CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Alec Bartholemew?” asked Maguire.
The man who answered the door nodded. “Yes.”
“My name is David Maguire and this is Martin Walden. We’re from the Metropolitan Police. We’d like to talk to you if you have the time.”
“Of course,” answered Bartholemew. “What’s it about?”
Maguire looked about him and then past him into the flat. “Is it alright if we come in out of the doorway?”
“I’m sorry,” Bartholemew said. “Yes, of course, come in.”
Once inside the lounge the detectives quickly took in the furnishings. They remained standing as did Bartholemew.
“Is this about that other matter?” Bartholemew said.
“What other matter would that be?” Maguire asked.
Bartholemew frowned. “There was another policeman here before enquiring something about someone who was heard screaming. Or something like that. I can’t remember exactly.”
Maguire and Walden continued to examine the room they were in. It was sparsely furnished and had the look of a space that was functional rather than lived in. Not a cold atmosphere but certainly cool.
“No,” Maguire said. “This is about something different. Routine actually. Mind if we sit?”
“I’m sorry again,” said Bartholemew and motioned for them to sit on the sofa. He still stood, slightly to one side.
“Are you an athlete?” Maguire enquired. “A runner perhaps? Something like that?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Are you a member of a sports club?”
“Yes. There’s an LA Fitness near where I work. I’ve been a member there for just under a year and a half I guess it is.”
“And where do you work?” Walden edged forward on the sofa and clasped his hands between his knees.
Bartholemew shifted his weight from his right leg to his left and back to his right. “In Limehouse. I’m with a firm of accountants.”
“A senior accountant I take it?”
“Fairly I suppose. I work in the field of financial and management reporting. I also did my training in the States so I’m also a Certified Management Accountant.”
Walden screwed his mouth and nodded slowly. “Well done.” Then he added: “I’m surprised you don’t have your own house.”
Bartholemew seemed to relax a little. “I’ll get there. But with prices as they are and the economy as it is I’m happy to rent for now. And Brockley is close to Limehouse. Just the one change on the train.”
“Your flat is pretty small isn’t it?” Maguire commented.
“It’s big enough for me,” Bartholemew answered. “I don’t spend a great deal of time here anyway and when I do I just read and sleep.”
“And go to the gym,” said Walden.
“Yes.”
Walden leaned back in the sofa and Maguire edged forward. “Do you have to wear special gear at LA Fitness?”
“Not really. Just normal work out clothes.”
“Nothing special?”
“No. Why?”
Maguire paused and looked squarely at Bartholemew. “Don’t you have a special shirt made of special material that you work out in?”
Bartholemew’s brow furrowed again. “Well yes, but I thought you meant does the club require us to wear special gear. Why is that of interest?”
Maguire stood. “Can we see your shirt please?”
“Of course,” Bartholemew said and turned and walked down the short passage.
Maguire followed him and watched as Bartholemew walked into the en suite bathroom off what was obviously his bedroom. He reached into a wicker basked and retrieved a red and black shirt with a flat yellow collar about two centimetres wide. He held it out to Maguire who took it and moved back down the corridor to the lounge and without sitting held it out in front of him so that Walden could get a good look.
“I’m sorry,” said Bartholemew, “but what’s this all about. Why do you want to examine my shirt?”
Neither Maguire or Walden answered immediately. Maguire turned the shirt this way and that and Walden took hold of the bottom and they both cast their eyes over it for a full minute.
It was Maguire who spoke. “Mr Bartholemew please do not take this the wrong way, but would you mind if we borrowed this shirt for a few days?”
“Why?” said Bartholemew. “I’m not understanding any of this. What is it that you think I’ve done? And why do you want to take my shirt away with you?”
“We can’t say right now, but it would be helpful if you cooperated.”
“Well, unless you tell me what it is that you think I’ve done I don’t think I should give you my shirt,” and Bartholemew reached and took the shirt from Maguire.
“That’s a shame,”said Maguire. “Are you certain you won’t cooperate?”
“It’s not a question of cooperating. If you won’t tell me what you think I’ve done I don’t see why I should do what you ask.”
The detectives said nothing.
“So,” said Bartholemew, “I think it might be best if you leave now. If you want me to help you any further you’ll have to tell me what this is all about. I’ve got nothing to hide but cooperation is a two way street you know.”
“Are you sure you want to do this Mr Bartholemew?” Maguire asked and raised his chin. “We’d appreciate it if you cooperated you know.”
“I think it’s best if you go,” Bartholemew said. “I’ve been as helpful as I can and answered all your questions, but you won’t even tell me what this is all about. And that’s not cooperation in my book.”
“Alright,” said Maguire. “But we might have to come back.”
“That’s fine.”
“Alright then. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome.”
As they left the door was shut firmly behind them.
“What now?” asked Walden.
Maguire did not answer. He stood without moving, thinking. Then he began to walk towards the pavement to where their car was parked.
“Excuse me.”
The detectives turned and saw an elderly man standing in the doorway of the flat in the same building.
“Yes?” asked Walden.
“Are you the police?” asked the man.
“Why do you ask?” Walden replied.
“You’ve been talking to Mr Bartholemew I think,” said the man. “If you’re the police this is the second time you’ve done that.”
Maguire and Walden walked towards the man. “And you are?” said Maguire.
“My name’s Flanagan. Barry Flanagan. I live here. I spoke to a policeman before and he went and spoke to Mr Bartholemew.”
“What about?”
“I thought I heard screaming and called the police. But nothing happened. Nothing was found.”
Maguire looked the man up and down. “So why does it interest you that we might have been speaking to Mr Bartholemew?”
Flanagan stretched his head forward and looked towards the corner of the building. Then he said: “I saw him earlier today take something and put it in the bin.”
“So?” said Walden. He examined Barry Flanagan carefully and followed his gaze as Flanagan again peered towards the corner of the building. “What’s so interesting about him dumping rubbish in his bin?”
“Well,” said Flanagan, “it wasn’t his bin. He walked past his own bin and crossed the road and put something in the bin up there. I just wonder why he didn’t put it in his own bin. Especially as the police had already spoken to him before. I thought it was suspicious.”
Walden asked where the bin in question was and Flanagan had to step away from his doorway and out to the pavement. “Up there. That one on the island at the end of the road. Under the big tree.”
“That’s a long way to walk to dump rubbish.”
“That’s what I thought. Do you think it’s suspicious too?”
“Is it a special bin? For special rubbish?”
“No, just a normal rubbish bin.”
Walden and Maguire exchanged a look.
“Alright,” said Maguire. “Thank you for your help. Leave this with us. If we need anything more from you we’ll let you know.”
“You’re going to check the bin aren’t you?” Flanagan asked.
“We’ll have a look and see if there’s anything of interest there,” said Maguire. “Thank you again.”
As the detectives walked up the street Barry Flanagan watched them for a while and then quickly went back inside his flat and closed the door.
“I thought all busybodies were old women of the Miss Marple kind,” Walden remarked as he and Maguire approached the rubbish bin next to the tree in the grassy traffic island.
“Apparently not,” said Maguire. “Let’s see if there is anything in here and then get back to the office. I think we need to talk to the Super about what we do about Bartholemew and his gym shirt. We can’t just leave it as it is.”
“Yes,” said Walden and reached into the bin. He rummaged around and then stood upright. “Hold on there. This looks interesting.”
Carefully he reached inside again and removed a large plastic bag that was tied at the top but which had been torn open at the bottom. A tip of rag protruded which was stained red.
He unwound the binding at the top of the plastic bad and held it open so they could both see inside.
“There’s a bunch of rags in here,” Maguire said. “They look like they are pretty badly stained with something. Tomato sauce or something. Let’s have a closer look.”
Slowly Walden emptied the bad and placed the stained rags on the grass.
“I don’t think that’s sauce,” he said. “I think it could be blood.”
Maguire looked back over his shoulder towards the block of flats they had just left.
“If this is the rubbish dumped by Bartholemew I think we need to take a very close look at them,” he said. “Put them back in the bag and let’s get it back to the office. I think the forensics people should examine them.”
As Walden replaced the rags in the bags and bound the top again Maguire remarked: “This is interesting. If it turns out to have anything to do with the murders I’ll come and shake that old busybody’s hand. And pay more attention to the Miss Marples, and Mr Marples, of this world in future. This could just be the break we need.”
“One more thing,” said Walden once they were back seated in their car. “On the way back let’s drop into that shop where Bartholemew went earlier and see what he was after.”
They retraced their earlier journey in the car and pulled into a space much closer to where Bartholemew had parked.
“I think he went into that pharmacy,” Walden said. “Either that or the hardware store next door.”
“No,” said Maguire. “It wasn’t the store. I could see the entrance clearly in the rear view mirror. He didn’t go in there.”
“Ok,” said Walden. “Wait here and I’ll go in and ask a few questions.”
Five minutes later he came out of the pharmacy and got back in the car and slammed the door closed.
“Well?” said Maguire. “Anything?”
“He was in there alright,” said Walden. “Guess what he wanted.”
“Toothpaste,” said Maguire. “Shaving cream. I don’t know. What did he want?”
“Aspirin and mouthwash,” said Walden.
Oh.”
“And sanitary napkins.”
“What?”
“Sanitary napkins. Bartholemew bought sanitary napkins.”
“What the hell would he want with sanitary napkins?”
“I don’t know,” said Walden. “But added to everything else this Bartholemew is beginning to look pretty interesting.”
*
Writing an irregular column for a newspaper, despite what some might think, is not the easiest of things to do.
Writing various irregular columns for different newspapers, in different parts of the world is even harder.
So writing a regular column is not something to be envied. It is hard work, very hard work. Scratching together thousands of words is the easy bit. Making them read well is not easy. And once you have managed that, to make the copy interesting as well as well written is damned difficult.
I had been writing about the multiple murders for some time and I had been doing it on a regular basis. I had to each time edit my copy for my London editor to make it acceptable to my overseas editors. Not just topping and tailing it differently for each individual market but to a large degree rewriting much of it.
And I had to admit that concentrating on the deaths of murdered women did little for my sense of humour. So I decided to write something that would suit all markets and require no separate editing, and be more light-hearted and have nothing to do with death, murders or anything criminal.
Sitting at my terminal I looked out the window at the city outside. Everything was familiar to me but I knew that for visitors there was much to be attracted by. So I thought, why not? Why not do a simple piece on the place where I live? Hopefully it would be interesting to readers abroad as well as my metropolitan neighbours. Maybe it would be the first of numerous columns of a travel nature. It might even lead me in a direction that could result in new clients in a totally different genre. Which would lead to a higher income. Which would…. I hit the keyboard.
London.
One of the most fascinating cities on the planet – if not the most fascinating.
In the past there have been those, locals and visitors, who felt the city had become drab, tired, the shine having been lost.
I don’t recall that time. For me London has always had a lustre that topped any other city in the world where I have been.
Paris is magnifiques. Madrid and Milan is magnifico. Melbourne great.
But London has always stood, and still stands, apart.
So what is it that puts it heads and shoulders above the rest?
It is steeped in history yet is constantly evolving as its society becomes more and more multicultural which means there is something for everyone.
If there is the slightest doubt look at the music that echoes in all quarters of the city, the nightlife that abounds, the massive variety of cuisine, the multitude of museums and art galleries that form part of a magnificent culture, sport and what stands out most plainly, the shopping.
Nowhere else in the world in my view offers the shopper and the general sightseer as much.
Oxford Street. Regent Street. Knightsbridge. Kensington. Portobello Road. Piccadilly. Tottenham Court Road. The list is almost endless.
Yet there are other places that are just as interesting – but for completely different reasons. Some are well known, others perhaps not.
Take Covent Garden for instance.
It too is famous for its shops. But it is best known for its street performers, bars, restaurants, theatres and the Royal Opera House that is just off the north piazza. It was built in the early eighteen hundreds. A fire destroyed that building just under half a century later but it was replaced within a year by the present Opera House. Now it is a world treasure.
Covent Garden is an Italian-style piazza surrounded by Theatreland, in the heart of London's West End, and the whole area is recognised as the capital's premier entertainment and leisure destination, a very different place when it served as England’s largest fruit and vegetable market covering the entire square and many of the surrounding buildings.
But that is something that today’s tourists who flock there from the four corners of the world probably have not the faintest knowledge. For them it is the street entertainment that is its attraction.
Writing of markets it would not be right to leave out Borough Market, London’s most renowned food market and a source of exceptional British and international produce.
In recent years Borough Market has been a haven for anybody who cares about the quality and provenance of the food they eat.
But it is even more than that. It is the people as well as the place that make it so wonderful.
There are stallholders who hail from around the globe. However a large number of them are locally grown who are themselves producers.
So as the internet website dedicated to Borough Market proclaims “the market has become a vast repository of culinary knowledge and understanding. It’s a place to explore, to ask questions, to discover new flavours and to savour a unique atmosphere.”
They are just two of the attractions in the wonderful city of London that for some might be considered off the beaten track on the one hand and a must on the other.
This writer will in the weeks and months to come find other sights and smells that help to make this the greatest of cities.
At this point in my column I felt I was duty bound not to ignore the series of columns I had been putting in front of my readers recently.
So I hammered out the following paragraphs.
In recent weeks and months London has been the home of death.
A series of grizzly murders have been committed and so far the police have been unable to apprehend the person responsible.
But that should not put off the visitor, or even the local, from soaking up all that is good about this great city.
London is full of life.
Or as someone once said, it is life itself.