Make Them Pay

by Graham Ison

  But now it seemed that his initial confidence was unfounded.

  He went downstairs and sought out the landlord.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he announced.

  ‘You’ll have to pay to the end of the month,’ said the disgruntled landlord, irritated that he’d now have to find a new tenant.

  ‘That should cover it,’ said the murderer, and peeled off a couple of twenty-pound notes from a roll he took from his pocket.

  ‘What d’you want me to do with any mail that arrives for you?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘There won’t be any,’ said the murderer, and hastening back to his room threw his few possessions into a battered holdall.

  His next problem would be finding somewhere to live until he could flee abroad. Preferably back to Germany.

  The landlord pondered the sudden departure of his lodger and idly wondered if it had anything to do with the three murders that had been reported in that morning’s newspapers and on the previous evening’s television news. But he didn’t wonder for long. Once his erstwhile tenant had driven off in his Volkswagen Polo, he walked down to the local police station.

  I arrived at the office on Friday morning, full of hope that the press release might yield some helpful results. Like hell! Last night’s evening papers and television news bulletins had carried lengthy reports about our triple murder enquiry, and today’s national newspapers published similar items. One enterprising journal had managed to acquire a photograph of Adekunle’s house in Paddington, and also reproduced a picture of a Volkswagen camper van similar to the one in which Eberhardt and Schmidt had been murdered. Another paper had produced a photograph of Guy Wilson’s house in Bendview Road, Richmond, describing it as ‘The house of antiquarian book dealer Guy Wilson, opposite which the brutal slaying had occurred.’ It was a photograph that produced the first complaint arising out of our enquiries.

  But there were no telephone calls from people who knew the murderer and were about to tell us where he lived.

  ‘Good morning, Harry.’ No sooner had I got my first cup of coffee in front of me than Alan Cleaver wandered into my office. I’d already been told by Colin Wilberforce that the commander had taken the day off and that Cleaver was acting in his place.

  ‘Morning, guv.’ I made to stand up, but Cleaver waved me down, at the same time sinking into my armchair.

  ‘We’ve had an official complaint from a bloke called Guy Wilson, Harry.’

  ‘What’s he banging on about? It was him who called the fire brigade to the camper van where we found the bodies of Eberhardt and Schmidt.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Well, a photograph of his house appeared in one of this morning’s tabloids together with details of what he did for a living.’

  ‘Yes, I saw it.’

  ‘I know it’s nothing to do with us,’ Cleaver continued, ‘but he’s got this bee in his bonnet that police leaked details to the press. Can you spare a few minutes to go down there and disabuse him?’

  ‘I suppose so, guv.’ I was disinclined to make apologetic overtures to the egotistical Wilson, particularly as I knew the information had not come from us, but Alan Cleaver must’ve had a good reason for asking me.

  ‘It’ll save time in the long run, Harry. The local CID told me that Wilson claims to have influential friends and is threatening to write to his MP. Frankly, I think it’s all bluster, and anyway I couldn’t give a toss about his grievance. But nipping this thing in the bud would save us having to deal with a parliamentary question if some idiot Member of Parliament did happen to raise it in the House. Or if the said Member wings it across to the Independent Police Complaints Commission.’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll go down there now, guv,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Cleaver. ‘Let me know how you get on. Give me a ring if it’s more convenient for you.’

  Oh, what a refreshing change from the commander.

  ‘And about time.’ Guy Wilson threw open his front door and retreated into the house, leaving Dave to close the door. ‘You’d better come into the study.’

  Wilson sat down behind his desk, but didn’t invite us to take a seat. We did anyway.

  ‘I understand that you have a complaint about press coverage, Mr Wilson,’ I began.

  ‘Too bloody right I have.’ Wilson snatched at a copy of a tabloid newspaper that was open on his desk. ‘Have a look at that. The offending article is on page three.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ I said.

  At that moment a woman whom I presumed to be the Wilsons’ housekeeper entered the study. She was wearing an overall coat and her face wore a bland expression. ‘Do you wanting coffee, Mister Wilson?’ she asked in an accent that seemed to indicate that she originated from an Eastern European country.

  ‘No,’ snapped Wilson, ‘and close the door. I’m not to be disturbed.’

  The woman, her face still expressionless, withdrew silently and shut the door behind her.

  ‘What exactly is your complaint about, Mr Wilson?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to know how the press got hold of all those details about my personal life,’ Wilson said. ‘And that gutter rag in particular.’ He gestured at the newspaper.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said. ‘Have you tried asking them?’

  ‘I don’t have to. It was the police, wasn’t it? I know you chaps are hand in glove with the media. Helping them to hack into people’s emails and that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Wilson, but the last thing I wanted was to see details about you or your house appearing in the press. That sort of thing can very often be counterproductive to our enquiries.’

  ‘Well, someone must’ve told them.’

  ‘In our experience, Mr Wilson,’ said Dave, ‘journalists are extremely resourceful people. It would not have taken much working out that your house was opposite the crime scene. And it is but a short step from there to discovering what sort of trade you’re in.’

  ‘I’m not in trade,’ snapped Wilson, riled by Dave’s remark. ‘I’m an antiquarian book dealer.’

  ‘The usual method that these people employ is to talk to your neighbours . . . or to the people who work for them . . . or for you,’ said Dave, unconcerned about annoying Wilson even further. ‘It’s surprising how easily a few pounds will unlock tongues. It’s called cheque book journalism.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that a member of my staff spoke to the newspapers?’ Wilson bridled at the suggestion.

  ‘That’s entirely a matter for you to discover, Mr Wilson,’ I said. ‘You know your people much better than we do. Do you employ many people?’

  ‘None of your damned business,’ said Wilson irritably, but I imagined that his only member of staff was the woman who had offered him coffee a few minutes ago. For a moment or two, he toyed with a letter opener on his desk. ‘If it was counterproductive to your enquiries, as you suggested it was, why didn’t you stop them publishing those details, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Because, Mr Wilson,’ said Dave, despite the question having been directed at me, ‘we pride ourselves on freedom of the press in this country. There’s no way in which we could exercise any sort of censorship, or would wish to.’

  ‘I shall sue them.’ Wilson was disgruntled that we were refusing to accept responsibility for the offending article.

  ‘As far as I can see, there’s nothing libellous in the article,’ I said.

  ‘Then I shall sue for breach of privacy.’ I got the impression that Wilson was determined to seek redress from one quarter or another. ‘And I’ll write to my MP. For all I know these people have been listening to my phone calls.’

  The door to the study opened and Wilson was about to bark a reproof when he saw that it was his wife Helen. This morning she was attired in an expensive Chanel grey trouser suit that most women would’ve died for.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Guy,’ said Helen Wilson, ‘I didn’t know you had clients.’

  ‘They’
re not clients, darling,’ said Wilson, suddenly becoming syrupy polite to his trophy wife. ‘It’s the police. They’re denying telling this damned newspaper what I did for a living.’

  ‘They didn’t tell them,’ said Helen.

  ‘What?’ Wilson’s face expressed concern. ‘What d’you mean? How d’you know it wasn’t the police?’

  ‘It was me, darling,’ said Helen. ‘He was an awfully nice young man who called here, and I thought that for people to know that you dealt in rare books might help you to expand your client base. After all, it’s free advertising in a national newspaper, isn’t it?’

  Wilson rose from behind his desk, red in the face, and I sensed that we were on the threshold of what we policemen like to call ‘a domestic’.

  ‘Unless there’s anything else, Mr Wilson, we’ll be on our way,’ I said, as Dave and I hurriedly rose from our seats. ‘We’ll find our own way out.’ I noticed that Dave was doing his best to stifle a laugh.

  Wilson dismissed us with a wave of the hand. There was no apology for his unfounded accusations, but I didn’t expect one.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Dave, finally erupting into unrestrained laughter as we got into our car and made our way back to central London.

  I rang Alan Cleaver on my mobile. ‘Wilson’s withdrawn his complaint, guv,’ I said. ‘More or less.’

  ‘What was the outcome?’ asked Cleaver.

  ‘It turned out that it was his wife who spoke to the press, guv.’

  There was a roar of laughter from Cleaver’s end. ‘Nice one, Harry.’

  On our return to Curtis Green, I decided to call it a day and Dave and I went for a quick beer in the downstairs bar of St Stephen’s Tavern on the corner of Bridge Street. We picked this pub rather than our usual haunts of the Red Lion or the Clarence, mainly to avoid journalists who wanted information rather than giving it. A mistake.

  ‘Hello, Mr Brock. Long time no see.’

  The sleazy, permanently sweating, overweight individual occupying a stool at the far end of the downstairs bar was known to most members of the CID as Fat Danny. He was the worst crime reporter for the most disreputable tabloid newspaper known to man and, believe me, that was no easy reputation to acquire.

  ‘I don’t suppose you just happened to be here on the off chance that I might drop in, Danny,’ I said. ‘Or was it an overwhelming desire to buy me a pint if I did happen to appear?’

  ‘Always a pleasure to buy you a drink, Mr Brock, and you too, Mr Poole.’ Danny promptly ordered two pints of best bitter, and another large Scotch for himself.

  ‘Pay attention to what happens next, sir,’ said Dave. ‘You are about to witness a reporter putting his hand in his pocket and paying for a round.’

  ‘Journalist,’ muttered Danny as he pushed our two pints along the bar.

  ‘I take it you want something, Danny,’ I said, taking the head off my beer.

  ‘These three murders, Mr Brock. What’s the SP?’

  ‘Exactly what you wrote in that gutter rag you work for, Danny.’

  ‘Yeah, but there must be a bit more to these toppings than that. I mean, that was the standard press release, yeah?’ Danny paused in mid-sip. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, there is more, Danny,’ said Dave. ‘The name of the murderer. I thought you’d dropped in here to tell us who he is and where we can find him.’

  ‘Leave it out, Mr Poole. What’s the German connection? Drug smugglers were they? International art thieves? Terrorists? Surely you can give me a bit more.’

  ‘As soon as we find out anything, you’ll be the first to know, Danny,’ I said.

  ‘After we’ve told every other crime reporter,’ muttered Dave.

  ‘Journalist,’ said Danny again. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Was it you who did that piece about Guy Wilson in your rag, Danny?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Dave. ‘Mrs Wilson said that the reporter who called was a nice young man.’

  It was gone eight o’clock before I opened the door of my flat. It was, as usual, clean and tidy. But this was in no way anything to do with me. I’ve already mentioned my wonderful cleaning lady called Gladys Gurney, an absolute diamond whom Gail now seems intent upon kidnapping. But only if I move in with her, a proposition I’m still turning over in my mind.

  Mrs Gurney comes in three times a week and miraculously transposes the unbelievable chaos of my abode into something approaching civilized living. I’ve no idea how she manages it, but I do know that she’s worth every penny I pay her.

  As was so often the case, she had left me one of her charming little notes.

  Dear Mr Brock,

  That window cleaner of yours come in today and done the windows. He had the cheek to charge six pounds what I give him. But I also give him a piece of my mind because I thought it was a scandal what he was charging.

  Yours faithfully

  Gladys Gurney (Mrs)

  I left ten pounds on the kitchen worktop with a note of thanks. Gladys is well worth the extra few quid that I give her from time to time. After all, she’s only supposed to clean the flat, but she does more, much more. She washes and irons my shirts and changes the bed. Moreover, she frequently launders the underwear that Gail somehow manages to leave strewn about the bedroom floor, and parcels it up in tissue paper that she brings with her.

  I switched on my answering machine, but there was only one message and that was from Gail. It seemed that we’d been invited to join Bill and Charlie Hunter for a barbecue at their house at Esher the following afternoon. ‘If,’ Gail had added sarcastically, ‘you can tear yourself away from your murder mystery games.’ She has become much more cynical about my job since I first met her.

  Just to make the situation clear, I should explain that the ‘Charlie’ of the duo is not a bloke but a woman called Charlotte, a thirty-something actress and long-standing friend of Gail. Charlotte Hunter is not her stage name and although Gail had once told me what it was, I could never remember it.

  Charlie’s husband Bill sits behind a desk somewhere in the City and makes a lot of money quite effortlessly. Or so it would appear.

  I rang Gail and told her that I’d be delighted to visit the Hunters, if for no better reason than to have a sight of Charlie in her minimal bikini. But I didn’t tell Gail that.

  ‘Why don’t you come round for supper,’ suggested Gail. ‘I think I can manage to cobble something together.’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ I said enthusiastically. I’d sampled Gail’s ‘cobbled together’ meals many times before and they weren’t to be missed.

  I arrived within the promised time span, bearing the obligatory bottle of champagne. I don’t know why I bother really; Gail’s two fridges – one in the kitchen and one in the bedroom – are always fully stocked with Heidsieck.

  The meal, a selection of cold dishes, was delicious and we drank far too much Sauvignon Blanc.

  ‘The champagne’s in the bedroom,’ said Gail suggestively, once the meal was over. ‘D’you intend staying the night?’ she queried, in an offhand sort of way.

  She knew bloody well I would.

  FIFTEEN

  It was five o’clock the following afternoon when we arrived at the Hunters’ palatial residence in Esher. One of half a dozen similar houses situated on a gated estate, it was a modern property set in its own grounds. Gail had once told me that it boasted six bedrooms, each with an en suite bathroom.

  The swimming pool was enclosed in a purpose-built wooden chalet in which there were electric heaters and floodlights, not that either was switched on today; the temperature was still in the seventies. At one end there were cabins for changing, and showers. One side of the chalet consisted mainly of wide sliding doors that gave on to a patio and a state of the art charcoal barbecue. Like everything else that the Hunters did, no expense had been spared. There were many occasions, like now, when I thought that choosing the Metropolitan Police for a career had not been the smartest move I’d ever
made.

  Bill was attired in Hawaiian-pattern swim shorts, flip-flops and an apron that bore the ludicrous depiction of a human skeleton.

  It’s a curious custom of the British that at the first sign of sunshine they feel impelled to drag their food out of doors and set fire to it.

  Bill was no exception. He was already hard at work burning sausages, chunks of meat and all the other bits and pieces that Englishmen think should comprise an alfresco meal. From time to time, he paused to sip at a glass of red wine.

  Charlie, in a microscopic bikini, bless her, was reclining on a poolside lounger slowly lowering the level of liquid in a tall glass of Pimms.

  Gail promptly disappeared into one of the changing cabins to reappear moments later in a cerise bikini that was bitchily designed to outdo Charlie’s in terms of minimalism.

  ‘I see you’ve got a few murders on your hands, Harry,’ said Bill, as I joined him at his barbecue. ‘I read about it in yesterday’s paper. Surprised you had the time to join us.’ He turned over a couple of steaks that were in danger of going beyond the well-done stage, and topped up my glass with wine.

  ‘Take more than a few murders to miss one of your feasts, Bill,’ I said, although what I really meant was that I’d hate to miss the sight of Charlie’s gorgeous near-naked body disporting itself by the pool. ‘Just to make matters worse, they seem to be mixed up with a boiler-room scam.’

  ‘Oh, that’s bad news,’ said Bill, turning from his haute cuisine duties and waving a pair of kitchen tongs. ‘If I can help at all, give me a ring. I had a client last year who was seen off with some offer that was too good to miss. I told him that if it was too good to miss, then he should miss it, but it was too late. The damn’ fool had already invested. Lost about twenty grand, I think.’