Blunt Force

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Get to the point,’ Tyler snapped.

  ‘I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Mr. Foxley was asking about the Doberman because I left a studded collar in the Volvo. I swear to God, that’s how it happened.’

  ‘What happened?’ Tyler asked, leaning forward.

  ‘I told him it belonged to Mandy. Mandy Pilkington. I mean, I didn’t really know her, you gotta understand that. Like, I know she’s into S&M. I made a joke that maybe the collar was for one of her clients. Mr. Foxley seemed interested, wanted to know more, so I told him. He asked for her address, so I give it to him. It was just in conversation, really. Then my mate, the one with the sciatica, tells me I’m not needed to walk Bruno again, but Mandy said to give me a tenner because I’d sent her some new business. To be honest, I don’t even know why she needs security ’cause she’s got to be almost three hundred pounds. I swear, that’s all I know.’

  After Newman had been released, Spencer ran Mandy Pilkington’s name through the records. When the results appeared, Spencer did a little dance step, ending with a spinning turn. ‘Well, what do you know? Our Mandy Pilkington has quite a record. Arrests for prostitution and soliciting and she’s now advertising herself as a dominatrix.’ Spence placed Mandy Pilkington’s mugshot on Jane’s desk. ‘And it looks like our Mr. Foxley was a regular client.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tyler was just wrapping up the meeting in the boardroom where he’d allocated the names from Myers’ list to be questioned. He gestured to Jane. ‘Have you made contact with Justine Harris? Virtually everyone at that theatrical agency seems to think she was more than capable of murder.’

  Jane tapped a page in her notebook. ‘I did speak to her mother, Florence Harris, sir, and she said Justine would not be staying long with her in Ascot. She agreed to see me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good. I also want another round of house-to-house inquiries. And those officers who were assigned to them earlier in the day, go back and check over the properties where the occupant was absent.’

  There was an audible groan.

  ‘Look,’ Tyler said sternly, ‘I’ve got the press on my back and there’s already all sorts of rumors going around. We need to get a result – and quick.’

  They filed out of the boardroom and got to work. Jane had agreed to do two of the house calls as a favor to one of the officers whose wife was expecting a baby.

  Jane spoke to one flat owner who had never met Charles Foxley and didn’t even know which flat he lived in. The second occupant did recall seeing him with his dogs and said that his next-door neighbor had had a loud argument with Foxley about his dogs, telling him that he should use poo bags, but he’d never had a conversation with him himself. He was a rather dapper, middle-aged bachelor, with wavy white hair. He was dressed in an immaculate pin-striped suit with a rather flamboyant pink tie, and worked as an investment banker. He even offered Jane a glass of sherry, which she politely refused. She was just about to leave when he said that he had met the previous owner, a Mr. Martinez.

  ‘He created a lot of animosity among some of the residents because he renovated the basement and the work went on for a lengthy period. It was all very inconvenient as some of the residents’ parking was taken up by the skips. But he was very apologetic, and I believe he gave bottles of champagne to his closest neighbors.’

  ‘Did you actually meet Mr. Martinez?’

  ‘Yes, I did. He was such a charming man. He invited several residents to his house-warming drinks. It was beautifully catered and he served cocktails in the small garden, and so any ill-feeling that anyone had about the building works soon evaporated.’

  ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’ Jane hesitated. ‘Do you recall how long ago Mr. Foxley moved into his flat?’

  ‘I don’t have the exact date, but it would be at least a year ago. I was rather surprised, to be honest, because Mr. Martinez had spent so much time and money on his renovations.’

  ‘Do you recall the name of the estate agent that handled the sale?’

  ‘No, there was no board put up. I think it was a private sale. Are you sure you wouldn’t be tempted by a nice glass of sherry?’

  Jane was eager to get home as it was almost ten p.m. ‘Thanks, but I need to get going.’

  As she was heading towards her car she saw, towards the end of Onslow Square, the uniformed police officer standing outside Charles Foxley’s flat. The yellow crime scene ribbons were still attached to the railings and she could see that the bright porch light was on. She walked towards the officer.

  ‘Good evening.’ She showed her warrant. ‘Is there someone in the flat?’

  ‘Yes, sarge. It’s DS Lawrence. He’s been in there for a couple of hours.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘I don’t know . . . apparently some people don’t have a home to go to. I’m on duty until he leaves, then I have to lock up.’

  ‘So, the around-the-clock has been cancelled?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes, sarge, but I think they have someone here in the day.’

  She headed past him and down the steps. The front door was ajar, and she could see the strips of cardboard were still down. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, calling out Lawrence’s name.

  After a moment, he walked out from the bedroom.

  ‘I was just finishing some house-to-house inquiries and saw the lights on,’ Jane said.

  Lawrence gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I can make you a cup of tea if you like?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind one.’

  Lawrence pulled off his rubber gloves. ‘So, I hear you’ve been seeing Dave “Dabs” Morgan.’

  Jane was taken aback, wondering how much Dabs had told Lawrence about her new hobby.

  ‘He was at the lab doing some work with the ballistic experts and we just got talking about this case. He asked who I was working with and I mentioned you.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ Jane asked.

  Lawrence gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Nothing much, but he did say you’d joined a gun club or something.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I did but I haven’t really had any time. So how’s it been going here?’

  ‘We still haven’t found the weapon which was used to disembowel him. I checked all the knives but there doesn’t appear to be one missing. Our victim also had a very good selection of chef’s carving knives, but they’re all still in their boxes. As for the razor, Foxley used an electric shaver.’

  ‘Well, according to a neighbor I just spoke to, the previous owner, Sebastian Martinez, designed the place, and Charles Foxley bought it already furnished and kitted out.’

  ‘Ah . . . ’ Lawrence said as he filled the kettle and put it on.

  ‘He was set designer or architect . . . I’m not sure.’

  Lawrence put teabags into two fine china mugs and poured boiling water over them. He then took a carton of milk from a cooler bag. ‘Do you take sugar?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ Jane replied. She could see the ever-professional Lawrence also had a jar of instant coffee and two Tupperware boxes with the remains of his sandwiches.

  ‘Would you like a Kit-Kat?’ he asked.

  ‘No thanks. You certainly come prepared.’ She smiled.

  ‘Yeah, well, you know me. I should’ve left hours ago, but something just doesn’t feel right.’

  She laughed softly. ‘Well, I doubt finding a disemboweled body feels right at any time.’

  He smiled. ‘No, I don’t mean that. I’ve been told that our victim lived here for at least a year, but there doesn’t seem to be any imprint of who he was. There are just the few photographs that you saw earlier, there’s very little food in any of the cupboards, the fridge is almost empty. But if you come through with me . . . ’

  He stood up, carrying his mug of tea, and Jane followed him into the bedroom.

  She watched as Lawrence carefully maneuvered himself across the cardboard strips protecting the bloodstains and opened a wardrobe door.

  ‘OK
, we have good quality shirts, we have two designer suits, a couple of pairs of corduroy trousers . . . ’ He looked down to the base of the wardrobe. ‘Some cheap trainers -– maybe used them for dog walking – but no other shoes.’

  ‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’ Jane agreed. ‘Did you know we found a big supply of vitamins in his office?’

  Lawrence shut the wardrobe door. ‘Interesting. We found a large supply of vitamins in the bathroom cabinet.’

  Lawrence then guided Jane to the chest of drawers, easing one open after another. ‘Underpants, socks, a few cashmere sweaters, that’s it.’

  Jane looked around the ornate bedroom. ‘His office was rather like going into an old Victorian house. All the furniture is worn and covered in dog hairs. I don’t see that much evidence of the dogs here.’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘Well, there is the dog basket. But, apart from the blood, the place is pristine.’

  ‘So, what’s bothering you?’

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels as though the victim was hardly ever here.’ He drained his tea. ‘Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t quite work out what kind of man lived here.’

  Jane followed Lawrence back into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, Spence and I interviewed all his coworkers today, and to be honest, they all seem to describe him as a boyish charmer. A couple inferred there was a darker side to him. Tonight, we talked to the guy who walked his dogs and he told us that Charles Foxley may possibly have been visiting a dominatrix, but we haven’t verified that yet.’

  Lawrence took her mug and rinsed both of them under the tap before drying them and putting them back in the cupboard.

  ‘Well, that might explain the handcuffs. But I still find it difficult to build up a picture of his character. He has an ex-wife, a daughter, and yet I can’t find any family-orientated notes, books, letters, mementos . . . ’

  Jane yawned. ‘Thanks for the tea, Paul, but I’m going to call it quits.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be packing up in a minute too,’ Lawrence said.

  Jane headed down the hall, pausing outside the bedroom. ‘Maybe we’ll find out more when we get to the bottom of the situation with this designer, Martinez. There was some sort of ill-feeling about the purchase, apparently. Also, one of the agents said something that I can’t quite make sense of: that Foxley was a man who fed on success but became masochistic towards failure.’

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘Well, that’s a bit obtuse.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Anyway, goodnight, Paul, I’m off home. Some of us do have one to go to.’

  *

  Jane made herself a cup of tea and dialed Dabs’s number.

  ‘Hello, Dabs, it’s Jane. Sorry to call so late.’

  ‘Hello, love. My God, you’ve got a nasty one. I saw Paul Lawrence over at the lab this morning.’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned he had seen you. I’m calling because I feel quite bad about not going to the rifle club for another session with Elliott.’

  ‘I’m sure he understood, Jane. Work takes priority. But let me give you his number if you want to talk to him. Just remember, he’s a very private bloke, so keep it to yourself.’

  Jane laughed softly. ‘I’m not likely to tell anyone, Dabs. I really don’t want anyone on the team knowing I’m joining the club.’

  ‘I understand. I keep my out-of-work hobby to myself.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Dabs, I really appreciate this.’ She jotted down the number before hanging up. She finished her cup of tea and called Elliott. It rang once and was picked up.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was low and quiet.

  ‘Is this Elliott?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Jane Tennison. I hope you don’t mind me calling. I want to firstly apologize for not being able to see you this evening due to work commitments.’

  ‘Yes, Dabs let me know.’

  ‘I really would like to have another training session with you.’

  There was a slight pause. ‘If you can be at the rifle club by 6:45 a.m. tomorrow I can give you half an hour. Did you get your membership?’

  ‘No, it hasn’t come through yet, but I can be there tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you at the entrance to the car park to let you in.’ He hung up and Jane was left holding the receiver, wondering if such an early start was going to become her routine.

  *

  The next morning she put on a tracksuit and sneakers for the session. She had given herself plenty of time to get from Marylebone to Norbiton but had not considered early morning traffic on the A40 or the congestion at Shepherd’s Bush roundabout even at that time of day.

  She hit traffic once again as she started on the A316 and finally made her way into Norbiton. Then, starting to get nervous, she missed the turning to the rifle club and found herself going round and round the small streets. By the time she found the narrow road leading to the club, it was already almost seven. Elliott was waiting by the open underground door. He was wearing a grey tracksuit and pristine white trainers, standing with his arms folded.

  She drove towards the entry door to the club as Elliott slid the door closed to the car park. He moved quickly to stand in front of her as he put the code in to unlock the entry door, then once inside he deactivated the security alarm. She started to apologize for being late, explaining about the traffic and getting lost, but he made no reply until they entered the club. He had obviously been there earlier as there was a mug of coffee on the counter of the small coffee bar.

  ‘You mind if I just say something, Jane?’ he said finally. ‘I would have hoped, as a detective, you would have been aware of the traffic and planned things a little better. My time is as valuable as yours.’

  Jane could hardly believe it. She was unsure how to even reply.

  Elliott looked at his watch. ‘We’ll only have the small-arms range for fifteen minutes now.’ He picked up a metal briefcase and Jane followed him into the range, where he switched on the strip lighting.

  ‘Until the secretary gets here, we will have to use one of my personal revolvers. I have a .38 Smith & Wesson, but you’re not ready for that so we’ll continue using the .22 revolver.’

  Jane stood to one side as he clicked open the gun case. She could see there were four small handguns nestling in the black sponge protector.

  ‘Let’s see if you can remember everything I told you at the last session.’

  Jane had never ever come across anyone like Elliott. He handed her the gun, then immediately snapped: ‘Check there are no bullets in it first!’ He said it so sternly that she physically jumped.

  ‘Now, go to the area you were in before, with the crosses, and face the target.’

  Jane did as requested, standing with her feet apart and arms raised in the correct position.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and then took her by surprise by asking if she had ever played Grandmother’s Footsteps.

  She lowered her arms. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Kids play it. You stand with your back to them, and they have to practice creeping up on you. Each time you turn and catch anyone moving, they have to start again. I’m going to go right back to the booths and try and sneak up on you, and you have to stand with the gun in position to shoot. That means both arms straight, thumb over thumb. Be ready to fire.’

  Jane was completely nonplussed. He’d gone from a cold aloofness to talking to her about a child’s game as if she was six.

  She waited, and then he said softly, ‘The game starts.’

  She could hear nothing, and she waited, counting the seconds, and turned. He was standing no more than six feet away from her, absolutely still. She turned back, arms still stretched, and by now she could feel the muscles in her forearm really hurting. Silence . . . and then suddenly he had two fingers cocked like a gun pressed into her neck.

  ‘Bang.’

  Jane was so shocked she screeched, almost dropped the gun, and her whole body started shaking. He gently
took the gun from her.

  ‘Is that what happened to you, Jane?’

  ‘I didn’t . . . have a gun,’ she managed to say.

  ‘I know you didn’t. But you froze when you saw someone facing you with a weapon, and one member of your team was shot. Fortunately, not fatally.’

  Anger started to take over from humiliation, and with her teeth clenched Jane moved away from him. ‘I didn’t come here to play childish games.’

  He held his hands out. ‘I’m sorry if playing that game has upset you. But that was my intention. You have to learn to control your fear, and the only way you can do that it is by facing it. Now, I want you to go into the stalls and I’ll bring the target closer.’ He pulled back a cuff and glanced at his watch. ‘You only have five minutes left. But before you start practicing, I want to give you some breathing exercises to do every time you have that feeling of panic.’

  Jane followed him to the stall as he switched on the no-entry red light. She was slowly calming down as he came to stand close beside her.

  ‘Have you heard of an opera singer called Joan Sutherland?’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘I was just listening to an interview with Pavarotti. You must have heard of him. When he was a young opera singer, he worked with Joan Sutherland and was amazed by the control she had with her diaphragm, which gave her the ability to hold notes perfectly.’

  Jane was startled when Elliott placed his hand on her diaphragm.

  ‘Now, take a deep breath.’ He pressed firmly against her stomach. ‘OK, hold it tight. Then slowly release it. Let me feel my hand move. It’s the muscles in your lower stomach that should be controlling your breath.’

  Far from feeling calmer, she almost felt like fainting.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said.

  He spoke very softly. ‘Yes, you can. Now breathe in again.’

  After a few moments, Jane began to relax. By the time he allowed her to shoot at the target, she had to admit she felt much steadier.

  After she’d finished shooting, Elliott walked her back to her car and leaned on the door as she got in.