Chelsea Mansions bak-11

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Chelsea Mansions bak-11 Page 11

by Barry Maitland


  ‘That you, Kathy?’ The voice was hoarse.

  She grinned, said, ‘Yep, it’s me,’ and ran up the stairs.

  He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking somewhat diminished in his old tartan dressing-gown, but with a little colour in his cheeks.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bit better. Come in, sit down.’

  ‘What are those?’ Kathy pointed to the files and crime scene photographs scattered around him.

  ‘I got Dot to courier them over.’ He nodded towards the whisky bottle on the side table. ‘Pour us a snifter, will you?’

  ‘How about food?’

  ‘Had some soup. Now, tell me what’s been going on.’

  ‘Everyone’s desperate for you to come back from Scotland.’

  ‘I’m planning on flying back tonight.’

  ‘Really? Are you up to it?’

  ‘Sadly the bracing Scottish weather didn’t agree with me, and I shall have a bit of a cold and look somewhat the worse for wear. But you’ve been covering for me long enough, Kathy. Tell me about today.’

  So she did, everything except her drink with John Greenslade.

  ‘Zack’s right,’ Brock said. ‘Soon we won’t need to leave our screens to do our job. We’ll be able to see what’s going on inside every room and every car. But we still won’t be able to see what’s going on inside people’s heads. And you’re worried about what’s going on inside Vadim Kuzmin’s head, am I right?’

  Kathy nodded. ‘He’s a hard case, doesn’t give much away.’

  ‘And Five can’t give us any leads to Russian visitors we should be talking to?’

  ‘Apparently not. We’re running our own checks through the Border Agency, but so far nothing promising.’

  ‘So we’re thinking of a domestic killer hired by someone like Vadim to do the dirty work while he’s out of the country.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What about Captain Marvel?’

  ‘Danny Yilmaz? We haven’t got any further with him. The CPS are worried about going for the aid and abet charge on the basis of what we have so far, and the court granted him bail.’

  ‘And yet he’s pretty much all we’ve got.’ Brock scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Tottenham have been looking into that cousin of his, Barbaros Kaya, but they haven’t come up with anything.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think we should speak to Danny again. And Vadim, a formal interview. Let’s work on both ends to find out who’s in the middle.’

  THIRTEEN

  E veryone seemed immensely pleased to see Brock back, Dot especially so. Brock shrugged off her solicitations with a grunt and a request for strong coffee. The truth was that he still felt half dead, and the effort involved in pretending to be normal seemed to sap what little energy he had. He sat alone for a while in his office, gathering his strength for the team meeting, then took a deep breath and put a call through to Commander Sharpe’s office. He too was delighted to hear from Brock.

  ‘You sound a bit ropey, Brock. Catch a bug on the plane? So how was the castle?’

  Brock blinked, wondering what he was talking about. ‘Could still bear fruit, sir. But not as productive as I’d hoped. We’re becoming quite interested in Vadim Kuzmin.’

  ‘The son-in-law, yes of course. The FSB connection. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I wonder if a high-level request could be made for Five and Six to open their files on the man.’

  ‘We can but try. Leave it with me. There’s been a hell of a lot of speculation while you’ve been away-TV, papers, blogs, questions in the House. Well, you’ll know of course. Marilyn says we need to give them something. Maybe something on the Scottish angle? What do you think?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Could prejudice our inquiries.’

  Sharpe gave a growl like a pit bull with toothache. ‘Twenty-four hours, Brock. Give me something.’

  The enthusiastic mood in the team meeting quickly went flat as Brock’s unhappiness with progress became apparent. He listened with a frown to the reports from each of the groups and finally pointed at Emerson Merckle’s photograph of the man at the Chelsea Flower Show, enlarged and enhanced until the pale scar down the left cheek of his brooding face was apparent.

  ‘What happened to this man after he got off the motorbike at Camden Town tube station? We’ll have to go over it all again, every station on the Northern Line, every camera, every eyewitness. Where does a man go after he commits a murder? Church, brothel, pub, betting shop, Turkish bath? There’s got to be a trace of him somewhere. Kathy, I want you to take charge of this. Bren, you and I will go up to Tottenham and interview Danny Yilmaz again. Come on everyone, twenty-four hours. Give me something.’

  He felt bad afterwards, repeating Sharpe’s demand without any clear hope of a result, and he felt worse when they finally had Danny Yilmaz sitting hunched in front of them in an interview room, waiting for his brief to arrive. There was something about the glare of the fluorescent lights, the indefinable smell in the stale air, the scrape of metal chairs on plastic floor tiles, that seemed deliberately calculated to make him feel nauseous.

  ‘Danny,’ he said softly, ‘the tape’s not running yet, nothing’s going on the record, but before we begin I want to do you a good turn.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure.’

  ‘We know you were lying to us. And we know why. It was a favour for your cousin Barbaros, wasn’t it? And we know that it was Barbaros that you picked up on your bike after he killed that woman in Sloane Street.’

  Danny was eyeing him with a glassy, unfocused look and Brock felt his heart sink. This was absurd, a wild stab in the dark, and Danny knew it. But he had to press on.

  ‘We can’t prove it, not yet, but we know it’s true. So we are going to make Barbaros’s life hell until we do. We are going to rip his house apart and his car and that TV repair shop he owns, and his mother’s house and your mother’s house and everything they own until we find what we’re looking for. So make it easy for us. Tell us where to look.’

  He sat back and waited. He sensed Bren beside him shift in his seat, probably thinking the old man had lost it. He was right, it had been a truly terrible impersonation of a cheap cop show interrogation, and when Danny told his brief there’d be trouble. Brock felt ashamed.

  Danny lifted his head and stared at Brock, who thought he saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘It was nothing to do with Barbaros,’ he said finally. ‘I swear. He was a Scotchman.’

  ‘The man on the phone or on the bike?’ Brock said calmly.

  Danny bowed his head. ‘The guy I picked up on Sloane Street.’

  ‘A Scotsman, you say?’

  ‘Yeah. Well hard. Listen, it was nothing to do with Barbaros. You’ve got that totally wrong, I swear.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Brock said. ‘So where did he go when you dropped him at Camden Town?’

  ‘I dunno. Back to Scotland for all I know.’

  ‘You think he came from there?’

  ‘Well, he came from somewhere. That’s what the bloke on the phone said.’

  ‘And you’re sure the one on the phone wasn’t the same man?’

  ‘Oh yeah. The one on the phone sounded like a Londoner.’ He paused and slumped lower in his seat. ‘The one on the bike had flash shoes, Nike Air Jordans, blue with orange trim. Listen, I feel sick…’ And then he turned his head and threw up on the floor.

  They called the duty sergeant to look after Danny. ‘We’ll leave it for now,’ Brock said. ‘Tell his lawyer he doesn’t need to bother.’

  On the way out Brock phoned Kathy, passing on the information about the shoes and the Scottish accent. ‘It’s possible he got the Northern Line from Camden Town to Euston, to catch a train back up north.’

  When they got into the car Bren said, ‘Smart work, Chief.’

  ‘It may be nothing. Anyway, I didn’t deserve it.’

  Bren laughed, but didn’t disagree.

  ‘Scotland?’ Zack s
hook his head. ‘Is he having us on?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Kathy said, although the same thought had occurred to her. She began contacting the teams with the new information, moving some to Euston, Kings Cross and St Pancras rail stations to check CCTV records. But it was Zack who first spotted the shoes, coming out of Camden Town tube station a few minutes after the killer had gone in, but this time on the feet of a man wearing a pale cream jacket and a cap.

  ‘Got him,’ Zack said. ‘He must have put on the jacket and cap inside the station, and now he’s heading north up Camden Road.’

  They picked him up again going into Camden Road rail station on the London Overground network, a couple of hundred yards away, buying a ticket and catching a train heading east.

  Again Kathy called up the teams to check the stations along the North London Line-Caledonian Road and Barnsbury, Highbury and Islington, Canonbury, Dalston Kingsland, and then Hackney Central, where they retrieved images of him leaving the station and disappearing into the streets leading south.

  Meanwhile the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency had got back to them with an identification of the man at the flower show. His name was Harold Michael Peebles, thirty-six years old, known as Hard Harry Peebles, and his last known address was HM Prison Barlinnie, Glasgow, from which he had recently been released after completing a six-year sentence for manslaughter. A check confirmed that Peebles had been a passenger on a British Midland Airways flight from Glasgow to London on the morning of Wednesday 26 May. There was no record of him taking a return flight.

  Everyone converged on the Hackney police station, where the CCTV coordinator began the search through local sources for the afternoon of 27 May. After an hour they had found one brief sighting on a bank security camera of the man in the blue and orange shoes, then nothing more. They moved their search to the following day, the mood of frustration growing among those who waited. Bren and the borough detectives were impatient to get out and canvass shops, pubs and betting shops with pictures of the wanted man, but Brock held them back, not wanting to spook him if he was still in the area. The trawl through camera footage continued through the twenty-eighth, the twenty-ninth, but in the end it was Glasgow that provided the answer. The office at Barlinnie Prison had run the word ‘Hackney’ through their computer and come up with a next-of-kin address for one of the inmates in C Hall, where Harry Peebles had been housed. The address was for the man’s sister, a Mrs Angela Storey of 13 Ferncroft Close, Hackney. A check soon established that Mrs Storey was divorced, childless and currently serving time in nearby Holloway Prison.

  A helicopter from the Air Support Unit at Lippitts Hill was called in, giving them aerial surveillance. Ferncroft Close was a quiet residential cul-de-sac of just twenty houses in two terraces facing each other across a roadway jammed with parked cars. One end was blocked by a railway embankment and there was a rear access laneway running behind the back gardens of the terrace in which number thirteen was located. Brock called for an armed response unit and made his plans.

  After his experience at Danny Yilmaz’s flat, Brock didn’t go in with the team, but instead watched from Queen Anne’s Gate, through the helicopter’s camera, the unmarked car and two white vans arriving at Ferncroft Close. There was a sense of unreality in seeing it unfold like this, like a computer game, with sound effects, a sudden burst of dogs barking coming through the headphones. Brock remembered other such raids in years gone by, when communications meant a shout and a dodgy radio.

  There was nothing unreal about the raid as far as Kathy was concerned, sitting squashed up in the white van with a gang of uniforms. One of them was the operator for a device new to the Met, the Black Hornet, currently on operational field trials from its Norwegian manufacturer. Looking over the operator’s shoulder, Kathy watched him open the small aluminium case that he was carrying and take out one of three tiny black helicopters, as small as a child’s toy. They opened the rear doors of the van and the man released the device, which rose with a soft purr into the air. He settled back down with a control panel and screen, guiding the Hornet down the street to hover silently outside the windows of number thirteen, sending pictures back to the van. A neat toy, Kathy thought, but nothing could shield you from the reality of a forcible arrest, the shock of violent contact, the spontaneous decision that could take a life or ruin a career in a millisecond.

  ‘No signs of movement on this side of the house,’ the Hornet operator intoned. He guided the machine over the roof and down to check the windows at the back. ‘Doesn’t look as if anybody’s at home… hang on. Upstairs room, far side. Curtains are closed and it looks as if…’ He fiddled with the helicopter controls, moving it closer. ‘Yes, a light is on inside.’

  A stir went through the van, people easing in their seats, adjusting their equipment.

  The Hornet operator looked at Kathy. ‘Boss?’

  Kathy spoke into the radio to Bren in the other van, which was at the entrance to the rear lane. ‘Right,’ she said finally. ‘First crew straight up the stairs to that bedroom, second clear the ground floor. The others are coming in the back. Let’s go.’

  The van lurched forward down Ferncroft Close and came to a stop outside number thirteen. Now the rear doors were thrown open and they were racing out, smashing open the front door, charging inside with shouts of ‘Police! Don’t move!’ Kathy pounded up the stairs, following the lead pair with their helmets and guns, and sucked in a deep breath as she watched the first man kick the bedroom door open, then come to an abrupt stop, staring inside.

  ‘What?’ She ran forward, and the smell hit her before anything else, a gust of hot, fetid air billowing out onto the landing. She pushed past the man and saw a figure stretched out on a narrow bed. A grotesque effigy of a man, bloated, cloudy eyes open and unseeing, skin green and mottled like a rotten marrow.

  ‘Is that him?’ Bren was by her side. Then he gagged and reached for a handkerchief to cover his nose.

  Kathy called back over her shoulder, ‘No signs of life. Everybody out.’ She took in the rest of the room, an electric fire blazing away with both bars, a syringe and strap lying on a fluffy pink rug beside the bed, the headboard of the bed decorated with decals of fluffy teddy bears and rabbits.

  She got on the phone to Brock. ‘He’s been dead a while. Several days. Hardly looks like him, but there’s that scar down his left cheek.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  FOURTEEN

  T hat evening Kathy arrived back at Queen Anne’s Gate before the others and went to find Pip Gallagher. The young detective constable was at her desk, surrounded by photocopies and file notes.

  ‘Sounds like I missed out on some excitement,’ Pip said. ‘We really got a result?’

  ‘Looks promising. The man on the motorbike, dead in his safe house, OD’d by the look of it.’

  ‘Celebrating after a job well done, was he? Serves the bastard right.’

  ‘Got anything for me?’

  ‘Yeah, boss.’ She shuffled papers together. ‘Grab a chair.’

  Kathy sat at her side and began to examine the pages Pip handed to her.

  ‘Mikhail has written to the papers before, once to The Times, several times to the Surrey Advertiser and before that the Esher News and Mail, which has now closed down. There may have been others I haven’t found.’

  ‘Funny place to write about the threat from the Russian government.’

  ‘Except that wasn’t what he was writing about.’ Pip consulted her notes. ‘He was writing in support of the activities of various bodies-mainly the BHPS.’

  Kathy frowned, trying to think if she’d heard of it. ‘What’s that, neo-Nazis?’

  Pip laughed. ‘Not quite. The British Hedgehog Preservation Society.’

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘Straight up. Mikhail thought they were doing a wonderful job. Also the CPRE, the Campaign to Protect Rural England, and the PTES, the People’s Trust for Endangered Species. He was a member of all thre
e, apparently, and a generous donor.’

  ‘Esher is where his daughter lives.’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to the secretary of the local branch of HogWatch. They plot hedgehog sightings reported in by volunteers. Apparently Mikhail was a keen hedgehog spotter whenever he went down to visit his daughter.’

  Kathy was astonished. ‘You think you have an idea of someone, and then you come across something like this and realise you were thinking in stereotypes. The hedgehog oligarch. Nothing political? You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ve contacted all the national papers and the main London locals. Here are facsimile copies of the letters he sent.’ She handed Kathy a file. ‘I’ve also followed up on forensic linguists, like you said. Central registry has the names of two approved specialists, but one’s in Japan for the next month and the other’s in hospital having quintuple bypass heart surgery. So I gave them your Canadian’s name and asked them to look into him. Was that okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘They checked him out and said we can use him if the other two aren’t available. I’ve got the paperwork here that he’d have to sign.’ Another file.

  ‘You’ve done well, Pip, thanks.’

  ‘I’d rather have been breaking that bastard’s door down, boss.’

  ‘Next time.’

  Brock returned from Hackney, exhausted but quietly satisfied, and told the team to get themselves cleaned up, grab mugs of tea and assemble for a debriefing. Dot was waiting for him with a message from Commander Sharpe, who wanted to come over as soon as Brock got back.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in Brock’s office.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he beamed. ‘To be perfectly honest, Brock, I had severe doubts about that Scottish angle you were chasing. I should have known that you always have something up your sleeve. I still don’t quite see what this has to do with Nancy Haynes’ relatives though…’

 

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