Spencer laughed politely. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Francis. It’s been very interesting – and helpful.’
The truth was, he was keen to leave. The glamour of the film business was definitely starting to wear off.
*
Jane briefed Tyler on Justine Harris’s visit before they sat down to go over her notes on Foxley’s diary and notebook entries.
‘As you can see, Mr Foxley was withdrawing large cash sums almost every week. Two to three thousand pounds every time. I made a list of the fees that Mandy Pilkington could have charged him. But even if he was also buying a substantial amount of drugs, there’s about twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds in cash I can’t account for. I even costed the dog walker, and also double-checked the gambling debts. Foxley used his credit card with the bookies and costs of the social events, lunches and dinners are on his business card, so obviously he was not using this cash for those things either.’
Tyler frowned, running his finger down the columns of figures. ‘Maybe blackmail?’
‘Yes, sir, that could be possible. The most obvious person would be Mandy Pilkington.’
Tyler passed the list back. ‘Well, we’ll need to check this out on Monday. I want you and Spencer back at the agency to question Emma Ransom about her drug use, to follow up Daniel Bergman’s tip-off she used cocaine. We need to know how heavily involved Foxley was in drugs and specifically who his dealer was. We will also need to have one or two of us visible at the funeral on Monday.’
He picked up the envelope that Justine Harris had given Jane. It was torn and had stains on both sides. He carefully withdrew the photographs.
‘Did she explain anything about these?’
Jane shook her head.
The first photograph was of a young, blond boy wearing a yellow sweater, knickerbockers and long socks. Jane presumed the photograph was Foxley as a child. There was a black and white photograph of a young teenage boy, equally blond, and behind him was a poster of Junior Wimbledon league tables. He was wearing white shorts and holding a tennis racquet. Another photograph showed what appeared to be the same boy, aged about fifteen, in a rowing team. Lastly there was a black and white photograph of a plump woman with a lot of make-up and what looked like bleached-blonde hair, wearing a frilly blouse with a large pearl necklace and drop earrings. Her wide eyes looked distinctly angry.
Jane could sense Tyler’s tiredness and exasperation that the photographs were not moving the investigation forward.
‘I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at,’ he said finally, pushing the photographs to one side.
*
Spencer was sitting in Marcus Welby’s comfortable home, enjoying a very nice cup of espresso coffee. Welby was a good-looking man, in his late thirties. He had seemed genuinely distressed about the death of Charles Foxley and told Spencer that Foxley had engineered his career after meeting him at a performance of a Noël Coward play at the National.
‘Even though I had been with my then-agent for quite a few years, Foxley was very persuasive. He promised me that if I left my agent, I would quickly feel the benefits. He said I should be doing more film work. And that’s exactly what happened. I’m now working six months of the year in Los Angeles and I’m about to sign a contract for a big TV series after a successful pilot. And before you ask, that’s where I was when Charles was murdered: Hollywood.’
‘What about people with a grievance against him?’ Spencer asked.
‘Most people liked him, but of course you have to be a tough operator to be successful in this business. Charles was known for stealing clients. He was blatant about it.’ He shrugged. ‘I would say my former agent had reason to be bitter, but, like I say, that’s the nature of the business.’
Spencer drained his coffee and placed the mug down on the coffee table. ‘Would you say that, more recently, Foxley’s ability in packaging films was what made him successful?’
Marcus looked surprised. ‘So, you know about packaging? Well, Foxley had fingers in a lot of pies. By being an agent handling stars, and also having the other agents like Emma under his umbrella, it was easy for him to pick and choose the right talent. Foxley was clever, but he wouldn’t know a great script unless he was told about it. He was predominantly a talent spotter. Charles was brilliant at using people like Max Summers; he even employed Max’s brain-dead daughter to keep him happy.
‘Max and his brother Ivor were a formidable duo. They were the money men and tough operators. I know they bombed badly on one movie that lost them all millions, but Charles managed to persuade them to finance an independent movie based on one of Shakespeare’s plays. From being just an arthouse favourite it became an extraordinary success, winning the Golden Globe and God knows what else . . .’
Spencer tapped his notebook. ‘That must have been a huge financial boost for Foxley.’
Marcus gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. ‘Well, it certainly should have been. Somewhere around then, I think, there was a fall-out with one of the brothers regarding money.’
*
Jane had just replaced all the diaries, notebooks and financial information in the property lock-up when the news came in that an officer had discovered a right-footed, blood-soaked Adidas trainer in the garden of Justine Harris’s Barnes property.
Although this new development caused a ripple of interest among the assembled officers, there were no blood drops on top of the shoe, eyelets or laces, so no evidence that Justine had been present when the murder took place.
Tyler was more interested in the four photographs Justine Harris had brought in, which he was now pinning up on the incident board. The name ‘Eunice Small, Foxley’s aunt’ had also been added.
Tyler loosened his tie. ‘There’ll be a briefing later this afternoon, but I know people are worn out, so I’m thinking of only retaining a skeleton staff for Sunday, and everyone else can have the day off.’
There were muted cheers as he returned to his office.
Jane was just clearing her desk when Spencer called in. She told him that they may be given Sunday off, but that it was likely they would all be wanted for an early briefing on Monday morning.
‘Did you find anything I should add to the board?’ Jane asked.
‘Yeah, we need to investigate Max Summers, a film financier with his brother Ivor, who lives in New York.’
Jane jotted down the names in her notebook as Spencer continued.
‘Remember, we interviewed Max’s daughter, Julia? She was the ditsy girl who had Foxley’s diary at her home.’
Jane tapped the pad with her pencil. ‘Interesting . . . Maybe her daddy wanted to look at something in it. You need to double-check that the guv doesn’t want you in, Spence.’
‘OK, will do.’
Jane replaced the receiver and crossed to the incident board, picking up the marker pen. She wrote the two financiers’ names and then drew an arrow from them to the young girl who had worked as a secretary for Charles Foxley.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As usual Jane woke at 6 a.m. She took a long bath and then called her parents, asking if they could have lunch. They were delighted.
On her way, Jane bought a large bouquet of flowers for her mother, to thank her for cleaning her flat and doing her laundry. When she got there, Jane managed to relax for the first time in a while; nobody discussed the murder and the Sunday newspapers were left unread. The Charles Foxley case was clearly no longer front-page news.
Jane was carrying a bowl of her mother’s terrific roast potatoes to the table, and as she placed it down, Mrs Tennison pointed to Jane’s hand.
‘Where did you get that from?’
Jane flinched. ‘What?’
‘You have a nasty bruise by your thumb.’
By now, the bruise between her thumb and forefinger from firing a gun had become even more prominent.
‘It’s nothing. I caught it on the typewriter.’
‘How do you get a bruise like that from a typewrite
r?’ her mother asked.
‘Well, I was lifting the typewriter from one desk to another,’ Jane lied.
‘Oh, I see.’
By the time they had finished lunch and Jane had asked all the necessary questions about her sister and the grandchildren, the obligatory queries about her private life began, but since she didn’t really have one, for once they were easy to deal with.
Jane returned home, washed her hair and, with the clean sheets her mother had laundered, made up her bed before hanging up her suit for the following day. She felt better for some time away from the case, even with all her mother’s questions.
As she lay in bed after watching some TV, she started thinking about herself. She began to realise that her life was almost entirely bound up in her work; the only area that was different was the sessions with Elliott. She felt that not only had she improved her shooting, there was also some progress in their relationship.
She got up and poured herself a stiff whisky. She then opened the kitchen cutlery drawer and found the crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Sitting with the whisky and a cigarette, she began to play over in her mind the conversation she’d had with Elliott. What had he meant when he said he had a personal interest in her situation?
Jane inhaled deeply. It didn’t make sense. Why would he have any interest in her? She asked herself whether she would ever find him attractive. She topped up her glass and took another drag of her cigarette. She had liked his smile when it suddenly appeared. But then, the more she thought about it, the more she knew that something didn’t quite make sense. The only person who perhaps could answer her questions was Dabs. And even though she knew she shouldn’t, she got off the kitchen stool and went to call him.
‘Hello?’ It was Joan, his wife, and she sounded anxious.
‘Joan, it’s Jane, Jane Tennison. I’m sorry it’s rather late. I just wanted to have a quick word with Dabs if he’s there.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not, dear. He is out at York Hall at a charity boxing event. I don’t know what time he will be in, but do you need him to call you?’
‘No, thanks, Joan. Sorry to bother you.’
Jane hung up, instantly regretting the call and thinking that she’d sounded drunk, but the whisky had given her Dutch courage, so the next person she called was Elliott. The phone rang and there was no answer.
*
Jane was in the canteen eating scrambled eggs on toast and drinking coffee when a disgruntled DC Dors came in. He limped over to join her, carrying his tray.
‘That bloody dog should be put down. You have no idea how much stuff we found buried in the garden. Then we had this woman screaming her head off because the little bugger had a pigeon in his mouth.’
The canteen was filling up as everyone knew Tyler had called for a very early briefing. All the officers involved in the investigation were supposed to be present. Through mouthfuls of his full English breakfast, Dors complained how he’d thought being sent to Justine Harris’s property would be a welcome break from the perpetual onslaught of pickpockets.
‘They didn’t tell me I’d be digging up her effing garden all afternoon, and then I get attacked by that bloody Jack Russell.’
Jane found her scrambled eggs a little watery, so put them to one side.
‘Still, you found the bloodstained trainer,’ she said, affably.
‘I didn’t . . . it was one of the other blokes. I found a beautiful velvet slipper, though – man’s, embroidered.’ He ate a large mouthful of egg and bacon, as a spruced-up Spencer appeared with a bowl of cornflakes. Spencer picked up a spare chair from the next table and joined them.
‘I’ve had a big breakthrough,’ he said, pouring the sugar shaker over his cornflakes.
‘Is it to do with those two financiers?’ Jane asked.
‘No, no, no . . . nothing to do with the bloody investigation. One of the blokes in our band taped one of our jam sessions and sent it in to Sony Records. He called me on Saturday night to say that we might have a deal. You could be looking at a recording artiste.’
Jane smiled warmly. ‘That’s terrific, Spence! I really hope you get lucky.’
DCI Tyler, with a tray of eggs and bacon, was passing and paused. ‘What are you hoping to get lucky about, sergeant? I hope it’s a bloody arrest for our case.’
‘No, sir, just something connected to my band.’
It was quite unusual for Tyler to join any of the team for breakfast, but he sat down at the adjoining table and asked Dors to pass the HP sauce.
‘Before we start the briefing this morning, Charles Foxley’s body was released from the mortuary to the funeral home and the coroner has released him for burial. This will take place at Putney Crematorium at midday today. His ex-wife has requested there be only family members. She has only disclosed the funeral time to me to avoid any press, photographers, etc. However, I myself will be going, and Jane, I’d like you to accompany me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Spencer was munching his way through his bowl of cornflakes and waved his spoon. ‘We’ve organised a warrant and will be at Mandy Pilkington’s home this morning.’
Tyler looked unhappy. ‘She should have been identified as a suspect as soon as we knew about her business . . . even more so since a handcuff was attached to Foxley’s wrist. I’m sure you are all aware that I’ve been rapped over the knuckles because her premises should’ve been searched earlier and pressure put on her because she is running an illegal brothel.’
Spencer wanted to make it clear that he had brought the details to the attention of everyone, but as DCI Collins had already given him a ticking off, he felt it would be wise to keep his mouth shut.
Tyler pointed to Spencer with his knife. ‘I want you, Spencer, to accompany DI Miller on the search. Because of the delay, if there was anything of value to the investigation, she has had plenty of time to get rid of it.’
‘Yes, guv.’ Spencer stood up, keen to make himself scarce before any other accusations could be thrown at him.
*
Florence Harris had arrived in a chauffeured Mercedes with dark tinted windows, hired from her local Ascot luxury car company. She was accompanied by Clara, her granddaughter, and two large designer shopping bags. Clara was wearing dungarees and a thick sweater, her hair held back in two plaits.
The driver opened the boot and removed one suitcase. The dogs barked furiously as they waited for the front door to open. Eventually George Henson, after bellowing for the dogs to be quiet, let them in.
Florence dropped the shopping bags to hug him. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, dearest. Could you just check that the car is what she would want? There aren’t many of this model with blacked-out windows in Ascot. You’d think there would be loads of them with all the races. Anyway, go and see if it’s OK, otherwise we’ll have to order another one.’
The dogs continued barking from the kitchen as George looked out through the window. ‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect,’ he said.
Justine appeared at the top of the stairs with a towel wrapped around her hair, wearing an old dressing gown. ‘Did you find a coat for Clara? She has to have one of those coats with a black velvet collar and little black velvet buttons.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Justine, I said I would get the coat, and I’ve got it. And we got a lovely dark navy cashmere dress with a little white collar for her to wear.’
‘That’s good.’ Justine looked down at her daughter, who stood forlornly with her head bowed, holding her grandmother’s hand. ‘You can wear white tights and your black patent-leather shoes.’
‘They’re too small.’ Clara pouted.
‘Nevertheless, you will be wearing them.’ Justine turned away, stopped, then leant over the bannister. ‘George, will you be a darling and give them some food to shut them up? I’ve got a man out in the garden, putting in a proper fence so that Jack can’t get out again. The next-door neighbour is driving me mad just because he killed one of her pigeons. Oh . . .’ She t
urned back to her mother. ‘I found some old photographs in the garage. The detectives were asking for photographs of Charles’s family or something. You won’t believe it, but I found Eunice’s phone number.’
‘Who is Eunice?’ Florence asked, removing her coat.
‘Eunice Small. God knows how old she must be now, but she’s still alive, apparently. She was Charles’s aunt. Anyway, I told her about the funeral. Whether she’ll be at the crematorium I don’t know.’
‘I don’t recall meeting her,’ Florence said.
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. I have to go and do my hair. Clara, go up to your bedroom and ask Grandma to wash your hair. I want you looking beautiful this afternoon.’
Florence sighed and gently drew the child towards her. ‘You don’t have to make yourself look beautiful, because you already are. And you’ll only have to wear the shoes for a short time – crematorium services are always very short.’
Clara’s washed-out blue eyes looked up at her grandma. ‘Will I be able to see the coffin burn?’ she asked.
‘Oh, no. A curtain will close as it goes into the furnace. When my father went in, it only took a few minutes. I always think it’s such a waste of money, buying an expensive coffin. I used to think that they took them out first, but I was assured they never did.’
George closed the kitchen door, having thrown a handful of biscuits in to quieten the dogs. Overhearing their conversation, he looked at the pale-faced child but knew it was not his place to say anything comforting. As far as he was concerned, he’d be perfectly happy watching Charles Foxley going up in flames.
*
At the station the briefing continued, as one by one the officers involved in the investigation gave their updates. Some of them had made inquiries at two tennis clubs, asking about Charles Foxley. They reported that he was an infrequent player but exceptionally strong. He appeared not to socialise with any other members, always arriving with associates of his he brought in as guests. Another officer had been investigating Foxley’s gambling and said that it was unusual for him to delay payment, but he was a very frequent gambler who sometimes lost heavily.
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