by Graham Ison
The mystery key on the ring fitted the door of the apartment, and we let ourselves in.
Dave and I had brought Nicola Chance with us. Nicola had been with the team for a few years now. She managed to combine a very sharp brain with a demure disposition, but when occasionally she became sufficiently frustrated or annoyed enough to bring on an outburst, her obscene vocabulary would have made even a sergeant major blush. However, as I had found many times over, a woman will often spot things that a man might miss, and Nicola had proved her value in that regard on several occasions when we’d been searching accommodation.
The apartment was not particularly large, but well-furnished and adequate for a single person. As we moved around on a preliminary survey we came across an interesting piece of evidence. There were two bedrooms. This in itself is not unusual, but it was the second bedroom at the back of the apartment that interested us. The only furniture in it was a large bed and an umbrella stand. The bed had a tethering device at each corner, so that whoever was on the bed could be secured spread-eagled, and the umbrella stand contained a quantity of canes, similar to those used in schools many years ago, and a collection of dressage whips.
‘She was a bloody tom,’ said Dave, neatly summing up the situation.
‘Bless my soul! I do believe you’re right, skip,’ said Nicola, with heavy sarcasm.
‘There’s no need to sound so pleased about the bloody obvious, Dave,’ I said. ‘You do realize what it means, I suppose. We’ve no idea how many clients she had, and any one of them could’ve murdered her.’
‘Or none of them, guv,’ said Dave.
‘I’ll have a look around, guv,’ said Nicola. ‘She might’ve kept a diary or an appointments book.’
‘When you’re looking, see if you can find this credit card that Colin Wilberforce was going on about, Nicola,’ suggested Dave. ‘That might tell us something.’
Nicola Chance laughed. ‘Would you have paid by credit card for the sort of services Rachel Steele appeared to offer, skip?’ It was the sort of classic put-down at which Nicola was very good.
A few minutes later, she opened a drawer in a ladder unit.
‘A credit card, guv. And a bunch of statements.’
‘What sort of statements?’ I asked.
‘Monthly credit card and bank statements.’ Nicola whistled. ‘This was one seriously rich lady,’ she said. ‘She’s spent a fortune on clothes and perfume and cosmetics.’ She handed me the bank statements. ‘You’ll see on there, guv, that she made a frequent number of irregular deposits, and they were large sums in each case.’
‘Her business must’ve been booming,’ I said.
‘More like bruising,’ said Dave, ‘if what’s in the umbrella stand is anything to go by.’
‘I’ll just have a look in the bathroom,’ said Nicola. She emerged minutes later. ‘If you wanted proof of how much Rachel’s worth, this is fifty mill of Roja Enigma,’ she said, displaying a small bottle, ‘and it retails at about three hundred and eighty pounds.’
‘We’d better seal this place until her estranged husband can be contacted to do something about it,’ I said. ‘Once we’ve had Linda Mitchell’s team go over it for fingerprints.’
FOUR
‘I’ve been checking out the photographs taken from Rachel Steele’s mobile phone, guv.’ Harvey came into my office holding some photographic prints.
‘Are you going to tell me there’s a shot of the murderer holding up a placard saying “I did it!”?’
‘I didn’t find one like that, guv,’ said Harvey, without displaying a trace of humour. ‘There were twenty-two photographs altogether, but most of them were of places without people in them, like places she’d been to. However, five of them were stills from videos taken at the Talavera wine bar in Richmond on separate occasions during the three weeks before she was found dead in Richmond Park. Each one was taken with a man. She looks as though she’s having a good time.’
‘She took a video with a phone?’ I asked. ‘How the hell did she do that?’
‘Oh, I can do it, guv,’ said Harvey, rather smugly. ‘In fact, anyone can do it if they’ve got a smartphone.’
All this technical stuff was beyond my field of understanding. I gave up and went back to police work. ‘Does the same man appear in any of them more than once?’
‘No, sir.’ Harvey laid five prints on my desk. ‘As I said, she took videos, but these frames are the best ones for showing the face of the man who was with her. And each time it was a different man.’
‘She obviously put herself about,’ I said, ‘but now we know she was a tom, that’s not surprising. And the name of the wine bar’s printed at the bottom of the photographs. How fortunate.’ Yet another benefit of modern technology.
‘So is the time, sir. Some were taken at midday – only one actually – but the others were taken in the evening, on either a Monday or a Friday.’
‘You’ve done a good job, Steve.’ To be honest, it was no more than I expected of an experienced detective like Harvey; otherwise he wouldn’t have been posted to us. But it does no harm to give the occasional word of praise to the guys working with you. ‘Ask DI Ebdon to come in.’
‘You wanted me, Harry?’ Kate always used my first name when no one else was about, the result of a weekend of rather wine-soaked enquiries with my good friend Henri Deshayes of the Police Judiciaire.
‘Have you seen what Harvey turned up, Kate?’
‘Yes, I have. Are you and Dave going to make a trip to this Talavera wine bar in Richmond?’
‘I think it would be better if you went and took Dave with you. A man and a woman will blend more easily than two men who look suspiciously like coppers. If you get there at about seven you might find some of the guys in these photos, but I’ll leave it to you how you play it.’ I gestured at the prints that Harvey had left on my desk. ‘And you can take those with you.’
‘I don’t think so, Harry. We can hardly wander into a wine bar clutching a handful of large photographs and give the clientele a searching look. Bit obvious, don’t you think?’
‘Will you be able to memorize the faces, then, Kate?’
‘I’ve got a brain like a sieve, Harry.’ Kate laughed at the very idea. ‘I’ll get Dave to transfer the relevant photos and videos to his mobile phone. He’s very good at that sort of thing. We can have a discreet look around, and we might even get lucky.’
Brain like a sieve, indeed! Kate had one of the sharpest brains going.
The Talavera was one of those twee wine bars where upcoming wannabees like to be seen. They walk in with a knowing nod to the barman, put their credit card behind the bar – where it will probably be cloned – and proceed to party. Or ignore everyone and spend the evening playing with their digital toys. In the old days there would have been a pall of tobacco smoke hanging beneath the ceiling, but not any more; not in a society worried sick about smoking, eating the right organic food, slavishly following the latest diet fad, counting calories, avoiding red meat and checking their cholesterol. High on this manic agenda comes jogging, thereby destroying their hips, knees and ankles in the process. And finally, signing up to a fashionable gymnasium.
It now looks as if the most likely cause of death in the near future will be worry.
The arrival of Kate Ebdon and Dave Poole was not greeted with suspicion; quite the contrary. The flame-haired Kate’s figure immediately attracted the attention of almost every male on the premises. And that of two women. Whereas the hunk of a man that was Dave Poole received more than one admiring glance from the women, and from a couple of shaven-headed, musclebound men who were talking to each other in a corner of the bar.
‘By the way, you can call me Kate,’ said Kate. ‘But that’s a once only offer and expires the moment we leave here.’
‘You do me great honour, Kate,’ said Dave.
‘I do you nothing of the sort, mate. But I once met an NYPD lieutenant who was over here on an exchange visit. He told me that he and a
third-grade were looking for some lowlife in a Brooklyn bar when the third-grade addressed him rather loudly as “Loo-tenant”. And that blew that discreet observation. So, watch it, Poole.’
‘Knowing our luck, this’ll be the one night none of them shows, Kate,’ said Dave mournfully.
Kate bought a glass of inferior red wine and treated Dave to a non-alcoholic fruit drink of indeterminate content. They stood at one of the jutting shelves that were fixed at right angles from the wall and observed the scene.
The place was crowded with men and women, all of whom appeared to be in the mid-twenties to mid-forties age range. Most of the men were talking loudly, but above the general hubbub could be heard the occasional boast of how clever they were, the superior cars they drove and their enviable golf handicap. This inane chatter seemed to impress the girls, whose ambition in life was probably no more than to become a ‘celebrity’ and save the planet. Another group of four women were surveying the scene with expressions bordering on contempt while making snide remarks behind their hands and giggling. A further couple were busy on their smartphones, which prompted Dave to suggest that they were actually texting each other rather than engaging in a face-to-face conversation.
In other words, it was a typical wine bar atmosphere and similar to a hundred others in Greater London and beyond.
‘That guy over there is one of those in the videos, Kate. Follow my eyes,’ said Dave, looking across the room without actually pointing and then glancing at his smartphone to make sure. ‘Taken on the third of June, just over a week before Rachel Steele’s body was found.’ He handed the phone to Kate, and she nodded her agreement before handing it back.
She glanced across the room. A couple were sitting sideways on and facing each other at the long counter against the wall opposite the bar. Fortunately the man had been looking towards Kate and Dave, and the woman had her back to them. They were deep in conversation and appeared oblivious to everyone else in the place. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and jeans, his blazer slung over the back of his stool, and the woman was wearing a summer dress. Her left hand was resting on the man’s knee in such a way that any onlooker could not fail to see the diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.
‘She’s very like Rachel Steele, Kate,’ whispered Dave. ‘Long brown hair, and I’d take a guess at her being about five-eight. And she’s not wearing a bra.’
‘What’s the significance of that?’ asked Kate.
‘The victim was wearing one, but we think the killer nicked it.’
‘What in hell’s name are you jabbering about, Dave?’
‘If the killer’s a bra-collecting psychopath, Kate, he’s not going to pick up a woman who’s not wearing one, is he? Therefore that girl is unlikely to be his next victim.’
‘Just come down to earth for a minute, Dave, and tell me what we’re going to do about the drongo you’ve just fingered.’ There were moments of frustration when Kate lapsed into an almost theatrical Australian argot.
‘I think he’s just solved it for us,’ said Dave.
The man had stood up and slung his blazer over his shoulder before holding the woman’s hand to steady her as she got down from the high stool. Holding hands, they made for the exit, shouting ‘Ciao’ to people they knew.
Kate and Dave followed the couple out into the street.
‘Excuse me,’ said Dave.
The man turned and, seeing that he had been accosted by a black giant accompanied by an attractive redhead in a white shirt and jeans, immediately stepped in front of his companion as if to guard her from attack.
‘What d’you want?’ The man had a hunted look. He’d read about the random stabbings that were occurring all over London practically every day.
‘We’re police officers,’ said Kate, ‘and we’d like a word with you.’ Realizing that the man was still unconvinced, she and Dave produced their warrant cards.
The man relaxed and the woman moved to stand beside him. ‘What’s this about?’ he demanded.
Dave produced his mobile phone and played the copy of the video he had transferred from Rachel Steele’s smartphone. It showed the man standing as close as he could get to Rachel Steele. He had his arm around her waist, squeezing her tightly into his body, and she had an arm around his waist, her scarlet nail varnish very obvious against the white of his shirt. Her other hand held the camera so that she could video the two of them. And she had started the recording just before the man planted a kiss on her cheek, and they were both laughing.
‘That began at seven thirty-five on the evening of Monday last week, the third of June,’ said Dave, ‘and lasted for ninety seconds in all.’
‘But … er … that’s not me,’ stuttered the man unconvincingly.
The man’s fiancée – for that was who she proved to be – had been holding his arm and watching closely as Dave was playing the video. ‘It bloody well is, Max,’ she said angrily and, moving slightly so that she was in front of him, slapped his face. Tearing the engagement ring from her finger, she threw it at him before storming off.
‘Sophie, it’s not what you think,’ the man shouted desperately and dithered, unsure whether to run after the woman or attempt to find the diamond ring, which was somewhere in the gutter.
‘Not so fast,’ said Dave, laying a restraining hand on the man’s arm. ‘I said we wanted to talk to you.’
‘Thanks a bundle,’ snapped the man called Max. ‘You’ve just destroyed a perfect relationship.’
‘I think you did that, mate,’ said Kate, her suddenly strong Australian accent seeming to surprise the man.
‘What the hell is this about, anyway?’ Max demanded. ‘And why are you showing me that video?’
‘I think it would be better if we continued this conversation at the local police station,’ said Kate.
‘Now just hold on a moment. Are you arresting me for something? Because if you’re not, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You can either come voluntarily, or I will arrest you,’ said Kate. ‘On suspicion of murdering the woman in this photograph.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Max desperately. ‘I don’t know anything about a murder. I don’t even know who that woman was.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Max Roper.’
‘Very well, Mr Roper,’ said Kate. ‘Get in the car, please.’ She ushered Roper into the back seat of the car and slid in beside him.
It was a short run to Richmond police station on Kew Road. Once the necessary paperwork had been completed, Roper was taken into an interview room.
‘I’m recording this interview as much for your protection as for mine,’ Kate began. ‘Present are Mr Max Roper, together with Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon and Detective Sergeant David Poole, both of the Murder Investigation Team at New Scotland Yard.’
Dave placed his phone on the table that separated him from Max and played the video once again. ‘You said you didn’t know this woman, Mr Roper, and yet you are clearly enjoying an intimate embrace with her.’
‘There was a whole crowd of us in there that night,’ said Roper. ‘Everyone was having fun and joking around. There was a lot of horseplay. Like that,’ he said, gesturing at the phone. ‘It was someone’s birthday and they’d pushed the boat out, but none of us stayed for very long.’
‘Long enough to be videoed with a strange woman, though,’ said Kate. ‘When did you last see her, Mr Roper?’
‘That was the only time I saw her, at least to speak to.’
‘But long enough to wrap yourself around her,’ commented Kate. ‘When you’d seen her previously, was it in the wine bar you were in this evening?’
‘Yes, Inspector, but she was usually with someone.’
‘Would that have been the same someone each time?’
‘No, I’m pretty sure it was a different guy each time. Frankly, I think that she was prepared to go out with anyone, but to be honest I didn’t pay much attention because on the
other occasions I was with Sophie.’
‘Prepared to go out with anyone? Is that a euphemism for having sexual intercourse with anyone?’ asked Dave.
‘Maybe.’ Roper shrugged. ‘She certainly seemed to enjoy the company of men.’
‘The woman who was with you tonight – is she your fiancée?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure she’s still my fiancée, thanks to you.’ Roper paused. ‘You said the woman in the photograph was murdered.’
‘Yes. Her name’s Rachel Steele. Mrs Rachel Steele.’
‘Good God! She’s the one who was found in Richmond Park yesterday morning. There was a bit on local TV about it, and a lot of comments on Twitter complaining about the park being closed to traffic.’
‘Yes, that’s her, Mr Roper.’ Kate leaned on the table, linked her hands and moved closer. ‘I don’t think you realize that you are in something of a difficult situation here. You were photographed embracing this woman, a woman you say you don’t know but who you had seen before, several times. That woman is now dead.’
‘God! But I had nothing to do with this terrible business.’ Roper sounded as though he was on the verge of panic. ‘What can I do to prove that I had nothing to do with it?’
‘For a start, you can give us a sample of your DNA,’ said Dave.
‘Sure, anything.’ Roper was now desperate to assist the two detectives. ‘How do I do that? Can you do it now?’
‘Detective Sergeant Poole is leaving the room,’ Dave announced, and went in search of a DNA swabbing kit. A few moments later he returned and took a sample of Roper’s saliva. He spent a few minutes ensuring that the sample was sealed and correctly labelled. Failure to do so would guarantee at least twenty minutes of cross-examination by the defence counsel, designed to prove the police evidence invalid.
‘Where were you on the night of the tenth of June, Mr Roper?’ Kate asked.
‘I’d had a row with my fiancée, and she flounced out of the flat. She said it was all over and she never wanted to see me again.’