‘Photography, ma’am. That’s got to be the answer.’ Riley showed her the printout DC Bridge had given him. ‘Door-to-door has come up with the goods. Old fashioned policing as Hardin would say.’
Savage read the statement. The account came from a neighbour who had seen something odd going on at the house opposite Trent’s late one night.
‘Flashes, ma’am. Up at a first floor window. Like someone taking pictures. And the neighbour claims to have spotted a woman at the curtains. Naked.’
‘Interesting viewing for the neighbour, but taking pictures of your missus in your own house is not illegal, is it?’
‘Not at all. Not had the chance myself mind you.’
‘So? I get the impression you’ve got something else,’ said Savage.
‘Plymouth Snappers.’
‘The photography club Donal and Forester were members of?’
‘We obtained a list from the club secretary comprising some two hundred names of current and recent members. Trent is not on the list of course, we checked already, but I went back and had another scan through. The house where the neighbour saw the flashes is owned by a man called Everett Mitchell. Just happens he is a former member of the Snappers. That gives us a link to Forester, but there is something else too.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mr Mitchell is self-employed and I took a little look into his business affairs. Now what type of business do you think he is involved in?’
‘I have no idea, but I expect you are going to tell me.’
‘His registered business name gives a clue: Devon Cream Film Distribution.’
‘I don’t need to ask, do I?’
‘No. It is a porn company. He sells DVDs and downloads from a number of websites. The business is legit, above board and everything, but bearing in mind we know Forester was involved in some dodgy videos I’d call the fact one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you?’
*
An hour later Riley and Enders coasted into Moor Vale in an unmarked pool car. Savage had said Mr Mitchell would need to answer some questions, especially because in his statement given to the officers on the door-to-door enquiries he claimed not to know David Forester.
Mature trees of oak, ash and beech half-hid the houses and though the autumn leaf fall had long since started the lawns were clean and well-manicured.
‘Fantastic place this,’ Enders said as they cruised by the first couple of properties. ‘I’d get a pad here if I won the lottery.’
There was a certain air of refinement about the place, but Riley didn’t think much of the development. It seemed a little too sterile, a little too footballers’ wives.
‘Where is the atmosphere? The concept is a bit artificial for my liking.’
‘What are you talking about? Look at all that lovely grass. And this road goes nowhere. My kids could have a whale of a time here.’
‘Are you joking? What do you think Mr and Mrs We-Paid-Good-Money-For-This would say when your Connor goes whizzing around on his scooter? Or when the two little ones start playing Aliens versus Predator in the neighbour’s rhododendron bushes?’
‘Ah well, if my numbers came up I could send them to boarding school!’ Enders grinned. ‘I tell you what, I would think somewhere like this would suit the lovely Ms Meadows very-’
‘Shut up. Anyway, we are here.’
Everett Mitchell’s house was number seven. White plaster, black wood and shiny steel intermingled with diagonal lines running in all directions. Little windows sat juxtaposed with big windows, huge windows trumped the lot. A hotchpotch of styles and materials vied for attention in a physical manifestation of an architect’s wet dream. They drove up the curving S-shaped drive across gravel that crunched with the sound of money and stopped in a turning circle in front of a double garage attached to the left hand side of the house. Riley wondered if an internal door in the garage led to the inside. If so it would be easy to bundle a girl from the car and into the house without any risk of being seen.
As they got out of the car the front door opened and a man came striding out. He was in his forties or early fifties with dark hair and a jet black goatee beard and had the air of a country landowner about him. He dismissed them with a wave of a hand as if to shoo them away.
‘No thank you. Whatever you are selling I am not buying, I don’t want any hassle and nobody else on the estate does either. We don’t need you lot round here. Back in the car now. Go on, or I will call the police.’
The voice rang with a confidence belonging to someone used to getting their own way, the type of voice Riley despised. He had heard the tone often enough in certain parts of London and the man’s manner told the lie to the myth of a classless society. Some people assumed the world moved for them and them alone. In this case Riley would enjoy showing the idiot how wrong he was.
‘Shocked as you may be to hear, sir, we are the police. Detective Sergeant Riley and Detective Constable Enders. If you could step back into the house we would like a word. Assuming you are Mr Everett Mitchell, that is?’
‘Yes, I am but I don’t have the time for-’
‘I will rephrase what I said, sir. Step back in the fucking house before I change my mind and decide to take you down the station.’
For a moment Mitchell appeared taken aback, but then he smiled and a new persona slipped into place. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so to start with? Your scruffy little car doesn’t exactly say “police” to me. It says “trouble”. Come on in.’
Mitchell turned and walked back to the house and Riley clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from boiling over.
‘Let’s face up to reality, Darius,’ Enders said, giving Riley a wink. ‘I am a paddy and you are black. We are not worthy to lick the shit from the man’s shoes, let alone his arse. However, what has really upset me is what he said about our poor car. She’ll never get over such blatant prejudice.’
Mitchell disappeared inside the house and the two detectives followed him across the threshold and went into a hall with snow-white carpets and dominated by a sweeping staircase. A shout came from a room off to the right. They walked down the hall and into a spacious lounge where Mitchell was reclining on a huge sofa.
‘I’ve told the wife to make some coffee. Should be here in a minute,’ Mitchell said, waving at them to sit down. ‘Now what can I do for you? I assume you are investigating the awful business with Mr Trent.’
Riley sat in an armchair and began by asking Mitchell the same questions that had been put by the door-to- door team. Had he noticed anything suspicious? Had he any inkling of what Trent was up to? How well did he know Mr Trent? When Mitchell answered he seemed relaxed, not an ounce of tension in his voice.
‘I know him of course. Lent him my lawnmower once and I chatted to him in the road occasionally. We went to a barbecue a year or so ago but the do wasn’t my type of thing at all. Full of academics. Load of bollocks. Hot air and canapes. Fizzy wine. Environmentalists with big people carriers and tales of holidays in Peru. Labour voters and hypocrites. Poor show indeed, I thought. Those kinds of people don’t know how to have any fun.’
‘What is your impression of Mr Trent himself?’
‘Weasely, isn’t he? No confidence. Of course the news came like a bolt out of the blue when he was arrested, but on reflection it figures. Sneaky kind of guy like him. Unattractive. Wife probably keeps her legs shut and I wouldn’t blame her.’
‘So you had suspicions?’
‘No, of course not. I am just saying now you have got him I am not entirely surprised.’
At that point a woman entered the room with a jug of coffee and cups on a tray. Long blonde hair framed a model-like face and a white towelling dressing gown hugged her full-figure. As she walked across the room Riley glimpsed a flash of golden thigh.
‘Ah, Catherine. Meet Chief Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis. There has been a murder. Ha, ha, ha!’
Riley introduced himself and Enders and explained the reason for the visit. Mrs Mitchell nodded and poured the coffees. Then she went to sit on the sofa next to Mitchell. The top of her dressing gown fell open and her left breast slipped into view. She made no attempt to cover herself and Riley averted his gaze.
