Read Online A Conflict of Interests by Clive Egleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Clive Egleton
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handshake and gave him an equally laconic rundown.
"Your request for information started the ball rolling. Desk sergeant at Lucan Place decided to put one of his probationary constables onto it and sends him around here. The constable rings the bell, doesn't get any response and goes calling on the neighbors. The lady next door tells him Leese was expected to return yesterday from a business trip on the Continent, so he goes back, looks through the window and sees a body lying on the floor. Being a bright lad, he whips out his truncheon, busts a windowpane and climbs into the flat. The killer found it a lot easier; he just rang the bell and was invited inside."
"There were no signs of a forcible entry?" Coghill said.
"Not a bloody one." Rowntree wrinkled his nose in disgust. "This fucking room still pongs to high heaven," he said.
"Excreta?" Coghill said and sniffed.
"Yeah. Leese shat himself when he realized his visitor was about to shoot him." Rowntree took Coghill by the arm and steered him into the kitchen. "Two bullets in the head from a small-caliber revolver," he continued. "Same as Karen Whitfield."
"There's another connection; they knew one another."
"Aw, for Christ sake, Inspector, that's a glimpse of the blinding obvious. Why else would you have circulated his description?" He smiled derisively, then said, "Apart from that, I happen to know she phoned him, because there's a message from her on the answering machine."
"Karen Whitfield was a call girl," Coghill said evenly. "Leese put her act on film whenever she was entertaining an influential client. Then, later on, they would lean on their victim."
"Can you prove that?" Rowntree growled.
"Karen might have lived in Wimbledon, but she also had an apartment at Abercorn House over in Maida Vale. The master bedroom is wired for sound, there's a large two-way mirror above the dressing table and I found a movie camera in the adjoining room. The rest is supposition."
Rowntree delved into his pockets, took out a pack of Wrigley's chewing gum, unwrapped a stick and popped it into his mouth. "I'd still like to hear it," he said.
Coghill nodded, kept it brief and to the point. The killer had wanted a particular film and had burned Karen Whitfield with the glowing ember of a cigarette until she had told him where it was.
"You're saying Leese had it?"
"And maybe a few more besides. Of course, it doesn't necessarily follow he kept them here in the flat."
"I think he did." Rowntree moved his jaws like a cow contentedly chewing the cud. "There's a combination safe behind the oil painting in the living room. We've sent for a locksmith, but I've a hunch we'll find it's been cleaned out. Judging by the untidy heap of papers on Leese's bed, it looks as though the killer emptied his briefcase and took them away in that."
Somebody with a personal axe to grind would have taken only the one cassette; a professional hit man might have seen the other video tapes as a way of making a little extra on the side.
"Leese had a visitor yesterday," Rowntree went on. "A woman across the street saw him leave the flat — about five foot nine, medium build, brown hair, round face. I bet you've had any number of sightings to match that description."
"Give me a minute and you'll have the latest head count."
Coghill returned to the living room. Leese was still lying on the floor, head facing toward the grate. The police surgeon had finished his preliminary examination and the forensic expert was busy taking his fingerprints before running a comparative check with the Criminal Record Office to see if the deceased had any form. Lifting the phone, he dialed 218-5999, one of the two emergency numbers the GPO had installed at Wimbledon Police Station, and got Detective Sergeant Ingleson on the line.
A ticket collector, the newsagent in the entrance hall and a cabdriver waiting in the rank outside Wimbledon Park had all observed Karen Whitfield leave the station with a man dressed in a
"Your request for information started the ball rolling. Desk sergeant at Lucan Place decided to put one of his probationary constables onto it and sends him around here. The constable rings the bell, doesn't get any response and goes calling on the neighbors. The lady next door tells him Leese was expected to return yesterday from a business trip on the Continent, so he goes back, looks through the window and sees a body lying on the floor. Being a bright lad, he whips out his truncheon, busts a windowpane and climbs into the flat. The killer found it a lot easier; he just rang the bell and was invited inside."
"There were no signs of a forcible entry?" Coghill said.
"Not a bloody one." Rowntree wrinkled his nose in disgust. "This fucking room still pongs to high heaven," he said.
"Excreta?" Coghill said and sniffed.
"Yeah. Leese shat himself when he realized his visitor was about to shoot him." Rowntree took Coghill by the arm and steered him into the kitchen. "Two bullets in the head from a small-caliber revolver," he continued. "Same as Karen Whitfield."
"There's another connection; they knew one another."
"Aw, for Christ sake, Inspector, that's a glimpse of the blinding obvious. Why else would you have circulated his description?" He smiled derisively, then said, "Apart from that, I happen to know she phoned him, because there's a message from her on the answering machine."
"Karen Whitfield was a call girl," Coghill said evenly. "Leese put her act on film whenever she was entertaining an influential client. Then, later on, they would lean on their victim."
"Can you prove that?" Rowntree growled.
"Karen might have lived in Wimbledon, but she also had an apartment at Abercorn House over in Maida Vale. The master bedroom is wired for sound, there's a large two-way mirror above the dressing table and I found a movie camera in the adjoining room. The rest is supposition."
Rowntree delved into his pockets, took out a pack of Wrigley's chewing gum, unwrapped a stick and popped it into his mouth. "I'd still like to hear it," he said.
Coghill nodded, kept it brief and to the point. The killer had wanted a particular film and had burned Karen Whitfield with the glowing ember of a cigarette until she had told him where it was.
"You're saying Leese had it?"
"And maybe a few more besides. Of course, it doesn't necessarily follow he kept them here in the flat."
"I think he did." Rowntree moved his jaws like a cow contentedly chewing the cud. "There's a combination safe behind the oil painting in the living room. We've sent for a locksmith, but I've a hunch we'll find it's been cleaned out. Judging by the untidy heap of papers on Leese's bed, it looks as though the killer emptied his briefcase and took them away in that."
Somebody with a personal axe to grind would have taken only the one cassette; a professional hit man might have seen the other video tapes as a way of making a little extra on the side.
"Leese had a visitor yesterday," Rowntree went on. "A woman across the street saw him leave the flat — about five foot nine, medium build, brown hair, round face. I bet you've had any number of sightings to match that description."
"Give me a minute and you'll have the latest head count."
Coghill returned to the living room. Leese was still lying on the floor, head facing toward the grate. The police surgeon had finished his preliminary examination and the forensic expert was busy taking his fingerprints before running a comparative check with the Criminal Record Office to see if the deceased had any form. Lifting the phone, he dialed 218-5999, one of the two emergency numbers the GPO had installed at Wimbledon Police Station, and got Detective Sergeant Ingleson on the line.
A ticket collector, the newsagent in the entrance hall and a cabdriver waiting in the rank outside Wimbledon Park had all observed Karen Whitfield leave the station with a man dressed in a
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