Miles’s house. Kate Ebdon had turned up with DS Lizanne Carpenter, DCs John Appleby, Nicola Chance and Sheila Armitage. I sent them off to make house-to-house enquiries, but if the usual success rate obtained, we would learn nothing. When the police start asking questions, they suddenly find that everyone minds their own business. The truth of the matter is that they don’t want to get involved.

Linda Mitchell and her evidence recovery team were already there and had got busy. Photographs were taken, video recordings were made of the interior, and every likely surface was examined for fingerprints.

Five minutes later, a complaining Dr Henry Mortlock drew up outside the house. ‘You do pick the most inconvenient times to find dead bodies, Harry,’ he said.