by Graham Ison
‘He’s not here very often. In England, I mean.’ Constance tossed the book back into her secretaire and, leaving the flap down, walked across the room and sat down again. ‘He spends most of his time in the Middle East somewhere. He’s in the oil business, I think.’ And looking at her husband for confirmation, she asked, ‘That’s right, Jamie, isn’t it?’ She glanced at the child on the floor. ‘Don’t do that, William,’ she said, almost automatically.
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘Kuwait, I think.’
‘He always rings us whenever he gets back here. Usually spends about four or five weeks in this country and then he’s off again. Terrible life, I’d have thought. But he just doesn’t have time to make friends, girlfriends I mean, and we take pity on him. I really thought that he and Dawn had hit it off that night.’ She put a hand to her mouth, suddenly and theatrically. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘you don’t think …?’
‘I don’t think anything at the moment,’ said Fox. ‘I’m just making enquiries. Who else was here, Mrs Crawley?’
‘Oh dear.’ Constance Crawley looked thoughtful but for some reason didn’t refer again to her diary. ‘Now let me think. Ah yes, there was Freddie and Tessa Hayden — they’re always regulars, and good fun — and there was Sheila Thompson and her boyfriend …’ She looked at her husband again. ‘What’s he called, Jamie?’
‘John Wheeler,’ said James Crawley. ‘I think. He’s the photographer chap, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Does portraits of awfully famous people. So he says. Can’t say I’ve ever seen any of his work.’ She shrugged. ‘But then, there are a lot of frightfully bogus people about these days.’
‘Yes,’ said Fox and nodded. ‘Does he do any fashion stuff?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said James Crawley. He spoke in a lofty dismissive way as though weary of the nuisance that these mere policemen were making of themselves.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Yes, there were Tim and Anthea.’
‘Who are they?’
‘He owns a string of companies, I think. I don’t know precisely what he does, but he’s quite well off.’
‘What’s his surname?’
‘Oh heavens.’ Constance Crawley stared at the opposite wall. ‘Jarman, Jardine? Something like that. No, it’s Jessop. That’s it. Tim and Anthea Jessop.’ She looked at Fox, one eyebrow raised. ‘Why d’you need to know all this?’ she asked.
‘To quote Sherlock Holmes,’ said James Crawley, looking up from his newspaper, ‘when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Is that not so, Inspector?’
‘So I’m told,’ said Fox, ‘and the rank is Chief Superintendent. Detective Chief Superintendent.’
*
A check on Jason Hope-Smith’s telephone number proved that he lived in a flat in an old house between King’s Road and the Fulham Road. And it was the same address that DI Evans had tried, but this time, Hope-Smith was at home.
‘You’re lucky to find me,’ he said. ‘Only got in from Kuwait the day before yesterday and I’m off again on Tuesday.’ He pulled the door wide. ‘Better come in, but you’ll have to excuse the mess. Only use this place as a base really.’ And he led Fox and Gilroy into a large sitting room. ‘Have a seat. I’ve just made some tea. Want some?’
‘No thanks,’ said Fox.
‘How can I help you, then?’ Hope-Smith returned from his kitchen with a cup of tea and sat down on the settee opposite the two detectives. He seemed quite relaxed and not at all curious about their visit.
‘I understand that you knew a Miss Dawn Mitchell.’
‘Didn’t really know her,’ said Hope-Smith. ‘Connie Crawley invited me to dinner one evening, back in August I think it was, and Dawn was there. We were the two odd ones out, if you get my meaning. She hadn’t got a partner and neither had I. Connie was up to her usual match-making tricks again, I suppose.’
‘You’d not seen her before that evening then?’
‘No.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘What about afterwards?’
‘Did you see her again?’
‘No.’ Hope-Smith sipped at his tea. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked.
‘Where were you on the night of the fourteenth and fifteenth of October, Mr Hope-Smith?’
Hope-Smith considered the question for only a moment. ‘In Kuwait,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Because Dawn Mitchell was murdered that night,’ said Fox.
‘Good Cod Almighty!’ Hope-Smith put his cup and saucer down on the occasional table that separated him from Fox and Gilroy and stared in amazement. ‘I didn’t see that in the papers.’
‘Probably not,’ said Fox. ‘But you may have seen an account of the murder of Lady Dawn Sims, daughter of Earl Sims.’
‘Well, what’s that got to do —’
‘Same woman,’ said Fox, ‘but she preferred to be known as Dawn Mitchell.’
‘Well, I’m damned.’ Hope-Smith shook his head and picked up his tea again. ‘Well, I’m damned,’ he said once more.
‘Let’s get back to the dinner party, Mr Hope-Smith. You had never seen this woman before, you say, and you never saw her again. Is that right?’
‘Absolutely. But it wasn’t for the want of trying.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s bloody difficult, doing the job I do, meeting up with girls. I was married once, but we split up. Got divorced about eight years ago. Since then, I’ve been going backwards and forwards to Kuwait. Apart from during the Gulf War, of course. Just got out in time and I spent about six or seven months here, waiting for it to get back to normal.’
‘You said that you didn’t see Dawn Mitchell again, but that it wasn’t for the want of trying.’
‘Oh yeah, sure. We exchanged telephone numbers and I promised to ring her, take her out to dinner. But each time I tried, I got her wretched answerphone. And she never returned my calls. In the end, I decided that she didn’t want to have anything further to do with me. End of story.’
‘Did you take her home after the Crawley’s dinner party?’ asked Fox.
‘No, ’fraid not.’ Hope-Smith looked wistful. ‘All young women these days have got their own cars. They turn up in them and go home in them. Rather puts paid to a kiss and a cuddle in a taxi.’
Fox grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose it does. Did you know any of the other people there, apart from the Crawleys, of course?’
‘No. Oh, just a minute though. Yes, I’d met Freddie Hayden and his wife, er —’
‘Tessa?’
‘That’s right. Bit of a dragon, she was. But Hayden had an eye for the ladies. Flirted with all of them.’
‘And what did his wife think of that?’
‘She just smiled. I got the impression that Tessa’s quite used to his antics. Seemed to let it wash over her.’
‘Can you describe them?’ asked Gilroy.
Hope-Smith gazed towards the window, collecting his thoughts. ‘He’s about fifty, I should think. Tessa’s probably middle forties, maybe a bit younger, but she hasn’t worn too well. He’s got his fingers into all sorts of pies, so I’m told. Big businessman. And he’s involved with quite a few charities. There’ve been whispers that he’s in line for a knighthood.’
*
Rosie Webster tossed her briefcase on to her desk, sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘That’s twenty-nine bloody fashion houses I’ve visited now,’ she said, ‘and nothing.’ She kicked off her shoes and, crossing one leg over the other so that her skirt rode up to her thigh, started to massage the sole of one of her feet.
‘Hallo,’ said Detective Constable Rex Perkins, a recent addition to the ranks of the Flying Squad, ‘strip-tease time, is it?’
Very slowly, Rosie put her shoes back on and walked across to the young detective’s desk. Leaning menacingly over him, so that he was suddenly aware of her expensive perfume, she flicked his tie over his shoulder and started to undo his shirt
buttons, all the time holding his eyes with hers. ‘If you think you’re up to it, sonny,’ she said, ‘we can do it right now. Then I shall ring your wife and give her a full report on what I think of your performance which, unless I’m much mistaken, will be abysmal. But I rather think that you’re all mouth.’ She paused, one long, red fingernail pressing into his chest. ‘Well, what about it? Not chickening out, are you?’
Perkins gulped and went bright red. The other members of the Squad who were in the office, and who had stopped to witness Rosie’s teasing — they had seen her do it many times before for the benefit of new additions who fancied their chances with her — applauded politely. Perkins grabbed up his files and disappeared out of the door to the accompaniment of raucous laughter.
Rosie sat down at her desk again. ‘I shall have to speak to the guv’nor,’ she said to the office at large. ‘Try and persuade him not to recruit kids.’
Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher stood up and glanced at the clock over the door. ‘Come on, Rosie,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you a gin across at The Old Star. I reckon you’ve earned it.’
*
‘Well,’ said Fox, ‘we’re getting nowhere fast. Perce, put yourself about and make a few enquiries, will you?’
‘What are you looking for, guv’nor?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Do a check on this Jason Hope-Smith for a start. I don’t fancy him too much. Says he was in Kuwait at the time of Dawn Mitchell’s murder. Make sure he was, will you? Too bloody glib for my liking.’
‘Right, guv.’ Fletcher stood up.
‘Haven’t finished yet,’ said Fox. ‘And find out what you can about the other guests at this dinner party. Primarily a pair called Freddie and Tessa Hayden. But softly, softly, mind. I don’t want any one of them alerted to our interest.’
*
Sergeant Clarke looked very pleased with himself as he came through the door of Commander Willow’s office. ‘I’ve come up with something, sir,’ he said.
‘Well I hope it’s something good,’ said Willow.
‘Sandra Nash, sir, Stedman’s common-law wife.’
‘Well?’
‘She was arrested last night for tomming, sir, on West End Central’s ground.’
‘How did you find that out?’
Sergeant Clarke puffed out his chest. ‘Thought it might be a good idea to put her name on the computer, sir, asking for details if she came to notice.’ He didn’t give a damn about the success or failure of the complaint against Detective Chief Superintendent Fox of the Flying Squad, but Commander Willow was a man who could make recommendations about promotion, and Clarke desperately wanted to be an inspector.
‘That was very clever of you, Sergeant,’ said Willow. ‘And presumably we have an address for this, er, prostitute?
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good work, Sergeant. Perhaps you’d make an appointment for us to interview her.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?’
SEVEN
THE PERSONNEL MANAGER OF THE oil company that the police thought employed Jason Hope-Smith, scratched his head. ‘He actually works for them out there,’ he said, ‘rather than for us. Different companies, you see.’ He pondered the problem for a moment. ‘But I daresay I could find out for you. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes,’ said Detective Sergeant Fletcher.
‘Ah!’ The personnel manager clicked down the switch of the intercom. ‘Jan, get me the Kuwait office, love.’ He leaned back in his chair and waited. ‘Should be able to get hold of someone in their personnel department,’ he said, ‘unless it’s a local holiday.’
‘Good,’ said Fletcher.
A few seconds later the telephone rang and the personnel manager engaged in a lengthy conversation during which there were several pauses, presumably while the person he was talking to referred to his records. Finally, he replaced the receiver. ‘According to our people out there,’ he said, ‘Mr Hope-Smith was in London between the tenth and the seventeenth of October. Does that help at all?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Fletcher.
‘May I ask what this is all about?’ asked the personnel manager.
‘No idea,’ said Fletcher. ‘My guv’nor just told me to make the enquiry. So I did.’ He grinned cheerfully, stood up and shook hands, and left.
*
Lady Jane Sims’s first-floor mansion flat was situated in one of the streets behind Harrods of Knightsbridge and although it possessed a lift — the old-fashioned sort with trellis gates — Fox ran up the stairs, two at a time.
Although she had been expecting him, Jane Sims was barefooted and casually dressed in jeans and a sloppy sweater, and her long brown hair was loose round her shoulders. ‘Come in,’ she said.
The large high-ceilinged sitting-room into which she led Fox had a double set of French doors, across which were drawn long drapes in a material of jazzy design.
Fox stood in the centre of the room and looked around at its expensive furnishings. The flat was a complete contrast to that in which Dawn Sims had lived on the Edgware Road. Where Dawn’s had been luxurious and homely, this one was starkly modern, almost barren. His gaze took in the dining table of black glass supported by chromium legs and the six leather and chrome dining chairs tucked neatly beneath it. The armchairs had a functional and uncomfortable look about them which the brightly-coloured scatter cushions did little to soften. Several prints of abstract art adorned the walls and, overall, the flat had the unlived-in air of an office or a showroom, an impression heightened by the drawing-board that stood in one corner.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ Jane Sims, a whimsical smile on her face, had been standing behind Fox during his critical appraisal of her living-room.
Fox turned. ‘On the contrary, Lady Jane,’ he said, ‘I think it has a unique elegance.’
‘Liar,’ said Jane, and laughed. ‘Do sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’ She paused at the cocktail cabinet and held a bottle of whisky in the air. ‘Scotch, if I remember correctly,’ she said, raising one eyebrow.
‘Thanks. Just a dash of water. No ice.’
‘I should hope not. Nasty American habit, putting ice in Scotch.’ Jane walked across the room and handed Fox his drink. Then she sat down on the settee opposite him, crossed her legs and took a sip of her whisky. ‘Shall I turn off the music?’
‘Not on my account. What is it?’
‘It’s the music from Cats. Have you seen it?’
‘No,’ said Fox. ‘Don’t have much time for going to shows. Is it good?’
‘I’ve seen it three times. And I’ve seen Phantom twice. Oh, and Miss Saigon. I’ve seen that twice, too. But then I love Lloyd Webber’s stuff. However, Mr Fox, I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss West End shows. How can I help you?’
‘Does the name Jason Hope-Smith mean anything to you, Lady Jane?’ Fox smoothed a hand across his knee.
‘No. Should it?’
‘He was a dinner companion of your sister, back in August.’
‘I’ve no doubt she had lots of dinner companions, Mr Fox. What’s so special about that one?’
‘She was invited to dinner by some friends of hers. The Crawleys, James and Constance.’
Jane Sims shook her head. ‘None of those names mean anything to me,’ she said, ‘but then, as I said the other day, Dawn and I lived separate lives. Whenever we spoke on the phone, she was always chatting away about someone new she’d met. I couldn’t keep up with her. She was always bubbling over about somewhere she’d been, or some party she’d been to.’ For a moment she looked wistful. ‘She lived a very empty life really.’
‘So you don’t recall Hope-Smith having been mentioned.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But you still haven’t told me what was so special about him.’
‘Probably nothing,’ said Fox, ‘but he claimed to have been in Kuwait at the time of Lady Dawn’s murder.’
‘And now you’ve discovered that he wasn’t, I suppose
.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t, but that’s the implication, surely. You wouldn’t be checking up on a dinner companion from last August unless you thought that he’d had something to do with it. After all, you didn’t ask me about my movements on the night that Dawn was killed, did you?’
‘Didn’t have to,’ said Fox, determined not to let this woman have it all her own way. ‘But I made enquiries and satisfied myself that you were in Yorkshire at the time, and on that particular night you were dining at a local restaurant.’
For a moment or two, Jane appraised him with her keen gaze. Then she smiled. ‘Well I’m damned,’ she said and stood up. ‘You’d better have another drink.’ Without waiting for Fox’s agreement, she took his glass and poured more Scotch into it.
Fox stood too, and strolled across the room to examine the largest of Jane’s abstracts, on the wall opposite the windows. ‘What’s that a picture of?’ he asked.
Jane joined him and, handing him his drink, said, ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you? You know perfectly well that it’s an abstract. It’s not supposed to be a picture of anything.’
‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Fox and sat down.
Jane sat down again too, and placed her own glass on the table beside her. ‘I’ve never really met a detective before,’ she said. ‘Are they all like you?’
‘Good God no,’ said Fox.
‘No, probably not.’ Jane studied Fox for a moment before going on. ‘Tell me, Mr Fox, are you anywhere near finding out who murdered my sister?’
‘No,’ said Fox, ‘but the investigation of murder is sometimes very difficult.’
‘I imagine it is.’
‘But not always —’
‘Do you smoke, by the way?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well please do if you wish. I don’t myself, but I’m not one of these people who gets terribly excited if someone else does.’ Jane fetched an ashtray from the bottom cupboard of the cocktail cabinet and placed it beside Fox. ‘You were saying … about investigating murder.’