Suddenly at Home

by Graham Ison

  Dave picked up a car and we drove to Victor Downs’s address in Hampstead. It proved to be an elegant house that was undoubtedly worth a small fortune, and caused me to think that Downs wasn’t a run-of-the-mill owner of a health club. I suspected that it had been but one entry among many in a substantial property portfolio.

  ‘Yes, sirs?’ The Thai butler who opened the door was immaculate in black jacket and striped trousers. He gazed at us with a face devoid of expression.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ I said, an announcement that elicited no change of expression. ‘We would like to have a word with Mr Downs, if he’s available.’

  ‘Please come in, sirs.’ The butler spoke excellent, but stilted and slightly accented, English. ‘I will inform the master of your presence. Wait here, please.’ He pointed peremptorily to a spot in the centre of the tiled hall and disappeared through a door leading off at one side. Moments later he returned. ‘Please to step this way, sirs.’

  I have found over the years that when people are unexpectedly visited by the police, they are either apprehensive that they are about to receive bad news or even more apprehensive that some crime in their past has at last been detected. Victor Downs’s face was, however, as devoid of expression as was that of his butler.

  ‘My man tells me you’re from the Old Bill, squire.’ Downs possessed a well-built, muscular body, a bald pate, a discreet gold earring in his left ear and bushy sideburns that joined up with an abundant unkempt moustache. I suspected that somewhere beneath the expensive suit he was wearing there lurked a number of tattoos. It was evident from his tanned complexion that he spent a lot of time in the sun, and I assumed that he passed much of the winter in warmer climes than this country could offer.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Downs,’ I said, and introduced Dave and myself.

  ‘Local nick, are you?’

  ‘No, Scotland Yard. Murder Investigation Team.’

  This news had no impact on Downs’s facial expression. ‘What can I do for you, then?’ He selected a Montecristo cigar from a cedarwood box on the mantelshelf and waved it nonchalantly at a couple of easy chairs. ‘Take the weight off of your plates o’ meat, gents.’ He remained standing in front of the fireplace, which had a rather fine Georgian stripped pine surround. It seemed a little out of place and I suspected that it had been installed after the house had been built. Above it was an abstract painting that jarred badly with the various pieces of antique furniture in the room, themselves seemingly incompatible one with another. Dave subsequently dismissed Downs as ‘a man with too much money and too little taste’.

  I explained briefly about the health club that Downs had once owned and why I wished to speak to anyone who had been involved in its management.

  ‘I never went near the place, squire, and I ain’t got a clue who was running it.’ Downs spoke dismissively and spent a moment or two expertly examining his cigar. He held it to his ear and rolled it between his fingers before cutting off the end with a six-inch-high model of a guillotine and applying a flame from a table lighter that was a miniature version of the Blackpool Tower, both of which were on the mantelshelf. Despite this apparently professional way of attending to his expensive cigar, he then left the band on it. ‘It was just somewhere to put some of me moolah, temporary like,’ he continued. ‘It was one of many and when this building company come up with the right amount of noughts behind the number, I flogged it. Know what I mean?’ It was obvious from his idiomatic English and rhyming slang, delivered in a rich cockney accent, that Downs was the archetypal self-made man.

  ‘So you don’t know who was in charge of the place, Mr Downs,’ said Dave.

  ‘Not a clue, squire, but I’ll have a word with my accountant, if you like. He’s the main man. He’s got an eagle eye and he knows everything, so long as it has something to do with money. Hold on.’ Downs walked to the door. ‘Ram, get the bookkeeper on the trombone, will you?’ he shouted. A minute or so later a ‘candlestick’ telephone rang. ‘Real antique, that phone,’ volunteered Downs as he crossed the room to a rosewood davenport that must have been worth a couple of grand at the very least. To Dave’s horror, Downs placed his lighted cigar on the edge of this priceless piece of furniture before picking up the receiver. After a brief conversation, he turned to me and said, ‘Apparently it was some bird called Katherine Thompson. The bookkeeper reckoned she managed the whole caboodle. According to him he settled a pretty big redundancy package on her. With my money! I’ll have to speak to him about that.’ Rooting about in the davenport until he found an old envelope, he wrote Katherine Thompson’s details on the back of it. ‘There you go, squire,’ he said as he handed it over.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Downs,’ I said, taking the proffered envelope.

  Downs walked to the door. ‘Ram!’ he shouted.

  A few seconds later, the Thai butler appeared. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Show these gents out, Ram.’

  ‘Please to come this way, sirs.’

  I decided to push on to Katherine Thompson’s flat, and it was close to five thirty by the time we pulled up at the block where she lived. It was in a narrow street near the River Thames at Ham – referred to as a village by its inhabitants – that was situated between Richmond and Kingston. Thanks to a bit more of Dave’s positive driving, we arrived there from Hampstead in record time. Outside the block, a removal van was parked behind an ageing Ford Escort, which must have been at least twenty years old.

  The flat we were looking for was on the first floor and we were obliged to stand aside as two removal men inched their way down the stairs struggling with a large television set.

  ‘If you’re from the removal company—’ began a woman standing in the doorway of the flat where we had been told Katherine Thompson lived.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ I said, cutting across what I was sure was going to be a complaint.

  ‘Oh, sorry. D’you want me?’

  ‘If you’re Katherine Thompson.’ I recognized her as being one of the staff members whose photographs the project manager of the building company had given us, but it’s always as well to make sure.

  ‘I am, and if you’re here about that car parked outside—’

  ‘We’re not interested in your car, miss.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not my car, but the wretched thing’s been there for weeks now. It’s an eyesore. I keep complaining to the council, but nothing’s been done about it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now I’m moving.’

  Katherine Thompson was no beauty, but she was a strikingly good-looking woman in a coarse sort of way. She had a good figure and noticeably sensuous lips, but what could have been an attractive face was slightly marred by rather spiteful penetrating brown eyes. She had long black hair that was pinned up untidily, as though she couldn’t be bothered to do anything else with it but which I suspected would be attractive when cared for and worn long. She was attired in a pair of denim shorts that showed off her legs to advantage, a paint-stained shirt and a pair of flip-flops. But to counter this overall appearance of scruffiness, her toenails had been carefully varnished a bright red.

  ‘How can I help you, then? Has there been a burglary or something?’

  I was about to tell her why we were there when we were interrupted by one of the removal men reappearing halfway up the stairs. ‘We’re off to grab a bite to eat now, love.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Back about half six. All right?’ Without waiting for an answer, he scurried back down the stairs. I suspected that Katherine Thompson had probably told him what she thought of him and he wanted to avoid a further confrontation.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ she exclaimed in frustration. ‘No one seems to be able to get anything right these days. Anyway, sorry to loose off like that. Do come in. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea. If they haven’t taken all the necessities, that is.’

  We followed her into the sitting-room-cum-kitchen and introduced ourselves.

  ‘Detectives, eh? Oh dear, that sounds se
rious.’ She paused in the act of filling the kettle and frowned as though trying to work out why she had been visited by a couple of detectives. ‘I’m sorry there’s nothing to sit on, but as you can see I’m in the middle of moving.’

  ‘I don’t envy you the turmoil,’ I said.

  Katherine Thompson laughed. ‘Thanks, but it actually looks tidier without furniture than it has done for ages. Anyway, I please myself when and how I clean it or tidy it. I live alone, you see … at the moment.’ She shot me a flirtatious smile, but then as quickly changed back to the critical. ‘I’ve only got a few sticks of furniture, but the speed those removal men are working they’re going to take half the night before they’ve got it all in the van. They didn’t get here until three this afternoon, and I’d just phoned the company and asked why there were only two of them. They said they’d send two more and that’s who I thought you were. Sorry! Are mugs all right for the tea?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I said, hoping she would soon run out of things to complain about.

  ‘Just as well, because all the cups and saucers seem to have gone,’ she said and put a teabag in each of the three mugs on the worktop. ‘What’s this all about?’ she asked, as she poured in boiling water. ‘Are you sure it’s me you want to speak to?’

  ‘We understand that you were the manageress of a health club in Richmond,’ began Dave.

  ‘That’s right, although I was usually known as the manager,’ said Katherine.

  ‘But I understand it’s now closed, Miss Thompson,’ said Dave, well knowing it was.

  ‘It’s Kat, Sergeant,’ she said, handing us mugs of tea.

  ‘What is?’ asked Dave, looking round the room as if seeking a feline of some description.

  ‘Kat is short for Katherine. Everyone calls me Kat. Anyway, why does managing a health club interest the police, particularly now it’s closed? It’s being pulled down so they can build flats or houses or something. The trouble is, some people have got no soul.’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of a man named Richard Cooper,’ I said. ‘He was a regular user of your swimming pool, or so we’ve been told.’ This was no time to explain that Cooper was actually Dirk Cuyper, who had passed himself off as a Belgian police officer. Anyway, that was nothing to do with Kat Thompson and any attempt to explain it would only have complicated matters.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the name doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘As he was a frequent visitor at this health club in Richmond, we thought you might have known him,’ said Dave.

  ‘No, I didn’t know him. Did someone suggest I did?’ She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her tea.

  ‘It was just one of many possibilities that we have to follow up,’ said Dave, skilfully avoiding identifying his source of information.

  ‘It was quite a big set-up, and I didn’t know every member of the club just because I was the manager,’ said Kat. ‘I had a staff that dealt with membership, and others who checked passes when members arrived; and there were poolside attendants and personal trainers. Without wishing to sound conceited, a lot of the men who used the pool at the club seemed to fancy me, but there were always men like that among the membership. I used to wander around all day in my Speedo, and when these guys see a girl with all her bumps in the right place wearing a wet figure-hugging swimsuit their testosterone runs riot. You’d be surprised how many times I got chatted up.’

  ‘You’re a keen swimmer, then?’ I said, thinking that could be the only reason she spent all day in a swimsuit.

  ‘Yes, I love it. I’d spend as long as I could in the water, and at one time I even thought about trying to get into the Olympic team.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I eventually gave it up. It gets to the point where training takes over your life and doesn’t leave time for anything else. Well, that wasn’t my scene. Anyway, as a matter of interest what happened? I mean, how did this guy die?’

  ‘He was murdered at about midday last Friday at his apartment in Cockcroft Court, North Sheen.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Kat Thompson sounded shocked. ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘We don’t know at this stage,’ I said. ‘We’re awaiting the results of the post-mortem.’ I knew exactly how he’d died, of course, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone who didn’t need to know. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else, but perhaps you’d give Sergeant Poole your new address in case we need to speak to you again.’

  ‘Sure, and I hope you catch whoever did it.’ Kat gave Dave details of an address in Thames Ditton, and her mobile phone number.

  ‘Thames Ditton isn’t far from Kingston,’ I said. ‘There’s a good swimming pool there. It’s called the Kingfisher.’

  ‘Yes, I know where it is. I’ve sometimes used it in the past.’ Kat gave me a quizzical smile. ‘But as a matter of interest, do you policeman always walk around armed with obscure bits of information on the off-chance that someone will ask for them?’

  ‘No, I live in Surbiton.’

  ‘I might see you in the pool one day, then.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that, Kat,’ I said. ‘Exercise is bad for your health.’

  It was gone eight o’clock by the time we got back to the incident room and Dave had put the photograph we’d now identified as Kat Thompson on the board with everyone else who’d so far come to our notice.

  ‘You’ve done enough for one day, Dave,’ I said and sent him home to his wife, Madeleine. Tonight was one of those rare nights when his ballet-dancer wife had the evening off, and he deserved to spend a few hours with her when the opportunity arose. It didn’t often happen during the course of a murder enquiry.

  Detective Sergeant Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident-room manager, stood up and waved a piece of paper in my direction.

  ‘The DAC rang, sir. He asked if you would ring him the minute you got back.’

  ‘Is he at home or in his office, Gavin?’

  ‘In his office, guv.’ Creasey smiled, and I knew what he was smiling at. The commander was always out of the office on the dot of six o’clock, with all the alacrity of a rat going up a drainpipe, but the DAC had been known to work through the night on the rare occasions that demanded it.

  ‘Is Miss Ebdon still here?’

  ‘Yes, guv. In her office.’

  I paused outside Kate’s open door on the way to my own office. ‘D’you want to come in, Kate? I’m about to ring the DAC. I suspect he has some news.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Kate as she followed me into my office. ‘This enquiry’s beginning to get whiskers on it.’

  I tapped out the DAC’s direct number and he picked up on the first ring. The conversation was brief, but the DAC was never one to waste words.

  ‘Our Belgian friends haven’t let the grass grow under their feet, Kate,’ I said once I’d finished my conversation with the DAC. I poured a couple of glasses of Scotch and handed one to Kate. ‘They’ve nicked de Jonker and Janssen, as well as the woman who was posing as Cuyper’s wife.’

  ‘So she wasn’t his wife, despite all that spiel she gave us about Cuyper being a womanizer and de Jonker confirming it.’

  ‘She didn’t even live in the house where we spoke to her, Kate.’

  ‘I thought she was a bit like a cat on hot bricks, Harry. As I said at the time, she was in one hell of a rush to get us out of the place. On reflection, she seemed pleased that we refused a cup of tea. Perhaps she thought the owner would be back at any minute, particularly after that phone rang.’

  ‘Apparently the couple who live there were away on holiday on the French Riviera. The upshot is the Belgian police have nicked her for housebreaking as well as anything else they can turn up. Anyway, the three prisoners are now being interrogated at some length and anything they get they’ll pass on to us. They’ve already learned that years ago de Jonker was an actor, and that Renata’s real name is Anna Veeltkamp, a convicted prostitute.’

  ‘Perhaps she did know Dirk Cuyper after all,’
said Kate sarcastically. ‘I reckon she must be an actress too. She certainly did her best to appear completely without sex appeal, and that takes some doing for a tom.’

  ‘More to the point, it tends to prove that Cuyper, de Jonker, Janssen and now this Veeltkamp woman are all part of the same little team.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was now half past eight of what had been a very long day. It seemed ages ago that Kate and I had left Belgium, but it was only this morning.

  ‘Go home, Kate. See you tomorrow.’

  NINE

  The following day, a Thursday, was the first of August and it was still as hot as ever. There is no doubt that when we finally get an English summer, it takes some beating. Even so, the great British public was now complaining that it was too hot, but it seems to be a feature of our national psyche that we’re not happy unless we’ve got something to moan about.

  ‘I’ve finished doing the searches on the four names you gave me, sir.’ Colin Wilberforce handed me a sheet of paper the moment I walked into the incident room.

  ‘Thanks, Colin. Where’s Dave?’

  ‘Gone out for a haircut, sir.’

  ‘About time, too,’ I said. ‘Ask him to see me when he gets back.’

  Kate and I had only just seated ourselves in my office when Dave returned.

  ‘I’m just having a look at what Colin Wilberforce has turned up on the four names that Pim de Jonker reckoned Cuyper had given him, Dave,’ I began. ‘I must admit that when I first saw them, I thought Cuyper or de Jonker had made them up, particularly now we know that our two Belgians weren’t coppers at all. But it seems the owners of these names really exist.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Dave, ‘he could’ve got them from anywhere. Frankly, guv, I doubt if they’re worth the paper they’re written on. If dishonest detectives can pick names out of the phone book to pad out a report, there’s no telling what a bogus dishonest detective would’ve got up to.’

  ‘Now that we’re fairly certain that Cuyper was actually part of the sex slavery ring operating in this country,’ I said, ‘I think it’s fair to conclude that these names are nothing to do with it or they’re competitors in the same racket.’