‘Yeah, I’m tired because we were sent off to the agency and hung around to get the bloody diary an entire morning, and then it felt as if I was being accused of doing fuck all.’
Jane stood on tiptoe and gave him a hug. ‘I feel the same way, Spence, but maybe we are both just tired. Look, I need to get some sleep.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll finish my fag, have a drop more to drink, and if you are sure I can’t keep you company in your bed . . .’
‘Goodnight, Spence.’
From her bedroom, she heard him moving around the kitchen. The combination of seeing Dexter and Spence bringing up Bradfield had made her feel sad. She had experienced so much since those early days when she was fresh out of the training academy. Hackney seemed such a long time ago. Having worked in equally tough areas like Peckham, and then with the Sweeney, she felt, like Spencer, that she was going backwards through no fault of her own. After the gruelling interview with DI Miller, it was almost as if she was back at square one.
Jane found sleep out of her reach. She couldn’t hear any movement from Spencer and began to toss and turn. It started to feel like a low-level panic attack. She had to force herself to breathe deeply in an attempt not only to relax but to stop the traumatic memories flooding back, but she kept on hearing Spence say to her, ‘He didn’t make it . . . he didn’t make it . . . he didn’t make it . . .’ The words kept echoing in her head, bringing back the terrible aftermath of the explosion in the bank vault when DCI Bradfield had been killed, along with her good friend Kath.
In many ways, like Spencer, she had never really got over the tragedy. She had forced herself to suppress her true emotions, but it felt as if they were now surfacing uncontrollably and she couldn’t stop the tears. She bunched the sheet up in her hand, forcing it against her mouth, afraid that she would be heard.
Eventually, after what seemed hours of tossing and turning, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jane, in her eagerness to get to bed, had not set her alarm. She had never really needed it as she was always awake at 6 a.m. anyway. So she couldn’t believe it when she heard the banging on her bedroom door, and Spence shouting that it was 8 a.m. She sat bolt upright, then had to lie straight back down again as her head was thudding.
‘Is it OK if I have a shower?’ Spence asked loudly.
She cranked herself upright again. ‘Yes . . . go ahead.’
She had to sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes before she was able to get herself together. She took out a suit from her wardrobe, gathered some clean tights and underwear and laid everything out on the bed. She pulled on an old towelling robe and headed out to the kitchen, desperate for a black coffee and a couple of aspirin. By this time it was 8.10 a.m. She was confronted by a dripping Spence, with her bath towel wrapped around his waist.
Jane realised she didn’t have time for a shower and went into the bathroom, carrying her cup of instant black coffee, to get the aspirin from the bathroom cabinet. A short while later Spencer shouted that he was going and would probably see her later.
Before brushing her teeth Jane had to wipe the steam left by Spencer from the mirror, then she quickly applied some make-up and hurriedly went back to her bedroom to get dressed.
Spencer’s head was thudding as he went down the staircase. He opened the front door as a police patrol car drew up and DCI Lucas Miller stepped out from the passenger side. He gave Spencer a cold stare. Spencer quickly pressed Jane’s doorbell to give her a warning signal.
Jane was pulling on her tights when the doorbell rang. She picked up the intercom and said that the front door was open, assuming that Spence must have forgotten something. She went back to the bedroom, swearing as she noticed a ladder in her tights. She tore them off and was searching through her underwear drawer for another clean pair when her bedroom door opened.
‘Good morning, Tennison.’
Jane whipped around in disbelief.
‘I’m a fraction early as I wanted to have a quick chat with you before we headed to Barnes,’ Miller said.
‘I’m so sorry, sir, I’ll be two minutes . . .’ she blurted out, quickly shutting her bedroom door.
Miller walked into the kitchen and looked over the discarded hamburger cartons, the open bottle of ketchup and a crumpled newspaper still stinking of fish and chips, alongside an empty bottle of scotch.
Dirty crockery and cutlery was piled high in the sink. Miller backed out of the kitchen with a look of disgust on his face and walked into the small sitting room, stepping over a large, damp bath towel. Spencer had at least put the cushions back on the sofa before he had left.
As Miller went back into the small hallway, Jane opened her bedroom door. She was wearing a suit, a clean white shirt and a pair of black tights. Miller glanced at her. It was 8.25 a.m.
‘I’ll wait downstairs in the car,’ he said, brusquely.
Jane went into the kitchen and saw what a tip it was. She was mortified that Miller had seen it like that. Her headache had now been replaced by a terrible feeling of nausea. She quickly rang her mother to say that she had been so caught up at work that she hadn’t done any laundry or cleaning, and asked her mother to use her spare keys to help her out by doing some housekeeping.
Jane swiftly mixed herself a glass of Andrews Liver Salts. It was now just after 8.30 a.m., the actual agreed time Miller said he would collect her.
Miller was sitting in the rear of the patrol car, with a uniformed driver up front. He didn’t attempt to open the car door for Jane to get in but stared straight ahead as she bent down to the passenger window.
‘Shall I get in the front, sir?’
He shook his head and gestured for her to sit beside him in the back. As she climbed in and shut the door, the driver turned on the ignition.
‘Detective Tennison, I am not one to interfere in officers’ private lives but I think, considering the status of this inquiry, it was perhaps not a good idea to fraternise with an officer on the team, whom I happen to know is married . . .’
Jane was speechless. She was considering how she should answer when Miller flipped open his leather briefcase.
‘Subject over and done with,’ he said, curtly.
‘Actually, sir, I don’t think it is. I am aware that DS Gibbs is married. He did not get released from the station until late last night and his wife told him he wasn’t welcome to return home, so he asked if I could put him up for the night. He is a friend.’
‘Whatever,’ Miller said, as if he had absolutely no interest in what she had just said. He adjusted his cuffs. This time he was wearing a pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, and a Metropolitan Police-issue blue and white striped tie. His suit was neatly pressed, with pristine creases in the trouser legs.
‘So,’ he said. ‘We have this chap, wearing monogrammed slippers and taking care of the deceased’s pack of dogs, apparently living with the ex-wife. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. Apparently he is a highly regarded producer and director. DS Gibbs has seen a number of his films,’ she added wryly.
Miller waved his hand. ‘Yes, yes . . . I know what he does for a living. I just wish to prepare myself for the possibility that he will be there at the Barnes property.’
They drove in silence as they headed towards Hammersmith, fortunately going against the incoming traffic into the West End. Miller made detailed notes in a leather-bound notebook before snapping it closed and placing it between them on the back seat. He tugged again at his immaculate white cuffs.
‘Let me explain the way I like to conduct interviews, Tennison. You are to be an observer. I don’t in any way condone the “good cop, bad cop” attitude. I like to question, and re-question, until I get answers. I would like you to remain silent and if and when I give you an instruction to do something, I expect you to carry it out immediately.’ Miller gave a strange half laugh. ‘Perhaps it will be a learning curve for you.’
Despite his obnoxiousness, Ja
ne forced herself to keep her emotions under control, refusing to allow her anger to show.
As they turned into Vine Road, Miller leant forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘I’d like you to cruise past the property, do a U-turn, then head back. Take it nice and slow.’
The driver did as instructed, finally turning into the wide gravel driveway and parking behind Justine Harris’s Mercedes. Miller waited for the driver to get out and open the rear passenger door for him, but he made no attempt to assist Jane out of the car. She followed him to the front door and stood slightly behind him as he rang the bell. Jane saw him touch the knot of his tie and, even though he was holding his briefcase, he once again adjusted his shirt cuffs.
They heard the sound of dogs barking for a few moments before the door was opened by George Henson, who was dressed casually in corduroy trousers, T-shirt and cashmere cardigan, still with the monogrammed slippers.
‘If you’d like to go straight into the drawing room, I will inform Miss Harris that you’re here. She’s just putting the dogs out into the back garden. Unfortunately, we’re having to care for three of them now.’
Henson opened the door and stood back while they passed him to go into the drawing room.
‘Do you need a coffee, tea or anything?’ he asked.
Jane immediately thought a strong black coffee was just what she needed.
‘No, we’re fine,’ Miller said, walking into the room.
Henson paused in the doorway. ‘I believe you have a warrant, is that right? Does that mean you wish to search the house?’
Miller nodded. ‘In time, yes.’
‘Oh, well, I won’t be a minute.’ Henson shut the door on them.
Jane looked around at the large, comfortable drawing room. It had highly polished parquet flooring and an expensive-looking oriental carpet. Two well-worn four-seater sofas faced each other, with a low, glass-topped coffee table between them, stacked with numerous magazines, journals and art books. There was an ornate marble fireplace with logs neatly piled either side, and the embers of a previously lit fire in the grate, and a grand piano positioned in front of the bay windows. There appeared to be silver-framed photographs on every available surface.
Jane sat anxiously on the edge of the sofa while Miller moved around the room, looking at each photograph in turn. There were wedding photographs alongside christening photographs, as well as various pictures of the couple at premieres, Foxley dressed in black tie with Justine looking glamorous on his arm. There were also photographs of her in various plays, framed posters from her film and TV work, and in a small glass-fronted cabinet were a number of BAFTA awards. Jane couldn’t help thinking how different it all seemed from the austerity of Foxley’s flat.
Miller stood admiring the piano. ‘If I’m not wrong, this is a Steinway.’
At that moment the door opened and Justine Harris walked in holding a mug of coffee. She was wearing a pair of old, worn jeans, flat ballet shoes and an open-necked man’s shirt. She wore no jewellery or make-up, and her long hair was caught up in a large clip. She had the most beautiful bone structure, but she was exceptionally pale. Jane had the same feeling she had had the first time she had seen her, that there was a vacant look in her eyes. It made her wonder if she was using tranquillisers.
Miller glided towards her with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m DS Miller,’ he began, then, to Jane’s astonishment, he went on, ‘I just want to say what an admirer I am of your work. I’m very grateful for the time you’re giving us.’
Justine smiled briefly in reply, then walked past him to sit on the sofa next to Jane.
Miller placed his briefcase beside him on the sofa. ‘Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?’ he asked.
‘I don’t suppose I do,’ Justine replied, sipping her coffee.
‘It’s just a precaution in case I forget something. I am sure you are very used to press conferences and being recorded.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Not for quite some time.’
‘I’d like to start by asking . . . may I call you Justine?’
Jane caught a little lift of her eyebrow.
‘Please do.’
‘Well, Justine, could you tell me what you were wearing when you went to your husband’s flat?’
She tilted her head. ‘I can’t really remember . . .’
‘It is rather important, Justine.’ He leant forward. ‘You see, we have to exclude you from the investigation. At the same time we are aware that there was considerable friction between you and your husband and there is a possibility that two people were involved in his death.’
Justine sipped her coffee, frowning, as if trying to make sense of what he had just said. ‘I was wearing jeans, similar to these, a T-shirt and a camel-hair coat.’
‘Are those clothes here, Justine?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my coat is in the closet in the hall. I think my jeans and T-shirt have probably been washed.’
‘What shoes were you wearing?’ he asked.
She sighed. ‘Good heavens . . . I think I was wearing either these shoes, or maybe a pair of trainers. I can’t really remember.’
‘And are those trainers also here?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We need to know if you got bloodstains on your shoes when you entered the flat. Do you recall noticing any stains on your clothing or shoes?’
Justine shook her head. ‘Of course not . . . I was too distressed to. I suppose you are aware of what happened to me?’
‘I would like you to tell us about it, if you would,’ Miller said, encouragingly.
‘I was obviously in a terrible state . . . I drove home. I couldn’t think straight. I was so shocked and I really only meant to try and calm myself down. I remember pouring a glass of whisky and taking a diazepam that I had been prescribed for anxiety, but I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. I went upstairs to the bedroom . . . I just desperately wanted to block it all out of my mind . . . to not see his body. I took some sleeping tablets; I don’t even recall how many I took. I tried to come downstairs and that’s where George found me – at the bottom of the stairs. I must have fallen as I had bruises on my arm and thigh, but I don’t remember. George called an ambulance and I was taken to St Mary’s.’
There was a pause as Miller flicked through his notebook.
‘On the two previous occasions you had attempted suicide, did you use the same tablets?’
She leant back on the sofa. ‘Those incidents were some considerable time ago. The first time I took librium, which are sleeping tablets. I did not intend to take my life. I just wanted to sleep because my then husband was discussing the divorce and it was becoming unbearable.’
Miller tapped his notebook. ‘Did you write a note?’
‘No, I called my mother. I was very upset and I was concerned about my daughter Clara, who, at that time, was at home. It was my mother who found me.’
‘And the second time?’ Miller asked.
Justine rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. ‘I did this,’ she said, revealing two large scars on her wrist. ‘I just couldn’t take any more and by then I had found out about my husband’s perversions. I was frightened he would try to move back into the house, but in actual fact it was Charles who came and found me in the bathroom.’
‘Did you write a note that time?’ Miller asked.
‘I phoned Charles at his office and told him that I was never going to see him again.’ She rolled her sleeves back down. ‘You have to understand, being married to Charles was like living in a nightmare. Beneath all the charm and bon viveur, he was a deeply angry and disturbed man.’
At that moment the door opened and Toots, the dachshund, trotted into the room. George Henson held firmly onto Jack, the Jack Russell cross, by the scruff of his neck.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but Stick has got out through the back-garden hedge and he’s wandering around on the common!’
Justine stood u
p. ‘There was no need to bring the other two in here. Take them into the kitchen and then go out and look for him. He usually makes his way directly across the road. If you take the dog whistle he should come back. Unless . . .’ She turned to Miller. ‘Do you mind if I go and get the dog?’
Miller stood up and switched off the tape recorder. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do mind.’ He looked over towards Jane, pointing at her with his pen.
‘Tennison, perhaps you could go and assist Mr Henson?’
Jane followed George down the wide hallway with Victorian mosaic tiles and into the kitchen. He shut the door behind her.
‘It’s as if I have nothing fucking else to do apart from look after these dogs,’ he complained. ‘She won’t hear a word against them. They piss and shit everywhere, and as for this Jack Russell, he’s managed to eat his way through the legs of two stools. God forbid that you should leave a shoe out. He’ll have it buried in the garden in minutes.’
Jane waited while he pulled on a jacket and fetched a lead, taking in the large farmhouse-style kitchen, with a white Aga, pine fitted cupboards, and a big pine kitchen table with matching chairs and cushions. There was even a row of costly copper pans hanging on the wall. There was a warm, family atmosphere in the kitchen, with its fridge magnets and childish drawings pinned to the wall – so different from the designer one in Foxley’s Kensington flat. It was easy to see why Foxley would find it hard to leave this house.
*
Spencer was in a car with DCI Collins, on their way to interview Foxley & Myers’ accountant, John Nathan.
‘Make sure you pay attention and take proper notes,’ Collins told him. ‘I read your description of Mandy Pilkington’s security guard, Ahmed Farook, looking like Odd Job from Goldfinger. All very amusing, but why didn’t you mention that he had a bloody police record, even though the offence occurred a considerable time ago?’
‘Mrs Pilkington gave him a very strong alibi,’ Spencer argued. ‘On the afternoon of Foxley’s murder he was at her property, verified by two witnesses, and later in the evening he was driving a client. I did put this in the report, sir.’
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