Naked Flames

by Graham Ison

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I told you that I’d met Robert at an auction but that’s not true. My husband and I often have weekends away separately. I know it didn’t sound as though we did, but the truth of the matter is that we enjoy what is called an open marriage. He has a woman that he visits in New York – at least that’s what he told me – and I have a young man who’s available whenever the fancy takes me. Paul puts up this pretence that we enjoy a terribly respectable marriage, but I’d put money on him being in bed with his New York tart right now.’

  ‘Is this what you wanted to tell me, Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘Not really. I’m sorry but I have this tendency to ramble on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I spent a weekend alone at the Pretext Club and that’s where I met Robert. The rest of the story, unfortunately, was true. After that, we did meet at auctions and there were days when we spent hours in a hotel bed. I know Paul said he’d forgiven me, but he can be a bit virtuous occasionally and, as I said just now, tries to pretend that we have an exemplary relationship.’ She giggled. ‘Not that I think that applies to the rest of Bromley, mind you. In reality, Paul couldn’t have given a damn about Robert and me, but when he learned that I lost four thousand pounds, it really annoyed him. Although it was my money, he seemed to think it somehow reflected on him. He was probably worried that if people somehow found out about it, they might snigger when he walked into the clubhouse of his precious golf club.’

  ‘Were you and your husband going your separate ways on Saturday the twentieth of July?’

  There was a pause and I imagined that Nina Harrison was consulting her diary. Eventually, she said, ‘Yes, we were, Mr Brock. I was with my toy boy.’ She giggled. ‘All that day and all that night.’

  ‘Have you any idea where your husband was that weekend?’

  ‘Not a clue, I’m afraid, but there’s bound to have been a woman involved.’

  ‘And when will he be back from New York?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you for putting the record straight, Mrs Harrison,’ I said, and terminated the call. Unfortunately, this admission by Nina Harrison meant that Paul Harrison’s movements on the day of Sharp’s murder were unaccounted for. We would, therefore, have to interview him again given that when Sharp was mentioned at the first interview, Harrison happily declared that he ‘might’ve been tempted to do him an injury’.

  Dependent on any further enquiries, it might even be necessary to interview Nina Harrison’s toy boy. Not that I could visualize her murdering Sharp, but you never know.

  At nine o’clock the following morning, I got a phone call from Ron Clark, the director of security at the credit card company that held Robert Sharp’s account.

  ‘Harry, something interesting has cropped up. I didn’t know about it when it happened, but it was before you came to see me. One of the managers has just drawn my attention to it.’

  ‘I think it’d be best if Dave and I came over, Ron.’

  Clark agreed and we grabbed a cab for the ten-minute journey. Clark greeted us with cups of coffee.

  ‘Sharp’s credit card has been used, Harry. It occurred on the twenty-fourth of this month, two days before you came to see me. It wasn’t until I authorized a stop on the card that the transaction came to light.’

  ‘What was it for, Ron?’

  ‘I don’t know. All we have are details of the transaction and where it took place. I can tell you that the charge was just under two hundred pounds.’

  ‘If you can give me the date and the name of the outlet, Ron, I’ll follow it up. It might just be that it was used by Sharp’s killer. In fact, the more I think about it, I can’t see that anyone else would have used it. And now that you’ve explained how it’s done, it would make sense.’

  Fortunately, the purchase had been made at a central London department store that, even more fortunately, hadn’t gone into liquidation. If it had been an online transaction, we probably wouldn’t have got anywhere as the vendor never meets the purchaser, so any thought of physical identification would have been stillborn.

  The accounts manager at the store was extremely helpful once I’d explained who we were and why we were interested in this purchase. After a deft bit of computer work, she was able to tell us that the transaction had taken place in the luggage department and she escorted us down there.

  The senior customer adviser, as they call shop assistants now, was an elegant redhead with green twinkling eyes and was introduced to us as Karen. She remembered serving the customer because it was a man. ‘In my experience, it’s a woman who purchases a make-up case, Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘but this man told me it was a surprise birthday present for his wife.’

  ‘It seems a lot of money to pay for a make-up case,’ I said.

  ‘We have plenty of similar cases much cheaper than the one we sold, which retailed at a pound under two hundred, but the man was adamant that he wanted the best.’ She paused. ‘It was originally priced higher at two hundred and fifty pounds, but this item was in the sale.’

  Now I asked the all-important question. ‘Can you describe the man who bought this case, Karen?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Karen’s green eyes twinkled again. ‘As I said, it was the week of the sales and we had hundreds of customers looking for a bargain, but this man was memorable. He was well-spoken and I think probably in his thirties or possibly forties. He had fleshy good looks and fancied himself as a ladies’ man. It certainly didn’t take him long before he started chatting me up. He went from presenting his credit card to inviting me out to dinner in about ten seconds flat.’

  ‘Did you take up his offer?’ asked Dave.

  ‘I think my husband would have had a few words to say about that,’ said Karen, and laughed.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ I said, ‘and thank you.’ Karen’s information had edged us forward a little more.

  ‘Strange business,’ said Dave, as we left the store.

  ‘The buyer has to be Sharp’s killer, Dave, but what the hell did he want a make-up case for?’

  ‘Perhaps he found the credit card,’ suggested Dave, ignoring his question.

  ‘What, complete with the PIN that he would have to use to complete the purchase?’ I didn’t often trump Dave.

  ‘True, guv’nor. But that doesn’t explain why he bought a make-up case.’ And it wasn’t often Dave admitted to a mistake. ‘The only way the killer could’ve got Sharp’s PIN is for him to have given it up when he was looking at the wrong end of the handgun that killed him.’

  I doubted that he had the necessary ability to discover it in the way that the chief security officer of the credit card company had shown me.

  Kate and Dave joined me in my office to discuss the latest developments. I brought Kate up to speed about the make-up case and my theory that Sharp’s killer could well have been the purchaser. Kate agreed that there seemed no other logical explanation and, despite what our previous commander thought, she knew about make-up cases and knew how to dress when occasion demanded.

  ‘But I thought Sharp’s card was topped up to the limit,’ said Kate.

  ‘Yes, it was, and although the credit card company was unhappy about the way the transactions and the settlements were dealt with, they hesitated to withdraw credit as the outstanding amount and interest were always settled, albeit at the last minute. That said, according to this credit-card company, there was sufficient credit at the time to allow for the purchase of this make-up case.’

  ‘Assuming that the killer was the guy who drove out of the Pretext Club using Sykes’ credit card, I suppose he must’ve taken Sharp’s card after the murder so that he could use it at a later date, guv’nor,’ suggested Dave.

  ‘Possibly, Dave, and he probably burnt Sykes’ card when he set fire to Sykes’ car, which was on …’

  ‘The twenty-third of July between Brighton and Peacehaven,’ said Dave, as usual having the facts at his fingertips. ‘And the make-up case was purchased the
day after he’d torched the car, following which he must’ve hopped on a train back to the Smoke. But where was he staying?’

  ‘Supposing for a moment that the murderer is Brooks,’ said Kate, ‘we haven’t yet established a motive.’

  ‘The only possibility, as I said at the briefing yesterday, is that there was history between Brooks and Sharp, the common factor being Sadie Brooks, and that Brooks decided to settle an old score. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to support that theory. Yet.’

  ‘This business of the make-up case puzzles me,’ said Dave. ‘But I have had a thought.’

  ‘Be careful, Dave,’ said Kate. ‘You might damage your brain.’

  ‘Noted, guv,’ responded Dave and carried on. ‘Supposing that Madison Bailey and James Brooks met at the Pretext Club and hatched a plot to murder Sharp.’

  ‘Why would they do that, Dave?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I’m coming to that, ma’am.’ Dave grinned at Kate, as he always did when he addressed her formally. ‘At some time when all three of them were there, Sharp took exception to Brooks taking Madison off him and an argument ensued. On the other hand, Brooks and Madison might’ve hatched some get-rich-quick plot and invited Sharp to join in. But he disagreed and threatened to blow the whistle because he suspected that they might implicate him anyway. After all, Sharp was a small-time swindler, had never been prosecuted and had no desire to go to prison. But he realized that if he got involved, either actually or by implication, in what he knew was a dangerous scheme, he could end up doing time. Particularly if all his previous frauds caught up with him.’

  ‘Nice theory, Dave,’ I said, ‘but without evidence it’s all pie in the sky.’

  ‘Drugs could be the answer to why he bought a make-up case,’ said Kate suddenly. ‘And that carries a hell of a lot of jail time.’

  ‘Would you care to expand on that, Kate?’ I said.

  ‘Supposing he bought the make-up case for Madison,’ continued Kate, warming to her theory. ‘She’s a stewardess on the Colombia run. That country’s unofficial principal export is cocaine. The Colombian government is doing its best to put the kibosh on it but without much success.’

  For a moment or two, I pondered Kate’s proposition and the more I did so, the more I thought she might’ve hit on a motive.

  ‘I think we need to talk to the customs and excise section of the National Crime Agency,’ I said eventually.

  That afternoon, after numerous phone calls to colleagues who knew about such things, I was directed to a senior customs official of the National Crime Agency who was stationed at Heathrow. Dave drove me there, my view being that face-to-face conversations are more satisfactory than phone calls or an exchange of emails.

  ‘Peter Sullivan, gents,’ said the NCA officer, once I’d introduced Dave and myself.

  I gave Sullivan a thumbnail sketch of the murder of Robert Sharp and described as briefly as possible how we had arrived at the point where we thought drug smuggling might be involved.

  ‘What’s the name of this stewardess, Harry?’

  ‘Madison Bailey.’ I gave Sullivan details of where she lived and which airline she worked for.

  ‘And you say she’s on the Heathrow to Bogotá run. Sounds very interesting. The make-up case interests me, too. One of the advantages of using a make-up case to carry drugs is that they tend to be undetectable to our drug-detector dogs. There are so many smells in a woman’s make-up case and that causes the dog to become confused. In short, we’ve little chance of finding any illegal substances by that method unless it’s what we call intelligence-led, and your information puts it into that category.’

  ‘There’s one other thing, Peter,’ I said. ‘We think this may have something to do with the murder I was telling you about. I believe that if this is a drug-smuggling operation, Madison Bailey and Sharp’s killer are in it together. I’d be the first to admit that there are a lot of “ifs” in this whole scenario, but it’s all we’ve got at the moment.’

  For a few moments, Sullivan sat in silence as he thought through the best way of dealing with this problem so that the National Crime Agency and my murder investigation team both achieved what we wanted. Eventually, he formulated a plan that seemed to fit the requirements of the law enforcement agencies Sullivan and I represented.

  ‘How about this, Harry?’ said Sullivan eventually, and outlined what he had in mind.

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Of course, it might all come to nought, Peter.’

  ‘Even if it does, we’ll not have wasted much time,’ said Sullivan.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Dave.

  After leaving Peter Sullivan, we went to see Clare Hughes, the security officer for the airline that employed Madison Bailey. Heathrow airport is huge and getting from one place to another sometimes involves walking miles. Fortunately, however, Clare’s office was not far away.

  ‘What’s she been up to now, Harry?’ asked Clare, assuming we were there to make further enquiries about the young naturist.

  ‘Nothing that I know of, Clare,’ I said, ‘but it would be helpful if you could tell me when she’s next likely to take some leave.’

  Clare Hughes turned to her computer and, after a flurry of keywork, said, ‘She’s due to take two weeks off starting next Monday, the fifth of August.’ She swung back to face me, and her old copper’s instinct kicked in. ‘Anything I should know about, Harry?’

  ‘Not particularly. I’m still trying to discover who murdered Robert Sharp and we know she was friendly with him at the Pretext Club. I’m clutching at straws really.’ I had no intention of telling Clare about the plan Dave and I had just agreed with Sullivan. I wouldn’t even discuss it with a serving police officer who was not involved, let alone one who’d retired and now had other loyalties. ‘Has she left her holiday address with you?’ I asked.

  Clare laughed. ‘This is the outside world, Harry. Haven’t you heard about trade unions? For the sake of industrial tranquillity, we don’t ask, but the airline has a note of her mobile phone number and if it’s necessary to recall her that’s how we’d do it. Mind you, if she turns the bloody thing off, that would be that. And most of them do. If they’re ever challenged about it, they’ll say they were somewhere where they couldn’t get a signal or were swimming or in the sauna and forgot to look for missed calls. I tell you, Harry, this is nothing like the Job.’

  ‘She’ll probably be going to the Pretext Club again,’ said Dave.

  Back at the office, I rang Peter Sullivan and gave him the dates of Madison Bailey’s holiday.

  ‘I didn’t ask the date of her last flight before she starts leave, though, Peter. I didn’t intend to give too much away, even to the airline security officer.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Harry,’ said Sullivan, ‘we can find it out easily enough. I’ll keep you posted. Incidentally, d’you want to be here when we start the ball rolling?’

  ‘Not a good idea, Peter. She knows Dave and me, and if she spotted us in your neck of the woods, I think she might smell a rat.’

  Dave looked at me when I finished the call. ‘You really ought to get some new clichés, sir.’

  We had exhausted nearly all of our lines of enquiry into the murder of Robert Sharp and although there were a number of suspects, there was no hard evidence to support our suspicions. Frank Taylor, who had a previous conviction for severely beating his girlfriend and was witnessed by several people having an argument with Sharp, was the nearest we’d got to a viable suspect. But there was no way in which we could prove he’d killed Sharp. The evidence simply wasn’t there.

  I decided to have a quiet day in the office and deal with my mountain of paperwork. Although, being an old-fashioned copper, I call it paperwork, most of it consists of emails that arrive on the ubiquitous computer. One of the things I’ve learned since being forced on to a steep learning curve about IT is that it’s all too easy to press a key and send out a host of emails to people who ‘might’ be interested in the contents. Half
the trouble arises from when certain senior members of the hierarchy demand a hard copy, as a consequence of which printed copies are made and commented upon. And filed! All of which defeats the concept of the paperless society we were promised when all this cyber gismo started.

  However, my good intentions amounted to nothing when Colin Wilberforce came into my office.

  ‘A woman has just walked into Charing Cross nick, sir, and told the DI, when eventually she got to see him, that she had important information about Robert Sharp.’

  ‘Did the DI say what this important information was, Colin?’

  ‘No, sir. Apparently, she refused to tell anyone but you.’ Wilberforce grinned. ‘That’s what comes of letting the press bureau put your name out, I suppose, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Dave, Colin?’

  ‘In the incident room, standing by, sir.’

  ‘I wonder what rubbish this bloody woman will serve up. Oh well, better go and speak to her. Just as well she didn’t walk into Glasgow Central police station, I suppose.’

  FOURTEEN

  The woman seated in the interview room had an imperious look about her that, at first sight, appeared to characterize a contempt for those about her. But to offset that perception there were lines on her face that seemed to indicate some recent tragedy. Perhaps the one begot the other. And so it proved to be. I guessed her age to be about forty-eight, maybe younger, and she had blonde hair flecked with grey. The white linen dress she was wearing had undoubtedly cost a lot of money, but she was that sort of woman.

  ‘Mrs Rebecca Chapman? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock of the team investigating the murder of Robert Sharp.’

  ‘How d’you do.’ Mrs Chapman shook my proffered hand.

  ‘And this is Detective Sergeant David Poole, Mrs Chapman.’

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Poole.’ Rebecca Chapman paused for a moment or two, as if searching her memory, before shaking hands with him. ‘I thought your name was familiar. I understand your wife Madeleine is a principal dancer in the Royal Ballet Company.’

  ‘How on earth …?’ But that was the most that Dave was able to say. For once, he was lost for words.