Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  DC Dors entered the room carrying two large carrier bags containing video cassettes collected from Foxley’s office. Tyler looked in the bag and glanced at the titles on the spines. They seemed to be mostly ‘CF at Premiere’ or ‘CF at Theatre Opening’. He turned to Dors.

  ‘Take these up to the tech division and ask them to splice together all the footage of Foxley. I’m not wasting time trawling through all his red-carpet functions.’

  Dors gathered up the bags of video cassettes and left the room. The briefing continued as various detectives described the interviews they had had so far with people on Myers’ list. They had been able to eliminate them as suspects due to their alibis being confirmed, but they still had about thirty more people they needed to interview.

  Tyler turned to Jane and asked if she had gained anything positive from the ex-wife. Jane quickly summarised her time at Ascot, saying that she felt it was imperative she interview Justine Harris again, at her own home. She felt the interview had been dominated by her mother’s presence. Jane also told him that Justine had referenced that, at some point around five years ago, Foxley had visited a prostitute who had been found murdered.

  ‘She admitted that at the time she had lied for her husband and given him an alibi, which is obviously perjury but also, of course, an indication that she is a very able liar. I will double-check with records to see what we have and if anyone was arrested and charged with the murder.’

  ‘Well, it would be bloody useful if we had the tart’s name,’ Tyler muttered. ‘Did you have any joy with the missing diary?’

  ‘We have made contact with Julia Summers. She was staying with a relative and will bring the diary in later today.’

  Tyler ran his hands through his hair, looking frustrated. Standing with his hands on his hips, he nodded to the blackboard.

  ‘Well, we were all interested in tracing the previous owner of the victim’s flat as he was on the agent’s hit list . . . Sebastian Martinez. We know exactly where he is – he was cremated two years ago. Coroner’s report confirmed suicide – he hanged himself in a hotel room. Interestingly, that was six months after Charles Foxley had purchased Martinez’s flat for under half the market value. So we need to do some more digging around into that; local police would have attended the incident and a report must have been made for the coroner’s inquest.’

  Arnold held up his pencil. ‘I’ll check into that, guv.’

  Spencer barged in with a cup of takeaway coffee, looking rather pleased with himself. He had a thick folder in his other hand, which he tossed onto the table.

  ‘I’ve just come back from Clapham. Miss Pilkington.’

  Tyler loosened his tie. ‘I sincerely hope you’ve got something we can use, Spencer. Right now, we have fuck all!’

  Spencer grinned. ‘I had to make a few promises to get to the nitty-gritty. Miss Pilkington is a dominatrix. Her entire cellar is equipped like a dungeon: chains, whips, a vaulting horse . . . There’s a padded room and another really sick one with a large baby’s cot. She deals with heavy-duty fetishes. Like I said, I had to make a few promises that I was not there to investigate how much money she was making, but I would say it’s a fair whack. From outside, it looks like any other terraced house, right down to the net curtains. But inside it’s full of rubber suits, masks and mirrors above all the beds . . .’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Spence, get to the point! I think we can all work out what a dominatrix’s place looks like!’ Tyler shouted.

  There were a few guffaws around the table, and a couple of the detectives muttered, ‘Never having been in one . . .’

  ‘I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it . . . But you need to get the full picture.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that this dominatrix killed Foxley?’

  ‘Hell, no! She’s about twenty-five stone! Besides, Charles Foxley was her cash cow. It was only after I told her the only person I was interested in was him, and I didn’t want to know the names of any other clients, that she started to open up. Foxley was not just a regular client, he was obsessive. He would go there three or four times a week. Mandy Pilkington said that he would go at lunchtime, early evening and often very early in the morning, but never at the weekends. He only liked obese women and it was sometimes hard finding the right women at short notice.’

  Spencer opened the file. ‘These are just a few photographs showing what she has on offer, most of them from magazines. But our victim liked the shit beaten out of him.’

  There was an odd silence in the room as they looked at the photographs and took on board this latest bizarre development.

  ‘OK,’ Tyler said. ‘Let’s take a break and reconvene as soon as we get the footage from tech support. This is all very interesting, but it still doesn’t give us a suspect. We’ve all got work to do.’

  ‘I’ll organise a TV and a video player, since the station doesn’t have one,’ Arnold volunteered.

  ‘Good, Tim . . . and see if you can get a reasonably sized one so we can get a decent picture,’ Tyler replied.

  Jane and Spencer hung back while everyone left. Spencer turned to Jane.

  ‘He only did half a day yesterday then scurried off home. Now he’s so far up Tyler’s arse . . . He pisses me off.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Spence, give him a break. He’s lost quite a bit of weight and he looks pale.’

  Spencer shook his head. ‘Apparently having kidney stones is as painful as giving birth . . . Give me strength.’

  ‘I am not getting into this with you, Spence.’

  ‘Fine,’ Spencer shrugged. ‘Did you know the guv was interviewed this morning for BBC news? He kept it very short, just saying that a thorough investigation was underway.’

  ‘Wait until you read my reports about Florence Harris. More poisonous than you would believe,’ Jane replied.

  Jane started typing up her report from her visit to Ascot when Arnold stopped at her desk.

  ‘I pulled in a few favours and I might have something on that incident Justine Harris mentioned.’

  ‘What? Was Foxley involved?’

  ‘No, no . . . someone else was convicted of the murder. It’s the description of the victim that’s the possible connection to Foxley. Arlene Wicks, originally from Liverpool, worked out of a small massage parlour in World’s End, Chelsea. It was shut down a few years ago but . . .’ He passed Jane a fax print-out dated seven years previously. Jane looked at the rather blurred and faded black and white mug shot. It had the word ‘DECEASED’ stamped across it. The description read: Born in Bootle, Liverpool, aged 22, 5 foot, 1 inch, 15 and a half stone, arrested for soliciting three times.

  Jane looked up as Arnold shrugged. ‘His ex-wife lied for him. They got the guy that killed the poor girl, but if it’s the right incident then it shows that all that time ago Foxley was using the same type of whore.’

  Jane passed back the fax sheet to Arnold, noticing that he had some sticking plaster around his very heavy gold wedding band. He caught her looking and gave her a smile.

  ‘Lost weight and I’m scared to death of it dropping off. If I lose it, Bronwyn would never forgive me. And I have to wear a belt on my trousers to hold them up now. Think I’ve lost about twenty-five pounds. All the years I’ve been on diets, but it was the hospital food that did it. I couldn’t eat the stuff!’

  ‘It suits you.’ Jane smiled.

  She watched as he added Arlene Wicks’s details to the blackboard, then turned to Spencer.

  ‘Those betting slips you found in Foxley’s office – might be worth checking out the betting shops he frequented. We are also waiting on the lists of in- and outgoing calls Foxley made from his office and the basement flat.’

  ‘On it, guv,’ Spencer said, tight-lipped.

  A little over an hour later they reconvened in the boardroom. A large TV screen had been wheeled in with a video recorder attached. They all drew their chairs up to one end of the room and the blinds were drawn. The tech su
pport officer explained that they had worked flat-out to splice the tapes, but only some of the footage had sound, and a lot of the imagery was blurred.

  Jane sat beside Spencer. There had been no time yet to discuss his visit to Mandy Pilkington’s. ‘That must have been a fascinating morning . . .’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re telling me!’ he replied with a grin. ‘There are some sick perves out there all right . . . That giant baby’s cot and big plastic baby bottles and dummies – she said she gets a lot of clients that want to be dressed up in nappies. Or those rubber suits . . . Jesus, I don’t know how they get into them.’

  Tyler clapped his hands. ‘OK, attention, everyone . . . Thanks to Tim here we’ve got it up and rolling now. So let’s have a look at him.’

  Arnold inserted a tape and after a few moments the screen came to life. What they were looking at seemed to be a film premiere as there were banks of photographers milling around, and then the glamorous figure of a well-known film star in a beautiful couture gown appeared and the flashing cameras went crazy.

  Tyler pointed at the screen. ‘There he is!’

  Charles Foxley was walking a few paces behind the film star, wearing an evening suit and black tie. He had wavy blond hair just down to his shirt collar. Jane was surprised how good-looking he was. The next shot was of a similar event, and Jane and Spencer recognised Emma Ransom talking animatedly to Foxley.

  They all sat watching the footage of fifteen similar events, and Foxley was always there somewhere on the periphery of the action. One showed a crowded after-show party and Foxley appeared to be working the room, smiling and greeting everyone there, kissing one glamorous woman after another.

  Eventually Tyler stood up. ‘Anyone who wants to keep watching, go ahead, but I think we’ve seen enough of the smarmy bastard, and as you’re all aware, we still haven’t identified a single serious suspect, let alone a motive. I want the rest of the names that Myers gave us checked out, and, more importantly, I want that missing diary.’

  Tyler left the room and the rest of the detectives followed, as the video footage continued to play.

  Spencer drained his coffee and chucked the empty cup into the bin. ‘You get anything from the ex-wife?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘Not a lot. I think she’s having a relationship with George Henson – he was there. Apparently our victim used to spend a lot of time at the old marital home in Barnes.’

  She looked at the screen, then reached for the remote control and pressed the pause button. She rewound the tape.

  ‘You know, Spence, it’s so strange, watching him at these premieres, rubbing shoulders with all these celebrities and being charming, while we know he had a sick perversion, so perverted that he was going there before he started work, in his lunchtimes . . . How do you slow the video down?’

  Spence grabbed the remote control. ‘You can’t. I can freeze-frame it, though. What are you looking for?’

  ‘His eyes . . . look at his eyes, Spence.’

  They sat side by side and watched one frame after another. On the surface Foxley appeared to be confident and animated, but Jane went close up to the screen and tapped it with her pencil. ‘He has dead eyes. He hates himself.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jane and Spencer arrived at Foxley’s offices just before 2 p.m. Rita was the only girl on reception. She looked forlornly at Jane.

  ‘Julia Summers will be back any moment, but she’s in a shockin’ state. Everyone’s asking when the funeral’s gonna be, but we’ve not been told nothin’.’

  Jane nodded sympathetically. ‘Is Mr Bergman in?’

  ‘He’s always in,’ Rita replied, picking up the phone. ‘You’ve got the detectives here to see you, Mr Bergman. Shall I show them through?’

  She held the phone away from her ear as Bergman replied, then replaced the receiver.

  ‘He’s a rude bastard, that one. Just go on through.’

  As they crossed the hallway into the other office, Bergman could be heard shouting at his usual volume.

  ‘I’m just telling you she’s found out the leading actor is getting paid more than she is. No, just fucking listen to me! She’s a much bigger name – you know it, I know it. So you’re telling me you had no option because the previous leading actor got appendicitis and you were over a barrel. Fine, you tell her that. Yes, you. Then call me back!’

  Jane knocked lightly on the door and walked in. Bergman waved his hand at them.

  ‘Rita, hold all my calls – but if Vanessa rings I’m going to have to take it.’ He put the receiver down with a sigh. ‘Sorry about that, but I’ve got this fucking actress throwing a wobbly on the set and refusing to continue shooting. The stupid cow has somehow found out that the actor playing opposite her is being paid more money and she’s throwing a fit. They’ve told her that she can keep two, very costly, designer outfits as compensation but she’s not buying it.’

  Bergman then looked at them inquiringly as they sat down on the sofa.

  ‘We just need to ask you for some more detail with regard to Sebastian Martinez,’ said Jane. ‘You said there was some sort of “situation” regarding the purchase of Mr Martinez’s flat?’

  Bergman sat back in his chair. ‘Well, it was common knowledge that Charles bought it for half the market value. All I do know, as I have told you, is that there was a very unpleasant situation.’ Bergman shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘You know how gays can be. He was in here screaming his head off, accusing Charles of destroying his career – but I have no idea what that was all about. You could probably get more information from Emma Ransom. Shortly after Charles did the deed, the poor old queen topped himself.’

  The light on Bergman’s desk phone started blinking. There was a knock on the door and the flustered face of his secretary, Margaret, appeared.

  ‘Mr Bergman, Vanessa really needs to talk to you urgently . . .’

  ‘Shit! Would you excuse me?’ He snatched up the phone.

  ‘Vanessa, darling. Update?’ He sprang to his feet, gripping the phone, while his face went puce. ‘The stupid cunt did what?! I don’t fucking believe it! Listen, Vanessa, I’ll get into a taxi right now. I promise you I will sort this out.’ He slammed the phone down.

  ‘The stupid bitch of an actress . . . I told you they were giving her two designer dresses – one from Chanel costing an absolute fortune and the other one from Valentino – and now the stupid bitch has gone into the wardrobe department and taken a pair of scissors to all the other costumes . . .’

  Jane and Spencer looked on wide-eyed, hardly able to believe what was playing out in front of them. Bergman grabbed a suede coat from the back of his chair, muttered a fleeting apology and hurried out of his office. They heard him screaming for Margaret to get him a taxi.

  Jane and Spencer looked at each other, shaking their heads. After a few moments, Rita popped her head around the door.

  ‘Julia Summers is in reception for you.’

  Julia Summers looked like a typical Sloane. Her hair was held back with a neat Alice band and she wore a maroon suit, pale stockings and court shoes, with a strand of expensive-looking pearls around her neck. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she had obviously been crying.

  ‘I came as soon as I heard the dreadful news,’ she said.

  Jane turned to Rita. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  ‘Well, ’is office is obviously empty now . . .’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Could we go to the little coffee annexe?’

  ‘That would be fine,’ Jane replied.

  Julia led them down the corridor and through a side door. There was a small kitchen area with a table and four chairs. Julia sat down between them, with a small overnight bag beside her.

  ‘It must have been a great shock for you, Julia,’ Spencer said gently.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I still can’t believe it . . .’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Foxley?’ he asked.


  She took a deep breath. ‘It would have been the day before I left. My aunt had got severe angina, and her housekeeper had some family matter to attend to, and when I explained this to Charles he said I must go.’

  ‘So that would have been on . . . ?’ Spencer started taking notes.

  ‘Monday. And I really only expected to be there overnight, but my aunt’s condition worsened, so I called in and spoke to Rita to say that I would stay in Devon.’ She fumbled in her pocket and took out a tissue to blow her nose. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I still just can’t believe it . . .’

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr Foxley?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Almost eighteen months.’

  ‘Could I ask how old you are?’ Jane said with a smile.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just turned eighteen. To be honest, I’m really a sort of go-between for Mr Foxley and Emma . . . or rather, I started that way, but more recently I’ve worked mostly for Charl . . . Mr Foxley.’

  ‘Do you have his diary?’ Jane asked, quietly.

  ‘Do you mean his desk diary?’

  ‘Yes, do you have his desk diary?’

  ‘I was only expecting to be away for one night, you see. I didn’t think my aunt would need me and often I would take the diary home because I had so many arrangements to make with collections and deliveries, and I needed to be sure I got everything right. I didn’t do anything that I wasn’t supposed to do. As soon as I heard what had happened, I came straight here.’

  ‘So, before you left, how did Mr Foxley seem to you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘He was the same as always. A lot of people found him quite difficult to work with. He was very disorganised. He was always misplacing things – his passport, his car keys, his wallet. It was often very difficult to make sure he made his appointments on time, let alone his flights to the US. He was very trying at times, but I genuinely liked him, and he was incredibly generous. But I did find looking after his dogs difficult. He would forget where they were, and when his dog walker was coming or going.’