Exit Stage Left (8 page)

‘Go back to the factory and tell the guv’nor,’ said Liz. ‘I’ve got a feeling that this is all getting a bit too heavy for a mere sergeant.’

Charlie Flynn, Liz Carpenter and Nicola Chance appeared in my office just after Dave and I had returned from Farnham and were discussing our recent interview with Sally Warner.

Charlie Flynn gave me an account of what he and the two women had learned from their observation.

‘But there’s no proof that this MP, James Corley, entered the same apartment as Debra Foley, is there, Charlie?’ I said.

‘No, guv,’ said Flynn, ‘but he looked as guilty as hell and kept glancing over his shoulder. And he wouldn’t be visiting a constituent because his constituency is up north somewhere.’

‘And right now they don’t have an MP in Debra Foley’s constituency, sir,’ said Carpenter. ‘There’s a by-election pending.’

‘Maybe he was canvassing on behalf of the candidate,’ suggested Dave. ‘Did you wait for him to come out?’

‘No, Dave, but he looked very nervous,’ said Flynn, making the point again.

‘If he’s a politician, he’s entitled to look nervous these days,’ said Dave.

‘Well, it certainly looks as though Debra’s up to something,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Dave, find out what you can about that block of flats. I want to know who rents that apartment, whether there’s a telephone line into it, and anything else that might come in useful.’

‘I don’t think she’d use a landline phone if she’s really on the game, guv,’ said Dave. ‘You can bet that her punters use an untraceable mobile to call her, and she’s bound to use an untraceable mobile as well. There could be reputations at stake, and they’d want to avoid being hacked by the press. They probably don’t use names either when they make the arrangements. People like that have got no consideration for us poor coppers.’

‘You’re probably right, Dave, but find out what you can.’

‘D’you want us to carry on with the obo, guv?’ asked Flynn.

‘Not for the moment, Charlie. We don’t want to alert Mrs Foley to the fact that we have an interest in her.’

‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that, guv’nor.’ Flynn sounded mildly defensive, as though his observational skills had been called into question.

‘I’m not suggesting you’ve been spotted, Charlie, or are likely to be. I’m thinking more that the Dixey twins might’ve alerted Debra to our interest. What d’you think, Liz?’

‘Quite possibly, sir. I reckon Thelma and Norma Dixey enjoy a good gossip, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d made a point of telling Mrs Foley about our visit. And if not Mrs Foley, then some of the others in the street, who might pass it on.’

‘I think you could be right, Liz. We’ll wait until Dave turns up something for us to go on.’

Dave had not wasted any time. At nine o’clock on Friday morning he came into my office with details of the apartment that Flynn and the two women officers had seen Debra Foley entering the previous day.

‘Keycross Court, the block of flats in Keycross Road, is owned by a large property company, guv,’ Dave began. ‘They were a little reluctant to give me the information to start with, but I eventually persuaded them.’

‘I’m sure you did, Dave.’ I had been witness to Dave’s powers of persuasion on more than one occasion.

‘You’re going to like this, guv’nor. Believe it or not, the apartment on the first floor where Liz spotted Debra Foley is leased by a woman named Vanessa Drummond.’

‘Which is Debra Foley’s stage name,’ I said.

‘Yes, funny that, but it gets better, guv. I wandered round to Keycross Road to have a look at the set-up. Access is controlled by an entryphone system, and the name Corinne Black is on the bell push for Vanessa Drummond’s flat.’

‘What’s that all about, I wonder,’ I said, musing aloud.

‘She’s on the game, sir.’

‘Yes, I had reached that same conclusion, Dave.’ I spoke a little tersely because I knew why he had called me ‘sir’ again. ‘Jane Lawless suggested that Debra Foley might be turning tricks for wealthy gentlemen as a sideline, although I did wonder if it was pure malice.’

‘If it’s true it’s probably more profitable than acting,’ said Dave. ‘I dare say she charges more for a night’s performance in the sack than she’s paid for a week’s performance in that play she’s in.’ And remembering what time she had arrived there yesterday added, ‘Or for a matinee on her back.’

‘Even so, she’s taking a hell of a risk of being recognized by one of her tricks.’

‘It’s a double-edged sword, guv,’ said Dave. ‘None of them could boast about having bedded her without showing out that they pay for sex. According to Charlie Flynn, one of them appears to have been James Corley MP, and I don’t somehow think he’d want his name splashed all over the tabloids.’

‘No,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘but he might be prepared to talk to us.’

Dave pursed his lips. ‘That could be a bit dicey.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Have a look in
Who’s Who
. See if he’s married, and if he is he might be persuaded to have a frank and open discussion with us. Particularly if we mention that it’s a murder enquiry.’

‘Well, I’ll say this for you, guv’nor, you certainly go in with both feet.’

‘Look at it like this, Dave. Debra Foley is the widow of a murder victim, and she’s openly admitted that she and Lancelot as good as hated the sight of each other. And that’s borne out by some of the other people we’ve interviewed. On that basis, and with what she’s said so far, we’re quite justified in pursuing all leads, however tenuous.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right. By the way, I checked with BT,’ Dave continued, ‘and although there’s a telephone line into her apartment, it’s not connected. So I was probably right that she arranges all her appointments through an untraceable mobile.’

‘Yes, but how does she reach her clients? She’s not the sort to leave her business card in telephone boxes.’

‘What telephone boxes are these, sir?’

Dave made a good point. Since the proliferation of mobile telephones, the number of telephone boxes in the capital and elsewhere had been reduced markedly. Apart from anything else, it was now an offence for prostitutes to advertise by leaving their cards in phone booths.

‘Potential tricks must get to know of her by word of mouth, then,’ I said.

‘We could ask her,’ suggested Dave.

‘That’s not a bad idea, Dave. We could drop in on her one afternoon.’

‘Really?’ The inflection Dave put on that one word indicated that he did not much care for the idea. ‘I’ll have a look in
Who’s Who
, guv. We’ve got a copy in the incident room. See what it says about this Corley bloke.’

Dave returned a few moments later clutching a copy of the large volume.

‘James Corley is aged thirty-eight,’ he said, summarizing the relevant entry, ‘and is married with two children. He’s been the Member of Parliament for Lampton East – that’s up north somewhere – for the past five and a half years.’

‘Is there an address for him?’

‘Yes, guv.’ Dave looked up and grinned. ‘House of Commons, London SW1A 0AA. But the company that owns the flats confirmed that Corley doesn’t have an apartment there, so he can’t claim that that’s where he lives.’

‘It was too much to expect that he’d put his home address in
Who’s Who
. So I suppose we’ll have to see him at the Commons. Some people can be very unhelpful.’

‘Perhaps he’s just shy. But to be serious, guv’nor, I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Dave looked unhappy. ‘All right, so he visited that block of flats, but there are twenty-four apartments there, and Corley could have visited any one of the other twenty-three. We haven’t got a shred of evidence to prove that he visited Debra Foley alias Corinne Black. And in the unlikely event that he does admit to seeing her, he might claim that he was a friend or just a “talker”. Anyway, he won’t have committed any offences, so he doesn’t have to tell us a damned thing.’

It was well known in the murky world of police work that the clients of prostitutes sometimes wanted only to talk to a naked girl and nothing else. And were prepared to pay for the privilege. Don’t ask me why, but it happens.

‘It’s all right, Dave. We’ll put it to Debra Foley first. But I’m not thinking of charging Corley with anything. Unless, of course, it was him who murdered Lancelot Foley.’

‘When are you thinking of seeing Debra Foley again, then?’ asked Dave.

‘This afternoon, if she’s going to be there. I’ll talk to Charlie Flynn.’ Followed by Dave, I went out to the incident room. ‘Charlie, take an unmarked Job car and park outside the flats in Keycross Road. If she turns up, give me a bell, and Dave and I will have a chat with her.’

An hour and a half later, Flynn rang. ‘No go, I’m afraid, guv. She hasn’t shown.’

‘OK, Charlie, knock it on the head. We’ll have to try next week.’

O
n Monday I had to attend the coroner’s court for a preliminary hearing.

Dave and I made our way to Horseferry Road and were there by nine o’clock.

‘In the matter of the death of Lancelot Foley.’ The coroner peered around the almost empty courtroom. ‘Is the officer in the case here?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, sir, Murder Investigation Team attached to New Scotland Yard,’ I said, having moved swiftly into the witness box.

‘I’ve not convened a jury this morning, Mr Brock, as I presume we are a long way from a full hearing. Perhaps you will be so good as to give me an interim report.’

I outlined, as succinctly as possible, what had been learned so far. I made no suggestion as to suspects and no indication as to when the enquiry was likely to be completed. It is unwise to provide a coroner with anything other than the unvarnished truth.

‘Finally, sir,’ I continued, ‘as all scientific examination has been completed to the satisfaction of police, I ask for the release of the deceased’s body to the family.’

‘So ordered.’ The coroner consulted his register and made an entry. ‘I shall adjourn this hearing until Monday the eleventh of March, Mr Brock. If by that time, you are unable still to provide further details, advise my officer and I’ll arrange another date.’

We were out of the court and on our way back to Belgravia police station by twenty minutes past nine.

Once there, I telephoned Debra Foley and informed her that she was now free to arrange the funeral and asked her to advise me of the date, time and place. An hour later, she rang back to say that Lancelot Foley’s cremation would take place next Wednesday the thirteenth of February at ten thirty at Golders Green Crematorium.

‘The ashes of quite a few famous actors are spread there,’ she said. ‘He’ll be in good company.’

‘You arranged that very quickly, Mrs Foley,’ I said.

‘The sooner the better is my view on things like this, and I was lucky that the crematorium had a slot at that time.’ Debra made it sound as though she’d been fortunate enough to find a parking space. ‘And to coin an apt phrase, the undertakers were waiting in the wings.’

‘Will the service be held at Golders Green or somewhere else?’

‘There won’t be a service. Lancelot was an atheist.’

And with that Debra Foley slammed down the phone, leaving me with the impression that she couldn’t wait to dispose of her late husband in mind as well as body. And presumably move on to her next conquest.

On Monday afternoon I sent Detective Sergeant Flynn to keep observation once again outside the apartment block in Keycross Road. But this time he did not have long to wait.

At twenty minutes to two, he rang in to say that Debra Foley had just stepped out of a taxi and entered the building. And a few minutes later, he had seen her closing the Venetian blinds in the window of the flat that we now knew she had leased in the name of Vanessa Drummond.

‘Stay put, Charlie,’ I said, ‘and let me know if you see anyone else entering the building.’

At five past two, Flynn rang in again. ‘I’ve just seen a Mercedes stop outside the apartment block, guv’nor. A well-dressed man of about forty alighted and went into the flats. He had to use the entryphone to get in, although I couldn’t see which bell he pushed. But the fact that he had to be let in seems to indicate that he’s not a resident, or else he’s lost his key.’

‘Hang on there for a while, Charlie. I’d like to know when this guy leaves. In the meantime, I’ll have Dave check on the registration of the Merc.’

I had another call from Flynn at four o’clock to say that the unknown caller had left minutes ago. I told him to return to the office.

‘It’s likely that your man is called Charles Tate, Charlie,’ I said, when Flynn showed up in my office. ‘The Merc registration is in that name, along with an address in Kensington. Dave’s also done an electoral roll check on Tate’s address. He lives there with someone named Elizabeth Tate, presumably his wife or daughter.’

‘Or mother or sister,’ said Dave.

‘Have we any idea what he does for a living, Dave?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said a somewhat exasperated Dave. ‘I’ve only just found out who he is, but if he can take a Monday afternoon off, he must be in a good line of business.’

‘Unless his line of business was the reason he was calling at Keycross Road,’ I said.

‘Possibly,’ said Dave doubtfully. ‘Maybe he’s her pimp,’ he added, always willing to see the worst in people.

‘It doesn’t matter if he is. He’s only a means to an end in solving a murder. If he is a pimp we’ll hand that aspect of the case over to the local nick to deal with.’

‘But what are we going to do about him?’ asked Dave.

‘Pay him a visit,’ I said. ‘This evening.’

‘On what grounds?’ Dave was clearly unhappy about the direction in which I was taking this enquiry.

‘Offences against the Ways and Means Act,’ I said.

There were residents’ parking bays outside Charles Tate’s house, and his top-of-the-range Mercedes was in one of them; a sure sign that he was at home. Perhaps.

‘Yes, please? What is it you are wanting?’ The door was answered by a rather plain, square-jawed young woman who appeared to be little more than twenty years old. Those few words were sufficient to tell me that she was foreign and most likely employed as a household drudge under the guise of being an au pair.

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Tate,’ I said. ‘Mr Charles Tate.’

‘Yes. Come in, please.’

‘What’s this about, Hannah?’ As we entered the house, a woman joined us. Certainly not the type to have appealed to the late Lancelot Foley, she was a slight, neat woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with an air of fragility about her, and was attired in white trousers and a black jumper. She had a delightfully husky voice.

‘These gentlemens come to see Mr Tate, missus.’

‘The word is “gentlemen”, not “gentlemens”, Hannah. “Gentlemen” is the plural, so you don’t have to add the letter “s”. And I’m called madam not missus. How many times do I have to tell you?’ Mrs Tate corrected the girl in the sort of tones that a school teacher might have used: tolerant but stern. ‘May I ask what this is about?’ she asked as she turned to face us.

‘We’re police officers, madam,’ I said as Dave and I produced our warrant cards, ‘and we’d like to have a word with Mr Tate. Your husband, I take it?’

‘Yes, he is.’ The woman looked suddenly concerned. ‘Is there something wrong? Oh heavens, it’s not my son, is it? Has there been an accident? He’s away on a school trip to the Swiss Alps, and he’s only fifteen, you see.’ It was apparent that the Tates were the sort of family that only ever expected to see the police at their door when they were bringing bad news.
And that
, I thought,
might just be the case, if Charles Tate has been doing what I think he has
.

‘No, it’s nothing like that, madam. In fact, it’s merely a routine enquiry.’ I always enjoyed making that reply. It was completely meaningless, but, curiously, rarely questioned.

‘Please come in.’ Mrs Tate escorted us into a sitting room where her husband was watching television. ‘Charles, these gentlemen are from the police. They’d like to speak to you.’

Charles Tate almost leapt from his chair, clearly agitated at our arrival, but I think he sensed why we were there. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened to Leon, Elizabeth?’ I agreed with Charlie Flynn’s estimate that he was probably no older than forty, and his attire indicated that he wasn’t exactly on the breadline: designer jeans, a paisley shirt, a cashmere sweater, and a pair of Gucci loafers. And I’ll bet he paid a damned sight more for a haircut than I did. The furnishings in the room were expensive, too. That and the house, and the Mercedes, were all marks of a successful businessman.

‘No, Mr Tate,’ I said. ‘As I explained to your wife we are making routine enquiries.’

‘What about? How d’you think I can help?’

‘It concerns an apartment block in Keycross Road called Keycross Court.’

‘Keycross Court?’ Tate gave a masterful display of perplexity. ‘I don’t think I know it. Where is it?’

‘It’s in the Belgravia area, Mr Tate,’ said Dave helpfully.

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Tate cast a glance in his wife’s direction. ‘Rather than interrupt my wife’s viewing, shall we go into the study?’ And without waiting for an answer, he led the way quickly into a room at the back of the house.

The study was decorated with tasteful wallpaper, and the woodwork was pristine white. It was thickly carpeted and had several leather armchairs. The obligatory computer stood in the centre of a leather-topped desk.

‘Do take a seat, gentlemen,’ said Tate smoothly as he sat down in the captain’s chair behind the desk. Perhaps he felt safer being separated from us by a desk. ‘Why should you think I know anything about this apartment block you were talking about?’ He continued to maintain an air of lofty disdain, as though we had made an honest mistake, but I detected an underlying nervousness.

‘We’re investigating a murder at one of the flats in Keycross Court, Mr Tate.’

‘A
murder
! What, at that block of flats?’ For the first time since we’d arrived, Tate’s mask of confidence slipped momentarily. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Corinne Black …’ began Dave slowly, skilfully sidestepping the question about the locale.

‘Oh no!’ said Tate, cutting across what Dave was saying. ‘I don’t know anything about Corinne being murdered. I only saw her this afternoon. Surely you can’t think that I had anything to do with that.’ Tate was clearly appalled and was probably visualizing himself in the dock at the Old Bailey already.

Nice one, Dave
, I thought
. You’ve got him by the short and curlies
.

‘You know Corinne Black, then,’ I said, capitalizing on the admission that Dave had forced out of Tate.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Tate, lowering his voice. ‘Does my wife have to know anything about this?’

‘Not unless you tell her,’ said Dave, ‘or someone else does.’

‘When was Corinne murdered?’ Tate was clearly having difficulty coming to terms with what he believed we were talking about.

‘Oh, it’s not Miss Black who’s been murdered,’ I said, ‘but we believe that it may have been one of her clients who was responsible for the murder.’

‘Who has been murdered, then?’

‘Lancelot Foley.’

‘The actor? But according to the newspapers that happened in Chelsea last week.’

‘You’re quite right, Mr Tate,’ I said, ‘but we believe there is a connection with someone who has visited Keycross Court.’

‘But how did you know I’d been there?’ Tate was now completely confused, as we’d intended he should be.

‘We’ve been keeping observation on that block of flats ever since Lancelot Foley’s murder,’ said Dave convincingly, ‘and your car was seen there this afternoon. And you were seen entering the premises.’

‘Oh, God! Does this mean I’m in trouble? I have a reputation to maintain, and if anything got into the press about this …’ Tate left the sentence unfinished, but he didn’t have to say anything else. His concern was quite apparent.

‘I take it you know nothing of this murder, Mr Tate,’ I said.

‘No, absolutely nothing.’

‘What exactly were you doing at Keycross Court?’

Tate ran a hand through his hair, and then tugged at the bottom of his pullover. Little beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘I was visiting Corinne,’ he said eventually.

‘For what reason? Is she a friend?’

‘For sex,’ said Tate, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Oh, she’s a prostitute, is she?’ I asked, feigning innocence.

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite that bluntly,’ said Tate, recovering slightly. ‘She provides female companionship.’

That was a definition of the sex trade I’d not heard before, and I hoped that Dave would not burst out laughing.

‘How did you hear that she was a prostitute?’ I asked, determined not to resort to euphemism.

‘Oh, hell! You make it sound so sordid. A friend of mine told me about her.’

‘What’s his name?’ demanded Dave, pocketbook at the ready.

‘I’m not prepared to give you that,’ said Tate, a measure of his initial confidence returning.

It was the answer I’d expected, but it was of no consequence anyway. ‘As a matter of interest, how many times have you visited her?’

‘About four or five, I suppose,’ said Tate reluctantly. ‘In the afternoons.’

‘Afternoons? I take it you’re retired, then.’

‘Good heavens, no. I have an import and export business.’ Tate took a card from a small box on his desk and handed it to me.

‘And how much did you pay Corinne for her services?’

‘Five hundred pounds each time,’ said Tate quietly, ‘and worth every penny.’

‘In cash?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Tate. ‘Credit card.’

‘Oh dear!’ I said quietly. Once again I was astounded that men who were so sharp and successful in other areas of their life could be so stupid as to leave a paper trail like that. And if James Corley MP
was
another of Corinne’s clients, he probably paid her in the same way.

‘Will she be prosecuted?’

I assumed that Tate’s question was prompted by the fear that his name might come out in any court proceedings.

‘No,’ I said. ‘As Miss Black entertains men and they give her what she would undoubtedly say were gifts, it doesn’t amount to an offence. And provided she works alone, the premises can’t be classified as a brothel. Thank you for your time, Mr Tate.’

‘I’ll show you out.’ Tate seemed relieved that that appeared to be the end of the matter.

As we arrived at the front door, Elizabeth Tate emerged from the sitting room. ‘Is everything all right, Charles?’ she asked, her face registering concern.

‘Perfectly, Mrs Tate,’ I said, answering for the woman’s husband. ‘In fact, Mr Tate wasn’t able to assist us at all. But we’re obliged to follow up every lead. Your husband explained that he has business interests in Keycross Road.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Elizabeth, and returned to the sitting room.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Tate. ‘I’m most grateful for your tact and discretion.’