All Quiet on Arrival (22 page)

It seemed that we'd now traced everyone who'd attended Diana Barton's party, but only Graves had identified Beth Horton. If we now showed her photograph to other witnesses, they might recognize her too. But, given that Graves's recognition was so positive, there seemed little point. I doubted that they could've added anything.

The next problem was to discover if she was still in England, and why she had come here in the first place. The question of the letter seized from Makepeace, Metcalfe's former landlord in Fulham, now took on a new dimension. Had Metcalfe written it and posted it, or had Beth? If so, what was the point? And had she been having an affair with Metcalfe? The red nail enamel and the mascara pencil that had been found at Talleyrand Street certainly pointed to the presence of a woman in Metcalfe's bed-sit at some time, to say nothing of Linda's suspicion of the presence of the perfume she'd identified as one of the Jo Malone range. But Metcalfe was probably the sort of disreputable character who ran a stable of women. And, having examined his muscle-bound body in the mortuary, I could quite see the attraction that he would have held for any woman, particularly one who was older than he.

I rang Steve Granger again, hoping he wasn't getting too fed up with my constant enquiries, and asked him if there was any way in which he could find out if Beth Horton had returned to Blair, or even Australia. I also asked if he could get as much background information on her as possible. He promised to give it his best shot.

It would probably be a couple of days before Granger came up with any answers to our queries, and there was nothing that we could do in the meantime.

I reported to the commander, and briefed him on the progress of the enquiry. His response was predictable.

‘I hope you're not contemplating going to Australia, Mr Brock,' he said once again. He seemed obsessed with expenses and budgets.

I really don't know what he was worried about. There was nothing more in the Job to which he could aspire. He was now too old to be a likely candidate for promotion; he had his pensionable time in, and had been awarded the Queen's Police Medal for Distinguished Service. I couldn't begin to visualize what sort of distinguished service had merited that award, but the dual hierarchies of the Ministry of Justice and the Metropolitan Police work in mysterious ways.

I decided to take the weekend off, but left a message with the incident room to say that I was to be contacted if anything arose that was likely to be of interest to me. I was pessimistic enough to think that someone else would probably be murdered, given that I intended to spend the weekend with Gail.

To say that Gail was surprised that I had taken time off in the middle of a murder investigation was putting it mildly.

‘I didn't expect to see you on a Saturday afternoon. Haven't you got any murders to solve? Or have you solved them all?' I'd noticed that the longer Gail spent with me, the more cynical she became. It must be contagious.

I explained briefly why there was a hold up in my enquiries without bothering her too much with the sordid details.

‘What d'you fancy doing?' I asked. ‘Somewhere quiet for dinner, perhaps? There's that place—'

‘Actually, I'd arranged to go for a swim at Bill and Charlie Hunter's place at Esher this afternoon,' said Gail, cutting across my suggestion. ‘But I'm sure they'd be delighted to see you again. Bill is always talking about how interesting it was to talk to a real detective. You do remember them, don't you, darling?'

‘I'm not sure,' I said, deliberately adopting a pensive expression. ‘Isn't his wife Charlie the very shapely brunette who looks terrific in a bikini? An actress, I seem to recall, and Bill does very little in the City, but makes a lot of money doing it.'

‘I see you do remember them.' Gail laughed and gave me a playful punch. ‘But Bill took a bit of a knock in the depression.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘He had to sell the Rolls Royce and buy a Jaguar.'

‘Tough!' I said.

‘I'll drive,' said Gail.

It was an exceptionally hot August afternoon, and although the Hunters' secluded pool looked inviting, it was not tempting enough for me. Gail and Charlie spent most of their time splashing about in the water, or just standing chatting and cooling off, but Bill and I sat on the sidelines, drinking whisky sours.

‘Gail tells me that you're dealing with the murder of Jimmy Barton, Harry,' said Bill.

‘That's right.' My antenna immediately went on the alert.

‘As a matter of fact, I knew him. We did a bit of business a few years ago. Bit of a dry old stick. Totally consumed by the need to make money, but he never seemed to give a thought about how to spend it. Didn't really see the point of amassing all that filthy lucre just for the sake of it. If I'd been his age, I'd've retired long ago. You can have too much of the City, you know, Harry.'

‘Did you meet his wife, Bill?'

‘First or second?'

‘Diana, his second wife.'

Bill Hunter laughed, and took a sip of his whisky. ‘Yeah, I met her, old boy. Positively exuded sex. I could see she was a bloody dangerous woman the moment I set eyes on her.'

‘I take it you weren't tempted?' I asked, softening the question with a laugh.

‘Oh, come off it, Harry. Just take a look at her.' Bill pointed at the figure of Charlie who, together with Gail, was at last emerging from the pool, and squeezing the water out of her long hair as the pair of them walked across to the shower. ‘With a wife like that, would I need a woman seven years older than me who was married to a guy I was doing business with? No way.'

‘I take it you didn't become friendly with them.'

‘Not at all. As I said, Jimmy Barton was as dry as dust. He'd've bored for England, that guy, and I told you what I thought of his wife. They'd've made a dinner party from hell. Have you found out who murdered them yet?'

I waited until Bill had poured me another drink before I replied.

‘We think it was an itinerant Australian she was having an affair with. One of many.'

‘One of many Australians?'

‘No, one of many lovers.' I decided not to say any more. Bill was a nice bloke, but City people are notorious for leaking like sieves when it comes to keeping a secret.

‘I'm not surprised. Got him locked up?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' I said. ‘He's in the mortuary.'

Bill laughed; he laughed easily. ‘I like your style, Harry. What happened to him, then?'

‘He was murdered,' I said, and left it at that.

Having spent some time chatting under the shower, the girls finally joined us, and stretched out on the recliners next to ours.

‘Charlie's invited us to stay for dinner, darling,' said Gail. ‘She's a very good cook.'

‘Are you sure it's no trouble, Charlie?' I posed the question out of politeness, but was pleased that we'd be spending more time in the Hunters' company. ‘I rather feel that we're in danger of wearing out our welcome.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Charlie. ‘We're delighted to see you both. Anyway, I've got plenty of stuff in, and I'll soon throw something together. Won't be a banquet, though.'

But it was; Charlie proved to be as good a cook as Gail. She and Bill were delightful hosts, and the conversation was light-hearted and non-stop. But then Gail and Charlie started talking seriously about the theatre, and their respective professional careers. Bill looked at the ceiling with an expression of hopeless despair, and took me into his study for a brandy and a cigar.

By the time we took our leave, at nearly one in the morning, I'd had much too much to drink, and I was pleased that Gail had opted to drive. It's not that far from Esher to Kingston, but taxi drivers know how to charge. Especially when they've got a passenger who's smashed out of his skull.

We spent what remained of the night at Gail's town house, and lounged about all day Sunday. I didn't have much alternative: I was recovering from a hangover, a state of health that received no sympathy from Gail.

I arrived at Curtis Green on the stroke of nine o'clock on Monday morning.

‘Good morning, sir,' said Colin Wilberforce. ‘Inspector Granger's in your office, and I've given him a cup of coffee. He has some information for you, and he said he'd rather give you the details in person.'

‘G'day, Harry,' said Granger, as he stood up and shook hands. ‘I don't think much of your coffee.'

‘I love you too, Steve.' We both sat down. ‘What've you got for me?'

‘Our man in Darwin's done some digging among the locals. Your Beth Horton's got quite a history.'

‘That doesn't surprise me, Steve.'

‘I told you before that she was born in Sydney, but her parents, the McDonalds, bought a farm, what we call a station down under, not far from Tamorah. Not long afterwards, the McDonalds, Beth's parents, were killed in a plane crash. Mick McDonald was taking his family for a spin and the kite just spiralled out of control and hit the ground. Miraculously, Beth survived unscathed, and from about the age of five she was brought up by her grandparents who took over the running of the station.'

‘I presume there was nothing suspicious about the crash,' I said, but only out of policeman's interest.

‘No idea,' said Granger. ‘However, Greg Horton appeared on the scene about six years ago and opened his bar in Blair, having spent a year or so at the bauxite mine in Gove Peninsula that I told you about. He met up with Beth almost immediately, she was seventeen by then, and they later shacked up together in Tandy Street. There are living quarters over the bar. They were married a couple of years later.'

‘She'd know how to use a humane killer, then.'

‘I guess so, mate. But here's the interesting bit. According to the then local constable, who's now a sergeant in Darwin city, your Bruce Metcalfe worked on the McDonalds' station as a jackaroo for a couple of years. The local gossip is that he deflowered Beth when she was sixteen, and carried on screwing her until she met Greg, and perhaps even afterwards. And she probably kept on seeing Metcalfe until he shot through. No one's quite sure when he left, and as the McDonalds, Beth's grandparents, are now both dead, there's no telling. The present owners of the station haven't got any records that cover the period the McDonalds were running the place.'

‘And she's not been seen since Greg Horton closed his bar.'

‘Neither has Greg, Harry. Not a single trace of either of 'em.'

‘Well, thanks for that, Steve,' I said, as Granger stood up to leave. ‘All I've got to do now is to find out if she's still here in the UK, because anyone who can use a humane killer has got to be a front runner for topping Bruce Metcalfe.'

‘Best of luck, mate,' said Granger, and shook hands. ‘If I can help any further, give me a call.'

When Steve Granger had left, I called Kate and Dave into my office, and briefed them on what Steve had told me.

‘D'you reckon Beth's up for it, guv?' asked Dave.

‘It's our most promising lead so far, Dave,' I said. ‘We know from Bernie Graves that she was at the kitchen party. Give the Border Agency a call, and see if they've a record of when Beth Horton arrived in this country. And more to the point, if they've a record of her leaving.'

‘We should be so lucky,' muttered Dave, who had no great faith in the Border Agency's efficiency. ‘By the way, should we tell them about Barnes, the kitchen man, employing a guy who was probably only here on a visitor's permit?'

‘Forget it, Dave. Barnes did us a good turn. If the Border Agency want to make a federal case out of it, good luck to them, but they won't get any help from me.'

Despite Dave's pessimistic view of Britain's immigration controls, fortune was on our side.

‘Beth Horton arrived at Heathrow Airport on Wednesday the seventeenth of July, guv,' said Dave, when he swanned into my office half an hour later. ‘There's no record of her departure, for what that's worth. But here's the good bit: she told the immigration officer that she was here on holiday, and would be staying with her in-laws, the Hortons in Pinner.'

‘And they'll be bound to deny it,' I said.

‘They'll have a job, guv. When Beth Horton arrived, the immigration officer checked with the Hortons and they confirmed that Beth would be staying with them.'

‘Well, well, well. Guess where we're going next, Dave.'

Dave sighed. ‘The car will be able to find its own way to Pinner if we go on at this rate, guv,' he said.

‘D
on't you people ever give up?' Faye Horton was radiating fury when once again Katya Kaczynski showed us into the sitting room of the Hortons' elegant house. ‘I really can't understand why you have to keep pestering us. I'm sure we've answered all your questions, and I'd've thought that that was an end to the matter, particularly now that Diana Barton's murderer is dead. Or so you told us, did you not?'

‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Horton?' I asked, ignoring the woman's sarcastic tirade. I guessed that he was: the Mercedes was parked outside.

With a cluck of annoyance, Faye Horton snatched at the internal telephone. ‘The wretched police are here again, Maurice. They want to talk to you
yet again
,' she said, and slammed down the receiver.

A full five minutes later, Maurice Horton burst into the room, a pen held in one hand, and a writing pad clutched in the other. The impression that he obviously meant to convey was that we'd interrupted his work.

‘What is it this time?' he demanded truculently.

‘It concerns your daughter-in-law, Mr Horton,' I said. We'd not been invited to sit down, and remained standing.

‘What about her?'

‘When did you last see her?'