Malice in London (17 page)

Looking back on it, Evans did not remember thanking the headmistress, walking out of the Rotherhithe Comprehensive School, or even getting into her car. Her
first recollection was driving across Westminster Bridge and being struck by the realization that she may have just unearthed a plausible motive for Clive Morton’s murder.

Powell bumped into Evans in the Back Hall on his way out of the building. “You don’t look too good,” he remarked.

“Thanks,” she said sourly. “I need to talk to you—”

“Can it wait until tomorrow morning? I’ve made arrangements to see Mrs. Brighton this afternoon.”

“Right, tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “Would you mind if I gave Sir Reggie a call? I’d like to have a drug screen run on both Morton and Brighton.”

Powell smiled. “It’s your funeral.” He turned to leave.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Evans?”

“Sergeant Black told me about your friend, Jill Burroughs. I’m glad.”

He looked at her with a curious expression on his face. “Some stories do have happy endings. Take it to heart, Evans.”

After a cheese sandwich and limp salad in the cafeteria, she went back to her office and wrote down a list of points she wished to discuss with Sir Reginald Quick. She steeled herself for a few moments, then placed the call.

The pathologist answered on the first ring. “Quick,” he barked ambiguously.

Evans promptly introduced herself.

A brief pause. “Ah, yes, the Yorkshire moors affair. I remember you, Sergeant Evans. You were a damn sight better company than your superior, I can tell you that. I nearly caught my death on that outing,” he muttered. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering, Sir Reginald—”

There was an ominous rumble on the other end of the line.

“Sorry, er, Reggie. I was wondering whether any drug tests were done as part of the Brighton and Morton postmortems.”

“Drug tests? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Oh, you know, alcohol and the usual blood screen for illicit drugs,” she replied lamely.

A rustling of papers. “Let me see … Brighton was checked for alcohol, as is usual in cases of drowning in which it could be a contributing factor. There was alcohol in his blood, but the concentration was relatively low, equivalent to a glass or two of wine. No tests were done on Morton as far as I can see, but the cause of death in his case was, er, rather clear-
cut.
Ha ha!”

Evans chuckled politely. “What about cocaine—can you test for that?”

Sir Reggie grunted in the affirmative. “It can be readily detected with an immunoassay, followed by quantification using GC-MS, er, gas chromatography and mass spectroscopy.
If
, that is, there is ample justification for doing so. It comes down to an assessment by the pathologist of the cost of the analysis versus the potential benefit to be derived. As I am sure you are aware,
Sergeant Evans, we live in difficult budgetary times,” he added austerely.

“Would blood samples from both victims have been retained?”

“In homicide cases, samples are kept for six months in the event that further analysis is required.”

“Would it be possible then to have both victims’ blood tested for cocaine?”

“There is a small problem with that: Cocaine and its metabolites are unstable in blood, so it’s not likely you’d find anything.”

“Oh,” Evans said, the disappointment sounding in her voice.

“However,” he continued mischievously, “it can be detected in urine, samples of which were taken in both cases. But, as I said a moment ago, you’d first have to convince me to order the tests.”

Evans could visualize Sir Reggie’s carnivorous grin. She gave the pathologist a rundown on Morton’s alleged cocaine abuse and the importance of exploring any possible links between him and Brighton.

“Powell didn’t tell me any of this!” the pathologist roared. “How the hell are we supposed to know what to look for if we don’t have the complete picture?”

Evans did her best to defend her superior’s honor, explaining that the information about Morton’s drug use had only recently come to light. Sir Reggie did not seem entirely convinced. “Nonetheless, I will order the tests,” he said grudgingly. “I should have the results tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks, Reggie. You’re a dear,” she said, emboldened by her success.

The pathologist mumbled something unintelligible and rang off.

Powell stepped out of Sloane Square tube station into the afternoon sunlight. The paved square with its Venus fountain and plane trees, in spring bud that day, was basically a glorified roundabout collecting traffic from Knightsbridge, the King’s Road, and Pimlico. Once a tiny fishing hamlet on the Thames, in the last century the old village of Chelsea became a thriving colony of literary and artistic talent, including the likes of Carlyle, Whistler, and Oscar Wilde. A revival of sorts occurred in the Swinging Sixties when rock stars and other celebrities of the day converged on the trendy boutiques and coffee bars that lined the King’s Road.

As property values soared in recent years, the Bohemian spirit of the place inevitably withered, and Chelsea is now perhaps best known as the home of the young upper-class Sloane Rangers, with their smart-casual country outfits from Peter Jones, bright bijou-terraced homes, and glossy magazine conformity in every aspect
of life from the decor of their drawing rooms to their ski holiday destinations.

As Powell set off down the King’s Road, once the private route for royalty traveling from Whitehall Palace to Hampton Court and other royal retreats farther to the west, past the line of shops, trattorias, bistros, and pubs, it occurred to him that the main artery of Chelsea had at least escaped the tat of Carnaby Street and had moved on from the hippie era and the punk period. It still managed to retain a certain vibrancy, as well as an indefinable sense of
village
despite the fact that you won’t find a baker or a butcher’s shop.

He soon located Helen Brighton’s Inner Harmony interior design shop. She was occupied with a customer, so he browsed mindlessly amongst the wallpaper and draperies.

“Can I interest you in something?”

He turned around to face Mrs. Brighton. “My wife is always telling me I have absolutely no sense of style,” he replied wryly.

She laughed. “You’re the best kind of customer then.” She glanced around. “Why don’t we go somewhere where we can talk?”

“Fine.”

They bought coffees to take away at the cafe next door, then walked to a leafy square around the corner. They settled themselves on one of the wooden benches that lined the square around a central blaze of orange and yellow tulips, and Powell asked her how long she had had the shop.

“About ten years now. I owned it before I met Richard.
It used to be a fashion boutique back then, but these days
feng shui
is much hotter than miniskirts.”

“I hear they’ve rearranged the furniture at Number Ten in order to energize the PM,” Powell observed dryly.

“You might be interested to know I was the one who advised Tony and Cherie Blair to rearrange their furniture, as you put it, to promote tranquility and harmony.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I also advised the PM to put a fish tank in his office: three goldfish for finances and two dark fish, loaches preferably, to look after his health and the health of the nation. It is good to have movement in an office, Chief Superintendent. It stimulates mental activity.”

Powell could not help but be impressed by her clientele, if not her New Age sensibilities. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, regarding her with a renewed interest. There was a vitality in her manner that had been absent on the occasion of their first meeting.

“I expect you’re wondering how an interior design consultant ended up marrying a politician,” she said.

He smiled. “The thought
had
crossed my mind.”

“My father was the Member of Parliament for this constituency in the Callaghan years, so I literally grew up in the Labour Party. I met Richard at a party convention in ’ninety-two. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Mrs. Brighton,” he began, having dispensed with the preliminaries, “you are no doubt wondering why I’m bothering you again. I’m afraid we haven’t made a tremendous amount of progress in your husband’s case, and I’m hoping you can help me fill in a few of the blanks.”

She hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision. “Before we begin,” she said, “I have a confession to make. When we first spoke at my flat, you may have sensed that I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of Scotland Yard getting involved in the investigation of Richard’s death. In a strange way, I found it rather frightening. It’s not that I didn’t want desperately to find out what happened to my husband, to have some sort of closure. It’s just that—I don’t know—I suppose I preferred to believe that he was a victim of some random, senseless act rather than something more sinister. Am I making any sense?”

“Perfect sense, Mrs. Brighton.”

“Anyway, I’ve come to accept the absolute importance of getting to the truth about Richard’s death, however unpleasant it may turn out to be. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Powell briefly summarized the results of the investigation to date. “The question I keep coming back to,” he concluded, “is what connection could your husband possibly have had with Clive Morton other than the fact that they were both involved in quite different ways with Dockside?”

She looked mystified. “None that I can think of. I’m not even sure that Richard was aware of Morton’s interest in the project. If he was, he never mentioned it to me.”

Powell had feared as much. “Would you mind if we went back to the beginning of your husband’s involvement with Dockside? I must admit that it continues to strike me as odd that a local Labour politician would
support a project that would result in the eviction of a hundred or more council tenants.”

She sighed. “I wouldn’t be being entirely honest if I told you that he didn’t have doubts about it. Whatever else one might say about Richard, he was deeply committed to the welfare of the working people in Southwark. But he was also a realist. It is a deplorable fact, Chief Superintendent, that due to years of neglect, the borough needs to spend nearly a billion pounds to repair and upgrade its rotting, leaking council housing. That kind of money will never be forthcoming from the central government, so the council has been forced to consider other options, such as selling off its more valuable housing near the Thames to pay for upgrading the rest. In the case of Dockside, Richard felt that the project struck an acceptable balance, although I can tell you he lost a considerable amount of sleep over the plight of the tenants. It is not widely known, but Richard negotiated a deal with the developer to reduce the commercial component of the project so as to save one of the council blocks from demolition.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, did you agree with your husband’s position on Dockside?”

She looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “No, I didn’t, actually. But then I’m not a politician. Richard was convinced that it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing or the expedient thing, Mrs. Brighton?”

“Is there a difference? To do anything in politics, Chief Superintendent, you first have to get elected.”

“Point taken. However, you did mention that your
husband had some doubts about the project. Would you say that his views changed over time?”

“I think he was becoming increasingly receptive to the concerns of the local residents. There’s a well-organized group representing the council tenants—”

“The one led by Tess Morgan?”

Helen Brighton nodded. “She’s a very determined woman.”

“She has a lot to lose.”

“Yes, Chief Superintendent, she does.”

“I understand that the council was divided over the matter.”

She pulled a face. “That’s the understatement of the year. Richard was getting it from both sides—from his own party as well as the opposition.”

“From Adrian Turner and Charles Mansfield, you mean?”

“In the main, yes.”

“Why don’t we start with Mr. Turner? I don’t imagine the party was too thrilled when an internecine squabble erupted over a high-profile project like Dockside.”

“Is that a question or a statement, Chief Superintendent?”

“Call it an inference, Mrs. Brighton.”

“We prefer not to air our dirty laundry in public—that was Adrian’s mistake. That being said, unlike the Tories, we have always welcomed a diversity of opinion and open debate in the Labour Party. It is true that Adrian represents the more radical left-wing element of the party, while Richard favored a more middle-of-the-road approach, the ‘Third Way,’ if you like.”

“What about you, Mrs. Brighton?”

She regarded him coolly. “What about me?”

“Which approach do you favor?”

“That’s my business, Chief Superintendent.”

Touché, thought Powell. “Would it be fair to say that there were bad feelings between Turner and your husband?”

“I can’t speak for Adrian, but I know that Richard respected his views as a legitimate expression of one element of opinion within the party. He never took political debates personally.”

“Debate is one thing, but what about personal attacks? I understand that Turner was quite vocal in accusing your husband of selling out Labour’s principles over Dockside.”

“Adrian tends to get carried away at times,” she said in a flat voice.

The thought occurred to Powell that
that
could well turn out to be the understatement of the year. “What about Charles Mansfield?” he continued. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand that Mansfield shared your husband’s views on Dockside.”

Her expression hardened. “Mansfield has always supported development for development’s sake. In the case of Dockside, he had the gall to accuse Richard of being an opportunist—of stealing from the Conservative program, as if they had one! Although I suppose screwing the most vulnerable members of society might qualify as a platform,” she added bitterly.

“I will tell you something, Mrs. Brighton, if you promise to keep it in strict confidence.”