Fatal Act (3 page)

G
eraldine nodded.

‘Still, it would have been useful to speak to her. She might have seen something.’

Sam shook her head.

‘We can’t have those bastards trampling around here one minute, and the next minute they’re complaining the police are doing nothing about it, when they’re the ones who contaminated the crime scene in the first place.’

‘Did she say which paper she was with?’

‘No. All the constable could tell me was that she was tall and busy poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.’

‘Oh well, never mind. She was probably a freelance reporter. The constable was right to send her packing, anyway.’

A
s they drove off, Geraldine continued airing some of the puzzling aspects of the accident.

‘So what do you make of it all?’ she asked at last, adding, ‘we need to know when the van was left there.’

‘It was the van driver’s fault, really,’ Sam agreed.

‘The victim drove slap into him.’

‘But he shouldn’t have been parked there in the first place. A black van like that is hardly going to be easy to spot at night.’

‘Could a collision like that have been planned?’ Geraldine asked. ‘I mean, it’s an odd place to leave a vehicle.’

After some discussion, they dismissed that idea. No one could have predicted that the Porsche would come round the corner too fast for the driver to stop.

T
here was nothing more to do but return to the station and find out as much as they could about the victim, and the owner of the black van.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Sam said as they made their way back to the police station through slow moving Saturday traffic. ‘Whoever summoned us was way off the mark. I don’t think there was anything dodgy, unless you consider bad driving suspicious. It was just an accident.’

‘What about the speedometer in the Porsche? Don’t forget it showed the car was travelling far too slowly to cause that kind of damage.’

‘So there was a fault with the speedometer. Big deal. Tell you what, why don’t we stop for breakfast on the way?’

‘Always thinking of your stomach,’ Geraldine grumbled good-naturedly.

She wondered if Sam would have felt as hungry if she had seen the dead driver of the Porsche close up.

D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
R
EG
M
ILTON
was observing the team assemble when Geraldine arrived. Although in some ways he was an effective leader, with his large frame and domineering personality, she wondered if she would be able to count on his support if she ever messed up. She was fairly sure he would always put his own career prospects first. He looked slowly around the room, sizing up his team. Despite greying hair and deep creases on his forehead, there was a sense of physical power in his broad shoulders and upright carriage, which was accentuated by his well-spoken voice. But if he was keen to get results solely to further his own career, that didn’t really concern her. Reg had a reputation for running successful investigations. A young woman had died in a car accident because someone had been irresponsible enough to leave a black van blocking a narrow road at night without any lights on. All that mattered now was to identify the victim, establish the circumstances of her death, and track down whoever had left the van blocking a narrow one way street.

‘I
t sounds like something out of Sherlock Holmes,’ Sam whispered, when Reg referred to the case of the curious disappearance of the van driver.

‘What’s wrong with traffic?’ a detective constable grumbled. ‘If it’s a hit and run, why the hell’s it come to us? As if we haven’t got enough to do.’

Sam raised her eyebrows at Geraldine who nodded. She was relieved that the sergeant had recovered her good spirits. In a vast and anonymous metropolis it was a comfort to be on friendly terms with her sergeant, especially as Geraldine hadn’t been living in London for long enough to have met anyone outside work.

‘T
his won’t take long,’ Reg went on briskly. ‘But something’s come up that we need to look into. At first sight it appears to be a clear cut case. A Porsche slammed head on into a stationary van that had been left parked in a narrow one way street, facing the wrong way. The driver of the Porsche was killed in the crash. It shouldn’t have been beyond the wit of traffic to deal with it and we shouldn’t have been involved at all, only the Homicide Assessment Team wanted to be sure there was nothing iffy about this accident.’

He looked around the room slowly.

‘As I said, it looks straightforward. There was something wrong with the speedometer on the Porsche, so we’re looking into that, and then we’ve just got to tie up a few loose ends and we’ll be done.’

T
urning his attention to the incident board, he pointed to the image of a woman’s pale face. She had been cleaned up. While one side of her face was unblemished, the other was badly scratched from smashed glass. The detective chief inspector turned back to the assembled officers.

‘This is the victim,’ he said.

Geraldine studied the vaguely familiar face of a woman in her early twenties. She had dishevelled blonde hair and blue eyes. Apart from the ghastly pallor of her damaged face, she would have been beautiful. The inspector stuck some more images of the dead woman on the board and the assembled officers fell silent, watching.

‘E
ven with an air bag the collision was almost certain to be fatal, according to the boys in traffic. The windscreen was shatter proof, but she suffered multiple lacerations to the side of her head and face, as you can see, caused by splinters of glass from the doors. It was some crash. She drove straight into a van at considerable speed, travelling along a narrow one-way street. She went into it head on. She didn’t have a chance.’

He paused and glanced up at the incident board before referring to his notes.

‘She was driving a white Porsche.’

He read out the registration number.

‘Nice,’ one of the uniformed officers remarked.

‘Not any more,’ Reg replied, showing an image of the crumpled front of the vehicle.

‘T
he victim was a twenty-two year old white female called Anna Porter.’

He paused and the assembled officers looked appropriately subdued on hearing how young the victim was.

‘Anna Porter?’ one of the constables piped up suddenly, staring at the photo of the young woman’s bloody face. ‘I thought I recognised her. She’s Dorothy in Down and Out, isn’t she?’

‘What’s Down and Out?’

‘It’s a hit series on the TV. You must have heard of it.’

Reg gave a noncommittal grunt. Several of the younger officers muttered, recognising the actress.

‘T
he key task is to question the driver who parked the other vehicle involved in this accident,’ Reg added.

‘Bloody idiot,’ someone muttered.

He nodded at a sergeant who had been researching the vehicles. Anna had been driving her own white Porsche when she had crashed into a black van registered to a man called Piers Trevelyan.

‘Anna and Piers lived at the same address,’ the sergeant added and a murmur of interest rippled around the room.

‘It’s a crime of passion!’ Sam whispered.

Geraldine smiled at her young colleague’s enthusiasm.

‘So,’ the sergeant resumed. ‘the victim was living with Piers. They’d been living together for about six months.’

‘T
hat seems to be fairly conclusive then,’ Reg said complacently, ‘let’s go and pick up the boyfriend. See what he has to say for himself, and what his van was doing parked in Ashland Place just where Anna was driving.’

Geraldine scribbled down the address as the sergeant continued.

‘Anna was an actress on the TV. Her boyfriend, Piers Trevelyan, is a big shot casting director, a well known figure in the film world by all accounts. He’s worked with quite a few well known film stars, according to his website anyway. And this year he won a lifetime award for services to the British film industry.’

Reg listened, one eyebrow raised, as though sceptical about the information.

‘T
here’s one more thing. A business card was picked up from the floor of the car: Dinah Jedway, the victim’s agent.’

‘I can’t believe that’s Anna Porter,’ someone commented, and a faint murmur ran round the room.

‘She was so beautiful,’ another voice agreed.

‘I wonder what they’re going to do on Down and Out now.’

‘Come on then, let’s sort this out,’ Reg said firmly.

He sounded slightly agitated. The significance of the victim’s identity wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. The media was bound to go into a frenzy at the tragic death of a glamorous young celebrity. The police investigation would be a target for critics if they didn’t wrap up the case quickly.

‘We need to find out what Piers Trevelyan was doing, driving the wrong way along a one way street, and leaving his van parked there so dangerously,’ Geraldine said.

‘J
ust look at that,’ a sergeant added, gesturing at a picture of the Porsche. ‘It looks like she drove into a tank!’

Reg interrupted. ‘The front of the van was smashed in. According to the traffic officers, there’s no way anyone could have survived that impact.’ He paused, frowning. ‘But traffic can’t believe the damage was as severe as that, if the van was stationary and the Porsche was only travelling at about twenty. They reckon it must have been travelling at least three times as fast as the speedometer indicated. That’s what aroused their suspicion in the first place. They thought there might have been something odd about it, because the car had only just turned the corner.’

They all stared at the image of a smashed up black van displayed on the board, the front of the vehicle caved in.

‘We need to find out what the hell happened,’ Reg added.

It seemed he didn’t quite believe it was a simple accident either.

A
lthough there were no security cameras in the immediate vicinity of the accident, the side street was located off a busy main road in central London so there were plenty of cameras in the area. A team of detective constables was tasked with watching CCTV footage, tracking the journeys of the two vehicles and checking to see if there might have been any witnesses. Geraldine and Sam exchanged a complicit grin when they learned that their task was to find out what Piers had to say for himself.

‘Put your feet up while we go out and do the real work,’ Geraldine said with a laugh, although they all knew that CCTV evidence could be crucial. With a joke at the expense of the constables stuck at their desks watching grainy CCTV footage, Sam followed Geraldine out to the car.

T
ALL
AND
LEAN,
P
IERS
was strikingly attractive rather than good looking. He had a tanned leathery complexion and dark grey hair, streaked with white above his temples. Piercing blue eyes and a pointed nose gave him the appearance of an elegant bird of prey, an impression reinforced by an air of watchfulness. He scrutinised Geraldine, as though sizing her up for a role. It was difficult to be sure of his age but he was well over fifty, probably into his sixties. He was casually dressed in dark jeans and black shirt. Clearly accustomed to dominating others, his self-assurance faltered when she introduced herself.

‘It’s Anna, isn’t it?’ he cried out theatrically, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘Something’s happened to her. I knew it! Oh my God, poor Anna.’

Geraldine and Sam exchanged a glance. Neither of them had said anything about the accident.

‘May we come in, Mr Trevelyan?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

H
e glanced down at their shoes with a faint frown as though he was about to say something but thought better of it. Instead he turned and led them across real wood flooring into his study where the decor was stylish, if pretentious. The dark red walls were covered with framed signed photographs. Geraldine recognised a few faces from television, including a large one of Anna smiling archly at the camera. She sank into a plush green velvet armchair and explained as gently as she could that Anna had died in a car crash during the night. Piers dropped his face in his hands and sat for a few moments without speaking.

‘M
r Trevelyan, can you tell us where you were between two and three this morning.’

His voice shook as he answered. He sounded slightly hysterical.

‘Here, here. I was here. I was here all night.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

He shrugged.

‘There was just Anna and me here.’

‘What was your relationship with Anna?’

‘Anna –’

His voice broke. He cleared his throat and resumed with an effort.

‘Anna and I were living together.’

‘The house is in your name.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s my house.’

‘And Anna? What was the arrangement with her?’

‘Arrangement? I’m sorry, I don’t follow you. She lived here, with me. The house is mine. It’s in my name. I pay the mortgage and she lives here, with me. I mean, she doesn’t pay rent. She’s my girlfriend –’

H
e broke off and stared at the floor, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Geraldine noted that he referred to his girlfriend in the present tense, suggesting he hadn’t yet taken in the fact that Anna was dead, but she wasn’t convinced that was significant. He was intelligent, and remained alert despite his apparent shock.

‘Just to be clear, where were you between the hours of two and three last night?’

‘Here. I was with Anna, until she went out.’

‘What time did she leave the house?’

‘I don’t know. It was late. About one o’clock. Well after midnight anyway. It might have been closer to two.’

‘Where did she go?’

Piers shrugged. ‘How should I know? She just went out. For a drive.’

‘Was that usual?’

P
iers shifted uneasily in his chair. Geraldine waited. He was behaving erratically, but he had just learned his girlfriend was dead, and shock could affect people in unexpected ways.