The House on Downshire Hill

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  “Where was that?”

  “I was renting a small flat in Clapham.”

  “I see. Well perhaps I could come round tomorrow if that would be OK? Maybe about 10:30?”

  “Please do. I’d be delighted to see you again.”

  She put the phone down and called across the incident room to Metcalfe.

  “We have a development, guv. One of the neighbours has just seen Raj down the road in Belsize Park. They reckon he ducked into the underground, in which case he could be anywhere by now. But apparently he’d just been to the local convenience store there, which suggests that’s where he’s still doing his shopping. The neighbour very kindly left the card which I’d given him, and asked the proprietor to ring should Raj go in again.”

  “Good news!” Metcalfe said, jotting down a note. “I’ll ask uniform to go in and reinforce the message.”

  He glanced up at the clock.

  “Why don’t you nip off home, Priya? Things are likely to get very busy around here in the next few days, so it would be good to get some rest while you can.”

  “I was just thinking the same actually, guv. Thanks, I will.”

  She closed down her computer, picked up her bag, and left the room. Without really knowing why, she turned right rather than left and walked into her office, closing the door behind her. She opened her bag, took out Sophie’s card, and dialled the number.

  “Oh hi, Sophie, it’s Priya. Priya Desai from Hampstead nick,” she said awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re still there. I thought you might have left for the day.”

  “I was just about to actually. But what about that drink? When would you like to meet up?”

  “Well, I’m not sure how much time I’m likely to have over the next few weeks. You know, the investigation…”

  “Don’t worry, Priya, it’s OK. Just ring me sometime when you’re free, if you like.”

  “Oh no, you don’t understand. What I meant to say was … well, might you be free this evening? Like I say, things could get pretty hectic around here any time so I was thinking -”

  “Say no more. This evening would be great. Why don’t we both head out now and meet up somewhere?”

  •

  That evening Lisa Atkins made a welcome return to the house in Frognal. When Peter Collins walked into the living room it was to find her and Metcalfe in a companionable embrace on one of the sofas.

  “Peter!” she exclaimed, jumping up and kissing him on both cheeks, “how lovely to see you.”

  “Likewise, old fruit, but how are you? How did the tests go?”

  “Oh, don’t let’s talk about all of that,” she said with a pout as she sat down again. “If I have to see another doctor or sit inside another machine I shall go mad, I swear I will. But where’s Karen?”

  “She’s upstairs having a shower I think. I’m sure I heard her come in.”

  “Yes, we walked back together,” Metcalfe said. “I’m afraid she’s had a very boring day sifting through old papers.”

  “Oh yes, is this the new case you’re both working on? Is it that old man who was found murdered in Downshire Hill? It is, isn’t it? I read about it in the Standard. I say, how thrilling. But they didn’t say how he died. Was he strangled and left with a hideous grin on his face? Go on, do tell.”

  “Now, you know I can’t talk about it, darling,” Metcalfe said gently, “so please don’t ask me. I spoke without thinking. I was just trying to explain that I think she felt a bit grubby having been handling dusty sheets of paper all day.”

  “Beyond dusty,” Willis said as she walked into the room, “some of it was actually mildewed and I’ll swear that there was some pretty strange fungus on those old book proofs. Ugh! I needed a good scrub.”

  Her hair was still pinned up damply from the shower and she was wearing a simple T-shirt, Capri pants and a pair of pumps.

  “You look like a 1950s film star,” Metcalfe said admiringly.

  “In that case,” Collins said quickly, “a cocktail is clearly in order.”

  He crossed to the drinks cabinet, opened the doors, and contemplated its contents: bottles in neatly serried ranks. Lisa gave a little squeal and clapped her hands.

  “Oh goody! A cocktail is exactly what I need after the last few days. How clever of you, Peter. You are wonderful.”

  “I am indeed,” he murmured as he came to a decision and reached out for Cointreau and Tequila.

  “I believe I have some lime juice in the kitchen,” he said. “So how does a Margarita sound?”

  “It sounds wonderful, Peter,” Willis replied. “Let me get the ice.”

  “No, you stay there, Harriet. I can manage perfectly well myself.”

  As he went, Willis gazed fondly at Lisa.

  “So how are things really, Lisa? What was the point of all these wretched tests?”

  “I’m really not sure. I think it was just Mummy worrying about nothing. I had a couple of really bad headaches you see, and I’m supposed to tell the hospital as soon as something like that happens, so I did. But they couldn’t find anything wrong. Probably just a virus or something, I reckon.”

  “Then a Margarita is just what you need,” Willis replied. “All that alcohol and vitamin C will do you the power of good. Better than an anti-viral drug, and much more fun.”

  “Talking of fun,” Lisa said, “I was looking at one of those vintage websites while I was away, and they’re doing a tea dance at the Waldorf hotel in a few weeks. Shall we go?”

  “We should definitely go,” Collins concurred gravely as he walked back into the room carrying a bucket of ice and a jug of lime juice.

  “Oh, wonderful! It will give me a fantastic opportunity to buy a new outfit – well, a new vintage outfit anyway.”

  “We might be able to find something to fit you in my wardrobe,” Willis suggested.

  “There again, maybe not,” Metcalfe said quietly.

  They all laughed, even Willis, though the joke was at her expense. Her vintage outfits were tailored very precisely to her personal measurements and designed to show off her magnificent figure.

  “Actually, Lisa, your mention of a new outfit reminded me of a thought I had the other day,” Collins said as he began mixing the jug of Margaritas.

  “Really? What?”

  “Well, I got to thinking. We all enjoy these vintage events, but it’s really quite difficult to keep finding new outfits, and jolly expensive too. What if somebody was to actually manufacture outfits today that were based on the old designs we love so much, but were actually completely new?”

  “Oh, Peter, that would never work,” Willis cut in briskly. “There wouldn’t be enough demand for it. It’s a lovely idea of course, but there just aren’t enough of us vintage enthusiasts to make it worthwhile.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said sadly. “Oh well, I did have this other idea too. Hasn’t it struck you how lovely it would be if someone were to open a 1950s style nightclub …?”

  “Peter, darling,” Willis said gently as she walked across the room and took the first two glasses of Margarita from him, “you’re hugely intelligent, but no businessman I’m afraid. Why don’t you leave the entrepreneurial ideas to other people?”

  She gave her two glasses to the occupants of the sofa and then took the one which Collins handed her.

  “However,” she conceded after an appreciative sip, “you do make a wonderful Margarita.”

  •

  Down the road in Camden Town Sophie Ho and Priya Desai were by coincidence also drinking margaritas, though in their case as an accompaniment to a Mexican meal. Sophie had ordered a jug, an idea with which Desai concurred, though she rarely drank. Perhaps because she was unused to alcohol she was already feeling the effects, though Sophie seemed to be too as they were spending a lot of time squealing with laughter and putting their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Finally the time came for paying the bill and walking to the underground, which they did merrily though slightly un
steadily. They went through the barrier and down the escalator, Sophie standing on the step below and talking upwards to her, though it was almost impossible to hear what she was saying. They came to the platforms, where they paused, as Desai was heading north and Sophie south.

  They gazed contentedly at each other but for the first time that evening Desai found herself unsure what to say.

  “I’ve had a wonderful time,” she managed finally.

  “I’m glad.”

  Sophie leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. Desai should have been surprised, shocked even, yet somehow was not. Sophie’s lips lingered on her own, but just as she started to respond the other girl pulled away with a shriek of laughter and disappeared into the crowds on the southbound platform, her shout of “bye-ee” fading into the roar of an approaching train.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Quite a bit of progress yesterday, one way and another,” Metcalfe reported in the incident room next morning.

  “First, I received the statements I requested from the deceased’s bank. Very interesting. Conrad Taylor carried a pretty much permanent bank balance of about £50,000, which he topped up from a deposit account every so often. The deposit account contained about 10 times that amount and seems to have represented his store of capital. Until about seven weeks ago he’d been spending very small amounts of money every week or so – presumably on shopping – and paying his utility bills, but that’s about it. As I say, all that changed about seven weeks ago. Since that time someone has been withdrawing £500 from the account every few days using a cash card. Most of the withdrawals have been from outside the same bank in Belsize Park.”

  “So let me get this right, Bob,” Collison said. “We believe that our victim has been dead for at least six weeks, and yet somebody has been withdrawing money from his bank account? When was the most recent occasion?”

  “Yesterday, guv. Which brings us to the other piece of news which everyone will have seen: Raj was spotted in Belsize Park yesterday by the neighbour, Jack Rowbotham. So it seems highly likely that it’s him who’s been drawing the money out of the account, and it also seems reasonable to assume that this pattern more or less fixes Taylor’s date of death.”

  “Yes it does, doesn’t it? What are we doing about the cash card, by the way?”

  “I was going to ask you about that, guv. I was just about to tell them to cancel it and set it up to fire an alert the next time he tried to use it, but then I got to thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, as I said, all of the withdrawals to date have been from the same ATM just down the road in Belsize Park. Believe it or not, they’re mostly also made at about the same time of day, namely early afternoon. It seems like Raj is a creature of habit. So might it not make more sense to leave the cash card alone and stake out the ATM instead? That way if we don’t catch him for any reason at the first attempt, or if he uses a different ATM for once, he won’t be alerted to the fact that anything is wrong, which gives us more chance to nab him when he does finally return to his favourite venue and find us waiting for him.”

  “I see what you mean. He does seem to be a creature of habit, doesn’t he? Very well, let’s try that, starting today. We should have enough resource here within the team to keep the machine under observation between, say, 1300 and 1600. Let’s try it for the next three days, at least.”

  “I’ll set that up, guv. Priya, where are we with reinterviewing Jack Rowbotham?”

  “I have an appointment for 10:30 today, guv.”

  “Good, I might come with you if that’s OK. Rowbotham seems to be the only serious witness we have, at least until we locate Colin McKenzie. Timothy, where are we with the invoice?”

  “A bull’s-eye, guv. The goods were paid for online right enough, with a credit card issued to our victim. But the date’s wrong for it to have been him that did it: only about four weeks ago.”

  “OK, so where are we?” Collison asked the room at large. “It seems that we have clear evidence that Raj has been operating Taylor’s bank account and credit card since the time of his death. We also know that he was living with Taylor at the house, although as yet we’re unsure for exactly how long. I suppose theoretically it’s possible that somebody else might have stolen the cash card and credit card, but there’s no evidence that Taylor had been mugged recently – after all, he never went out – and no sign of a break-in at the house. Anyway, they would have needed the pin number, or password as appropriate, and how would they have got that?”

  “So Raj is our man, sir?” Willis asked.

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it? In which case the big question is ‘why’? Why should someone who’s been living with Taylor, perhaps for a year or two, suddenly brutally murder him? Let’s catch him and find out.”

  As the meeting broke up, Collison wondered slowly towards his office. As he walked along the corridor, he met a uniformed constable coming in the opposite direction.

  “Just been looking for you, sir. Message. Can you phone the ACC please?”

  “Right, thank you.”

  He closed the door, sat down, and dialled the ACC’s office. He was put through at once.

  “Simon? I’ve just had Philip Newby on the phone. It seems like there may be a slight complication with this Downshire Hill case of yours.”

  “Oh yes?” Collison asked warily.

  Commander Newby was in charge of Special Branch, the department of the Met which cooperated with the security services.

  “Probably nothing, but I want to make sure you’re properly briefed. Can you pop over here this afternoon? Might as well bring Metcalfe with you. After all the two of you already have security clearance, so we may as well make use of it. 1500 OK with you? Good. See you then.”

  Despite having been summoned to the august presence of one of the Met’s most senior officers that afternoon, Metcalfe reckoned that he would still have enough time to attend the interview with Rowbotham, so it was that he stood beside Priya Desai as she knocked on the door of his house at precisely 10:30. The Jack Rowbotham who answered the door was no longer wearing carpet slippers and, indeed, seem to have smartened himself up considerably.

  “Oh,” he said with evident disappointment as he caught sight of Metcalfe.

  “Mr Rowbotham, this is DI Metcalfe. We’d like to talk to you together if we may.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful we are for all the assistance you’re giving us, Mr Rowbotham,” Metcalfe said as they were led through into the living room at the back of the house.

  “You’re very welcome. If it was Raj who killed Conrad then I want him caught. To be honest, I’ve never liked the little creep anyway. Gives me the willies, he does.”

  “We were wondering,” Metcalfe went on after they were seated, “if you could cast your mind back to when you first bought this house. We really are very keen to find out as much as we can about the family who were living next door at that time. Can you think of anything that might help us, anything at all?”

  Rowbotham shook his head helplessly.

  “I wish I could. I’ve been wracking my brains since your colleague here first raised the issue with me. Do you know, I think I can remember there being a family next door, but only vaguely – in the background as it were. You see I wasn’t actually living here for some time because there were pretty major building works going on. So I was just popping in at odd times – usually after work in the evening – and taking a quick look at what had been going on. But yes, I do remember a family. I think I remember being aware of seeing a couple of children in the next door garden one evening. A boy and a girl, I think.”

  “Well, that’s some progress at least, sir. Do you remember their names by any chance?”

  Again Rowbotham shook his head.

  “No, I’m sorry to be so useless about this but I don’t remember having any actual contact with them at all. I was usually just in a hurry to get home to Clapham. There was nothing here, you see. No furniture or anything l
ike that. For a while there wasn’t even any plumbing, because I was having new bathrooms fitted.”

  “This may seem a strange question, but I think DS Desai has already explained the background to you. Do you remember Conrad Taylor being here, as part of that family?”

  “I honestly didn’t notice either the man or the woman at all. To tell you the truth, I’m not particularly sociable myself. Oh, not a complete misanthrope like Conrad, nor a recluse either, but I keep myself to myself. I don’t like to get involved in other people’s affairs. I’m quite happy to go through life enjoying my own company.”

  “Oh well,” Metcalfe said in resignation. “I suppose it was a long shot. But should anything suddenly come to mind, please contact us won’t you? The slightest little thing. You never know, it might turn out to be important.”

  “Actually, there is something I remembered just before you arrived, but it’s something different, not about the family.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, a few months back I noticed some bloke hanging around the front door of Wentworth House. I think he’d been knocking but got no answer. So he walked back to the gate, sort of hesitated and looked around, and then came up my path and knocked on my door. Asked if I knew where Conrad was.”

  “Can you remember exactly what he said?”

  “He asked if Conrad still lived there. Naturally I wondered who the hell he was. He didn’t show me any ID, so I don’t think he was there on official business. I was a bit nervous, to be honest, and just got rid of him as quickly as I could.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He was white, not young but not old – maybe about 40? – and quite powerfully built. I told him Conrad did still live there but that maybe he was out visiting someone. That was a joke, of course. Conrad never went out to visit anyone. But I just wanted to get rid of him. He scared me a bit. There was something about him.”

  “And he just went away? He didn’t tell you why he was looking for Conrad Taylor?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when I was here before?” Desai asked.