All Quiet on Arrival (5 page)

Porter shook his head. ‘I don't know what the world's coming to, Mr Brock,' he said. ‘And poor James Barton was away. If only he'd been there, it might not have happened. Or if I'd called the police earlier.' Personally, I didn't think that that would have made any difference.

‘Did you see any of the people arriving at this party, sir, or leaving it?'

‘No. We keep ourselves to ourselves usually. I wasn't aware that there was a party until the noise started to develop.'

‘And what time was that, when you first noticed the noise?'

‘It must've been around eleven o'clock, I suppose. I'd heard a bit of music before that, but nothing very disturbing. One doesn't like to complain, particularly about such good neighbours as the Bartons, but it eventually became quite intolerable.'

‘So you called the police.'

‘Yes. A nice young constable called, and said that he'd speak to whoever was making the noise, but it had all quietened down by then.'

I'm not sure I'd've described Watson as ‘a nice young constable'. I didn't think he'd done his job as well as he could've done, but I'd be the first to admit that it's easy to be wise with hindsight.

The door opened, and an elderly woman came into the room carrying a tray. She was tall and slender, and her iron-grey hair was cut severely short.

‘This is my wife Sheila,' said Porter. ‘They've come to see us about that awful business next door, dear. Apparently poor Diana's been murdered. It wasn't the fire that killed her after all.'

‘Oh my God! What a terrible thing,' said Mrs Porter. For a moment she stood still, staring at me, but eventually she set the tray down on a coffee table, and began to pour the tea.

‘I was just talking to your husband about the events of last Saturday night,' I said. ‘Or early Sunday morning to be precise.'

‘The noise was dreadful.' Sheila Porter handed round cups of tea, and sat down beside her husband on the sofa. ‘It was so noisy I couldn't get to sleep. It was unusual, too, because the Bartons have always been very quiet people, but we'd never heard anything like it before,' she continued, repeating what her husband had said earlier. ‘I eventually told Frank that he'd have to do something. I really began to wonder if the house had been broken into. You hear such terrible things these days about people breaking into other people's houses and holding parties. But by the time the police arrived, the noise had stopped.'

‘Did you see anyone entering or leaving the house, Mrs Porter?' asked Dave.

‘No, we were sitting in here with the curtains drawn, watching the TV.' Sheila Porter gestured at a large television set in the corner of the room. ‘We love those American crime dramas that they have on the TV. CSI and all that. Much better than any of ours.'

I couldn't but agree with her. I enjoyed them too, when I had the time to watch them, but probably because I didn't know when they were making mistakes. There's nothing worse for a London copper than watching a British police ‘soap' and spotting the procedural errors in the first five minutes.

I decided that there was little else to be obtained from the Porters. We finished our tea, and crossed the road to number twenty-four.

‘I'm afraid my husband's at work,' said Patricia Baxter, as she invited us into her sitting room. ‘Can I help?'

‘As a matter of interest, Mrs Baxter, what does your husband do?' asked Dave, as ever collecting inconsequential pieces of information.

‘He's in IT,' said Patricia.

Given the house in which the Baxters lived, I imagined he was very successful at it, whatever it was.

Patricia saw my puzzled expression. ‘Information technology,' she explained.

‘I'm told that your husband saw the fire opposite at number twenty-seven last Sunday morning,' I said, ‘and called the brigade.'

‘That's correct. I was asleep, but he'd got up, and was looking out of the window when he saw the flames.'

‘Did you see anyone arriving or leaving number twenty-seven on the Saturday evening, Mrs Baxter?' asked Dave. ‘It's the Bartons' house, and police were earlier called to a noisy party that was being held there.'

‘No, we didn't hear a thing,' said Patricia Baxter, ‘but the double-glazing keeps out most of the noise. We had it put in because there's quite a lot of traffic on this street, even at night. We've been on at the local council for ages to try to have through traffic banned, but we've not had any success so far.'

‘So you didn't see anything,' I said.

‘No, I'm afraid not,' said Mrs Baxter. ‘This is the room in which we spend most of our time, and as you can see it's at the back of the house. We'd watched a bit of television in here, and then played Scrabble. We went up to bed at about a quarter past eleven, I suppose.'

‘Exciting lives they lead in Chelsea,' remarked Dave, as we drove back to Curtis Green. ‘I wonder if they were playing strip Scrabble.'

Captain Peter Richards was a man in his mid-forties. He had the bearing of a sailor: a little on the short side, about five-nine, with a ruddy complexion, and thinning auburn hair.

‘Well, gentlemen, it must be important if you've come all the way to Southampton from London.'

‘It is,' I said. ‘I'm Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.' I couldn't be bothered with all this Homicide and Serious Crime Command West nonsense, and we were technically Scotland Yard officers anyway. ‘And we're investigating a murder.'

‘I see.' Richards crossed his living room to a cabinet. ‘Not too early for a drop of Scotch, is it?'

‘Thank you. I take it the sun's over the yardarm, then?'

‘Depends where in the world you are.' Richards sighed as he poured double measures of malt whisky, and I got the impression that he'd heard the phrase too many times before. He handed us our whisky, and sat down. ‘Now, how can I help you with a murder in London?'

‘The victim was a Mrs Diana Barton,' I began.

‘That rings a bell,' said Richards. ‘If I remember correctly, she and her husband were first-class passengers on a cruise last January.'

‘That's my understanding,' I said, ‘and Mr Barton told me that he'd complained to you about one of your stewards.'

‘That's right, he did. That's why I remembered the name. Just hang on a minute.' Richards rose and left the room to return moments later clutching a book. ‘My personal log,' he explained. ‘I keep kidding myself that I'm going to write a book of my seafaring experiences one day, but I don't suppose I'll ever get round to it.'

‘Mr Barton said that the steward was called Hendry,' said Dave.

‘That's the fellow. Thomas Hendry,' said Richards, and thumbed through his book. ‘Yes, I remember it clearly now. Mr Barton complained that Hendry had forced himself on his wife, and that sexual intercourse had taken place.'

That was slightly different from the account James Barton had given us. ‘Are you saying that Mr Barton alleged that his wife had been raped?'

Richards looked up with a twisted grin on his face. ‘That was the inference I drew,' he said, ‘so I decided to question Mrs Barton when I could get her on her own. But she told me a different tale. She was a bit embarrassed at first, but eventually admitted that she'd encouraged Hendry. Being a virile young man, he didn't hesitate to take advantage of what was on offer.' The captain sighed. ‘I'm sorry to have to say that this sort of thing happens from time to time. It must be something to do with the sea air, but young women do sometimes fall in love with their steward. Shipboard romances, and all that sort of starry-eyed claptrap. Usually though, the women are much younger and prettier than Mrs Barton. I should think she was in her late forties.' Richards had the world-weary approach to life of someone to whom nothing was a surprise any more.

‘She was actually forty-five,' said Dave.

‘That sounds about right. Anyhow, in view of what Mrs Barton had told me, I decided that there was no question of her having been raped. Nevertheless, I interviewed Hendry, and he admitted straight away what had happened, but said that Mrs Barton had led him on.' Richards gave a scornful laugh. ‘But it wasn't the first time that his behaviour towards women had come to my notice. I'd given him written warnings on the two previous occasions, and so this time I dismissed him. Our passengers pay a lot of money for these cruises, and we can't have the menfolk thinking that stewards obliging lady passengers is included in the package. Apart from anything else, Barton was a director of a hotel group that has commercial links with our shipping line, and I didn't want him complaining to head office. I made a point of seeing him later and I told him that Hendry would be paid off, dishonourably discharged if you like, at the end of the cruise.'

‘And was he satisfied with that?' I asked.

‘Seemed to be,' said Richards, ‘but reading between the lines, I think that his wife made a habit of going over the side. Not in a nautical sense, of course,' he added, and smiled at his little joke. ‘She probably enjoyed a bit of rough, if you take my meaning. Hendry was certainly a bit rough, but he knew how to turn on the charm if there was a big enough tip on offer. Anyway, Mr Barton said that he wasn't going to take it any further, and that was that. Case closed.'

‘Do you have any idea where Hendry might be now, Captain Richards?' asked Dave.

‘I'm afraid not. But he's bound to be a member of the RMT: that's the Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers Union. They might be able to help. Hendry could have given up the sea, of course. It's a black mark to have got the sack, and he could've had some difficulty in getting another seafaring job.'

‘Would your company hold a photograph of Hendry, Captain?' asked Dave.

‘It's possible, I suppose. All crew members are photographed when they join the company, mainly for their dockyard passes and the ship's records, and a copy's held at head office. But it might have been destroyed once Hendry was dismissed.' Richards wrote the address of the shipping company on the back of one of his visiting cards, and handed it to Dave. ‘Worth a try, I suppose.'

Dave examined the card. ‘Well, at least it's in London,' he said.

‘It looks like this Hendry guy might be a suspect, guv,' said Dave, as we journeyed back to London.

‘Maybe, unless he's back at sea, and was at the time of the murder,' I said, ‘but from what James Barton said about his wife having casual affairs, our killer could be just about anyone. He was only able to name Hendry and Potier the Frenchman, but he was convinced there were others he didn't know about.'

‘Needle in a haystack job, guv,' said Dave. ‘So what's next?'

‘Two things: find Hendry and find Potier.'

‘What about Carl Morgan, the guy who answered the door to Watson? And Morgan's playmate Shelley. She of the thong.'

‘That could be difficult, but we've got to have a go at finding them, Dave. After all, they could be material witnesses.'

‘Or one of them might've topped Diana, guv.'

‘Yes, even that,' I said.

This particular enquiry seemed to be generating nothing but bad news. And when we got back to Curtis Green, there was even more.

‘The report from the lab has arrived, sir,' said Gavin Creasey, the moment I stepped into the incident room.

‘What does it say?' I poured myself a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner. We're not supposed to have private coffee machines, and every so often some spotty-faced civilian jobsworth turns up from an obscure department at the Yard attempting to find and confiscate such little luxuries. But he's on a hiding to nothing in attempting to outwit CID officers about such simple matters as misusing the Commissioner's electricity.

‘The semen found in Mrs Barton's vagina doesn't match any DNA on the database, sir.'

‘Wonderful!' I said. ‘I wouldn't have expected anything else.'

‘There's also the report from the fire brigade, sir,' continued Creasey. ‘Their investigating officer found traces of an accelerant in various parts of the ground floor rooms. Likely to be an alcohol-based liquid, but he can't define it any closer than that. But he's confident that it's arson.'

‘No surprise there,' I said.

‘What do we do now, guv?' asked Dave.

I glanced at my watch: it was nearly eight o'clock. ‘Go home, Dave. I don't want to get into trouble with your Madeleine. Tomorrow we'll call on the shipping office.'

I'm never very happy wandering around the City of London. For one thing they have their own police force; in my view, an unnecessary extravagance in this day and age. However, we finally located the offices of the company that owned the liner in which the Bartons had sailed for their January cruise.

After a number of false starts, we were eventually shown into the office of a young lady who, we were assured, could assist us. I explained who we were, what we were looking for, and why.

‘I'll just check for you,' said the young woman, whose name, she told us, was Kimberley Taylor. ‘Call me Kim,' she added. ‘Everyone does.' She turned to her computer, her fingers skimming over the keyboard at lightning speed. ‘Here we are: Thomas Hendry. Dismissed by Captain Peter Richards on February the seventh this year for gross misconduct, having previously received two written warnings.' She stood up and turned to a filing cabinet. Pulling out a file, she opened it on her desk, and glanced through its contents. ‘You're in luck; we still have a photograph of him. It should have been destroyed, but I'm not awfully good at weeding the files,' she added, with a shy smile. ‘Would you like a copy?'

‘Please,' said Dave. ‘While we're here, do you, by chance, have an employee named Carl Morgan?'