Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

  It was starting to make sense. The Imperial and Republic Group company the Sreckos owned might be all about money laundering. Elaine shot her arm into the air and stood before the DI could acknowledge her. “DCI Hope here. Suppose money laundering like you describe was a property company’s main business? Maybe their only business? Have you ever encountered that?”

  DI Mehta shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Not since I’ve been in Operation Sterling. I suppose it’s possible. I could check with Revenue and Customs. Perhaps it’s happened in another city.”

  Elaine pressed. “What about business properties? Have you seen much laundering activity in office blocks or industrial estates?”

  The superintendent interrupted. “Pardon, DCI Hope. We’re out of time here, and we have a very busy schedule for the rest of today. Perhaps you and DI Mehta can take the discussion offline? Thank you.”

  Elaine made eye contact with Mehta, who nodded. This might get interesting.

  SEVEN

  Tuesday afternoon, Kensington

  The house-to-house was completed far too quickly for Costello’s liking. He gathered the team around him on the pavement. “Given your speedy return, I assume the neighbourhood is full of fast talkers. So what have you got? Anything interesting?”

  One of the younger uniforms raised his hand. “No one’s home, Sarge. A lot of the houses we knocked up, no one’s there. Right, Simpson?” The officer next to him nodded. “We were on that back street.” He looked at his notebook. “Lecky Street. Like it’s a ghost town. The residents we spoke with don’t recall anything unusual.”

  Another officer spoke. “I had two interesting interviews. Both of them were women, Russian or from over there somewhere. One said her father’s business owns the house. The other one was older, two kids playing in the room. Said her husband was a government minister. Ukraine, I think.” He flipped open his notebook. “Yes. She said he was in Kiev.”

  “Interesting enough for a second interview?” Costello asked.

  “Well, I asked that first one, the young one, what kind of business her father owned, but she was vague, like…” The officer looked at his notes and read aloud. “‘He owns a lot of them. I don’t pay attention, so I don’t know what he does.’ She had a heavy accent. Sounded bored.” He turned to another page. “This other one said she and the kids are just here for the shopping. She was dripping with jewellery worth about a year of my pay, I reckon.”

  “That ties with one of the gents I spoke to.” One of the female uniforms pulled out her notebook. “Older fellow. Ronald Caddigan, lives at number twenty-three in the mews. We asked about the vacant houses. He about blew his top. Rattled on, all militant, about foreign owners who look like criminals, coming here and buying up houses for outrageous sums. Then they’re only in the house for a couple of months a year, maybe the summer. But they’ll pay whatever the owner asks. He said his property value has almost tripled in two years, so much that he can’t afford the taxes and he’s thinking about selling up. Said his family had lived in Kensington over a hundred years. Now he’ll have to move to a flat or maybe get out of London entirely. He was upset, wanted to know what we could do about it.”

  “Not bloody much,” Costello said. “Not anything, unless you advised him to grab the lolly and run.” He looked up at the darkened sky. The dusk was fading, and more raindrops were falling. “Right, then. Get back to the nick and write up what you have. Then get your sorry backsides home and to bed. Morning briefing at six thirty.”

  Tuesday night, Brentford

  Scratch hopped up on the bed and sat next to Elaine, blessing her with his presence. When she crooked her finger and rubbed under his chin, he stretched his neck, and the locomotive purrs began. The clock indicated ten. She thought she might as well see what was happening in the world, so she clicked on the TV.

  “… found by a decorator in an empty South Kensington flat. The dead man remains unidentified at this time. Detective Inspector John Novak has asked anyone in the vicinity of Onslow Gardens and Fulham Road, South Kensington, between Wednesday and Friday morning, to come forward if they saw or heard anything suspicious.”

  Damn wretched irony for the poor dead sod. Anonymous fame. Novak, eh? Last I heard he’d been transferred to the National Crime Agency. Haven’t heard much about him in the last year. Or has it been two? As she watched, Costello and Bull walked through the background of the news video. She smiled at the sight of them. She and Costello had been on the same murder investigation team for three years. Bull had come on board just over a year ago. They had been two stalwarts of a great team. Costello’s brains and quick-witted experience; Bull’s massive presence, dogged persistence, and fierce loyalty.

  That was all before, though. Before that one time she didn’t read the situation right. Before that Serbian goon beat up Liz. Elaine let her head fall back against the pillow.

  Before I went into that godforsaken brothel without backup. A cardinal fucking sin.

  If she hadn’t, maybe Ximena would still be alive. The young prostitute had wanted out of the game, had wanted to go home to Spain.

  If I had waited a few more minutes, maybe Nilo would have surrendered. But Elaine thought somehow the bastard knew she would come in after him. She could have broken him in an interrogation. She knew it. But she had killed him, and Anton still walked the streets.

  She shifted her attention to the TV. The dead man’s forty-five seconds of fame were over. The newsreader now droned on about hooligan damage that had occurred during New Year’s celebrations. She clicked the TV off.

  The newsreader had said Onslow Gardens and Fulham Road, which was right in the middle of South Kensington, one of the darkest blue neighbourhoods on Mehta’s map at his Lights Out London presentation.

  She’d last spoken with Simon Costello two weeks ago, when she went to his promotion party after he’d made sergeant. Maybe it was time to touch base with him. She dialled.

  “Costello. Hello, guv.” She enjoyed Simon’s Irish accent, which contrasted well with her easy Scottish burr.

  “Hi, brand-new Detective Sergeant Costello. I saw you and Bull on the news. What’s your position on the team now that you’re a sergeant?”

  “H2H today, then DI Novak put me on the incident room beginning tomorrow.”

  “Ah. High visibility. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly. Look, I know you’ve had a long day, so I won’t keep you. What do you know about the house where your poor sod was murdered? Anything on the ownership? Reason I’m asking is I saw a presentation on that area of London today. I’m doing some research into foreign ownership, empty houses, and I’m curious.”

  Costello laughed. “We used to take bets about whether you were psychic.”

  “Good. The more who fear my superpowers, the better. Although, I think over the last few months my therapist has largely taken them away. It sounds like you’ve something to tell me?”

  “Big, empty house. Up for sale in a neighbourhood of other big, empty houses. This one’s divided into two large flats. Just under four million each. An interesting item is that there was no forced entry, no sign of lock picking. If it was locked, someone had a key to get in. All the estate agent’s keys are accounted for.”

  “Previous occupants?”

  “The locks were changed after they left, so…”

  “So either the estate agent is lying, or some keys have gone astray.”

  “Could be. It’s owned by a company called Boxe-Berkshire. DI Novak says it’s an old one, upstanding. He put one of the new DCs on it.”

  “Upstanding.” Elaine sighed. “Ever since our last case, I get a hollow feeling when I hear that word applied to a business.”

  “I hear you, ma’am. I’ve been a bit less trusting of reputations since we sussed out Anton Srecko and his IRG company.”

  “Have you ever dug through the online archives at Companies House?”

  “No, but that’s where Cromarty got the company info when we were on the Srecko case, so
if anyone knows how, he does.” DC Evan Cromarty had been the researcher on Elaine’s last team. His digital abilities were renowned.

  “Right. Thought you might say that. I’ll give him a call. By the way, how’s Novak to work for?”

  Costello hesitated before he answered. “I’m reserving judgement right now. I could say he’s a bit unorthodox, but it’s only been one day.”

  “Thanks, Simon.” Elaine rang off. She felt the old excitement of being on the trail of something real, moving towards finding leads. And the more leads she had, the closer she was to building a case.

  Tuesday night, Notting Hill

  “Don’t get more out of control than you already are. You’re on thin ice.”

  Bluster. Jacko realized he shouldn’t have answered when his mobile rang. He looked at his right shoe and wondered when the new scuff across the toe had appeared. Probably when that little bitch threw it at him last week. He’d ducked, and the shoe caromed off a bureau and lodged behind the bedside table. Time to be cool. “Tranquille, René. You need to learn patience. I gave you a payment last month.”

  “That was for three months ago.”

  “I’ve been a couple of payments behind for years, and you’ve not gotten tetchy. You took my winnings last week.”

  “You don’t win often enough, Jacko. I need to think again about the interest rate.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “You think you are dealing with one of your English gentlemen? Or a bank? Non, mon cher avocat. When we settle, we will settle out of court.” René’s soft laugh pierced Jacko’s nonchalance. The fucking Frenchman was dangerous when he was quiet.

  “I’m strapped. No readies for a couple of weeks. Give me a few days. I’ll call you back.”

  “A few days?” Again, René’s soft laugh raised the hair on Jacko’s neck. “Not too skint to take another English salope to that boutique hotel last night. Blondes, brunettes, at least one redhead. Your taste is going to bankrupt you, Jacko. Maybe you need to consider a motel on the motorway.”

  This conversation had become as tiresome as that love-struck little shoe slinger’s tear-fuelled anger. “Maybe you need to consider who you’re talking to. I wasn’t born yesterday. Gambling and fucking are time-honoured vices. Imprudent. Certainly immoral. But not illegal.”

  “You witnessed a murder and didn’t report it.”

  “Perhaps I should report it. You know, I think I know why you wanted me there, but I want to hear you say it.”

  “You won’t report it. And you need to know we mean business.”

  Jacko laughed. “I’m supposed to believe you’re going to kill me before I pay you the twenty-five thousand quid? I don’t think so.”

  “If we can do that, we can do other things.”

  “Other things would only delay payment.”

  “Who’s the blonde? Why did you bring her? It doesn’t say much for your discretion.”

  “Your man should have killed her when he had the chance. Come to think of it, why didn’t he?”

  “He only expected you.”

  Jacko laughed louder and longer than he needed to. “Only expected me? You mean he only brought one shell? What a fucking amateur!”

  “He had no instructions about her and didn’t want to use his pistol. The blonde is the wild card. I need her name, Jacko.”

  “You’ll get your money. It’s late and I have a trial tomorrow.” He rang off.

  Fiona wasn’t a wild card, she was his ace in the hole. He couldn’t squander her.

  EIGHT

  Wednesday morning, Kensington

  “Good morning, boys and girls. I’m Sergeant Costello, and I’ll be running the incident room.”

  Bull smiled to himself. Costello had opened the first morning status meeting using Elaine’s standard greeting, so he was falling back on comfortable routine. It’s what people do, especially when they’ve learned from the best. DCI Hope had been Bull’s first boss in homicide, and Costello had been on the team too.

  Bull turned his attention to what Costello was saying. “I’ll assign actions and liaise with other units. DI Novak is senior investigating officer. He’ll be here in a few minutes. We’ll be operating out of Kensington nick. We should have CCTV footage for public cameras within two blocks around the murder scene by later this morning. Some of you will be assigned to that. DC Bull, DI Novak wants you to follow up with Dr. Kumar on the post-mortem, and then check with shops and businesses, especially that pub”—Costello referred to his notes—“the Onslow Arms, to get copies of their CCTV. This evening we’ll go back and resume the house-to-house, as residents are more likely to be home. I’ve posted assignments on the board, so check there and get going once DI Novak adjourns our little soiree. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Questions?”

  A DC on the other side of the room spoke up. “Sarge, we’ve all been assigned to this team sort of hodgepodge. From all over.”

  Costello shrugged. “The guv said the other teams were stretched, so they had to cobble together a new one.”

  The DC scanned the room. “Seems they pulled us together awfully quick. Novak hasn’t been on murder for over a year.”

  “It’s DI Novak or Mister Novak. Or sir.” Novak’s voice came from the back of the room. He took his place at the front next to Costello. “I apologize for being late. DC Bull, the post-mortem?”

  Bull glanced at the wall clock. “I talked to Dr. Kumar ten minutes ago. He starts in about a half hour. I figure I have time to get there.”

  “Good. Liaise with forensics. Keep me posted. If you can’t find me”—he jerked his head sideways—“then DS Costello.”

  Bull nodded. This was unusual. A sergeant usually liaised with outside resources.

  Novak pulled out his mobile and pressed a few buttons. “You now have my number. Call when you have something from Kumar. And get hold of the crime scene report. Leave now. You can catch up on everything later with DS Costello.”

  Bull’s mobile rang as Novak’s call came in. He swiped “Decline” as he turned and left the meeting. “Right, sir.”

  Wednesday morning, Mortlake

  “Don’t you think you should see a doctor, darling?” Jonny’s plummy Oxbridge tones resonated with social position and self-satisfied privilege. In fact, he was the son of a Welsh tailor, had excelled in his local comprehensive schools, and had attended Bangor on a scholarship. Jonny liked playing roles.

  Fiona pulled her duvet further up over her face and groaned. It would be a blessing if she withered and died in bed. “I think it’s a flu bug. I’ll feel better soon.”

  Jonny sat on the edge of her bed. His sleeked black hair and crisp white uniform shirt showed he was ready to leave for his office at New Scotland Yard. “You were in bed all day yesterday. You didn’t even call the gallery. Siobhan actually called me, she was that worried. She said you hadn’t phoned the gallery, and you weren’t answering your mobile. I—”

  “I know, Jonny, I know. You were worried. You told me that last night.” When Jonny recoiled at her tone, she reached out and put her hand on his knee. “Sorry. I need another day in bed is all. Siobhan runs the gallery far better than I do. Besides, she’d rather be there alone with that skinny, fawning toy she keeps—Oliver, or whatever its name is this month.”

  “That’s harsh. I didn’t get that impression at all. She was worried. This isn’t the flu, and you haven’t once peeked out of your bedroom since I got back from Manchester. So I’m concerned too. It’s not like you, Fee.”

  Couldn’t he leave her alone? He was so good at talking her into a corner. Just like thirty years ago when that copper had caught her stoned, sleeping in her car with a half-smoked joint in the ashtray. This time the cop was Jonny, perfectly turned out in his uniform, immaculate hair, stubble-free face, and gleaming teeth implants. She needed to buy some time.

  “So, what am I like, Jonny? Tell me who you think your little Fee really is. And while you’re at it, tell me who the hell you are now. Right now, to
day. Are you who you were when we met? Commander Jonathan Hughes, all macho in his starched white shirt, black tie and trousers, and mirror-shined boots? Or are you who you were three years ago, when you came out to me? Or maybe you’ve decided to reinvent yourself again? What is it this time? Now you want a sex change? Commander Joan Hughes?”

  Jonny’s face reddened. He spluttered. “Lie there, then. Wallow in it, whatever it is.” He turned and stormed from the room.

  Fiona waited for the slam of the front door, but it didn’t come. He was probably fuming in his study. She lay staring at the ceiling, her arm crooked over her forehead. It would only be a matter of time before the knock on the front door. How long would she have? Thank God, she’d left her lambskin gloves on when she’d followed Jacko into the Kensington flat, so no fingerprints.

  But DNA was a different story. Before she was married to Jonny, she’d given a blood sample so they could record her DNA, in case she was the target of kidnapping due to her aristocratic pedigree. The National DNA Database was used for criminals, so she doubted her sample was there. But it was on file somewhere.

  A web search the previous day had told her that it was difficult to extract DNA from vomit because of the stomach acid and DNA from food she’d eaten. But she’d puddled on the floor. Successful DNA extraction from urine required the presence of skin cells—women’s urine typically contained more than men’s. And there was always the possibility the CSI technicians would find a stray hair.

  What worried her most was CCTV. The closed-circuit cameras that blanketed London made it almost impossible to move undetected down many streets, especially in upmarket areas. She still had the dress she had worn, so she needed to get rid of it. And what would happen if—when—they found her coat and shoes?

  Perhaps the police wouldn’t show up unannounced. Perhaps they would have a quiet word with Jonny and ask him to bring her to the station for questioning. She knew she couldn’t stay in bed forever, but what should she do? It seemed to her that no matter what she did, her life would be ruined. Jacko hadn’t returned any of her calls. He’d left her to fend for herself. No surprise there.