“If she’s not in trouble, why are you harassing her? She says she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Who are you?” Elaine asked again.
“Cristo. I’m here to tell you to leave her alone. She cried after she saw you Monday.”
“I’m not here to talk to you,” Elaine said. She had an idea what was coming.
“I don’t bloody care. Her husband was my brother, and she’s now my responsibility.”
Elaine ignored him. She faced Joanna and said, “I’m sorry if what I told you Monday upset you. But as I recall, you spoke to me first. And you haven’t refused to speak to me now.”
Joanna began to reply, but Cristo interrupted. “I don’t care who spoke first. She was upset. I’m the head of the family, and I’m not going to let a nosy detective make life difficult for her because of some murder that happened months ago. That case is solved, so you keep away from her.” He half-rose and pointed to the door.
Joanna placed her hand on his arm. “Cristo, I think—”
He ignored her and stood. “Get out, Hope.”
Elaine sat back and appraised him. “Sit down and listen. I’m here about the murder in Kensington Monday night, and I’m not here to speak with you.” She turned to Joanna. “We’ve come into some information. I have a list of estate agents and companies. I’m hoping you can tell us something about them.”
“One last time, I told you to leave. If you don’t, I’ll file a complaint.” Cristo moved to take Elaine’s arm.
Elaine recoiled and stood. “Touch me and I’ll charge you with assault and have you in cuffs. Not good for business or your family, right?”
Joanna spoke up. “Stop it, Cristo! I don’t want you getting into trouble. DCI Hope, can you leave the list with me?”
“No, I can’t do that.” Elaine handed her card to Joanna. “I take it you’re afraid of your boss. Or your brother. It’s our job to protect you if you come forward. Let me know if you decide to cooperate.” She started to walk away, but turned back to face Cristo. “One more thing. When a control freak like you gets aggressive, I have to wonder what you’re hiding, what you’re afraid of. Just makes me want to dig a little deeper.”
TWELVE
Thursday morning, Greenwich Park
Elaine crouched low against the ancient plane tree, her body tucked into the fold of a huge root, her black hoodie pulled up over her mouth and nose to mask the telltale fog of her breath. She had risen at four AM to drive through the almost-deserted early morning streets, across Southwark Bridge, then east through south London. After parking her BMW, she had slipped silently through the stark, leafless trees of Greenwich Park to her observation point.
She gazed down the hill, past the humps of the Saxon burial mounds, to the Henry Moore Knife Edge sculpture looming out of the morning fog—a sacred megalith watching over Bronze Age ghosts. In the distance, hanging above the fog, sparkled the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf.
When she had asked DI Mehta for a meeting, he had dithered and stalled, but finally rang her back, saying they could have a conversation during his early morning run. Later, she had checked with several sources in the Met. From what she had gleaned, he was a cop who spent his days in front of a computer—a forensic accountant, investigating financial crimes. Not that it made him a bad cop—quite the contrary: his role was crucial to law enforcement. But he was hardly the sharp point of the spear.
She waited in the cold damp. According to her contacts, Mehta took fitness only seriously enough to pass the Met’s annual fitness exam. Greenwich Park would be inconvenient to his office. And in this weather, he’d be on his treadmill, not outside. No, he didn’t choose this place himself. Open ground, good vision, places to hide. They’ve given him a watcher.
Be still, Lainie. Footsteps coming up the hill from the right. The tree’s blocking me. Wait. There she is.
In the grey predawn light, a short, dark woman in running clothes jogged past, moving towards the mounds and the monolith. Elaine pressed hard against the thick tree trunk. As the woman passed, she muttered something into the upheld collar of her tracksuit.
Elaine stayed frozen to the tree. Had the watcher made her? Elaine thought she had been screened by the tree, and the woman hadn’t looked back. It was hard to tell. She decided that if the watcher came around again, she might reverse direction. Need to move, Lainie.
Once the watcher had disappeared into the fog, Elaine scooted back into the shadows and crawled to a spot behind a different large tree. She lay there prone, peering over the top of a large, sprawling root. Five minutes later, she again heard footsteps, this time from the left. She slowly lowered her head below the root. The footsteps stopped. The woman’s voice again muttered something unintelligible. When the footsteps began again, they were moving away. Elaine lifted her head to look. The woman was halfway down the hill towards the huge monolith.
Why had she stopped? Was it because this location, in these trees, was an obvious observation point? Elaine knew she was screened. No point wondering. The watcher would probably find a place to hide, and Mehta would be along shortly.
As the watcher approached the sculpture for the second time, she veered from the path and disappeared into a small woody copse about a hundred yards to the east.
Elaine smiled to herself at the game. I know you know I know. The watcher had picked a perfect place to hide. Suzy Spy had gone to ground, waiting for the next move. Everyone would find out soon if Mehta’s handlers had anticipated Plan B.
Five minutes later, Mehta’s chubby figure jogged up the path and stopped beneath the huge bronze blade. Elaine slid from the root and slithered into the shadows of the grove. Once she was below the crest of the hill, she walked as fast as she could to her car and dialled Mehta’s mobile number.
“This is DI Mehta, where—”
“Just listen.” Elaine accelerated her BMW up Blackheath as she spoke into her Bluetooth. “I’ve got a cold, and the morning damp may be a bit much for me. I’ll pick you up at the north end of the path, where it crosses The Avenue. I’ll be there in less than a minute.”
“But—”
“I know someone wants you to find out what I’m up to. If you’re not there in thirty seconds, I’m driving away.” She ended the call, downshifted to second gear, and accelerated through the left bend onto The Avenue. She pulled to a stop on the pavement and opened the passenger door as Mehta wheezed down the path into view. She spoke firmly. “Get in. Now.”
Mehta bent over, his hands on his knees. Elaine looked in her rear-view mirror. The woman she had seen earlier was running down the pavement towards them. Mehta leaned against the car door, gulping for air.
“Get in the car this second, or I leave.”
Mehta looked once at the woman running up the pavement, and chose to obey. Elaine accelerated away before he closed his door.
“What the hell?” Mehta slammed the door, then scrambled to fasten his seatbelt. His dark eyes flashed at her. “You could have killed me!”
“Give me your wire.” When he protested, Elaine glanced in the mirror again. The woman had disappeared into the fog. She slammed on the brakes. “Come on. I know you’re wearing one. You had a watcher.”
Mehta fished the small microphone and radio from inside his tracksuit. Elaine took it from him, removed the battery, and threw the lot onto the back seat.
“There now.” She smiled at him. “Much friendlier, don’t you think?”
“Where are we going?”
“A place where we can get tea and an excellent fry-up.” She glanced at her passenger. “And talk without Auntie Met eavesdropping.”
Mehta’s mobile erupted into song, and he pulled it from his pocket. As soon as he swiped the screen to answer, Elaine slammed the brakes again. Mehta juggled the phone as he instinctively reached out to brace himself. Elaine pried it from his grip.
A woman’s agitated voice blared from the phone. “Mehta! What the—”
Elaine interrupted. “This is DCI Hope. I’m a rotte
n driver, and DI Mehta is busy hanging on for dear life. You can speak with him after our chat. Perhaps in an hour or so. Goodbye.” She pried off the cover, removed the battery, and pocketed the components in her hoodie. When she smiled at Mehta, he simply stared back at her, wide-eyed.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated in the cosy back room of a small café in Shooter’s Hill. Elaine tucked into her fried eggs, sausage, and chips while she regarded the young DI across the table.
Mehta was short, with a smooth caramel complexion and chubby cheeks. He had panted for several minutes after he got in the car, and his tracksuit and trainers were brand new. She wagered to herself that he’d serve his time on the Met, maybe ten or fifteen years, then leave for a ridiculously high-paying consultancy position, advising businesses how to get away with those indiscretions he was now detecting. It was the way of the world, these days. He had gulped one cup of tea, poured himself another, and drained that. He hadn’t spoken after their first brief exchange. Instead, he sat fuming, looking anywhere but at Elaine.
Elaine pushed her plate to the side and slurped her tea. When she finished, she said, “That was exciting, wasn’t it? It got my blood moving, and yours too, I suspect. I’ve never had a friendly chat with a colleague begin quite so dramatically.”
“You sit here, muddy, you’ve got leaves stuck to you. What the fuck were you doing? You really are a mad woman. I should report you to Professional Standards.”
“Correct on all counts. But look at it from my point of view. I simply wanted to talk to you about corporate money laundering. When you said where you wanted to meet, and at such an ungodly hour, a creepy feeling came over me. A cold, damp, foggy feeling. It felt so wrong, mate.”
Mehta scoffed. “I’m not your mate. My days are busy. The morning run is about my only quiet time.”
Mehta lived in Barnet, on the other side of London. Presumably he had run all the way to Greenwich in his brand-new trainers. Elaine laughed. “Well, we’re here, and it’s much warmer than standing on those Saxon graves. So you can tell me what I need to know, and I’ll tell you something you need to know.”
Mehta studied Elaine’s face. After several seconds, he appeared to decide. “Okay. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Thank you. Can you go over the background once again? There are overseas crooks who need to stash their ill-gotten gains, and they choose London. Who are they?”
“These crooks, as you call them, are usually corrupt government officials from Eastern Europe. They accept bribes, or perhaps they divert skimmed contract funds into a sham bank account. After a while they’ve got a couple of million in readies, and they need to do something with it. If they try to launder it at home, they’ll only keep a small percentage. Someone would notice and either turn them in for a reward or blackmail them. Or both. They need to buy something that holds value but doesn’t raise red flags at home.”
“So they go looking for real estate. Why London?”
“A few million quid for a house isn’t such a big deal in London. Every day, a lot of high-end properties are bought or sold, both houses and flats. There are lots of large transactions.”
“And lots of estate agents and lawyers who want to get rich quick?” Elaine asked.
“Not lots. Estate agencies are required by law to report suspicious offers, and most of them report fishy deals and walk away. But large commissions are tempting, so…”
“What about business properties? You know, office blocks, industrial estates, that kind of thing.”
“And why exactly are you interested?”
Hence, the watcher. She asked, “Who is it? The Met? Operation Sterling?”
Mehta shook his head. “No. We don’t go in for the thriller sort of thing.”
“I didn’t think it would be our lot. Must be the National Crime Agency.”
Mehta didn’t reply. Bingo. Elaine thought for a moment before continuing.
“My last homicide investigation was particularly nasty. A teenage girl was beaten to death, and another woman was disposed of in a particularly gruesome way. The killer was employed by a property company called IRG. It’s run by an ethnic Serbian crime family. You may have heard of them, the Srecko brothers.”
Mehta leaned back in his chair and studied Elaine. “I heard what happened. That you killed the suspect.”
“IRG is involved with bogus offshore companies. They use sleazy, off-the-books lawyers and then murder them when they outlive their usefulness. They ran at least two brothels. They own business properties all over England. I thought you’d be interested. Why wouldn’t they be laundering money through business properties?”
“Because Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs maintains constant vigilance in collecting as much tax as they can.”
“That’s no answer, and you know it.”
Mehta placed his mug on the table. “Are you looking for revenge?”
“You think that’s all there is to it? Revenge? You think I’m some kind of obsessed, damaged bitch out to settle a score?”
Mehta laughed outright. “From what happened this morning, that analysis gets my vote. But I don’t care what you want. This is bigger than that. I don’t want you barging around and fucking things up for us.”
“For the Met? Or the NCA?” Elaine leaned forward. “I don’t want to fuck up anything you’re doing. All I want right now is for you to have a look at this list of shell companies and their directors. You don’t have to say anything, but if there’s a company, or a person’s name, that you think it would be worth my while to have a look at, just put a tick mark by it. And if there’s one you want me to stay away from, strike a line through it and I’ll stay far away.”
“You do know that Parliament’s considering new money-laundering regulations to take effect later this year.”
“They’ve been up to their arses in property scams for a decade or more, but that’s not what I’m after in the end. I want justice for the murders they ordered and committed,” Elaine replied.
“And if I do what you ask, you’ll stay away and won’t come asking again?”
She nodded and looked him in his eyes. “You have my word.”
Mehta gauged her face from across the table and asked, “Do you have a pen?”
After studying each page for a few seconds, he spread them in front of him. With her pen, he drew a large X across each page. “Right. A psycho kid killed two women and nearly killed you. Now you’re on a mission to fit the whole family into the frame.” He shook his head and gazed out the window. “They told me you were impulsive. That what happened sent you over the edge, and now you’re stark raving. Your behaviour this morning proved that to me. I’ve given you what you want. Now, take me to my car before I arrest you for kidnapping.”
Elaine felt the blow deep in her gut. Who are “they”? And that’s what he thinks, does he? This chair-warming, key-tapping jackass who’s never stared down a killer? Who’s never seen a knife that wasn’t next to his dinner plate?
She gathered her papers, stood, and looked down at Mehta. “How the hell can you even conceive of what happened—or who I am?” She threw the pieces of his mobile on the table and started for the door. “Call a taxi.”
THIRTEEN
Thursday morning, Kensington
“Good morning, people. I would say ‘boys and girls,’ but someone informed me that phrase isn’t appropriate for this nick.” Costello stood by the status board and surveyed the incident room. “The evidence so far indicates there were three people in the room besides the victim. The shooter and two others. They think one of the others was a woman because the sole prints appear to be spike high heels.” Bull glanced at Novak, who stood on the other side of the incident board, and then referred back to his notes from the crime scene report.
“She stood by the window, a couple of feet away. The other male stood about five feet to her right. Blowback patterns show the shooter stood between them, about three feet behind the victim. He fired directly into the
back of the victim’s skull, most likely with a large-bore tactical or sawn-off shotgun. One shot, no spent casing on site. The buckshot the CSIs retrieved was aught-aught. They’re analyzing it to try to determine the manufacturer.”
“How do you know the shooter was a he?” a detective asked.
Now for the interesting bit. “Could have been a woman, but we’re going on male. From the negative images in the blood and brain matter, he wore a size eight, narrow width. From stride length, we estimate his height at five feet six to five feet eight. The splattering was intense, so all three unknown persons would have been well soaked in gore. Remember the window? We wondered why it was open. One of them, probably the woman, opened it and retched outside. We have smearing on the windowsill where she leaned over, female shoeprints in the blood on the floor, size four or maybe a half size larger. Only two clear steps, so height is perhaps five foot five. No finger or palm prints, but she left a puddle of vomit in the garden below. We also found what looks like dried urine on the floor inside that window. She had walked in it, so it’s likely hers as well. Forensics is trying to extract DNA from the vomit, but as you may know, that’s extremely unlikely given the acidity. They may have better luck from the dried urine, but it was mixed with the blood. Perhaps they can tease out something besides the victim’s DNA. Two blonde hairs were recovered from the scene, one with the root bulb, which may provide some DNA. The reports won’t be back for a while. Now, as to the victim—”
Novak spoke. “Thanks, DS Costello. I’ll take it from here. Dr. Kumar estimates time of death between nine and eleven PM Monday evening. The victim was Eastern European, average height, dark hair longer than shoulder length. Interview the neighbours again. Focus on two men, one woman, loud noises or cars coming and going, late Monday or predawn Tuesday. I want CCTV from all cameras in a two-block perimeter. Questions?”
One of the DCs raised her hand. “How do we know he was Eastern European?”
“The usual dental work. Anything else? No? Good. Two things. One, DS Costello will brief you on today’s actions. Two, nothing about this investigation is to go outside the team. I trust that is clear.” He nodded at Costello.
Two Faced Page 7