All Quiet on Arrival (24 page)

‘In my experience, guv, people with a lot of money always want more,' said Kate philosophically.

‘See if you can get alongside the people at Companies House, then, Kate. If she re-registers the shares, she'll have to provide an address.'

Dave scoffed. ‘And it might even be a genuine one,' he said.

‘Should we let Maurice Horton know about the death of his son, guv?' Kate asked.

‘We should do, I suppose,' I said thoughtfully, ‘but I'd rather see what you find out first. Only Inspector Granger, and the three of us know that Steve told us of Greg's death today. I'm still not happy about the Hortons, and before we visit them again I'd like a little more ammunition.'

‘Got it in mind to shoot them, then, guv?' asked Dave.

It was midday the following day by the time that Kate Ebdon came up with the goods. At least, that was my first impression, but the information she'd obtained only served to create further problems.

‘Believe it or not, guv, Beth Horton has registered herself at Companies House as the new owner of the shares,' she said, as she and Dave came into my office.

‘You're joking,' I said.

‘No, she sent them an email, and before you ask, she sent it from an Internet cafe in the West End. The address she gave them is a bank in Earls Court,' said Kate, handing me the details.

‘What a surprise.'

‘But Companies House are obliged by law to stay the implementation of the change of ownership until probate is issued.'

Dave emitted a cynical laugh. ‘That'll slow it down,' he said. ‘With shares in England and probate in Australia it could take forever.'

‘Nevertheless, we do have the bank's details,' said Kate.

I glanced at Dave, my expert on the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. ‘Well, Dave, what's the form?'

‘We could just ask whoever is in charge of the bank, guv, but I'm in no doubt that he'll refuse unless we've got the appropriate piece of paper. Bank documents are called “special procedure material” under PACE, and we'll need to obtain an order from a circuit judge.'

That's what I meant about complicating the issue. And it was a bloody nuisance.

The Central Criminal Court at Old Bailey was where the nearest circuit judges were to be found, and having prepared my ‘information', I set out to try to persuade one of them to issue the appropriate order.

I was in luck. Having mentioned the Fugitive Offenders Act, my need to trace a person wanted for murder in Australia, and possibly another murder here, I obtained my order. But only after a bit of verbal jousting with His Honour.

Dave and I went straight from the Bailey to the bank that Beth Horton had nominated as her address.

In the face of an order from a Crown Court judge, and that the subject of that order was wanted for murder, the manager in charge of the bank at Earls Court sent for the relevant documents without demur.

‘Here we are, Chief Inspector,' he said, opening a slender file containing a computer printout. ‘Mrs Elizabeth Horton opened an account here on Wednesday the thirty-first of July, and produced an Australian passport to confirm her identity. At that time, she deposited the sum of one hundred pounds. When I asked for her address she furnished it as care of Maurice Horton at En Passant, Roget Road, Pinner, Middlesex.'

‘The saucy bitch,' muttered Dave.

The manager looked up in some alarm. ‘Is there something wrong with that address? Is it false?'

‘There's nothing wrong with the address,' I said. ‘In fact, Sergeant Poole and I have been there. It's the address of Mrs Horton's father-in-law, but she's never been there, and isn't expected. In fact, we've no idea where she is.'

‘It's just as well that I refused to activate the account until such time as confirmation of the address was produced, then,' said the manager. ‘I've written Mr Horton a letter, but have received no answer so far. Perhaps I should telephone him, and see what he has to say.'

‘I'd rather you didn't,' I said. ‘In the unlikely event that Mrs Elizabeth Horton does contact Mr Maurice Horton, I don't want her alerted to the fact that we're looking for her. As I explained, she's wanted for a murder in Australia.'

‘But this leaves the account in a rather unsatisfactory state of limbo.' The manager gave the impression of being unduly concerned about loose ends and bits of paper. He'd get on well with my commander.

‘I shouldn't worry too much about that,' I said, and related, as briefly as possible, details of the eighteen million pounds that Elizabeth Horton was set to inherit once probate had been granted. ‘But I doubt that she will,' I added. ‘If Mrs Horton's convicted of her husband's murder the law prohibits her profiting from it. But in your trade you probably know that.'

‘Eighteen million?' The manager's eyes lit up, albeit briefly. But then he shrugged as he realized that any chance of making interest on that amount of money had just slipped through his fingers.

Dave and I returned to Curtis Green. We'd gone to all the trouble of obtaining an order from a circuit judge, but it had been to no avail. But neither of us was surprised.

T
he telephone call came at just gone midday on the day after my visit to the bank.

‘Chief Inspector, it's Bernie Graves. D'you remember you came to see me at Golders Green about the party at Diana's place?'

‘I do indeed, Mr Graves. How can I help you?'

‘It's more a case of how I can help you,' said Graves. There was a note of triumph in his voice. ‘I spotted Samantha this morning. That's to say, the woman you said was Beth Horton. The girl who was at the party.'

It was ironic, but somehow predictable, that a journalist should eventually be the one to point us in the right direction.

When I'd handed Bernie Graves my card, I'd thought no more about it. I always gave my card to witnesses with a request that should anything more occur to them they should let me know. It rarely did, but now Bernie Graves proved that there could always be an exception.

‘Where was this, Mr Graves?'

‘She was shopping in Knightsbridge.'

‘What were you doing in Knightsbridge?'

‘Shopping, of course.' The tone of Graves's response indicated that he thought it a pointless question.

‘What time was this, that you saw her?'

There was a pause. ‘First off, at about eleven o'clock, I suppose.'

‘Did you speak to her?'

‘No, but I followed her. We journalists can be quite good at that sort of thing.'

‘Where did she go?' I asked. God preserve me from amateur sleuths.

‘She went on quite a tour of the shops in that area, and seemed to be spending a lot of money,' said Graves, and went on to list the establishments that Beth Horton had visited. ‘It was pretty bloody obvious that she was on one hell of a spending spree.'

‘Did you happen to notice how she paid for her purchases?' I asked, hoping that, in addition to his surveillance skills, Graves also possessed a journalist's eye for detail.

‘With a credit card, but I wasn't going to get close enough to see the details. Not without her sussing me out. She might've remembered me from Diana's party, you see.'

‘And where did she go after she'd finished shopping?'

‘She hailed a taxi and took off.' Graves paused in his narrative. ‘I'm afraid I lost her. There wasn't another cab in sight. But there never is when you want one. Bit like coppers really.'

‘Well, thanks for your help, Mr Graves. That's all been extremely helpful.' And I meant it. Assuming that it was Beth Horton that he had seen, there was a chance that we could trace her through her credit card. Providing that she'd used her own name to acquire it, and that we could link it to the shops Graves said she'd patronized. And if it happened to be an Australian credit card, that would simplify the enquiry, but life was never that easy.

I got hold of Charlie Flynn, an ex-Fraud Squad sergeant who knew his way around credit card companies, repeated what Graves had told me, and asked him to make a check on the shops that he'd told me our suspect had visited. ‘See if you can get details of the plastic she was using, Charlie,' I said, and gave him a list of the shops and the approximate times she had entered each one.

It was not until three o'clock on the following afternoon, Friday, that Charlie Flynn was able to produce an answer of sorts.

‘I visited all the shops that were on the list that Graves gave you, guv. Based on the times he said Beth Horton went into each one, I was able to get details of the credit card that was used on each of those occasions. It's in the name of Samantha Crisp. I then went to the company that issued the card, but the bad news is that the address they have for her is En Passant, Roget Road, Pinner. I think that's the address of her in-laws.'

‘Yes, it is, Charlie, and I'm not surprised. But how the hell did she get a card that she was able to use so quickly? They seem to chuck these things around like they're going out of fashion. Did the company do a credit rating check?'

‘Yes, guv, but not the usual one. The credit manager told me that this Samantha Crisp referred her to a Mrs Faye Horton, and Mrs Horton vouched for the girl. Apparently Mrs Horton, Mrs Faye Horton, that is, has a card with the same company and agreed to stand as guarantor. I took a statement from the woman who made the phone call.'

‘I think we're getting somewhere at last, Charlie,' I said.

Flynn looked surprised. ‘Is that good news, then, guv? It looked to me like it was a dead end.'

‘On the contrary, Charlie, it's great. I've had my suspicions about Faye Horton from the word go. Ask Miss Ebdon to come in.'

‘Charlie Flynn said you were pleased about something, guv,' said Kate, appearing in my office moments later.

She already knew what Graves had told me, and now I brought her up to speed on the result of Flynn's enquiries. ‘I reckon that Faye Horton has a lot of questions to answer, Kate, and the sooner we start asking them, the sooner we might track down her step-daughter-in-law.'

It was just on six o'clock by the time that Kate and I arrived at the Horton residence at Pinner. I'd decided against bringing Dave; three was a somewhat oppressive crowd in the circumstances, and the presence of Kate would be useful. Particularly if it got to the point of arresting Faye Horton, a course of action that was beginning to look more and more likely. And with that in mind, I'd arranged for a car with a driver.

The Mercedes and the Lexus were outside, together with a Rolls Royce and a Jaguar. There was also a maroon Bentley parked there.

‘Crikey!' exclaimed Kate, pointing at the Bentley. ‘I hope that's not the Queen paying a visit. If it is, I don't suppose they'll be having a barbie in the backyard.' As those of us working in the capital knew, many of the royal fleet of cars had maroon livery.

‘I doubt it,' I said. ‘That Bentley's got a number plate, and the Queen's hasn't.'

Katya Kaczynski opened the door. This evening she was dressed formally in a black dress, albeit with a very short skirt, black tights and shoes, and a white frilly apron. It looked as though we were about to interrupt a dinner party. ‘Ah! The police persons. You wish the Mr Horton, is it?'

‘We wish indeed, Katya,' said Kate.

The reaction of the Hortons was predictable.

‘My God, this is intolerable!' exclaimed Maurice Horton, staring at us malevolently. In a group around him stood an elderly grey-haired man smoking a cigarette, a younger man with a moustache, and an olive-skinned fellow with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. They were all wearing dinner jackets and holding crystal tumblers. Faye Horton and another woman, a rather overweight blonde of about forty, were seated in armchairs, sipping champagne. Two other women were seated side by side on a wide sofa. All four were elegantly attired in full-length evening gowns that must have cost a small fortune. Kate told me later that Faye Horton was wearing silk sandals by Jimmy Choo. It meant nothing to me, but doubtless would have impressed my girlfriend.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Horton,' I said, ‘but it's important that I speak to you, preferably alone.'

‘Won't this wait?' demanded Faye Horton. ‘It can't have escaped your notice that we're entertaining guests. And we're proposing to sit down to dinner very shortly.'

‘This gentleman is my solicitor.' Maurice Horton indicated the grey-haired man, but didn't mention his name.

I hoped that Kate wouldn't make some smart remark about guilty conscience, but fortunately she remained silent. Nevertheless, it was interesting that Horton saw fit to mention the occupation of only one of his guests.

‘It won't take long, Mr Horton.'

Horton glanced at his solicitor friend. ‘I'm sorry about this, Geoffrey, but the police have been plaguing the life out of us recently. It's all to do with Diana's death.' He turned to face me. ‘You'd better come into my study.' Still holding his glass, he led the way.

The study, on the far side of the spacious hall, was a snug thickly carpeted room. In addition to a custom-built workstation on which were a hi-tech computer and all the gismos that went with it, the room had a number of leather club armchairs. I suspected that they had been selected for their appearance rather than their comfort. However, we were not immediately given the opportunity to test my theory. At one end of the room stood a faux antique desk with an inlaid leather top; a captain's chair was positioned behind it.

‘Well?' Maurice Horton stood near the desk beneath a tasteful full-length life-size painting of a naked woman. She was standing side-on to the artist, but she was looking directly at him. I recognized the subject of the portrait as Faye Horton.

‘Well?' snapped Horton again. His feet were apart, his stance implying extreme annoyance, animosity, and a general lack of willingness to co-operate.