by Graham Ison
‘Daniel Steele’s wife,’ I said. That wiped the smile from her face.
‘Good grief! That’s why he didn’t show up for work this morning.’
‘Didn’t he ring to tell you about his wife, Jessica?’ asked Dave innocently. It was a trick question designed to see if Daniel Steele had known of his wife’s death before we told him, thereby displaying guilty knowledge.
‘No. He just didn’t show.’ Jessica looked quite distressed at the news.
‘How well do you know Daniel?’ I asked. I wondered if there was anything more than a work-related relationship between the two of them.
‘Not very well at all. He’s just a work colleague,’ said Jessica. If there had been more, she obviously wasn’t going to admit to it.
‘I understand that Stephanie Payne was one of Mr Steele’s colleagues, Jessica. Would it be possible to have a word with her?’
Jessica looked puzzled. ‘I’ve never heard of her. Stephanie Payne, did you say?’ She gazed briefly out of the window of her goldfish bowl of an office at the vast sea of computer-operating traders, doubtless busily amassing fortunes, either for themselves or for their clients. ‘No, sorry, the name doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘We interviewed Mr Steele earlier today, and he told us that she occupied the workstation next to his.’ I decided to abandon any concern for Steele’s reputation. ‘But he also told us that he slept with her last night, so she’s a bit more than a work colleague.’ That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but an indisputable inference could be drawn from his actual words.
‘Did he indeed?’ Jessica managed to inject an element of pique into those three words, and I wondered if her denial of a close relationship with Steele really was the truth. ‘Well, I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that I’ve never heard of a Stephanie Payne. I’ve been here for four-and-a-half years and no one of that name has worked in this office during that time.’ She stood up and walked to the window. ‘If you look down the second row from the left, Chief Inspector, you’ll see a guy with red braces. The space next to him is where Daniel sits, and the girl on the other side of Daniel’s vacant chair is called Emma, not Stephanie Payne.’ She returned to her seat. ‘Would you like me to phone you when Daniel returns?’
‘That would be helpful, although I have a suspicion it may be some time before you see him again.’ I gave Jessica my card with the phone number of the incident room.
‘What would Mr Steele be worth?’ asked Dave. ‘Financially, I mean.’
Jessica weighed up the question for a moment or two, and I wondered if she would refuse to answer. Or maybe she didn’t know.
‘It’ll be well over a million by now, I should think,’ she said eventually. ‘Could be more, but it’s always difficult to estimate in this game. He’s certainly received very good bonuses in recent years, and he’s been here longer than I have. I think he’s been with this firm for about eight years.’
That casual reply made me wonder how much Jessica was worth. ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said, as we prepared to leave.
‘D’you know when Rachel’s funeral will take place?’ Jessica asked, a concerned expression on her face.
‘We’ve no idea,’ said Dave, and explained about the coroner having to release the body.
I found it odd that Jessica knew Steele’s wife’s name, since she’d said she didn’t know Daniel Steele at all well. Perhaps there was more to her – and him – than was at first apparent. On the other hand, perhaps the firm kept records of next of kin of its staff. Even so, I wouldn’t have expected Jessica to have the name at her fingertips.
‘Interesting that Steele’s said to be worth over a million at least, and that he and his wife didn’t have a prenup,’ said Dave as we made our way back to the car park. ‘Sounds awfully like a motive for murder. However, what now, guv’nor?’
‘Back to Camden Town.’ I rang the incident room and brought Kate Ebdon up to speed on the progress we had made so far, which wasn’t a great deal. ‘Just in case Steele’s done a runner, Kate, would you get a search warrant for twenty-five Superior Drive as quickly as possible, and meet us at the address.’ Kate was pretty good at sweet-talking district judges, and I was sure she wouldn’t waste any time.
It was seven o’clock by the time Kate arrived at Superior Drive, but she had the warrant and the house keys that had been taken from Rachel Steele’s shoulder bag. I rang the bell but, as I’d anticipated, there was no answer and we let ourselves in.
The search was rather disappointing. There were no signs of a hurried departure, and no open wardrobes as though packing had taken place in a tearing hurry. There was, however, an unmade bed and all the rooms were in a state of untidiness. But perhaps this was the way he lived all the time. And that made me wonder whether Rachel really did still live here, albeit on and off, as Steele had said.
Kate went through all the usual checks: the fridge was fully stocked, there were no messages on the answering machine and no note left out for the milkman. But perhaps people don’t have milk deliveries any more. I certainly don’t, for the very simple reason that I never know whether I’ll be there to take it in.
‘I had a look in the bathroom cabinet and on the dressing table, guv,’ said Kate. ‘Perfume, make-up and all the usual things that are vital to a woman were there, and it’s expensive stuff. Not that that really tells us anything, except …’
‘Except what, Kate?’
‘When we examined the body of Rachel Steele in Richmond Park she was wearing Estée Lauder Private Collection, but the perfume in the bathroom cabinet is Joy by Jean Patou.’
‘I’m sorry, Kate, but you’ve lost me.’
‘I don’t think that Rachel Steele lived here at all. I think that Daniel Steele is shacked up with another woman, because Rachel would never wear Joy if she usually wore Estée Lauder. They’re entirely different.’
All of which demonstrated how useful it was to have a woman detective on the team. And the matter of the perfume perhaps made Daniel Steele a stronger suspect for his wife’s murder. It now became imperative to interview him again, and this time under caution. I was about to abandon the search of the house when the door chimes played a pretentious little tune.
‘See who that is, Dave,’ I said, following him to the front door. ‘It might be Stephanie Payne.’
‘We should be so lucky,’ said Dave.
The woman who stood on the step was in her late twenties, I guessed, and appeared a little alarmed that a large black man had opened the door. Nevertheless, she immediately recovered.
‘What are you people doing in Dan’s house?’ she demanded, hands on hips. This was clearly one feisty woman.
‘We’re police officers,’ said Dave.
‘Oh yeah?’
Dave produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Poole, Murder Investigation Team.’
‘Oh my God! Who’s been murdered? Not Dan, surely.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Dave.
‘Natasha Stephens. I live next door.’
‘Come in,’ I said, from behind Dave. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon.’
The woman stepped into the small hall and I ushered her into the living room – the only tidy room in the house – and invited her to take a seat.
‘You told my sergeant that your name is Natasha Stephens. Is that Mrs Stephens?’
‘Yes, it is, but please call me Tash. Everyone does.’
‘Who did you think we were,’ I asked, ‘when you knocked at the door?’
‘I thought you might be burglars. I’m the Neighbourhood Watch coordinator.’
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Kate. ‘A little unwise of you to confront a gang of burglars, Tash. You should’ve called the police.’
‘You’re right, of course. I didn’t think; silly me,’ said Tash. ‘But why are you here? You mentioned murder just now.’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Daniel Steele’s wife,’ I said.
‘Rachel’s dead?’ Tash Stephens was clearly distressed by that news, and paled slightly. ‘But what on earth happened to her? They were such a lovely couple.’
‘Lovely couple or not,’ I continued, ‘they were on the point of divorce.’
‘Divorce!’ Tash laughed scornfully. ‘Who on earth told you that?’
‘Daniel Steele told us,’ said Dave.
Tash Stephens shook her head in disbelief. ‘But neither of them said anything to me about getting divorced. They seemed devoted to each other. In fact, they often came to us for dinner, and we came here.’
‘How long ago was the last time you and your husband teamed up with Daniel and Rachel?’
‘About three weeks ago, I suppose, but I spoke to her on the phone this afternoon.’
‘And you’re sure it was Rachel Steele?’
‘Absolutely.’ Natasha Stephens paused. ‘Well, it sounded like her. Yes, of course it was her.’
‘What did she ring you about?’
‘To tell me that she and Dan were going on holiday. She said they were jetting off to the Seychelles. I suppose it must’ve been a last-minute thing, but they often decided to push off like that. She said they’d be away for about three weeks and asked me if I’d keep an eye on the house.’
‘Did she give you a key?’
‘She gave me one some time ago, just in case anything happened. I was a bit reluctant at first because I was afraid I might lose it. I’m a bit of a scatterbrain, you see.’ Tash made a circling motion with a forefinger at the side of her head. ‘But I gave in and took it.’
‘Why didn’t you use it to come in, then?’ asked Dave.
‘I couldn’t find it. I told you, I’m a scatterbrain. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She gave an embarrassed little giggle.
‘How long have you lived next door to the Steeles?’ Dave asked.
‘Just over a year now.’
‘I’m going to take you into my confidence, Tash, in your capacity as the Neighbourhood Watch coordinator,’ I said. ‘But I have to have your absolute assurance that you will keep this to yourself.’
‘Absolutely. Mum’s the word.’ She made a zipping motion across her mouth.
‘It is vitally essential that we speak to Daniel Steele, but he mustn’t know we want to talk to him. I’ll give you my card with my mobile number on it, and you can call me at any time if he comes back.’
The thought of assisting a Scotland Yard officer in the investigation of a murder obviously impressed Natasha Stephens, and I knew that we had her on our side. I didn’t think for one moment that Steele would return, but now that I had wound up Tash and pointed her in the right direction, she would report anything at all that she thought might be useful to us. All right, so that would include a load of trivia, but there might just be a tiny piece of gold among the dross.
‘Would you be able to give us a description of Rachel Steele, Tash?’ asked Kate.
‘Of course,’ said Tash Stephens, without asking why. She must have known that we’d seen Rachel’s dead body, but perhaps it hadn’t crossed her mind. She was, after all, a self-confessed scatterbrain.
‘Go ahead, Tash.’ Dave opened his pocketbook.
‘She was tall, nearly as tall as Dan, I suppose, and she had long blonde hair and an enviable figure. She must’ve spent hours in the gym, and she certainly swam a lot. In fact, she said her ambition was to swim the Channel. Oh, and she had very blue eyes, and what my husband described as provocative lips.’
The description Natasha Stephens had just given us was nothing like the Rachel Steele we’d seen lying dead in Richmond Park.
‘Does the name Stephanie Payne mean anything to you, Tash?’ I asked.
The woman shook her head without hesitation. ‘Sorry, no. I’ve never heard of her. Does she live around here?’
‘Right now, we’ve no idea where she lives,’ I admitted, although I was coming rapidly to the conclusion that she lived right here. ‘But we are anxious to interview her, and we are here because we wanted to talk to Mr Steele again.’
‘Again? You’ve seen him already?’
‘Early this afternoon.’
‘That was lucky. You must’ve caught him just before he left.’
I didn’t think it was luck. Our visit, coming so soon after Rachel Steele’s death, had obviously alarmed him, and he’d lost no time in doing a runner.
‘Did you see them leave?’
‘I only saw Daniel. That was about three o’clock. As a matter of fact, he paused just as he was getting into his car. A lovely BMW, it is.’ A dreamy expression briefly crossed Tash’s face. ‘He said he was picking up Rachel from the beauty parlour and they were going straight to the airport.’
‘I think that’s all for the time being, Tash,’ I said. ‘But I’ve no doubt we’ll be speaking to you again soon.’
THREE
It was close to half past ten by the time we returned to the incident room at Belgravia police station. While we’d been working, our beloved commander, a strict ten-to-six man, had arrived and departed.
I was by no means certain that Steele and the woman, whoever she was, would have gone to Heathrow, the obvious airport. Consequently, I instructed Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident room manager, to send messages to all airports asking them to check for any details of Steele’s departure and possible return, which should be sent to me as a matter of urgency. I also made a formal request to all airports and seaports for his arrest, on suspicion of murder, together with the woman claiming to be his wife, but added that they were not to be questioned. Not that I had much hope of tracking him down that easily.
That done, I told Creasey to ask the police at Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted and City airports to arrange a check of the car parks to see if Steele’s BMW was there. Tash Stephens, who proved to be more than just a pretty face, had made a note of all the index marks of cars belonging to the residents of Superior Drive in case one of them was ever stolen. She thought that half the people living there didn’t know the numbers of their cars, and it was part of the duties of the Neighbourhood Watch coordinator, she told Kate Ebdon, to make sure these were logged. Kate wasn’t particularly impressed.
Finally, as a belt-and-braces precaution, I had Daniel Steele flagged up on the Police National Computer as a person of interest, in case he came to the notice of police in any other way – like speeding, for instance. I held out little hope, however, that Steele and his partner would return in the foreseeable future. If we were obliged to move into the murky waters of extradition, we would require more evidence than we had amassed so far. Apart from which, I would need to know that the couple really had gone to the Seychelles and not somewhere else in the world.
It was the end of a very long day, and I sent the team home. An hour later, I went home myself.
I could describe Gladys Gurney as my cleaning lady, but that would be very wide of the mark; she does much more than that. She appears, rarely seen by me, in my humble Surbiton flat and cleans it to such a high standard that I’m sure even a Grenadier Guards sergeant major would have difficulty finding fault.
Today was no different. The flat was sparkling clean and immaculately tidy, my few items of crockery washed up and put away; it seemed an unnecessary expense to buy a dishwasher. The bed had been made, my shirts gathered up from where I’d hung them on the floor of the bedroom and washed and ironed. And for good measure, she’d rooted out a couple of shirts I’d forgotten I owned and pressed them. Finally, there was one of her charming little notes.
Dear Mr Brock,
I haven’t not found any of your lady friend’s underwear lying about in the bedroom/bathroom not for some time now. I hope she’s all right and that she hasn’t not run away with someone else. Give her my best when you sees her next time.
Yours faithfully,
Gladys Gurney (Mrs)
Alas, Gladys, I soliloquized, Gail Sutton has left me for the bright lights of Tinseltown and shows no signs of wanting
to return to dull old Britain from Los Angeles. I used to nurture hopes that she might one day come back, but knew that those hopes were most likely in vain.
As for my new girlfriend, Lydia Maxwell, I doubt if she is the sort to leave intimate items of underwear lying around on bedroom floors, apart from which she has yet to visit my flat.
It was a telephone call from Bill Hunter at the beginning of last November, inviting me to dinner, that had put me in touch with Lydia Maxwell again. She’d lived in the apartment next to the murder victim who had been the subject of my last investigation, and for a time had herself been regarded as a suspect in the murder.
Although the affluent, widowed thirty-eight-year-old Mrs Maxwell had said that she intended to move out of her apartment and into a house, preferably one with its own swimming pool, I’d no idea where she’d gone. And to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t much interested. In the course of a murder investigation you meet a lot of people, and once the trial’s over you tend to forget all about them, usually because you’re dealing with another murder and another set of people. Unfortunately, the last investigation was memorable for resulting in the murder of our own Detective Constable John Appleby.
Bill and his wife Charlotte Hunter, an actress, had been friends of Gail Sutton and I’d met them through her, before Gail had been unable to resist the offer of a mouth-watering fee for a part in an American soap.
Knowing what the Hunters’ hospitality was like, I had not driven there. I’d taken a taxi to Esher, but was half an hour late arriving because taxis at Surbiton railway station had suddenly been in demand, added to which the driver didn’t know Esher that well. The clocks had gone back the previous weekend, the night was chilly and it was spitting with rain. All in all, the weather promised a dark and rather wretched evening.
The Hunters’ palatial residence in Esher is one of half a dozen situated on a gated estate. It boasts six bedrooms, each with an en-suite bathroom, a huge dining room and a spacious drawing room, and probably a host of other rooms I’d never seen. An extensive garden sports a swimming pool at one end, housed in a cedarwood chalet. Did I mention that the Hunters were filthy rich?