by Graham Ison
‘That’s possible,’ said Trevelion. ‘We’re waiting on the Hampshire Constabulary to interview the owner. He’s at Totland on the Isle of Wight and I’m told they’re having a bit of a job getting hold of him. He’s apparently off somewhere on a business meeting. If you’re right about Brooks being the thief, Mr Brock, then as an escaped prisoner he’s bound to have worn gloves because he’d have known his dabs were on file.’
I was impressed. Despite his homespun appearance and laid-back attitude, it was quite obvious that John Trevelion had a keen brain and didn’t miss a trick. I could just imagine that a London villain – like Brooks – would think him a pushover. If that were the case, he’d get a very nasty shock.
It wasn’t just police work that Trevelion was good at; he also turned out to be an excellent host. Not only had he arranged decent accommodation for us, but had also made reservations at an excellent restaurant, where he joined us for dinner, insisting that Devon and Cornwall Police would be paying the bill.
The least I could do was offer to inform Madison Bailey’s flatmate and her employer of her death.
‘That’d be most helpful, sir, thank you very much,’ said Trevelion. ‘These things are better done face-to-face, don’t you think?’
‘I quite agree, John, and I’ll send you a formal report when that has been done.’
The following morning the Cornish DI appeared at our hotel and announced that he had a car outside that would drive us to the railway station. Kate and I decided that we would take the train for the entire journey back to London rather than mess about with changing trains and fighting our way through crowds at Newquay and Gatwick airports. We arrived at Belgravia at three o’clock in the afternoon.
My first job the following morning was to contact the Hampshire Constabulary officer who’d been tasked with interviewing the owner of the cabin cruiser. I was put in touch with a DI at headquarters who handled requests from other forces and he told me that the matter had been allocated to a PC on the Isle of Wight. This officer, I was told, would make the enquiry when he had the time.
I explained that the question of the cruiser and the fingerprints found on it were of vital importance in what was now a double murder enquiry.
‘I wasn’t told that, Mr Brock.’ The Hampshire officer sounded defensive. ‘A DI Trevelion from Penzance spoke to me but said nothing about any murders.’
‘He didn’t know anything about the murders until I gave him the details when I saw him the day before yesterday,’ I said.
There was a pause before the DI spoke again, but eventually he said, ‘If you want to do the enquiry yourself, Mr Brock, I’m sure my detective chief superintendent wouldn’t raise any objections. Don’t think I’m fobbing it off on to you, but with a murder enquiry, you might find it better to do it yourself.’
It was the answer I’d hoped for from the Hampshire officer. I could have done it myself anyway, but common courtesy demanded that I got in touch with Hampshire first as they had already received a request from the Cornwall police. ‘I’ll happily take it on,’ I said, ‘and I’ll let you know the outcome. When can you give me the go-ahead?’
‘If you can hang on a moment, I’ll just go down the corridor and ask the boss.’ A minute or so later, the DI was back. ‘Yes, Mr Brock, he’s quite agreeable for you to carry out that enquiry. When d’you propose to see the owner?’
‘As soon as he’s back from this business trip I’m told he’s on. Do you have a telephone number for him?’
‘It’s a mobile number, Mr Brock,’ said the Hampshire DI and gave me the details.
‘I’ll let you know the outcome.’ I finished the call to Hampshire and immediately called the number the DI had given me. A male voice answered the phone, which gave me hope that it was the boat’s owner.
‘Mr Charles Lavender?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘I’m a police officer, Mr Lavender. I’d like to come and see you about your cabin cruiser.’
‘Ah, at last. When were you thinking of coming?’
‘This afternoon if that would be convenient.’
‘Yes, this afternoon would be ideal. But where are you coming from?’
‘London. I understand that you live in Totland. Perhaps you’d give me your address.’
Lavender emitted a loud sigh. ‘I used to live in Totland,’ he said, ‘but I moved to Cowes eight years ago.’ He gave me his current address. ‘I keep telling the authority that holds the register of boat owners that I’ve moved, but it would appear they still haven’t updated their records. But why are you coming from London? It was the police in Cornwall who telephoned my daughter and told her that my cruiser had fetched up in Penzance and that someone from Hampshire police would call me.’
‘I think it would be easier if I explained when I got there, Mr Lavender.’
‘That’s probably for the best. It’s beginning to sound complicated.’
I glanced at my watch. There was just enough time for Dave and me to go out to Heathrow and speak to Clare Hughes, the security officer at the airline for whom Madison Bailey had worked. I was aiming to catch a train to Southampton and then cross to West Cowes by the Red Jet catamaran ferry which takes about twenty-five minutes. Overall, a more comfortable journey than our recent trips to the Isles of Scilly and the West Country.
I sent for Steve Harvey, our latest addition to the MIT, and told him to drive us to the airport and wait, in order that he could drop us at Waterloo on the way back from there. Harvey had replaced the late John Appleby who had been murdered on duty and whose name now appears on the Roll of Honour at New Scotland Yard. Not that it’s much comfort to his young widow Patricia, a nursing sister.
Clare Hughes wasn’t in her office. She was ‘out and about’, as her assistant in the outer office vaguely put it, but he would call her and tell her we were here.
Ten minutes later, Clare appeared, apologized and ushered us into her office.
‘Been out putting my ear to the ground, Harry. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Clare,’ I began. ‘Madison Bailey has been murdered.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Clare was ex-Job and expressed no emotion whatever, but that’s what thirty years of policing does for you. ‘She had a reputation for putting herself about, if you know what I mean. Rumour even had it that she was a member of the mile-high club. What happened to her?’
I told Clare the story of the drugs, the man in the cabin cruiser and the finding of her body at Lamorna Cove in Cornwall.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Harry. If I hear any scuttlebutt that might help your enquiries, I’ll give you a bell.’
‘Thanks. I’d be grateful if you would you let Jeanette Davis know, Clare. She’s cabin crew with your airline, but she shares a flat with Madison Bailey. Or did. It would save me a run out there.’
‘Sure. Leave it to me, Harry. I’ll let her know next time she comes on duty.’
SEVENTEEN
Charles Lavender lived in a large house not far from the coast of the Isle of Wight. He answered the door and showed us into his sitting room. I reckoned he was about fifty years of age, and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and possessed a full head of iron-grey hair.
‘This is all a damned funny business, Chief Inspector,’ Lavender said, after I’d introduced Dave and myself. ‘When we spoke on the phone, you said something about explaining it all face-to-face.’ He waved towards a couple of armchairs. ‘Do sit down.’
We were about to do so when a woman appeared in the open doorway. She was dressed in jeans and a Breton sweater and although clearly quite a bit younger than Charles Lavender, I wondered if she was, in fact, his wife, but he answered that question for me.
‘This is my daughter, Natalie,’ he said. ‘She’s looked after me since my wife died a couple of years ago. These are the police officers I told you were coming about the boat, my dear.’
‘Hi,’ said Natalie. ‘Would you like a cup
of tea?’
‘Thank you. That would be most welcome.’ Dave and I sat down. ‘We’re attached to a murder investigation team at New Scotland Yard, Mr Lavender.’ I began to explain why I was here rather than a Hampshire officer or even a Cornish one. ‘We have reason to believe that the man who stole your cabin cruiser is responsible for a murder, maybe even two.’
Lavender looked like a man who read the newspapers and the moment I mentioned the Pretext Club, he told me that he had read all about the murder that had taken place there and found it quite intriguing, which was more than I did. I then gave him a brief rundown about Madison Bailey’s body being found at Lamorna Cove in Cornwall by a couple taking an early morning swim. I told him that she was last seen climbing aboard his stolen cabin cruiser off St Mary’s in the Isles of Scilly. I made no mention of the drugs aspect as I thought that would confuse matters even more for Lavender, even though he appeared to be an intelligent man.
‘Good God! I’d no idea.’ Charles Lavender was clearly taken aback at the thought of a double murderer stealing his boat. ‘But how did you make the connection between this murderer and my cabin cruiser?’
‘We’re not exactly amateurs at this business, Mr Lavender. We’ve been flat out on this enquiry for almost three weeks.’ Although Dave smiled as he said it, he had no intention of revealing the finer points of the investigation. Like me, he was conscious of the lure of cheque-book journalism, and the last thing we wanted now was for Brooks, assuming he was our man, to learn how far we’d got with our enquiries. In fact, it had been simple. We’d taken a note of the number of Lavender’s cabin cruiser when we’d seen it at St Mary’s and traced him that way, despite the records showing him as living in Totland.
Natalie Lavender came into the room with a large tray, pausing as she looked around for somewhere to put it. Dave shifted an occasional table, took the tray from her and set it down in front of her.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, and began to pour the tea.
‘I’m only a lowly sergeant, Miss Lavender,’ said Dave. ‘If I was very clever, I’d be a chief inspector.’
‘Oh, come off it.’ Natalie laughed and handed round the tea. She paused as she gave Dave his. ‘Were you at London University by any chance?’
‘Yes, I was, Miss Lavender. Reading English. And you?’
‘The same, and for goodness’ sake call me Natalie. I thought I recognized you. But you’ve joined the fuzz!’ The implication was that Dave had done something quite awful, in addition to which he’d wasted his degree.
‘When will you be returning my boat?’ asked Charles Lavender, cutting sharply across this cosy little chat. Dave later told me that as we’d entered the house, he’d seen a plaque in the hall that bore the arms of Balliol College, Oxford, and thought that Lavender was probably a bit sniffy about London University, even though his daughter had graduated from there.
‘It’s something you’ll have to discuss with the police in Cornwall, Mr Lavender. They might ask you to go down there to collect it,’ I said. ‘Incidentally, to clarify something: was your boat stolen from Cowes or do you keep it somewhere else?’
‘No. From here in Cowes. I moor it at one of the sailing clubs. I’ve a golfing partner who’s the secretary there, you see. I thought it would be reasonably safe, but it seems it wasn’t.’
‘Obviously not. However, Mr Lavender, your inflatable dinghy was not found.’
‘What inflatable dinghy? There wasn’t one on the boat.’
‘We’ve established that the murdered woman was picked up in an inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor and taken out to your cabin cruiser, Mr Lavender. As I said just now, this occurred at Porthcressa Beach at St Mary’s on the Isles of Scilly.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I’ve got an inflatable, but it’s still here. Deflated and in my garage, as a matter of fact. D’you want to see it?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you, Mr Lavender. Now, to get to the purpose of my coming to see you. The police in Cornwall want to have a set of your fingerprints.’
‘Why on earth would they want my fingerprints? Do they suspect me of some crime?’
‘No, not at all. Their forensic examiners found a number of fingerprints that they’ve been unable to identify. Those prints were on the steering wheel of your cabin cruiser and elsewhere on the boat. I imagine that some of them will be yours and, once they’ve been eliminated, those that are left will belong to the man we want to speak to in connection with the two murders I mentioned. At least, I hope they will.’
‘Do I have to find a police station that’s open? Or even find a police station?’ Lavender, in common with a lot of taxpayers, was unhappy about the number of police stations that had been shut down in an attempt to offset the swingeing cuts the government had imposed on the police. Regrettably, all that had been achieved was to alienate the very public it should be serving.
‘No, Mr Lavender. My sergeant has brought the necessary equipment with him.’
‘Oh, fine. Where d’you want to do it, Sergeant?’ asked Lavender, addressing Dave.
‘The most practical place to do it would be on, say, a kitchen table, sir.’
‘Follow me,’ said Natalie, and led the way to the large kitchen at the back of the house.
‘I thought the police used these electronic hand-held gizmos now,’ said Lavender, glancing at the inkpad, metal plate and other paraphernalia that Dave was laying out.
‘They’re mainly used for roadside checks by the traffic police,’ said Dave, ‘in order to establish if someone has a criminal record. This is the old tried and trusted method.’ When he’d finished taking Charles Lavender’s finger impressions, he turned to Lavender’s daughter. ‘I presume you’ve been on your father’s boat, Natalie.’
‘Oh, yes. Daddy and I spend as much time on the water as we can. We were bloody annoyed when we found that some rotten bastard had pinched the boat.’
‘In that case, I shall need to take your prints as well.’
As he had done with Charles Lavender, Dave held Natalie’s hand as he guided each finger first on to the inked plate and then rolled it on to the form to get a good impression.
‘Are our fingerprints kept on record forever, now, Chief Inspector?’ asked Lavender, once Dave had finished. It was a common enough question from the average upright citizen who’d had his prints taken for elimination purposes and who was concerned about his civil rights.
But it was Dave who answered. ‘Good heavens, no. Once we’ve identified those on the boat as yours, we destroy the ones I’ve taken today. We’ve got enough villains clogging up the system without keeping those of innocent members of the public.’ Dave packed his equipment and we took our leave.
We returned to London, and Dave arranged for Colin Wilberforce to forward the Lavenders’ fingerprints to DI Trevelion at Penzance. I telephoned him to tell him they were on their way.
‘Incidentally, Mr Brock. Our fingerprint people were able to get a print from Madison Bailey’s neck.’
‘Has it been identified, John?’ This was exciting news indeed.
‘It’s only a partial, Mr Brock. What I mean is that there aren’t the sixteen points we’d like to have to put before a jury, but our fingerprint lady did match it with some of those on the steering wheel.’
‘I just hope your partial doesn’t match Charles Lavender, the boat’s loser,’ I said.
‘Oh God, d’you really think it might, Mr Brock?’ Trevelion sounded grave, as though the thought had not occurred to him.
‘No, no, John,’ I said hurriedly. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Trevelion, and burst out laughing, proving once again that police black humour crosses force boundaries. ‘But as I told you when you were down here, none of the prints we found on the steering wheel are on record. It would appear that our murderer has no previous convictions. Scrapings taken from under the victim’s fingernails showed that she’d managed to draw blood fr
om somewhere on the killer’s body, and we’re waiting to see if it matches any DNA samples that are on record.’
I’d thought about this enigma ever since hearing it, but I wasn’t sure whether to regard it as good news or bad news. It crossed my mind that maybe this whole drug business and the murder of Madison Bailey might have nothing whatever to do with the death of Robert Sharp at the Pretext Club. Clare Hughes had said that Madison ‘put herself about’ and it followed, therefore, that her murderer might not have been James Brooks after all, but some other man with whom she’d forged a relationship. Perhaps this mystery man had never been to the Pretext Club and his only interest in Madison Bailey was her usefulness in smuggling cocaine from Colombia.
It was no great comfort that, in my experience, murderers are eventually brought to book. Even if it takes twenty years. But I’d prefer to clear this one sooner rather than later.
It is probably a truism that most criminals are not very intelligent. There are, however, a few who are very intelligent and, by the same token, overconfident. Those individuals make the mistake of trying to be too clever by committing a crime that’s too sophisticated, and that often finishes up trapping them. The police call it over-egging the pudding. And that’s how it turned out to be with the Pretext Club and Lamorna Cove murders.
I anticipated progress being slow for a day or two while administrative matters took their course in the murder assigned to me and the one in Cornwall in which I had an interest. I had taken a chance and spent the weekend with Lydia, but it wasn’t really a relaxing few days because I felt guilty at taking time off when the rest of the team were slaving away. Apart from which, I expected a phone call to come at any moment – nothing in particular, it’s just that weekends with Lydia always seem to be interrupted by work.
But progress was faster than I’d anticipated. DI John Trevelion’s forensic examiner had sent the fingerprints found on Charles Lavender’s yacht, and the partial found on Madison’s neck, to the national fingerprint database the moment they had been lifted.