Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  Jane was taking it slowly, as she had a lot of questions for Eunice and didn’t want to overwhelm her, so she just let the old lady talk at her own pace.

  ‘I don’t think Justine expected to see me there, to be honest. Which isn’t surprising as I haven’t spoken to her for what must be more than ten years.’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘No, that’s not right. I remember we did have a conversation when their daughter was born, but I think Justine felt I was rather common.’ She shrugged her shoulders and gave Jane a sweet, twinkling smile. ‘It never bothered me, though. I often thought about Charlie, but he never made contact and so I just got on with my life, really.’

  Eunice explained that her brother, Reginald Small, was Charles Foxley’s father. She then provided a concise family history, saying that her brother had been an employee of a mining company and had married Melody, who had been only eighteen and had had dreams of becoming a model. Melody was extremely pretty with wide green eyes and thick curly auburn hair. She was also very slender and could definitely have had a career as a model. After she married Reginald, they moved to South Africa.

  At this point the waiter brought their beef and asked if they would like some wine. They both declined and Jane asked for a pot of tea.

  Eunice ate like a bird, cutting up her food into tiny slices and making sure she had a little roast beef, a little carrot and a little slice of roast potato on her fork before dipping it into the gravy. She took a mouthful, chewed carefully, then continued.

  ‘When Melody got pregnant, she didn’t want to continue living in Johannesburg. She said she had never really been happy there and so she came back with my brother. I truthfully believe that to begin with, they were very happy, but, because his work required him to spend time in Africa, they were often apart for lengthy periods. I’m not accusing Melody of any infidelity, but I think she was bored . . . Then poor Reg got some awful illness, malaria-related, and never really recovered. He left Melody a reasonably well-off young widow with two young boys.’

  Jane placed her cutlery together on her plate and glanced at her watch as Eunice continued eating. She bent down to pick up her bag, placing it on her knee.

  ‘You said two boys?’ Up to now no one had mentioned Charles Foxley having a brother or, for that matter, ever having had a different surname.

  ‘Yes, dear, two boys. Tommy and then, four years after dear Tommy, Charles.’ At that point Eunice carefully placed her knife and fork together and patted her lips with a napkin.

  ‘Where does the name Foxley come from?’ Jane asked.

  ‘That was Melody’s second husband, Sean. He was in property development. I always thought he was rather pompous, but Melody would never hear a word against him. He took on the responsibility of the boys and they assumed his surname.’

  A waiter came to remove the plates, then brought their dessert with a pot of tea.

  Jane continued, tentatively. ‘You are obviously aware of what happened to Charles and that I am part of an ongoing investigation . . . but this is the first I have ever heard of Charles having a brother, Tommy. What happened to him?’ Jane asked.

  Eunice folded her napkin and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘He was the mirror image of Melody, you know, with big green eyes and the same glorious red curly hair. He had such a bright personality, everyone loved him.’ She sighed. ‘He could sing, he could dance. Charles was always in his shadow. No one could ever compete with this beautiful boy – he was so good at school. He’d inherited my brother’s brain, you see.’

  Jane waited while Eunice took a careful bite of her apple turnover, then put her spoon down.

  ‘He was nearly twelve and for no reason at all he began to have periods where he found it difficult to breathe. Melody was absolutely distraught. These episodes would come out of the blue for no apparent reason. Eventually he was diagnosed with severe asthma. It made poor Tommy quite fragile. He had been such a sporty and physical little boy, playing football, cricket, as well as his dancing. One thing that seemed to really trigger it was laughing. He had one very bad attack and Melody rushed him to A&E. From then on the little soul always had an inhaler in his pocket and would say, “Don’t make me laugh, please don’t make me laugh.” Because of his condition he was always the focus of everyone’s attention – even more than before. I think Charlie tried in every way possible to get some attention for himself, but no matter what he did, he always came second.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘And then it happened.’

  Jane waited.

  ‘I know he never meant it to happen,’ she said, sadly. ‘They were in their bedroom and Charlie had been told to look out for his brother and always to make sure he had his inhaler. You have to remember that Tommy was a few years older. Anyway, Melody heard the boys fooling around and Charlie was tickling his brother to make him laugh. She was heading up the stairs, shouting for them to stop as she heard Tommy start laughing, and the next moment, he was having a terrible asthma attack . . . This time they couldn’t save him.’

  Jane leant forward in her chair.

  ‘Melody swore Charlie did it on purpose, because he was jealous. She was even more sure of this after she found the inhaler hidden under the bed. She beat Charlie savagely, screaming at him that he had killed his brother. It was horrible . . . The neighbours found Charlie, black and blue, hiding in their garden. Melody never recovered and began to gorge herself. She hardly left the house. It was tragic to see her look so awful.’

  Jane called for the bill, then showed Eunice the photographs that Justine had given to her at the station.

  Eunice peered at them with a sad expression. ‘The little boy in uniform is Thomas and the one holding a tennis racquet is Charlie.’

  When she saw the photograph of the rowing team, leaning across the oars of their skiff, she patted it with her hand.

  ‘Charlie won so many awards, you know, but no matter what he did, it was never enough for Melody. I don’t think she ever kissed or held that child again.’

  *

  Mandy’s coffee table was now stacked with photo albums, and each album was filled with images of the girls working for her. Charles Foxley’s preference was for obese women, and they had nicknames like Big Betty, Fat Fanny and Heavy Helen, and they were the ones he requested for his weekly visits. Mandy was candid in describing exactly what took place during his sessions. He would be stripped down to his underpants and tied to a leather horse by his wrists, then whipped. It was all very professional, she assured them. They never drew blood, and the whip often left no mark. It was more the swishing sound that the clients liked. After the whipping, he would be taken to a waterbed, but would never have full sex with the women. He would ejaculate between their breasts, often while having his buttocks slapped.

  ‘Why do you think Foxley subjected himself to this treatment?’ Miller asked.

  Mandy shrugged. ‘My clients tell me what they want. It is not my job to find out why. If a well-known aristocrat likes to wear nappies, drink milk from a large baby bottle, and becomes sexually excited when he poos in his nappy, that’s his business. My job is to make sure they are satisfied and that they pay the fee. And they’re not all what you would call perverts. I even have one poor soul who has been crippled since a young age after contracting meningitis. My driver collects him and returns him home. All part of the service.’

  ‘Very commendable, I’m sure,’ Miller said, sourly. ‘So far, Miss Pilkington, you have refused to name any of your clients.’

  ‘Yes, dear, and I will continue to refuse. I will get legal representation, if necessary, to ensure my clients are protected, as I signed a non-disclosure agreement with each of them. You can get any High Court judge you like involved.’

  Spencer couldn’t hide his smile. The more she spoke, the more he warmed to her. She certainly had no fear of DI Miller.

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

  She rolled her eyes. ‘That lanky young man perched on my sofa arm
was here when I gave all the details. Charles Foxley came here on Monday at lunchtime. He usually arrived by taxi at around one p.m. He would have the session I just described to you and then he would pay. I’ve shown you my receipts: it’s two hundred and fifty pounds per session. One hundred goes to the girl and then smaller amounts go to the cleaners, who wipe down the waterbed and the other equipment, and also the masseuse. The session would usually take about three quarters of an hour. He would either have a taxi waiting for him or we would order one when he was ready to leave. I have to say, when he arrived he was often tense and anxious, and by the time he left you could see that he was more relaxed. He usually showered and sometimes even shaved . . . and he was always polite. On that Monday – the Monday that the tragedy happened – he came as usual and left as usual. I saw no difference in his manner.’

  Miller pulled at his tie. ‘How much did Mr Foxley tell you about his business?’

  She gave an exaggerated sigh, her huge breasts rising and falling. ‘Listen, sweetheart, do you really think a man shitting in adult nappies wants me to know his profession? He was always well-dressed and polite, but I had no idea he was a big theatrical agent.’ She tossed her head back and laughed. ‘If I had known, I would have introduced him to a young actor I have here, who gets up to all kinds of things in a rubber suit.’

  Miller abruptly stood up and switched off his tape recorder. ‘I’d like to see the rest of the premises now.’

  Mandy shrugged. ‘I will have to ask Gregory to show you around – I can’t get up and down those stairs – but help yourself. As I mentioned earlier, I have no clients today.’

  She made no effort to get up and show them out. As they left, Spencer saw her popping the remaining little sandwiches into her mouth.

  Whatever DI Miller felt as he moved from room to room, he showed no reaction. Mandy’s bedroom was next door to the lounge and contained an enormous double bed with a frilly valance, a duvet covered in pink cartoon figures and pink nylon frilled pillow slips. The shag-pile rugs were rose-coloured and even her dressing table had pink frills surrounding the perfume bottles and make-up. The fitted wardrobes contained numerous kaftan-style gowns.

  As he showed them the large, well-equipped kitchen, Gregory was polite, verging on deferential. In the basement there was a dungeon-type room, as well as a ‘nursery’ room with a giant baby’s cot, rag dolls and enormous plastic bottles with rubber teats. A third room had an array of whips, rubber matting and an old leather pommel horse, which looked as if it had come from a school gymnasium. The upstairs bedrooms were fitted out for various fetish and sex games, and in the bathroom was a huge Jacuzzi, which Miller muttered must be illegal.

  The wardrobe on the landing contained a selection of rubber suits. Gregory pointed out that each one would have cost at least £200. In the wardrobe drawers, instead of underwear and ties, there was a selection of handcuffs. Some were lined with fur, some with velvet, but none of them matched the set of handcuffs found on their victim. Miller made a few notes and occasionally muttered into his tape recorder, before they headed back downstairs into the hall.

  As a man came out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind him, they could hear the low growling of a large dog.

  ‘You are?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Ahmed Farook, sir. I’m Miss Pilkington’s chauffeur and security guard.’

  ‘I believe you know Mr Foxley’s dog walker.’

  Farook nodded. ‘Eric Newman? Yes, sir, I know him. Not well, but he did a good turn for me when I needed someone to walk Miss Pilkington’s dog, Bruno.’

  ‘Have you ever walked Mr Foxley’s dogs?’

  ‘No, sir, I just walk Bruno. To be honest, I don’t like little dogs.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Foxley?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So, when clients come into the house, you don’t interact with them?’

  ‘No, sir. Madam would not approve. I just look after her car, I do her shopping, tidy around the garden and clean up when necessary. I do my job and don’t ask questions.’

  ‘But you do collect one of her clients, don’t you, then take him home?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but only him. He is disabled and I have to carry him from the car upstairs. I then wait and return him to his care home.’

  Miller made a note. ‘Are you married?’

  Spencer saw Farook now had a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and forehead. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Does your wife know what kind of a job you do?’

  ‘My wife knows I work as a driver and I do security. I never discuss what madam does.’

  Miller paused. ‘Could you tell us exactly what you were doing on the night of Mr Foxley’s murder?’

  Spencer stood patiently to one side. They had asked Mandy Pilkington the exact same question. She had clearly stated that Farook had been in her presence that afternoon and that he had collected one of her clients, who was a disabled young man.

  ‘That afternoon I collected the disabled young man, then, as far as I can recall, I was at the house helping Miss Pilkington. In the early evening I went to collect another one of her clients.’ He shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘I cannot give you his name or his address. It is a rule of the house.’

  Miller turned without thanking him. Gregory already had the front door open and Spencer smiled and thanked him before following Miller down the path and back to their patrol car.

  Miller gave him a sidelong look as they got in. ‘My God, that woman . . . like a beached whale.’ He shuddered.

  Spencer did not reply. He had rather liked Mandy in the end, but he thanked God he would never be a part of her world.

  *

  Jane walked Eunice slowly arm-in-arm towards Victoria Station to catch her train back to Brighton. A thought occurred to her.

  ‘Did Justine know about Thomas?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. She never mentioned it. I know Charlie never went to his grave, but then I hardly saw him in the past ten years or so. I think it might have been because I’m a reminder of the past. Truthfully, when he first met Justine I think he was happy for the first time in his life. She was so beautiful. I don’t know what happened, but on one occasion he did tell me she was cruel.’

  They got to the platform, Eunice still tightly gripping Jane’s arm. ‘I may be speaking out of turn, but I’ve always thought that Clara has no real similarities to our side of the family.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Well, sometimes family resemblance skips a generation.’

  Eunice released her hand. ‘Maybe . . . I suppose I shouldn’t gossip.’

  Jane saw her safely onto the train. She was concerned about having taken so long out of the station, but she also felt she had gained valuable insight into Charles Foxley’s sad need to visit establishments like Mandy Pilkington’s. She also began to think about what Eunice had said about Clara.

  The truth was, Jane suddenly realised, she did look a lot like George Henson.

  *

  The team had gathered in the incident room. They had already lost a number of officers and no longer needed the much larger boardroom. DCI Tyler was sitting to one side and the officers were sitting at desks or perched on them. Miller, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, stood with a ruler indicating different items on the incident board as he talked them through the timeline they had so far verified for the Monday morning. They knew that Foxley had been to the agency as usual that morning and had then left for a session at Mandy Pilkington’s.

  ‘Although she refused to give us the names of the clients who were booked in that day, we do have names and contact numbers of the women, and specifically the woman who was paid for by the victim.’ He turned to the officers. ‘She’s known as Big Betty, and she does have a record for soliciting over a number of years. We now have clarification of how much Foxley paid for his so-called treatments.’

  He explained that Mandy had kept a meticulous diary with exact appointment times, concerned about one client crossing over with anothe
r, in case they were recognised.

  ‘The last appointment on that day was at half past five when her driver, Farook, collected and dropped off a client, whose name and address we do have; he is a disabled man who requires the chauffeur to carry him to and from the car. He is usually there for an hour and and Farook then collects him and delivers him home. In reality, there is a pretty watertight alibi for Miss Pilkington and her driver, however, we’ll need to verify the times with the disabled client to see if he can confirm that he was at the brothel on the Monday.’

  Miller turned again to face all the officers and described how he and Spencer had been showed around the brothel by a large hairy man in fishnet tights and a maid’s outfit.

  ‘As we left, Mr Gregory Barker gave us his business card in case we needed him to make a statement. He normally works in the city as a solicitor.’ He smirked as he pinned the card onto the board.

  Jane slipped into the incident room, hanging her coat over her desk chair and giving a nod of apology to Tyler. He gave her a non-committal glance, but Miller couldn’t resist pointing his ruler.

  ‘Well, I’m glad we are joined by DS Tennison. So, we know where our victim was up until he left Mandy Pilkington’s. But we do not know where he was that afternoon until three p.m. We have a statement from the dog walker, Eric Newman, who was unable to contact Mr Foxley at his office, but called in at his flat. Although he did not enter the premises, he said that Mr Foxley appeared to be his usual self and asked him to keep the dogs overnight.’

  Miller raised his hands and waved the ruler. ‘We do not know what occurred after that. All we know about is the upstairs neighbour hearing incessant barking from the dog that had been left behind. Not very helpfully, she said “it could have been at five p.m. or even later”.’