Kevin Tripp’s unfortunate cleaning lady was sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of tea. A curly-haired young man in denims was seated close by, gazing at her with an expression of filial concern.
‘Hello, Mrs. Gates. You remember me?’ asked Poole.
‘Yes, I do. They told me you were coming,’ she replied, in her sing-song Welsh accent.
‘I’ve brought Mr. Webster and Mr. Rennie along to see you.’
‘You’re going to ask me about the shooting, I suppose?’
‘Only if you feel up to it.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can. Let’s get this over and done with. Then you’ll leave me alone, won’t you?’
Poole smiled kindly. ‘Of course we will.’
‘This is my boy, Wyn.’
Wyn acknowledged us with a nod, then got up from his chair. ‘I’d better be getting along now, Mam. I’ll be back this evening, usual time. Don’t let them tire you out.’ He gave his mother a peck on the cheek and headed for the exit.
We settled down around the bed and waited for Ruby to finish her tea before telling her story.
‘I was hoovering in the living room. Mr. Tripp and that Jacko character were upstairs. I heard the doorbell ring. Next thing I knew there was this tall man dressed like a monk, standing right behind me. It give me such a shock.’
‘Did you see his face at all?’ asked Poole.
‘No, not really. It was covered with the hood. Anyhow, he grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth. Told me not to make a sound.’
‘What was his voice like?’
‘Calm, and soft. Cockney, I think.’
‘Then what?’
‘He pushed me out of the door, and shoved me into the cloakroom. Locked me in. After a while I heard the first shot.’
‘From upstairs?’
‘I’m not sure. There was a bit of shouting, then another shot. Then I heard footsteps. I thought he was coming back to get me. But he just unlocked the door and said: “It’s over, I’m leaving.” ’
‘Is that when you ran out of the house?’
‘Oh no! I waited – to make absolutely sure he’d gone. I listened out for the sound of the front door, but I think he must have left by one of the back doors. Finally I plucked up the courage to come out of the cloakroom. And there was Jacko, lying in the hall in a pool of blood. I didn’t stop to see whether he was alive, I got out of there as fast as my legs could carry me.’
The effort of recollection left Ruby looking drained; she sank back against her pillow and closed her eyes. This did not escape the attention of the Sister, who had been hovering nearby.
‘I think that’s probably enough for today, Ruby,’ said Poole tactfully. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
She answered with a weary nod, and we beat a respectful retreat.
‘Disappointing,’ muttered Poole, as we munched a spot of lunch in the hospital cafeteria. ‘I thought we’d get a good description of the man’s face, at the very least.’
‘Give her time,’ advised Mo wisely. ‘As the shock wears off she’ll probably remember everything more clearly.’
Poole appeared unconvinced. ‘I can’t hang around for that. There are questions to be answered. For example, if Tripp was so paranoid why did he let the monk into the house? Have you got any theories about that, Mr. Webster?’
I tried to imagine the likely sequence of events leading up to the murders. ‘The killer rings the bell. Tripp speaks to him on the intercom, judges he isn’t a threat, and lets him in. Perhaps he recognises the voice? Or he looks out of the window and sees that it’s someone harmless – in which case the man couldn’t have been wearing the monk’s costume when he arrived.’
‘You mean he changed into it when he got inside the door?’ asked Mo.
‘It’s conceivable. But I grant you it would have to be an exceptionally rapid change, because he was in his habit by the time he grabbed Ruby – only a few seconds later.’
‘At least that would explain why there are no witnesses to a monk arriving at the house,’ said Poole. ‘Somebody in the vicinity should have noticed a conspicuous figure like that.’
‘So, we should be looking for a tall man with a cockney accent, who was one of Tripp’s trusted acquaintances,’ summarised Mo.
‘My money’s on his brother, Gordon,’ declared Poole, wolfing down his fifth sandwich. ‘He doesn’t have a satisfactory alibi. Claims he was walking around in Hyde Park – taking the air. But nobody saw him.’
‘Does he have a motive, though?’ asked Mo.
‘According to my information Kevin’s shares in the company pass straight to Gordon – which means he’s now effectively in control. You can’t get a better motive than that.’
‘There are two objections to Gordon as a suspect,’ I countered. ‘First, he’s not as tall as the man we saw on the balcony. Second, Ruby would surely have recognised his voice – she knows him well.’
‘I still want to interview him again,’ insisted Poole, ‘if only to firm up his alibi. You’re welcome to come along.’
Within the hour we were at the X.E. Media headquarters in Capper Street. Gordon, looking as drab and nondescript as ever, was in the process of moving into his brother’s office – which seemed like indecent haste. The name-plate had already been changed.
‘I don’t really know why I’m bothering with all this,’ he remarked, showing us in. ‘I won’t be here very long.’
‘How’s that, Mr. Tripp?’ asked Poole suspiciously.
‘I’ve decided to sell out – to one of our market rivals.’
‘Really? That’s quite a big decision to take, so soon after your brother’s death.’
‘I never cared for the business, to tell you the truth. I only joined because of Kevin, and now he’s gone.’
‘Who’s the buyer?’ asked Mo.
‘Peter Van Meert. He owns a big Dutch media conglomerate. He’s been after the company for months. Kevin dug his heels in and refused to sell. It became a kind of ego battle between them. But I can’t be bothered with any of that sort of thing. Peter’s prepared to pay a fair price – and I’ll be able to retire.’
Assuming his more official tone, Poole said: ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to be more specific about your whereabouts at the time of the murders. You say you were strolling in Hyde Park. Surely there must have been some witnesses to that? What about one of the demonstrators?’
‘Demonstrators?’ echoed Gordon, looking blank.
‘Yes, there was a huge rally of pensioners – protesting about the price of fuel. They were swarming all over Hyde Park at about the time you say you were there.’
Gordon shuffled the paperwork on his desk uncomfortably.
‘Come on, Mr. Tripp. We may as well have the truth.’
‘Alright, I suppose I’ll have to take you into my confidence. No, I wasn’t there. I was with a girl – in her flat.’
‘I see,’ replied Poole neutrally. ‘Can we have the girl’s name?’
‘Is it necessary? Yes, of course it is. Her name is Tara Glover. She’s one of our regular models. I’ve been seeing her on and off, ever since I started with the company. My wife doesn’t know. It would kill her.’
‘When did you arrive at the girl’s flat?’
‘About four. I didn’t leave until after nine.’
‘I presume she’ll confirm this?’
‘Of course she will.’
‘And did anyone see you together? Think carefully – you’ve already given a false statement, remember.’
‘We ordered a curry from a local take-away. The man who delivered it – he definitely saw me.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About seven-thirty, I think.’
‘Where is the flat?’
‘Windsor. The restaurant is called the Empress of India.’
‘Fine,’ said Poole, scribbling the details down in his notebook. ‘We’ll check up on all of this.’
‘Try to be discreet,’ entreated Gordon.
‘My family means everything to me.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ promised the detective with a nod.
‘In return, I want to show you a list of my brother’s enemies. I’ve been compiling it over the last week.’ He took out a sheet of paper from a drawer and handed it over. ‘All of these people had some kind of grudge against him and are capable of murder, in my opinion.’
‘There are thirty names here, at least,’ exclaimed Poole, looking rather shocked.
‘All you have to do is line them up and get Ruby Gates to make an identification.’
‘She didn’t see the killer’s face, though,’ said Mo. ‘We’ve just been talking to her in the hospital.’
‘Pity. How is the old dear, by the way? I feel terrible about her getting mixed up in all this. Kevin always said she was the best cleaner he ever had. And the cheapest. You see that painting over there, leaning against the wall? I’m going to give it to her as a present – a kind of compensation. It’s worth a few bob. British Impressionist, so they tell me.’
‘It’s very striking,’ I commented, moving nearer to examine it. ‘What’s the scene? Cornwall?’
‘No, the Gower Peninsula. That’s where Ruby comes from. Trouble is, she’s much too proud to accept it from me. I’m using her brother as a middle man. Actually he should be here by now – to pick it up. Hang on a minute.’
Gordon went out to have a quick word with his secretary in the next room, then returned.
‘He’s been waiting down in reception all the time. Can I call him up, or have you got some more questions?’
‘No, go ahead,’ said Poole, waving a permissive hand. ‘We can tell him the latest about his sister’s condition.’
A minute or so later a small, jovial looking man in his sixties with sparse, copper-coloured hair was shown into the office. Gordon directed him towards the painting.
‘Well, Edwin, this is it. Tell your sister you bought it at a car-boot sale for twenty quid. You’ll only be a thousand pounds out.’
‘It’s beautiful, Mr. Tripp!’ Edwin enthused, holding it up to the light reverentially. ‘I know she’ll treasure it. I’ll hang it up in her living room, ready for when she goes home.’
‘Actually we’ve just come from the hospital,’ remarked Poole. ‘Ruby’s doing well. The doctors are very pleased with her.’
‘Yes, she’s a tough old bird, my sister. Recovers quickly from any kind of adversity. Her daughter, Betty, died last year – heart failure. She took it so bravely. Mind you, she had to leave Wales because the memories were too painful. Moved up here to London. That was hard, because she loves the countryside.’
‘Let’s hope the painting cheers her up, then,’ said Gordon kindly.
After a pause Poole announced: ‘Well, I’d better be making tracks. We’ll certainly analyse this list of yours, Mr. Tripp – see what our computer comes up with.’
‘Let me know if it leads to anything, won’t you?’ I requested.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay in touch,’ promised Poole, as he wandered out.
Meanwhile Edwin had noticed the rack of porn magazines which adorned the wall behind us. He looked intrigued. ‘So this is what your company does, Mr. Tripp. I had no idea.’
‘Why don’t you grab a few?’ offered Gordon generously. ‘We’ve got plenty of excess stock.’
‘Well, I don’t really know if I should.’
‘Go on, don’t be shy.’
‘Alright, if you insist.’
Edwin moved along the display, picking out the odd magazine self-consciously. Then, as he neared the far end, he froze – with a curious, almost fearful expression on his face.
‘Anything the matter?’ asked Gordon, in a concerned tone.
‘No, nothing,’ replied Edwin, ‘I’m not used to this kind of material, that’s all.’
‘Yes, some of it is a bit strong. Let’s have the ones you’ve chosen. I’ll wrap them up for you.’
Edwin handed over the pile, then sat down looking ashen-faced.
‘Do you want me to wrap the painting as well?’
‘No, I’ll take it as it is.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gordon, putting the magazines into a brown paper bag. ‘Here you are, then.’
Edwin grabbed the bag in one hand and the picture in the other. ‘I ought to go now. Ruby will be waiting. Thank you very much for everything.’
With that he made a hasty exit.
‘Strange bloke,’ commented Mo, gazing after him.
‘Easily shocked,’ I concluded.
Now that we were alone Gordon seemed anxious to talk about the police investigation, and his place in it. ‘Does Poole really have me down as a suspect? You can be honest with me.’
‘He did have,’ I replied carefully, ‘before you came up with a reasonable alibi.’
‘As if I’d kill my own brother! It’s ridiculous! Jacko – well, that’s a different matter.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Mo.
‘Jacko deserved to get shot. He was a complete bastard. I don’t know what Kevin used to see in him. Did you know he had form? The stories I could tell . . .’
‘We’d like to hear them,’ I encouraged.
‘He used to choose the young, naive girls, and get them into drugs – coke and smack. Once they were hooked he forced them to do the really depraved stuff. He was a bloody animal.’
‘And Kevin knew about all this?’
‘Must have done – it was going on all around him. He thought Jacko was useful.’
‘Did you ever voice your objections?’ I asked.
Gordon looked ashamed. ‘Not as often as I should. I didn’t want to rock the boat. The money was too good. But now you can understand why I want to get out of the business.’
Later that afternoon we went back to Oxshott Street, for the purpose of interviewing Kevin Tripp’s neighbours about the murders. The police had, of course, done their own doorstepping, and drawn a complete blank. No-one had seen anything untoward, even though they may have heard the shots. But I felt it was worth double-checking.
Our efforts met with little success, until we rang on the bell of the house three doors down from Tripp’s.
A nattily dressed elderly gentleman with a wonderful handle-bar moustache appeared.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he asked.
I lifted my deerstalker politely, and explained our business.
‘Ah, so there was a murder!’ he exclaimed.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I saw the police turn up, so I knew something odd was going on. But I couldn’t hang around to find out more – my daughter was expecting me to meet her off a plane.’
‘I see. So you haven’t been interviewed by the police yet?’
‘No, I only got back last night. I’ve been staying with her in Cheltenham.’
‘In that case, may we possibly come in and ask you a few questions?’
‘By all means,’ said the old chap cheerfully.
He insisted on rustling up a spot of tea for us, during which he explained his version of the events of that fateful evening.
‘I was watching a nature programme on the box when I heard the first bang. I went out into the back garden to see what it was. There was some shouting. Then came the second bang – definitely a gunshot this time. I was just about to go back inside to phone the police, when I spotted a dark, squarish object dropping out of a window.’
‘Which window?’ I asked excitedly.
‘Third storey – three houses up the road from me.’
‘What did it look like?’
‘Just like a small parachute, really. It floated down onto the fire-escape.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I watched the window for some time – but that’s all I saw.’
‘You didn’t spot a tall man running down that fire-escape, I suppose?’ asked Mo.
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’
‘Are you quite sure? It was getting dark by
then – perhaps you missed him?’
The man grew slightly irritated. ‘My eyesight is still rather good, you know. Hasn’t deteriorated since I was in the R.A.F. If there’d been someone there I would have seen him – but there wasn’t.’
‘Well, that didn’t get us very far,’ grumbled Mo, as we headed for the next house.
‘On the contrary,’ I replied, ‘I think it’s a very important eye-witness account.’
‘But he didn’t see anything!’
‘Precisely. Just a dark object – presumably the monk’s habit – dropping out of the window. But no sign of the monk. How do you explain that?’
‘He must have already run off, I suppose.’
‘But how could the habit float down like that of its own accord?’
‘The wind blew it,’ proposed Mo confidently.
‘There was no wind that evening – not a breath.’
‘What’s your theory, then?’
‘I haven’t formed one yet. All I know is that there must be a fundamental flaw in the way we’re imagining the sequence of events. Why did no-one notice the monk arrive or depart? Poole was quite right to be exercised by that question – I keep coming back to it myself.’
‘Perhaps the killer was hiding in the house all the time? The police simply failed to find him.’
‘But they turned the place over from top to bottom. It isn’t that big a house.’
‘What about a secret passage?’
I shook my head wearily. ‘Now we’re getting desperate . . .’
Having failed to gather anything more of interest from the remaining neighbours Mo suggested that we arrange an interview with Paulette, Kevin’s girlfriend – the one whom we had seen being forcibly evacuated to the country. Surely she, argued Mo, would know what was going through his head during the last months of his life. I tended to agree, so we obtained her phone number from Gordon and gave her a ring. A flatmate answered, and informed us that she was on a late photo-shoot and would be back around nine.
We arrived at their Wembley flat at half-past nine. Paulette herself answered the door. We introduced ourselves and stated our business, and she reluctantly showed us into the lounge.
‘I hope this won’t take long – I’m knackered,’ she warned, plunging onto the sofa as if it were a trampoline.
The Sherlock Effect Page 19