by Granger, Ann
‘We had a bit of luck there. At first I thought we were up against it. The caretaker’s a miserable old git, real jobsworth, name of Cyril Sprang,’ continued Collins, the memory of his encounter with the guardian of the block of flats flooding back. ‘He defends the place like national security was at stake. First of all, he didn’t want us to go up to the flat. It’s on the third floor. Then he insisted on coming with us and we all stood outside Burton’s door arguing the toss. Mr Burton wasn’t there, reckoned Sprang, and we ought to come back later. Forget it, we told him, we’re here and we want to see inside the flat. Oh well, we had to wait for Mr Burton to be in residence or we had to bring a proper accredited representative of Mr Burton’s with a key. I had to tell him there was no chance of that: the owner had died. I didn’t say how but I made it clear the flat was now part of official enquiries.
‘That gave Sprang a bit of a turn. We had to stand there and listen while he went into another flap. Then, all at once, he admitted he had a key. It seems a few weeks earlier there’d been some problem with the plumbing. Burton himself couldn’t be there to let the plumber in so he’d given Sprang his spare key with strict instructions not to let it into anyone else’s hands. Sprang had let the plumber in and stood over him all the time he was working there. That must have cheered up the plumber no end!
‘“So, right, a key, let’s have it!” we said. But oh, no, never! Burton had handed over the key to Sprang like a blooming sacred trust. None of the other porters were to have it, no one. That included us, apparently. We’re police officers, we pointed out. So he told us to go away and come back with a search warrant. “I’ve got no authority and neither have you!” he said, silly old basket. I didn’t feel like dragging my corns off to get a warrant so I told him bluntly, if I had to, I’d break in. You should have seen his face! Anyhow, it did the trick. He went off and got the key and we got in eventually. It didn’t look as if anyone else had been there in a while. Sprang said it was three weeks since Burton had been there, at the time of the plumbing emergency, when he left the key. Sprang knew he hadn’t been back because he’d have come to find the caretaker and retrieve his spare key. The colleague with me and I, we took a good look round but we didn’t conduct a proper search. I reckoned you’d want to come up here and do that. But I did note down the one message on the answerphone, some geezer asking Burton to ring back and giving a mobile number. Got a pencil handy?’
‘Yes,’ said Jess, pulling a notepad towards her. ‘Did he say what his call was about?’
‘No, just asked that Burton call him as soon as possible. The call was made on Monday morning last week at eleven thirty.’
But by then, Burton was probably dead. Jess shivered, struck by the arbitrariness of mortality. The best-laid plans . . .
‘The number belongs to a bloke called Archie Armstrong.’ Collins gave the number. ‘He lives up north,’ Collins concluded his information.
Recalled to the present, Jess asked cautiously, having been caught out before, ‘When you say “up north”, do you mean north London?’
‘Yeah, where else?’ Collins sounded puzzled.
Like Yorkshire, chum, or anywhere north of the Watford Gap! But Collins, secure in his London insularity, probably gave such far-flung areas of the country little thought.
‘Just checking,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Collins had done an efficient job. She was grateful. It had saved her time.
‘Want me to do anything else?’ Collins asked.
‘Not at the moment,’ she told him. ‘I’ll come up to London tomorrow and look over that flat myself. You say the caretaker will be there?’
‘Either him or some other bloke just like him. Mention my name,’ added Collins with an unexpected chuckle. ‘But we’ve got the key here at the station, if you want to drop by first. I told old Sprang I had to seal the flat because of the nature of enquiries. When he saw I was taking the key away he nearly had a fit. I signed a receipt for him. But when you turn up, you’ll get an earful, just as we did. You’d think it was the key to the Crown Jewels.’
Jess found herself smiling. ‘Will do. I hope I’ll find some of Burton’s neighbours at home. We’re trying to build up a picture of the man. I also want to talk to Archie Armstrong.’
Collins was chuckling again when Jess put down the phone. She studied the scrap of paper with the bare information of Armstrong’s mobile number. Collins was right. Whoever he was and whatever his business with the late Lucas Burton, Archie Armstrong wouldn’t be happy to see the police arriving on his doorstep. She reached for the phone again.
A man’s voice in her ear briefly said, ‘Hi!’
She identified herself and the next words were spoken warily.
‘Inspector Campbell? Sorry, may I ask where you got this number?’
‘It’s just an enquiry,’ Jess said, ignoring the question.
She heard an irritable ‘Tsk!’ It was followed with, ‘Well, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Jess soothed him. ‘I understand you’re acquainted with a Mr Lucas Burton?’
‘Burton?’ A pause for thinking time. ‘Oh, well, yes, in a manner of speaking. We’ve done a little business together in the past. It’s all in order and above board. You can check it out.’
‘You left a message on his answerphone in his London flat last week, on Monday morning.’
‘So that’s where you got my mobile number!’ The voice at the other end hardened. ‘What’s going on? Is Burton involved in something? It’s nothing to do with me if he is. How did you come to be listening to his answer machine?’
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Burton has died.’
Shocked silence.
‘We are trying to trace people who knew him. He appears to have been a very private man. We know of no next of kin and business acquaintances are the next obvious area of search.’
‘Now, just a minute,’ Armstrong protested. ‘When you say he’s died – how did he die and when?’
‘He died on Monday, the day you phoned his flat.’
‘In London? He died here in London?’ the voice was growing agitated.
‘No, in Gloucestershire.’
She heard his sigh of relief.
‘I never go to the West Country,’ Armstrong said. ‘I go down to the South Coast occasionally. I’ve got a little boat down there. I only ever met Lucas here in town and that only a couple of times.’
‘But you wanted him to ring you,’ Jess pointed out. Armstrong must be cursing the fact that he’d left a message on that answerphone.
‘I was just touching base,’ Armstrong said unconvincingly. ‘Business contacts, you know. I like to keep them up to date. Honestly, I knew Lucas Burton purely in a professional capacity, and I don’t know how I can help you. I never heard him speak about his family. Well, poor chap, naturally I’m sorry to hear he’s kicked the bucket. Surprised, too. He seemed pretty fit.’ Doubt entered his voice again. ‘How did he die? Heart or something?’
‘Can I come and talk to you, Mr Armstrong? I’d like to come tomorrow, Tuesday. I’m sorry if that interferes with your work schedule. It’s a little late for me to set off to see you this afternoon.’
‘That’s all right.’ Armstrong sounded conciliatory. He’d had time to get over his initial shock and now he was the concerned citizen, anxious to do his duty and help the police. He’d accepted Jess wasn’t going to be put off by his feeble protests. ‘I can work from home while I’m waiting for you.’
‘Then I’ll come to your home address. We can meet elsewhere if you prefer.’
But Armstrong wouldn’t want her turning up at his office or anywhere where his business associates might see her.
‘No, no,’ came Armstrong’s hasty assurance. ‘That will be all right. My partner is away from home on a business trip to New York, so I’m all on my own here. Come to the house. You won’t be in uniform, will you?’
Archie Armstrong lived in another old
house, probably built only a little later than Burton’s one in Cheltenham. But whereas Burton had owned his property outright, this house was subdivided into flats. That didn’t mean they came cheaper. Jess pressed the appropriate bell on the list by the front door. The intercom crackled and when she identified herself, the disembodied voice told her to come up to the top floor. The street door was buzzed open. Jess toiled up a steep narrow staircase passing other white-painted doors. It was oppressively still and quiet. The other residents must all be at work. To own a flat here would cost a lot of money. No one here was strapped for cash.
Armstrong was waiting for her on the landing.
‘Inspector?’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Good journey up from Gloucestershire?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Jess said, shaking his hand briefly.
‘Good, good, come on in!’
She suspected he had been rehearsing all this. Don’t go down to the street and let her in – too eager. Wait on the landing – shows thoughtfulness. Shake her hand and ask about her journey – break the ice. In other words, make a good first impression as a regular normal nice guy.
Everything about his appearance suggested that Armstrong worked on giving this impression full time, cultivating the bonhomie. He was of middle height, youngish but probably not quite as young as the first impression conveyed, and fit-looking. She knew he went sailing at weekends. He probably also belonged to a gym. He had close cut fair hair and a reddish complexion, and wore chinos and a pale blue shirt. For all his general air of good health, he was getting a little paunchy. His wristwatch looked expensive.
She was ushered past him through the door. It opened into a large open space and she realised that this really was the ‘top’ floor. The flat had been created from the one-time garrets. It ran across the width of the house and its ceiling was like a Dutch barn in shape with long windows nearly down to the floor. The area where they fetched up was sparsely furnished with two long white leather sofas and a glass coffee table. There was an oriental rug on the well-polished floor and a painting by some modern artist she couldn’t identify on the peach-coloured wall. On another wall hung a flat-screen television. The dining area was in a recess behind them, glass table and stainless-steel chairs. The table was laid as if for a formal dinner party, but not – Jess deduced – because Armstrong planned entertaining that evening. The table was always set out like this, with mathematical spacing between place settings, crisp red napkins and a rose in a specimen vase in the middle. It was all part of ‘the look’. Unfortunately, the words that came to Jess’s mind were ‘goldfish bowl’. If Armstrong hadn’t mentioned having a partner, she’d have thought he lived here alone.
‘I can offer you some tea or coffee,’ he said.
‘Please don’t go to that trouble,’ Jess said. ‘It’s not necessary. I do appreciate your seeing me.’ She seated herself on one of the white leather sofas.
‘Oh, well, if it’s an official inquiry, naturally I want to help. Although as I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, I don’t see how I can.’
Now she was seated, Armstrong appeared happier and settled back on the facing sofa where he delivered another rehearsed speech.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Lucas, not that I knew him well, as I think I also indicated to you on the phone. He was a pretty open, ordinary, straightforward sort of guy. I never had any reason to suspect him of anything that wasn’t entirely above board. I wouldn’t have done business with him if I had. I think you’ll find most people will say the same of him. You didn’t say how he died. Oh, I say!’
This exclamation was because Jess had produced a small tape recorder.
‘Is this to be recorded. Is that necessary?’ His relaxed manner had vanished.
‘It’s purely routine, Mr Armstrong. It’s either that or I have to take notes. Do you object?’
‘Um, no, well, of course not.’ Armstrong eyed the little tape recorder as if it might jump off the glass coffee table and bite him.
‘His death’s the subject of our enquiries, I’m afraid, and there’s not a lot I can tell you.’ Jess smiled.
‘But you’re treating it as suspicious?’ Armstrong appeared fascinated by the tape recorder, staring at it fixedly.
‘Yes. He was found dead on Monday last.’
‘At home? I believe he had a house in Cheltenham. He mentioned it to me once.’
‘He was found in his garage.’
Armstrong leaned forward. ‘Ohmigod! He didn’t top himself, did he? Engine running, pipe from the exhaust, sealed car job?’
‘No, he didn’t kill himself.’ Jess decided the time had come to take charge of the conversation. ‘You say you didn’t know Burton well, but you do appear to have met him on several occasions. Were these always business meetings? Could you be more specific as to what kind of business?’
Armstrong grew wary. ‘Ye-es . . . Some friends and I – and Burton – formed a small company investing in property for renting out. My only contact with Burton was through that. He had many other interests, I’m sure, but I have no knowledge of them. I wasn’t – am not involved in those.’
Armstrong paused. ‘I can’t give you any actual details of our property portfolio, of course, without consulting my co-investors.’
‘I don’t need that today,’ Jess said to his obvious relief. ‘But I may do so later. What I’d like to know is, were you planning some new venture? Is that why you left the message asking him to contact you?’
‘Oh, no, no, I was just touching base, as I think I told you.’
Jess wasn’t inclined to believe this hasty denial, but she realised that if some new enterprise was planned it would be at an early stage and neither Armstrong nor his companions would want any wind of it getting out. He’d have to talk to them first; and she was sure that the minute she left the building, that was just what he’d be doing.
‘In view of all this,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could be a little more frank regarding Lucas Burton? So far, forgive me, you’ve said all the right things but all of them pretty general in tone. I understand that you trusted him, or you wouldn’t have done business with him. But your personal opinion would be of interest to us. After all, what you’ve described was rather more than a simple passing acquaintance. You must have socialised with him, got chatting over the dinner table. Had a glass or two or wine, perhaps, and relaxed?’
Armstrong studied her for a moment. ‘If you were a newspaper reporter I’d ask that anything I said would be treated as “off the record”, but I recognise you aren’t. Lucas is dead. He isn’t going to sue me. I suppose I can be frank. OK, some people thought him a slick operator. My associates and I always found him pretty straight as far as our own business interests went. We’re a legitimate outfit. We keep our noses clean! We wouldn’t have included Lucas if we’d thought he would be a problem. But, undeniably, he was very useful to have on board; one of those guys who always know what’s going on but who, like journalists, never name their sources. Do you know what I mean?’
Yeah, I know them, thought Jess sourly. They’re wheeler-dealers. They always ‘know a man’. What other businesses did Burton have his fingers in, I wonder? This one is eager to be seen as above board and open to scrutiny. But I wonder if all the others are . . .
‘He was pleasant enough,’ Armstrong was saying, ‘he could even be charming. He wasn’t married and his girlfriends were always lookers. Never seemed to turn up with the same one twice, though. He didn’t want to be tied down, I guess. Underneath it, he was pretty tough. If you ask me, and this is just my own impression, he’d come up from rough origins. There was a sort of edge to him, you know what I mean? He liked to act smooth. It didn’t ring true. Nevertheless, I quite liked the man. Neither I, nor anyone I know, ever had a problem working with him. If we had,’ his voice hardened, ‘we’d have cut him loose, believe me.’
And perhaps somebody did cut him loose? thought Jess, remembering the body sprawled on the garage floor alongside the gleaming expensive car. T
his group of investors never had a problem with him, but possibly someone else did?
Armstrong leaned back against the soft leather of the sofa. ‘He had a lucky touch. But he was a man of mystery, if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Jess said and switched off the tape recorder. ‘That was very helpful, Mr Armstrong.’
Armstrong visibly relaxed now the little machine had stopped whirring. ‘I shall have to tell my colleagues about your visit, you do understand that? Lucas’s death has left a gap and there are financial implications. His estate will have to be settled. It’ll impinge on our affairs and us. Do you know who his heirs are?’
Jess frowned. ‘No idea. I do understand you’ll need to contact those involved in business matters with you and the late Mr Burton. But I’d be grateful if you didn’t chat about it too freely. Work on a “need to know” basis.’
‘Like the police do?’ Armstrong smiled.
‘Discretion is always advisable,’ Jess said primly. ‘Can you give me a list of the names of your business partners? Contact phone numbers, too? I’ll need to talk to them.’
‘Er, yes, I suppose so. Yes, of course you will. You don’t just want to talk to me. This is going to be quite a shock to them. I’ve seen nothing in the papers about his death and they can’t have, or they’d have let me know.’
‘We shall be releasing his name to the press this week.’
‘Poor old Lucas. Who’d have thought it? I can see him now, sitting on that sofa there where you are, a glass of whisky in his hand. We – well – the more I think about it, the more of a headache this is going to be for us. You do mean he was murdered, don’t you? Good Lord, who’d do it? Why?’ Armstrong blanched. ‘We’re none of us suspects, are we?’
Cyril Sprang was, in his own way, as reticent as Archie Armstrong and as anxious to make the right initial impression.
‘Mr Burton was a very decent sort of chap,’ he said, eyeing Jess up and down critically through thick-lensed spectacles.
Jess couldn’t be classed as a ‘decent sort of chap’. Even these days there were people who didn’t quite approve of women police officers, certainly not in senior ranks. Mr Sprang was clearly one of them. He had held Jess’s ID at arm’s length and studied it for a full minute before returning it to her. It was as if, she thought half annoyed and half amused, he suspected she might have forged it.