Wrongful Death (20 page)

‘I checked out Josh’s Oyster-card usage – trips here and there on the Underground and bus but nothing on the fifth of November,’ Joan said.

‘I rang Marcus Williams yesterday and arranged to see him at the Trojan today,’ Anna told her. ‘I asked about Josh owning a car and Williams said he cycled to work and only used public transport if the weather was atrocious.’

‘Interesting, there’s never been any mention of a bike before,’ Joan observed.

‘And there’s no bike in the scene photographs taken at Josh’s flat.’

‘Could it still be at the Trojan? Williams said Josh left on foot the last time he saw him.’

‘I’ll ask Williams about it later,’ Anna assured her, looking up as a uniform officer carrying two large security-sealed folder bags entered.

‘Bank courier just delivered these for DI Barolli,’ he said, gazing around the room. Anna introduced herself as the team DCI and the officer handed the bags to her.

Settling herself at Barbara’s desk, she proceeded to cut the ratchet tags off the bags and opened them. Inside one were two folders, marked
JOSHUA REYNOLDS
–
TROJAN ACCOUNT STATEMENTS
and
JOSHUA REYNOLDS
–
PERSONAL ACCOUNT STATEMENTS
. The second bag contained bank statements for Donna Reynolds, Marcus Williams and the Trojan club. Anna decided to concentrate on the six-month period prior to Josh’s death. She opened Josh’s personal account folder, noting that his account was eight thousand pounds in credit at the time he of his death and that there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary.

As Barbara came into the room, Anna started to pick up the folders to move to another desk but the sergeant said it was fine and pulled up a spare chair so that she could see everything as well.

‘On the twelfth of September, there was a debit-card payment for a hundred and thirty-three pounds at the BP service station Park Lane,’ Anna said, making a note then turning to Joan. ‘Look up Donna’s Mini Cooper, I need the exact model and engine size.’

Joan typed the registration DON4L into the computer and discovered it was a manual 1.6 Sport. Anna, sensing they were on to something, entered the Mini’s details into the search engine on Barbara’s computer. ‘Is it a petrol or diesel?’

‘Petrol,’ Joan replied.

‘Thinking of buying one?’ Barbara asked.

‘Have you got a calculator?’ Anna asked and Barbara got one out of her top drawer.

‘Put in fifty times one point three eight. What’s that come—’

‘Sixty-nine,’ Joan answered before Barbara had even hit the equal button on the calculator. They both looked at Joan, Anna impressed and Barbara surprised.

‘I love the numbers game on
Countdown
.’ Joan shrugged.

‘If Josh was using Donna’s Mini, which costs about seventy quid to fill with petrol, why is he spending a hundred and thirty-three at the garage?’ Anna wondered.

‘He could have got some groceries as well if it was one of those express shopping garages,’ Barbara said.

‘Good point,’ Anna agreed.

‘In that case,’ said Joan, ‘I’ll phone them and ask exactly what they sell there.’

Turning back to the folder, Anna saw that on 5 October, at the same service station, there was a transaction for £110.

‘That place is on a direct route that Josh could use to travel to the Trojan,’ Barbara said as she checked the exact location of the service station.

Anna went further back through the records. ‘Looking at this, Josh and Donna’s average weekly spend for food was sixty to seventy pounds and nearly always in the Tesco supermarket near the Bayswater flat.’

Barbara leaned over Anna’s shoulder to look at the figures, which Anna found irritating, but forced herself to say nothing, realizing Barbara was just being inquisitive.

The sergeant suddenly tapped on the statement. ‘Look there, just after the debit of one hundred and ten pounds. October eighth, a payment to National Car Parking of nine hundred and twenty-eight pounds!’ she exclaimed.

Anna looked closer and realized that in concentrating on food and petrol she had missed the National Car Parking debit. ‘It could be Josh paid for a NCP parking account for Donna’s Mini when she went to work at the Lynne Foundation office in Mayfair,’ Joan suggested.

Anna shook her head. ‘The Foundation would probably have its own parking, or pay for it through the company accounts.’

Further down the statement there was a payment of £308 to F1 Services on 10 October, so to get Barbara away from her shoulder, Anna asked her to phone the NCP head office and get full details of the account and car park to which Josh’s payment referred, and to find out who F1 Services were.

Meanwhile, Joan had ascertained that the Park Lane BP did have a mini-market but sold a limited selection of everyday products like milk and bread.

Turning the page, Anna was excited to find a debit dated 5 November that read Tesco Extra UPT, Beverley Way, for £125. As Barbara was on the phone, Anna showed this to Joan to see if she knew what the initials meant, but she didn’t.

Barbara put down the receiver. ‘NCP can’t give us an answer right away so I’ve given them all the details and they’ll get back to us asap.’

Anna thanked her but she hadn’t finished.

‘Unattended Payment Terminal, UPT for short – it’s when you pay at the pump by debit or credit card for your petrol. It baffled me on one of my statements so I checked it with my bank,’ Barbara said smugly.

‘Tesco Extra, Beverley Way, is in New Malden on the A3 ,’ Joan observed, turning to her colleagues.

‘Donna had the Mini that day. Josh had to be filling up with petrol and either has a car we don’t know about or borrowed one,’ Anna said.

‘If Donna was at the Savoy, could Josh have borrowed her car in the afternoon without her knowing?’ Barbara asked.

‘Possible but unlikely – a Mini takes roughly sixty to seventy pounds to fill, not a hundred and twenty-five.’

‘So whatever car he was using must be big, like an SUV maybe,’ Barbara suggested.

‘I’ll check Josh Reynolds’ name on the motor-insurance database,’ said Joan. ‘If he was insured to drive they’ll be able to give us a make and model of the car.’

‘Thanks, Joan. Run Donna Reynolds and Marcus Williams as well,’ Anna added.

For a short while the room fell silent except for the tapping of fingertips on keyboards.

‘Right,’ said Joan. ‘Nothing recorded for Josh, and Donna is just insured for the Mini with Josh listed as a named driver. Insurance runs out in September this year. Williams is insured for a Bentley Continental GT as from January this year.’

‘So no fresh leads there,’ muttered Anna, frowning as she returned to the private account statements to see if there was anything she had missed. She thought it most strange that neither Donna nor Marcus Williams seemed to know anything about Josh having or borrowing a car, and realized this made it all the more important to find out exactly where Josh had gone on the afternoon of the fifth.

By mid-morning, Barolli and Dewar had completed their enquiries at the Bayswater flats. They had spoken with all the residents except the occupants of flat three, who were, according to a neighbour, away on a cruise holiday and not due back for two weeks. No one they spoke to had seen or heard anything unusual and only ever recalled seeing the Josh and Donna in a blue Mini convertible. Some added Josh had a silver racing-style bicycle that he often used.

‘Well, that wasn’t very productive, was it?’ Dewar remarked nonchalantly as they stood inside the communal area of the flats.

‘I’ll have to come back to speak with the cruise couple in flat three,’ Barolli said as they went to leave and return to the office.

‘Hold the door there, me old china!’ a male voice shouted.

‘Is he talking to us?’ Dewar asked, confused.

‘He means me – china plate means mate,’ Barolli explained as he looked up to see a white man in his mid-forties pacing towards him, carrying a ladder in one hand and a toolbox in the other. He had short black hair, which was receding, a pierced left ear with a small loop earring and was wearing blue jeans, T-shirt and black V-neck jumper with a handyman’s toolbelt buckled around his waist.

‘Excuse me, darlin’,’ he said as he squeezed past Dewar and then Barolli, nearly hitting him with the ladder. ‘Sorry ’bout that, getting meself in a right two and eight with me crown jewels here.’ He gave a broad apologetic smile.

Barolli called to Dewar to wait, as he wanted to have a word with the man.

‘I can’t understand anything he’s saying,’ Dewar complained.

‘It’s Cockney rhyming slang, crown jewels means tools. He might be the caretaker who looks after the building, so a quick chat might be worthwhile.’

‘If you say so,’ Dewar said unenthusiastically.

‘Excuse me, Mr . . .?’ Barolli asked.

‘Gorman, Ken Gorman,’ the workman replied.

‘Born within the sound of Bow bells, were you?’ Barolli asked, wanting to appear casual and knowing this to be the origins of a true London Cockney.

‘Me old man was, south London boy me, Bermondsey born and bred. You’re cozzers, ain’t ya?’ Ken asked, putting down his ladder and toolbox.

Barolli produced his warrant card, introduced himself and asked Ken if he was the caretaker for the flats.

‘Nah, work for the company that has the maintenance contract, so I looks after other buildings as well as this one.’

‘What sort of jobs do you do?’ Barolli asked with intentional interest.

‘Communal plumbing, electrics, water supply, them sorts of things. Anything that goes wrong inside a privately owned flat is the responsibility of the owner unless the premises are leased, cos me company is also under contract wif the all the landlord’s agents for this building.’

Barolli asked if he knew Mr and Mrs Reynolds who used to live in flat two.

‘The geezer who topped himself?’ Ken asked and Barolli nodded, ‘Yeah, nice bloke and so was his missus, she made a great mug of Rosy.’

‘So you’d been in their flat for a cup of tea,’ Barolli remarked for Dewar’s benefit. ‘Did you do any work for them?’ He noted a look of unease on Ken’s face. ‘I’m not worried if you were doing a bit on the side for cash in hand,’ he said reassuringly.

‘Definitely off the record?’ Ken asked, looking around to make sure no one else was listening. Barolli insisted that there was nothing for him to worry about.

‘I did some odd jobs for them – leaky tap, blown fuse, fixed some kitchen cupboards, that kind of thing. Terrible, him topping himself like that. I mean, blowing your own brains out – what a mess it left on the carpet and sofa. Not to mention his poor missus,’ Ken said, shaking his shoulders in abhorrence.

‘You saw his body then?’ Dewar asked, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation.

‘Nah, the letting agents called me to clean up so I binned the sofa and carpet then laid a new wooden floor. Rest of the place looked okay cos it had just had a fresh lick of paint before he shot himself,’ Ken explained.

‘Did you do the painting?’ Barolli asked.

‘No. Some black geezer did and to be honest it was a bit of a slap in the face, but what really pissed me off was when he tried touting for business with the other residents.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dewar asked.

‘Knocking on doors, asking if they wanted any odd jobs done. Don’t think he was even qualified like me, I’m registered to do gas, plumbing and electrics, it’s all about health and safety, you know what I mean, like,’ Ken said, producing his official ‘Gas Safe’ and registered electrician’s cards. ‘I’ve got me plumber’s card here somewhere,’ he continued as he fumbled in his pockets.

‘Do you know his name?’ Dewar pressed.

‘Nope, never met him, must have left me plumber’s card in the van.’

‘So who told you about him touting?’ Barolli asked.

‘Old couple at number three, Mr and Mrs Braun, they’s on a Saga cruise at the moment. Anyways, he knocked on their door but bless ’em they told him I does the jobs round here and said they’d report him so he cleared off.’

‘Do you know if he came back?’ Dewar asked.

‘Mrs Braun told me they’d seen him going into Mr and Mrs Reynolds’ a couple of times but, as far as I know, he didn’t bovver any of the other residents. I spoke with Mr Reynolds, he apologized and said he was just a family friend doing some painting work for him.’

‘Do you know when Mrs Braun last saw him or when he was doing the painting in the Reynolds flat?’ Dewar asked.

‘It was around late October time last year,’ Ken said.

‘Did they describe him to you?’ Barolli asked.

‘Mrs Braun said he was tall, black, probably in his fifties, and wore a Rasta hat and blue overalls,’ Ken told them, picking up his toolbox and ladder once more, clearly keen to get on.

Back in the car, Dewar wondered if the black man that Ken Gorman was referring to might be Curtis Bowman, the odd-job man at the Trojan. Barolli agreed that it was a strong possibility.

‘There’s something not right here,’ Dewar continued, reaching for her seatbelt. ‘Josh told Ken that the decorator was a family friend. Curtis was friends with both Josh and Donna, so if it was Curtis doing the decorating why hasn’t he or Donna said anything about it?’

‘What are you thinking?’ Barolli asked, turning the ignition key.

‘I’m thinking decorating the flat allows you to become familiar with the layout.’

‘You mean Curtis could have seen the safe, wanted the contents and then murdered Josh?’

‘Yes, or . . . he may have been allowed to keep any money in the safe as a payment for killing Josh . . .’

‘Then making it look like a robbery gone wrong would have been a better option,’ Barolli said, as he checked his mirrors and pulled out to drive them back to the station.

‘Okay, okay, let me think this through. Josh’s perceived suicide got the attendance of an inexperienced DI, plus a CSM and pathologist, both of whom, as chance would have it, are incompetent.’

‘Inexperienced, incompetent or whatever, why stage the scene?’ Barolli asked, unable to understand Dewar’s thought process.

She licked her lips. ‘Because it had to look like a suicide so that it wouldn’t get the full works. The killer or killers knew that. And the insurance payout becoming invalid so not going to the loving wife is even better. It only helps her cause – you understand what I’m saying? If it was an obvious murder you’d get the likes of Langton overseeing the case and a full foren-sics.’