by Lee Weeks
‘He said he didn’t know her well. She was his wife’s friend. She was a very private person, nervous around men. They were never in a position where she would think of opening up.’
‘He said that, did he? That’s not what I heard,’ said Robbo. ‘I heard Louise and Chrissie became friends via Carmichael. Chrissie was someone he met when he was in the SBS. She was called out to an emergency and they met then, kept in touch. Maybe her father James Martingale will know. Although I doubt it. I don’t think Chrissie Newton got on with her dad.’
Ebony was thinking things through; she had that horrible feeling that she’d been lied to.
Robbo enlarged a photo on the PC screen.
‘How would you like to look like that at sixty-eight? This is James Martingale.’
‘Very Pierce Brosnan,’ said Carter.
Robbo scrolled down the screen:
‘I’ve been finding out about him. He donates huge amounts to research facilities in universities around the UK. He’s a very wealthy man. I’ve found pages and pages on Google; none of which says anything personal. I haven’t come across any angry clients or court cases but, I did see an interesting guest list for the last annual dinner party for the top brass of Martingale’s Mansfield Group. Guess who was on the top table?’
Carter shook his head.
Robbo’s eyes opened wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He mouthed, ‘Davidson.’
‘Shit. You’re joking.’
Robbo shook his head, grinning. ‘I would say he’s been offered a very lucrative deal to sit on the board when he retires. Any trouble, he’s going to be able to sort it with his old pals he’s made over the years in the Force. When it comes to licensing or planning permission, for instance. If you’re an ex-chief superintendent in the MET people are going to listen to you.’
‘No shit . . .’
‘He’s not the only one that Martingale is courting. Harding has received quite a bit over the years from Martingale and the Chrissie Newton Foundation.’ Robbo brought up a Google search. Top surgeon donates new dialysis machine to NHS hospital. ‘He gives a lot of laboratory equipment to Doctor Harding and her Pathology unit.’
‘No wonder Davidson’s not so keen on reopening the case . . . embarrassing to haul your prospective boss over the coals,’ said Carter. ‘But what’s happening about the surveillance on Digger’s club . . . any news about Sonny?’
‘We’re hoping to move cameras into the flat opposite: it’ll take two days to get permission and set up. We should have a good chance of finding Sonny. I’ve managed to get quite a lot of info on him from various UCs working on drugs seizures in the last two years. He has a big coke habit. Sonny’s a party animal. He does the circuit of all the clubs almost every night. Sometimes see him with a woman . . . different one every time.’
‘What about in his organization?’
Robbo shook his head. ‘He works alone at this end but he relies on a network of agents and couriers and sub-lieutenants around here and Eastern Europe. He finds a safe house to bring the girls in, stays in it for a few months, then finds somewhere else.’ Robbo handed round photos of Sonny taken from surveillance cameras and CCTV footage. His black leather jacket and broad shoulders were recognizable in most of the photos. ‘He’s a big fish in a small pond: a creature of habit. Sonny goes to see Digger most evenings as he makes his rounds of the dealers and the lap dancing clubs. Over the years he’s built up a close relationship with Digger. Plus Digger was a great pal of Sonny’s father.’
‘Maybe there’s a father-son relationship going on there?’ said Jeanie.
‘Maybe, but I doubt either of them goes so far as to actually feel affection. Both of them have been linked to violent crimes in the past. Here’s a picture of Digger.’
Robbo gave them a photo of a slim, dark-haired man in his sixties coming out of Cain’s.
‘Smart-looking guy.’ said Carter, ‘he’s got the same look as Martingale.’
‘Yeah, definitely. In his early days Digger could have given Tony Curtis a run for his money in the looks department – now he’s more of an ageing Dirk Bogarde. An immaculate dresser. His suits are made in Savile Row; his shoes handmade in Italy. Digger has pretensions of being a tumble-down-toff but it had never been proven. His mother was a colourful figure in Soho. She ran one of the first high-class call girl rings. She supplied London’s rich and famous with girls. She made enough money to send Digger to private school and he went on to Oxford to study English, but he came back to his roots in the end.’
‘What’s his sexuality?’ asked Jeanie.
‘Digger likes slim nubile boys.’ He placed another photo on the desk. It was one of Sonny and Digger together walking towards Sonny’s car on Brewer Street.
‘Digger keeps Sonny in business. Digger says he doesn’t take trafficked girls any more but he’s lying. He doesn’t put them on show any more, but he has escort agencies and brothels that spring up all over the place. Sources say that Sonny just gets the girls then unloads them and gets another lot. Digger does the rest. He puts them to work.’
‘And,’ said Carter, ‘Sonny’s also been responsible for breaking the girls when they get here: it’s a good explanation why Silvia was carrying his child. Do you have an address for him, Robbo?’
‘Yes . . . Lives with his mum in Southwark. At least, he gives that address.’
‘Is Martingale here in the UK?’ Carter pressed for a print out of the photo of Martingale. ’
‘Yes, he is at the moment. He’s working out of his hospital, the Mansfield, in Hammersmith.’
‘Well, while we wait for the surveillance on Sonny to be organized, we’ll pay Martingale a visit – see if he can tell us any more about his daughter.’
‘Will we need to get permission from Davidson, Sarge?’ asked Ebony.
‘If you ask . . . you won’t get,’ said Robbo.
‘Better not to ask then,’ Carter grinned. ‘Let’s go. Rock ‘n’ Roll, Ebb.’
Chapter 18
It was five p.m. when Carter and Ebony drove into a broad well-maintained car park. The snow had been cleared and piled into the corners. Perfectly even-sized pine trees bordered the car park. They looked as if they’d been ordered from a catalogue and arrived fully grown. There were a few cars in the staff and consultants’ section, half a dozen more in the patients’ ample parking area.
‘Not like your NHS car parks. What did Robbo say this place specializes in, Ebb?’
‘It’s a general private hospital, Sarge. You can come here if you need a facelift or bypass surgery, but the Mansfield Group is best known for private cosmetic work.’
They walked across to the entrance, up the steps and through two sets of glass doors. The lady on the reception desk had Ivy Morell on her name badge.
‘Ivy. Beautiful name.’ Carter smiled at her and showed his warrant card. She blushed like a schoolgirl. ‘You mind telling Mr Martingale we’re here to see him please, Ivy?’
She showed them through to a waiting area where Nikki, Martingale’s PA, greeted them. She was perfectly groomed, her hair swept back into a sleek chignon. Carter was captivated. She was not interested. Ebony watched amused as she realized that Carter had a thing for ice maidens.
‘Mr Martingale will see you now.’
Ebony watched her as she hovered in the doorway. She didn’t take her eyes from her boss. There was only one man she cared about. Carter would be disappointed.
‘Thank you for seeing us, sir.’
Martingale’s office was dark walnut and heavy leather. His desk was in front of a wall of windows with integral louvred blinds, adjusted to allow the right amount of sunlight into the room. A single orchid was just beginning to flower pale pink. He sat back in his Italian leather chair and swivelled it slightly back and forth as he watched them enter. He had a handsome, lightly tanned face which was creased with deep laughter lines, and thick salt and pepper hair. His cuffs were rolled up and he wore a platinum sports Rolex on his wrist, its blue fa
ce bright against the silver hairs on his arm. He had the look of a man between rounds of golf.
‘I am happy to help. Please sit down. I must apologize, though . . .’ Martingale smiled. ‘I have a full list today in theatre and a patient being prepped at the moment so I can give you ten minutes. What is it about?’
‘I appreciate that . . . we won’t keep you long . . . we just thought we should update you on recent events that have relevance to your daughter’s case.’
Martingale pressed a button: ‘Hold all my calls and stall theatre for me please.’ He turned back to Carter. ‘Please do go on. I’ve waited a long time for news about my daughter’s case. Did you find fresh evidence?’
‘We have a connection to it. The body of a woman and an infant have been found murdered at a house north of London.’
‘Is the woman connected to Chrissie in some way?’
‘We don’t know yet: we haven’t been able to identify her. We are not sure whether she’s from the UK. She could possibly be a trafficked victim brought over here to work in the clubs.’
‘So what is it that connects her to my daughter’s murder?’
‘We found a fingerprint that matches one from Rose Cottage. It’s early days but it means that whoever killed your daughter is here in London.’
‘And still killing.’
‘Yes.’
Martingale sat deep in thought.
‘I appreciate it’s a shock, sir; a reminder of what happened; but it’s also a chance for us to catch them this time.’
‘I hope so. What do you want me to do?’
‘We just need to ask you some questions. We want to take a fresh look at events thirteen years ago. Reading the notes isn’t the same as getting it from the horse’s mouth . . . as it were . . .’
‘Is the case being reopened? Did Chief Superintendent Davidson send you?’
‘No, sir. Chief Superintendent Davidson didn’t send us. I am in charge of re-examining the facts surrounding the case but we are not re-opening it at this time. He believes we will get the best results from solving the current case. I just wanted to make sure you were kept informed from the beginning.’
‘Okay . . . well . . . thank you. Tell Davidson I will be only too pleased to help.’
‘That’s very kind. I just want to go over a few things with you. Did you then or in the last thirteen years ever think that you might have stumbled on a reason why Chrissie was murdered?’
‘No. I will never understand it. She was a young woman beginning a career that she’d studied hard for. She had a new baby; she’d just started on life’s journey. I could not and I cannot think of a reason why someone would kill her.’
‘What about her baby son Adam – he survived Rose Cottage and the attack. Do you ever see your grandson?’
‘Unfortunately not. I would have loved to have him live with me but my daughter and I were not on the best of terms at the time of her death.’
‘Where is Adam now?’
While Carter asked the questions Ebony looked out of the window. She watched a taxi turn into the car park and head round to the back of the hospital out of view.
‘I can’t help you there, I’m sorry. I don’t know.’
‘But you must have some contact of some kind.’
‘I am sent an update every year and I pay into a fund for his schooling and his welfare. He will always be well provided for. I hope that one day he will ask to see me and get to know me.’
‘How did that happen?’ Ebony asked, speaking for the first time. ‘Did Christine make a will saying he wasn’t to live with you?’
‘Not quite.’ Martingale allowed a little frost to creep into his voice. ‘She named Louise Carmichael as her first choice of guardian in the event of her death. Failing that, Adam was to be put up for adoption.’ Martingale eased his strained expression slightly. ‘I cannot tell you how much it has troubled me that my daughter and I did not have the best of relations when she died. I thought we would have time to make up for all those lost years. I left it too late. I threw myself into my work after her mother left and, as she made it so difficult for me to see Chrissie, I gave up too easily. Her mother Maria was a troubled soul. She kept my daughter from me all those years.’
‘What was Chrissie like?’ asked Ebony.
‘She was a steady girl. She wasn’t beautiful like Maria. But Maria’s looks never brought her happiness. Looks are overrated.’ His eyes stayed on Ebony.
‘When you attended Louise and Sophie Carmichael’s funeral, Mr Martingale, did you meet Callum Carmichael then?’ asked Carter.
‘I think so. The police officer? Yes . . . I did, briefly: tall, military type. I went there to pay my respects. I didn’t stay long. I felt for him . . . such a tragedy. I remember he stood silent. No emotions. No feelings. In shock, I suppose.’
‘Must have been a very difficult time for you all,’ said Carter.
‘The most stressful time in my life . . . terrible.’
‘Mr Martingale, did you ever think that with all your success you might have made enemies?’ Carter asked. Ebony had gone quiet.
‘It would be impossible for me to say categorically no. But I can’t see why I would have . . . but people sometimes don’t understand what you’re trying to do, trying to achieve.’
‘You’ve built an empire, haven’t you? Hospitals all over the world?’
Martingale smiled, embarrassed. ‘I feel proud of what my team and I have achieved but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it an empire.’
‘Do you have any other businesses apart from the Mansfield group?’
‘All my other business enterprises are connected with the hospitals.’
‘Would that be research, that kind of thing?’
Martingale was half watching Ebony as Carter asked the questions. He could see her eyes taking in every detail of the room.
‘Research? Yes.’ Martingale answered. ‘That is exactly the kind of thing.’ He smiled at Carter. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to set up a company and manage supplies and sourcing machinery, transporting goods et cetera oneself. Sometimes it’s necessary to run the whole show from start to finish to get the job done properly, wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?’
Ebony switched her attention back to Martingale. ‘Totally.’ Carter nodded enthusiastically. ‘Is it possible to have a list of those companies you’re involved in then, sir?’ Martingale looked a little surprised at the request. ‘It’s just that we have to consider the possibility that these murderers have followed you here. We want to keep you safe.’
‘Of course. I’ll get my accountant, Justin, to prepare that for you. It will take a few days.’
‘Just a profile, an overall picture . . . if you wouldn’t mind.’
His PA knocked and entered as Carter asked: ‘One last thing, sir; I appreciate you’re a very busy man. Have you ever heard of a person going by the name of Chichester?’
Martingale shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘What about Digger Cain or Sonny Ferguson?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of those names.’
‘Mr Martingale . . . I’m sorry to interrupt. The patient is deteriorating. He’s quite poorly.’
‘Okay. I’m coming. Please excuse me.’ Martingale turned to them with a professional smile. ‘It’s an emergency. One of my staff’s children is in need of an appendectomy.’ He opened a box on the desktop and took out a business card. ‘Here is my private number.’ He gave the card to Carter. ‘Please feel free to ring or call in here at any time and please keep me informed. My PA will see you out.’
Carter thanked him and they followed Nikki back past reception. ‘Sorry, Miss? I didn’t catch your surname? You worked for Mr Martingale long?’ he asked.
‘Nikki de Lange. Yes . . . I have, a long time.’
‘You have a slight South African accent, don’t you?’ said Ebony.
‘Ah . . . can you hear it?’
‘It’s only faint.’ Ebony tried not to stare but
she wondered why anyone who looked as beautiful as Nikki de Lange ever messed up their face with surgery as she obviously had. The thing was, it had become too perfect. It was expressionless. It could have been sixteen or sixty. ‘Did you travel with him from South Africa?’ she asked, trying to stop staring.
‘Yes, I am his personal assistant. I travel with him wherever he goes.’
‘Must be like being married to the job.’ Carter looked back and smiled. Nikki de Lange had come to a halt by the hospital doors.
‘My husband doesn’t mind. He comes too. He’s Justin de Lange, Mr Martingale’s accountant.’
‘It’s a family affair,’ smiled Carter as he thanked her and shook her hand.
They walked back across the car park.
‘What did you think of Martingale?’ he asked Ebony.
‘He’s very self-absorbed; loves himself. Thinks he’s God.’
‘Controlling?’
‘Yes, but I guess you have to be a bossy type if you’re a surgeon.’ She glanced across at Carter as they walked. ‘He’ll tell Davidson we came to see him.’
‘I know. But what can Davidson say, Ebb? This was just a friendly visit, wasn’t it? Only polite to keep him informed. Did you see his watch . . . big money, Ebb. He’s slick.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Expensive threads. Smooth finish. Bit of a Don Juan, don’t you think?’
She looked across at Carter. ‘Who?’
Carter looked back surprised for a few seconds. Then laughed. ‘Don’t you know your classics? Casanova: sophisticated. Ladies’ man.’
‘Yeah . . . probably. He doesn’t look like a man who ever does things spontaneously. Never flustered, always calm.’
‘That’s the key to him maybe. We’ll push him for that list later on today and we’ll get Robbo onto it. Martingale’s got to have an Achilles heel, everyone does. It might be money or women . . . yeah . . . he looks like a man who could be driven by pleasure – what do you think, Ebb?’
‘His PA definitely loves him. I get the feeling she was hovering outside the door waiting to rescue him from us.’