Wrongful Death

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Oh, he’s harmless but he’s got no friends as such. Apparently, he’s got some form of ADHD.’

  Anna’s earlier suspicions about Jack were right. She knew that the reality was that many kids would never give the likes of Jack Brennan a chance, or make an effort to be friends with him.

  ‘Did you tell the police or FBI about Mandy and the key ring?’ she asked.

  ‘No, ’cause I never knew if she did buy it or not and they never asked me about what we did before she decided to go off.’

  Anna realized that poor investigation skills had meant the camera key ring had been overlooked, and that if Mandy had bought the gadget for someone else then that could be the person who abducted and possibly killed her. She doubted that the killer would still have possession of it and suspected it was long since disposed of, or lay with Mandy’s body, wherever it might be.

  Driving out of the mall, Anna felt more at ease with Dewar’s powerful Mustang as she looked for the directions back to the I-95, thinking about her meeting with the Andersons and how cruel life had been to them. She glanced down at her map to find that the I-95 was signposted as a right turn and then looking up suddenly saw the red traffic light in front of her. There was no cross traffic, and Anna could, under the local traffic laws, legally make the right turn through the red light, but she panicked and slammed on the brakes.

  The driver behind had not slowed because the way was clear and was expecting the Mustang to turn right. Anna felt something slam into the rear of the car, causing her neck to snap back and then jolt forward and banging her forehead on the steering wheel. For a terrifying moment, she thought she was about to pass out.

  The driver behind was a middle-aged woman who was thankfully understanding about Anna’s naïve knowledge of the traffic laws, and mercifully the only damage appeared to be to the bumpers of both cars. Anna suspected she had mild whiplash and concussion, but was more worried about Dewar’s Mustang and how she was going to explain what had happened. Langton, she thought, would go ape-shit. A member of the public had already called the local police and an ambulance on witnessing the incident. Noticing that she was unsteady on her feet from the knock to her head, the driver of the other car sat Anna down on the roadside.

  By then, Anna was in floods of tears, completely distraught and confused about what to do and panic-stricken about the damage to Dewar’s precious car. And so she phoned the only person she could think of helping her: Don Blane.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Blane arrived at the scene of the accident it seemed to Anna that her knight in shining armour had come. She had managed to calm herself down while the attending ambulance crew tried to persuade her that she should go to the local hospital for a check-over but she insisted that apart from a stiff neck and headache she would be okay. The local police were very understanding and knew Blane well, and after he’d had a quiet word with them they agreed not to investigate the incident any further. He also called a garage repairman that he knew who agreed to fix the bumpers on both cars, and to tow away the Mustang to repair the damage as soon as possible. The man said he’d have it done by the end of next week, though a new chrome bumper would be noticeably shiny.

  The lady who had gone into the back of Anna was quite distressed but Don calmed her down, gave her the address for his friend’s garage and said he would pay for the damage.

  Blane told Anna he would take her back to the Academy and whether she liked it or not she was to get some stuff together and stay in his guest room so he could keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t have a relapse or dizzy turn.

  ‘I’m fine, Don, and I don’t want to put you out,’ Anna protested, rubbing her neck. ‘I’m sure you’ve better things to do with your weekend than look after me. I also need to do my profile CV and work on the Mandy Anderson case file.’

  He looked at her and shook his head disapprovingly. ‘No you don’t, they can wait. Some rest is what you need right now, so don’t argue with me.’

  Left with little choice but actually not displeased, back at the Academy, Anna went to her room and packed the FBI-issue holdall with some overnight stuff and her wash bag. She tried ringing Langton again but as before it cut straight to voicemail. At first she was concerned for his wellbeing and worried that something might have happened to him, but then considered it more likely that the silly bugger had forgotten to take his phone charger with him. Anna looked at the Anderson case file on her desk, briefly thought about leaving it behind, then put it into the holdall along with her laptop. Any attempt to pick up the now-full holdall caused her to wince at the sharp pain, so she had little option but to drag it along the floor to the lift. Waiting there, she was approached by Beth Jackson, the Los Angeles detective from the room next to her.

  ‘Hi, there’s a group of us going out tonight, we’re meeting in the reception area at seven, if you’d like to join us.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Beth, I had a bit of an accident earlier and I don’t feel—’

  Beth cut her off: ‘Yeah, whatever. Have a nice evening, wherever it may be.’

  The detective clearly didn’t believe her as she had the holdall beside her, with her pyjamas poking through the half-closed zip. Anna tried to explain but Beth ignored her and just walked off towards her room.

  Blane was waiting on the ground floor. As he picked up the holdall he caught sight of the case file, looked at Anna and smiled.

  ‘You need to rest, not work.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just thought if I couldn’t sleep then I should do something productive.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal. You have a bath then relax while I cook dinner. The Anderson case can be discussed while we eat, then after dinner it’s rest time.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Anna replied, and held up her hand to shake on it.

  ‘Sally and Peter thought you were wonderful and very understanding. Thanks for being open and honest with them,’ Blane said.

  ‘They were lovely people and I can see exactly why they care deeply for you,’ Anna said, deliberately making her feelings of gratitude clear. He said nothing, and Anna hoped that it was just because he was shy.

  After half an hour’s driving along the main road, Blane turned off onto a dirt track just outside of Woodbridge. The track narrowed and eventually cut through woodland comprising tall fir, cedar and pine trees, the fragrant scent wafted into the car filling it with a relaxing atmosphere. Rays of sunlight cut through the branches and the woodland became denser as they drove on. Soon Anna could see a clearing leading to a shoreline, with a small boathouse and jetty. As they drove into the clearing there appeared a beautiful raised two-storey red cedar log cabin that overlooked the bay.

  ‘You live here?’ Anna asked, amazed at the peaceful surroundings and stunning views across Belmont Bay and the Potomac River.

  ‘It’s sort of a home from home,’ Blane said and then explained that although he had an apartment in Woodbridge he liked to come out to the cabin at weekends. Anna laughed when he said that his colleagues at work called him the weekend hermit.

  Blane carried Anna’s bag up the wooden steps and opened the double doors. The inside was open-plan with high A-framed beamed ceilings, and exuded a cosy welcoming charm. There was a large wood-burning fireplace with an old stone chimney, and a deep wood-framed sofa and chairs placed in front of it. The wooden floors and walls were partially covered with Native American rugs. The dining area was to one side, with a circular table made from blocks of wood that were laid together in a basket weave pattern with six matching chairs. To the side of the table, wide French windows allowed a stunning view across the bay, and led out to the deck area where there was a wooden picnic table, log chairs and a hammock.

  Blane told Anna that the master bedroom was upstairs, along with an en-suite bathroom. She could see that the upstairs was also open-plan and built in a balcony style that overlooked the downstairs.

  Anna noticed there was another bedroom downstairs with a bathroom beside it. Blane su
ggested that Anna could have the upstairs room but she told him not to be silly as she was perfectly happy to sleep downstairs. Reminding her she was his guest, he carried her bags upstairs. The bedroom was stunning and full of natural light from the windows and a door that opened out to a balcony. The four-poster bed was positioned so that you could lie and take in the view across the bay.

  Anna, totally overwhelmed by the breathless beauty of the cabin and its surroundings, somehow managed to thank Blane for his thoughtfulness and hospitality.

  Smiling, he told Anna to make herself at home and that although the place was very ‘olde worlde’, technology had caught up with it and there was hot running water, electricity and even Internet and mobile phone connections, though the signal could be weak or slow at times.

  ‘Even better.’ Anna grinned.

  Langton lay in his cabin on board the FBI’s converted Mirage power-yacht and looked at his watch. It was nearly six p.m. on Saturday evening. He felt completely frustrated at having spent the previous night and most of the day cooped up in the command and control room, only able to watch the outside world and the interior of the suspect’s villa on an array of LCD monitors. He had tried to get some sleep during the night but the small cabin he shared was uncomfortable, and the top bunk bed he’d been given was far too small, the gap between the ceiling and his nose only about eight inches.

  Try as he might he just couldn’t sleep due the anticipation of finally arresting Fitzpatrick. It didn’t help that his cabin was directly below the on-deck Jacuzzi, and the sound of the cavorting undercover officers laughing and splashing around kept him awake as well. Looking at his watch again he found that only three minutes had elapsed. The latest information was that their suspect Fitzpatrick was not expected to turn up until after sunset, which wasn’t until eight p.m., and if anything did start to happen, someone would come and get him.

  Langton thought about the events that had occurred since they had set sail from Miami. There was nothing positive or even remotely encouraging to suggest Fitzpatrick would definitely show up and there was always the possibility it was not even him. Langton knew that the FBI had tapped into the villa’s landline but no calls of any interest had been recorded and no one apart from the young boy and the Hispanic-looking woman had come or gone from the property all day. They were picking up a mobile-phone signal coming from the villa but encryption equipment was being used so they could not hear the conversation. Jack Deans had told Langton this was a positive sign as it was a known method popular with drug dealers to prevent law enforcement agencies from listening to their calls.

  Langton glanced at his watch again; in total eight minutes had passed since he last looked. God, was he bored. He finally had just dozed off when he was disturbed by a knock at the door, and one of the FBI agents entered. Without thinking he went to sit up and banged his head on the cabin ceiling and swore under his breath.

  ‘Detective Langton, sorry to disturb you, but Director Deans thought you’d want to be woken. There’s just been a call on the villa landline to a pizza joint. The young boy has ordered two extra-large with sides to be delivered. A big order for him and the housekeeper so we figure he’s expecting company.’

  ‘Thanks, I will be up in a minute,’ Langton replied as he got down from the bunk bed and, checking his watch, saw that it was 8.30 p.m.

  In the control room, the LCD screens were showing the jetty area. Langton realized that because of the darkness, the surveillance team had switched to specialist night vision cameras, which detected and amplified any available light so an image could be displayed, albeit in black and white with a green aura. He knew that this would make it more difficult for him to recognize Fitzpatrick, plus the night-camera lens would make the suspect’s eyes a reflective white.

  Jack Deans pointed to a screen that had a satellite view of the Florida coastline on it as he spoke into his head mike.

  ‘Intensify earlier satellite image to close-up,’ he said, as the picture zoomed inward from the skies like something on Google Earth. ‘This was taken while it was still light. Can’t make out who’s on board but close enough to track her and she’s heading our way.’

  Langton couldn’t believe how good the picture quality was as a large powerboat came into view, bouncing along the sea at a high speed. A navigational indicator in the top right of the screen showed the boat’s speed and that its distance from them was twenty-two miles south.

  ‘Obviously, as it turned dark the picture was lost. We’ve got a helicopter following them.’ Deans said.

  ‘Won’t they see it from the boat?’ Langton asked.

  ‘Not unless they’ve got eyes like Superman – it’s a Sikorsky Black Hawk, heavily modified with stealth technology and flying three miles above them. They were used in the raid to take out Osama Bin Laden. Switch to the Black Hawk’s thermal-imaging camera,’ Deans ordered into his mike and a multicoloured image in the shape of the speedboat came up on the screen. Deans explained that the camera picked up heat and colourized objects that emitted thermal radiation. Langton knew exactly what the director was talking about as the Met’s helicopters had the same equipment. He suspected that Deans was just showing off to his men and decided to let him ramble on.

  ‘The reds, yellow and white in the picture are heat sources and the cooler objects are the blues, purple and green. From the movement of the yellows, we think there are three people on board,’ Deans explained.

  Langton was amazed at what he was witnessing and shuddered to think what it all cost. ‘Are you going to use the Navy to stop the boat once it enters the canal waterways?’ he asked.

  ‘No, too risky,’ Deans told him. ‘I want him to moor the boat and be on terra firma when we take him out. He mustn’t make it into the villa; the last thing I want is a siege situation. So we’re dependent on you to make the ID.’

  Langton prayed that the man he blamed for destroying his promotion and making a fool of him was on board the boat. He didn’t doubt his ability to recognize him again, even if he’d had more plastic surgery; it was the fact that he would have to make a split-second decision from a night-vision camera picture that worried him. He stood and waited in silence as the satellite tracked the boat’s movement towards them, the distance to go now ten miles.

  Langton heard the sound of a doorbell and wondered where it had come from, before he realized it was from within the villa. He looked up at the screens, one showing the boy moving towards the front door and an exterior camera showing a pizza-delivery boy ringing the bell. Deans explained that the delivery boy was one of their agents, dubbed ‘Baby Face’ after the notorious 1930s public enemy Baby Face Nelson. Langton wondered why on earth the FBI agents so often used nicknames. He forced a smile but in reality it was to hide his anxiety as he saw the boat had entered the inland waterway and was less than a mile away. Langton’s stomach churned with the knowledge that within minutes he might hold Fitzpatrick’s future in the palm of his hand. It struck him that he hoped that the SWAT team didn’t shoot the dealer. He’d far rather look him in the eye, slap on the cuffs and tell him he’d been nicked, as he had done with every scumbag he had arrested over the last thirty-two years of his police service. Langton had never carried a firearm, or been on a unit that was trained to, and he was glad that was the case. He had only ever carried a truncheon and used it as a last resort.

  Now he could hear a voice over the radio speaking in phonetic code, and from the background sound he suspected it was the pilot of the helicopter giving the boat’s position. Then there came the deep throbbing of a boat’s engine and the gurgling of bubbling water as it taxied towards them. The control room was eerily silent, until Deans spoke.

  ‘Teams Alpha One and Two, take positions. You go on my command.’

  Langton could see out through the one-way glass onto the boat deck, to where five SWAT team officers crawled on their bellies with their weapons, while the man dressed in the Arab outfit cavorted with two girls on a sofa and the others played in the J
acuzzi. Deans beckoned Langton over to him and a close-up picture of the boat appeared on the largest screen.

  ‘As soon as you recognize him, I’ll give the command to go.’

  Langton had faced many frightening situations in his career, even being close to death when he was stabbed in the stomach. But now he felt unbelievably tense as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He was conscious that others in the room might notice but then realized that everyone was focused on the screen as the boat drew up alongside the jetty. The man piloting the boat was Mexican-looking, as was the other man on the deck. Langton was thankful this was the case as he recalled Deans saying there were only three people on board.

  A tall white man appeared on the deck of the target boat, at least six feet four, wearing a turtleneck sweater, jeans and a baseball cap. On the night-vision camera his clothing seemed all black apart from his white trainers,

  ‘Yes or no?’ Deans asked Langton as the camera zoomed into the man’s face.

  Langton stepped nearer to the screen but frustratingly the peak of the man’s cap was pulled low, almost touching his nose. The camera started to zoom in even closer but the man jumped from the boat onto the jetty and started to walk towards the house.

  ‘I need an answer, Langton,’ Deans said, as the camera zoomed in and out to refocus on the suspect.

  ‘It could be him,’ Langton replied.

  Deans glared at him. ‘Could be is not fucking good enough. I can’t risk him getting inside the house.’

  ‘Well get the fucking camera to focus on his face,’ Langton retorted. He suddenly found his mind flashing back to the murder team office in London, to the moment Fitzpatrick had fooled him by posing as an FBI agent and then calmly walked out of the station. The walk, it was the walk – slightly hunched shoulders, head down and an arrogant swagger, but pigeon-toed. Langton concentrated hard as the man took another step towards the house, and in that instant he knew it was Fitzpatrick.