Lake stopped abruptly. A thought seemed to occur to him. Vogel was already aware that Lake lacked the self-assurance of his partner, PC Docherty. He was, however, a solid and intelligent young officer.
‘Hope that’s all right, boss?’
‘Get on with it, Lake,’ muttered Vogel impatiently.
‘Yes, boss. Seems Mrs Tanner was walking her dog past the Quinn house this afternoon. She says a window was open at the front, and she heard what she described as a “bit of a rumpus”.’
“Did she know what time it was?’
‘About three or four,’ replied PC Docherty.
That fitted almost exactly with the probable time of death, and could be a vital piece of evidence, thought Vogel.
‘Was she any more clear about what she actually heard?’ asked Vogel.
‘A little, boss.’
PC Lake consulted his notebook.
‘She heard what she described as “a bang, then a scraping noise, like something being dropped and maybe a piece of furniture being moved. And raised voices”.’
‘Raised voices? Male or female?’
‘Both, she thought, but she wasn’t sure. And she couldn’t actually hear what they were saying, even though she paused to listen for a few seconds — bit shamefaced she was about that, boss. Then it all went quiet, she said, so she just walked on home.’
‘She wasn’t overly disturbed by what she’d heard, then?’
‘Not at all, boss.’
‘Presumably there were no screams, or anything like that.’
‘Not that Mrs Tanner was aware of, I don’t think. She said it had sounded to her like a perfectly normal argument between a married couple.’
PC Lake consulted his notes again.
‘This is what she told me. “It was nothing untoward. Well, I didn’t think so at the time. Just a bit of a rumpus. It happens in even the happiest marriages, and if I’d thought for a minute there was any violence going on I’d have called the police”.’
‘So, she was reasonably sure the voices she heard were those of Thomas and Gill Quinn, was she?’
‘I asked her that, boss. She admitted that she couldn’t be sure, and not even entirely sure that it was a man and a woman, but she asked who else it was likely to be? And she pointed out that it was a Saturday afternoon, and so quite likely that the Quinns would be at home together.’
Which was probably a fair enough assumption, thought Vogel. It seemed, rather sadly, as he’d suspected, that this case was not going to take long to solve.
Four
Early the following morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, Lilian decided to dress and hobble to the nearby twenty-four-hour store. She was desperate for a cup of tea, and there was no milk in the fridge.
He stepped in front of her just before she reached the lift. A big man with an incongruously small head. She turned towards the stairs. Even though she had no idea how she could manage them. Another man stood looking at her impassively. Broad-shouldered and hairy. Except for the top of his head which was bald, pink and shiny. His arms hung loosely at his side, like a boxer. Both men were clichés of their kind.
‘We have a message from Mr St John,’ said the one with the small head.
She nodded. Afraid and weary at the same time.
‘He says we’re to look out for you. Stick around, make sure you’re OK.’
Lilian knew full well what that meant. Kurt had sent two of his goons to watch her. To make sure that he would always know where she was and what she was doing.
She said nothing.
‘So,’ Small Head continued, glancing pointedly at her crutches, ‘is there anything we can do to help?’
Lilian managed to find some spirit. ‘Yes, you can ask Mr St John to restore my credit cards and my access to our joint account.’
Small Head shrugged. ‘Mr St John says, withdraw the charges and everything can go back to normal.’
‘You mean he can use me as a punch bag again?’
Small Head was impassive. ‘He’s your husband.’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘That ain’t what he says.’
‘Please get out of my way?’ she instructed, not very optimistically. ‘I need to go to the shop.’
Rather to her surprise the man moved.
‘Got enough to pay, have you?’ he asked.
Lilian ignored him.
Small Head pushed the lift button for her and leaned his huge bulk against the door to ensure it stayed open as she shuffled awkwardly in.
‘Allow me,’ he said, stretching his lips into what presumably passed for a smile. It still looked like a leer.
He did not attempt to follow her in. Downstairs in the foyer there was no sign of the basketball player. In one way this was a relief. But it did mean she had to struggle with those stupid revolving doors on her own.
She needed to cross the lower side of Berkeley Square to get to the shop, which was tucked away up a little alleyway off Fitzmaurice Place. It was less than two hundred yards away. Nonetheless, getting there was a considerable challenge.
A vehicle, a big black SUV, slowed alongside her. The tinted window slid down revealing a male head, orange hair cropped close over bony features, pale eyes staring levelly at her.
The head spoke softly. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
She heard herself reply politely, almost as if everything were normal.
‘No, thank you.’
But, instinctively, she backed away from the street side of the pavement. Orange hair stared for several long seconds more, then the SUV, a Range Rover she now registered, pulled smoothly away. She continued her short journey shakily, hurrying as best she could.
The lift offer could, of course, have been just the kindness of a stranger. But she didn’t think so for one moment.
When she emerged from the shop onto Fitzmaurice Place again she glanced up and down the street. The same black Range Rover was illegally parked on the corner of Berkeley Square. She had to pass it in order to get back to the flat. She was soon aware of the engine starting and the purr of the big motor crawling along behind her. It took a great effort of will not to look around.
She had bought more than she had intended to, filling two plastic carrier bags not just with food — she supposed she’d have to eat at some stage — but with other necessities. There hadn’t even been any toilet paper in the flat. She held one bag on each side while at the same time manipulating her crutches. The bags swung awkwardly every time she took a step.
The thought occurred to her obscurely that if orange hair pulled alongside her and offered her a lift again she might well accept the invitation. After all, it would probably make no difference. Kurt’s goons were all over her like crows pecking at a carcass.
In the foyer of Penbourne Villas, the basketball player was now at his desk. This at least meant that he once again sprang to his feet, helped her through those blessed doors, took the carrier bags from her and offered to carry them upstairs.
She agreed with alacrity.
The basketball player was the very picture of consideration. She decided to take the initiative.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Warren, ma’am,’ he replied, smiling the warmest and widest of smiles.
‘And where’s Ben?’
‘I understand he resigned, ma’am.’
‘So, you’re the new head porter?’
‘Yes I am, ma’am.’
The man was infuriatingly polite. Probably quite unfairly, Lilian wanted to slap him.
She remembered with fondness the way Ben had been far from obsequious, a small, chirpy, jockey-like man, always ready with a wry remark or a spot of banter. And she remembered how he’d looked at her on those occasions when even heavy make-up and dark glasses could do little to conceal the beating she’d received at her husband’s hands the night before.