by Deborah Lucy
‘You would, unless he’s involved in some way. Something’s going on and we need to find out what it is. There’s not enough to nick any one of them yet and I don’t want any of them running to Anthony de la Hay crying foul play with us. We need to get them out and get some intrusive surveillance in there.’
‘You’ll have to get it past Harker first,’ remarked Sloper.
Temple returned to Brett Forrester. There was no answer from the house. Temple peered into the windows of the study. There was no sign of Forrester. He walked around the back, peering into the windows of the kitchen; still no sign. Looking through another window, Temple looked into the lounge and although Forrester was not there, the French doors had been left open onto the garden. Temple walked round to them. Looking down the garden, he could see a summer house. He walked across the lawn towards it. Sitting inside, Brett Forrester was slumped in a chair, looking at the floor, a whisky glass cradled in his hands. He looked up as Temple approached.
‘Twice in one day,’ quipped Forrester, as he drew himself up straight in the chair.
‘I knocked on the door, sir, no answer,’ replied Temple.
‘That would have been an indication to some that I didn’t want to see them,’ said Forrester, unimpressed with the intrusion.
‘Is now not a good time, sir?’ asked Temple, with no intention of leaving without speaking to him.
‘There’s probably never going to be another good time, Inspector. Let’s go back into the house, into the study.’ Forrester led the way, heading straight for the drinks tray to top up his glass. He hadn’t intended for Temple to see him like this again and thought he’d seen the last of him for the day.
‘Mr Forrester, on a previous visit, you had a series of photographs on the wall depicting a naked woman, but almost in the form of landscapes. Do you still have them?’ Temple asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Could I have a look at them, please?’
‘I put them somewhere, I’m not sure where,’ said Forrester.
‘Why did you take them down?’ asked Temple.
‘They were on the wall with the pictures of Greta. The wall looked bare once I took the pictures of Greta down, so I took them all down,’ Forrester explained.
‘I’d really like to take a look at them. If you remember, I remarked on them. They were extraordinary, once you realized that what you were looking at was a woman’s body and not a landscape at all,’ said Temple.
Forrester became evasive.
‘I’ll look them out for you at some point, Inspector,’ he replied.
‘Who was the model in the photos, Mr Forrester?’
‘I … I’m not sure where I’ve put them but perhaps the next time you come …’ said Forrester in an attempt to deflect the question.
‘The model, who was she?’ Temple persisted.
‘Look, I’m not sure what the relevance of this is,’ said Forrester, sighing.
‘I’d like to see them again, do you remember who the model was?’
‘Yes, I remember, of course I do.’
‘Mr Forrester,’ said Temple slowly, ‘I was at Greta’s post mortem.’
Understanding of what Temple was saying suddenly hit Forrester. It would be no use trying to lie. Forrester realized Temple knew. He looked back at him.
‘It was Greta,’ he said, ‘but then, it seems, you know that.’
‘Well, there was a birthmark that looked familiar. With the model’s face not being revealed, it would be difficult to tell unless of course you knew the model intimately. From memory, Mr Forrester, those were very intimate photos. Very cleverly shot, but all the same, very personal.’
Forrester’s face hardened. Temple could almost see his brain working away, working out through the whisky what he would disclose, what he thought he could get away with not saying.
‘How long ago were they taken, Mr Forrester?’ Temple asked.
‘I’m not sure now … a few years ago …’
‘You said they were part of an exhibition if I remember rightly?’
‘Correction, they were the exhibition, Mr Temple.’
‘Where was that?’
‘A gallery in Chelsea, a friend of mine had it and let me exhibit there,’ Forrester explained.
‘You lived in London, didn’t you, Mr Forrester, when Greta came to stay with you?’
‘Yes, I did. You know that, Mr Temple.’
‘How old was Greta when you took the photographs, Mr Forrester?’
‘I actually don’t remember.’
‘How old was she? Was she in her teens?’ asked Temple, ignoring Forrester’s attempt at an apparent selective memory lapse.
‘Maybe. I can’t remember.’
‘Was she over the age of consent?’ Temple persisted.
Forrester flashed a look at Temple.
‘You see, Mr Forrester, I have a problem with those photographs. They’re strangely erotic but erotic nonetheless. And they are of your daughter. How does that happen?’
‘What do you want me to say then, Inspector?’ said Forrester, clearly annoyed. ‘Eh? What is it you want?’
‘The truth, Mr Forrester. Dianna Forrester made a comment to my officer that “evil had found evil” when she visited Greta when she was living with you.’
Forrester snorted at the mention of Dianna Forrester’s name.
‘You won’t find a good word about me from that woman, or for Greta come to that. Look, me and Greta, we had something, something unique. I had lived as I wanted, did as I pleased, answered to no one and lived my life completely as I wished. And then Greta turns up.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then she had to fit in with it. Which she did. I was busy at that time. I’d settled in London from travelling around the world, experiencing many cultures, places, people, conflicts, war. My work was in demand, National Geographic, The Times, Times magazine. I had quite a portfolio to unleash and I also wrote about my experiences. I was a free agent and I settled in London and basically just carried on. In my own way.’
‘Did you have girlfriends?’ asked Temple.
‘Many. Mostly models. Once they find out you’re a photographer, they latch onto you and can’t wait to take their clothes off. Is that what you wanted to hear?’
‘Only if it’s the truth. And what about now?’
‘I’ve no shortage of women, Inspector. You’ve seen Alice, another model, no doubt she thinks I can help her career in some way. So our arrangement suits us both. There are others besides.’
‘And can you help Alice’s career?’ asked Temple, thinking she had the rough end of their bargain.
‘Maybe. I don’t force her to come here; she’s a willing participant – very eager to please.’
Forrester met Temple’s gaze. Arrogant bastard, thought Temple.
‘And how old is Alice?’
Forrester snorted. ‘Alice is nineteen.’
‘And so, back to the photographs. They’re of Greta,’ stated Temple.
Forrester remained silent.
‘Mr Forrester?’
‘She too was a willing participant, Inspector. You can’t make someone lie for hours while you get the light right and their position in a certain way. A lot of work goes into that kind of photography. It’s not point and shoot,’ he said, disdainfully.
‘You’re quite a charismatic man, Mr Forrester. I suspect you can get people, women, to do pretty much what you want them to,’ said Temple, thinking of Alice and the age gap between her and Forrester.
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘What did Dianna mean, Mr Forrester?’ asked Temple.
‘As I’ve told you, you can’t set any store by anything that woman says. She’s very bitter and has always been jealous of Greta.’
‘Why would she be jealous of her own daughter? What do you mean by that?’ asked Temple.
Forrester stayed silent, drinking deep from his glass.
‘Mrs Forrester also said that when she visited h
er daughter at your flat, that there was only one bed,’ Temple continued, slowly, looking at Forrester intently. ‘She says that Greta had made it quite clear to her that you were in fact sleeping together.’
Forrester looked back him, his face hard.
‘Listen to what my ex-wife says at your peril, Inspector. She’s a very bitter woman. It won’t lead you to Greta’s killer,’ Forrester said, dismissively.
Temple persisted. ‘Someone took some photographs of Greta, a few months ago, while she was having sex with a man called Marcus Hussain. Did she say anything to you about this, Mr Forrester?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ Forrester answered, with a shrug.
‘Did you take the photographs of them?’
‘No, Inspector.’
Temple watched Forrester intently, but he gave nothing away. Even with the best part of a bottle of whisky on board, Forrester’s guard was up. Temple knew he had to be careful not to alienate him, despite his suspicions regarding the relationship with his own daughter. He backed off. He believed him about the photos.
‘You understand why I had to ask, Mr Forrester, given your background and the photographs you have taken of Greta.’
‘I understand, Inspector, but this won’t find Greta’s killer. I adored her, Maxwell adored her, and what worries me is that you’re not casting your net wider. I would have thought the person who took the photographs might be a main line of your inquiry,’ replied Forrester.
‘They are, sir, hence my questioning. The majority of murders are carried out by someone known to the victim. Talking of Maxwell, were you aware that his first wife, Olivia, died by drowning in Riyadh?’
‘Yes, I am aware. It was tragic.’ Forrester busied himself emptying the whisky bottle.
‘Yeah, tragic is one way of putting it,’ said Temple, insincerely.
Temple watched Forrester’s face; watched as he took in the intonation of Temple’s words. A barely perceptible look appeared in Forrester’s eyes and he looked back at him. Temple reckoned he’d planted a tiny seed of suspicion and now he had to water it.
‘Did Maxwell tell you about it?’ asked Temple.
‘Yes, briefly.’
‘And now he’s lost his second wife …’ As he spoke, Temple could see Forrester was thinking. Temple waited, hoping that Forrester was considering the prospect of a man losing two young wives. ‘I have to go, Mr Forrester, back to the station. If you don’t mind, I’ll come back later, perhaps tomorrow.’
‘If you have to.’ Forrester was relieved.
‘Yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like a DNA sample. I’ll bring my kit tomorrow.’
Temple went back to the incident room to look through statements again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Although he was alone, he had to try hard to concentrate on what he was reading. He felt as if he was trying to take on more information than his brain would allow. His stomach was empty and yet it didn’t crave food. He had hardly slept or eaten and yet adrenalin pumped through his body like an injection of speed. He looked at the photo of Greta stuck on the whiteboard.
Here, in the quiet of the room, Temple studied her image again, remembering all that had been said about her. On the outside, it must have appeared she had it all; beauty, adoring husband, designer clothes, money, fast cars – the perfect lifestyle. When she’s murdered, along comes the inquiry team who strip all that away and lay it bare for all to see, examine every crevice of her life and pull it apart. It was, in fact, as far away from perfect as you could get, thought Temple. The press would have a field day when they got hold of it.
He was jolted out of his thoughts as Kelly came in, back from her visit to Antonia Peronelli. She was eager to impart her information. Much to her annoyance, Sloper came crashing in before she started. He took up his position leaning back in a chair with his feet up on the desk.
‘She was quite a nice woman, actually,’ said Kelly.
Sloper eyed her from across the room.
‘Oh yeah?’ he said, suggestively. Kelly looked back at him, not disguising her dislike for him.
‘In that she was really respectful towards Greta—’ she said.
Sloper cut across her. ‘What, considering that she was screwing her husband—’
‘In terms of Greta being dead. She said it was an enormous shock, she had held Greta no malice and was in fact now quite remorseful of her affair with Maxwell. She said she loved Maxwell and would shortly be coming here to be with him, now their circumstances had changed.’
‘Fucking waste of time you going there, wasn’t it?’ said Sloper. ‘If that’s all you’ve come back with. You could have spoken to her over the phone.’ He’d rung Clive Harker earlier and told him that the inquiry was heading for disaster.
Kelly ignored him and continued.
‘She did, though, have an MG on the drive and a rather nice painting on the wall, very much the same as described by Caroline Black.’
‘So not sold, as Greta told Caroline,’ said Temple, ‘but moved to the new love nest.’
CHAPTER 24
AT 5 P.M., Sloper drove back to Jonathan Silvester’s house to speak to James Ashton-Jones. His reception was rather cool, with Silvester showing Sloper into the open plan kitchen where both Maxwell and James were sitting together on a sofa.
‘Evening, gents,’ said Sloper. ‘Look, I won’t keep you long. We’re continuing our inquiries, as you would expect and part of those inquiries are forensics. We need to cover all bases and that includes fingerprinting and swabbing at the crime scene. Since the crime scene was your home, I’d like to take fingerprints and buccal swabs for DNA. This will help us to identify any DNA that is not from one of you. So I’ll need a swab from both yourself, James and you too, Jonathan.’
James looked at his father next to him and then to Jonathan Silvester, who was still standing next to Sloper. He watched them. Despite their best efforts, Sloper could see there was obvious tension between the three of them.
‘Anything wrong?’ asked Sloper.
‘No. No, Sergeant, you do what needs to be done,’ said Jonathan.
Sloper pitched his briefcase onto a marble work surface. He took out two buccal swab kits, an ink pad and blank fingerprint forms. He invited James to the table. As Sloper grasped James’s hand, he felt it shake as he pressed his fingers into the ink pad and onto the blank squares of the fingerprint forms laid out on the table in front of them.
‘You all right, James?’ said Sloper, attempting to sound genuinely concerned.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, feigning confidence.
‘Them sudden stomach bugs are vicious,’ said Sloper. ‘Right, next hand,’ and he continued the task.
The silence ratcheted the tension in the room.
Sloper continued to watch James’s face as he proceeded to ink his fingers and press them onto the sheet, filling the blank spaces. James was clearly in turmoil. The rims of his eyes brimmed with tears so precariously that Sloper expected at any second they would cascade down his cheeks. Sloper continued to observe as, miraculously, somehow, James’s ever-swelling lower lids acted as perfect dams to ensure no breach occurred and, in a blink, his tears remained swimming in his eyes.
‘Right, now for the buccal swab. If you just rub this stick on the inside of your cheek for me, give it a good wipe round,’ Sloper instructed, as James took the swab. Sloper was willing James to break down but somehow he managed to blink away his tears and recover himself.
Sloper repeated the process for a none too pleased Jonathan Silvester. Once the tests were taken, Sloper packed away the kits.
‘DI Temple also wanted me to update you further on tests from the pathologist. It appears that Greta, Mrs Ashton-Jones, was nine weeks pregnant.’ Sloper looked at all three; James immediately hung his head and looked at the floor as Maxwell and Jonathan both went to speak at once.
‘That’s shocking news,’ said Maxwell. ‘I mean, I, I didn’t know that.’
Jonathan put his hand on his friend’s shoulder
. James remained silent. Sloper knew that Temple was right; they had already digested this information by their controlled reaction.
‘As spoken about already, be on your guard concerning the press. They may try to phone you or turn up on the doorstep. I suggest you check anyone who asks you questions before making your answer. If they say they’re police, ask to see their warrant card. It will look like this.’ Sloper showed his warrant card.
‘That’s me done for now, gents, unless, of course, you have any questions yourselves?’ said Sloper.
‘No, Sergeant, thank you. We’ll see you again soon, no doubt.’ Jonathan Silvester showed Sloper out.
Back at Marlborough, Sloper gave himself a fanfare as he walked through the door.
‘I have the DNA,’ he said, as he put his haul onto a desk.
‘Thanks, Si. Make sure you get it over to forensics and fast track it. I want a twenty-four hour turnaround,’ said Temple, intently looking at a computer. ‘So, how did it go – how was James?’ he added, looking up from the screen.
‘He’s one very nervous young man. He’s going to crumble. Talk about the weakest link. He’s it,’ said Sloper.
Kelly came in from an adjoining office.
‘I’m making progress with Olivia Ashton-Jones, boss.’
‘Enlighten us, Kel,’ said Temple, taking another look through a file containing Maxwell’s financial records.
‘I’ve found the link to Curtis Coleman,’ she said, coolly.
Temple looked up.
‘The Saudi police were all over Olivia’s death when it was discovered she had alcohol in her bloodstream. They forbid drinking but expats are known to obtain it illegally either by smuggling it in or by making their own. Even now, expats usually stick together, living in their own communities, often in gated compounds and because they’re not out amongst the locals drinking, turning a blind eye is tolerated, so long as no one is caught of course. Hotels don’t serve alcohol either so back then, when crews flew in, they generally had some stashed on them.
‘The coroner’s file contains witness statements. All involved denied drinking that evening, except one hostess, Ann Powell, who provides the only account of the party. Even she waited until she was back in the UK before she gave her statement. She says that as was the norm, they started having a room party where they broke out the booze. The room was booked by Jonathan Silvester. Other English hostesses and pilots were invited. During the course of the evening, someone suggested swimming in the pool and they traipsed between the room and pool at various times, via the hotel lift.