She was starting to warm to her theme. “I went to see him last week in the play — I was working days, same as this week, so I could. He was brilliant. Really evil. Dunno how he does it.”
“When did he check out, Sheryl? Sunday, after the final performance on Saturday night?”
“No, it was Saturday lunchtime, although he left his car here until Saturday night. Told me he was driving straight down to London after the play finished. I bet he’s got a penthouse or something; somewhere really smart.”
“So you spoke to him on Saturday? What time was that?”
“It was around lunchtime, which is unusual for him. I mean, he’s never down early for his breakfast, but he’s always there. But Saturday, he missed it.”
“How did he seem?”
“What’s he done? I don’t want to get him into no trouble.”
“You won’t, Sheryl, you’ll be helping him and helping us as well. So, how was he?”
“Well, he looked right dreadful, all bleary like. Sort of puzzled.”
“Puzzled?”
“Yeah, like he didn’t know where he was.”
“Did he say where he’d been?”
“He’d been in his room. He told me. Overslept, he said. Said he thought that the play had been harder work than he thought. So I got him a cup of coffee — strong, black, like he always takes it — and sat him in the restaurant with it. I think he might’ve had a sandwich. Do you want me to check?”
“No, it’s OK, we can talk to the kitchen staff later if we need to.”
Derek looked towards the bar. “Does Mr Silk have a drink at all when he comes back after a performance?”
Sheryl nodded as she looked Derek up and down. The female cop had been so pushy that she’d hardly noticed him. Quite good looking, for a cop. Tall too. And black. Her boyfriend Wes was black.
She gave him what was meant to be a coy smile. “Every night, like clockwork. Marches in, all theatrical, and has his vodka and tonic.” She looked around before leaning towards Derek and dropping her voice. “Normally buys whoever’s on duty one too. Such a gentleman.”
“Just the one?” asked Derek.
“Always,” nodded Sheryl. “But I happen to know that he keeps a smart bottle or two in his room. The maid what does his room just loves him. Told me that she’s cleared more than one empty bottle from his bin. Fancy stuff too, she reckons. Wouldn’t know, myself, don’t really drink much.”
She glanced at Jennifer in time to catch her knowing look and suddenly stared at her feet.
Derek felt he’d got the receptionist’s confidence.
“Didn’t happen to say where he’s gone this week, did he, Sheryl? Another town with the play?”
“No, the play’s finished. He told me later what he was doing. Once he’d had a bite to eat and more coffee, he seemed OK. That was when he checked out and told me about his car.”
“What about his car?”
“That he was driving down to London, like I said.”
“Yes, of course. So he’s in London.”
“Yes, but he said he was going to be filming for the telly. Outside stuff, he said. They do it all at Luton airport, you know. I knew that coz it was in Celeb magazine.”
She smiled as she remembered something.
“He was really sweet. I gave him a photo of the actress who plays the airport manager’s secretary, the dizzy one, Beryline Hertford. Me dad thinks she’s wonderful. Mr Silk said he’d get her to autograph the photo. Bring it me in a couple of weeks when he’s back.”
“Sounds like he’s quite a guy,” interrupted Jennifer. She wanted to move on. “The other thing we’d like to know about is the CCTV that you’ve got here. I’ve been looking around but I can only see a couple of cameras. Are there more?”
“There’s not many, no,” said Sheryl, shaking her head.
She pointed around the lobby. “There’s that one looking at the door, there’s one up there, above us, looking at where we are, and there’s one in the bar, but that’s aimed at the till.”
“Aren’t there others?” prompted Jennifer. “There must be one in the lift, surely.”
“Yeah, and outside the lift on each floor, except here in the lobby. There’s one in the car park too.”
Jennifer looked up at Derek. She could see he was thinking the same thing that she was. If there was footage of Henry leaving the car park late on Friday evening and then coming back in the early hours of Saturday morning, that would more or less clinch the case.
She turned her attention back to the receptionist.
“Right, Sheryl, we’re going to need to look at the recordings from each of the cameras starting from the middle of last week until Saturday afternoon.”
Sheryl shook her head. “I can’t give you those, they’re nothing to do with me. You’ll have to talk to the manager. Hey, what’s this all about? Is Mr Silk in some sort of trouble?”
Jennifer ignored the question.
“Where’s the manager’s office?” she said.
“I’ll call him for you,” said Sheryl as she pressed a button on the phone in front of her and lifted the receiver.
“Hi, Mr Jackson, it’s Sheryl on reception. There’s a couple of police officers here who want to talk to you. Shall I send them through? Oh, OK.”
She put the receiver back on the cradle. “He says — Oh, here he is now.”
Jennifer turned and saw the concerned-looking manager as he hurried from his office. She walked towards him, wanting to avoid Sheryl’s interruptions and get the CCTV recordings as soon as possible. She looked back and was pleased to see that Derek had got the message and was distracting Sheryl by asking her more questions.
The manager blanched when Jennifer mentioned a murder inquiry and, concerned for the reputation of his hotel, he willingly handed over the discs once he realised that stalling for a warrant would gain him no favours.
Fifteen minutes later, Jennifer and Derek were hurrying out of the hotel with the discs and signed paperwork releasing them into their custody.
Jennifer tossed Derek her keys. “You drive, I’ve got to make a couple of calls and I don’t want to waste time.”
Back in the SCF, they headed for Mike Hurst’s office where they found the DCI talking to Rob McPherson.
Hurst held up a hand as Jennifer was about to launch forth with what they’d discovered.
“From the look on your face Cotton, I’d say you’ve made some progress. Am I right?”
“Yes, boss, I—”
“Well, to save time, let’s get Bottomley in here too.”
He shifted his eyes to Derek. “Thyme.”
Derek scuttled out of the office and was back within thirty seconds followed by the detective sergeant.
Hurst sat back in his chair. “Right, Cotton, let’s hear it.”
“Well, boss, from what the receptionist at the Old Nottingham has told us, it would appear that Henry Silk could be very involved.”
She went through everything from the hotel, holding up the bag of CCTV discs as she explained the manager’s cooperation.
“You’ve got them all signed for I hope, Cotton. We don’t want to bugger up the chain of evidence.”
“All sorted, boss. Boss, on the way back, I called Luton airport security and they confirmed that the TV company that makes Runway Two-Seven is filming outside shots there for the next three days. In fact they’re already there; something to do with the light. Apparently they have a spot on the airport perimeter they use that gives them background of planes taking off and landing during whatever action is being filmed. That ties in with what Silk told the hotel receptionist, but just to be sure, I asked the security guy to quietly check if Silk’s car is there, and it is.”
“Good work, Cotton. Both of you, in fact,” said Hurst.
He turned to McPherson. “Rob, I think you and Neil should head for Luton airport and have a chat with Mr Silk. If his car matches the one in traffic’s CCTV, we need to seize it and get it back
here. Sounds to me like Mr Silk has a lot of explaining to do.”
McPherson and Bottomley made for the door, but Jennifer hovered where she was. Hurst looked up suspiciously.
“What’s the matter, Cotton? You look like someone stole your pet rabbit.”
“Well, I was thinking, boss, that having a female go along too might distract Silk a bit, perhaps loosen his tongue.”
“He’s probably murdered a prostitute, Cotton. Do we really need to distract him?”
“He’s got something of a reputation as a ladies’ man. It might help.”
Hurst kept a deadpan expression.
“You’re right. Who do you suggest we send along?”
Jennifer caught the tone in his voice.
“I think perhaps someone who’s a big fan of the series, knows about the cast and who would love to have the opportunity to see it being filmed. No, forget that last bit. I meant, someone professional enough not to be overawed by the whole TV razzmatazz.”
“OK, Cotton, you can go, but don’t forget that Mr Henry Smooth-as-Silk is a killer.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows a fraction, but said nothing more. She was shocked that Hurst’s position on Silk had gone from victim of car theft to murderer in the space of a few hours. Old-school thinking or instinct that comes with years of experience? She wasn’t sure.
C hapter 10
The drive from Nottingham to Luton took them a little over two hours. Longer than it should but, as ever, there were sections of the M1 motorway under repair. An hour into the journey, McPherson took a call from Derek Thyme about the post mortem findings.
“OK, Thyme, I’m putting the call on speaker so that all three of us can hear it.”
“Right-o guv. First up, as well as confirming the cause of death as being asphyxiation with a plastic bag, Dr Lawson has also confirmed that there was no evidence of any sexual activity immediately prior to death. Nothing on any of the swabs.”
McPherson grunted. “They probably had an argument that got out of hand before they got around to anything. She was probably demanding too much money. Greedy lot, the girls on Forest Road.”
Sitting in the back of the car and listening intently to the conversation, Jennifer wondered how he knew.
“What about the injuries to the head?” continued McPherson.
“The doc also confirmed that they were from a blunt, rounded object and by themselves wouldn’t have been life-threatening.”
“So, nothing new, Justin.”
“No, guv. The clothing has been sent to the lab and samples from the girl to toxicology.”
“Right. Let’s hope that new lab we’re using — what’s it called?”
“Forefront Forensics.”
“Yes, well, let’s hope they’re keen enough to get the results out quickly. What are you doing now, Justin?”
There was a pause and Jennifer smiled to herself; she could imagine the look of confusion on Derek’s face.
McPherson sighed. “Apart from talking to me, I mean.”
“Oh, right, guv. I’m about to start looking at the CCTV footage from the hotel.”
“Keep me posted on anything you find.” McPherson ended the call and turned to Jennifer. “What else do you know about Henry Silk, given that you’re such a fan, Cotton?”
Jennifer ignored the sarcastic tone.
“From what I’ve read, guv, he’s something of a loner. He’s got a reputation of being a talented actor, particularly in character parts. Apparently he can put on all sorts of regional and foreign accents.”
Neil Bottomley, who was driving, chimed in.
“Funny how some actors can do that and others can’t. You’d think it would be part of their training.”
McPherson grunted his lack of interest in accents.
“So why do you say he’s a loner?”
“It’s what the magazines say, guv, I don’t know the man. It seems there was an incident many years ago. In the late eighties, I think. He was blamed for the death of that actor they called the British James Dean.”
“Dirk Sanderley?” suggested Bottomley.
“Yes, that’s the one. I don’t know much about the incident except that it was a car crash and Silk was driving. It put a blight on Silk’s career. Even after all these years, he can’t get work with any of the big studios in Hollywood, all of whom were raving about Sanderley at the time. Seems very unfair to me. Several other actors from Runway have got good parts in Hollywood films or TV series and they’re not a patch on Silk.”
Another grunt from McPherson. “I shouldn’t feel too sorry for him, Cotton. After our visit today, Silk might well be putting his acting career on permanent hold. Unless they do Christmas panto where he’s going.”
“Guv, we haven’t …” started Jennifer, but then thought better of it.
“Haven’t what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” replied Jennifer quietly. She wanted to talk about the criminal justice system being based on the premise that a person was innocent until proven guilty, but she knew what the response would be: that was the job of the courts — judge and jury. The job of the police was to catch the criminals and to present the facts to the CPS, the Crown Prosecution Service,for consideration. What concerned her was that they hadn’t even spoken to Henry Silk and yet her bosses were already thinking the case was done and dusted.She hoped that the passing years would not make her so blinkered, that she would always be able to keep an open mind.
Rob McPherson had called ahead to the local police in Luton who had in turn asked the airport division to send two patrol cars in case support was needed. They waited half a mile down the road for the unmarked CID car and the three cars swept into the filming location together, causing immediate consternation to the director, who yelled at his harassed assistant.
“Anthony! What are they doing there? We haven’t ordered any police cars for today or even for this week. And they are right in the way just as we’re ready to start.”
He paused, his weekend hangover threatening to return.
“Why is nothing ever easy?” he whined. “You arrange for the plods to be here and they’re late; you don’t arrange it and they’re in your face. Get on over there and politely but firmly tell them to shift their uniformed backsides.”
He pivoted on his foot and marched off in the direction of a group of actors standing by an airport vehicle being used as a prop on the tarmac.
“Sorry,” he said, reaching for a cigarette before jamming the packet back in his pocket in frustration as he remembered the smoking restrictions on or near the runway. “Those boys in blue are in the way. We’ll get them shifted, pronto. Jesus!”
Henry Silk cast a wary eye to the clouds scudding across the sky.
“I’d suggest sooner rather than later, Jonty. This weather doesn’t look like it’s going to hold. If we’re not careful, we’ll have to reshoot the whole lot in rain gear.”
The director slapped the palm of a hand to his forehead.
“I can’t bear to even think that might happen; I’ll sue the buggers. Don’t they know how much delays like this cost?”
He turned to look for his assistant.
“What’s taking Anthony so long? Oh, God, what are they doing?”
He could see that despite his assistant’s protestations, none of the police cars had moved and now three people — two men and a young woman — were marching towards him with Anthony half-running along behind them.
The director had had enough. He thrust his clipboard into the nearest pair of hands and stormed off towards the approaching group, booming at them from a distance of twenty yards.
“Listen, I don’t know who you are but I need those police cars and that other car out of here now. Not in a minute. Now!”
Jonty Peters was an imposing figure. At six foot four, with a shock of wild grey hair and matching bushy eyebrows, vivid blue eyes and a florid complexion from over-frequent sampling of his extensive collection of single malts, he was used to getting
his own way. At five foot six but built like a bulldog, McPherson was having none of it. He pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up.
“Detective Inspector Robert McPherson of Nottingham City and County Serious Crime Formation. These are my colleagues Detective Sergeant Neil Bottomley and Detective Constable Jennifer Cotton.”
“And that interests me because …”
McPherson narrowed his eyes, but bit his tongue.
“We need to talk urgently to a Mr Henry Silk of Lambton Court Gardens, Hampstead. We have reason to believe that he is working on your set.”
“Working on my set!” yelled Peters. “He’s more than working on my bloody set. He’s the lead actor in today’s filming. Filming that costs a lot of money and which you are interrupting. Tell me, Inspector, to whom do I send the bill for this unacceptable delay?”
“If you’d calm down, sir, we can probably get this sorted out very quickly,” lied McPherson, knowing full well that it would be anything but quick. “Now, perhaps you could point out Mr Silk.”
“God! What planet do you live on, Inspector? I can only assume from that request you’re not one of the legions, millions should I say, of fans who are riveted nightly to this programme. Fans who will be extremely unimpressed by police harassment on the set of their favourite show.”
McPherson had had enough. “If you want to make a complaint sir, I suggest you go through the normal channels. Now—”
He stopped as Jennifer tapped him on the shoulder.
“He’s over there, guv, the one dressed in the black uniform trousers and white shirt.”
“Fetch him, Cotton, will you?”
“Now look here!” protested the director as Jennifer walked off. He reached out to stop her but McPherson blocked him.
“I didn’t get your name, sir.”
“Jonty Peters. I’m the director and I shall indeed be making a formal complaint.”
“Well, Mr Peters, I should advise you that obstructing the police in the commission of their duty is a serious offence, as is assaulting a police officer, which you just came very close to doing. I’d also advise you to back off or this might well take all day.”
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 6