‘I’m no glory grabber,’ he told Geraldine.
Coming from someone less contented, it might have sounded as if he was sniping at Geraldine for being ambitious. As it was, she understood he was simply stating a fact. She liked the sergeant. He joked that he had only joined the police because of his name.
‘So, Bill, what have you got for us?’ Geraldine asked as they entered the room.
There was an atmosphere of cheerful industry, with a row of constables all concentrating on screens. The sergeant shook his head.
‘Don’t tell us you haven’t found anything. I was relying on you to knock this on the head for us by now.’
‘Sorry, Geraldine. I’d have the idiot who left that van there cuffed and locked up, all ready for you, but –’ He raised his pudgy hands in the air. ‘We’ve studied the footage of the crash and you’ll be very interested to know the Porsche didn’t crash into a stationary van as we first thought. It was more complicated than that, because the van was travelling too.’
‘The van was moving? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. The van drove round the corner and accelerated towards the Porsche. The Porsche slammed on its brakes, but the two vehicles were too close to avoid an almighty collision.’
Geraldine was shocked. With both vehicles travelling towards each other the impact would have been intensified, which explained why the damage was so extensive.
‘We need to know who was driving that van,’ she said.
‘We’ve gone through the five minutes immediately following the crash so far, but nothing’s come up. The streets around are completely deserted from every angle. God only knows where the driver disappeared to.’
‘Was he in the van when it crashed?’
‘Well, we couldn’t see anyone, but there must have been someone in the driver’s seat. The van couldn’t have driven itself round the corner and accelerated towards the Porsche. But it’s impossible to see who’s driving it. We’ve examined every frame. We’ll carry on watching the scene until the taxi driver turns up –’
‘Here he comes now,’ one of the team called out. ‘Seven minutes after the crash. The taxi’s arrived.’
But there was still no sign of the van driver. He had simply vanished.
Chapter 7
THE TAXI DRIVER WHO had reported the accident lived in a maisonette downstairs in a Victorian property off Ealing Broadway. The original narrow front garden had been paved over to provide off street parking for his taxi. There was barely space for another vehicle to park behind it. Two scrubby shrubs stood in pots on either side of a white front door. As they approached, they could see the paint was peeling on the door and window frames. Geraldine rang the bell and a few moments later a skinny dark-haired woman opened the door. She looked surprised when Geraldine asked for Bernard Hallam by name.
‘Who are you?’ she asked sharply. ‘What do you want with him?’
Geraldine held up her warrant card and introduced herself.
‘Oh, you’re here about what happened on Friday night, are you? They said you might be back. My father was really shook up about it.’ She sniffed disapprovingly, as though Geraldine was somehow responsible for the accident. ‘What a terrible business that was, terrible. And no fit thing for a man his age to be dealing with when he should have been at home in bed.’
She was more concerned about her father than the fact that a woman had died in the crash.
‘We’d like to have a word with Mr Hallam. Is he in?’
‘Yes. He’s taken a few days off, thank the lord. Well, come on in, if you must. He’s here. Although why you need to come bothering him at home on a weekend is beyond me.’
‘We won’t keep him long.’
She took them into a neat little living room where a white-haired man sat hunched in an armchair, watching football. His daughter muted the television and he frowned.
‘What are you doing, Rose, I was –’
‘There’s a police inspector here, dad. She wants to talk to you.’
He looked up and gave a tired smile. Geraldine sat down and declined tea.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Bernie’s daughter said.
She stooped down and gave the top of his head a quick kiss before she went out, closing the door behind her.
Bernie kept his eyes on the television.
‘It was a dreadful business,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘A dreadful business.’
‘It must have been a shock to come across the accident like that,’ Geraldine agreed.
‘Well, I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you. A white Porsche had gone slap bang into a black van round the one way system. Crashed into it head on. It was the van driver’s fault, going the wrong way. They must have been going at a hell of a speed. But of course you know that already. It was a hell of a crash, but that’s all I know. I can’t tell you anything about the victim. All I saw was the shape of a woman’s head. I knew she was dead. I called the police straight away.’
Geraldine sat forward, her attention caught by a couple of his remarks.
‘How did you know the driver was dead?’
‘Well, I didn’t know exactly, but the body wasn’t moving and there was a hell of a lot of blood in the front of the car. In any case, stands to reason, no one could have survived that, could they? There was nothing I could have done about it, anyway,’ he added defensively. ‘I couldn’t get at the body. And even if I had been able to, I wouldn’t have known what to do. For all I knew the whole thing might have been about to blow. I did the only thing I could. I called the emergency services and kept away.’
Geraldine gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
‘Mr Hallam, we’re not here to question you about your actions. I’m sure you did what you thought was best at the time and, as you say, there wasn’t much else you could have done.’
‘Nothing, short of climbing in there myself, and I’m not a young man.’
Like Anna’s boyfriend, Geraldine thought inconsequentially.
‘You couldn’t have done anything for her.’
‘It was a woman in there, then, was it? I thought so.’
Geraldine nodded. Briefly she told him a few details about the victim.
‘I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question.’
He nodded solemnly.
‘Did you see anyone in the van, or in the street, walking away from the accident? Anyone at all? Think carefully, please.’
He didn’t pause to consider before answering.
‘There was no one else there, only me.’
‘I thought you had a passenger?’
‘Well, yes, and him of course, but he was in the cab and hardly went near the crash.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I didn’t see or hear anyone.’
‘One other question. You said you arrived on the scene after the accident took place?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘What made you say the vehicles drove into each other, head on?’
He looked round from the television with a puzzled frown.
‘I saw them, same as you.’
‘So the van could have been stationary when the Porsche went into it?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I can’t see how that could be possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, given the extent of the damage – I suppose I just assumed both vehicles had been moving. I mean, I don’t see how one car could have accelerated to such a speed over such a short distance to do that amount of damage.’
As they walked back to the car, they considered what the witness had told them.
‘He seemed to know the van wasn’t stationary, even though he claimed he wasn’t there at the time,’ Sam said.
‘Yes. But then again, he’s spent a lifetime driving. I suppose he must have a pretty shrewd understanding of what’s likely in a collision.’
They agreed it was far-fetched to suppose the white-
haired taxi driver could have been involved in the car crash, even though, by his own admission, he and his fare had been the only other people present.
‘There might have been someone else there. Hallam must’ve been preoccupied by the sight of the crash, no doubt in a bit of a tizz. The other driver could have slipped away without Hallam noticing,’ Sam said. ‘He might have been hiding in the back of the van until the coast was clear.’
Geraldine shook her head in frustration. ‘No one could have survived the crash intact. It’s impossible that anyone could have been behind the wheel.’
Equally, it didn’t make sense that the van driver could have survived to leave the scene without being spotted.
‘Is it possible Bernard Hallam could have been driving the van himself?’ Sam suggested.
‘I don’t see how he could have been. He was in his taxi.’
‘That’s what he told us. But what if that’s not the whole story?’
They sat in the car and Sam outlined her theory. But she had to agree it was impossible for him to have left his taxi nearby, set the van off in the direction of the Porsche, then somehow jumped out before it really got up speed. He would have had to run off to collect his taxi and driven back round the corner to the scene of the accident in time to be first back on the scene to call the police. The theory would explain his presence at the scene, and account for any traces of his DNA in the van. All the same, it was impossible to believe the old man capable of achieving so superhuman a feat.
‘And why?’ Geraldine concluded. ‘Why on earth would he have done it? And could he really have jumped out of a speeding van? I mean, really?’
‘Could anyone? But apparently someone did.’
A sergeant had been investigating Bernard Hallam. They called the station to ask if he had anything to add to what they knew. He hadn’t discovered any connection between the victim and the witness who had a clean record, and appeared to have been happily married for over forty years. Apart from the impossibility of his driving the van, he was an unlikely suspect.
As Geraldine was dismissing the theory as groundless, Sam latched onto it with enthusiasm.
‘Perhaps he was stalking her.’
‘Stalking her?’
‘Yes! She was a well known TV actress, wasn’t she? In Down and Out. The cast of these shows always have people stalking them, and his wife died less than a year ago, after a long marriage. He might have been suffering some sort of grief-crazed obsession with Anna as a reaction to his wife’s death.’
Sam was getting excited about her theory. Geraldine thought about it for a few minutes, but it didn’t seem possible.
‘You were the one who didn’t think Piers was guilty,’ Sam reminded her. ‘Someone must have been driving that van.’
Geraldine thought it quite likely someone had used Piers’ van to throw the police off the scent by casting suspicion on its owner. With Piers so obvious a suspect, there would be no need for the police to look elsewhere for the other driver. Meanwhile, Piers had been alone at home, with no alibi.
‘It’s perverse to think Piers is innocent, just because it looks like he did it,’ Sam had objected when Geraldine pointed that out. ‘Surely that’s exactly why we ought to be thinking he is guilty.’
‘It’s too neat.’
Sam had scowled at her.
‘Come on then, let’s go back in and speak to the taxi driver again, before it gets any later,’ Geraldine said.
This time Hallam’s daughter greeted them more aggressively.
‘You again. What now? You’ve already spoken to him once tonight, and another policeman questioned him on Friday night. How many more times do you want to speak to him? He’s got nothing more to tell you.’
Still grumbling, she led them back to the living room where her father sat dozing in his chair.
‘Dad, dad, they’re here again. Dad!’
She shook his shoulder gently and he opened his eyes with a start.
‘What? What?’
He caught sight of Geraldine standing in the doorway.
‘Oh no, what now?’
He watched her through narrowed eyes as she took out her notebook.
‘Writing it all down now, are you? Oh dear. Does this mean you’ll be back again in half an hour with a video camera?’
He laughed nervously, trying to make a joke of their return visit. He was clearly feeling anxious.
‘A few more questions, Mr Hallam, and then we’ll leave you in peace. We’d like to know about your movements on Friday night before you reached Ashland Place.’
Hallam shifted into a more upright position.
‘I’ve been doing night shifts. The roads aren’t as busy –’
‘He ought to retire, that’s what he ought to be doing,’ his daughter interrupted.
It sounded as though this was a familiar argument.
‘Now then, Rose.’
She turned to Geraldine.
‘Do you know how old he is?’
Geraldine ignored her.
‘You reported the accident at five past three. Where were you between one and three on Friday night?’
‘I was driving.’
He launched into a rambling account of his journey that night. He had spent about twenty minutes cruising around Central London before picking up a man from the Landmark Hotel. He had no idea who his fare was. All he could say was that his passenger was an American, a big man who had been quite belligerent when Bernie had stopped in Ashland Place.
‘He kept on at me, telling me to take him to his hotel, as though nothing had happened.’
Geraldine was puzzled.
‘You were taking your passenger from the Landmark Hotel near Baker Street to the Dorchester?’
Bernard nodded and fidgeted awkwardly on his chair when she leaned forward and asked why he had left the main road to drive round the one way system and along Ashland Place. With no hold up on the Marylebone Road, there was no reason for him to have made the detour.
‘Why did you leave the main road?’ she repeated.
He shrugged, and glanced uncomfortably at his daughter, mumbling something about traffic.
‘You know we can check that. It’ll all be recorded on cameras along the route.’
With a sigh, the taxi driver admitted he hadn’t taken his fare a direct route to his hotel.
‘He didn’t know. He was American. It was only a few extra quid and it wouldn’t have made any difference to him. At that time of night, he was lucky to get a cab at all.’
He turned to his daughter with an apologetic shrug.
‘Everyone does it, Rose.’
‘Oh dad. You could get into trouble –’
‘Don’t be stupid, Rose. I was tired, all right. I just wanted to make the journey count and then I was going to pack up for the night. He didn’t care. He was loaded –’
‘You don’t know that,’ Rose interrupted.
‘I could tell. In any case, I don’t suppose he was paying for it himself. It would all have been on expenses, so what difference did it make? Only then I drove into that accident. Jesus. I tell you what, I wish I had kept to the main road.’
‘Serves you right,’ his daughter retorted.
Chapter 8
THEY DROVE BACK TO the station without talking much. It had been a long day and Geraldine was worn out. Sam was tired too and they parted as soon as they arrived at the station. It was gone nine and they still had to get home.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Good night.’
‘Have a good evening.’
Geraldine nodded. As she turned away, she wondered whether Sam was also going home to put her feet up, or if she was planning to get changed and go out. It was Saturday evening, after all, and Sam was still in her early twenties.
Alone, Geraldine made her way back through the evening traffic. The streets in Islington were crowded with pedestrians. Gangs of young women tottered on absurdly high heels, dressed in flimsy fabric and fake fur.
Couples sauntered hand in hand, studying menus as they passed the cafes and restaurants along Upper Street. Other people hurried by on their way to the station. Later the mood would deteriorate as growing numbers of drunken revellers wandered the streets, but for now there was an optimistic atmosphere, everyone intent on having a good night out. Her flat felt empty when she closed the front door and kicked off her shoes. It was a relief to shuffle into her slippers, but the silence which was usually welcoming felt somehow oppressive. The contrast to the bustling Saturday evening streets was stark.
Geraldine loved her flat. It was her own space. She could put her things wherever she wanted. Usually she stacked her small dishwasher as soon as she finished eating, but if she chose she could leave her dirty dishes in the sink without anyone criticising or nagging her. It was the same everywhere in the flat. Naturally quite tidy, there were times when she lazily left the place in a mess for days on end. To be fair, that usually happened when she was absorbed in an investigation and had neither the time nor the energy to bother with chores. But sometimes her solitude slipped into loneliness and she wished someone was there to greet her when she came home, someone else to put the kettle on, and ask her about her day. She tried not to think about her long term boyfriend, now married to someone else. It was a while since Mark had walked out on her and she rarely thought about him any more. But at times like this she couldn’t help missing him.
After a quick shower she fixed herself a plate of pasta and settled down with a glass of Chianti to watch an old film on TCM. A good film generally succeeded in taking her mind off work, but this evening she wasn’t distracted by the cleverly executed twists of a Hitchcock plot, nor did she lose herself in the skilfully built suspense. Her mind kept wandering back to the white-faced girl in the mortuary, barely twenty years old and brutally murdered on a London street not far from where Geraldine was relaxing at the end of the day. As the black and white drama played out on the screen, she pictured a figure leaning forward over the wheel of a van, driving towards Anna’s Porsche. In her mind’s eye she watched the two vehicles crash. As Anna lay injured, possibly dying, her assailant reached in through the window and sliced through her neck with a sharp piece of glass, to vanish moments before a taxi cruised into the street. All that was missing from the scene was the identity of the van driver, and the killer who had appeared so suddenly, and disappeared without trace. If Geraldine had been superstitious, she might have been tempted to suppose Anna had been attacked by a supernatural force. Not only had the ghostly driver crashed into Anna’s car, he had mysteriously spirited her killer away. The whole scenario was impossible, like a teasing mystery film, only this story had actually happened, and there was no rational explanation for the strange series of events. The credits came up to tell her the film was over and she switched off the television with a sigh.
Fatal Act Page 4