Local uniform had conducted extensive door-to-door in the area, even checking any CCTV from private households, but there had been nothing.
Then a thought struck her. She returned to the CCTV footage of Green Lanes, specifically the junction with Collins Road. There was little traffic at that time of night, mostly the occasional night bus, taxi or delivery vehicle. She sped the video up, and saw that about ten minutes after the van had disappeared down Collins Road, it reappeared on Green Lanes, travelling south back towards Islington. The driver had obviously doubled back, assuming the police would only check CCTV on the northbound lane. She followed the course of the van for another few minutes, and watched as it turned left into Foresham Grove. Foresham Grove didn’t have any CCTV, but it led to Albion Road, which stretched from Islington to Stoke Newington. The CCTV footage from Albion Road didn’t show any sign of the van. It had disappeared in Foresham Grove. Cross-referencing back to Google Maps, she clicked on Street View. The date at the bottom right of the screen said Monday 23 October 2017, so it was recent enough to ensure that little would have changed.
There was nothing significant about Foresham Grove: a row of two-up-two-down Victorian terraced houses ran along one side, a disparate mix of modern flats and tall, thin townhouses along the other. The street looked like any other quiet residential street in north London. If the driver was clever, he could have waited, then double-backed along Green Lanes assuming the police would only check vehicles travelling in one direction. On the other hand, would someone really go to that much trouble at that time of night?
She headed over to Neeraj’s desk. In the absence of Denning, he was in charge. ‘Deep, the van from the first murder. Whereabouts did we lose it?’
Neeraj had been going over witness statements from the most recent murder. There were files stacked on his desk. He dug behind them and pulled out an A5 notepad, searching back over several pages. Eventually he found what he was looking for. ‘Here we are.’ He scanned his notes. ‘Somewhere on Green Lanes. Uniform have been down there, but nobody saw anything suspicious. It’s likely he used it as a through route to get to somewhere else. We’re still waiting for the outstanding footage from the surrounding streets. Apparently there’s a hold up because someone’s been off sick. Let me get on to traffic and chase it up.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Molly. ‘I think our killer lives in Foresham Grove.’
Chapter Sixty
Simon Jackson was in his late forties, with a heavy frame, which he’d successfully managed to squeeze into an expensive designer suit. His hair was unnaturally blond, and Denning suspected the assistance of a bottle. Jackson greeted Denning with a firm handshake and a professional smile. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
Denning told him about Daniel Placzek. ‘Anything you could tell me about him would be useful.’
They walked to Jackson’s office at the back of the showroom. Denning sat on a comfy leather sofa, while Jackson sat opposite on a leather bucket chair. There were framed photographs of expensive cars on the walls: a couple of Porsches, a Lamborghini and a bright red Ferrari. A silver-plated model of 1950s Rolls Royce Silver Ghost sat on his desk. Jackson clearly liked cars.
‘You’re going back a bit,’ Jackson said, ‘I mean I only took over the lease on this land. I didn’t have anything to do with his building firm.’ He unbuttoned his jacket and his stomach swelled in his shirt. ‘He had hoped to sell the building firm as a going concern, but it was just the land I was interested in. It’s a great site: loads of passing trade, and the whole area’s come up in recent years.’
‘Why did he sell up?’
‘He’d gone bust, or so he claimed. A number of larger firms that he did contract work for had been slow in paying him. He needed to sell what he could to keep the receivers off his back.’ Jackson flashed an awkward smile. ‘He was also going through an expensive divorce at the time, which didn’t help matters.’
Denning nodded slowly, knowing all about expensive divorces. ‘What was Placzek like?’
Jackson wrinkled his brow. ‘He seemed perfectly normal: friendly, honest. I felt a bit sorry for him, if I’m honest. I got the impression he didn’t want to sell up.’
‘But he had no choice? He was in financial difficulty?’
‘Yes. Well, that’s what he told me. It’s just…’ Jackson paused, chewing his next words over in his head. ‘I met some bloke at a trade do a few years after I’d bought this place, a big-time property developer: he claimed he often used Placzek’s firm and there were a load of big jobs in the pipeline. As far as he knew, business was going great guns. Mind you, so much is about keeping up appearances. The reality could have been very different.’
He looked at Denning. ‘Can I ask what this is in connection with?’
‘We think Placzek might have had a connection with Anthony Ferguson.’
‘Ferguson? The bloke who murdered those women?’ He let the surprise work its way over his face. Even now, thought Denning, after all these years, the name Ferguson could still evoke something akin to revulsion. ‘You think Placzek knew him?’
There was a pause before Denning answered. ‘We believe they worked together.’ He was reluctant to give too much away.
‘Does this have anything to do with that story in the papers the other day?’ Jackson asked.
Denning ignored the question. ‘Do you know what happened to Placzek after he sold this place?’
‘Not a clue. Sorry. Once the deal went through I never heard from him again.’ He rubbed a hand over his belly as if he had a stomach ache. ‘You could try his ex-wife, though. She might have an idea.’
‘I don’t suppose you have an address for her?’
Johnson smiled again. ‘If she’s still living at the same address Placzek was when he sold me this place, then yes. My solicitor should have the details.’ He looked at Denning. ‘Let me give him a bell, then I’ll email it through to you.’
Denning thanked him, and stood to leave. He was about to head out of the office and back into the showroom when Jackson said, ‘Doug mentioned you were interested in the Beamer in the forecourt.’ He flashed Denning another professional smile. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to take it for a spin?’
Chapter Sixty-One
Foresham Grove was quiet at that time of day. There were a few cars parked outside the row of terraced houses, and one or two outside the flats, but mostly the street had an empty, abandoned feel about it. Like so many residential streets in London, its liveliness would come in the evening when its residents returned from work, or at weekends when neighbours would chat to one another while putting the bins out, or washing their cars.
When she’d told Neeraj what she was doing, he’d sucked his teeth and made a tutting noise, as though he was uneasy about her going off on her own bat. He reminded her that uniform had already done door-to-door down the street and come back with nothing to report.
But they hadn’t been looking for what she was looking for.
Not that she knew what that was yet, not exactly. But the van had to be here. Unless the CCTV was lying, there was nowhere else it could be. Maybe uniform hadn’t thought to ask the right questions. Or maybe they’d been too willing to accept whatever the householders had told them.
She looked along the street, from one end to the other. It didn’t look any different to what Google Street View had shown her. There was a ‘To Let’ sign attached to one of the bland, modern townhouses, and one of the terraced houses had had scaffolding up on Google Maps, which had since been taken down, but otherwise there was nothing remarkable about the street at all. Except something didn’t feel right.
If their killer did live on Foresham Grove – and it was still a very big if – then it could easily be any one of these houses, or even one of the flats in the modern, square block opposite. Uniformed police officers would have spoken to every single resident, any suspicions noted and flagged up with MIT. But according to Neeraj there had been nothing.
> Then a thought suddenly hit her. What if he didn’t live here? What if he just parked his van here and then walked to wherever he lived? But surely someone would have mentioned a parked van during the door-to-door enquiries? Unless…
She crossed the road to take a closer look at the house that was To Let. It was tall and thin, and had an integral garage. She peered through the letterbox: there was a scattering of junk mail and leaflets for local supermarkets lying in the empty hallway. A flight of carpeted stairs rose off to the right, and there looked to be a door at the end of the hallway leading to a sitting room at the back of the house. There was a fusty smell about the place, as though it hadn’t been aired for a while. She wondered how long it had been To Let for.
She twisted the handle of the garage door but it was locked.
Stepping back on the kerb, she looked up at the empty house. There was an agent’s name on the ‘To Let’ board: Newbold and Stradling. She made a note of the number. With a bit of luck their office wouldn’t be too far away.
* * *
The girl sitting behind the desk introduced herself as Bernice and looked like she’d probably just left school. She threw Molly a confused look when she asked about the townhouse on Foresham Grove.
The Islington office of Newbold and Stradling was laid out more like a trendy restaurant than an estate agency. There was a counter in one corner, with fridges stacked with drinks behind it, and a comfy seating area by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Molly had been greeted by a large computer screen opposite the front door as soon as she’d walked in, which flashed up images of expensive properties and their price per calendar month.
‘Oh, here it is,’ Bernice said. ‘I’d forgotten we still had it.’ She turned the computer monitor round to show Molly. She touched a thumbnail image of the property and the details flashed up on the screen. ‘Three-bed, two bath, one en suite,’ she read, ‘kitchen, two receptions and a garage. There’s also a lovely patio garden.’ She pointed to a picture of a tiny courtyard space, bedecked with tubs and climbing roses. ‘It was on for £2500 pcm.’
‘Was?’
‘We let it about six weeks ago. The sign should have been taken down by now. I’ll get someone on to that.’
She had a sweet sing-song voice and wore too much make-up for someone so young. Molly suppressed the urge to advise her that less was more when it came to applying the war paint, unless she wanted people to think she was a transvestite. Instead, she said, ‘I need to know who it’s been let to.’
Bernice swivelled the screen back round to her side of the desk, and peered curiously at the details on the screen. ‘It says Lance Grady.’ She looked at Molly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember him. There’s a contact mobile number and email address for him, but not a lot else I’m afraid. I could check his file; that might tell us more.’
Molly indicated that she would appreciate it if she could. Bernice picked up the receiver, pressed a button and asked for someone called Marge. She nodded and said ‘hmm’ a couple of times, then put the receiver down. ‘We can dig out his file and email through scanned copies of the paperwork, if that’s any help.’
Molly took a note of the contact details for Lance Grady, and asked if the file could be emailed through that afternoon. Bernice nodded her assent. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘We think Mr Grady may be connected to an ongoing murder investigation,’ Molly said.
Bernice’s mouthed opened to form an O. ‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘I’m sure if we’d known that, we’d never have agreed to let the property to him in the first place.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Denning found the address Jackson gave him. It was a tree-lined street not far from Greenwich Park. The houses were mostly large detached and semi-detached properties set slightly back from the road. Late Victorian or early Edwardian, Denning reckoned, with large gardens and off-street parking. It was the kind of place Sarah wanted them to move into, assuming their combined incomes could manage to meet the massive mortgage payments necessary to own such a property.
14 Weston Avenue was one of the semi-detached properties. The driveway was large enough to contain two cars comfortably, but it was bereft of cars. It was possible Placzek’s ex-wife no longer lived there – she may well have remarried and moved away.
He rang the doorbell and waited for an answer. After a moment a woman in her early forties answered the door. She eyed Denning curiously before he flashed his warrant card and explained who he was.
‘Mrs Placzek?’
The woman did a double-take at the mention of the name. ‘Jesus, I haven’t been called that in years.’ She shot Denning a quizzical look. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can I come in? I need to talk to you about your ex-husband.’
She glanced in the direction of her neighbours, seemed happy that nobody was watching, and let Denning in.
The house was airy and well-furnished, with tasteful Chinese rugs on the floor and gilt-framed pictures on the walls. She showed Denning into the sitting room.
‘I’m Angela Patterson now,’ she said. ‘I went back to using my maiden name.’ She sat down on one of the two large sofas, which were arranged around an ornate marble fireplace, and indicated for Denning to do the same. ‘If this is about Daniel, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him in years.’
Angela Patterson was well dressed, in a light summer frock with a silky scarf draped over her shoulders. She had a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals on her feet: Sarah had several similar pairs in her wardrobe. She smiled a lot when she spoke, flashing immaculate white teeth.
‘Do you know where he might be?’
She gave a light shake of her head. ‘Not a clue, sorry.’ She shot Denning the same quizzical look she’d given him when she’d opened the door to him. ‘I don’t think you said why you want to see him?’
He liked her directness – not aggressive, just straight to the point. ‘It’s in connection with an ongoing murder inquiry.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Do you know if he had anything to do with a man called Anthony Ferguson?’
She looked shocked, her hand going to her scarf, tugging at it unconsciously. ‘The name sounds vaguely familiar, but to be honest with you he knew so many people, especially in connection with the business. I’m afraid I can’t place him.’ She stopped fiddling with her scarf. ‘What has Daniel got to do with a murder inquiry?’
Denning didn’t think there would be any harm in giving her the whole story. When he had finished she looked blankly back at him. ‘I don’t believe this. Daniel never had anything to do with those murders. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t exactly have the happiest of marriages, but he was never violent. And I can’t imagine he would have associated with someone who was capable of that.’
‘We know that Anthony Ferguson and Daniel worked together at the time of the original murders. We also now know there were two men involved.’
‘And you really think Daniel was this other man?’
Denning shot her an imploring look. ‘That’s why we need to speak to him as a matter of urgency. We need to eliminate him from our enquiries if he’s innocent.’
‘And if he’s not…?’
Denning left the question unanswered. ‘What happened to him after you divorced?’
She gave an easy shrug. ‘How the hell would I know? I was just glad to be shot of him,’ She looked at Denning. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t hate him, not really. It was just that he changed. Well, I suppose we both changed, but in Dan’s case it wasn’t for the better.’
‘Go on.’
Her face dropped. He noticed she was no longer smiling at him.
‘When we met he was just a normal builder. He worked for a firm in Kent, worked wherever they sent him. I’m an accountant, so we had a good life. We weren’t loaded, or anything, but we were comfortably off. But Dan wanted more. He set up on his own; I did the books and sorted out all the paperwork that goes with running a small business, while he went out and got the contra
cts. Then everything changed. He changed. He became more… I don’t know – ruthless, I suppose. Money and status suddenly became important to him. We bought this house with a mortgage that was way too much for us. He began chasing bigger and bigger orders. Unfortunately some of these big boys are slow to part with their cash. We ended up with a cash-flow problem, for which he blamed me. I told him I was an accountant not a bloody magician: if these bastards weren’t going to pay up when we asked them then there was bugger all I could do about it.’ She began to fidget, twisting a ruby ring on her middle finger, turning it over and over as the memories poked through the barricade she’d erected to keep them out. ‘It wasn’t a good time for us. Not just professionally, but on a personal level too.’ She looked awkwardly at Denning, who smiled and nodded, encouraging her to continue. ‘Dan always wanted children, but I didn’t. We used to argue about that, and with the business getting into difficulty, one thing led to another.’ She continued to twist the ruby ring as though she was unscrewing a bottle top. ‘I had an affair and Dan found out. He went ballistic: I’d never seen him in such a rage. But he was never violent; it was all just shouts and the odd threat, but nothing physical. He just wasn’t that kind of man.’
How many times had Denning heard that phrase? Rapists whose wives insisted their husbands weren’t violent; neighbours who swore blind the paedophile living next door was a paragon of virtue, or the workmates who insisted there was no way the quiet bloke who sat opposite them every day could be a terrorist. He’d learned that people who were guilty of criminal behaviour rarely advertised what they were.
Know No Evil Page 27