‘It turned out to be a bit more complicated than we first thought,’ Brock improvised. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done to tie Peebles to whoever commissioned the murders.’
‘Yes, but the important thing is that we have a result.’ Sharpe paused, looking at Brock more closely. ‘You look all in, old chap.’
‘I’ve had a bit of a bug, sir.’
‘Well, I think a simple press release. No need for interviews until you have some more answers.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
Sharpe got to his feet. ‘I’d like to congratulate everyone personally.’
‘Of course.’ Brock led the way to the big room where they were all gathered and Sharpe said his piece, shook hands with Brock and left.
There was a buzz of satisfaction in the room, a sense of shared achievement, and Brock had to remind them that this was a good beginning, but only a beginning. Now they had to discover where Harry Peebles would lead them.
‘Bren,’ he said, ‘tell us what we have from the house.’
‘Right.’ Bren got to his feet and stood in front of the board on which Peebles’ picture was posted. Alongside he stuck felt-pen sketch plans of the layout of the two floors of the house in Ferncroft Close, and photographs of the bedroom.
‘The body was found upstairs in this bedroom, fully clothed, with a syringe on the floor beside the bed on which he was lying. Fingerprints confirm that it is Peebles. Time of death is obviously important, but the body was not fresh. The medical examiner was cagey about time of death, because of the high temperature in the room. When pressed he suggested about three days ago, which would put it immediately after Mikhail Moszynski was killed. The light was on in the bedroom, indicating it happened at night. On the chest of drawers in the bedroom we also found a bag containing ten thousand pounds in twenties.
‘The search of the house and garden hasn’t yet found the knife that was used to kill Moszynski. But we did find a mobile phone in the pocket of Peebles’ jeans. This is being given priority.
‘The rest of the house looked as if Peebles had been living there for several days. Judging by the bottles, frozen-food packets and dirty dishes, it looked as if he was doing most of his eating and drinking there and not going out for meals. We’ve started door-knocking the street and surrounding area, including the local off-licence and supermarket, and of course the CCTV cameras in the vicinity.’
Bren paused, and Brock said, ‘Any other drugs in the house?’
‘Not that we’ve found so far. But I did wonder if there could be a drug angle to this. Suppose Moszynski was using his companies to bring drugs into the country and had upset some locals, who decided to bring in an outside contractor to take care of him.’
‘Hm. What do we know about Peebles? Any gangland drug connections there?’
Kathy spoke. ‘We’ve got his record, and yes, plenty of drug connections. He was gaoled twice for dealing and his last spell in Barlinnie was for the killing of a user who owed one of the big Glasgow drug gangs a lot of money. The Crown Office settled for manslaughter. Peebles was also a heroin user. He was on drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs while he was inside. No known connections to London dealers though. He told his parole officer about an offer of work in London, and was given permission to go south for a trial period of one week.’
‘Maybe Moszynski was moving into the Scottish market and upsetting people up there,’ Bren suggested.
‘Anything else, Kathy?’ Brock felt drained, remembering that he was due to take another Tamiflu tablet.
‘We’ve been checking the cameras at Heathrow to see if Peebles was met off his flight on Wednesday, but nothing so far.’
‘Right.’ Brock stood up. ‘Well done, everyone. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got plenty to follow up tomorrow.’
As he made his way out Kathy caught up with him and said, ‘One other thing. I thought I’d have the text of the letter that Moszynski sent to The Times authenticated.’
‘Haven’t we done that already?’
‘The notepaper and signature were passed by forensics, but we should make sure the language was his. We can compare it with other letters he sent to newspapers. But the thing is that the two specialists the Yard normally uses are both unavailable. There is someone else, a Canadian staying in the hotel next to the Moszynskis in Chelsea, where Nancy Haynes was also staying. He’s had experience doing this kind of work for the police in Canada. In fact, it was he who suggested to me we should get it done. I thought I might ask him to have a look.’
Brock gazed at her for a moment and thought he detected a slight awkwardness in her manner. It did sound a bit odd.
‘Have I met him?’
‘I don’t think so, no. His name is John Greenslade, a professor of linguistics at McGill University. I’ve checked him out.’
‘So he’s not a possible suspect?’
Kathy hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose no one in Cunningham Place is completely in the clear until we find whoever was paying Peebles. But it seems unlikely.’
Brock frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘I remember the hotel, but haven’t been inside. When I get on top of things I must go and take a good look. Okay, go ahead.’
It was almost ten o’clock that night when Kathy called in at Cunningham Place on her way back to her flat in Finchley. She might have left it till the following day, but told herself it would be another job done.
Deb was at her usual station at the front desk, the radio playing softly behind her. She looked up at the sound of the front door bell and cried, ‘Aha! Congratulations!’
Kathy hesitated. ‘Sorry?’
‘It was on the news just now. A breakthrough in the Chelsea murder cases. You’ve got somebody.’
‘That was quick. Yes, we had a bit of luck today.’
Toby had heard the noise and appeared, a glass of Scotch in hand. He raised it. ‘Well done. It was definitely him, was it, that murdered Nancy?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘In heaven’s name why? Drugs, I suppose?’
‘We’re looking into that.’
‘You look tired, dear,’ Deb said. ‘Can we get you something?’
‘A drink?’ Toby offered.
Kathy suppressed a yawn. ‘No, thanks. I just came to have a quick word with Mr Greenslade, if he’s in.’
She was aware of them giving her quizzical looks. Toby lowered his glass. ‘He’s surely not involved, is he?’
‘No. There’s just something he might be able to help me with.’
‘Really?’ They eyed the files under her arm, then Deb said, ‘Yes, I believe he is in. Let me give him a ring.’
She picked up the phone and dialled, and after a moment purred, ‘John, dear? You have a visitor,’ in such a suggestive tone that Kathy winced and wished she’d arranged to meet him at the local police station.
‘Would you like to use the guests’ lounge, Inspector?’ Deb said. ‘There’s no one in there.’
‘Fine, thanks.’
When John appeared his hair was dishevelled and he looked as if he’d been asleep.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late,’ Kathy said.
‘No, not at all. I was doing some last-minute editing on the paper I have to deliver at the conference tomorrow, and I fell asleep. It’s one thing to nod off during somebody else’s lecture, but falling asleep during your own is a very bad sign. So what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve had approval to ask you to look at Moszynski’s letter.’
He straightened and his face lit up. ‘Really? That’s great.’
‘I have some papers here you’ll have to sign-the terms of your appointment and a confidentiality agreement.’
‘Sure.’
He pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and Kathy watched him as he quickly scanned the pages. The glasses made him look older and more serious.
‘Not a problem,’ he said at last. ‘Got a pen?’
He scrawled several signatures then said, ‘We’ll ne
ed to get hold of some comparable things he’s written in English.’
She handed him the file. ‘We’ve found these other letters he’s written to newspapers.’
‘Excellent.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Do you know how he composes the letters? I mean, does he dictate them into a machine or to a typist, does he write a draft longhand, or does he type them on a computer?’
‘We can ask his secretary.’
‘Yeah, that would be good. I’d like to know if someone else edited them before they were finalised.’
‘Do you need to speak to her yourself?’
‘It might be as well.’
He was giving his conference paper the next morning, and would be free after one p.m. Kathy said she’d arrange something for the afternoon and text him with the details.
‘I do appreciate you asking me to do this. I was afraid you didn’t trust me. Did you have to okay it with your boss, DCI Brock?’
‘Yes, so don’t let me down, John.’
FIFTEEN
S undeep Mehta had Harry Peebles’ naked body on the stainless-steel table, carefully checking his arms and torso and between his fingers and toes for puncture marks.
‘How long has he been out of prison?’
‘Just over four weeks,’ Kathy said. ‘He’d been inside for six years.’
The pathologist grunted. ‘I count five recent puncture marks, but the only way to be sure is to take his skin off and hold it up to the light. What’s your thinking?’
‘We’d like to establish his recent drug history. Get an idea how an experienced drug taker like him could have OD’d.’
‘Happens all the time, especially after a spell of abstinence in gaol. His hair will give us his drug history, but the analysis will take time.’
‘What about time of death?’ Brock said. Kathy glanced at him. It was the first time he’d spoken, and his voice sounded slurred. The very first time she had met him had been at an autopsy like this, with Sundeep Mehta presiding. There had been many since then. That first time she’d felt queasy, but now it was Brock who was looking grey.
‘Give me a chance, Brock!’ Sundeep protested. ‘I’ve hardly begun. But by the look of him…’ he gazed appraisingly at the corpse, ‘six days, seven?’
‘No, no,’ Brock growled. ‘He killed someone on Sunday night, three and a half days ago. The room he was in was very hot.’
‘I know that.’ Sundeep consulted his notes. ‘Forty-two Centigrade. But still, bacterial action is very extensive. No flies in the room unfortunately. A few maggots would have helped.’ He reached for his scalpel.
Brock cleared his throat, and Sundeep looked up. ‘You feeling all right, Brock? You’re looking…’
‘Fine.’ Brock roused himself. ‘Had a touch of flu. Getting over it.’
‘Not swine flu, I hope.’ Sundeep looked at him severely over his face mask.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Mm.’
‘What did he give you?’
‘Tamiflu.’
Sundeep put down the scalpel and peered more closely at Brock. ‘How long have you had that rash?’
Brock touched his throat. ‘Just came up last night. Can we get on with the PM, please?’
But Sundeep wasn’t to be diverted. He peeled off his gloves, put on a fresh pair and advanced on Brock. They looked a slightly comical pair, Kathy thought affectionately, old friends, the pathologist small and nut-brown against the larger, greyer bulk of the detective. Except that the expression on Sundeep’s face wasn’t comical as he unbuttoned the front of Brock’s shirt, despite the other man’s protests, and examined the scarlet blaze across his chest.
‘Macula,’ he muttered. ‘Papular.’
‘What’s that mean in English?’ Brock grunted, brushing him off.
‘It means…’ Sundeep began, then shook his head and turned away to the phone on the wall. He consulted the hospital directory hanging beside it and made a call while the rest of them-Brock, Kathy and what could be seen of Sundeep’s assistant beneath her plastic helmet and thick rubber gloves and apron-stood motionless, waiting.
‘All right.’ Sundeep hung up. ‘It means that you’re going upstairs to the fourth floor to see a friend of mine.’
‘No,’ Brock said. ‘This is…’ He stopped, gave a grunt and slumped to the floor.
It was almost an hour before Dr Mehta emerged from the isolation ward. He looked worried and preoccupied.
‘What is it, Sundeep?’ Kathy demanded. ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘Well, it’s not swine flu, Kathy.’
‘So?’
Sundeep looked at her and his face formed an encouraging smile, which Kathy didn’t find very convincing. ‘We aren’t sure yet. There are many causes of maculopapular rash.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, measles, rubella, typhoid…’
‘Typhoid?’
‘Has he been abroad lately?’
‘No.’
‘In contact with foreigners?’
Kathy thought. ‘This started on Sunday night. We attended the murder scene of that Russian, Mikhail Moszynski, and Brock suddenly felt faint.’
‘Did he touch the body?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Sundeep disappeared abruptly back into the ward, and Kathy watched him through the glass panel, gesticulating to the doctor who was at Brock’s bedside. As she watched them, Kathy guessed what they were discussing, and a chill formed inside her. After a few minutes Sundeep returned.
‘You’re thinking about Litvinenko,’ Kathy said.
He nodded. ‘Four years ago, Alexander Litvinenko fell suddenly ill in a sushi restaurant in London. It took a little while to establish that he had been poisoned with a radioactive isotope, polonium-210, in his tea. Polonium is invisible to normal radiation detectors, because it doesn’t emit gamma rays, only alpha rays. It is highly toxic if swallowed- or inhaled.’
‘But… Moszynski was stabbed to death. You did the autopsy yourself.’
‘Yes.’ Sundeep was shaking his head.
‘You think the stabbing was to disguise the real cause of death?’
‘I don’t know, Kathy. They’re doing lots of tests. They want us both to give samples. When you’ve done that, go back to work and don’t worry.’
Easier said than done. When Kathy got into her car she rang the number of the antiques shop down in Sussex owned by Brock’s partner, Suzanne Chambers. Suzanne’s assistant, Ginny, said that she was still on her tour of the West Country, attending auctions and sales, and gave Kathy the number of her mobile. Suzanne was devastated when Kathy told her what had happened.
‘In hospital? He was feeling rotten when I phoned him on Saturday, before I left, but of course he said it was nothing.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Yes. He thought it was just a cold.’
Suzanne said she’d come straight back to London. She took down the address of the hospital and asked Kathy to ring again if there was further news.
Bren and his team had returned from a further search of the Hackney house when Kathy got back to Queen Anne’s Gate and told them what had happened. She was still feeling stunned. ‘They can’t say what’s wrong with him, but it’s not flu. They’re doing tests.’
‘Like what? His heart?’
‘I don’t think so. They’ve put him in isolation, as if he’s picked up something infectious. I had to give them a blood sample, and so did Sundeep.’
Mickey Schaeffer gave a frown. ‘Do you think it could have something to do with the Ugandan kid in Danny Yilmaz’s flat? He covered Brock with his nose bleed.’
‘I forgot about him. Where is he now?’
‘They handed him over to Immigration.’
‘Get on to them, Mickey. Find out what happened to him. See if he’s sick.’
It was hard to concentrate on anything else, but while they waited Kathy asked Bren about Ferncroft C
lose.
‘Neighbours can’t remember seeing any visitors to number thirteen apart from Peebles. His are the only prints on the syringe and the foil of heroin. No indication where he got it from. Only his prints on the cash. Variety of prints elsewhere in the house, some probably the owner’s, Angela Storey. We’ll have to interview her in Holloway and get names of visitors we can eliminate.’
‘Nothing then?’
‘Wouldn’t say that.’ Bren gave his quiet smile, keeping the best for last. ‘The mobile phone. It’s a prepaid job, again only his prints on it. It’s made and received calls from just two numbers.’
Bren handed her a note of the numbers. ‘One is another anonymous prepaid mobile. The other is a landline belonging to one Gloria Cummins with a Chelsea address. We know her.’ He handed Kathy a printout from the PNC.
‘A prostitute?’ Kathy skimmed down a string of aliases, cautions, arrests, charges and convictions.
‘She’s a madam now, and moved upmarket, running an escort service with a posh address and a stable of classy girls.’
‘Do we speak to her?’
‘I don’t know. I think there’s something funny about this. Gloria seems an odd choice for a rough bastard like Peebles. You should check out her website, appealing to a better class of punters, and expensive. And she’s in Chelsea.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Maybe she’s just an intermediary, a point of contact between Peebles and his client, maybe to hand over payments. And I imagine she’ll be very reluctant to tell us anything. Her business depends on confidentiality. No, I think we should sniff around a bit first. And then there’s the other number. Look at the timing of the calls-the day Peebles arrived in London, the evening of the day that Nancy died, and the night of Moszynski’s death.’
Kathy stared at the mobile number and felt a surge of adrenaline. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? The client, the one who ordered the hits. Peebles is telling him he’s done the job.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You don’t think we can trace it?’
‘That’s priority number one. Leave it with me.’
‘Boss?’ Mickey was standing at the door, looking worried.
‘What?’
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