by Paul Charles
“‘Advances,’ Sergeant Irvine. I prefer to consider them as advances.”
Irvine suddenly thought of something, “So these statements, how often did they come in? Every quarter?”
“No. There are two accounting periods per year. The actual periods finish on 31st of Dec and 30th of June. The record company and the publisher then have 90 days to calculate the sales and the relevant income for that period. The deadline for them getting the statements and payments to us is the 30th of September and the 30th of March.”
Irvine felt he had no other option than to read Rodney Stuart his rights and bring him in.
He didn’t go quietly.
“You’ve got it all wrong, mate. I’ve told you, you need to look at Tim Dickens. He has a much bigger motive than me. Maybe he didn’t do it himself, but Marcus can be very ugly when he wants to be.”
When neither Irvine nor Allaway appeared to be taking any heed of Stuart, he blurted out, “And maybe Chloe Simmons isn’t as sweet and innocent as even I first thought.”
“Why Chloe Simmons?”
“Well, she told me Paddy had been seeing his ex again,” Stuart continued desperately. He was now willing to dish the dirt on anyone, anyone who might divert the spotlight away from him, “and you, more than most, must know what these bitches in heat are like when they get jealous.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kennedy wasn’t unhappy that Irvine brought Rodney Stuart in for questioning. With the amount of money he owed, he was certainly a flight risk. He was going to hold Stuart for as long as possible before questioning him again. In the meantime, he instructed the forensic accountants to prepare their case. He commended Irvine and Allaway on their work and returned to his office.
Kennedy studied his noticeboard. He was unable to concentrate on it; he was distracted, and he didn’t know why. He knew the feeling he enjoyed at the resolution of a case, and this wasn’t it. The case still wasn’t resolved to his satisfaction. He still had to figure out how Rodney Stuart, or person or persons unknown, had committed the crime.
He buzzed through to Dot King to check if the Scene of Crime team had turned up anything. According to the young DC, SOCO were still working on it.
“Fancy another drive to Wimbledon?” Kennedy asked. “Stuart claims Miss Simmons had a motive.”
“Ready when you are.”
“Say half an hour out front. I want to give DS Allaway a chance to finish his report of the recent interview with Rodney Stuart.”
Thirty-five minutes later, they were driving through Regent’s Park en route to the tennis capital of the world. Kennedy was engrossed in the report, and King was focusing on the road ahead.
“Let’s drop in and see Tim Dickens on the way,” Kennedy suggested, picking up something of interest in the report.
“What, without an appointment?” King mocked.
“I’ll risk Alice Robbins’ wrath if you will.”
Alice Robbins, in all her Goth glory, was in residence at the Dickens’ mews house. The songwriter was absent.
“We have a wee point we needed to clear up,” Kennedy began, happy to remain on the doorstep of the white-bricked building.
“I’ll try.”
“On one of the occasions you and Mr Dickens’ were interviewed, you claimed, at the time of Mr Mylan’s death, you and Mr Dickens were in the building alone working on his royalty statements.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And you also said the reason you were here alone was because you’d just received royalty statements, one from your publisher and one from your record company,” Kennedy continued, referring to his notes, hoping he was appearing distracted and equally hoping she was concentrating on his emphasising the word “alone.”
“Yes.”
“And that you needed to check the statements alone as soon as you received them, otherwise Mr Dickens could potentially lose a considerable amount of money.”
“Yes, that’s also correct,” she confirmed confidently.
“Now, can you tell me this please: how on earth were you checking the new royalty statements when they’re not in fact due until 30th September - nearly three months away?” Kennedy asked, happy that Allaway was a stickler for loading his reports with details.
Miss Robbins had the look of horror usually only seen on the face of Shay Givens whenever he let in a rare goal.
Kennedy let this sink in before continuing, “What I suggest you do, Miss Robbins, is contact Mr Dickens as a matter of great urgency and tell him we’ll see him back here,” Kennedy paused again to check his watch, “at one-thirty.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Inspector,” Alice Robbins announced, regaining most of her lost composure. “Timothy has an important lunch appointment with Sir Terry Wogan that cuts across that time.”
“Well, Miss Robbins, here’s the thing. I’d suggest it would be much better if you interrupted him than it would be if we had to arrest him in the middle of his lunch with Sir Terence.”
***
Kennedy and King made good time down to Wimbledon and were happy to discover that Miss Chloe Simmons, unlike Mr Tim Dickens, wasn’t otherwise engaged.
She looked as immaculate as ever and was dressed as though she might be expecting company.
“Look, Miss Simmons,” Kennedy began, after being shown through to the sitting room.
“Chloe, please. I thought we’d agreed you’d call me Chloe.”
“Sorry, of course I mean Chloe.” Kennedy started up again a little shakily; he kept thinking she really was disarmingly beautiful. “It’s been brought to our attention that Mr Mylan had been seeing… had been seeing your predecessor again, and that you’d been aware of this.”
“Yes, I knew he was seeing her again, because Patrick told me,” she admitted immediately, and before Kennedy could comment added, “but he wasn’t seeing her in the way you think. She had made contact with him again and visited him twice to try and get back with him. Patrick said he agreed to see her because she sounded so desperate and he felt bad for her.”
“Do you know her name or any of her details?” King asked.
“No. I believe the main reason Patrick told me about her was because he, once again, wanted to make it clear to me that one day, perhaps even one day soon, I’d be his ex, and that once I was his ex, it was over for good. I think he also wanted to make it clear that he was - how should I put this? - monogamous. He wanted to prove the point to me…”
“Because he wished you to be the same?” King suggested.
“Demanded it, in fact.”
“And you really didn’t have a clue who she was, or what she looked like?”
“Sorry, no, and Patrick would get really annoyed when I asked him about his exes.”
“Is there any other reason why Patrick might have told you she was coming around again?” Kennedy asked.
She thought for a few moments, “Maybe he was afraid Jean Claude might have mentioned it?” she suggested.
“You think Jean Claude was aware of this other lady?” King asked.
“Well, if she’d been around to see Patrick, then he must have been.”
“Did you…” Kennedy started, uncomfortable with the question he was about to ask her, “did you date anyone else during the time you were with Mr Mylan?”
“Christy, I’m shocked you’d ask me such a question,” she said in apparent hurt.
“I had to ask.”
“I realise that,” she replied quietly.
“But I’d really like an answer,” he continued.
“Why no, of course not. I thought I made it clear to you when we met first that I was his, and only his.”
***
Miss Simmons offered to make them some lunch, but they politely declined, conscious of their impending meeting with Mr Tim Dickens.
Kennedy loved being driven through the streets of London, examining the buildings. He never tired of this and was intrigued by the difference in the buildin
gs in the various boroughs. Wimbledon had grand, spacious, regal houses, particularly the ones around the common, whereas the nearby Tooting was, well, quite a bit closer, in more ways than one, to the Old Kent Road - that was if you were playing Monopoly.
King’s mobile went off. It was James Irvine for Kennedy.
“Nealey has just rung to ask if it would be possible for you to meet Tim Dickens at her flat as soon as possible.”
“We’re on our way to interview him now,” Kennedy said into the phone. “Did she say what it was about?”
“She said she couldn’t really speak,” Irvine replied. Kennedy couldn’t be sure, but he thought his favourite DS was sounding a little annoyed, “but she asked that you come alone. She said that they would wait there until you arrived.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nealey Dean was equally subdued when she answered her door to Kennedy.
“Please come in, Christy.”
Nealey closed the door, and Kennedy followed her into the apartment.
Kennedy could hear voices in her living room; he’d only been expecting Nealey and Tim to be there.
However, there sitting on her large sofa were two men of similar size and age. Kennedy immediately recognised Dickens’ distinctive hair and expensive clothing. The gentleman to Dickens’ right looked familiar as well, and as Kennedy passed him side-on, he gasped as the stranger’s face came into view.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Inspector Kennedy,” Dickens started as both men stood up. “Have you ever met the Home Secretary, the Right Honourable Duncan Trower?”
“Pleased to meet you, Secretary,” Kennedy said, surprised at the politician’s grip.
“Yes,” Trower said, drawing the word out, sitting down, crossing his legs and realigning the crease down the front of the trousers of his dark blue pinstriped suit, “Timothy here has got himself in a wee bit of a tizz, I’m afraid, so I called the meeting here to help clear it up. Come and sit down with us, Nealey.”
Nealey started to join them and then had second thoughts. “Would anyone like a drink?” she enquired.
“I’d say,” Duncan Trower announced, sounding very jolly in a forced kind of way. “I don’t usually indulge before sundown, but I’ll admit I could murder a gin and tonic. Nealey dear, could you make mine a stiff one, please?”
Kennedy opted for a glass of orange juice; Nealey and Dickens both went for the large G & T.
The Right Honourable Duncan Trower was a dead ringer for a younger Michael Hessletine. He was slim and tall, maybe even a wee bit taller than Dickens, and had longish greying hair, perfectly styled to sweep back and totally cover his ears, but never at any place capable of soiling his politician’s ever-fresh shirt. Kennedy wondered if the House of Commons had its own high-speed laundry service to accommodate this look. Every single politician couldn’t possibly afford to have a brand new shirt every day of his or her life. He should have checked The Daily Telegraph’s exposure on politicians’ expenses closer.
From the distance of television and newspaper photos, Trower looked much younger than he did in real life. He had a habit of sweeping his hair back by running the long spindly fingers of his right hand through it, and every time he did so he’d adapt a pose, turning his head slightly to the left, tilting it down, so that his eyes had to look up, and opening his mouth slightly. Kennedy figured this movement must come from the days when his hair was long enough for Trower to swish it back with merely a flick of his head.
“You would report to Superintendent Thomas Castle, wouldn’t you?” Trower asked Kennedy directly in his perfect diction. Word had it that Trower had risen though the political ranks on the strength of his oratorical gifts alone.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Kennedy replied, thinking he, not Trower, was the one sounding a wee bit nervous.
“Yes, a good man Thomas. His wife, Maureen, is good at rallying the troops for us in Highgate. I always try to get up to at least one evening of their choir season. She’s got quite a passable voice, you know.”
Dickens coughed. Kennedy couldn’t be sure, but he thought it could have been a signal to Trower to get on with it - to get on with what this meeting was about.
Trower took a long drink of his G & T and seemed to be fortified by it. He uncrossed his legs as he set the drink back down on the coffee table, crossed them again as he relaxed back into the sofa and went through the previous ritual of realigning the crease in his trousers. He even threw in one of his right-hand-through-his-hair-and-twitch gestures for good measure.
“Detective Inspector Kennedy, I’m told you’re one of the good cops.” Kennedy blinked to distract himself from the person who was complimenting him - well, either complimenting him or circulating hot air. “I’m also told you’re a first class detective, an honest chap and a no-nonsense but fair Ulsterman.” Trower paused, managed to catch Kennedy’s stare and hold it for a few seconds. “Isn’t it funny what people think of us and say behind our backs? I dread to think what they say about me.”
Another cough from Dickens, but this time followed by, “Dunc?”
Silence.
Nealey Dean raised her eyebrows.
“Christy,” she began, “Duncan and Timothy have something very important they need to discuss with you.”
“Now that would be very interesting,” the Right Honourable Trower said starting up again, but totally ignoring Nealey’s efforts. “You know, Nealey dear, what people would say behind your back.”
“Okay, Christy,” Tim Dickens began hesitantly, “the reason we asked you here…”
“The reason we asked you here,” Trower interrupted, taking up the slack again, “is to clear up this little mess. You see, young Miss Alice Robbins, in her endeavours to protect her boss, her boss whom she is madly, possessively in love with, actually managed to drop her boss in even bigger trouble when she claimed they were both together at the time of Mr Mylan’s sad demise. Alice, who’s frightfully out of her depth…”
“Dunc!”
“Well, she is, Timothy, and it has to be said, sometimes you’re too loyal for your own good. Anyway, be that as it may, the reason Alice told you she and Timothy were together on Saturday was not because she didn’t want you to think he was off murdering Mr Mylan at that point. Heaven forbid. What she really didn’t want you to discover was that at the time of Mr Mylan’s death,” and here Trower paused to break into a Miss Marple impression, actually more like an Irish Miss Marple on speed, “the old queen was in my arms.”
“Dunc-can,” screamed Nealey Dean at the top of her voice.
“Dunc,” Tim Dickens shouted, but in a quieter voice than Dean’s, and broke into a smile.
“But the thing is, Christy, for obvious reasons, outside of this room Timothy and I need to be frightfully discreet about this,” Trower continued, obviously pleased as punch with the furore he’d created.
“I thank you for your candour, sir,” Kennedy said, hoping he wasn’t batting the proverbial eyelid. “Exactly what time did you meet up?”
“I sent my driver to pick him up from Blake’s at seven o’clock on Friday evening, and then they picked me up at my Chelsea residence at about seven-forty. We were on the M40 en-route to the Cotswolds by eight-thirty, which is the perfect time to be on that road. You either have to leave before three o’clock or after eight.”
Trower had changed his tone and was now delivering his information in a very serious voice.
“Where is your house in the Cotswolds?”
“Minster Lovell,” Trower said.
“Where is that exactly?”
“Exactly midway between Burford and Witney. Do you know the Cotswolds at all?”
“I used to know someone in Fulbrook,” Kennedy said, realising that Trower was doing his political spin on him and trying hard to turn the interview into a friendly conversation.
“But they moved on?” Trower continued.
“Yes, in fact they did.”
“Yes,” Trower agreed and
broke into his Miss Marple voice again. “It’s a very beautiful little village, very picture postcard, but eventually everyone moves on from Fulbrook. It’s absolutely always heaving with tourists, don’t you see.”
Kennedy was aware he still had some housekeeping to do.
“When did you return to London?” he asked.
“We got in quite late,” Trower replied, returning to his diction-perfect voice. “We wanted to have the benefit of the full day in the countryside. I believe it would have been just before midnight on Sunday.”
“Would anyone have seen you while you were there?”
“Oh yes,” Trower smiled. “I’ve a permanent staff of three, all paid for out of my own pocket, mind you.” He paused and slipped into his Miss Marple voice. Kennedy wasn’t even sure if Trower realised he was doing it, “I wouldn’t want to risk distressing our loyal tax payers.”
“We don’t hide away like hermits,” Dickens said, offering his first comments for a time.
“Hark, she’s woken up at last!” Trower laughed, “He’s correct, absolutely so, but we are discreet. When we want to go out to dinner, we merely borrow the wives or girlfriends of a couple of chums and head out in a gang. Um, Inspector, it’s important you know, this is not a fling or anything. We’re happily in a very serious and loving relationship, but it’s just that we’re both pubic figures, and…”
Dean and Dickens started to snigger at the same time. Kennedy had managed to let Trower’s slip pass, but when Dean and Dickens started to snigger and then break into a full laugh, he too couldn’t help but join them.
“What, what’s the matter?” Trower said smiling, but wanting to know what they were laughing at, “You should hear yourselves, you’re sniggering in harmony. Are my flies undone or something?”
This in turn caused the other three to laugh even more. Kennedy felt part of Dean and Dickens laugh was based on the sheer relief and subsequent release they were now enjoying in having, at least in their book, cleared the matter up.