DESMOND BAGLEY
The Spoilers
Harper an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1969
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1969
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008211196
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008211202 Version: 2017-03-13
CONTENTS
This one is for Pat and Philip Bawcombeand, of course, Thickabe
She lay on the bed in an abandoned attitude, oblivious of the big men crowding the room and making it appear even smaller than it was. She had been abandoned by life, and the big men were there to find out why, not out of natural curiosity but because it was their work. They were policemen.
Detective-Inspector Stephens ignored the body. He had given it a cursory glance and then turned his attention to the room, noting the cheap, rickety furniture and the threadbare carpet which was too small to hide dusty boards. There was no wardrobe and the girl’s few garments were scattered, some thrown casually over a chair-back and others on the floor by the side of the bed. The girl herself was naked, an empty shell. Death is not erotic.
Stephens picked up a sweater from the chair and was surprised at its opulent softness. He looked at the maker’s tab and frowned before handing it to Sergeant Ipsley. ‘She could afford good stuff. Any identification yet?’
‘Betts is talking to the landlady.’
Stephens knew the worth of that. The inhabitants of his manor did not talk freely to policemen. ‘He won’t get much. Just a name and that’ll be false, most likely. Seen the syringe?’
‘Couldn’t miss it, sir. Do you think it’s drugs?’
‘Could be.’ Stephens turned to an unpainted whitewood chest of drawers and pulled on a knob. The drawer opened an inch and then stuck. He smote it with the heel of his hand. ‘Any sign of the police surgeon yet?’
‘I’ll go and find out, sir.’
‘Don’t worry; he’ll come in his own sweet time.’ Stephens turned his head to the bed. ‘Besides, she’s not in too much of a hurry.’ He tugged at the drawer which stuck again. ‘Damn this confounded thing!’
A uniformed constable pushed open the door and closed it behind him. ‘Her name’s Hellier, sir – June Hellier. She’s been here a week – came last Wednesday.’
Stephens straightened. ‘That’s not much help, Betts. Have you seen her before on your beat?’
Betts looked towards the bed and shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Was she previously known to the landlady?’
‘No, sir; she just came in off the street and said she wanted a room. She paid in advance.’
‘She wouldn’t have got in otherwise,’ said Ipsley. ‘I know this old besom here – nothing for nothing and not much for sixpence.’
‘Did she make any friends – acquaintances?’ asked Stephens. ‘Speak to anyone?’
‘Not that I can find out, sir. From all accounts she stuck in her room most of the time.’
A short man with an incipient pot belly pushed into the room. He walked over to the bed and put down his bag. ‘Sorry I’m late, Joe; this damned traffic gets worse every day.’
‘That’s