Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  He shouted ‘GO!’ and, as Jane edged forward, a target appeared in one of the mock shop doors. She felt an instant urge to fire, but quickly realising the target was a uniform police officer, held back.

  ‘Keep moving,’ Elliott shouted as the target retracted back behind the door.

  Suddenly to her left another target appeared – a man with a shotgun. She steadied herself and firmly squeezed the trigger. The sound of the gun blast was deafening and the recoil made her hands instantly jerk upwards. No sooner had she fired than the target retracted and another one sprung out on her right side. She turned and instinctively fired again, this time more able to control the recoil, but her heart sank as she realised the target in the window was an unarmed young female. As the target retracted, she turned and looked at Elliott, who was glaring at her.

  ‘Keep fucking moving,’ he shouted as another target – this time a man with a handgun – popped up.

  Jane’s ears were ringing and she had difficulty hearing him. She hesitated before firing and the target retracted, followed by the sound of the Klaxon. She returned to the table, carefully removed the two unfired bullets and placed them and the gun down on the table.

  ‘We have to vacate the area now,’ Elliott said as he put the gun and remaining bullets in his gun case.

  ‘I shot an innocent bystander, didn’t I?’ Jane said, feeling disheartened.

  ‘The range supervisor will have a look at the targets and let us know the results. In the meantime, let’s have a coffee.’

  ‘Right now, I feel like something stronger than a coffee,’ she sighed.

  Elliott ushered her out of the shooting range and she followed him down the stone corridor and up a flight of stairs to a small anteroom. Inside were worn cloth chairs, a couple of low coffee tables and a corner bar that had a coffee and tea-making machine and a few chipped mugs. Elliott placed his weapon case down and gestured for her to sit.

  ‘Did I hit that woman?’ she asked, sitting on one of the chairs.

  ‘Be patient, we’ll get the results in a few minutes. Black or white?’

  ‘White, please.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  Jane didn’t usually want sugar, but she felt she needed some. ‘Yes.’

  Elliott brought the coffees over and they had just sat down when the door opened and the range officer wearing the military fatigues walked in carrying two of the targets. He went straight to Elliott and handed them to him, again totally ignoring Jane, before leaving the room.

  ‘Looks like you hit two of the targets . . .’

  ‘One’s the woman, isn’t it?’

  He turned the target to show her. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, she’ll survive. You hit her in the shoulder. You didn’t shoot the police officer and you hit the target with the shotgun in the throat, so that would have incapacitated him.’

  ‘I can’t believe I missed the last one,’ Jane said, shaking her head.

  ‘You lost your concentration when you thought you’d hit the woman, and that slowed your reaction time as well. If I’m honest, and it was a real-life situation, the last target could well have shot you because your reaction was slow.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve let you down,’ Jane said, sadly.

  ‘Hey, stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ Elliott replied. ‘Beginners always make mistakes. But the good ones move on and learn from them. Compared to some officers I’ve seen on a range, you did well.’ Elliott looked at his watch. He then glanced at Jane and, for the first time since she had met him, he smiled. She was astonished to see how it lit his whole face, revealing a completely different side to him. ‘The most important thing, Jane, is you remained calm and didn’t panic.’

  She actually flushed. ‘Thank you very much.’ She noticed for the first time that he had a slight accent. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  He gave another one of those smiles. ‘Oh, you detected a bit of the Dorset burr. But I’ve been a long time away from there.’

  ‘What do you do exactly?’ Jane asked.

  He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. ‘I’m head of security at a customs office in Southampton.’

  Jane intuitively knew he was lying. ‘Really? And that means you get access to this place?’

  He leant back in the chair. ‘Well, you know, we have a lot of problems with illegal weapons being brought in all over the UK, so I’m on secondment in London at the moment.’

  ‘But were you at one time in the police?’

  Again, he took her by surprise as he stood up and laughed. ‘This is a bit of an inquisition, isn’t it, Jane? Next you’ll ask me if I’m married.’

  Jane stood up. ‘No, Elliott, I was going to ask who gave you all the information about my situation in the Sweeney. I asked Dabs if it was him, but he said he hadn’t spoken to you. My concern is that my career could be damaged by defamatory gossip.’

  He turned towards her, but she wasn’t intimidated this time, even though he was a big man. ‘Dabs is a good guy, and he didn’t say anything derogatory about you, Detective Sergeant Tennison. Neither will I. I have a personal interest in your situation, and, just so you know, I’m not married. Now, I’ve got a meeting at Customs House in Billingsgate, so I need to get you out of here.’

  *

  When Jane got to the station she was disappointed that she would be deskbound, with the job of matching dates and names from Foxley’s diary with the small notebook she had removed from his bedroom. She was also instructed to reconcile his finances, as Foxley had made a multitude of cash withdrawals in the seven months prior to his murder. They were now looking into the possibility that drugs were involved. It would be a long and tedious morning for her, but Spencer seemed to be in high spirits.

  ‘You’re looking like a happy bunny this morning,’ she observed. ‘I see you’ve got your favourite tweed suit out of moth balls. Nice tie, too. What are you up to?’

  Spencer grinned. ‘I’m going to interview two movie actors about Charles Foxley. One lives in a posh place in Hampstead and another not far from home.’

  Jane signed out the diary and the small leather-bound notebook.

  ‘How did it go last night with the counsellor?’

  Spencer laughed. ‘I reckoned counsellors were all a load of wankers, but this one was rather nice, with a great pair of pins. The overall feeling was that we should talk more, which is all we seem to bloody do. Anyway, it seems she wants to start a training course so she can teach yoga, which her father agreed to pay for, and hopefully that’ll calm her down. So it’s onwards and upwards.’

  He walked off, whistling to himself.

  *

  Two hours later Jane was still working on listing the names from the notebook to compare with those in the agency diary. There were frequent references to ‘KW’ alongside the Premiere Hotel or Ritz Carlton. These were often accompanied by ringed numbers of three and six, but she couldn’t match any of these with the diary entries and she had not found any reference to drugs or cash payments.

  She was relieved to see DS Lawrence arrive for a meeting with Tyler. He stopped by her desk.

  ‘I’ve checked the list of medications that you compiled from Justine Harris’s bathroom cabinet. Seems the lady is taking a cocktail of prescription drugs for an array of mental issues. We are pretty certain that the trainer you brought in, although the left foot, is the make and size of the one that made the bloody footprint. And we did some tests on the coat and I’m certain it will match the victim’s blood group. You also brought in some of the bedding from the victim’s bed – I wasn’t sure why you had included that?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I just found it very strange that, although the victim had been dead for a number of days, the bed looked as if it had only just been slept in and nothing had been disturbed in the bedroom. That’s why I also brought in the dirty drinking glasses.’

  Lawrence checked his wristwatch. ‘Well, we’ve got a lot of prints, and the guy checking them out is pretty certain they
were left by the victim. However, I did find two things of interest: caught in the pillowcase was one long blonde hair, and there was also some staining and another hair on the sheet. We are using a UV light test that will establish the presence of semen.’

  ‘You know she is being earmarked as a suspect?’ Jane said. ‘What do you think?’

  Lawrence smiled. ‘I’m not paid to think, sweetheart, I’m paid for forensic evidence. I only deal with the crime scene, so I’m not privy to all the evidence, and I can’t make a proper judgement about her involvement. What about you?’

  ‘I think if she did kill Foxley, she didn’t do it alone.’

  DCI Tyler opened his office door and gestured for Lawrence to join him. He turned to Jane.

  ‘Just had a bloody complaint from a neighbour at the victim’s Barnes property. Apparently the Jack Russell is causing havoc in her pigeon coop . . .’

  *

  Spencer reckoned the three-storey property in Hampstead was worth quite a few million. When he rang the doorbell, a young Chinese man opened it and asked to see his identification. He was polite, asking Spencer to wait and not closing the front door again, but nevertheless leaving him on the step. He returned within a couple of minutes, ushering Spencer along the polished pine floor of a corridor lined with modern art. He opened a double door at the end of the hall, gesturing for Spencer to follow him inside. It was an astonishingly beautiful, light, airy room with floor-to-ceiling sashed windows overlooking a manicured garden. Beyond the garden lay Hampstead Heath.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a soft six-seater leather sofa and two matching armchairs. There was a block wood coffee table with the obligatory array of expensive design books and a large bricked fireplace with logs stacked on either side. There were steel-rimmed bookcases on every wall. Spencer was offered a drink and accepted a glass of chilled water, being told that Mr Francis would join him shortly.

  Left alone, Spencer moved from one bookcase to another, skimming through the titles until Mr Francis entered the room. He was very handsome, and at six foot, as tall as Spencer, wearing a pristine white linen shirt with pale green corduroy trousers and leather slip-on sandals.

  ‘Do sit down, detective . . .’ He hesitated, putting his hand out as if he could not remember Spencer’s name.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gibbs, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you’re here in connection with the awful murder of Charles Foxley. I don’t think anyone has really come to terms with how this will affect not only their careers, but their lives. He was such a genuine and well-liked man.’

  Spencer took a sip of the chilled water and then, unsure if he should place it on the table, held onto it awkwardly.

  ‘Perhaps not by everyone, though. Do you know anyone who had a grievance against Mr Foxley?’

  Francis crossed his legs, leaning back against the leather armchair. ‘Well, obviously in our business there will be people who have petty grievances, some more than others, but I am not aware of anyone wanting to harm him. He could also be a pain in the arse, but there weren’t many people better than him at packaging.’

  Spencer adopted what he thought was an intelligent expression. ‘Packaging?’

  ‘Yes, in simple terms you are making a package. If you have the star, the producer, director and writer, and they are also your clients, that is a package. Charles was making major headway in packaging his clients for big film projects.’

  Spencer nodded, still not too sure about what it all meant. ‘And these packages are lucrative?’

  Francis laughed. ‘If the movie’s successful, you’re talking millions. Charles was leading the way with two or three big-money deals.’ Francis sprang to his feet. ‘Come into my office and let me show you some of the posters.’

  *

  Jane had been working with the help of one of the female clerical staff, trying to trace all the cash withdrawals Foxley had made, and see where the money had ended up. She had already estimated that his visits to the brothel could have cost between £250 and £600 a week, but even if he was sometimes going three times a week, that still did not make a dent in the amount of cash he was withdrawing. She was becoming frustrated and about to break for lunch when DC Tony Johnson came to her desk.

  ‘There’s someone in reception who I think you’ll want to see. She asked for DI Miller but I told her he was not available.’

  Jane sighed. ‘Well, who is it?’

  ‘Justine Harris.’

  Jane jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll use the public interview room at the front of the station, next to the front counter. I’ll go in there and you bring her into me, all right?’

  Jane grabbed her handbag and made her way to the interview room.

  The room contained a small desk and chair, with another hardback chair against a wall, and some filing cabinets. It was private, and that’s what Jane wanted. She ran a comb through her hair and adjusted her shirt collar, as Johnson ushered Justine Harris in.

  Jane was taken aback. Justine was wearing a black beret with a black trench coat and was carrying a small leather clutch bag. Even with no make-up on she looked stunning. She waited for the door to close before she held up a manila envelope.

  ‘Um, the little detective in the pink shirt asked if I had any photographs of Charles that might be useful, and also if there were any living relatives. At the time, I honestly couldn’t recall anyone. Have you heard?’

  Jane was slightly flustered. ‘Have I heard what?’

  ‘They are releasing Charles’s body for the funeral, which I’m arranging for Monday.’

  Jane just nodded, inviting Justine to sit down.

  ‘I really don’t have long as I have a hair appointment,’ Justine said, perching on the edge of the chair. ‘I just wanted to give the little detective the name of someone I remembered – Eunice Small. She’s very elderly but she was his aunt. I haven’t had any contact with her for many years, but when I found her number I called her. I am only inviting family members to be present at the funeral.’

  Justine stood up abruptly and waved the manila envelope again. ‘I’ve also got a couple of photographs I found; whether or not they will mean anything to you, I don’t know . . .’

  She adjusted her beret, tilting it a little more to the right. ‘Now, I really must go. These diva hair stylists like to keep you waiting, but God forbid that you are ever a minute late.’ She placed the envelope on the desk and then opened the door before Jane had a chance to assist her.

  ‘When will I be able to put the flat on the market? Obviously the carpet will have to be replaced, but I would like to sell it as soon as possible.’

  Jane felt wrong-footed. ‘Um, I’ll have to talk to my superior and let you know.’

  Justine nodded. ‘There is another thing that you may or may not be interested in. After the funeral, I have every intention of allowing the agents to buy me out.’

  She closed the door behind her.

  Jane sat back down at the empty desk. She wished she had not been so unprepared. She would have liked to have seen Justine’s reaction if the hair discovered in the bed was verified as hers.

  *

  Spencer was starting to get slightly bored as Francis talked him through all the movie posters, outlining the plots and how successful each one had been.

  ‘What you have to understand is, these are all independent movies. Charles had Max Summers brought in for all these projects. He is a major financier who worked with his brother running a film production company in New York.’

  ‘Were they all financially lucrative?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘A number, I would say, but after the advertising expenditure, they were mostly just covering the initial budgets. The latter films were very successful and Max Summers’ brother then did a major deal with two of the big studios.’

  He paused by a framed poster of With Dawn Comes Love, featuring Francis wearing a thirties slouch hat. There was a large black marker-pen cross over the glass.

&nb
sp; Spencer nodded to the poster. ‘What happened there?’

  Francis shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s a reminder for me to always ensure I have a good lawyer check my contract. The poster was just promotional, but I was going to star in it. It was at the time the scandal broke about Rock Hudson, and it all became a bit unpleasant when the leading actress refused to work opposite me.’

  Spencer frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The American company had invested in it, and although it never really became much of a big deal in England, I was replaced. As it turned out, the film bombed and I know Charles lost a bundle. It was a while before he got another independent film rolling as the money men were pissed off at losing a fortune.’

  Spencer was still confused as he tried to recall the scandal surrounding Rock Hudson. He suddenly caught sight of a poster on the opposite wall promoting a television series. It had a younger-looking Francis next to Justine Harris.

  ‘That’s Justine Harris, isn’t it?’

  ‘Correct,’ Francis said. ‘But it was a long time ago. It was a big Granada television production at the very beginning of my career.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘Yes, I knew her. She was also quite young.’ He laughed. ‘She was very promiscuous, even in those days. I’ll tell you a very funny story. We were on location in Cornwall, because the series was a poor man’s version of a Daphne du Maurier novel. I wouldn’t suggest that it was plagiarising Rebecca but it had a very similar theme. Anyway, we were all on location and living in various hotels. Justine was in a rather upmarket B&B that had an elaborate terrace with an abundance of roses climbing up to a small balcony.’ He chuckled. ‘It was all quite sad, I suppose. Charles was desperate to find out if she was shagging one of the actors – not me, I hasten to add! -– so he started climbing up the terrace and got caught on the thorns and fell down, screaming his head off. Justine was furious and said he was stalking her. He later claimed that he was just doing it for a joke and was even seen drinking in the local pub with the offending actor. I have a feeling he soon after represented him, which is typical. Even though Charles had made a fool of himself, he still managed to get a new client out of it.’