called Bladenham Hall. They refurbished the house and created the 'Bladenham Hall Clinic'. It was ostensibly an exclusive clinic for executive stress. It never had more than a dozen or so 'inmates'. It was like a health farm, providing rest and relaxation for overstressed businessmen. Needless to say, it was very expensive. Naturally, given the nature of the facility, it was sealed off from the outside world.
'Well, after a year or so, the police raided the establishment and arrested the manager and a number of female staff. They subsequently charged my client and his partner with running a brothel. At the trial, this allegation was never proved. The prosecution's case was shown to be a mixture of inconsistencies and inadmissible evidence.'
'Due to your efforts,' I interrupted.
Denny smiled. 'Well, we don't usually do criminal law here, so I referred the case on to a firm I know which does. But I thought it best to keep a watching brief, and I did point out some rather obscure inconsistencies that the prosecution had overlooked. Although I must admit several of them were uncovered by Debbie.'
'So Piper was set free?' I asked.
'He was, acquitted, yes,' Denny replied. 'He sold the house. I believe it is now a hotel. And a very good one too.'
'And were the police right? Was it a brothel?'
Denny hesitated. 'The evidence submitted by the police would suggest it was, but that evidence was not admissible.'
'So it was a brothel,' I said. 'Did Piper know what was going on?'
'He spent very little time in this country. Had it been proved by the police that Bladenham Hall was a brothel, I would have then shown that my client knew nothing about it.'
This was exasperating. Denny's evasiveness goaded me into being more direct. 'Is Piper a crook?'
'From what I learned during that trial, I wouldn't accept him as a client again,' said Denny. His strongest reply so far.
I thought for a moment. 'If this was brought to the attention of the Nevada Gaming Commission, would it cause Piper to lose his licence?' And the Tahiti, I thought.
Denny touched his fingertips together and tapped his chin. 'It's difficult to say. I know very little of Nevada law specifically. Piper was never found guilty, so he would not automatically be disqualified. It would depend on how much discretion the Commission has to judge good character, and how they choose to use it. But it obviously wouldn't help an application.'
I rose from my chair. 'Thank you, Mr Denny. You've been very helpful.'
'Not at all. Any time.' We shook hands and I walked towards the door.
Before I got there, Denny called after me. 'Oh, Paul.'
I turned round.
'I don't know what you meant when you said that this might have something to do with Debbie's death,' he continued. 'I caught a glimpse of how Piper operates. For all his gentlemanly affectations, he is dangerous. I liked Debbie. I am very sorry she died. If you need any more help, give me a ring.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'Be careful.' Denny's words followed me as I left the room.
It rained that evening, but I went for a run anyway. In the warm July evening the rain kept me cool as it seeped through my running vest and shorts. I came back to my flat wet, tired but refreshed.
As the effect of the endorphins wore off, my finger began to throb. I carefully peeled off the bandage and looked at the wound. It was deep, but because the knife was so sharp, the incision had been a narrow one and already the skin looked like it was joining back together. I leapt into the bath before I had a chance to get cold, dropped my finger underwater for a good soak, and let my muscles relax.
The phone rang. I cursed softly to myself and just lay there. It didn't stop. Reluctantly I hauled myself out of the bath and dripped over to my bedroom. 'Hallo.'
'I told you not to interfere.' The drops of hot water suddenly chilled on my skin. It was the flat tones of Joe Finlay.
I grabbed for words. He had a point there. He had told me not to interfere. Why on earth had I? My mind went blank. Finally I said, 'How did you get my number?'
'How did you get mine?'
Good question. It would be easy for him to have got my number off Cash, as I had his. In which case, he probably had my address. My skin felt colder. I picked up the duvet from my bed and wrapped it round myself.
'I told you not to interfere,' Joe repeated. 'I have had two lots of policemen round here in the last twenty-four hours. First there was a police tart asking about me and Sally. Sally didn't tell her anything. And she's not going to. She knows what would happen to her.' Menacing words delivered in a dull monotone. 'Then there was a plod detective asking me questions about that slut's death. Well, he didn't get anywhere either. But it got me annoyed. Very annoyed. You were lucky not to lose your finger. You will lose more than that unless you back off. Do you understand me?'
I was scared. Why had I got mixed up with him? Because I thought he had killed Debbie, I reminded myself. Well, if the police were already talking to him about it, then perhaps I could leave it all to them. 'I understand you,' I said.
Joe's voice lowered an octave, which somehow added a touch of extra menace. 'Look, Murray, I don't want to hear anything more about the slut. And if you go anywhere near my wife again, or talk to anyone about her, you are dead.'
I was frightened, but I didn't want him to know it. I was determined not to be intimidated. 'If you just treat her properly, then no one will bother you,' I said. 'Threatening me won't help now.' With that I hung up. I dried myself off, and rang Powell at the home number which he had given me. I was curious to find out what Joe had told him about Debbie.
'Powell.' His voice was gruff, irritated at being disturbed.
'It's Paul Murray here.'
'Yes, Mr Murray?'
'I just had a phone call from Joe Finlay. He says you have been in touch with him.'
'Yes, that's right. We interviewed him today.'
'How did it go?'
'A dead end. Finlay says he shared a taxi with the two people he had been drinking with immediately after they all left the boat. They both corroborate his story. None of them says they saw Debbie after they left her with you.'
I protested. 'That can't be right. Have you found the taxi-driver?'
Powell's sigh echoed down the phone. 'No, Mr Murray, we have not. That would be next to impossible without major publicity. But unless you think all three of them did it together, I think we can rule Finlay out.'
'But, you can't. You should have seen him. I'm sure he must have killed her. Have you checked into his relationship with her?'
'We have spoken to Felicity Wilson. It's clear Finlay is a nasty piece of work, but there is no evidence at all that he murdered Debbie Chater. In fact there is no evidence she was murdered at all. And if she was, you were the last person seen with her before she died.'
'You don't think I killed her?'
'No, Mr Murray, I don't think you killed her either,' said Powell, his voice long-suffering. 'Personally, I think it was suicide, but there is precious little evidence of that either. The inquest is tomorrow and I wouldn't be surprised if an open verdict was returned. They don't like classifying cases as suicide unless they are sure, it causes unnecessary grief for the relatives. Now, thank you for all your help in this inquiry, Mr Murray. Good night.'
'Good night,' I said, and put the phone down. So somehow Joe had got himself ruled out. I didn't believe it. I didn't believe it one bit.
I poured myself a large whisky, and tried to get to sleep. The nursery rhyme 'Three blind mice' ran through my mind as I finally dozed off. I dreamed of a thin farmer's wife running around brandishing a carving-knife.
Cash picked me up on Saturday morning. He was dressed in his Henley gear; blazer, white trousers, and a
