Exit Stage Left (15 page)

‘I take it you didn’t like him,’ said Dave, with a smile.

‘I couldn’t stand the bloody man,’ responded Catrina vehemently. ‘He was the sort of guy who moved up close to you, peered down your cleavage and propositioned you, all in the space of about thirty seconds. I suppose he thought that all women would swoon at his feet, just because he was a well-known actor.’

‘You didn’t respond to his proposition, then?’ Dave asked impishly.

‘Oh, I did, but not in the way he expected. I told him, very quietly, to go away and perform an impossible biological act. But I phrased it a little more graphically than that. I also mentioned that my right knee could do some damage if he persisted.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He went away to try it on with some bosomy bimbo who’d come with a footballer, and he didn’t speak to me again.’

‘It’s extremely dangerous to tangle with Cat, Chief Inspector,’ said Townsend. ‘And I speak from experience.’

‘Liar,’ said Catrina.

‘One last question, Mr Townsend,’ I said. ‘Where were you on the night of the fourth and morning of the fifth of this month?’

‘Good God, Chief Inspector, I have absolutely no idea, other than to say that I was in London.’

We left Gavin Townsend and his dangerous girlfriend. He had no alibi, but at least he’d been honest about the row he’d had with Lancelot Foley. But despite his denial, it was possible that he had murdered Foley.

As we had spent half the morning talking to Townsend, it was close to three o’clock before we started to execute the search warrants that Len Driscoll had obtained for us.

We went first to Chorley Street. I sent for a locksmith, which would mean a delay, but I didn’t want to smash open the front door to Debra Foley’s house for no better reason than it would involve securing the premises after we’d finished. And that would mean a lot of paperwork. Eventually, one turned up and admitted us.

We went from room to room, but found nothing of evidential value anywhere, not that I’d expected to. There were no messages on the answering machine and no correspondence that would assist us.

We went from there to Debra’s one-bedroom flat at Keycross Court. On our visit there two days ago, we had only seen the sitting room. The bedroom was more interesting, but hardly surprising. The wardrobe contained a selection of colourful and erotic underwear, along with a couple of whips and a cane. The metal-framed bed was at least six foot wide by seven foot long, and judging by the restraints at the four corners it was obviously equipped for advanced fun and games. And there was a mirror on the ceiling above it. I don’t suppose the owners of the property would be too happy about that.

But all we had learned from our search was that Debra Foley, in her alter ego as Corinne Black, was very much the professional call girl.

‘It’s a blowout, Dave.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I did not hold out much hope that I would find Henri Deshayes at work on a Sunday afternoon, the French police being better organized than we are. But I tried.

I telephoned the
Police Judiciaire
in Paris and eventually made contact with an English speaking officer.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard,’ I began. ‘I’m trying to contact
Capitaine
Henri Deshayes.’

‘
M’sieur
Deshayes is now a commandant,
m’sieur
, and he is at this moment dealing with a murder at a hotel in the rue de Castiglione in the first arrondissement. I am expecting him to return shortly. I will ask him to telephone you,
oui
?’

‘Thank you,
m’sieur
,’ I said, and gave him the number.

It was gone six o’clock when Henri Deshayes rang me.

‘
Bonjour
, ’Arry, how are you?’

‘Busy, Henri, but I hear that you have a murder on your hands.’

‘That’s so. I was going to ring you anyway. My victim is an Englishwoman, and I think perhaps you can help me,
n’est pas
?’

‘If I can. Incidentally, congratulations. I hear that you are now a commandant.’

‘Thank you, ’Arry. No more than I deserved, of course.’ Deshayes laughed. ‘But, to be serious, the victim’s name is Debra Foley.’

Ye Gods! That was all I needed. My enquiry into the murder of Lancelot Foley and Robert Miles had just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

‘There is little else I can tell you,’ continued Deshayes, ‘apart from the fact that she had booked into this hotel with a man called William Anderson. But he has disappeared. Is it possible that you can find out more details to help me?’

‘I know the woman, Henri, and there’s a great deal I can tell you, but it’s too complex a situation to explain over the phone. I’d better come over.’ I hoped that I wouldn’t meet opposition from the commander, who was as reluctant to spend the Commissioner’s money as he was to part with his own.

‘That’s good. Why don’t you bring Gail with you? Gabrielle will be delighted to see you both again.’

‘I’m afraid that Gail’s going to Los Angeles on Monday, to Hollywood, Henri. She’s obtained a part in a television programme.’

‘Will she be gone for long?’

‘Six months, possibly longer.’

‘Oh,
malchance
! I’m sorry to hear that. Never mind. When d’you think you can get here?’

‘Tomorrow morning, I hope,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m arriving.’

I replaced the receiver and sat in thought for a moment or two. To telephone the commander at home would mean having to speak first to Mrs Commander who acted as a filter for her husband. And I didn’t feel like explaining the complexities of the latest twist in my enquiry to her. I decided to be devious: I rang the deputy assistant commissioner at home.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening, sir,’ I said, ‘but I can’t seem to get hold of the commander.’

‘That’s all right, Harry,’ said the DAC. ‘What’s the problem?’

I explained, as succinctly as possible, what had happened in Paris, but when I started to give him details of the Foley murder, he cut me short.

‘I know all about the Foley job, Harry, and there’s obviously a connection. I suppose you want permission to go to Paris.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then go, Harry. Put in the report when you get back.’

It was always refreshing to speak to a real detective, and one who was conversant with the difficulties faced by working coppers who were frequently hamstrung by administrative niceties.

Having decided that I would leave Dave Poole in London to handle any enquiries at this end, I made another decision and telephoned Kate Ebdon.

‘How d’you fancy a trip to Paris, Kate?’

‘Bonzer!’ exclaimed Kate. ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll ring you back with the details as soon as I’ve made the booking. There is one condition, though. No visiting dress shops.’

There was a pause before Kate said, ‘Oh well, can’t win ’em all, guv.’

I walked out to the incident room. ‘Colin, I’ve got to go to Paris tomorrow morning, and I’m taking Miss Ebdon with me. Would you arrange the flight for me?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Ten minutes later, Wilberforce put his head round my office door. ‘You’re booked on BA flight three-oh-eight, sir. Leaves Heathrow at ten forty-five hours and arrives at Charles de Gaulle at one o’clock their time.’

‘Thank you, Colin.’ I rang Kate back and told her to meet me at the airport.

T
he flight landed on schedule at one o’clock at Charles de Gaulle airport, and Henri Deshayes was waiting at the end of the walkway to meet us. Henri is about my height and age and possessed all the suavity of the typical middle-class Frenchman. His dress sense was impeccable, and today he was wearing a light-grey suit with a flower in the buttonhole. I had never once seen him looking like a
flic
, as the French are wont to call their policemen.

Kate had undergone a transformation from her customary outfit and had abandoned her shirt and jeans in favour of the smart black suit she had worn at Lancelot Foley’s funeral. The same camel coat completed the picture of a well-dressed woman.

‘This is Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon, Henri,’ I said.

‘It is a very great pleasure to meet you, Kate,’ said Henri, bowing low to kiss her hand and as usual overdoing the Gallic charm. He glanced at me and added, ‘You have the ability always to surround yourself with beautiful women, ’Arry. You must let me into the secret one day.’

‘Wow!’ said Kate, for once overwhelmed and, apart from that one word, rendered speechless.

Henri quickly ushered us through the controls by simply waving his badge at the immigration and customs officials, many of whom greeted him by name, and out to where a large police Citroën was waiting in an area where parking was strictly prohibited.

‘First we have lunch, ’Arry, and then we can get down to business,
non
?’ Henri gave the driver the address of a restaurant, and we were whisked through the Paris traffic with the aid of a siren and blue lights. ‘I’m a highly paid policeman, ’Arry,’ he said, chuckling as he turned to face us from his place next to the driver, ‘and my time is much too valuable to be wasted sitting in traffic jams. And apart from anything else, I’m hungry.’

The restaurant, close to the Opera Garnier, was crowded, but the obsequious maître d’hôtel immediately found a secluded table for ‘
M’sieur le commandant
.’

Henri studied the menu and steered us through the minefield of various dishes which of course were all written in French, and advised us what to choose. He then turned his attention to the more important question of wine, a subject close to the hearts of all Frenchmen.

‘And now, ’Arry, the murder.’ When, an hour later, we had finished our meal, Henri swept the napkin from his collar with a flourish. ‘On Saturday morning at ten o’clock a young chambermaid entered a room at the Santa Barbara Hotel in the rue de Castiglione to make the bed and clean the room. There was no “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. The chambermaid found the naked body of Mrs Foley lying face down on the bed. You will note
that I said on the bed, not in the bed; it would seem that the bed had not been slept in, although it had been disturbed. You understand this?’ Henri raised an eyebrow, and I nodded. ‘The pathologist was called and determined that the woman’s neck had been broken and that she’d recently had sexual intercourse. The time of death was estimated to be between ten o’clock and midnight.’

‘We know she was a prostitute as well as an actress, Henri. Any DNA?’

‘Yes, but it is not recorded in our database. We suspect she had sex with the man William Anderson. He and Mrs Foley had arrived together and had booked a double room. The porter carried the luggage of both him and Debra Foley to that room, so we know they were sharing. The porter remembers them particularly because the man gave him a handsome tip. The man Anderson has since disappeared, but the porter and receptionist were able to give good descriptions and each manufactured a computer likeness, an E-fit.’ He paused and put his head to one side. ‘To say “manufactured” is a good word, ’Arry?’

‘It’ll do, Henri,’ I said, unable to think of a suitable alternative.

Henri took a printout of the computer generated likeness from his pocket and handed it to me. A bearded man with horn-rimmed spectacles stared back at me.

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Henri. It doesn’t remind me of anyone I know. I’ve certainly not come across anyone with a beard in connection with my enquiry.’

‘A pity, but that is the trouble with pictures made from the computer. They are seldom any good,’ said Henri, taking back the printout.

‘Of course, it’s possible that the suspect has shaved off his beard by now.’

‘That is what I was thinking. I shall have other likenesses made without the beard and the glasses. However,’ continued Henri, ‘the
juge d’instruction
has authorized a murder investigation. As if it could be anything else,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘After all, it is not possible for a woman to break her own neck,
n’est pas
?’ He paused again. ‘Unless she jumps out of a window.’

‘This William Anderson is almost certainly the same man in whom we have an interest, Henri,’ I said, ‘and it looks as though he’s concerned in the murder of Lancelot Foley, an English actor and husband of your murder victim. There is also a connection with the murder of your victim’s brother. We had already learned that Anderson and Debra Foley left London for Paris on the four fifty-two Eurostar service on Friday, and were together.’ I went on to tell Henri as much as we knew about the murders of Lancelot Foley and Robert Miles.

‘How was this Lancelot Foley murdered, ’Arry?’

‘Strangely enough, he had his neck broken, and so had Robert Miles, Debra Foley’s brother.’

‘
Sacré bleu!
’ exclaimed Henri. ‘I think I need a cognac,’ he said, and signalled for the waiter. ‘Will you have a cognac, Kate, or would you care for something else?’

‘That’ll be ripper, thanks, Henri,’ said Kate.

‘Ripper?’ For a moment Henri looked puzzled, but then he shrugged and ordered three cognacs.

‘Have you any idea when Anderson left the hotel, Henri?’ I asked, having decided that there was insufficient time to introduce Henri to the basics of Australian patois.

‘No idea,’ said Henri. ‘There were certainly none of his belongings in the room when we arrived. I’m told that he and Mrs Foley had dinner together in the hotel restaurant the night before the woman’s body was found, but none of the hotel staff know at what time he left the hotel. I think it’s likely that he used the service stairs and went out through a door that leads directly to the street. He took his one item of luggage with him.’ He laughed. ‘And he didn’t pay the bill.’

‘We believe Anderson to be an ex-army officer who has since become a mercenary,’ I said, ‘so there’s no telling where he might be now. In his profession, it’s likely that Anderson is not his real name, anyway.’ I gave Henri a few details of what we had found on Miles’s computer without mentioning that there was much more on the laptop that we had yet to analyse. ‘It was after I questioned Mrs Foley about that data that she vanished.’ I explained about the mystery of Miles having visited Debra Foley at Keycross Court where she operated as a prostitute.

Deshayes nodded as he absorbed this information. ‘I checked with our
police de l’air et des frontières
at your St Pancras station, and they told me that he travelled on a passport in the name of William Anderson. We have now circulated his name and description, and details of the passport to all airports, seaports and to the Eurostar terminal at gare du Nord.’

‘That passport might be one of several he holds, Henri. Mercenaries are devious operators, and they’re very good at covering their own tracks. In fact, I would hazard a guess that he’s now travelling under a different name and has probably left France already. He may even have gone to Africa, which is where a lot of these mercenaries do their business.’

‘It’s possible,’ agreed Henri. ‘As I said, we put out a description immediately, but I think the bird he has flown. However,’ he said, signalling the waiter for the bill, ‘first you would like to visit the crime scene, perhaps?’

‘Yes, please, Henri, and then we must find ourselves a hotel.’

‘I have made a booking for you at a hotel in the first arrondissement near to
le trente-six.
’

‘Near where?’ asked Kate.

‘The headquarters of the
Police Judiciaire
is at number thirty-six in the quai des Orfèvres, Kate, but it is always known as
le
trente-six
: number thirty-six. Have you not read the famous Maigret stories?’

‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Kate, now thoroughly confused by Henri’s rapid mixture of French and English.

‘I’ll explain later, Kate,’ I said.

‘I have booked separate rooms for you,’ said Henri, with a mischievous smile. ‘Was that correct, ’Arry?’

‘Yes, it was, Henri,’ I said firmly.

Debra Foley’s body had been found in a first-floor room of the Santa Barbara Hotel in the rue de Castiglione. A police officer stood guard at the tape that cordoned off that part of the corridor and saluted at the approach of
Commandant
Henri Deshayes.

It was a typically modern hotel room: a double bed, built-in clothes closet, writing desk, two armchairs, en-suite bathroom and a television. Pictures of well-known Paris landmarks adorned the walls, and there was also a Wi-Fi connection for those guests to whom a computer was akin to a life-support machine.

‘Nothing has been disturbed, ’Arry,’ said Henri, ‘apart from the removal of the body, of course. We searched everything that was here, but we haven’t yet taken it away. Have a look round, if you wish.’

‘Were there any fingerprints, Henri?’

Deshayes gave another of his expressive Gallic shrugs. ‘Hundreds. I don’t think the chambermaids here do much in the way of polishing. We are searching the database for those we found, but we’re not in a hurry. I’m sure we know who killed the woman.’

‘I think you’re right, Henri,’ I said.

Kate and I went through Debra Foley’s small overnight bag, which was all that she appeared to have brought with her in the way of luggage. Her handbag yielded the usual contents that one expected to find in a woman’s handbag, together with her passport. But there wasn’t anything that might further Henri’s investigation into her murder or our search for the killer of Lancelot Foley and Robert Miles.

‘As I said when we were having lunch, I’m fairly certain that he went that way,’ said Henri, once we were in the corridor again. ‘That door,’ he continued, pointing, ‘leads to a flight of stairs. At the bottom is a door that leads straight on to the street.’

‘Is that door not locked?’ I asked.

‘Alas, no. It is an emergency exit in case of fire, and it can only be opened from the inside. But it cannot be locked; that’s the law.’

‘And now he could be anywhere,’ said Kate.

‘I’ll take you to your hotel now, ’Arry, and then this evening perhaps you and Kate will have dinner with Gabrielle and me. I will pick you up at seven o’clock.’

‘Thank you, Henri. I’m looking forward to meeting her again. But you must let me pay for dinner.’

‘No, ’Arry. You are guests in my country, and I pay. When next I come to London, you will pay.’ And with that comment, Henri gave another of his throaty laughs. ‘Anyway, Gabrielle is preparing the meal at our home.’

We had adjoining rooms at the hotel Henri had booked for us, and there was a communicating door between them. I suspected he had arranged that deliberately; in common with many Frenchmen, he was a grand romantic.

I’d taken a shower and had just got dressed when there was a knock at the communicating door.

‘Come in, Kate.’

Kate Ebdon was attired in an elegant low-cut green dress that stopped just above her knees, black tights and high heels. Her usually unruly flame hair was neatly coiffed into a ponytail, and she wore tasteful gold earrings.

‘Will I do, guv?’ she asked.

‘You certainly will, Kate, but stop calling me “guv”. We’re off duty now, and the name’s Harry.’

‘I meant, will I do up against Gabrielle? From what you told me about her on the flight over, I gather she’s something of a fashion icon.’

‘You’ve nothing to fear on that score, Kate,’ I said, and glanced at my watch. ‘Henri should be downstairs now.’

Kate returned to her room to pick up her clutch bag, and we took the lift to the ground floor.

Henri Deshayes was leaning on the reception counter and in earnest conversation with an attractively mature receptionist. After a last comment that caused the woman to laugh, he walked across to join us. For a moment or two he appraised Kate before slowly shaking his head. ‘
Magnifique!
’ he exclaimed. ‘Like I said, ’Arry, you have the art of surrounding yourself with beautiful women.’

‘I bet you say that about all the girls, Henri,’ said Kate, by now having got the measure of Henri’s fulsome compliments.

‘Only about beautiful ones like you, Kate.’

It was not far to Henri’s apartment in one of the select parts of Paris. Gabrielle was waiting at the door with open arms.

‘
Cher
’Arry,’ she said, giving me four air kisses. ‘It is good to see you again, but I’m sorry that Gail is not with you. Henri told me that she is going to be a Hollywood star.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, not wishing to elaborate on what I thought might become a permanent and painful split. ‘You are looking as glamorous as ever, Gabrielle.’ She was too: a beautifully cut pearl-grey trouser suit over a matching high-necked sweater and a colourful thin silk scarf. ‘I’d like you to meet my assistant, Kate Ebdon.’

‘It is delightful to see you, Kate,’ said Gabrielle, giving her a few air kisses. ‘And so chic.’ She stood back to admire Kate, and then turned to me. ‘You have very beautiful policewomen at Scotland Yard, ’Arry. It must be a terrible temptation for you to be naughty, eh?’

‘Harry doesn’t need any temptation,’ said Kate, and shot me an impish glance. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

Henri served champagne – the best, of course – and we sat and chatted for a good hour before Gabrielle announced that we should sit down to dinner.

We had always dined out on my previous visits to the French capital, and I had not therefore experienced Gabrielle’s culinary skills. But the meal she prepared was sumptuous.

The starter was a delicious
soufflé au fromage
that simply melted in the mouth, with a Savoy wine to accompany it. The main course, a filet mignon, was out of this world, and Gabrielle was flattered when Kate asked what it was and how it was cooked. Gabrielle explained – in great detail – how she had prepared the noisettes of roast pork fillet and the Vichy carrots, and Henri insisted on telling her the origin of the vintage Buzet wine that he served with it.