Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  “I’ll go and get a cup of tea while you read it, then I’ll have to put it back in the filing cabinet. Here, hide it in this newspaper and don’t tell anybody you’ve seen it.”

  After calling DS Lawrence, Jane left the hospital and hailed a taxi to take her to his home address. He lived in a small, out of the way mews near the Baker Street gates into Regent’s Park. Number 17 Sussex Mews was tucked into a cobbled side turning in a row of well-kept houses with adjoining garages. Jane rang the bell and waited. After a moment Lawrence opened the door and gestured for her to follow him in through a small comfortable lounge. The furnishings were rather old-fashioned, with numerous antiques and framed paintings.

  “Help yourself,” he said, pointing to an open bottle of Chablis on a small table.

  Jane folded her coat over a chair, and poured herself a small glass of wine. She had not anticipated that DS Lawrence would be living in such an affluent area, and took a good look around as she sipped her drink.

  “Before you feel the need to ask, this place belongs to a relative. There’s a demolition order for it to be pulled down within the next couple of years, to build a university college. Right, you can fill me in while I put the pasta on—I presume you’re hungry?”

  “Yes, I am. I didn’t have any lunch. Thank you.”

  Jane followed him into a very small kitchen annex. As Lawrence prepared a pan of boiling water for the spaghetti, and opened a jar of Bolognese sauce, Jane gave him the details of her meeting with Barry Dawson. While she was speaking, he had taken out cutlery and napkins, and she had followed him back to the sitting room where he pulled out the leaf of a table leaning against the wall. He drew up two chairs, then returned to the kitchen to put the pasta into one pan and the sauce in to another.

  “Katrina Harcourt was fired, she didn’t leave of her own accord. She was late for duty three times and she was on the geriatric ward and never answered the patients’ calls. She left poor old ladies desperate for bed pans . . . Apparently it was the second time they had caught her being abusive to elderly patients. I took a look at her CV—she’s registered with various different nursing agencies, but had mostly been working in care homes.”

  Lawrence pulled out a chair for Jane and heaped far too much spaghetti and sauce into her bowl, but he was so fast that she didn’t have time to stop him. He served himself and put the open bottle of wine between them on the table.

  “Bon appetite . . . sorry, I don’t have any parmesan.” He topped up his wine glass and poured more for Jane.

  She liked being with him. He was so relaxed and easy-going, and she noticed the way he tucked his napkin into his shirt collar before twirling his spaghetti round with a fork on his spoon. He ate and talked at the same time, apologizing for his lack of culinary expertise.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-seven. According to her CV documents at the hospital, she’s an only child, owns a Mini and has given her parents’ home in Brighton, well, Hove to be precise, as her permanent address. According to Barry Dawson he was not the only person she was having sex with at St. Thomas’. He said she put it about and Brenda, the nurse she shared a room with, said she thought Katrina was maybe seeing a doctor at St. Thomas’. To be honest, I suppose having a scene with a porter is not in the same league.”

  “He’s good-looking, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is, but not high enough up the pecking order. I got the feeling that Barry was a bit afraid of Katrina. We know she had previously been engaged to a doctor, had a wedding dress, bridesmaids and everything . . . but she was jilted at the altar. I think she set her sights on Barry Dawson . . .”

  Lawrence continued “. . . And his wife found out . . . which explains those three photographs. So why did Barry become so agitated and anxious when he couldn’t contact his wife, and knew that his mother was not going to be at his flat to babysit?”

  “What if Shirley was already dead, and all he was doing was creating an alibi . . .”

  “My God, Jane . . . so far this is just supposition and we’ve still got no hard evidence to get another PM. Dawson could arrange for Shirley’s body to be removed for a funeral tomorrow, and I’m on duty in the morning.”

  “We have this afternoon so we could go and question Katrina Harcourt.”

  “But she might not be there,” he said. “Hold on.” He put in a call to ask the local CID to do a drive by and check if Katrina’s Mini was parked outside the property address in Hove. When the call came back confirming it was, Lawrence looked up at Jane. “What do you think?”

  “It’s up to you, but I think as this is just supposition we should see if we can confirm our suspicions.”

  Lawrence was still unsure. He sighed. “We just have to be a bit careful because we’re acting without any authority.”

  Marie checked the children were out playing in the back garden and went to lie down. She took two more aspirin for her headache. She climbed into bed. Even without Peter being at home she slept on the left side of the double bed as he always liked to be on the right. She lay back, closing her eyes, but she was too anxious to sleep. She had asked her mother-in-law to visit Peter and had lied that the children had been invited to a birthday party so she would have to go and buy a birthday present. Lies tumbled out one after the other because she was afraid to go and talk to him. She would have had to explain that, even though she had followed his instructions, she had only seen the young red-haired boy take the money and get into a taxi.

  Marie was only just able to function, making the children their meals and washing and ironing. But any time she was alone she felt sick and sat in the kitchen crying. Afraid to answer the phone, she often let it ring and ring, scared of hearing that awful voice singing the same song over and over. She also hated speaking to her mother-in-law, who asked one question after another, telling her what a good man her son was and how lucky Marie was to have him. Even when Marie had called her about the prison visit she had constantly interrupted, eventually asking about the bank account and why she had withdrawn so much money. But Marie had said she would explain another time, and had put down the handset.

  She was in a quandary as to what she should do. Then she decided that the one person who might be able to help her was that policewoman. It took a while for her to recall her name, and that she worked at Hackney Police Station. Marie thought of the note she had left and went downstairs into the hall. It was in a drawer of the hall table, by the telephone. Marie took it out and read the name, “Jane Tennison.” Returning to bed she carried the note in her hand. She didn’t know why but she felt comforted and decided that first thing in the morning, after the school run, she would come home and call her. Then the doubts surfaced again. Peter had warned her that the police officers had fitted him up, and that they could not be trusted. But even in her anxious state, Marie felt certain that the young woman might be able to give her some advice. She needed it because she had no one else to turn to.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jane was waiting outside the small garage attached to the mews cottage as DS Lawrence drove out in a pale blue Austin-Healey Sprite sports car, the roof pulled down. He hopped out and opened the passenger door. He was wearing a Harris tweed cloth cap, and what looked like a thick dark green tweed shooting jacket. Jane got in and smiled saying that, like his mews house, she had not expected him to be driving a smart new sports car. He closed the garage doors and got into the driving seat.

  “Well it’s not exactly a smart new one, and to be honest with my long legs it’s not that comfortable. But I like to drive out to the country on my days off and I got it at a very good price.”

  Jane wished she had worn a headscarf as the wind was blowing her hair loose from the hair grips. They drove through London to Croydon and onto the A23 Brighton Road. It was an hour and a half before they arrived on the outskirts of Brighton.

  By the time they slowed down toward the town center Jane’s initial impression that Lawrence was a careful driver had changed. He had
put his foot down on the A23 dual carriageway and appeared intent on passing every vehicle, and her hair was now a tangled mess. Lawrence drove past the ornate Royal Pavilion, which looked very Arabian to Jane, with its bulbous domes, carved walls and beautiful gardens. They headed toward the seafront, the wonderful pier and fairground straight ahead. They passed the Aquarium on their left and, turning right, continued along the seafront, passing the Grand Hotel, and headed toward Hove. Lawrence pulled over to check a street map. By now it was almost four thirty and he passed Jane the map to double check their route. Jane studied the map as Lawrence drove at fifteen miles an hour.

  “Second on the right,” Jane said. Lawrence indicated and turned into the pleasant Hamilton Street, with well-kept gardens and freshly painted three-story houses. They passed a parked Mini outside number 34 and reversed into a space a few houses back. He got out to put the cover up as Jane searched in her bag for her hairbrush. She was on the pavement still trying to untangle her hair when he took his cap off and tossed it onto the front driving seat.

  “Right, we work this nice and calmly. We’re just making inquiries to check on Barry Dawson’s movements on the day in question. Don’t bring out the photographs until I give you the nod. Let’s see how much she admits to and if she’s going to co-operate.”

  Jane nodded, then hesitated. “Do I look all right, or still windswept?”

  “You look fine.” He stopped to run his fingers through his blond hair, and then walked up the path to the house with Jane following behind him.

  There was a large potted plant at the door on a pristine black and white tiled step. The front door looked freshly painted and had a brass letterbox with a lion head door knocker. There was also a bell beside the door. Lawrence rang the doorbell and stepped back, waiting.

  A pleasant-looking woman opened the door, wearing a pink house coat over a twinset and tweed skirt.

  “Mrs. Harcourt?”

  “Yes.”

  Lawrence showed his warrant card and introduced himself, saying that WDC Tennison was accompanying him and that they wished to talk to Katrina.

  “My daughter . . . Yes, do please come in.” She hesitated. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No,” he said charmingly. “We’d just like to talk to her, please.”

  “Do come in and I’ll call Katrina. She was just making herself a coffee.”

  They were led into a very spacious front sitting room, filled with nice modern G Plan furniture, a large gas fire and decorated with flock wallpaper and a fur rug. There were numerous paintings, and copies of well-known artists hanging on the walls, and on top of a dresser were various family photographs.

  Lawrence glanced at the photos and nodded at Tennison.

  “Right house.”

  Jane turned to look at a line of silver framed photographs. There were two large ones of Katrina, one in tennis shorts with a racket and another standing wearing black riding boots and jodhpurs next to a white pony. But none of them looked very recent.

  “Hello.”

  They turned as Katrina Harcourt walked in holding a mug of coffee. She was very attractive and slender, with an abundance of shoulder-length red curly hair. She had pale porcelain skin, which enhanced her green eyes. Her lashes were dark with thick mascara, and she appeared younger than they knew she was. However, she had a very mature and confident manner.

  “Mother said that you’re detectives?”

  “Yes.”

  Lawrence introduced himself and Jane again. Katrina sat down on the edge of a thick cushioned sofa and crossed her slender legs. She was wearing fluffy slippers, and her legs were shapely and alabaster white. She was obviously a girl who stayed out of the sun despite the proximity to the beach.

  “What is this about?”

  “Do you know a Mr. Barry Dawson?”

  “Yes, he’s a porter at St. Thomas’ Hospital.”

  “You worked there until recently?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Were you aware that his wife recently drowned?”

  “I think I heard about it.”

  “But you had already left St. Thomas’ by then, isn’t that right?”

  “Ummm, yes . . .”

  “So who told you about Barry’s wife then?”

  “Oh . . . I think my old roommate, Brenda, called me . . . it’s very sad . . .”

  Jane looked up. She knew Brenda hadn’t said she’d been in touch.

  “Did you know Shirley Dawson?”

  “No.”

  “But you were well acquainted with her husband.”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure what you are inferring by saying I was well acquainted. I knew him as a porter and if he was on a wing I was working then I would obviously be aware of who he was.”

  “Well, we seem to have a different view because he has stated that you and he were having an affair, and that it had been going on for some time.”

  Lawrence glanced at Jane, who was writing in her notebook.

  Katrina shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Well, that’s porters for you. He has obviously exaggerated my being pleasant to him as something far more.”

  “So you are saying that you did not have a sexual relationship with Mr. Dawson?”

  “If you need me to repeat it, then the answer is that I was not in any kind of relationship with him, and I am becoming rather confused as to why you are here.”

  Lawrence gave a small nod to indicate for Jane to continue the questioning.

  Jane smiled. “It’s just out of necessity really. You see, Mr. Dawson claims that you were having a sexual relationship. He says that it was nothing more than a cheap fling. According to him you were having various other sexual encounters, in fact he spoke about you in rather derogatory terms because he was not interested in having a long-term relationship with you.”

  “I don’t believe this. Not that I give a shit because I have nothing whatsoever to do with him, and if he is saying those things about me then he’s disgusting.”

  “So are you admitting that you and Mr. Dawson were having a sexual relationship?” Lawrence asked. Katrina glared at him.

  “I am not admitting anything. I think you should leave . . . this is very upsetting.”

  “Did you know his wife Shirley?”

  “No, I bloody did not! I’ve said this before . . . I just don’t understand why you are here asking me these questions about my private business. If I did see Barry, then so what? Nothing is making sense to me . . . I mean, why are you here?”

  “Because we have some questions that need to be answered regarding the death of Shirley Dawson. We have to check that everything her husband has told us is correct. Could you please tell me where you were on the seventh of October?”

  Katrina closed her eyes.

  “Seventh of October? . . . What day was that?”

  “Monday.”

  “Oh yes . . . I was here. There’s a new Arts Festival in Brighton and I went over there to see if any of the paintings interested me. We have a lot of artists in this area, and at one time I quite fancied the idea of running a gallery.”

  Lawrence turned and waited for Jane to finish making her notes before he continued.

  “Am I correct in saying that Shirley Dawson found out that you and he were having a sexual relationship?”

  “I’ll tell you what is correct—he is a fucking liar! Firstly, he never told me he was married, or that he had a kid. Secondly, he came on to me and made me ridiculous promises until I found out the truth about him being married. I left my job at St. Thomas’, which I was really enjoying, because I wanted nothing more to do with him and was disgusted that he had blatantly lied to me. I never met his wife.”

  Neither Jane nor Lawrence said anything for a moment. They remained silent and Katrina seemed unable to keep quiet. Her leg twitched as she kicked out with her slipper.

  “I don’t know what he’s told you but I am now telling you the truth. I mean, it was virtually a one-night stand. I made a
big mistake by trusting in what he told me. He said he owned his flat, that he would sell up and we would have money. I mean, please, he was promising me God knows what. I never had any intention of getting serious with him; he was just a porter for heaven’s sake.”

  “Did you ever go to Mr. Dawson’s flat?”

  “No, I had no reason to go there.”

  “So, when you found out . . . ?” Lawrence said quietly.

  “I finished with him, and left my job at the hospital.”

  In a quiet manner Lawrence told her that, contrary to her saying that it was her decision to leave St. Thomas’, they had been informed that her contract had been terminated because of her unprofessional conduct. “That is total bullshit! It was my choice! They were always understaffed and we were constantly being asked to change shifts and work extra hours. I don’t know who you are getting this information from but it isn’t true.”

  “We also have information regarding your previous employment, Miss Harcourt, and that you had also been sacked from care homes for unprofessional conduct.”

  “Christ, if you think that washing dirty old women’s shit off their bedclothes is professional. Dementia patients are never easy to deal with . . . I tried to be caring but I was never cut out to be ordered around by some vicious trumped-up Matron who didn’t have the qualification to run any of the care homes I worked for. You give me any details you’ve got and I can qualify my reasons for leaving.”

  Jane stood up and asked if she could use the bathroom. Katrina told her there was a downstairs toilet further along the hall. Jane was becoming frustrated by their interview and felt that maybe Lawrence would be able to get more information on his own. They had not yet gained any further evidence or connection to the death of Shirley Dawson. Jane left the room and closed the door. She walked into the hall and at the end of the hallway she saw Mrs. Harcourt in the kitchen who, on seeing Jane, came out into the hall.

  “Did Katrina offer you a tea or coffee?”

  “No, but we’re fine—thank you. You have a lovely house. It must be so nice living close to the beach.”