“He has his own flat in Marylebone.” Charles pulled out a handkerchief for Penelope, who was now dabbing at her eyes.
“And what was the relationship between the two brothers?”
“Very good,” Charles answered tersely. “Bon idolized Phil. He was planning on going to university to study dentistry so he could join the practice like Phil.”
“We’ll need an address for him.” Bex nodded to Reuben to take a note. He tapped diligently as Charles supplied the details.
“I understand that Bon was seeing Clara Butterworth, the girl who was killed in the accident. Did you meet her?”
“Yes. Bon brought her to a few Monday night dinners and she attended the party we threw for Bon’s birthday. The two of them met at a charity event for an animal refuge I’m the patron of. Bon came to support me. Clara worked for the refuge and they were introduced. She set her cap at him immediately. I could tell she was attracted as soon as she heard his name.” Penelope’s pale-lipsticked mouth puckered with distaste.
“So, you didn’t like Clara?”
Penelope and Charles bristled like a pair of terriers at Bex’s blunt summation. The soft, helpless look on Penelope’s face changed to something stiffer. “I never said that. But it was obvious that the relationship wouldn’t be long-lasting. She wasn’t overly comfortable in Bon’s world. While Bon could fit in anywhere, her lifestyle was vastly different to what he would have inherited. Bon always fell for girls like Clara because he had such a soft heart.”
“So, he’s had a number of girlfriends?” Bex queried.
“I wouldn’t say a number. Maybe one or two.” Penelope’s tone turned defensive, a lioness protecting her cub’s reputation.
“Could I trouble you for their names, ma’am?” Reuben asked gently.
Penelope’s forehead crinkled. “I think he was seeing Stacey something or other before Clara.” Her voice made it obvious that Stacey hadn’t met her expectations either. “And I’m not sure if there were a couple of less steady girlfriends before her. No one that Bon introduced us to, at any rate.”
Bex made a swift note on her own phone to check further into Bon’s previous romantic history in case it could shed light on his relationship with Clara. “Do you know if they were still going out?”
“Bon hadn’t brought her home for dinner for several weeks. When I queried him about her absence, he explained he’d broken off the relationship when he discovered she was two-timing him.”
“Do you have any idea when they might have last spoken in person?”
Both Charles and Penelope shook their heads. Penelope studied Bex for a moment, and Bex noticed her eyes were as bloodshot and red-rimmed as her own. The older woman presented a composed façade, but Bex guessed that hadn’t been the case when she first heard the news.
“I’ve no idea,” Penelope finally answered. “Bon was a very capable young man, but also very private. We trusted him to always do the right thing when it came to the proprieties of any situation. If the girl cheated on Bon, she was a fool to throw our son over for someone less suitable.” Her tone implied less worthy.
“May we trouble you to see Bon’s room?” Bex held her breath, preferring not to produce their search warrant unless pressed.
Charles placed a hand on Penelope’s shoulder to keep her seated, while he stood, a doubtful look settling on his face. “If you think it’s necessary, I’ll take you upstairs myself,” he said, giving them a weighty nod.
Before he could change his mind, Bex and Reuben rose quickly to follow him into the interior of the house. They passed a spiral staircase and Bex was impressed when Charles led them to an elevator that took them swiftly to the third floor. She wondered what was on the other floors. How many rooms did a home need?
Charles trailed them like a hound dog and remained at the doorway while Reuben and she went through Bon’s room.
The bedroom had the same house and garden look of perfection as the downstairs reception room. There was not a speck of dust or a sneaker out of place. Surfaces gleamed and the citrus scent of furniture polish lingered. Bex wondered if the carpet had even been steam-cleaned. Damn! So much for her hope to find clues to Bon’s state of mind. It was looking very unlikely they’d uncover any trace of Bon’s activities here. Perhaps they would have more luck with his room at Harrow.
A built-in desk nestled under the window overlooking the street below. On it was the latest model laptop computer and a flat screen television with a state-of-the-art gaming console and headset attached.
Both Bex and Reuben snapped on gloves. She moved to the desk to switch on the computer, but it was password protected. “Do you have his password?” she asked Charles.
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it in to be examined,” she told him.
Charles crossed his arms and gave her a withering stare. “I don’t want anything leaving Bon’s room,” he stated.
“We have a warrant, Lord Dunreath,” Reuben crowed. He waved the piece of paper in front of Charles’ evil-eyed glare. Charles was not a man who often felt impotent, Bex guessed.
Reuben returned to opening drawers in the bedside tables next to the king-size bed. Bex opened drawers in the study desk. There were four of them strung out horizontally. Three of them contained notebooks, pens and other stationery items. They were inordinately tidy. The last drawer held a desk calendar. She bagged it.
“Check under the mattress,” she ordered Rueben. If Bon was used to the housekeeper tidying up his room it seemed unlikely he’d leave anything telling out in the open.
While Reuben moved onto the built in closet, she moved through the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom. “Do each of the bedrooms have their own bathroom or do they share?” she called back to Charles.
“Three bedrooms on this floor. Each bedroom has its own private bathroom,” he confirmed, now moving to the middle of the room where he could keep an eye on her.
The bathroom was opulently tiled from floor to ceiling. To her left was a free-standing bathtub and on her right was the glassed in rectangle of the shower. The toilet was hidden behind a door set beside the shower. Straight ahead was the basin with a mirror over it and a set of drawers and cupboards underneath. If Bon was assured that he didn’t have to share the bathroom it was possible he had kept secrets here.
“Nothing under the mattress or in the closet.” Reuben followed her.
She nodded towards the toilet cubicle. “I hope you’re not squeamish because I want you to check it out thoroughly,” she ordered.
Reuben wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t that a job for the plumber?” He feigned an outraged tone.
She felt her lips twitching, but refused to give in to the smile. “I’m sure you’ve done worse as an estate agent.”
“You’re right, this isn’t so bad. No rats. No cockroaches. No shit. At least I don’t think there’s any shit.”
“Go take a closer look, Reuben, and let me know for sure.”
She moved to the basin, pulling open the drawers and inspecting the stash of toiletries, shaving products, an economy-sized bottle of mouthwash, vitamin bottles and headache tablets. There was nothing suspicious, not even a bag of white powder. Bon Galliers was either a model son and student or the Galliers’ housekeeper had been tipped big time to make sure he appeared that way.
She returned to the plastic and glass vitamin bottles, some clear that she could see through and others opaque. She flipped the caps from the containers, peering inside. On the third bottle, she spilled the contents over the marble counter: a long silver chain holding a silver-framed glass heart locket. The chain was broken, it’s clasp still closed, as though it had been snatched from its wearer’s neck. She swung the locket from the chain and the wine-dark liquid inside the pendant sloshed gently. Bex peered closer. Was the liquid blood?
Reuben returned from toilet duty and his eyes targeted the swinging locket. Beyond the bathroom doorway she c
ould see Charles’ face, looking as buttoned up as his fastidious suit.
“C.L.B,” she read aloud the engraved initials. “Clara Louise Butterworth?” Both she and Reuben turned quizzically towards Charles.
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before,” he blustered.
She believed him. It was an item that had been overlooked in the massive clean up, taking away any personality that Bon may have left in the room. Bex bagged the jewelry.
She unplugged the laptop and Reuben carried it to the elevator.
“That’s all for now, Lord Dunreath.” She was proud of herself for remembering his title. “We’ll be in touch when we know something more.”
* * *
Bex moved briskly out of the elevator through the foyer. Just as she noticed that Reuben was not beside her, Penelope Galliers grabbed her arm, lunging out from the reception room. She licked her lips, and cast a nervous look behind her. Bex followed her gaze to where Reuben and Charles were standing by the elevator doors, engrossed in conversation.
“When will they release Bon’s body?”
“Once the autopsy results are finalized.”
Bex had the feeling that wasn’t the real question she wanted to ask. Penelope lowered her voice. “I just wondered if you knew her address.”
“Whose address, Mrs Galliers?”
“Clara’s mother, the woman who tried to save my son’s life. They say she gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It’s been all over the television news.”
Her hand clawed at the string of pearls around her neck, tightening the strands fretfully between her fingers until they threatened to break.
“You mean Mrs Butterworth? You must realize, I can’t give out personal information on her. I’m sorry.” Bex had to avert her eyes from the desperation in Penelope’s and her fraught, frantic need to cling to someone who had been the last to see her precious son alive, to ask her if he’d had any last words. Had he regained consciousness? Those achingly unresolved questions about his final moments.
She’d felt them herself, coming out of the blackness of unconsciousness in the aftermath of the accident to realize that she had missed Zane’s last minutes on earth. Pain ripped through her heart again.
“DC Richards, we need to go!” she called down the hallway, trying to hide the cracks in her composure. She had to get out, get away from the despair reeking from Penelope. If she stayed any longer, she didn’t trust herself not to break down on the spot.
Reuben almost bounded through the foyer, accompanied by a more stately Charles. He cast his wife a curious glance, but didn’t stop, herding them ahead of him and out the door.
Making sure they were enclosed in the relative privacy of the car’s bubble, she asked Reuben what Charles had wanted.
“He wanted to know how a Yank came to be at the Met. I think he felt more comfortable talking with a male officer. He’s one of the old school you know. Probably thought you were my personal assistant.”
“Just as long as you don’t, Rueben, we’ll be okay.” A whisper of a smile crossed her lips. “Now, let’s put your cabbie knowledge to the test and see how quickly you can drive us to Phillip Gallier’s flat.”
Chapter 12
Wednesday 5 July
Inside the dirty white brick enclosure of the police pound, George, the Forensic Pound Officer, reluctantly led Quinn to Bon Galliers’ car.
“It hasn’t had a mechanical examination yet,” George told him.
“About that. We’re also going to need Forensics to give it a once-over.”
George raised his eyebrows, curiosity lurking in his eyes. Quinn refused to provide any more details. George’s face pinched as though his bacon sarnie had turned into sour lemons. Obviously irritated by the lack of trust, he snapped, “Well, I won’t be arranging anything until I get the official paperwork. And by the way, I noticed you’ve parked illegally.”
Quinn had left his car on the road outside the reception office, ignoring the irritated stares of other customers who had trudged their way to the pound via public transport.
Quinn gave the other man a thumbs up. “Great deductive skills, George. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure I give myself a ticket.”
Muttering under his breath, the fuming officer turned and stomped noisily back to reception.
It was hot inside the shed, almost as though the heat of the dying day was concentrated like a blow-torch on these few squares of tin roofing, filtering through the skylights. Quinn swiped a hand over the back of his neck and refocused his attention.
The sleek, silver sides of the Rolls Royce Drophead Coupé were caked with mud and decorated with seaweed and scratches. From a side view the nose of the car looked mashed as though it had been made out of soft play-dough.
The blunt-nosed front had definitely suffered what insurance companies would classify as severe damage, Quinn noted wryly. The hood was buckled downwards, the grille, front bumper and reinforcing had been pounded into an unrecognizable mess after the car had nosedived into the water, crashing against the steps. The windshield was cracked and the reinforced fabric top was badly dented, almost certainly due to the impact with Clara Butterworth.
Quinn hunkered down, reaching out a finger to touch the Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament peeking out from amidst a tangle of sensors and crushed plastic. He had read somewhere that the hood ornament had its own motor, causing it to disappear in a heartbeat in the event of a collision. No doubt that’s why it was still intact.
Returning to his feet, Quinn circled the car slowly. At seventeen feet long, it was a veritable tank with a huge V12, twin-turbo engine that could easily make any driver feel invincible, he mused. A rear light had been smashed, the source of the glass on the road he had photographed earlier. Inside the car he could see the deployed airbags hanging like empty teats.
The coupé was definitely a luxury vehicle carrying a hefty price tag upwards of a quarter of a million pounds, if he wasn’t mistaken. That was a lot of cash to be squandering on a reckless seventeen-year-old high school student unless daddy had an unending supply of money. He shook his head. No doubt the Galliers were regretting that decision, now. If they’d only left Bon in the lap of the public transport system, he might still be alive. And so might Clara Butterworth.
He pulled out his phone, typing in a search query. He discovered that this particular model could accelerate from a standing start to a hundred kilometers in less than five seconds. He blew out a pent up breath. That meant it packed a huge punch of kinetic energy, in the vicinity equal to a ton of weight. That was a lot of explosive power to hit one small girl.
Snapping on his rubber gloves, he tugged open the driver’s side door, which no longer latched properly. From the interior, a rotting stench assailed his nostrils, rather like a damp, mildewed basement. As the door rocked backwards on its rear hinges, leftover water trickled out. Mud and water was pooled in the floor well and the glove-soft leather driving seat was stained with ugly splotches.
No doubt the electronics was shot from the water damage because the driver’s side console looked to have sustained the brunt of the water damage. It was a pity to see all that beautiful wooden interior cracked and swelling with moisture. There was an obvious water line inside the car, indicating how far under the vehicle had been submerged.
He moved around to the other side, releasing the passenger door. He tipped forward the front seat, shining his flashlight to peer into the back. A blue Harrovian sweater and a pair of rugger boots were recognizable on the back seat.
Next, he opened the wood-grained glove compartment. Given the angle of the car in the water, the back and the passenger’s side had escaped the worst of the water damage. Inside, soggy registration papers, held down with a small, pencil flashlight, a phone charger, a blue and white Harrovian scarf and a pair of unlined, perforated leather driving gloves met his gaze.
Carefully he extracted the gloves. They struck him as an odd accessory for a seventeen-ye
ar-old. Did Bon Galliers take driving so seriously? Or was he perhaps a poseur? In his line of work Quinn was more used to gloves being used to keep fingerprints at bay. He tapped the gloves thoughtfully against his palm before bagging them. Did Bon need to keep his fingerprints off something?
He shined his flashlight into the glove compartment, putting his hand back inside to pat around the sides, top and bottom surfaces. As he did so his fingers connected with a small metallic bulge on the bottom. He scooped the contents out of the way, dropping them onto the bucket seat. Now he had a better view, he could see it was a metallic clasp, easily overlooked. He pressed down and a secret compartment popped up, opening to reveal a cellular phone wedged on top of a set of fountain pens. What the hell?
He picked up the phone, examining it more closely. It was a no-name brand and looked like a cheap pre-paid model, totally out of character for what Quinn had come to expect of Galliers and his rocking Roller. He remembered Bex ordering Idris and Eli to check into the teenagers’ phones which were already in police custody. Why would Bon need a spare phone?
There was a way to find out. He knew someone at Forensics who owed him a favor and he thought he just might call it in tonight. He would rather enjoy seeing the stunned look on Bex Wynter’s face when he turned up at their morning briefing with evidence that no one else expected.
Chapter 13
Wednesday 5 July
Bex and Reuben sat on an unyielding sofa in Phillip Galliers’ single floor apartment. Bex welcomed the silence when Phillip leaned down to the coffee table, double tapping his phone to abruptly cut off the growling swirl of mournful guitar riffs and headache-inducing drumbeats.
“Sorry, grunge isn’t to everyone’s taste,” he apologized.
Despite his obvious bewilderment at their arrival, Phillip had politely led them through a short foyer to the drawing room, a long rectangle with a bay window at the far end. His apartment was situated off busy Marylebone High Street, the middle floor of a red brick, Georgian building. An ivy-clad, black, wrought iron railing had separated the building from the sidewalk.
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