Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

  Her bare feet slapped against the freezing pavement. The motor of Jacko’s Jaguar roared to life. Fiona slipped between two parked cars and bolted across the street without looking. She was thirty feet from her goal when Jacko roared away towards Old Brompton Road.

  Fiona slowed her pace and stopped, winded and gasping. What could she do now? A car door slammed behind her, and she turned to see another set of taillights pulling into the street near the house she had run from. The murderer? Her moment of panic subsided as she realized the car was moving in the other direction.

  Where to go? Someone had certainly heard the shot or her screaming, so she still had to get away. Walking home barefoot was out of the question. Her feet already felt like they were freezing, and she lived in Mortlake, miles away on the other side of the Thames. Three blocks north she could certainly find a taxi near the cafés and hotels that clustered along Queen’s Gate.

  The lights of a busy, brightly lit neighbourhood pub glowed across the road. As she stepped into the light streaming from the pub windows, she looked down at the front of her coat. The cashmere was bloody in places, with small gobs of God knows what clinging to the fabric. She slipped into the shadow of an overhanging tree and swallowed hard against the nausea that again rose from her gut. Ahead of her, street lamps stood every thirty yards or so, on alternate sides of the street. No pedestrian, or taxi driver for that matter, would miss seeing all that gore. Nor would they miss a barefoot blonde carrying one shoe.

  She took a huge breath. There was nothing to do but brave it out. Fiona walked past the pub, keeping in the shadow of the trees. A man and a woman embraced in the street light next to the pub entrance. “The Onslow Arms,” the sign said. “Cask Ales Fine Wines Gourmet Dining.” With each step, her bare feet sent needles of pain up her legs.

  At the next intersection, she noticed a builder’s rubbish skip sitting in the shadow of a large ash tree, a few yards down a small, curving side street. She turned the corner and climbed onto a crate next to the skip. What luck—it was half full of builder’s waste. She pulled her small clutch purse from the inner pocket of her coat and slipped it into her bodice. After shifting some boxes, she was able to stuff the coat and her shoe under some plasterboard and plastic sheeting. It would have to do.

  Without the coat, Fiona began to shiver, and the icy pavement had by now removed all feeling in her feet. She laughed at herself. A few minutes ago, she’d been a barefoot, middle-aged slag, walking down the street in a warm, but blood-soaked, coat. Now she was a barefoot, middle-aged slag, walking down the street, shivering in a sleek, windblown, black dress. Hell, two hours ago she had been the gorgeous wife of a high-placed public servant, meeting her lover in an exclusive boutique hotel.

  How times change.

  Fortunately, no one paid any attention to her until she reached Old Brompton Road and Queen’s Gate. It was London, after all. Thank God, a taxi was at the corner rank. Horns blared as she scurried across the busy road.

  “Are you all right, lady?” The driver’s face showed concern as he watched her shiver.

  She climbed into the back of the cab. “Yes, thanks. Just lost my coat. Mort—” She stopped. One of the CCTV cameras had probably caught her climbing into the cab, so giving the driver her home address would be like calling the police. She thought quickly. “Mortlake Station, please.” She could walk from there.

  She saw the driver’s eyebrows rise when he heard the address. “Right, then.” He passed a package back to her. His voice was kind. “Here’s a fleece to help you warm up.”

  She took it and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders and over her legs. “Thank you so much. It was hellishly cold out there without my coat.”

  The driver studied her in the mirror, so she averted her face and snuggled into the corner of the seat. Questions stirred in her mind. Why had Jacko taken her with him to that god-awful place? Why hadn’t he let her leave the hotel? And why were she and Jacko still alive? Wouldn’t the killer have eliminated the only witnesses? She had no answers, but she was married to a Metropolitan Police Commander, and she knew eventually detectives would come to her with other, more damning questions.

  At last the taxi trundled west on the A4 towards Chiswick Bridge. Fiona wriggled deeper into the blanket and watched Kensington roll past. Part of the debt, the killer had said. It made sense that Jacko thought of her as payment. Two years ago she’d agreed to just that kind of arrangement. How could she have imagined that was the right decision?

  She’d think of that tomorrow. Right now she had to figure out how to get home from Mortlake Station without being seen. The damn CCTV cameras seemed to be everywhere.

  FIVE

  Tuesday morning, Kensington

  Detective Constable Philip Bull stopped his aging Ford Mondeo a few feet short of the blue-taped police cordon. Beside him sat Detective Sergeant Simon Costello. Bull and Costello could not have been more different physically.

  Bull was nearly six feet tall and dark-skinned, with a shaved head that perched on a thick neck and powerful shoulders. His off-the-peg suits never seemed to fit properly. Costello was slight and fair, six inches shorter than Bull, with a full head of blazing red hair. He favoured tailored suits.

  They peered through the windscreen at the procession of outrageously expensive, nearly identical, marble-white and cream-brick colonnaded homes that marched along each side of the chic South Kensington street. Along the pavement, black wrought-iron railings separated the upstairs and downstairs entrances to each house.

  Yellow-vested police moved along the line of cars parked on each side of the street, peering into the windows, jotting down number plates. Others stood at strategic points along the pavement. Several plain-clothes detectives stood singly, muttering into mobile phones. White-clad forensic technicians glided purposefully in and out of the house two doors up the street on their right.

  Costello grunted. “The place is crawling with coppers. Why did they call us out?”

  Bull lowered his window and flashed his warrant card at a uniformed officer approaching the car. “DC Bull and DS Costello. Okay to leave it here?”

  The officer checked his clipboard. “Initials here.” He pointed behind the car. “Pull in back there. DI Novak’s inside.”

  Bull closed his window and reversed the car. “Dunno. You’re a DS. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Right. Now they tell me everything,” Costello said. “I meant to ask, how’s Liz? Haven’t seen her in months.”

  Bull hesitated before he answered. “Better.”

  “She’s been back on duty how long? About six months?”

  A drop of cold rain caught Bull in the eye as he angled his large frame out of the driver’s door. He blinked hard and pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his throat. The car chirped as he clicked the lock. “Closer to seven. Let’s get inside.” At the stoop a small “For Sale” sign sported a telephone number. Bull and Costello pulled on their scene suits and entered the house.

  The interior was empty of furniture, rugs, and any evidence of habitation. White travertine floors, white plaster walls, crown mouldings, ceilings, every shadowless angle blurred by halogen lighting from track lights installed in the ceiling.

  “This place is bloody clinical,” Costello said, as two white-suited technicians hurried by, each wearing blue paper booties and carrying aluminium equipment cases.

  “Like some sci-fi movie set,” Bull replied. “I wonder if the owners of this place made guests wear a scene suit? Wouldn’t want to shed lint or skin cells all about.”

  Costello led the way down a wide corridor with arched entries into adjoining rooms. In one room a dark, weeping woman dressed in black skinny jeans and a red woolly jumper stood next to a window, talking to a pair of detectives. “Guess she found the body.”

  As they approached the end of the corridor, the smell of fresh paint mixed with the odour of death and faeces. Bull made a wry face. “Novak must be back here. And the body too, if my nose is r
ight.”

  They passed a kitchen on the left, paint cloths covering counters, two ladders leaning against cabinets. They turned right into what once might have been a large study or perhaps a conservatory. A double window in the back wall stood wide open, allowing cold wind to whirl around the room. Despite the fresh air, Bull sensed the clinging odour he had learned too well during two tours in Afghanistan.

  Costello grimaced. “Good god.”

  In the far corner of the room, the body of a man slumped, on his knees, facing the wall. His hands were restrained behind him with a cable tie. The middle of his head was missing, as if an explosion had cut a path rear-to-front, leaving only ragged flaps of flesh attaching his ears to his shoulders. Dried blood and matter blackened the back of his shirt and stained the floor behind him. The wall several feet on each side and up to the ceiling was streaked with heavy gore. Two crime scene investigators had stretched a body bag on the floor. From their gestures, Bull assumed the CSIs were discussing how to remove the body with the least disruption to the scene. Or perhaps they were debating how to keep what remained of the poor sod’s head from falling off.

  A detective squatted on a steel stepping plate near the window, talking to one of the technicians. His sleek hair and trim, tailored suit didn’t look very cop-like. He reminded Bull of an upper-class amateur detective from a 1930s mystery novel. The only thing missing was a monocle—and a white scene suit to prevent contamination of the crime scene. Bull couldn’t believe it. He elbowed Costello to get his attention, and silently mouthed the words scene suit. One after the other, they moved across the floor, careful to stay on the stepping plates the CSIs had laid out.

  “DS Costello, DC Bull.” The detective spoke in a crisp, clipped style. “I’m DI Novak. Glad you’re aboard.” He tipped his head towards the corpse. “Most likely dead a couple of days. Male, average height, muscular, long dark hair.” He pointed at a trail of blood-matted hair hanging from a fragment of scalp. “Ponytail, maybe. I estimate forties, but hard to tell. Professional appearance. Possibly handmade shoes. Nails manicured, but his hands are thick, calloused like he’s done manual work. Execution style. Shotgun from a couple of feet. Splattered most of his head over the walls and into the plaster. Lots of blowback. Whoever did it got quite a bath.”

  The CSIs had enclosed what was left of the victim’s head in a large, clear plastic sack. The detectives watched as they uncoiled the body and laid it out on the black body bag. The front of the shirt was as covered with carnage as the back. Through the sack, Bull could tell there wasn’t enough face left for identification. Perhaps some of the teeth had survived. Once the body bag was zipped, Novak returned to his briefing.

  “Blood spatter shows the window was shut at the time of the shot, opened after. Why? No sign of forced entry, nothing in the flat to steal. The killer left the door to the room closed. The flat’s for sale. A woman from the property company found him. Costello, run the house-to-house along this street and the one behind. The usual. Focus on the last twenty-four to seventy-two hours, Tuesday through today. Bull, stick here with the forensics blokes and then with the medical examiner. Get the post-mortem results to me ASAP. Questions?”

  Costello spoke. “It rained hard most of Sunday right up until dusk. Rain might have washed or damaged the splatter on the open window. Any sign of that?”

  Novak assessed the slightly built detective, then turned to one of the technicians. “Did it look like spatter had washed off the window? Water on the floor?”

  The CSI thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, sir. There were small flecks of brain matter adhering to some of the glass panes. No sign of puddling. Except for this. He pointed to a stain on the floor near the window. I think it’s urine.”

  “Let us know when you’re sure.” Novak gave Costello a crisp nod. “Good point, Sergeant. Helps narrow the time of death. Focus on Sunday night to now, then.” He looked at Bull. “Anything else? No? Ring me as soon as you have anything.”

  SIX

  Tuesday afternoon, Hendon

  These chairs are bloody hard. Elaine had forgotten the cushion she usually took to meetings, and her right leg had begun to ache. She glanced at the wall clock, then let her gaze wander. A hundred or so officers, plain clothes and uniform, filled the room, listening to the latest issues and developments in neighbourhood policing. As she watched, several of her colleagues flicked their eyes towards the clock on the wall. The wall clock was at the front, right above the video screen, where bored coppers could see it without craning their necks. Constant glancing made the presentations seem interminable.

  She had returned to work before her compassionate leave was finished, so her superiors called her College of Policing assignment “light duty.” Last week she had written a research paper illustrating the effect of dog ownership in reducing burglaries. One of the sergeants had just finished presenting it, to polite applause and few questions.

  Twelve years in murder investigation, and I’m writing about dogs. Compassionate assignment, my arse. It’s bloody hell. “I’m fucking useless,” she muttered under her breath.

  The Superintendent, seated next to her, leaned over and whispered, “Sorry, what?”

  “Nothing, sir. He did a good job.” Dammit, watch yourself, Lainie.

  He nodded politely. “Quite right, DCI Hope.”

  She knew useless was too strong a word. Community policing was multi-faceted, and each aspect presented its own challenges. What strained her was inventing reasons to be away from her desk so she could continue to investigate the Srecko operation. But she was here, so she might as well listen.

  The next speaker, a female commander in charge of one of the East London boroughs, presented the results of her social media scheme to reach more young people in her area. The goal was open communication, and she had certainly succeeded. Youngsters messaged and tweeted with her local force at an almost overwhelming rate. Success! But the forward-thinking commander didn’t reveal to her audience what the young people were actually saying. According to the Met rumour mill, at least half the messages contained advice about where she could store her truncheon—public opinion varied on that topic. During the Q&A, Elaine briefly considered mentioning the Law of Unintended Consequences, but held her tongue. Her comment wouldn’t have been well received.

  The Chief Superintendent in charge of the programme next introduced a certain Detective Inspector Mehta from financial crimes, who would talk about real estate transactions.

  Elaine closed her eyes. It had been a dreadful night. The bloody dream had awakened her at about two o’clock in the morning. As usual, she hadn’t fallen back to sleep once the panic subsided. She dozed off and on until her alarm buzzed at six AM.

  “… deeper blue boroughs are those in which property values have risen fastest over the last two years.”

  Elaine caught herself as her head began to nod. When she looked up, the slide on the screen portrayed a colour-coded map of London neighbourhoods.

  “… and if we overlay the map to show purchases in the last five years by offshore companies, it becomes apparent that…”

  Her eyelids were drooping again. If she let them close, she’d doze off, and that wouldn’t do with all the commanders and assistant commissioners in the room. Elaine wasn’t exactly well loved among those exalted ranks—more of an embarrassment, although none would admit it to her face. She knew they all were waiting for an excuse to fling her out the door, especially if her firing could be construed as sympathetic. If only she could convince them she was right about the Sreckos.

  Wait. Offshore companies? What was he saying? Dammit, Lainie. Stay focused!

  “… the boroughs with the highest rise in property values also show the fastest rising incidence of offshore ownership. Given that most of these companies are based in banking havens such as the Channel Islands, the Cayman Islands, or in some instances Eastern European nations, actual ownership is difficult to ascertain.”

  The DI’s voice was so
ft and soporific. Elaine forced her eyes open. Perhaps, if she could hire him to stand at the foot of her bed at night and give this presentation, she wouldn’t need a sedative. Eastern European nations? Christ! What did I miss?

  “… so these so-called ‘friendly’ solicitors first set up shell companies in these havens, where banking laws are a bit looser, and financial scrutiny is almost nonexistent.”

  Is that what Jackson Greene was doing before he was murdered? Setting up shell companies for Anton Srecko? There was that Cambrian Estates company that was based in a little old lady’s council flat in Cardiff. It was owned by some other shell company in Macedonia or Montenegro or somewhere. Damn the pain meds. Focus, Lainie!

  “… and this is what we call Lights Out London. Not the song title. Significant portions of our most exclusive neighbourhoods are dark most nights because of absentee owners. Crooks and gangsters, usually from Eastern Europe, are buying property at outrageous prices so they can launder the money they’ve stolen from their governments or made from smuggling drugs and cigarettes.” Mehta paused. “And, increasingly, human trafficking, which is becoming more pervasive and much more profitable than most of the other criminal endeavours.”

  Elaine’s pulse quickened. That’s what the Sreckos were doing.

  “… some of our oldest and most trusted property companies are being exposed to criminal prosecution because a few of their unscrupulous agents and managers ignore our proceeds of crime laws and accept this tainted money.”

  Is that why Geri Harding was murdered? Had the estate agent stumbled onto something?

  “… an unrecorded conversation here, an under-the-table payment there, a hefty solicitor’s fee, and presto—the estate agent walks away with a fat commission; the criminal has a shiny new flat for his girlfriend; and property taxes rise for the legitimate property owners in the area. The property stays vacant most of the year, so business at local shops suffers. Questions?”