Exit Stage Left (7 page)

‘I met Gerald Andrews today,’ I said, finally deciding to broach a subject that had been nagging away at me for most of the evening.

‘Did you, darling? How is he?’

That was certainly not the reaction I’d expected. ‘He seemed well enough. As a matter of fact, he said he saw you just before Christmas.’

‘Yes, I ran into him in Oxford Street when I was buying your Christmas present. Didn’t I mention it?’

‘No, I don’t think you did.’ I eased myself up on to one elbow. ‘He told me a rather strange story.’

‘Well, you had to find out sooner or later, I suppose.’ Gail put her hands behind her head and gazed at the ceiling. ‘No doubt he told you that it was
he
who came home and found
me
in bed with a fellah.’

‘Yes, he did actually.’

‘It was quite true,’ admitted Gail with disarming frankness. ‘He caught me at it.’

‘But why did you make up a story that made you look like the innocent party?’ This conversation was not going at all in the way I’d anticipated.

‘Harry, darling,’ she said, drawing her hands down and turning to face me, ‘I fancied you the moment you walked into my life that day at the Granville, and you don’t honestly believe I was going to tell you that my marriage broke up because of
my
adultery, do you? Better for us both to have started with a clean slate, don’t you think? Anyway, have you told me about all the women you’d slept with between your divorce and when you met me?’ She paused, and in the absence of an answer, went on. ‘No, I didn’t think so. And before you deploy your interrogation skills any further, I might as well tell you that it was the assistant stage manager at the Granville Theatre. But I expect Gerald told you that too. It was a brief fling, and it was all over before I met you.’

‘Oh, what the hell!’ I said, greatly relieved that Gail had been honest about her affair. And she was right about me too: I hadn’t mentioned the girls I’d slept with between my divorce and meeting her. And there had been a few, apart from the few
before
my divorce. My first wife was Helga Büchner, a German physiotherapist, who had straightened out my shoulder after a dust-up with a crowd of youths when I was a uniformed PC. We were married within weeks, but she insisted on working after the birth of our son Robert and would leave him with an obliging neighbour. One day, however, the boy fell in the neighbour’s pond and drowned; he was only four. There had already been adultery on both sides, and finally we divorced so that Helga could marry a doctor with whom she’d been having an affair for some time. All I got out of the marriage was the ability to speak fluent German, but it had been a high price to pay.

I was in Belgravia by nine o’clock the next morning and settled in my office with a pile of paperwork and a cup of coffee. Now that I’d cleared the air with Gail I felt much more like getting on with my murder enquiry. And today was the day that Dave and I would go to Farnham to interview Sally Warner, the woman who was about to inherit Lancelot Foley’s millions. And if she happened not to be at home, I’d get Dave to ask a few questions locally. He’s very good at making enquiries wrapped up as ‘market research’.

‘Got a minute, sir?’ DS Lizanne Carpenter appeared in the doorway.

‘What is it, Liz?’

‘Yesterday, sir, Nicola and I picked up some information that might turn out to be useful,’ she said, and went on to tell me what she had learned from the Dixey twins who lived opposite Debra Foley in Chorley Street.

‘And they reckon she goes out most afternoons, do they?’

‘Except Sundays, sir.’

‘There are matinees on Wednesdays and Saturdays, so that could account for her going out on those particular days.’

‘That would tally, sir. The Dixey twins said that a taxi always comes for her at about one o’clock on Wednesdays and Saturdays. But on those days, she was always dressed smartly, rather than dowdily.’ Liz paused before making a suggestion. ‘What about an observation on the Foley woman, sir, to see what she does with her other afternoons? D’you think we’d learn anything?’

‘From what I remember of Chorley Street when I called at Debra Foley’s house, Liz, I think it would be a bit too tricky for an obo. Not much cover. You’d show out in minutes, especially if there are other residents who look out of their windows as often as your Dixey twins seem to.’

‘We could ask the Dixey twins if we could keep obo from their sitting room, sir.’

‘I doubt that that would help, Liz. Debra might go to the end of the street and take a taxi. Apart from anything else, I get the impression from what you say that these two old ladies are gossips. The last thing we want is for one of them to go beetling across the road to tell Debra Foley all about the Old Bill taking an interest in her. No, I think we’ll have to mount a proper obo. If I can get it arranged in time, are you up for it today?’

‘Yes, sir. Nicola’s in the incident room now.’

‘Good. What about Charlie Flynn? Is he about?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him you want to see him.’

Although Detective Sergeant Charles Flynn was a former Fraud Squad officer, he could turn his hand to most aspects of criminal investigation. And that’s not something you can say of all coppers, despite the hierarchy believing that every member of the Metropolitan Police is an omnicompetent officer.

‘You wanted me, guv?’

‘I want you to set up an obo, Charlie, this afternoon.’

‘Right, guv. Where and when, exactly?’

‘In Chorley Street. I’m very interested in Debra Foley’s strange goings on. According to Liz Carpenter, Debra dresses up like a bag lady when she goes out on weekday afternoons, apart from Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays. Get hold of one of the Job’s nondescript vehicles, and get the rundown from Liz and Nicola Chance, who’ll be accompanying you. They’ll give you the SP.’

I
t is some forty or so miles from Belgravia to Farnham. Traffic on the London side of Guildford on the A3 had been reduced to a crawl, and progress was further delayed by an accident on the A31 between there and Farnham. But even having the benefit of what Dave called his ‘positive driving’, it took over two hours for us to get there.

Overcroft Lane proved to be on the outskirts of Farnham in an area that the residents undoubtedly preferred to call a ‘village’. The Surrey Constabulary had replied to our request for information about Sally Warner by confirming her address, and that there was nothing in local police records to her detriment.

The bungalow where she lived was a well-kept detached dwelling. The long front garden was immaculate, the paintwork was in pristine condition and the curtains, behind each of the double-glazed casement windows, were identical. A Ford Focus – this year’s model – was on the drive. That and the condition of the bungalow prompted a number of possibilities: Sally Warner was married to a reasonably wealthy man; or had a private income; or possibly had been given an allowance by the late Lancelot Foley.

The woman who came to the door appeared to be in her mid-thirties and was quite tall. Her straight blonde hair touched her shoulders and, although simple, had probably cost her a fortune to have it styled that way. Like Debra Foley and Jane Lawless she was possessed of a perfectly proportioned full figure, and her appearance confirmed, yet again, that Lancelot Foley had a fondness for big women. It caused me to wonder what attractions for Foley, apart from the obvious, that the comparatively skinny and rather plain Ruth Strickland possessed.

The woman surveyed us critically: a tall well-dressed man – even if I say so myself – and a hunky six-foot black man. ‘If you’re reporters, I’ve got nothing to say. You’re wasting your time, so please go away,’ she said sharply, and started to close the door.

‘We’re police officers, madam,’ I said, and showed her my warrant card.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ The hostile countenance was immediately replaced by a welcoming smile.

‘It’s Miss Warner, is it?’ I asked, having introduced myself and Dave.

‘I actually call myself Mrs Warner, although I’m not married, but I’d be quite happy for you to call me Sally. Come on in,’ she added, and showed us into the sitting room. A young blonde girl, probably about eight years old, in jeans and a red T-shirt, was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, an earnest expression on her face.

‘Run along to your room, Cindy, and watch the television there just while I talk to these gentlemen. Then we’ll have some lunch, poppet.’

Without a word Cindy stood up, picked up a worn teddy bear, and spent a moment or two examining the pair of us closely with the innocent curiosity that only a child of that age possesses.

Dave squatted down and faced the girl. ‘He’s a nice bear, Cindy. What’s his name?’

‘It’s not a “him” it’s a “her”. You should know that,’ said Cindy crossly. ‘And her name’s Jemima.’

‘Don’t be rude, Cindy,’ cautioned Sally.

‘Whoops! Sorry,’ said Dave as Cindy marched off.

‘She’s got a bit of a cold so I’ve kept her off school,’ explained Sally Warner. ‘D’you have any children, Sergeant?’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Dave. He and Madeleine had been trying for a baby for some time, but without success. Madeleine had some wild idea that her physical exertions as a ballet dancer may have had something to do with her inability to conceive, but her gynaecologist had dismissed that as fantasy, suggesting that her physique was more likely to be beneficial to childbearing than not.

‘Now, what can I do for you?’ asked Sally Warner. ‘I suppose it’s something to do with Lancelot’s murder.’

‘How well did you know him, Sally?’ I asked.

She smiled, as if at some suddenly recalled memory of events of years ago. ‘Lancelot and I had a rather torrid affair about nine years ago, and Cindy is the result,’ said Sally frankly, displaying no embarrassment at her disclosure. ‘Not that she knows that Lancelot is her father, nor will she until she’s old enough to take it in.’ She paused and smiled again. ‘You’ve probably heard that he’s left me all his money. Everyone else seems to have found out. According to his solicitor it’s over fifteen million pounds. I didn’t know Lancelot had that much money, and I certainly didn’t know he was going to leave it all to me. I’m still trying to get my head round it.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ I lied, not wishing to reveal that Foley’s lawyer had already given us this information. ‘Presumably, that’s why you thought we were from the press and had come to talk to you about your new-found wealth.’

‘I’ve been plagued with reporters, begging letters and more telephone calls than you can shake a stick at ever since the news of Lancelot’s murder was in the press. God knows how they got to hear of my inheritance. I suppose they’ll find out that he paid me quite a substantial allowance, too.’

‘It’s quite amazing,’ I said, but I was certain that despite the recent Old Bailey trials, the press was still happily hacking away at the mobile phones of people whose activities or indiscretions they regarded as newsworthy.

‘Had you seen Mr Foley recently?’ asked Dave.

Sally Warner studied Dave for a second or two. ‘He’d visit me from time to time, but mainly to see Cindy. I told her that he was an uncle.’ She paused and gave a mischievous chuckle. ‘I had an uncle like that when I was small.’ She paused again, reflectively this time. ‘Sorry. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Lancelot would stay the night when he could, but we had to be discreet about it because of Cindy. It was usually on the nights that she had a sleepover with one of her school friends.’

‘I believe he has a house in Farnham somewhere,’ I said, well knowing that to be the case.

‘Yes, he has, and it’s only a couple of miles away, but Lancelot and I didn’t dare meet there in case his wife turned up. We’d always hoped to get married, but that bitch Debra wouldn’t give him a divorce. She had a dog in the manger attitude; she didn’t love Lancelot, but neither would she let him go. I suppose it had to do with his money, but she’ll have had a shock if she’s found out that he left it all to me. Lancelot and I did discuss his moving in at one time, but what with his theatrical obligations it would’ve been unworkable, particularly now that Cindy’s started to ask questions. And you know what gossip columnists are like. With Lancelot as well known as he was, they’d have had a field day splashing it all over their tawdry rags.’

‘When did he last visit you?’ Dave asked again.

‘About three weeks ago, I suppose, just before his new play opened.’ Sally’s reserve finally crumbled, and she emitted a convulsive sob, reached for a box of tissues and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it’s all come as an awful shock, and I really don’t know how I’m going to break it to Cindy. He was always so good to her, bringing her presents and generally spoiling her. As a matter of fact, I had to tell him off about it. It doesn’t do to spoil a kid the way he did.’

‘Our job is to find out who killed Mr Foley, Sally,’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted him dead?’

‘I’ve racked my brains since it happened to try to find a reason, but I’ve no idea at all.’

‘Did he seem in any way different when last you saw him?’ asked Dave. ‘As though he was worried about something? Or did he discuss any problems with you?’

‘No, not at all. He was always very sweet to Cindy and me, but from what he said it seemed that Debra gave him a hard time. By all accounts she’s a bit of a tartar. God knows why he married her, but I suppose it had something to do with the theatre. She’s on the stage too, you know.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did know that. As a matter of interest were you in the profession?’

‘Yes, but not for long. I got sick of the backbiting, the deceit and the envy. And the extramarital affairs that seemed to be the norm in the theatrical world.’ She paused. ‘Not that I’ve any room to talk. Anyway, I got out and did some modelling.’ Sally shot a brief smile at Dave. ‘And before you say anything, Mr Poole, there’s quite a demand for big girls like me on the catwalk.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Dave, whose wife Madeleine was a petite principal dancer with the Royal Ballet.

‘I take it you never met Debra Foley, Sally,’ I said.

‘No, and from what I’ve heard of her, I’m not sorry. According to Lancelot she’s had more than a few affairs and didn’t hesitate to tell him so. In fact, she flaunted them. She didn’t seem to care how much she hurt him.’

‘Thank you, Sally,’ I said, having decided that she had little to offer that would assist us.

‘D’you know when the funeral will be, Mr Brock? I’d like to go if I can get someone to look after Cindy,’ she said as she showed us to the front door.

‘I’ll let you know, but it may be some time before the coroner releases the body.’

I left the house wondering how Lancelot Foley had managed to charm so many women, but at the same time alienate so many men. On reflection, it was probably the one that brought about the other.

‘It seems that our Mr Foley played the field, Dave,’ I said as we drove out of Farnham. ‘Sleeping with Sally Warner and then with Jane Lawless and, it would seem, making vague promises of marriage to each of them.’

‘And if Ruth Strickland’s to be believed, he conned her in the same way,’ said Dave, and after a moment’s thought, added: ‘Some people have all the luck.’

‘You should have become an actor, Dave,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said Dave. ‘Instead of which I finished up joining the cast of a pantomime.’

At ten minutes to one that same afternoon, just as Brock and Poole were leaving Sally Warner’s house at Farnham, a van drove into Chorley Street in Belgravia and parked a few yards down the road from where Debra Foley lived. The van was dirty, and the name on the side was that of a non-existent plumber, but the vehicle was actually owned by the Receiver for the Metropolitan Police District. For the benefit of any nosy passer-by, and to allay suspicion, the telephone number on the side of the van was connected to the murder investigation team’s offices at Belgravia police station where only the incident room sergeant would answer any calls. He was adept at assuring potential customers that it was indeed a plumber’s van, but that the said plumber was unable to deal with any plumbing problems at present as he was fully booked for the foreseeable future. I once enquired why there was a phone number on the van at all if it was going to cause that much trouble. The reply was that it would be even more suspicious if a plumber
didn’t
have a number on his van. I suppose there’s some logic to that, but I can’t see it.

The driver was Charlie Flynn, attired in stained overalls and a baseball cap, and once he had parked the van he joined DS Carpenter and DC Chance, who were seated in the back out of sight. All three officers were now in a position to keep observation through the spy holes in the van’s bodywork.

Any police officer who has undertaken a static observation will tell you that it is one of the most boring tasks there is. Being seated for hours on end in the back of a cold van in winter, or a swelteringly hot one in summer, is a mind-numbing job inclined to sap any enthusiasm for detective work that still existed among the watching officers. And just to make it worse, very often such observations came to naught.

Liz Carpenter and Nicola Chance, however, enjoyed a reputation for having the luck of the devil, and so it proved on this occasion.

The observation van had not been in position for more than twenty minutes when Debra Foley emerged from her house. The manner in which she was dressed accorded exactly with the description given by the Dixey twins. Her hair was covered by a head scarf, and she wore a shapeless mackintosh. She carried a shoulder bag that had obviously seen better days, and her identity was concealed by dark glasses.

As she walked quickly along the pavement, Flynn moved back to the driver’s seat, started the engine and moved off slowly, following the target at a discreet distance.

‘Here we go, girls,’ he yelled as Debra Foley turned the corner and hailed a taxi.

On one occasion, Flynn had to jump a red traffic light to avoid losing their quarry, but after a mile or so the taxi stopped outside a block of flats called Keycross Court in Keycross Road. The van stopped some way away, and the three officers watched as Debra Foley paid off the cab and entered the building. A few minutes later a light was switched on in a first-floor window, followed by the Foley woman, clearly visible to the watching officers, lowering the Venetian blinds.

‘What d’you reckon we should do now, Liz?’ asked Flynn.

‘I think we should wait for a while, Charlie. According to the guv’nor, Jane Lawless told him that our Debra was not above “entertaining” gentlemen. By which I suppose she meant that Debra was an amateur tom.’

‘By her appearance I’d say she was at pains to disguise herself, Skip,’ said Nicola to Liz Carpenter. ‘But I suppose that being an actress she’s fed up with being recognized in the street.’

Charlie Flynn scoffed. ‘It’s not as if she’s an internationally known Hollywood star, is it, Nicky? She’s not even on television. She’d be more likely to be recognized if she was a weather girl.’

The officers stayed for half an hour and were about to call off the observation when they saw a man walking down Keycross Road towards the apartment block. He was attired in a short weatherproof coat and wore glasses and a cloth cap. Several times he looked over his shoulder, and his whole demeanour was best described as furtive. When he reached the main door of the building Debra Foley had entered, he stopped, pressed a button on the intercom system and spoke a few words. Then he took one last look over his shoulder and hurried inside.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen that bugger on the
Question Time
programme on television,’ said Flynn. ‘Yes, got it. He’s an MP, and his name is James Corley.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Liz.

‘Positive,’ said Flynn.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Nicola. ‘What an evil world we live in. Who would have thought that an MP would consort with a prostitute?’ She glanced at Liz Carpenter. ‘What do we do now, Skip?’