Like it or not, I was the one who could do something to stop it, and if I didn't it would be my conscience which would suffer. So, I resolved to tell the police about him. I hoped that he would never find out who had told them, but I knew I was kidding myself. At any rate, I resolved to make sure never to find myself alone with Joe again.
I asked an old lady for directions to the local police station. The nearest one was only a quarter of a mile away.
I told the desk sergeant about how I had found Sally beaten up. I didn't tell him about the struggle I had had with Joe. He seemed efficient and concerned, which was a relief. I had half expected a brush-off. The sergeant did say it would be difficult to prove anything, unless the wife was willing to testify. He said that the station had set up a Domestic Violence Unit recently, and he would pass on what I had reported to them. He assured me that they would get a WPC round to the Finlays' house that evening.
I then asked if I could phone Inspector Powell, since I had some information relating to a murder investigation. This took the desk sergeant back a bit, but once he had decided I wasn't just another nutter, he found me a small room with a phone, and after a few minutes had located Powell.
'Hallo, it's Paul Murray. I am ringing you about the death of Debbie Chater.'
'Yes, Mr Murray. I remember you. What have you got for me?' Powell's voice was impatient.
'You remember the man I told you about, who groped Debbie the night she died?'
'Yes?'
'Well, I met him a couple of days ago. His name is Joe Finlay. He's a trader at an investment bank called Bloomfield Weiss. He had an affair with Debbie about a year ago.' I gave Powell Joe's address in Wandsworth.
'Thank you very much, Mr Murray. We will follow up this lead. However, it seems clear that we are looking at an accident, or perhaps suicide. I will be in touch with you in the course of the next few days.' The note of irritation in Powell's voice was clear. He had probably dismissed my description of Joe as unimportant, and made up his own mind about how Debbie had died. He would have some more work to do now.
'I will be happy to help any time,' I said, and put the receiver down.
As I left the police station and headed home, I wondered what Joe's reaction to being questioned by the police would be. He wouldn't be very pleased with me, I was sure. Still, I hoped they would nail the bastard.
CHAPTER 8
I was right on time for my appointment with Robert Denny. Denny Clark's offices were in Essex Street, a tiny lane winding down towards the river from the Strand. They were in an old red-brick Georgian building, with only a small brass name-plate to identify them. The receptionist, a well-groomed blonde with a plummy accent, took my coat and asked me to take a seat. I found a comfortable leather armchair and sank into it.
I looked around me. Books rose from floor to ceiling, old leather-bound books. In front of me on the mahogany table, next to a vase of orange lilies were copies of
After five minutes I was ushered into Mr Denny's office by the efficient secretary I had spoken to on the phone earlier. It was on the first floor, large and airy, with a view out on to the quiet street below. More bookcases with stacks of leather-bound books, although these looked as though they were actually used from time to time. On one wall, above a long conference table, hung a portrait of an imposing-looking Victorian gentleman, brandishing a quill. A former Denny, I assumed.
The current Denny was sitting behind his huge desk, finishing off a note. After a couple of seconds, he looked up, saw me, smiled and got up from behind his desk to welcome me. He was a neat, grey-haired, slightly small man. Although he was clearly in his sixties, there was none of the wise old senior partner put out to grass about him. His movements were agile, his eyes quick, his manner assured. A competent lawyer at the height of his career.
He held out his hand to me. 'Paul Murray, it's an honour to meet you.'
Slightly confused at this, I said rather lamely, 'I'm glad to meet you too.'
Denny laughed, his eyes twinkling. 'I like watching athletics on the box. I always admired your running. It was a sad day when you retired. I had you down for a gold in two years' time. Have you given up athletics entirely?'
'Oh, I still run regularly, but just to keep fit. I don't compete any more, though.'
'Shame. Would you like some tea? Coffee perhaps?' he asked.
'Tea, please,' I answered.
Denny raised an eyebrow to his secretary, who left the room swiftly, to reappear with a tray, tea, cups and biscuits. We sat in two armchairs next to a low table. I leaned back and relaxed. Denny was one of those men, confident in their abilities, who use their intelligence and charm to make you feel at ease, rather than intimidate you. I liked him.
Denny took an appreciative sip of tea. 'Felicity tells me that you were a friend of Debbie Chater's,' he said, eyeing me over his cup.
'Yes, I was,' I said. 'Or at least I worked with her. We only worked together for three months, but we got on pretty well.'
'That was at De Jong and Co., presumably.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'I'm sure Debbie was a real asset to you,' Denny said earnestly. 'I was very sorry to see her go. She was a brilliant lawyer.' He must have seen a slight look of surprise on my face. 'Oh, yes,' he continued. 'She lacked a little in application, I suppose. But she was always able to grasp the core of a problem remarkably quickly for someone of her experience. And she never missed anything. It's a shame she gave up the law.' He coughed, leaving unsaid the thought that crossed my mind. Not that it mattered now. 'What can I do for you?'
'I wanted to ask you about something Debbie was working on before she died,' I began. 'Something which was a little odd. It may be nothing important. But then again, it may be.'
'Could it be connected with her death?'
'Oh no, I'm sure it's not,' I said quickly.
'But you think it might be?' Denny was sitting back in his chair listening, picking up not only what I said, but how I said it. There was something about his posture that encouraged me to talk.
'Well, I may just be being fanciful, but yes, I think there might be. I really don't know yet. That's why I'm here.'
'I see,' said Denny. 'Go on.'
'It's to do with an American named Irwin Piper. Felicity said that you handled a case in which he was involved. Debbie worked with you on it.'
'Piper was a client of this firm's. I believe Debbie and I did act for him on one occasion,' Denny said.
'I was looking at a new bond issue for a casino in America,' I continued. 'The owner of the casino is Irwin Piper. I asked Debbie to go through the information memorandum. After she died I looked at the document myself. She had marked one or two passages. In particular a paragraph explaining that a gaming licence would not be granted to someone who had a criminal record.'
I looked at Denny, who was listening just as intently as before.
'Does Piper have a criminal record?' I asked.
'Not that I am aware of,' said Denny.
'Can you tell me anything about the Piper case that you and Debbie worked on?' I asked.
Denny was silent for a moment, thinking. 'It's difficult. Piper was my client. I wouldn't want to harm his reputation or disclose any of his private affairs.'
'But you will help me,' I said firmly. 'This isn't the time for legal niceties.'
'It is always the time to respect the law, young man,' said Denny. But he smiled. 'I will do my best to help you. Most of what happened is a matter of public record. I will leave out as little as possible.
'Irwin Piper had bought a large country house in Surrey with a partner-an English property developer. It was
