Deadlock

by Graham Ison

‘Everything all right, man?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dylan desperately.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Fitzgibbon is very pleased with you, Dylan,’ said Dave.

  ‘He’s not?’ Dylan appeared very distressed at that comment. ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He doesn’t like your metaphysical plays.’

  ‘But I haven’t written any yet,’ wailed Dylan.

  The house at the end of Codsmere Road was similar in every particular to the one we’d just left.

  ‘Yes?’ The harridan who answered the door stared at us suspiciously, but she knew instinctively who we were. She must’ve been at least sixty-five. Either that or she was a forty-year-old who’d had a hard life.

  ‘Police. We need to see the room that Lisa Hastings used for purposes of prostitution,’ I said.

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’ The woman obviously had knowledge of such legal niceties, which wasn’t surprising, but apparently not a very wide knowledge.

  ‘We’re about to,’ said Dave, ‘and it’ll be for your arrest on charges of living on immoral earnings, being concerned in the management of a brothel and obstructing police in the execution of their duty.’ After a suitable pause, he added, ‘On the other hand …’

  ‘Top of the stairs, first door on the right,’ said the crone.

  The room was furnished with basic prostitution equipment: an iron-framed bedstead, useful for tying up those customers who enjoyed that sort of thing; a washbasin in one corner; and a small tasselled rug that had probably been at its best in about 1950. But, unsurprisingly, there was nothing to indicate that anyone actually lived here. It was merely a sterile place of business used for a quick screw – pay up and get out. Next, please!

  We returned to the ground floor. The crone was hovering at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Next time you see that Lisa you can tell her not to bother coming back, mister. I can do without trouble from your lot. I never knew what she was doing up there. She just used it to have a chat to old friends. Least, that’s what she said.’

  Dave laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, we saw her this morning. In the mortuary. She’d been murdered.’

  Apart from a shrug, that piece of news evinced no reaction.

  ‘We’ll talk in your room,’ I said, fearing there might be ears listening.

  It was a mistake. The woman’s room was multifunctional: bedroom, kitchen and office. And it had the stale reek of decay.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, having declined to sit down on the motheaten settee.

  ‘Agnes Hoskins. Mrs Hoskins.’

  ‘And where’s Mr Hoskins?’

  ‘Don’t know, don’t care. He buggered off years ago.’

  I couldn’t help but have a secret admiration for the departed Mr Hoskins.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that Lisa was living here for the past three days, Mrs Hoskins?’

  ‘No, it’s not allowed. It’s against the house rules.’

  I nearly asked to see a copy of the house rules, but resisted the temptation.

  ‘Was there one particular man who Lisa Hastings entertained here, Mrs Hoskins?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Might’ve been. I never saw who she was taking up to her room. It might’ve been the same man every time or it might’ve been a different one. We mind our own business here.’

  ‘How much rent did you charge her?’ I asked, and the suddenness of the question seemed momentarily to discomfit the woman.

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’

  ‘Oh, but it has,’ put in Dave. ‘Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs takes a great interest in people who don’t pay the correct amount of tax. Or who don’t pay any at all.’

  ‘There was one bloke who come more than once,’ Agnes Hoskins volunteered hurriedly.

  ‘What was his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did he look like, then?’

  ‘Bit shorter than him,’ Agnes said, pointing at the six-foot-tall Dave Poole. ‘White, of course, but ordinary like. Oh, and he had a suit on,’ she added, raising her eyebrows in apparent amazement at such sartorial eccentricity.

  ‘You say he came more than once. How often?’ It was hard getting answers from this woman, but it was just possible that she may have the information we needed to find the Hastings girl’s killer.

  ‘Twice. Leastways, I only saw him twice. I just happened to come out of my room when he was going up the stairs.’

  ‘How fortunate,’ said Dave. ‘And when did you last see Lisa Hastings?’

  Agnes Hoskins screwed her face into its thoughtful mode. ‘Yesterday,’ she said eventually. ‘About dinner time.’

  ‘What time d’you call dinner time?’ asked Dave, to whom dinner was an evening meal.

  ‘One o’clock. Ain’t that when everyone has dinner?’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was she going out?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dave emitted a loud sigh. ‘And was she alone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hoskins,’ I said.

  ‘You can let her room now,’ said Dave, as we made towards the front door. ‘But don’t forget to tell the tax people. Before we do.’

  ‘That description was worse than useless, Dave,’ I said as we reached the car.

  ‘I don’t believe there was such a man, guv’nor,’ Dave said. ‘In fact, I didn’t believe a word of anything she said.’

  EIGHT

  Dave and I got back to the office at about half past six to find that Detective Superintendent Dean had authorized the use of HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, indication – as if I needed it – that I was now investigating a serial killer. Before settling down to dictate my statement about our visit to Codsmere Road, I checked with the incident room to see if there was anything fresh. There was.

  ‘I’ve just received a call from Heathrow Airport, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident room manager. ‘Daniel Steele’s been detained, along with a woman holding a passport in the name of Rachel Steele.’

  ‘They didn’t stay long,’ I said. ‘Today’s Friday, and they only went on Tuesday. I wonder why.’

  ‘Easily explained, sir.’ Creasey chuckled. ‘They were deported.’

  ‘What for?’ I sat down next to Creasey and glanced at his computer. The screen saver was a photograph of the original Scotland Yard, but there was nothing about knock-offs at Heathrow.

  ‘It seems that the immigration guys on the Seychelles are pretty switched on,’ said Creasey. ‘Their computer showed that a Mrs Rachel Steele and her husband took a holiday there last year, but the passport presented on the previous occasion was still in date. The immigration officer asked the woman when that passport had been stolen and she told him it hadn’t. At that point she became flustered and burst into tears.’ Creasey grinned. ‘With me so far, sir?’

  ‘I think I’m ahead of you, Gavin. Bent passport?’

  ‘More or less, sir. The Seychelles immigration officer did some digging and got their police to telephone the Yard. All this was on Tuesday when the Steeles landed, since when she’s been locked up in the capital’s police station in Victoria. Daniel Steele was given restricted leave to land – reporting to police daily, and that sort of thing – and opted to stay at a nearby hotel. After a lot of email traffic back and forth, the Seychelles authorities finally received the photograph we’d forwarded to Heathrow. And bingo! That’s when it was discovered that the current “Mrs Steele” was, in fact, Sarah Parsons. At that point she admitted having made a false statement to obtain the passport.’

  ‘Did Daniel Steele get deported too, Gavin?’

  ‘Yes, sir. After some internal debate the authorities out there decided that he must’ve been involved in the fraud and they were both put on the next plane back to the UK. She’s in custody, b
ut having checked the Police National Computer the arresting officer at Heathrow found that you had an interest in Daniel Steele as well, and detained him too. Heathrow police asked what you wanted done with them.’

  ‘Arrange to have them sent back here under escort, Gavin,’ I said. ‘There’s a convenient police station right here beneath our feet. That’ll do for a start, and then we can hand the job over to the department at the Yard that deals with bent passports.’ I was not best pleased. It meant that I’d have to await their arrival. I wasn’t sure what an interview would elicit as I was certain now that Daniel Steele hadn’t committed the second murder, even if he’d committed the first. Nevertheless, he still had to explain his sudden departure. Did he think I knew about the dodgy passport, or did he have something else to hide?

  I returned to my office and telephoned Lydia Maxwell.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Snowed under, I’m afraid, Lydia. I had hoped to sneak away and take you to dinner, but as if two murders to deal with wasn’t enough, I’ve now got a couple of suspects on their way from the airport. I’ll have to interview them before I can get away. Maybe tomorrow?’ I asked tentatively. So far, our short relationship had consisted mainly of two dinners and my frequent apologies for not keeping a date, but Lydia was a patient woman and, it seemed, happy to wait. But no woman will wait forever.

  ‘Whenever you can make it, Harry. I know you can’t control what you’re doing.’

  Oh, what a perceptive woman you are, I thought.

  It was almost a quarter to eight before Creasey came into my office. ‘They’re downstairs in an interview room, sir. I’ve alerted Dave Poole and he said he’ll meet you down there.’

  Daniel Steele and Sarah Parsons both looked very tired after their brief sojourn in the Seychelles and the long flight back. Steele was in need of a shave and Sarah Parsons, devoid of make-up, looked drawn and haggard after her ordeal. I’ve never visited the Seychelles and I’ve no idea what the cells at their police stations look like, but I imagine that someone accustomed to the twee lifestyle of Superior Drive, Camden Town would have found incarceration something of a culture shock.

  ‘D’you want this interview recorded, sir?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ I said, and turned my attention to Daniel Steele. ‘What made you rush off within hours of my interviewing you at your house, Mr Steele?’

  ‘I needed a holiday.’

  ‘And what about you, Miss Parsons?’ I took a guess at her being single, but I’ve been known to make mistakes about women before.

  ‘How did you know my name?’ She didn’t correct my assumption that she was unmarried.

  ‘Your line manager, Jessica, gave us your name and provided us with a photograph of you,’ I said.

  ‘She’d no right to do that.’

  ‘If she hadn’t complied, we’d have arrested her for obstructing the police,’ said Dave bluntly. ‘We were investigating the murder of Rachel Steele – the real Rachel Steele – and we discovered that you were masquerading as her. That, together with your sudden departure with Mr Steele, led us to believe that either one of you, or both, were in some way connected to the murder.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Daniel Steele.

  ‘So is rushing out of the country with a woman who has obtained a passport by means of a false statement, immediately after being questioned by the police about the murder of your wife.’ I let him ponder that for a moment or two, and then changed the subject. ‘On another matter, have you spoken to Rachel’s parents since I saw you last?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had the time,’ said Steele lamely.

  Edward and Gerda Jackson had already been told of their daughter’s murder by Kate Ebdon, whom I’d sent there as soon as Steele had given us their address. Kate’s visit was simply to inform them of Rachel’s death, and she’d told them that I would be calling on them later.

  The Jacksons lived in a small village on the outskirts of Guildford, a fairly easy drive from Belgravia. I decided that Dave and I would see them as soon as possible in the hope that they may be able to shed some light on their daughter’s way of life. Right now, we didn’t seem to be making much headway with either of the murders we were investigating. But first we had to interview the two lads who’d found Lisa Hastings’s body.

  ‘What will happen about the passport? They won’t send me to prison, will they?’ pleaded Sarah Parsons, suddenly starting to panic. ‘I’ve already been locked up in a filthy cell for two days, and I haven’t had a shower for ages.’

  ‘The matter will be handed over to the appropriate department at New Scotland Yard,’ I said. ‘They will advise you when you are to be charged.’

  ‘But what will happen?’ Sarah Parsons was desperate now. ‘Will I go to prison?’ she asked again.

  ‘I really have no idea.’ I was unable to conjure up any sympathy for this woman, who appeared as self-serving as the man she’d been abroad with. ‘As I explained, Miss Parsons, it’s not my department. In the meantime, however, you will both be admitted to police bail to return to this police station one month from now. Once the necessary paperwork has been completed, you’ll be free to go.’

  ‘Why me?’ asked Daniel Steele. ‘What have I done that necessitates my being put on bail?’

  ‘From the point of view of your wife’s murder, Mr Steele, you’re of no further interest to me unless more evidence comes to light. However, the Crown Prosecution Service may take the view that you were in some way guilty of conspiring with Miss Parsons to obtain her passport, and that’s why you are being bailed. But the decision about prosecution is nothing to do with me.’

  Once Dave had dealt with the matter of bail for our two ‘persons of interest’, we went back upstairs.

  ‘Well, that was a waste of time, Dave.’

  ‘But it does prove one thing, guv’nor. You don’t have to be intelligent to make a fortune on the financial markets.’

  My last task before going home was to telephone the parents of the two boys who had found Lisa Hastings’s body on Thursday. Fortunately the two families lived next door to each other, and the twelve-year-old boys were firm friends. I arranged with the parents to interview the lads the next day, Saturday, at their respective homes.

  Saturday was another blazing hot day, and my shirt was already damp by nine o’clock that morning when we arrived at the home of Tom Patel, one of the two boys who had found the body of Lisa Hastings. The boys and their families lived in a turning off Richmond Road, and the school they attended was only half a mile or so away. Ham Common was equidistant between the two on the route the lads normally took.

  ‘You must be the detectives, sir,’ said the man who answered the door. ‘I am Ashok Patel.’ He shook hands.

  ‘Yes, we are, Mr Patel. Detective Chief Inspector Brock, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

  ‘What a terrible thing to have happened to that young woman.’ Patel showed us into the sitting room and invited us to sit down. ‘My wife has just made some lemonade. Would you care for a glass?’

  ‘That’s very good of you, thank you,’ I said. It made a change from being offered tea, welcome though it always was.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of asking Tom’s friend Oliver to come in,’ said Patel, once the lemonade had been served. ‘I thought it might save you time if you saw the two of them together.’ He laughed. ‘They’re practically inseparable anyway.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, Mr Patel.’ I was satisfied that the question of collusion didn’t arise. ‘Are his parents happy with that?’

  ‘I spoke to Peter and Naomi last night, after you phoned, and they thought it was a sensible arrangement. But they’ll come in if you think it necessary.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Patel. So long as we have an adult here while we’re talking to them.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll just drag the boys away from their computers. They’re upstairs playing these mindless computer games. But I mak
e a point of rationing Tom’s time.’ Patel glanced at his watch. ‘And he’s run out of today’s allowance, anyway. If I don’t keep an eye on him he won’t get down to his books, and there’s no way he can become a doctor if he doesn’t study.’

  The two twelve-year-olds were both clean cut and smart, given that they were attired in jeans and a T-shirt embellished with some inane slogan.

  ‘This is my son Tom, Chief Inspector, and his friend Oliver Dawson.’

  Dave and I shook hands with the boys, which seemed to come as a surprise to them. But I’ve always held the view that if you want youngsters to behave like adults you should treat them as such.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘and tell me exactly what happened the day before yesterday when you found the body.’

  The boys looked at one another, each with a guilty expression on his face, and it was immediately obvious that they had been forbidden by their parents to ride their bicycles across Ham Common.

  ‘If you were doing something you weren’t really supposed to be doing,’ said Dave, ‘my chief inspector will give you an official police pardon, which means that you can’t get into trouble with your parents.’

  It was another of Dave’s strokes of genius, and I could only add my support to what he had just said, at the same time winking an eye at Ashok Patel.

  ‘Well, sir,’ began Tom Patel. ‘Olly and I were on our way to school …’ He paused and glanced at his father.

  ‘You must always tell the truth, Tom,’ said Ashok Patel, ‘regardless of the consequences.’

  ‘I know we shouldn’t do it, but Olly and I were practising rough-riding across the common, and as we went through the trees we suddenly came across this lady lying on the grass. I thought to myself that’s a funny place for a lie down, especially at that time of the morning.’ Tom paused. ‘What was even more strange was that her boobs weren’t covered up.’

  I sensed an admonition regarding slang was about to come from Tom Patel’s father, and shook my head in his direction.

  ‘Then I thought she might have been drunk,’ said Oliver Dawson, ‘and I moved closer. It was then that I saw that her eyes were wide open and staring. I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. I didn’t touch her in case I disturbed some vital evidence. I thought perhaps she’d been murdered, you see.’