Exit Stage Left (14 page)

‘But since you’ve taken such an interest in this car, sport, I’ve got a job for you,’ said Kate. ‘While I’m in this theatre, I want you to watch over it very carefully because it belongs to the Commissioner. If it’s missing, either through theft or because some enthusiastic traffic warden has removed it to the police car pound, or it is damaged in any way, I shall come and find you.’ She stared pointedly at the policeman’s identifying numerals. ‘And I’d better not find a ticket on it when I get back.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the policeman nervously, and breathed a sigh of relief as the abrasive Australian DI moved away.

Kate led the way upstairs to the manager’s office and pushed open the door without knocking.

‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Sebastian Weaver as he recognized Kate Ebdon. ‘Not more bad news.’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Kate, ‘but I’m interested in having a word with Debra Foley. I know this arvo’s performance has been cancelled, but is she here?’

‘She’s upped sticks and gone, Inspector.’ Weaver slumped in his chair, rather like a teddy bear that’s just had all the stuffing knocked out of it. He spent a moment or two mopping his brow with a huge red handkerchief, which he then used to clean his spectacles.

‘Gone where?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Weaver picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Kate. ‘The selfish cow sent me an email. There, read it.’

Kate scanned the short message and noted that it was dated yesterday and timed at 15:07 hours. It merely said that Vanessa Drummond would be unavailable for the remaining days of the production as she had urgent family business to attend to abroad.

‘That wasn’t long after the guv’nor and Sergeant Poole visited her at Keycross Court,’ said Kate, turning to Nicola Chance. ‘And if she has gone abroad she’ll have gone already. Probably sometime last night.’

‘We’ve cancelled the remaining performances anyway,’ said Weaver. ‘It won’t cost much in returns because not many punters had booked to see it. Even when we were papering the house it was still half empty.’

Kate gazed at the peeling wallpaper in the manager’s shabby office. ‘Pity they didn’t paper in here while they were at it.’

Weaver gazed at Kate in apparent despair, wondering whether this was some sort of Australian wind-up or that she really didn’t know. ‘Papering the house means giving away free tickets, Inspector,’ he said with a sigh.

‘Really? Good job the drongo who brought me to see it didn’t know that.’ Secretly, Kate was quite pleased that the insufferable bore who’d treated her to expensive seats at the theatre had also shelled out a substantial amount for dinner afterwards. And got nothing in return.

‘I
obviously frightened her off,’ I said, when Kate Ebdon had given me the news that Debra Foley had disappeared.

‘D’you want me to check the airports, guv?’ Kate asked.

‘It’s an outside chance, but you might get lucky,’ I said. ‘It would help if we knew which airport or which airline. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘I wonder if she’ll come back for Robert Miles’s funeral, guv,’ said Dave.

‘We don’t know when or where that’ll be,’ I said. ‘The coroner shouldn’t have released the body yet.’

‘I’ll try the undertakers in the Harrow area,’ said Dave. ‘It’s just possible that Debra Foley had put matters in hand before she did a runner.’

It was a setback. I’d had no alternative but to interview Debra Foley again. With twenty/twenty hindsight, however, I realized that it had been a mistake to have mentioned the entry on Miles’s computer and to have posed the question about her brother’s claim to have visited her in her persona of Corinne Black. Unfortunately, in so doing, I had obviously disturbed the woman so much that she’d felt impelled to disappear. But what was she running
from
?

All of which was pure speculation. She might have had a perfectly justifiable reason for taking off so suddenly and would return after the weekend. But I had my doubts. I suspected that the ‘urgent family business abroad’ was untrue.

‘Dave, before you do anything else, check with Eurostar. Whenever we’re told that someone’s gone abroad we automatically think of airlines, but Eurostar carries a lot of passengers to Europe. Might be worth a go.’

Dave spent ten minutes on the phone before he came back with the answer.

‘That was a good guess of yours, guv’nor. She left yesterday afternoon on the sixteen fifty-two hours Eurostar service for Paris. I had a thought and checked another name while I was about it. You’ll be interested to know that a certain William Anderson travelled to Paris on the same train. Neither of them had booked in advance.’

‘Well, well,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t get too excited, guv,’ said Kate. ‘It could be a coincidence. There are probably thousands of William Andersons in the English-speaking world.’

‘And even in Australia,’ said Dave.

‘Watch it,
Sergeant
,’ said Kate sternly, but unable to maintain the pose, began to laugh.

‘A trip to Paris, then, guv?’ asked Dave hopefully.

‘No. At least, not yet. In the meantime, I’ll get Mr Driscoll to get search warrants for Chorley Street and her apartment at Keycross Court, and then I’ll make a phone call to Henri Deshayes. That’ll do for a start.’

Capitaine
Henri Deshayes of the
Police Judiciaire
in Paris was an old friend. We had worked together on several cases in the past, and we had visited each other in London and Paris. As a result, Henri’s glamorous wife, Gabrielle, had become firm friends with Gail. Both had a common interest, as Gabrielle had been a dancer with the famous
Folies-Bergère
. Unfortunately, they also had a shared interest in fashion and would spend hours visiting the haute couture establishments of Paris. And there are many of them. Rather than trail round after them, Henri and I would usually make an excuse of urgent police work and promptly repair to the nearest bar.

‘If the Anderson we’re interested in is the one who went to Paris last night, guv,’ said Dave, ‘wouldn’t it be a good idea to get a warrant for his place at Romford?’

‘Not until we know for certain that it’s him. If we go there and he’s at home, we could blow the whole thing.’

It was now getting on for seven o’clock, too late to obtain warrants. ‘As I suspect him of being a mercenary, Dave, I’ll get a superintendent’s written order to search under the Explosive Substances Act,’ I said. ‘But it’s not too late to speak to Hubert Darke. He should be at home on a Saturday.’

‘Where does he live?’ asked Dave.

‘Hinchley Wood.’

‘Just my luck.’

Tom Challis had said that if Hubert Darke’s house was anything to go by, he wasn’t short of cash. And that was the impression I got, too. It was a detached property in a tree-lined avenue, with a long drive and space for turning in front of the house. There were two cars in this turning circle: a Lexus and a Bentley. Whatever it was that Darke did in the City it certainly paid well, and I reckoned his bonus would make my annual salary look like loose change to him.

‘Mr Darke, Mr Hubert Darke?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’ Darke looked at Dave and me with a quizzical expression. ‘How can I help you?’

‘We’re police officers, Mr Darke, and we’re investigating the murder of Lancelot Foley.’ I told him our names, and we showed him our warrant cards.

‘Oh, a dreadful business. Do come in.’ Darke showed us into a large, airy sitting room. ‘This is my partner Tina,’ he said, indicating an attractive brunette who was reclining in an armchair watching an animal programme on television. Tom Challis had checked birth and marriage records for Darke and had told me that he was forty-one. The woman he’d introduced as his partner was actually his wife, and we knew that she was fourteen years younger than Darke.

‘I understand that you were a friend of Mr Foley,’ I began as we settled into comfortable armchairs.

‘That’s correct.’ Darke glanced at his wife. ‘D’you mind, darling? The TV.’

‘Sorry,’ said Tina and used the remote to turn off the television.

‘As a matter of fact we used to play poker together about once a month,’ Darke continued. ‘Usually on a Thursday evening, except when Lancelot was working, and then it would just be the three of us. But I told all this to that other policeman who came here a few days ago.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘Sergeant Challis is one of my officers. How well did you know Mr Foley? Did you socialize, or was it just poker?’

‘Mainly poker, but he did give us the occasional theatre ticket whenever he was appearing in a new show. As a matter of fact, Tina and I saw
The Importance of Being Earnest
only a couple of days before he was murdered. Oh, and we were invited to the first-night party at the Waldorf. That was on the seventh of January.’ Darke paused. ‘Can you think of anyone who would have wanted him dead, Mr Brock?’

‘I was about to ask you the same thing, Mr Darke.’

‘No, I can’t honestly think of anyone. Mind you, he wasn’t the easiest of people to get on with.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Tina. ‘He was thoroughly objectionable. The sort of man who undressed a woman with his eyes, if you know what I mean.’

‘There was just one thing, though,’ said Darke. ‘He and Gavin Townsend had a row at the last game.’

‘The last poker game?’

‘Yes. Gavin finished up owing Lancelot three hundred pounds or thereabouts, but he refused to pay up because he said that Lancelot had been cheating. It was the first time that any of us had made that sort of accusation against Lancelot, although the three of us had suspected it for some time. He was very good with cards, was Lancelot. It wasn’t as if he needed the money, but I think it was a matter of principle. If he’d waived the debt, he’d more or less have admitted to cheating.’

‘Did this row get violent?’ asked Dave.

‘They didn’t come to blows, but it left a very nasty taste in the mouth. As a matter of fact, Gavin told Lancelot that he’d never play cards with him again, and that if he wanted his three hundred quid he could sue him for it. That, of course, was a ridiculous thing to say because you know better than me that gaming debts aren’t enforceable at law.’

‘No, but slander is,’ said Dave quietly.

‘I was told that Mr Townsend is in Australia,’ I said.

‘He was, but I think he’s back now. He’s a professional yachtsman. Beats toiling up to the City every day and struggling to put bread on the table.’

Darke didn’t look as though he had to struggle very hard. His casual clothing – chinos, sweater and loafers – looked as though it had cost a fortune. I took a guess he wasn’t a patron of high-street chain stores.

‘When was this game, when Townsend accused Foley of cheating?’

‘About three weeks or so before the murder as I recall.’

Dave took out his diary. ‘If it was a Thursday, then it would’ve been the seventeenth of January. Would you agree with that?’

‘Sounds right,’ said Darke.

‘Why wasn’t he at the theatre, I wonder,’ said Dave.

‘He told us that he’d taken the night off. Apparently, it’s something they do from time to time, to give their understudy a chance. At least, that’s what Foley said.’

‘And when did Mr Townsend go to Australia?’ asked Dave.

‘About two days after Lancelot’s murder, I think, but I’m not sure.’

‘I understood it was earlier than that.’

‘No, it was definitely about two days after the murder because Gavin rang me and we discussed what a terrible thing it was.’

‘What about William Anderson?’ Dave asked. ‘Have you any idea where we can find him?’

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. He was more of a friend to Lancelot than to the rest of us. A bit of a dark horse, actually. Talked vaguely of having a military background, hinted at membership of the SAS and disappeared for weeks on end. Always played his cards close to his chest, and I’m not talking about poker, either.’

In my experience, soldiers who had been in the Special Air Service
never
mentioned it, whereas those who hadn’t been members of that elite unit often claimed that they had been.

‘Thank you, Mr Darke,’ I said, ‘but there’s just one other thing. Where were you on the night of Monday the fourth of February?’

‘Good God, I haven’t a clue. Just a moment.’ Darke left the room and returned minutes later holding a desk diary. ‘Well, I didn’t have any appointments that evening, so I must’ve been at home here with Tina.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘D’you remember, darling?’

Tina laughed. ‘You know I can never keep track of you.’ She glanced at me. ‘He leads a hectic life, you know, Mr Brock. He could’ve been anywhere.’

And with that unsatisfactory alibi, we left, but warned Darke that we may need to see him again.

‘What d’you think, Dave?’ I asked as we drove out of Darke’s road.

‘I reckon we need to have a close look at Townsend, guv.’

In view of what we’d learned from Hubert Darke about the argument Foley and Townsend had had over cheating, I decided that it was imperative that we should interview the professional yachtsman as soon as possible.

I had previously sent DI Driscoll to Westminster Magistrates Court in Marylebone Road to obtain search warrants for Debra Foley’s Chorley Street house and her Keycross Court flat. Although police like to execute search warrants very early in the morning thereby catching suspects in bed, there was no point in exercising ourselves too much in this case. We knew that the bird had flown and the search would have to wait.

Dave and I made our way to the address that Challis had given me for Gavin Townsend.

Townsend lived in a mews flat off Praed Street, Paddington. The door was answered by a willowy blonde in white trousers and a Breton sweater.

‘Hi!’ she said.

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Gavin Townsend.’

‘Oh, yah, right.’ The blonde hung on to the door and leaned backwards. ‘Gav!’ she shouted, ‘there are two nice gentlemen here to see you.’ Turning back, she said, ‘Follow me,’ and led us up a narrow staircase to the first floor.

The man who was standing at the top of the staircase was wearing jeans and a heavy white cable-stitch pullover.

‘We’re police officers, Mr Townsend. DCI Brock and DS Poole, Murder Investigation Team.’

‘Come on in and take a seat,’ Townsend said, and shook hands with each of us.

‘We’d like to speak to you about Lancelot Foley. We’re investigating his murder.’

‘Yeah, sure. I see you’ve already met Catrina, my first mate.’

‘And your only one, I hope,’ said Catrina. ‘D’you guys want a drink?’ she asked, addressing me.

‘No, thanks.’

We sat down, and Dave pulled out his pocketbook ready to make notes.

‘I understand that you’ve recently been in Australia, Mr Townsend,’ I began.

‘No. I was supposed to go, but the event was cancelled at the last minute. Can’t say I was sorry; it’s a long haul from London to Sydney.’

‘We’ve been talking to Mr Darke,’ said Dave, ‘and he was under the impression that you’d been to Australia.’

‘As I said, the event was cancelled. I didn’t bother to ring everyone up and tell them that, though.’

‘You and Foley, Darke and Anderson played poker together, I believe.’

‘Yes, and Dudley Phillips, but that’s all it was. Anyway, the circle’s broken up now that Lancelot’s dead and Bill Anderson has buggered off somewhere.’

‘Mr Darke told us a story about a row between you and Mr Foley,’ I said.

‘Too bloody right there was. Lancelot Foley was a cheat, and I caught him at it red-handed. It was only a matter of about three hundred pounds, but I’m damned if I was going to pay him. He, of course, was equally adamant that he hadn’t cheated, but I’d spotted him dealing off the bottom of the pack. He was damned good at it, I must admit, but I stood my ground. Lancelot, on the other hand, wasn’t prepared to lose face, and not to have demanded payment would’ve been tantamount to admitting that he’d cheated. Anyway, I told him that I would never play cards with him again.’

‘Did you come to blows over it?’ I asked. Townsend looked as though he’d be quite useful in a fight, but Darke had denied that the argument had become physical.

‘I wouldn’t have demeaned myself,’ said Townsend. ‘I must admit I was tempted, but I’d no intention of finishing up in court for damaging his matinee idol good looks.’

‘When did you last see Lancelot Foley?’ asked Dave.

‘On that occasion, and I’ve not set eyes on him since. To be perfectly honest I disliked him intensely, and to be frank I don’t know why I played poker with him for so long. I didn’t go to his funeral because I’m not a hypocrite.’

I glanced at Townsend’s blonde companion. ‘Did you ever meet Lancelot Foley, Miss …?’

‘Wall, Catrina Wall, but call me Cat. And to answer your question, yes, I did meet the creep. But only once, and that was at a first-night party.’