by D. S. Butler
“My office, back in New York. I was just filling them in on the day. It was just business.”
Collins nodded. He then zoomed in on the image of the hooded figure on his phone. “Just after you entered the elevator, you spoke to the person next to you. Do you remember what was said?”
Barry Henderson frowned as he tried to remember. “I don’t recall. I don’t think it was anything important… I think I probably just asked what floor they wanted.”
“Okay,” Collins said. “This individual exited the lift on the same floor as you.”
Barry Henderson’s face was creased with concern. “What are you saying, detective?”
“Did you notice if they had a hotel key card? Perhaps they mentioned wanting the forty-fourth floor.”
Barry Henderson shook his head. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”
“You put your key card into the panel and selected the forty-fourth floor,” Collins said. “Were they holding their own key card?”
“No,” Barry Henderson whispered, his face a mask of grave concern. He shuddered. “Detective, are you saying that I allowed the killer access to Beverley’s floor? Was it my fault?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort. This person hasn’t been identified yet, and we need to make sure we know who they were and what they were doing here.”
Barry Henderson didn’t look convinced. He rubbed a weary hand over his face. “Oh, Christ. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“We are nearly finished now, sir,” Collins said. “I just need you to give me a description of the person in the elevator.”
“A description?” Barry Henderson repeated. “I really didn’t pay very much attention.”
“Well, we can see from the CCTV that they were wearing dark trousers, probably black and a navy blue hooded coat.” Collins smiled encouragingly. “Any small detail you can remember could help us. Was it a man or woman?” Collins asked.
“Oh…” Barry Henderson said, and his forehead crinkled as he thought about it. “A man, I think,” he said, slowly. “Young-looking. I mean…it could have been a woman, I suppose.”
Collins felt disappointment flood through him. All his hopes of a good description of their main suspect were slowly trickling away. How could Barry Henderson not know whether the person he shared the elevator with, the person he spoke to, was male or female?
“What was their voice like? You spoke to them, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Well, it was low, I think, but not very deep.” Barry Henderson put his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I really can’t remember…”
They were getting nowhere fast. Collins finished up with a few more questions and then asked Barry Henderson to keep the team aware of his movements as they may need to speak to him again.
As Collins left Barry Henderson’s room, he reached for his mobile phone. He was going to have to give the bad news to DI Tyler, and he wasn’t looking forward to it at all.
12
MACKINNON PULLED INTO THE lay-by opposite Yateley Lodge in Hampshire. It had taken him just over an hour and a half. He couldn’t see the house from where he was parked, but on the opposite side of the road there was a pair of majestic looking gates.
Beside the gates, there was a group of four men loitering. Two of the men carried cameras, and one of them looked over at Mackinnon’s car with interest. Mackinnon guessed they were members of the press, hanging around, waiting for a statement from the famous writer Jacob Jansen after the death of his agent.
Before approaching the entrance, Mackinnon decided to ring DI Tyler. Tyler gave him a quick update and went over the questions he wanted Mackinnon to ask Jacob Jansen. After Mackinnon hung up the phone, he took a moment to think things through.
Snake venom was an unusual choice for a murder weapon. There were certainly easier ways to kill someone.
The whole case had a dash of the dramatic about it. Perhaps something a thriller writer might be interested in?
Mackinnon glanced ahead in the direction of the journalists hovering at the entrance.
He drove out of the lay-by and pulled up in front of the gates. The group of men slowly moved out of the way.
One of them rapped on the car window. “Police?” the man shouted with a grin on his face. “Any chance of a statement from you? Is Jacob Jansen a suspect?”
Mackinnon opened the car door, narrowly missing hitting the journalist on the hip.
As Mackinnon got out of the driver’s seat, the man took a couple of steps backwards. Now looking a little less sure of himself, he blinked up at Mackinnon.
“We aren’t doing anything wrong.” The journalist looked round at the other men standing behind him. He folded his arms across his chest.
“No statement,” Mackinnon said. “This is private property, and I’m sure Mr. Jansen wouldn’t appreciate your presence here at this time.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Jacob has always been a friend to the press. He likes the publicity. You have come here to ask him about Beverley Madison, haven’t you?”
“No comment.” Mackinnon strode towards the gatepost and pressed the intercom.
Before Mackinnon could even introduce himself, a voice crackled, “He is on his way down. He won’t keep you a moment.”
Mackinnon frowned. He hadn’t even said who he was or what he wanted.
Mackinnon walked back from the gates and leaned against the bonnet of the car.
“Do you think it was one of her clients?” The question came from one of the journalists. He had slicked back hair and was wearing a long brown coat. “Or was it a random killing?”
Mackinnon couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
The man smiled. “You don’t get far in my game if you do.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a loud voice boomed from behind the gates.
Mackinnon turned around and saw Jacob Jansen. He recognised him from the photographs at the literary agency. He was wearing a navy blue Barbour jacket, dark denim jeans and a pair of green Hunter Wellington boots.
A pair of black Labradors stood by his heels. Jacob Jansen, who clearly enjoyed playing the country gentleman, smiled broadly at no one in particular and stuck his thumbs in his pockets.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat and pulling out a scrap of paper from his Barbour jacket. “I have a statement for you.”
But before he could speak, he was interrupted by one of the journalists. “We’ve had reports that Beverley was killed with some kind of snake venom. Can you comment on that?”
Mackinnon whirled around. He had only just received that information from Tyler a few moments ago. How could the press possibly have got hold of it?
“It’s a terrible shock.”
Mackinnon studied Jacob Jansen’s reaction carefully.
He pressed a hand to his chest as if that would convey how deeply he was hurt. “I have worked with Beverley Madison for many years, and she was everything a writer could want in an agent. I am completely distraught at the news of her death, but I couldn’t possibly comment on the involvement of snake venom. I’m afraid no one had mentioned that fact to me.”
One of the men held up his camera taking multiple shots of Jacob Jansen.
“Stop that,” Jacob Jansen said irritably. “I don’t want you publishing a load of photographs with my mouth half open. You’ll get a chance to take your photos at the end.”
“Do you think she might have been the victim of a deranged serial killer?” The journalist with the slicked back hair held up his tape recorder as close to the gates and Jacob Jansen as he could.
“In my opinion,” Jacob Jansen began, “it’s highly likely we have an organised and very dangerous killer. I believe it’s possible he will strike again.” A thin smile spread on Jacob Jansen’s lips. “In fact, I’ve just thought of a moniker you guys might like to use. You could call him…” Jacob Jansen paused for dramatic effect. “The Cha
rmer.”
Jacob Jansen spread his hands theatrically. “Yes,” he said, nodding and looking incredibly pleased with himself. “The Snake Charmer.”
Mackinnon had heard enough. He held up his warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Mackinnon, City of London police. I’d like a word with you, Mr. Jansen.”
The colour drained from Jacob Jansen’s face. “Oh, goodness. I thought you were…”
“I know what you thought, sir. Now why don’t you open the gate and we can have a chat.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Jacob said. “Is that your car?”
Mackinnon nodded.
“Ah, good. Would you mind giving me a lift back up to the house. The boys, too,” he said, nodding at the two black Labradors.
Mackinnon agreed and Jacob Jansen opened the gates.
“What about our photographs?”
Jacob Jansen waved his hand in dismissal at the four journalists. “Later.”
Mackinnon drove the author and his Labradors along the winding driveway.
The house was huge. The small sign by the front door grandly named it Yateley Lodge.
Clearly, a career as a thriller writer had paid very well for Jansen.
Jansen opened the back door of the car, releasing the dogs, and they scrambled out and started chasing each other around the front lawns.
“Well, let’s get inside out of the cold, shall we?” Jacob Jansen suggested with a hesitant smile. “Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee would be good, thanks,” Mackinnon replied.
The inside of Yateley Lodge was no less impressive than the outside. The hardwood floors were polished to a gleaming shine, and a huge crystal chandelier hung over the entrance hall.
“This way,” Jacob Jansen said, leading Mackinnon along the hallway into a huge country-style kitchen.
Jacob shrugged off his Barbour jacket and flung it across a chair. He moved across the kitchen to a coffee maker, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a coffee shop. The machine was a mass of gleaming metal.
As Jacob busied himself making the coffee, Mackinnon perched on a stool next to the central island in the kitchen.
“I guess you’re here about Beverley,” Jacob Jansen said, speaking loudly to be heard over the coffee bean grinder.
“That’s right,” Mackinnon said. “We’re talking to people who knew her. We are especially interested in people who saw her recently. I wonder if you could tell me when you last saw Beverley Madison?”
Jacob Jansen leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Not that long ago,” he said. “Actually, she popped by last week.”
There was something in the way he moved, the tension in his shoulders. Even if Beverley Madison’s PA hadn’t tipped Mackinnon off, Jacob Jansen’s body language alone would have been enough for Mackinnon to believe he was hiding something.
“What did she come down here for? Social call? Work?”
“Bit of both really. I think she was just checking up on me. I’m her major client, you know. I bring in a great deal of money for Beverley’s agency.”
Mackinnon nodded. “When she visited you, what kind of mood was she in?”
“Mood?” Jacob Jansen set two cups of coffee down on the island and pushed one towards Mackinnon. “I can’t say I noticed her mood.”
“You can’t remember if she was happy? Sad? Angry?”
Jacob Jansen looked down at his coffee cup. “She wasn’t in any particular mood,” he said eventually.
“I spoke to her personal assistant this morning, Alice Read. Do you know her?”
Jacob Jansen’s mouth set in a thin line. He nodded. “Yes, I know Alice.”
“Well, Alice told me something very interesting. She told me Beverley Madison was quite angry just before she came to see you. In fact, Alice told me Beverley said that you had pushed her too far this time. Can you tell me what she meant by that?”
Jacob Jansen raised his eyes from his coffee cup and glared at Mackinnon. “Oh, all right. Fine. Yes, she did come down here, and she was absolutely furious. She pulled up at the gates, didn’t bother waiting for me to answer the intercom and let her in before yelling at me. She was screeching. I mean, it’s lucky I don’t have any neighbours close by.”
Jacob shook his head. “I let her in, against my better judgement, and she started ranting and raving at me like a mad woman.”
“You have been having a difficult relationship with your agent for some time, is that correct, Mr. Jansen?”
Jacob Jansen rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly a secret. Her bloody agency takes fifteen percent of everything I earn, and yet I found out the other day she had a prime opportunity to sell the rights for two of my books to Japan, and she hadn’t even bothered to contact them. They told me they’ve been trying to get in touch for ages to arrange a deal.” Jacob Jansen shook his head. “She was taking advantage of me. She’d taken on too many new clients, spread herself too thin. And I was the one earning all the money, but they weren’t giving me any attention.”
“Why was Beverley Madison so angry when she came to see you? Something must have happened to get her so worked up.”
Jacob Jansen got to his feet and walked over to a kitchen unit. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled around in it for a moment.
“It’s ridiculous actually. As soon as I let her in the house, she threw this in my face.”
He handed Mackinnon a scrap of paper that looked like it had been torn out of a newspaper. Beverley Madison’s name was at the top,
When Mackinnon read the rest of the printed words, he felt his chest tighten.
It was an obituary.
“Did you send this to her?”
“Of course, I didn’t. I told Beverley so. I said she was being ridiculous, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“So who would have sent this to her?”
“Take your pick,” Jacob Jansen said. “She wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with a lot of people. I know many of her other clients felt the same as I did, and she could be particularly cruel to aspiring writers. I think somebody probably sent it as a joke, trying to give her a scare, and it worked. You don’t think…” Jacob Jansen frowned and looked up at Mackinnon. “You don’t think it had anything to do with why she died?”
“I’ll take this back to the station, if you don’t mind, Mr. Jansen,” Mackinnon said.
Jacob Jansen shrugged. “Be my guest. I don’t want to keep the bloody thing.”
Jacob took a sip of his coffee, then sighed. “You know, despite our differences, she did help me a great deal at the start of my career. It’s horrible to think someone murdered her. What an awful way to die.”
Mackinnon nodded. He wouldn’t wish the gruesome death Beverley Madison had suffered on anyone.
13
I THOUGHT I HAD the office to myself. It was after five pm, and everyone should have gone home. I sat in my cubicle and pulled out the newspaper from my bag.
I smiled as my gaze focused on the obituary.
Perfect.
I pulled a pair of scissors out of the drawer under my desk and used them to start cutting the edges of the obituary. It was the size of a business card and pleasantly understated.
I’d almost finished cutting it out when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I jumped, catching the edge of my palm with the sharp point of the scissors.
I bundled my bag on top of the obituary page, trying to hide the evidence and then examined my palm. Luckily, the scissors hadn’t punctured my skin.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump.”
It was Sue, the woman who worked in the cubicle opposite me.
I forced myself to smile. “That’s all right. I just thought everyone else had already gone home.”
“Just on my way out,” Sue said. “I came back for this.” She held up a blue and yellow knitted scarf.
When I didn’t reply, she looped the scarf around her neck. “Well, goodnight then.”
She made as if she was going to
walk away from me, then suddenly turned. “I couldn’t help noticing…I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you were looking at the obituary page. It wasn’t anyone close to you, was it?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I shook my head.
“Only, I know you’ve had a rotten time of it just lately, what with your mother and everything.”
I didn’t want to talk about it. And I certainly didn’t want to talk about it with Sue. I shoved the scissors back in the drawer and folded up the paper.
“If you ever need to talk to someone,” Sue said and then shrugged. “Well, I’m here if you need me. In fact, a few of us are meeting up at The Three Bells if you want to join us? Brandy and Josh will be there.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I can’t tonight. I’ve got things to do.”
Sue nodded as though she’d expected that answer. “Maybe another time. How is your mum doing? Is she getting on okay at that new place now?”
My fingers curled into fists, so that my fingernails dug into the flesh of my palms.
Of course she wasn’t okay. What a stupid question.
“She is as well as can be expected,” I said bluntly, scooping up my bag and grabbing my laptop case. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I have to get on. Like I said, I have things to do tonight.”
It wasn’t a lie. With what I had planned, I was going to have a very busy evening indeed.
14
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN BY the time Mackinnon left Yateley Lodge and drove back along the M3 motorway towards London. It started to rain and the spray from the cars around him made it a miserable journey.
On the passenger seat next to him, contained in a plastic evidence bag, was the obituary he had taken from Jacob Jansen. Mackinnon’s gaze flickered down to the torn scrap of paper before he turned his attention back to the road. Was it some kind of sick joke?
A fake obituary turning up days before Beverley Madison had been murdered was unlikely to be a coincidence.
Were they dealing with a sick killer who posted advance warnings to his victims?