There was a lot of information to communicate, and it ended up being a lengthy meeting. Eventually it was Spencer’s turn to discuss his report, focusing on the two financiers, Max and Ivor Summers, and explaining how they had backed a number of projects that had been packaged by Charles Foxley and sustained substantial losses from two independent movies. He explained that he and DCI Collins had met with the company accountant and that the separate account for Foxley & Myers’ independent film section was now showing strong profit, although it had suffered serious losses over a two-year period.
DCS Walker raised his finger. ‘When you say that Foxley had major financial problems two years ago, how much would you say he was in debt?’
‘Well, sir, the way Foxley handled these losses was by ploughing a lot of his commission from his clients back into the company to keep it afloat. So he was very adept at moving money.’
Walker nodded. ‘What do we know about these Summers fellows?’
Spencer pulled at his tie again. ‘Their parents were originally from Prague but the brothers were brought up in New York. One is a major property developer and helped finance the other’s independent film company.’
Walker nodded and gestured for Spencer to sit down. ‘We should investigate both of them.’
Two more officers then detailed the results of their interviews with various actors represented by Foxley, but none of them had said anything negative about him.
Finally it was Jane’s turn. She went into some detail about her work on Charles Foxley’s financial records, and the contents of his desk diary from his office and his personal notebook. She also repeated that she had been unable to reconcile as much as £30,000 of his cash withdrawals and her suspicion was that he may have been being blackmailed, but they had not yet organised another interview with Mandy Pilkington. They had also not identified anyone who could be his drug dealer and nobody had confirmed that Foxley was actually a drug-user. But Jane felt it was imperative that they continue that line of inquiry.
Jane was closing her notebook when Spencer nudged her. She looked up and DCS Walker pointed at her.
‘From what you’ve just said, Tennison, you think that our victim was potentially being blackmailed. Do you think that it could possibly be drug-related? Have you any other thoughts?’
Jane cleared her throat. ‘It could be drug-related, or it could be that he was being blackmailed because of his visits to Mandy Pilkington.’
Walker nodded. ‘I don’t really buy that. If he’s paying through the nose to a dominatrix, why would she kill the golden goose? Ditto your drug dealer.’ He slowly stood up. ‘You’ve all been very diligent, but not one of you has brought to the table a possible motive that I can support. That said, we will be interviewing Mandy Pilkington, and DI Miller will be leading on that. I think there’s a consensus that his ex-wife, Justine Harris, may have been involved – possibly with at least one other person. But at this point we don’t have enough evidence to arrest her.
‘I now suggest we bring in George Henson, because I think we need to go back to square one. That’s it, everyone. Thank you for your attendance.’
There was an air of gloom as Tyler and Walker left.
Jane overheard one of the officers talking quietly to another. ‘I say Walker is going to pull half the team off, and replace Tyler . . .’
*
Jane was at her desk when DI Miller, wearing yet another of his blue and white shirts, was leaving with Spencer to go to Mandy Pilkington’s house in Clapham. She had agreed to be interviewed but had used her ill health as a reason for not being brought to the station.
As Spencer passed Jane, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’m looking forward to this . . .’
Shortly after they left, DCI Tyler, wearing a dark coat over his suit, came out of his office and signalled to Jane that they should leave for the funeral. Jane was wearing a neat black suit with a white shirt. She carried a black raincoat over her arm.
On the way to the crematorium Tyler was quiet, staring through the window as he sat next to the driver.
‘We got a lot of stick at the press conference earlier,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ve honestly never known anything like this.’
Jane was unsure what to say. It didn’t feel as if he was talking to her, but then he turned his head and asked if she had contacted Eunice Small.
‘I did try, sir, but there was no reply.’
‘That’ll be another waste of time . . .’ He turned back to stare through the window.
There was a long pause before he spoke, and again, he seemed to be talking to himself.
‘Seven days and we still don’t have a solid motive or a suspect.’ He turned to look back at Jane. ‘Is it the ex-wife?’
Not waiting for an answer, he turned back again to stare through the window.
‘Did she hate him that much? He spent almost every weekend living with her in the house that she got in the divorce. It just doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t need money. Was it maybe because she couldn’t have him?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I think we have to uncover what made Charles Foxley feel compelled to be regularly beaten by a dominatrix, and have sex with obese women. We know his ex-wife was promiscuous and he was humiliated over and over again by her. Her mother told me that they could not live together, but they could not live apart. I think they may have had an obsessive love-hate relationship.’
‘Yes, yes . . . I read the reports. But this goes beyond a love-hate relationship, sergeant. Harry Bellamy warned us last week that it was something more.’
The conversation ended as they arrived at Putney Crematorium. One minicab was parked outside the building. There were no other cars.
Tyler and Jane walked towards the crematorium entrance.
‘Be typical if they gave us the wrong bloody time,’ he said.
When they reached the arches in front of the door, a cleric was standing holding a prayer book.
‘Charles Foxley’s service?’ Tyler asked, looking rather embarrassed.
‘Yes, it will take place in Chapel One at midday.’
Tyler glanced at his watch. It was 11.55 a.m.
‘We might as well go in.’
Just as they were about to enter, a hearse drew up with a white coffin and a small wreath of white tea roses on top.
Jane and Tyler went into the empty chapel. A plinth waited for the coffin. They sat to one side, at the rear.
Four men in black mourning suits carried in the white coffin and placed it on the plinth. They bowed and walked back down the aisle. After a few moments a small woman in a rather old-fashioned high-shouldered fur coat entered. She was carrying a large handbag and wore a silk scarf knotted under her chin. She looked nervously towards Tyler and Jane. She was heavily made-up, with a lot of mascara, and her red lipstick ran in tiny rivulets around her lined mouth. She seemed to hesitate, as if unsure where she should sit. Eventually she chose a centre row and sat in the middle.
There was a camera flash, then two or three more, and then the sound of piped music – ‘Where Did Our Love Go?’ by The Supremes – at high volume. As the song began, Justine Harris, wearing a black Chanel suit, her hair loose and shining under a silk veil, walked slowly down the aisle. She was followed by her daughter Clara, wearing a black coat with, as requested, black velvet collar and buttons, white stockings and patent-leather shoes. Her hand was held by her grandmother, Florence Harris, who was equally elegantly dressed in black with a wide-brimmed black straw hat. Finally, George Henson, who was carrying a flash camera.
They took their seats in the front row as the vicar closed the doors and walked slowly up the aisle to stand by the lectern. With perfect timing, the music stopped. Jane didn’t need to look at Tyler because it was obvious that neither of them could quite believe what they were seeing, and judging from her bewildered expression, nor could the elderly woman in the old-fashioned fur coat.
The service was astonishingly short. After
the vicar had said a few words of prayer, Justine stepped up to the lectern. She lifted her veil dramatically.
‘I am here, our daughter is here, and my beloved mother, to say farewell to you, husband, father and son-in-law. There will be a public memorial service but we are here today just to say goodbye. May God embrace His son and give him peace.’
She turned and stepped towards the coffin, leaning forward to kiss the top. She held her hand out and her daughter joined her and stood on tiptoe to kiss it as well. Then, bizarrely, Justine picked up the small coronet of tea roses and placed it on her daughter’s head. They then walked back down the aisle and her mother briefly nodded towards the coffin as the curtains slowly began to close. Henson glanced towards Jane and Tyler, nodding briefly in acknowledgement. Then it was over.
By the time Tyler and Jane had left the chapel, the family had already been driven away in the chauffeured Mercedes. The vicar excused himself as he had another service to oversee, but it was quite obvious that he was somewhat taken aback by what he had just witnessed.
Jane and Tyler were about to head towards their car when Jane felt a touch on her arm.
‘I have never in my entire life known anything like that. That wasn’t a funeral service! I’ve come all the way from Brighton – well, Hove, really – by train, then a minicab from the station.’
Jane knew immediately who it was.
‘Are you Eunice Small?’
‘Yes, dear, and I’ve come all the way from Brighton. I never expected her to be nice to me, but she just ignored me, unless she didn’t know I’d come all this way . . . I’m eighty-two.’
Jane turned to Tyler. ‘I would very much like to take Miss Small for a cup of tea.’
He nodded.
Jane slipped her arm into the crook of Miss Small’s. ‘Or would you prefer to have some lunch?’
‘Well, I would like something to eat as I’ve come all this way. I didn’t know whether to get up and touch the coffin or not. I’ve never known anything like it, but then that Justine never liked me. I’m a bit worried because I’m paying waiting time to the minicab.’
Jane assured her that she would cover the taxi fare and would take her to a very nice restaurant near Victoria Station.
*
Spencer, unlike Jane, hadn’t worked alongside DI Miller and was taken aback by his uncommunicative manner during the journey to Mandy Pilkington’s. Spencer had tried to make conversation but was curtly told that he had read all his reports and that he should just listen intently and, when directed, make notes. He had no intention of wanting to share any interrogation and disliked any form of interruption.
Spencer shrugged. Fine by me, he thought.
For the rest of the journey he stared through the window as Miller flicked back and forth through his small notebook, occasionally jotting down a note.
As soon as the patrol car drew up outside the ordinary-looking terraced house, Miller double-checked that his little tape recorder was working and that he had spare tapes and new batteries ready for the interview.
They got out and Miller removed the search warrant from his jacket.
It was only when they approached the front door that anything about the house looked unusual. Behind the net curtain, the window was barred, and the front door had three separate large keyholes, suggesting a heavy-duty lock. The bell push gave a low buzzing noise rather than the usual ring. They waited patiently as they heard the locks on the door being undone and then the sound of a bolt at the top of the door being released.
Spencer was standing behind Miller, so couldn’t see his expression when a middle-aged man dressed in fishnet tights, a maid’s outfit and a cheap nylon wig opened the door.
‘I’m DI Miller and this is DS Gibbs,’ Miller said, curtly.
The man nodded. ‘Miss Pilkington is waiting for you in the parlour,’ he said in a tremulous voice.
Nothing in the hall gave any indication of the services being provided. There were some framed pictures of tourist attractions such as the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle. On a small side table was a display of plastic flowers.
The man dressed as a maid knocked on the door and in the same quivery voice announced them. The room wouldn’t have looked out of place in any other house on the street: a shag-pile carpet in fawn, two matching sofas, a standard lamp and a brick fireplace with an electric coal fire. Above the fireplace was a large fake Constable painting in a heavy gold frame.
It was only Mandy Pilkington herself who made it extraordinary.
She sat on one of the sofas, virtually taking up the entire length of it. She had severely bloated legs that contrasted with her tiny feet, which were encased in red patent-leather shoes. Her kaftan-style floral dress was frilled around the neck and she had four strings of different-coloured pearls around her neck. She had clearly once been very pretty, but she now seemed to have a tiny face almost swamped by an enormous head of dyed blonde hair. Her small hands were full of sparkling rings, with bright crimson nails that matched her crimson lipstick. There was nothing doll-like about her eyes, however. Although large, there was a hawk-like gaze in them as she waved her tiny hand for them both to be seated.
Spencer perched on the arm of the opposite sofa as Miller put his briefcase down on the glass-topped coffee table. He handed over the warrant and waited as Mandy skim-read it and handed it back.
‘You are most welcome to peruse every room at my home for as long as you like. You may take anything that you want or feel might be necessary. I give you carte blanche.’
She had no trace of an accent; in fact, if anything, she sounded well-educated. She then folded her tiny hands over her bulging stomach as Miller opened his briefcase.
‘Would you mind me taping the interview?’
‘You can do whatever you like, dear,’ she said.
Miller clicked on the recorder. He spoke quietly, saying his rank, the date, time and location, and that he was accompanied by DS Spencer Gibbs. He then pressed rewind and listened to make sure the machine was recording, before continuing.
‘Miss Pilkington, I am aware that you have already been interviewed in connection with the murder of Charles Foxley, but I would now like to ask you specifically about his payments as one of your clients.’
Mandy dug her hand into the seat beside her and drew out four sheets of paper held together with a paperclip.
‘I thought you might need these. I have been as diligent as possible, because the client you refer to had been visiting my establishment for a period of eighteen months.’
Miller had to stand up to reach over and take the papers. He glanced at them as he sat back down on the sofa, flicking from one sheet to the other.
‘I don’t want to play games with you, Miss Pilkington. If I wanted to, I could have you arrested for running a brothel where serious acts of perversion take place.’
Miller’s words had no effect on her whatsoever. She tossed her head and laughed.
‘I give a good service to people who need it. You may not be aware that I am a qualified psychotherapist and in many cases what you refer to as perversion is an acceptable form of therapy. I have the documents to prove it. My business is entirely legal—’
Miller interrupted. ‘I am certain a High Court judge would find your explanation for what is in fact a brothel less than convincing.’
She gave another high-pitched laugh. ‘Listen, sweetie, I’ve had more High Court judges before me than you’ve had hot dinners, and I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. I have never had a complaint or an arrest, and none of my staff has either.’
Miller smiled coldly, as if he was enjoying himself. Without referring to any notes, he began listing all her previous convictions for soliciting, along with the dates, going back twenty years. He even recalled the various aliases Mandy had used. He obviously expected a reaction, but she simply waved her hands, saying that she had been young and abused by her pimp and had been rehabilitated during a prison sen
tence.
She pointed a tiny finger at him. ‘People like you have no notion of the hardships a young homeless fourteen-year-old girl can be subjected to. I have been an honest hard-working woman since I was married. I pay my taxes and if you want to threaten me, I know my rights and I will call my lawyer.’
Miller gave a dry laugh. ‘I can have you out of here faster than you could pick up the phone. You don’t seem to understand, Mandy, I am investigating a vicious, brutal murder and right now you are a suspect. I am going to ask you some questions and if I do not get direct answers, I will waste no time in having you dragged out of this house.’ At that point the door opened and the ‘maid’ entered with a tray of tea and sandwiches.
‘Thank you, Gregory. Put it down on the coffee table and we will help ourselves. In the meantime, would you please make sure the kitchen floor is washed and all the glasses in the main cabinet polished. When Farook comes back after walking the dog, he is to put him in his cage. I don’t want these gentlemen scared that my Doberman might attack them.’ She giggled. ‘Then tell Farook to make sure the Jacuzzi’s been emptied and cleaned – and make sure there’s no trace of Vim left. There are no more clients expected today, so he can go home after that.’
Gregory gave a little curtsy and scuttled out.
‘He’s such a dear man. He lost his wife a few years ago and finds solace in house-cleaning. I think he’s always had a bit of a fetish as he brings his own costume.’
Miller declined tea on behalf of himself and Spencer, so Mandy poured herself a cup then filled a little plate with tiny squares of cucumber sandwich. She eased her bulk back into the chair, balancing her plate on her stomach as she sipped her tea.
‘Right, dear, shall we continue?’
At this point, a small button on the tape recorder blinked to indicate the tape had run out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jane and Eunice Small were sitting at a small table for two in the corner of the restaurant. Jane had paid the taxi fare and although Eunice had murmured that she should really pay, Jane had insisted. Eunice seemed very impressed with the Rubens Hotel and the fact that it was so close to Buckingham Palace, saying that as a young woman she had been outside the gates and seen the Queen driving past. Eunice thought the à la carte menu looked rather expensive, but Jane encouraged her to choose whatever she fancied. In the end, they both ordered roast beef followed by apple turnover.
Blunt Force Page 21