‘Have you got him?’ Gillard yelled.
‘No, sir. He’s not here.’
‘He must be. Search the flat.’
‘We are, guv, don’t worry.’ He went back inside.
‘Don’t let him get away, you idiots,’ Gillard muttered. He left Harry Roy in the custody of PC Tunnicliffe, and raced back through the flat, past the dining table on which laptops phones and tablets were bagged up, ready to be removed. He ran out of the flat through the corridor to the fire escape opposite, pounded down one floor of the concrete stairwell and burst out into the hall below where, from the noise it sounded like, Zayan Lal’s flat was being demolished. A small gaggle of residents gathered round the PC at the ram-damaged doorway, asking questions and getting nowhere. They turned to Gillard as he approached.
‘What on earth has Mr Lal done?’ asked a middle-aged woman in a flowered trouser suit that could either have been bed or daywear.
He muttered a curt ‘No comment’ as he made his way in to the flat. It had been comprehensively turned over, including the double bed in the master bedroom. The heavy metal ram was sitting on the french-polished dining table, drawers had been emptied out on the floor, clothes strewn around. No crack-fixated burglar could have shown less respect.
‘Found anything?’ Gillard asked.
‘Some gay porn,’ said one smug-looking copper, potato-faced and piggy-eyed, waving a stack of DVDs.
‘It’s not a crime,’ the detective responded, suspecting that this particular PC wished it still was, so he could personally mete out justice.
‘But this is,’ piggy eyes said, cracking open a DVD case for Bath House Stallions to reveal a plastic bag of white powder.
‘That, I grant you,’ Gillard said. ‘Your unhealthy interest in porn serves you well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Where’s Platt?’
‘Went downstairs with PC Stoddard.’
Gillard plucked the smug copper’s radio from his lapel, and pressed to talk. ‘Sergeant Platt, Gillard here. Where are you?’
‘At reception. I’ve called in another van load of uniforms, assuming we are going to search the block for the suspect.’
‘Good idea. Did you check the underground car park?’
‘No. Haven’t got the manpower, but—’
‘I’ll do it.’ Gillard signed off. First he had a hunch to check. He made his way out of the flat, back to the internal fire escape, and descended one further floor to the ninth, emerging in a serenely quiet corridor. He was looking at the door of the flat immediately below Zayan Lal’s.
It was open, and wet, dirty footprints trailed out onto the wheat-coloured carpet.
Gillard sprinted for the lift, hit the button for the basement, and emerged into the car park. It was about the same size as a floor on a typical multi-storey so it took him a minute to be sure, but the yellow Mini was not there. The acrobatic Mr Lal had managed to scramble down one further balcony, and had made good his escape.
Chapter 20
Alison Rigby saw that Gillard was almost unconscious with tiredness the moment she summoned him in.
‘It’s all right, Craig, I shan’t keep you long. Please, take a seat.’ She came around from desk and sat with him at the coffee table, seeing him almost dislocating his jaw trying to stifle a yawn. ‘I’ve ordered Jason Waddington’s release. I need enough from you that we can put together a press release for the new suspect.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and was suddenly distracted. Rigby’s secretary, Tina, had come into the room with a tray laden with mugs of milky coffee and Danish pastries. They were set down on Rigby’s desk as if to torment him.
Gillard described the raid on the flats. ‘It turns out our Mr Lal is a bit of an athlete. He was once in the Lancashire youth gymnastics team, according to Harry Roy. He jumped from Harry’s balcony to his own, something he had apparently done for a dare once before. He then went back into his own flat via the sliding door, presumably then heard the sound of great big constabulary beetle crushers outside his door and thought better of it, so then came back out onto the balcony. He then clambered down to the terrace of the flat immediately below, to which he had a key as he sometimes looked after the lady’s cat.’ He paused, his eyes sliding across to the pastries.
She indicated with her hand that he should help himself and he did, taking a huge bite of the sticky Danish pastry. ‘When did you last eat, Craig?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday breakfast,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘I’ve had a bag of crisps, a cereal bar, a banana and an apple since then.’
She waited for him to finish. ‘What I need now, Craig, is a one-paragraph substantiation of Mr Lal’s motive for killing Mrs Tanvi Roy.’
‘I’m guessing, but I think he was sick of hiding in the shadows as Harry’s secret lover. This wedding would have been the end for him. With Mrs Roy out of the way, the pressure for Harry to marry would be over. Or so he thought.’
He looked at her, the intense blue gaze patrolling his face. ‘And your evidence?’
‘Right now? Nothing. Rob Townsend is leading a team searching every email and every text between Lal, Harry and Morag. If there is a conspiracy, we’ll find it.’
Rigby steepled her hands. ‘I was really hoping for something more substantial than this web of conjecture.’ She gave him the full unwavering stare, until he began to wilt. ‘Okay, Craig, for heaven’s sake go and get yourself a few hours’ sleep. I don’t want you driving in this condition, so you can use the service flat here. Tiredness like that leads to errors of judgement. And that’s the last thing we need.’
Gillard nodded and, in front of his boss, promptly dozed off.
* * *
Ten miles away, in Ashtead, DC Rob Townsend slipped quietly from Kirsty Mockett’s bed. It was their first night together, and had arisen unexpectedly from a casual drink with colleagues. Rob was a serious and studious officer, not usually the first to score with the opposite sex. The elation he felt at finding himself in the naked embrace of this beautiful woman drew its power from its rarity. But duty called. He’d had a message from Gillard asking him to get in for a nine a.m. meeting at Mount Browne, and a link to a list of all the devices seized from the homes of Harry Roy, Zayan Lal and Morag Fairburn. Desktop computers, laptops, tablets, phones and car satnavs meant a mountain of work for the electronic analysis team. They had barely begun the work on Deepak Tripathi’s devices.
He looked up, and noticed that Kirsty was eyeing him from the bed. A single beckoning finger was enough to get him to replace his phone on the bedside table and lure him back to her warmth.
* * *
Detective Inspector Claire Mulholland was leading the nine a.m. incident room meeting in Gillard’s absence.
‘I’ll keep it brief, because this is now a manhunt. We have a strong reason to believe that Zayan Lal both attempted to poison and then brutally assaulted Mrs Roy.’ She pointed to a whiteboard where some details about the man had been hurriedly scrawled in marker pen.
‘He’s thirty-one, UK citizen, lived for the last year and a half in the flat immediately beneath that of Harry Roy, his lover.’ She couldn’t help but notice the curled lip of Colin Hodges. ‘Harry Roy is being held in custody as an accessory, and we are watching the homes of Morag Fairburn and Kiara Roy in case Lal turns up there. DCI Gillard and I will be interviewing each of them later. In the meantime, we are seeking Lal’s vehicle, a distinctive yellow Mini, though if he’s got an ounce of sense he will have dumped it by now. We think we have accounted for every other vehicle in the Roy family that he may have had access to. Okay, let’s look at family and friends.’ She then rapidly ran down the list of Lal’s brothers and sisters, most of whom were grouped around the Blackburn area of Lancashire. ‘He’s got a sister in Reading, who is a catering manager, and a younger brother, who lives in Catford. I’ve called in the help of the appropriate police forces to assist us, plus British Transport Police. We have his passport, but I’ve still alerted the Border Force.�
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‘Is he considered dangerous?’ asked Michelle Tsu.
‘The press release will ask the public not to approach him. There is no history of violence, but he is desperate.’
Carl Hoskins grunted. ‘Yeah, a thirty-foot leap from one balcony to another a hundred and twenty feet off the ground. That’s the definition of desperate, innit?’ he said, turning to Hodges.
‘Spiderman, that’s what the papers will call him,’ Hodges said. ‘Caught in a web of intrigue and homosexual lust.’ He sniggered, rubbing his hands.
‘Colin, grow up,’ Claire said.
The DC turned to Hoskins and offered him a shrug which said: what did I do wrong? Hoskins put an arm around his colleague’s neck and playfully tugged his beard. ‘Dickhead.’
* * *
Gillard woke up at 10.45 a.m. in the chief constable’s bedroom at Mount Browne. Not that it really was Alison Rigby’s personal room, but it was the only one of the three rooms at the HQ to be reserved for senior staff, and she had frequently used it. After just over two hours sleep, Gillard didn’t really know what day it was, but he showered and dressed on autopilot, texting a quick apology to Sam for failing to contact her. He saw the fresh shirt and underwear from his locker draped across the chair at the foot of the bed. He didn’t remember fetching them but he must have done.
Half an hour and a bacon sandwich later he was at Epsom police station to meet DI Claire Mulholland, who had arrived at the same time as Harry Roy’s solicitor, a very well-known and expensive brief called Danny Shah. As they walked together down the corridor to the custody suite, Shah gave them a half-dozen crisp, well-argued reasons why Harry Roy should be released immediately on police bail. ‘He’s suffering a great deal of stress,’ Shah said finally.
‘How do you know? You’ve not even seen him yet,’ Gillard responded.
‘He sounded upset on the phone.’
Harry Roy was indeed a dishevelled wreck, looking worse after four hours in the cells than most people did after a week. An incipient beard had appeared almost instantly, his face was grey and pallid and his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn’t eaten anything, and according to the custody sergeant had spent a fair amount of time weeping.
Once they were all together around the interview table, the tape primed and prepped, the prisoner and his brief offered coffee, which the latter was experienced enough to refuse, they got down to business.
‘At this stage, I advise you to say nothing,’ Shah interjected, before Gillard even asked the first question.
‘Why are you holding me?’ Harry asked.
‘Because we are now convinced that Zayan Lal first poisoned then bludgeoned to death your mother. We want to know what you know about it.’
‘That’s ridiculous. He wasn’t even in the country.’ Harry turned to his solicitor. ‘They can’t hold me for this, can they?’
‘Not for too long, no,’ Shah responded.
The detectives had prepared for this denial. Claire Mulholland laid down a series of photocopies of Lal’s flight details. ‘We know you went out to Mumbai together, but he changed his return flight.’ She pointed out each stage in the back-and-forth journey.
Harry stared at the paperwork, blinking back his disbelief. ‘This can’t be right. He was visiting relatives in Orissa. He told me.’
‘I’m afraid he lied to you. This,’ she said, tapping the e-gate immigration receipt, ‘is the proof that he arrived at Gatwick on the day before she was killed, and here is his embarkation record back to Dubai on the day after her death.’
Harry’s eyes had begun to water. ‘This can’t be true. Zayan adored her. We all did.’
‘She stood in the way of him being a permanent and accepted part of your life,’ Gillard said.
‘But this doesn’t make any sense. Zayan and I had agreed—’
‘Mr Roy, please,’ Shah said, reaching for his client’s arm. ‘Just say “no comment”.’
‘No, I have to answer this calumny. Look, we had agreed to set up then sabotage this arranged marriage. He didn’t need to kill her.’
‘But after this marriage, there would be another one, and another one,’ Gillard said. ‘I think he wanted to kill off the source of his unhappiness.’
‘I will never accept that,’ Harry said.
Gillard looked at this smitten man and believed him. He would never accept the truth.
He was going to release Harry Roy. There was no better way, he figured, to lead them to their quarry than let loose the person he loved.
* * *
‘What have you found to tie this wedding planner to the murder?’
Rob Townsend looked up at Kirsty’s question as they were finishing a pizza in the canteen. Their Thursday lunchtime conversation had roamed over all kinds of subjects for the half-hour of their break. He looked into her soft brown eyes and said, ‘Nothing yet, but there’s loads to do. I’ve done all the search histories on the Roy’s family’s phones, but we’re only just getting started on their PCs and laptops at home. Since we raided Zayan Lal’s home, we’ve got all his devices to do as well.’
‘You’ll be looking for searches on thallium I suppose?’
He looked at her. ‘How do you know about that?’
She laughed. ‘I was on the CSI team that took apart Mrs Roy’s flat in Leatherhead, and sat and watched at the Guildford lab as it was tested. I’d never have guessed about a poisoned deodorant though. That’s too clever.’
‘Well, it seems Lal is a clever guy. There was no trace of thallium found in the flat, nor of anything connecting him to the murder.’
‘Did he study chemistry or anything?’
‘Not that we can trace. He did catering at college, and art. But he was also a pretty good gymnast.’ Townsend got his phone out and showed Kirsty a YouTube video of Lal, aged sixteen, competing on the parallel bars in some regional competition. ‘That’s how he got away from Gillard, by leaping across the void from one balcony to another lower one from the eleventh floor of a tower block.
‘I’d love to see a video of that,’ she laughed. ‘Gillard looks seriously fit, but this guy sounds like something else.’
Rob felt an unexpected pang over her description of the detective chief inspector. ‘There was plenty of cocaine found at Lal’s flat, enough to get him for dealing. But Gillard wants him for the big one, the murder.’
‘I bet he always gets his man,’ Kirsty said.
Provoked, Townsend struck back. ‘Sometimes the wrong one. He was all over the place in this case at first, because he mixed up the DNA evidence with some guy called Jason Waddington. Wasted a load of everyone’s time and kept us in the dark about it.’
Kirsty looked taken aback. ‘I thought you said he was a good boss?’
‘He is.’
‘So why are you slagging him off?’ She looked more offended about it than seemed reasonable.
‘What’s it to you, anyway?’
‘He was my knight in shining armour, remember? On my first day.’
Townsend, now thoroughly irritated, stood up to leave. ‘See you later.’
‘Rob, don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s nothing to be jealous about. Sit down.’
He did so, with a certain petulance. She leaned across to him, her face close to his, and whispered, ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. Come and stay with me tonight, then we can go away for the weekend, to my parents’ caravan in the New Forest. Switch off the phones, just have a weekend for us. How about that?’ The words were persuasive enough, but it was the stroking hand under the table on the crotch of his trousers that brooked no argument. He nodded his agreement, eking out an offended expression into apparent indifference.
She stood up to leave, stretching like a cat, while his eyes roamed over her.
‘Kirsty, that stuff I told you about the case. That’s just between us, okay?’
She giggled. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
He watched her as
she walked languidly away from the table. God, he was smitten.
* * *
The haul of electronic data from the Roy family and associates was keeping an entire room of specialist investigators busy. They had taken over a spare room in the forensic unit, which could house twenty people. There was quite a bit of kit in there that Gillard had never seen before, but he didn’t have the luxury of time enough to be given a tour.
‘What have you got for me, Rob?’ The detective chief inspector asked as the research intelligence officer looked over the shoulder of colleague at a screen.
Townsend looked up. ‘We found Lal’s car abandoned in a multi-storey just up the road in town.’
‘Here in Guildford?’
‘Yep. It tripped a couple of ANPR cameras and we got the exact fix from its satnav.’
‘Before you laid hands on the device?’
‘Yes. We retrieved it remotely thanks to a little tool that we borrowed from GCHQ.’
‘That’s a new one on me,’ Gillard said.
‘The chief constable intervened with a friend in Cheltenham on our behalf. I’m told we owe them a favour.’
‘And where has our suspect been?’
‘The satnav showed he passed close to Morag Fairburn’s house, stopped in an adjacent street for five minutes—’
‘Surveillance at her house didn’t report anything.’
‘I know. He’s being very careful.’
‘He might have switched cars, the old Deepak Tripathi trick,’ Gillard said. ‘Maybe Morag drove the car here.’
‘Maybe. In any case, the car hasn’t moved in five hours and forty-five minutes. We’re keeping it under surveillance in case he comes back for it.’
‘He’d be stupid to do so.’
‘Yes, but he must be running short of options,’ Townsend said. ‘We’ve got his mobile and his wallet, so he is on a pretty short piece of string. I assumed he would try to buy a burner phone, so Tracy here ran a proximity path analysis to see if we could find it. And we have.’
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