Body Line dibs-13

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Swilley nodded. ‘And Robin won’t commit?’

  She sighed. ‘We’ve talked about it sometimes, but he won’t leave Amanda. It’s not just the money. He could get a job all right, we’d manage somehow. But he’d have to sell his horses, and that would break his heart. And it’s more than that. She has a hold on him. I don’t understand it. She’s a stroppy cow as far as I can see, and treats him like dirt.’ She sighed again. ‘Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe I’m too nice to him. But he’ll never leave her.’

  ‘What do you know about David Rogers? Robin’s talked to you about him?’

  ‘God, yes! I’ve had the whole story till I’m sick of it. How David stole Amanda from Robin, then treated her badly—’

  ‘How, badly?’

  ‘Oh, other women. Apparently he couldn’t stop – it was like a sickness. Until Amanda got fed up with him and divorced him. Robin rushed to her side to comfort her, and she took him into her bed, but then wouldn’t marry him. Oh, I had all the sob story,’ she concluded wearily.

  What on earth did she see in him? Swilley wondered. A man who only visits you to whinge about the woman he won’t leave for you? But maybe he had a huge willy. Women could be so shallow.

  ‘But Amanda put money into Robin’s stables?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Robin put money in, too – sold his house and everything – but she put in more than half. So she’s got him by the balls.’

  ‘Where did she get the money?’

  ‘The divorce settlement, I suppose. There was this mansion out in Hertfordshire she and David had, that was sold. That must have been worth millions. It all happened about that time, anyway.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some kind of scandal?’ Swilley tried. ‘Didn’t David get into some kind of trouble about that time?’

  ‘Trouble? You mean money trouble?’

  ‘No, some kind of sex thing. Trouble with the police?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ she said easily. ‘Robin’s never said anything about that.’

  Now did that mean that Amanda had told him to keep it secret? Swilley wondered. Or that Robin had never known about it at all? But surely if they had been keeping up with each other all the time he would have known? On the other hand, how closely had they remained in touch while Amanda was married to David?

  ‘Was Robin having an affair with Amanda?’ she asked. ‘While she was still married to David, I mean.’

  Sue Hardwicke frowned. ‘I don’t know. He’s never said so.’

  ‘So what made him “rush to her side” as you put it?’

  ‘The divorce.’

  ‘How did he know about it?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re asking. Apparently, Amanda contacted him, told him that it was all over with David and that she was divorcing him, that he’d moved out and she’d filed against him for adultery.’

  ‘So that was before the divorce was finalized?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ A bitter look crossed Sue’s weary face. ‘She wasn’t taking any chances on being left alone. Made sure of Robin the moment David was out of the door. Made him sell his place so that he’d have to live with her. She’s like a vampire octopus, that woman.’

  She made Robin sell his place to buy the stables, and she put money into the stables. But if that was between the separation and the divorce, her side of the money couldn’t have come from the divorce settlement. So where had it come from?

  This was not a question to put to Sue Hardwicke, however. And she was looking increasingly beat. ‘Well, thank you,’ Swilley said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  Sue roused herself. ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and thank you.’

  ‘You do believe me, about Robin? That he just couldn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swilley said, circumspectly. ‘Are you going to see him now?’

  ‘No, Terry’s home. And I’m flying out again tomorrow. I shan’t see him until next week.’

  Well, that was all right, Swilley thought. By next week they ought to know for sure whether they were interested in the poor woman’s Colin Firth. And this, she thought as Sue stood up, swaying slightly with weariness, was the poor woman.

  ‘We need to get some firm dates on this financial business,’ Slider said, when Swilley had made her report. ‘When the stables were bought, when the various houses were sold. You can get that from the property register. And you ought to be able to find out some figures from the estate agents concerned. I’d like to know exactly what happened between them, because I’ve had a feeling for a long time this was a money crime, not a crime of passion.’

  ‘People get passionate about money,’ Swilley said.

  ‘True. And it could always be both, of course, love and money tied up in the same situation. But the only time I saw Amanda shaken was when I mentioned her financial involvement with Frith’s stables. Anyway, call it idle curiosity if you like—’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare,’ Swilley murmured.

  TEN

  Sex at Noon Taxes

  Porson was tired. His face was grey and his eyes pouchy, and his fidget level had fallen to a mere restless twitch as Slider made his report, the eyebrows surging now and then, the fingers drumming on the desk top.

  ‘It doesn’t sound as if you’re much further forward,’ he concluded when Slider paused. ‘Isn’t there any light at the end of the funnel? I’ve got to have something to tell Mr Wetherspoon.’

  ‘We’re working to identify the man who bought the plates, sir. We think Embry knew him. I’d like to put pressure on Embry, see if we can get him to cough, but it’s not our ground, and the local police . . .’

  Porson nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Have a word with their super. We’re all supposed to be on the same side.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Slider. ‘The trouble is we know those were the plates used in the crime, but we don’t know that the man who bought the plates was the murderer. The killer could have bought the plates from him.’

  ‘You want it to be this Frith character.’

  ‘He’s not dissimilar to the man on the CCTV footage. And he doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder. Amanda Sturgess’s car is a BMW seven, so he could have had access to that. It’s actually gunmetal grey, not black—’

  ‘But gunmetal can look black on a black-and-white tape,’ Porson finished for him. ‘But where’s your motive?’

  ‘The relationship between Frith, Sturgess and Rogers was complicated. Trouble is, we know so little about him – Rogers, I mean. I’m trying to find out what it was he was doing for a living, but I can’t get anything more about this Windhover or the Geneva trust. The Swiss just won’t co-operate. And I’m sure there’s more money somewhere – what he was getting from Windhover doesn’t feel like enough to me.’

  ‘Wise instinct. Cherchez la cash.’ He tapped his nose. ‘This tells me there’s more to it than wimmin. If this Sturgess woman had wanted to kill him over that, she’d had done it long since.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve no real evidence she was in on it at all. But she has been extremely unhelpful from the beginning, refusing to answer questions and lying in reply to several of them.’

  Porson shook his head. ‘On the other hand, that sort don’t like co-operating at the best of times. You haven’t got enough even to question her hard. Especially as she’s well connected, and she does this charity thing. The press’d have a picnic day if we went after a pillow of society like her. We know the murderer was a man, so it’d need a bit more than innuendo to link her with the crime.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider agreed glumly.

  ‘On the other hand, there’s no bricks without fire. She’s hiding something or she wouldn’t lie. What about this scandal Rogers was involved in? The press haven’t cottoned on to that yet, but they will. Then the flood’ll be let loose, and we’ll be caught like Canute with our finger in the dyke.’

  ‘It was all kept very quiet at the time, and it was a long time ago,’ Slider said. ‘They migh
t not spot it. But I’ve got a feeling it could be important. I’m trying to find out what it was all about—’

  ‘Yes, a little bird told me you were,’ Porson said, his gaze sharpening. ‘Not sure about your approach. Can’t have civilians doing police work.’

  How was it the old man always knew everything? Slider wondered. He was a little nervous himself about Emily, but he’d had time to think it over and realize that not only could it do no harm, but that he couldn’t stop her anyway. ‘She’s an investigative journalist, sir. You said yourself the press are going to get on to it sooner or later. It’s a matter of public record. And any journalist who’s seen the newspaper archives could follow it up if they were interested. Probably some will. Nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘Oh, is that how you’re playing it? Well, watch your step. Make sure she doesn’t use our computers.’

  ‘She won’t, sir. But it’s useful extra manpower. And no overtime.’

  Porson was not beguiled. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ he said. ‘And you’d better not, either, if you know what’s wise for you.’ He got up and surged restlessly to the window and back. ‘If you’re wrong about Sturgess being in on it, you’ll have wasted a lot of time while the killer was getting away.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing else to go on, sir.’

  Porson drummed his fingers on the desk in thought. ‘You’ve got that hand-print off the bonnet of the parked car. You can rule Frith in or out once and for all if you get his fingerprints for comparison.’

  ‘I did think of that, sir. But even if Frith isn’t the murderer, he could still be involved in some way. And it doesn’t rule out Sturgess as the instigator. She could have used someone else to do the job, and Frith might or might not have been a go-between. And if we fingerprint Frith, he’s bound to tell her, innocent or guilty, which will warn her we’re looking at her.’

  ‘Innocent or guilty?’ Porson said. ‘There’s another possibility – that Frith was acting on his own – had you thought of that? Apparently Rogers wasn’t his flavour of the month.’

  ‘But if Sturgess is innocent, why is she lying to us and refusing to answer questions?’

  ‘Buggeration factor, plain and simple. That sort likes throwing her weight around.’ He thought some more. ‘In any case, I reckon she’s got to know something’s up by now. You told her you were looking at Frith when you asked her for his alibi. Get him in, get him printed, get it done.’ He looked at Slider cannily. ‘You’d have done it by now if you really thought he was the murderer.’

  Slider was surprised for a moment by the insight. Yes, it was true. There was some part of him that had felt Frith wasn’t the killer, and that hadn’t wanted him ruled out because, frankly, they hadn’t got anything else. And if Amanda had used an unknown professional, how would they ever find him, or prove the link?

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  Emily had been in the game long enough to know that people were a lot more willing to talk to journalists than to the police. The idea of ‘getting in the papers’, which had horrified her grandmother’s generation, was now seen as an undiluted good, and people would cheerfully tell her things that would have made her blush if she had not got used to it by now. It had not only been because she was interested and thought she might get a story out of it eventually that she had wanted to take on the job, but because she believed she could actually do it better. Connolly might be chatty and Swilley strangely intimidating, but as soon as they revealed who they were, fifty per cent of members of the public – maybe more – would become reticent, while to Emily they would be ready to reveal anything up to and including their operation scars.

  So it did not surprise her to find herself with an appointment to meet Mrs Rosalind Taylor for lunch on Friday. They met at the Red Lion in Kingly Street, Soho, a short brisk walk from Harley Street but nicely anonymous: a dark-panelled pub with a pleasantly light and airy saloon bar upstairs that served food.

  Emily got there first and secured a corner table and a couple of menus. Just past the appointed time she saw a tall, well-dressed woman come up the stairs and look hesitatingly around. It had to be her. Emily met her eyes and nodded, and she came over.

  ‘Are you . . .?’ she began nervously.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Emily said. ‘Sit down. Can I get you a drink?’

  Mrs Taylor sat, divesting herself in a measured way of coat, scarf, gloves, handbag. ‘Oh, just water for me, thanks. I can’t go back to work smelling of drink.’ She looked appraisingly at Emily. ‘I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, but my bosses wouldn’t be happy about me talking to the press. Even about something so far in the past. They’re fanatical about discretion – to a ridiculous degree, in my view. If they even knew I was talking to you it’d be instant dismissal. So you must promise to keep my name out of it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Emily said with warmth. ‘I’d never be able to get anyone to talk to me if I couldn’t promise that. Shall we do the food bit now, and get it out of the way? Then we can talk.’

  The waiter came up and took their order: Emily went for the old-fashioned sausage sandwich; Mrs Taylor rather doubtfully chose the scampi and salad. She was very thin and looked as though remaining so was probably another demand of the job. She seemed in her forties, though under the professional, enamelled make-up she might have been older. Her dark brown hair was innocent of any thread of grey, and was glossy and immaculately cut; she wore pearl earrings and a string of pearls around the neck of her blouse; her hands were well kept with short but painted nails, and a heavy diamond band next to her wedding-ring. And she exuded an air of calm and efficiency, so that to Emily she seemed perfect for a medical secretary.

  ‘So, Mrs Taylor,’ Emily began when the waiter had gone away.

  ‘Oh, please call me Ros. Everyone does.’

  ‘Fine, Ros, then. And I’m Emily.

  ‘You said – Emily Stonax – you weren’t related to—?’

  ‘Ed Stonax was my father,’ Emily said, trying not to sound stilted about it. But she still found it hard to talk about him, except to those who had been closest to her during the investigation: Atherton, Slider and Joanna. It was perhaps part of why she felt so strongly for them.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ros said, holding her eyes in a way that suggested she was used to dealing with extreme emotions. ‘Was it tactless to mention it? But I thought him a fine journalist. You must be very proud to be following in his footsteps.’

  ‘I miss him,’ Emily said. ‘But let’s not talk about that. Tell me about when you were David Rogers’s secretary.’

  ‘Oh, I was never secretary to Mr Rogers. The papers at the time got that wrong, but it didn’t seem important to correct it. Let me explain. You see, there were three doctors sharing the premises. There was dear old Dr Freeling – he’s retired now. Lovely man, lovely to work for. I was his secretary. We had the ground floor. Private general practice. Then there was Mr Rogers and Mr Webber upstairs. They were old friends. We called Mr Rogers the Beauty Doctor.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a rather insulting nickname for plastics specialists who go in for that side of things rather than the reconstructive, but in his case we didn’t mean it unkindly. It was mostly because he was so handsome – goodness, you’d get goosebumps just looking at him! But he was nice with it. Always polite and pleasant, not arrogant like some of these good-looking men can be.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Emily said, since she seemed to want encouraging at that point.

  ‘He could wind anyone round his little finger. Well, I suppose in his line he really needed the bedside manner. His patients adored him. And then there was Mr Webber – Sir Bernard Webber he is now. The urologist.’ She wrinkled her nose a little. ‘He was supposed to be charming, too, but I never really took to him. Not that it mattered, because I had very little to do with him. And his secretary, Stephanie, spoke highly of him, but there was something a bit – I don’t know . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose he was mor
e of a man’s man. He was one of these clubbable types, do you know what I mean? On all sorts of committees, had the ear of important people, knew how to get things done. I always picture him leaning on a bar in some golf club buying drinks and telling after-dinner jokes.’

  The waiter arrived with their food and she stopped. When everything was arranged and he had departed, Emily said, ‘Go on. About that day – the incident.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, it was one of Mr Rogers’s patients – a Mrs Lescroit. Young – in her twenties – and very pretty. I’d seen her go past my office when she came in – I always kept the door open and my desk faced the hall, because I had to sign for deliveries. And Dr Freeling liked me to know who was going in and out. Anyway, I saw Mrs Lescroit go up. She was slim, gorgeous legs. Made-up regardless and very well dressed – well, all the patients were well off. You don’t run a Harley Street consultancy on low fees.’

  ‘What had she come in for?’ Emily asked. ‘It said in the papers “a minor procedure”, whatever that was.’

  Ros wrinkled her brow. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember. Or perhaps I never knew. Something like the removal of a mole, was it? Anyway, it was after the procedure, and she was lying on the daybed in the ante-room, recovering.’

  ‘She’d been anaesthetized?’ Emily queried.

  ‘Not a general, of course. She’d had a local anaesthetic, and an injection of Valium to keep her happy, so she was woozy but not unconscious during the procedure. Well, when the rumpus started my Dr Freeling told me to run upstairs and see what was happening. I dashed up and came into the middle of it. Mrs Lescroit said she’d been dozing lightly, and woke to find someone was touching her – you know, her down-theres.’ She nodded, closed-lipped, to emphasize the awfulness of it. ‘The vertical blinds were closed so it was dim in the room, and she was only half awake, and apparently she said, “What are you doing, doctor?” And he murmured to her, “Oh, call me David.” Then she started struggling and he got up and hurried out, and she woke up properly and started making a hullabaloo. When I got there Eunice, Mr Rogers’s nurse, was in there with her. Mr Rogers was standing in the corridor outside the room, and Mr Webber came out from his office, grabbed his arm and sort of bundled him into his room – Mr Rogers’s room – and slammed the door. Seconds later he’s out again and in the ante-room calming Mrs Lescroit down. It was amazing to watch him in action,’ she added. ‘He seemed to be everywhere at once, handling everything, talking to everyone, smoothing it all over. I got sent down to tell Dr Freeling it was all under control and to fetch some brandy.’