Exiting the lift on the fourth floor, they stepped into a thickly carpeted corridor lined with oil paintings. They headed towards a large open area. In the center was a modern half-circular desk, with a variety of telephones and an electric typewriter. Sitting behind it was a woman in her late forties who resembled Wallis Simpson, the mistress and subsequent wife of the Duke of Windsor. She was wearing a black fitted jacket, with a large white collar and white cuffs. Her black hair looked dyed, with wings of white either side.
DCI Collins approached her and introduced himself and Spencer, saying they had an appointment with Max Summers. She opened a large leather-bound diary, looked down the page and then gave a casual glance at a small gold wristwatch.
‘Please take a seat and I will tell him you are here.’
They sat on a long red couch, looking around at the opulent room complete with a huge chandelier. It was a further five minutes before the austere receptionist picked up one of the telephones, listened for a moment, then replaced it.
‘Mr. Summers will see you now.’ She swiveled in her desk chair towards two beautiful polished wooden doors, at least ten feet high.
The enormous office, with another huge chandelier, had the same thick maroon carpet but with floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the walls and a bay window that looked out onto a large garden. In front of the window was one of the biggest desks Spencer had ever seen, in dark mahogany with lion claw feet and ornately carved legs. It was completely bare except for three telephones. The leather desk chair was empty. The two men were standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the room when one of the bookcases suddenly opened and an Alfred Hitchcock lookalike, with bulbous eyes and prominent jowls, came into the room, from what appeared to be an en suite bathroom. He gave a brief nod.
‘Must have eaten something last night,’ he grunted.
He sat down heavily in the desk chair and indicated for them to take a seat. Both the chairs were at quite a distance from the desk. Collins took the initiative and pushed one closer to the desk, and Spencer did the same. Max Summers opened one of the drawers and opened a packet of indigestion tablets.
‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.
Collins leaned forward. ‘We are investigating the death of Charles Foxley—’
Summers interrupted him gruffly. ‘I know that, but I don’t understand how I can be of any assistance. I did business with the man, but I have no idea why he was murdered. I never mixed with Mr. Foxley on a social level, apart from when we were organizing a premiere, but then my brother Ivor handles that side of the business.’
‘You had considerable investments in Mr. Foxley’s independent film projects,’ Collins said.
‘That is correct, but to be honest with you, my brother is the creative one. He runs the film company, and I have always taken my brother’s advice in terms of investing in film projects. It was after I was approached by Mr. Foxley for an investment that I suggested he meet with my brother – that’s how their relationship began.’
Spencer noted that he had small hands with polished nails folded over his protruding stomach.
‘Your business, Mr. Summers, is predominantly in property development?’
‘That is correct. I also own a number of high-end restaurants and apartments. The movie business isn’t really my thing.’ He pursed his lips, emitting an odd, high-pitched giggle. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m being constantly told off for falling asleep at premieres of the films my brother produces. But my wife loves all the glitz and glamour of these occasions.’ He gestured towards a large silver-framed photograph on the wall. ‘That’s my wife, taken at last year’s Oscars.’
Both Spencer and Collins turned. Summers’ wife looked very glamorous herself, and at least twenty years his junior. She was also considerably taller than him, wearing a couture gown with her slender arm resting on her husband’s shoulder. Before they could remark on the photograph, one of the double doors into his office suddenly opened. Without having to be introduced, it was obvious from their physical resemblance that this was Max’s brother.
‘I can’t wait any longer, Max . . . I gotta get back to New York to organize the locations and cinemas. It’s a huge damned pain in the ass.’ His guttural New York accent was a stark contrast to his brother’s smooth English vowels.
Max stood up from behind his desk and held his hand out towards the new arrival. ‘This is my brother, Ivor. These gentlemen are here from the Metropolitan Police.’
Collins stood up to shake Ivor’s hand. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Collins and this is my associate, Detective Sergeant Gibbs.’
Ivor was clearly considerably younger than his brother, with a full head of dark hair that looked as if it might have been dyed. It was swept back from his broad face, which was not yet as jowly as his brother’s. He was oddly dressed in a loose denim shirt with grey pinstriped trousers and two-toned shoes.
‘They are here about poor Charles Foxley,’ Max said.
Ivor raised both hands. ‘My God, that was shocking. Hard to believe. Even harder to believe you haven’t yet caught the bastard who did it. I’m telling you, if this was New York, they would’ve got him by now. If you want to know where I was when it happened, that’s it – New York.’
Max nodded. ‘And I was at a big charity dinner.’
Ivor perched himself on the edge of his brother’s desk. ‘It’s caused a major headache for us, I can tell you. The reason I’m here is because we’d organized a big premiere at Leicester Square with a ton of publicity. I’m gonna have to cancel everything. I’ll tell you, though, we’re going to dedicate this film to Charles Foxley.’ He gave a short, barking laugh. ‘It’ll probably be the best credit he ever got in his life.’
‘That’s unnecessary,’ Max said scowling.
His brother guffawed again. ‘Look, I don’t mind admitting it. I’ve said it often enough. Charles Foxley was becoming a liability. You give some people a little success and it goes to their fucking heads. Half the time he would make out as if he had produced, directed and written the damned movie, never mind spent millions of dollars in promotion. He had a big ego, all right. But I have to give credit where credit is due: he had a stable of very bankable actors, and he had three other agents who were also able to bring names to the table, along with well-known directors and writers. But if it hadn’t been for my expertise, Foxley wouldn’t have had the first idea of how to package a movie.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve got to hand it to him, though, he did learn fast, but he tried to undercut us and the movie turned out to be a flop, and it was my brother and I who lost the big bucks.’
The meeting continued for a further half an hour as Collins asked about the financial stability of both their companies. To Spencer, their wealth was jaw-dropping. Although he found both men obnoxious, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Eventually, Ivor said he needed to go and deal with some of the formidable costs they would incur by cancelling the premiere of Foxley’s last movie.
As Collins and Spencer stood up to leave, Spencer turned to Max. ‘How’s your daughter, Julia?’
It was just an afterthought, but Max visibly tensed.
‘Why are you bringing her up?’ he snapped.
‘No reason – it’s just I met her at the agency.’
Max immediately relaxed. ‘Well, she isn’t there anymore. She was only there as a favor because these young teenage girls don’t have a brain in their head. When she got two O-levels she thought she was Einstein. Takes after her mother . . . ’
He glanced at the photograph of his wife but, before he could say anything further, his desk phone rang. He waved a hand dismissively at Spencer and Collins as he picked up the phone and they made their way out.
*
Jane had Foxley’s work diary on her desk alongside his personal notebook. She had been cross-checking all the dates and timings but there was no indication where the cash, which Foxley withdrew almost every week, was going. The assumption had always been that he was p
aying a drug dealer, and Spencer had noted on the incident board that the drug squad should be brought in to get heavy with the agency in case one of the agents was the dealer, but there was still no actual evidence.
As Jane was checking through the money trail, she crossed to Spencer’s last memos on the incident board. He had written: KW possibly being closed, no finances. Jane hurried back to her desk. Checking through her notes, and comparing them to the diary, she noticed that there were several references to KW over a period of time. The initials were often accompanied by names of hotels, such as The Ritz, The Dorchester and The Grosvenor, and there were odd numbers beside them. She then thumbed through the main desk diary in an attempt to match the dates. On four matching dates there had been heavy use of whiteout, blocking out information.
She looked across to Gary Dors, who was thudding out a report on his typewriter about a recent robbery. His use of whiteout was infamous.
‘Gary. Do you know how to lift whiteout off a page? I mean, it’s water-based, isn’t it?’
He picked up his ever-present whiteout bottle and squinted at it. ‘I suppose . . . It’s a bit like a paint, isn’t it?’
‘I was just wondering how to ease it off from paper to see what’s written underneath.’
Dors shrugged. ‘If I were you, I’d experiment – put a few brushes on a blank piece of paper and let it dry. Then see if you can get it off if you wet it. But you better not attempt to do it on any important document because it could destroy the paper.’
‘Thank you for that expertise,’ Jane said, deciding she wouldn’t attempt it. Then she had a thought: the forensic lab sometimes used ESDA, an electrostatic detection apparatus, along with oblique lighting. She remembered that the machine allowed the visualization of obscured writing without damaging the document.
Spencer came in eating a sandwich.
‘My God, the Summers duo are something else. DCI Collins reckons Max is worth over a billion and God knows how much his brother is worth. But both have a confirmed alibi for the night of the murder. That said, they’ve got enough money swirling around to hire someone. Then again, a professional hitman doesn’t usually disembowel his victim and slit their throat. That really is what you’d call overkill.’
Jane was only half listening and tapped him with a pencil. ‘You know you put KW on the incident board?’
‘Yeah, it’s KatWalk, the modelingagency Foxley was running. Mostly, from what I can suss out, it was financed by Foxley himself, as none of the other agents appeared to have any interest in a bunch of unknown teenage models and ex-footballers.’
Jane flicked through the pages of her notebook. ‘Do you think it is possible that’s where Foxley’s cash was going? I’m still missing sixty-odd thousand. I’ve highlighted this over and over again and keep being fobbed off with the idea it was being used for drugs.’
‘That’s a shit lot of drugs,’ Spencer said.
‘Maybe we need to pay another visit to the agency,’ Jane said.
‘Christ, I’m wearing the carpet out there. Who do you need to talk to now?’
‘Simon Quinn. We should ask if he can tell what all the numbers mean, and explain about the hotels.’
When they approached him with their request, Tyler was unenthusiastic.
‘You don’t think we should wait for the drug squad to have a crack at them?’ he asked Spencer.
Spencer looked skeptical. ‘I honestly don’t think there is major dealing going on in the agency, guv. I mean, they may do a couple of lines here and there but Justine Harris has said that Foxley could straighten himself out when he needed to. So it doesn’t sound like he was a complete addict.’
Tyler sighed. He was looking ragged. ‘OK. Fine. But don’t waste too much time on it.’
Tyler had had a tough morning and although the chief superintendent hadn’t mentioned anything to the team, he knew that he was probably going to be replaced. The worst scenario would be if he was replaced by DI Miller. They had an unpleasant argument when Miller suggested that they had been too lenient on Justine. He had become angry, saying that he wanted to have Justine charged with assault of a police officer because when he had gone for an X-ray on his nose it turned out to have been broken. He didn’t care if she was represented by a big hitter like McDermott. It had taken considerable time for Tyler to talk him down.
Justine Harris’s alibi had been confirmed and Tyler had released her on police bail, pending further inquiries. She could be charged at a later date with the assault on Miller, but that wasn’t enough for him.
‘It’s not over with that woman,’ he said theatrically as he left the office. ‘Before I’m done I’m going to prove she’s a murderer.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The team were all processing the day’s duties. Jane had put in yet another call to Elliott but received no reply. She returned to making a list of what she and Spencer would need when they went to the agency.
The double doors into the incident room banged open as DI Miller, now with tape across his nose and a nasty black eye, came in wearing a grey peaked cap. There were a few mutters of ‘Afternoon, sir’ but everyone kept their eyes averted.
Miller went to his corner desk and removed his trench coat and cap. Jane could see from her desk that he was using a small hand mirror to check his appearance. She turned as one of the double doors into the incident room opened and McDermott walked in, this time without his velvet-collared overcoat, but wearing an elegantly tailored pinstripe suit and carrying an expensive-looking leather briefcase.
As Jane stood to acknowledge him, he gave a curt bow of his head.
‘I think DCI Tyler is expecting me.’
Before Jane could put in a call to him, Tyler opened his office door. Miller hurried over, and McDermott gestured for him to go ahead of him into the office.
I’d like to be a fly on that wall, Jane thought to herself.
‘Come in, please,’ Tyler said cordially.
McDermott opened an expensive monogrammed leather notebook. He declined coffee or tea, feeling it imperative they quickly come to an agreement.
‘Gentlemen, firstly let me say that any assault charge against Ms. Harris would not be appropriate. It’s a matter of record that she has psychiatric problems for which she is on medication, and I do not think it advisable that she be brought back into the station for further questioning. That would clearly be detrimental to her health.’
Miller couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘Well, I can tell you, Mr. McDermott, that interviewing Ms. Harris has been detrimental to my health. But we still have a number of unanswered questions and Justine Harris still remains a suspect in the murder of her ex-husband.’
‘I am very aware, Lucas – may I call you Lucas, Detective Inspector Miller?’
Rather taken aback by McDermott’s pleasant tone, Miller nodded.
‘Lucas, you have an impressive career and are a very well-regarded officer. I also agree Ms. Harris needs to be re-questioned, but my primary concern is for her wellbeing. I am asking if you would, in this instance, agree to interview Ms. Harris at her residence.’
McDermott continued before Miller could answer.
‘Obviously time is of the essence; I am able to delay meetings at my chambers and could be with you for a meeting with Ms. Harris at midday today.’
Tyler glanced at Miller and gave a small nod, encouraging him to agree.
McDermott closed his notebook. ‘I do think, Lucas, it would be perhaps advisable if Detective Sergeant Tennison accompanied you. It would, I am sure, be a calming influence on my client.’
‘Let’s do it now,’ Miller said curtly.
‘I do apologize, Lucas, but I am due to have a meeting with the Chief Justice’s department, so if you could make it for midday, I would be most grateful.’
Miller hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘Twelve it is then, Mr. McDermott.’
*
Spencer came over
to Jane’s desk. ‘Come on, the car’s waiting.’
Jane stood up ‘You just missed McDermott. Apparently he’s talked Miller out of pressing assault charges but he’s now agreed to another interview with her and I’m to be present. Midday at her home.’
‘We better get a move-on, then,’ Spencer muttered.
Sitting in the rear of the patrol car, Spencer was hungover and irritable. ‘I’m sick and tired of interviewing the same people over and over again. What are the chances we’ll come up with anything new this time?’
Jane could feel her temper rising. ‘Well, if you’d told me the KW initials stood for KatWalk, we could have done this before.’
‘If you had asked I would’ve told you. I put it on the incident board.’
‘Yes, I know you did!’ she snapped, turning away to look out of the window.
Spencer yawned and scratched his head. ‘You know they were talking about going back to Mandy Pilkington and interviewing her again to get the personal details of all her clients. If she doesn’t play ball we’ll put a uniformed officer outside her address 24/7 and they’ll speak to every man who comes and goes from the address. That will soon destroy her business.’
Jane sighed. ‘That’s all a total waste of time. I’m the one that has been working on this bloody timeframe. According to her, the clients listed for that day were in the morning, our victim mid-afternoon and another client after him. The only client whose name she gave, together with his address, was the disabled man. From her timeline, he is the only one that was there at her brothel from five thirty onwards, until he was collected by Farook and taken home. I suggest you don’t waste time and just interview him.’
‘Terrific, I’m sure a guy with no legs could’ve got over to Foxley’s and gutted him. Now that’s what I call a waste of bloody time.’
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