Catalyst (12 page)

“Source of the TIE?”

“Usual, sir. National Police Database. I picked it up this morning at seven-thirty from the daily dump. I'll say it again, sir, but direct access or even a twice-daily download would help a lot to keep on top of these things. We could have had this as early as midday yesterday.”

“Point taken – again, Corporal, and I have raised it. Do we know why the name came up?”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Early ideas?”

“Could be a nominal, sir. It's not a common name but I've found twelve other matches. I'm halfway through checking them and nothing conclusive's come up. Still trying to find a link.”

“Okay, thanks, Vicky. But keep right on top of this one. If you have to go deeper than the NPD, we can get any access code you need. Because if this is an actual, and not a nominal, then we sure as hell have one big problem.”

“Yes, sir. That's what I was thinking.”

David and Jo entered the premises of Blount of Hammersmith at 2.00 pm that same afternoon and rang the bell on the reception counter. A thin middle-aged man in a smart grey suit, white shirt and black tie came through to meet them.

“Chief Inspector Gerrard?”

“Mr Blount? This is Detective Sergeant Cottrell. Thank you for seeing us.”

Henry Blount led them through to his office at the rear of the building and waved them to be seated. His expression seemed immovably mournful, as if this was a prerequisite of his profession.

“As you know,” said David, “we're here to find out some details about Mrs Alma Deverall's funeral. We understand you handled this some weeks back. She was known at the time as Alma Coleridge.”

“Yes, that's right, Chief Inspector, although the gentleman did make sure the headstone included her married name. A bit confusing really. Can I ask why you are interested in this burial?”

“Well actually, it's the person who notified you of the death that we're interested in,” said David. “Presumably the gentleman you just mentioned.”

Mr Blount turned to his PC and clicked onto a document.

“A Mr Alex Anderson, her carer.”

Jo wrote down the name on her pad.

“Have you any details about this man?” asked David. “An address? Contact number?”

Mr Blount scrolled down the screen.

“No, nothing other than the address of the deceased and the phone number of that apartment. She wasn't the owner, apparently; she was there on a short-term lease.”

“Can you describe Mr Anderson?” asked Jo.

“Tall, slim, short dark hair: very well dressed and nicely spoken. Genuinely upset by Mrs Coleridge's death. He seemed very fond of her.”

“Did he have a beard or stubble or anything?”

“No, clean shaven.”

“Accent?”

“Home Counties at a guess. Hardly any at all really.”

Jo turned back a couple of pages in her notebook.

“Mrs Deverall – Coleridge – died on the 25
^th
of April and was buried on the 28
^th
. Is that right?”

Yes, that's right,” said Mr Blount, consulting his screen.

“Isn't that rather quick for a suicide? Wouldn't you have expected a longer period in between? For a post mortem, for example.”

“Yes, normally, but there were no suspicious circumstances. Apparently there had been two previous suicide attempts, and Mr Anderson wanted to go ahead as quickly as possible.”

“And who attended the funeral?” asked David.

“Well, only Mr Anderson himself, apart from the bearers and myself, of course. He said that Mrs Coleridge had no living relatives and he knew of no close friends.”

“So he was the only one at the graveside?”

“Apart from my own people, yes.”

Jo checked her notes again.

“Who paid for the funeral, Mr Blount?” she asked. “And how were you reimbursed?”

“Mr Anderson paid, and in cash. It was a very inexpensive affair,” he added with his first genuine display of sadness. “He said Mrs Coleridge always kept a large amount of cash around in the apartment – as many elderly people do, of course. He used some of it to pay for the funeral on the advice of the executors of the will.”

“Do you know who the executors are?” asked David.

He clicked onto a few more files but shook his head.

“No information. I'm sorry.”

“That's fine, you've been really helpful. Many thanks.”

“And now you'd like to see the grave, I believe.”

“Yes, if it's not too much trouble. And the address where you attended the deceased, please. Do you have the owner's name?”

“No, I'm sorry.”

Jo read aloud from the inscription,

They stood in silence for half a minute or so, before they walked carefully round the headstone, in front of which there was laid a small bunch of flowers – relatively fresh – and examined the ground between it and the pathway. In spite of the ground being soft, there was no sign of any footprints.

“Okay, let's get the SOCO team down here and give Mrs D some company for a few hours. Might as well get them going straight away. I'll pay a visit to her last-but-one resting place. You stay and brief the gang, then get a lift down there. ”

“Yes, sir,” said Jo, reaching for her mobile.

David pulled up in front of the large, Edwardian, three-story terraced house which was 23 Darlington Road and pressed the button at the side of the front door for Apartment B.

Alan Venables was in his mid thirties, medium height, medium build, medium everything except his tan, which was very prominent and accentuated by a mass of blond hair which was almost shoulder length. He was dressed in old jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. Any hopes David harboured of this being the man they sought were dashed the moment he opened the door.

“You're lucky to catch me in, Chief Inspector. I'm working from home today. How can I help you?”

“We're following up on the death of a lady who you knew as Mrs Coleridge. I am right in saying this is where she died?”

“Yes, that's right.” Alan Venables looked suddenly anxious. “But I wasn't here at the time. I was in Dubai.”

“And very nice, too, Mr Venables. There's really nothing for you to worry about, but could I have a look round the place, please? And then I just need a few minutes of your time.”

Alan took him through the apartment, which was a galaxy away from the accommodation in St George's Close. As they sat down in the spacious lounge after the brief tour, the buzzer sounded.

“That will be my sergeant, I expect,” said David. “Could you tell us about the tenancy, Mr Venables?” he asked, when Jo had joined them.

“Well, the place was taken by Mrs Coleridge on a short term lease effective from the middle of October last year when I started a three-month expat assignment to Dubai. She paid me the full rental in advance. My assignment was extended by three months and she wanted to stay on, so she made a further payment, again for the whole period in advance.”

“And how did Mrs Coleridge come to take the flat, Mr Venables?” asked Jo.

“It was very simple,” he replied, “and please call me Alan. I got the nod from my boss that I was going on this expat deal and I thought I'd try to let the apartment while I was away. I think it's better not to have a place standing empty for too long these days, don't you? So I just banged an ad in the local paper and on
lettings.com
to see what happened. I was dead lucky, because I was due to leave within a fortnight of placing the ad and this guy Anderson got in touch just a few days before I went. If I hadn't got someone right away I would have had to leave it empty anyway. That's it really. He said he was acting on behalf of this lady – Mrs Coleridge – and thought it would be perfect for her.

“Anyway, she came to look round, loved it and, as I said, paid the full three months in advance and moved in the day I left. I didn't ask her to pay the lot up front, but she said she'd rather not bother with monthly transfers.”

“And how did she pay?” asked David.

“By cheque. It cleared the day before I left the country.”

“Could I ask how much you asked for the apartment?”

“Actually, I didn't get chance to ask,” said Alan, smiling. “I'd told this guy the reason I was letting the flat before the subject of cost came up. So he offered me a thousand a month, which is around a third of what it's worth. I laughed at first, thinking he was taking the piss; until he pointed out that I had less than a hundred hours to get someone else. He was a shrewd bugger, I'll give him that. Anyway, it was great for me, to be honest – one elderly person occupying the place, and it was all profit anyway. The company were paying all expenses abroad and what with no income tax to pay over there – this was the icing on the cake really. So I agreed and we shook on it.”

“And what about other charges – utilities and such?”

“The rent covered all those costs. So council tax, heating, and the like went out as direct debits from my account as normal while I was away. It didn't leave hardly anything for me, but the main benefit was that I got my house-sitter.”

“How was the additional three months' rent paid?” asked Jo.

“By bank transfer this time,” Alan replied. “I was out of the country, of course, so a cheque was no good to me. I sent her my account details and she arranged the transfer. No problem.”

“I will need to check these transactions just to get details of her bank, account number, etcetera,” said David. “I'll need your permission to do that. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course,” said Alan. “Look, I know you probably can't tell me much, but is Mrs Coleridge's death suspicious or what? I heard it was definitely suicide. Has something new turned up?”

“No, nothing like that, Mr Venables – Alan,” said David, “it's just that we have her on our records as Mrs Deverall. But we now know that her maiden name was Coleridge, so we're just tying up loose ends. By the way, how did you find out about her death?”

“I phoned on the day that she was due to leave just to wish her luck and to thank her for being a good tenant, and this Anderson guy answered the phone and told me what had happened. By the time I got back everything was taken care of. It was a bit spooky to tell you the truth. There was no evidence of anyone ever being there.”

“And the man who set all this up, can you describe him?”

Alan thought for a moment.

“Tall, slim, dark hair, good-looking guy, actually. Well spoken, good clothes… the sort you don't mind doing business with, even if he gently gets one over on you.” He smiled.

David stood up, extending his hand.

“Thank you very much, Alan. You've been extremely helpful. We'll let ourselves out downstairs.”