Fatal Act (17 page)

‘It’s about the death of Anna Porter that I wanted to speak to you.’

G
arnett’s expression grew more solemn.

‘Oh yes, I heard about her accident. It was in all the papers.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I had no idea she was such a celebrity.’

‘What do you know about her?’

‘Only what I read in the papers, and what I saw for myself. I don’t like to insult the dead, but the truth is the girl had no idea how to behave, and precious few morals. Of course that was her affair, but when she turned up in the street at all hours, drunk and making a terrible din, that was no longer a private issue. And then she had the gall to complain because I happened to see her from my bedroom window when she was sunbathing naked in their back garden. She was on display there, I could hardly miss seeing her when I looked out. But the worst aspect of her antisocial behaviour was that she regularly parked her car right outside my house.’

‘I
’m not here to enquire about your disagreements with your neighbours,’ Geraldine interrupted quietly.

‘What then? Only I have a lot of work –’

He glanced down at the file on his desk and tapped it with a plump manicured finger.

‘I’m investigating Anna’s death.’

‘As I said, I don’t like to speak badly of the dead. And it was certainly a tragedy. What a terrible waste of a young life.’

‘Mr Garnett, I work for homicide and serious crime command.’ In case he hadn’t registered the significance of her words she added, ‘We don’t investigate accidents.’

H
is expression didn’t alter. He carried on speaking in an even, matter-of-fact tone. Like Geraldine, he was accustomed to dealing with human atrocities.

‘So you’re telling me the girl’s death wasn’t an accident?’

She nodded.

‘She was murdered, eh? I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. Shocked, of course, but not overly surprised, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I assume you’ve come to tell me Piers ran her down. Well, that doesn’t come as a surprise. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘What makes you think he’s a suspect?’

The lawyer raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong. I thought it was generally the husband, or the boyfriend, in these cases. God knows, she gave him reason enough to want to be rid of her, but not to kill her.’

‘W
hat reason?’ Geraldine asked. ‘You said she gave him enough reason to want to be rid of her. What did you mean by that, exactly?’

The lawyer hesitated before speaking.

‘I don’t like to malign the girl, now she’s dead, but the truth will come out anyway. A young man used to visit her when Piers wasn’t around.’

‘Could it have been his son?’

‘No. I know Zak. He’s very dark. This was a blond chap who went to see her when Piers was out. I saw him leaving the house quite a few times.’

Geraldine thought of Dirk Goodbody.

‘Could this visitor have been a friend of hers?’

Garnett gave a short laugh.

‘He was more than a friend. I saw them kissing in the garden.’

‘I believe actors kiss a lot.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Do I have to spell it out? They were kissing on the lips, and his hands were all over her. This was a sexually active relationship she was carrying on behind Piers’ back. It wasn’t only the kissing. There was something furtive about the way he skulked off down the street, as though he didn’t want to be seen.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

I
t wasn’t an easy exchange. The lawyer grew tetchy as the questioning progressed. At some point he realised that he might be a suspect himself, and became reserved. Geraldine was constantly aware of the need to be careful, both in what she asked, and in her manner. He would be the first to lodge a complaint if she overstepped her authority, and he would be sure to follow the correct procedures.

‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ he asked her point blank at one point.

She denied it as convincingly as she could.

S
he felt drained by the time she left Marylebone House. It was sunny outside and she realised she had been too preoccupied by the investigation to enjoy the recent spell of good weather. On a whim she walked past the station and on down Baker Street, passing the London Underground Lost Property office, the Sherlock Holmes museum, and a few cafes, and on into Regents Park. Ahead of her a lake glistened. White and brown ducks scudded around and a few swans glided lazily on the water. She turned right and crossed a wide bridge. To her right, at the water’s edge, a heron stood motionless, as though suspended in time. The peace of the scene overwhelmed her and she stood spellbound. As the daylight faded, the air grew chilly. People sauntering along the paths, chatting and laughing, began to walk more quickly. There were only a few people left on benches, staring at the lake. Leaving the park, she made her way slowly back to her empty flat, wondering what she was doing with her life.

A
RECENT
GRADUATE
FROM
their drama school was performing in a production at the studio theatre in the Barbican. When one of her classmates offered Bethany a ticket, she agreed at once. She had nothing else planned for the evening. The set was sparse, the production edgy. While they were manoeuvring their way to the exit, the other girl said she was going to wait and congratulate her friend. Bethany didn’t want to hang around. She hadn’t known the actor very well, and in any case the theatre was stuffy and she had a slight headache, probably brought on by the stress of waiting to hear about her audition. It was possible she would have a second recall. She might be asked to read with other members of the cast with very little notice, and she couldn’t afford to look burned out if the call came.

‘Tell him it was fantastic and he was brilliant!’ she gushed before leaving her friend in the foyer.

T
he play had been oppressive but her threatened headache disappeared outside in the cool air, and her spirits lifted. It was a pleasant evening, mild and fresh. It wasn’t late, so instead of taking the train from Barbican station, which was just across the road, she decided to walk to Chancery Lane. It was less than a mile away. From there she could catch the Central line straight back to Mile End, where she lived. She could have saved herself a walk by taking the train at Barbican station but, apart from the added hassle of changing trains at a busy station, she fancied walking along the bridge that spanned the main road.

S
he went South and turned right at the roundabout, heading down Newgate Street to Holborn Viaduct which would take her right over the top of Farringdon Street. This was the real purpose of her walk. She had seen the Victorian road bridge from below, with its carved stone pillars, ornate decorative cast iron ramparts, old-fashioned street lamps, and statues set on high plinths. Stone dragons or griffins – she wasn’t sure which – dominated the wrought ironwork. She hadn’t been able to see the statues clearly from below, and wanted to walk across the top of the road bridge to take a look at them close up. Her anticipation grew as she approached the bridge and saw larger than life statues illuminated in the glow of huge round lamps.

A
s she strode along the pavement, she could hear other people scurrying behind her. She hurried on to the roundabout, ignoring a homeless man slumped in a doorway, a mangy dog at his side. The lace on one of her trainers was loose. Crouching down to tie it up properly, her attention was caught by a figure in a grey hood who stopped at exactly the same time as she did and stood a few paces behind her, as though waiting for something. It reminded her of the tall woman who had appeared to be following her on the way to her audition. Momentarily shocked, Bethany froze. The stranger pulled a phone from her pocket, and began talking. Rebuking herself for her stupidity, Bethany straightened up and glanced over her shoulder. The hooded figure had disappeared. Reassured, she turned and continued on her way. Nothing had happened, yet the incident had unnerved her. She walked faster.

R
eaching the bridge, she glanced behind her and felt a shiver of fear. This time there could be no doubt. A grey figure was walking along the pavement, head lowered, a few paces behind her. She couldn’t make out the face, couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but she could see sunglasses gleaming beneath the hood. That was odd at this time of night. It was enough to convince Bethany she was being followed by the same person she had spotted watching her from the street outside her flat. She knew this was something celebrities had to suffer. Although she wasn’t exactly well known yet, she had played some major roles in productions at drama school. Anyone could have seen her on stage. She felt sick, remembering one scene where she had stripped down to her underwear. It must be a crazy fan stalking her.

W
hether the stranger was curious to find out about her life, or just wanted to feel close to her, the whole idea gave her the creeps. Knowing that her pursuer knew where she lived, she shuddered. With a brief flash of anger she was tempted to turn round and confront her stalker, but apart from cars zooming past, the street was deserted. It could be dangerous to engage with a fanatical admirer who might turn violent. Bethany glanced around. They were alone together on a busy London street at night. No one would notice if Bethany was suddenly knifed and slumped to the pavement, bleeding to death. If anyone did pass by, they would assume she was drunk, or homeless. The truth might not emerge for days.

H
er breath came in shallow gasps. All her senses were alert. Tingling with adrenaline, she could feel her heart beating. It was dark, but the road was well lit. She hurried along the bridge without even glancing up at the statues, no longer interested in the intricate ironwork. She didn’t pause in her stride to look down over the parapet at the busy road far below. All she wanted to do was reach the station quickly, go home and lock the door. She hoped her flatmate would be in. Cars roared under the bridge, but other than vehicles on the road below, the Viaduct was deserted. Apart from a crazy stalker who had followed her all the way from the Barbican, she was alone. She tried calling her boyfriend, but he didn’t answer. She considered running into the road and flagging down a car but when she looked back over her shoulder, there was no one behind her.

S
he breathed freely again, dizzy with relief. Her legs felt wobbly and she blinked to clear her blurred vision. She was glad there was no one else there to witness how she had allowed her fears to get the better of her. She didn’t have a stalker. No one was following her. It was coincidence that she had recently happened to see two, maybe more, people in grey hoodies. It was hardly an unusual kind of jacket. One day, when she was famous, she might find herself the object of unwanted attention, but that time hadn’t yet come.

T
here was no alarming sound of footsteps on the pavement behind her, no warning whiff of sweat or damp clothes, no sinister voice hissing unexpectedly in her ear; only a gentle touch on her throat. Before she had registered what was happening, the pressure tightened around her neck with a fierce burning sensation. She heard herself choking as she gasped for breath. Frantically her fingers scratched at her skin, as she scrabbled to loosen the strap around her neck. Fighting to breathe, she was hardly aware of falling to the pavement. By the time the strap loosened, she had already given up the struggle to breathe.

A
FTER
EATING
AT
A
Vietnamese restaurant off Tottenham Court Road, the five friends took the Central line to Chancery Lane station. On the way they enjoyed the attention they attracted. Some of their fellow passengers leered openly at them, others were more discreet in their observation. The friends sniggered when an old woman sitting opposite them glared at them, her face twisted in disapproval at their short skirts and skimpy tops.

‘Cheer up, grandma! Didn’t you never go out on a hen night?’ Lia shouted over her shoulder as they bundled off the train.

Standing beside her friend, Kirsty screwed up her nose at the tangy smell of her friend’s breath, a mixture of spices and alcohol.

T
he other girls weren’t interested in the old woman’s disapproval. They had just discovered how far they had to walk to reach the club.

‘It’s only half a mile,’ Kirsty reassured them as they left the station.

‘Half a mile!’ Stephanie protested. ‘In these heels!’

‘You’re going to be dancing in those heels when we get there,’ Kirsty laughed.

‘Catch me,’ Stephanie replied.

The other girls batted her with their wands, screeching.

‘It’s Kirsty’s night. If she says dance, you dance.’

Stephanie squealed as she defended herself from their fluffy prodding.

‘Some angels you lot are! Bugger off, Lia, you’ll break my wings.’

A
couple of young men walking towards them whistled and called out, their words lost in the roar of traffic. The girls screeched in mock indignation. One of the men ogled Kirsty’s L-plates as he passed her.

‘Want a few lessons, sweetheart?’

‘She’s getting married in the morning,’ Lia shrieked, and the rest of the girls joined in a wild chorus.

‘Blimey, we’re not even drunk yet,’ Stephanie said as they teetered along in their heels, giggling.

‘Speak for yourself.’

Laughing and nattering, Kirsty led them along the main road and on to Holborn Viaduct. The others looked around curiously.

‘Where are you taking us?’

‘Yes, where are we going?’

T
hey passed a huge statue raised up on a plinth at the side of the road. Kirsty leaned across a low stone parapet and gazed out past the ornate metal railing. Her companions paused to catch their breath and adjust their costumes.

‘Look, just look,’ she said, ‘look down there. It’s like flying!’