by Graham Ison
‘Just my bloody luck,’ I said as I scanned the information. ‘Has the commander had a copy of this?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
I took the printout and made my way to the commander’s office, well knowing what the outcome of the interview would be.
‘Ah, Mr Brock, I was just about to send for you.’
‘I presume it wasn’t about the murder of Samson Adekunle, sir. It’s only just come in.’ I handed him the printout containing the details.
The commander almost snatched it from me. ‘This is most irregular,’ he said, when he’d finished reading it. ‘Why wasn’t I shown this before?’
‘It’s called chain of command, sir. It was quite proper for it to come to me first, and my job to bring it to you.’
For a moment or two the commander stared at me before placing the printout in the centre of his desk. He leaned back, steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. ‘Yes, quite so.’ For one brief second I was foolish enough to think he was going to apologize. ‘In the circumstances, you’d better undertake this enquiry,’ he said, making another, and for him uncharacteristic, command decision. ‘It seems to be connected to the deaths of Eberhardt and Schmidt.’
‘You’re absolutely right, sir.’ A comment that seemed to please the commander. I turned to go and then paused. ‘You said you were about to send for me.’
‘Yes indeed. I haven’t seen the seating plan for the forthcoming senior officers’ luncheon, Mr Brock, but I can see that you’ll be much too busy. I’ll speak to Mr Cleaver about it.’
‘Very good, sir.’ I always knew that the commander had a different set of priorities from the rest of us. Whatever was vexing him about the seating plan, he was unlikely to get much change out of Alan Cleaver, the HSCC detective chief superintendent. Cleaver had never been too interested in this quarterly bean feast and often made pressure of work an excuse for not going. One of the drawbacks to what would otherwise be an enjoyable function was that the commander took full advantage of his lofty position to lord it over the assembled diners. And to round it off, he could always be relied upon to make a lengthy and pompous speech in the strangulated prose that is a keystone of the teachings at his beloved Bramshill Police College.
I called in at the incident room and told Wilberforce that this latest murder was down to me, and shouted for Dave.
‘Right, sir,’ said Wilberforce, and turned to his computer.
‘Grab a car, Dave,’ I said. ‘We’re on our way to Paddington.’
EIGHT
The houses in Clancy Street, just north of the Bayswater Road, were elegant dwellings. Number seventeen was a terraced property of some three floors. And it was triple-glazed. That and the thickness of the party walls turned out to be a significant factor and one that must have been of advantage to the murderer.
Having passed through the tapes closing off that part of the street, Dave and I mounted the steps and met the incident officer clutching the inevitable clipboard; this time the local nick could only spare a uniformed sergeant. We gave him our particulars.
The next hurdle to overcome before we got on with our investigation was Linda Mitchell waiting to hand us protective suits, gloves and overshoes.
‘Where’s our body, Linda?’ I asked, once we were attired in the functional garb that is vital in preventing contamination of the crime scene.
‘Through the front door and first on the right, Mr Brock. And it’s not a pretty sight.’
No expense had been spared in furnishing the sitting room. The expensive armchairs and sofa, and the carpet and curtains were all of good quality, and the usual extras were all there: flat screen plasma television set, sound system and original paintings. But there were no personal photographs.
‘DCI Brock, HSCC,’ I said, acknowledging the local DI who was leaning against the wall. ‘And this is Dave Poole, my skipper.’
‘Pleased to meet you, guv.’ The DI levered himself off the wall and shook hands with each of us.
I’ll bet you are, I thought. You’re about to wash your hands of this little lot.
Dr Henry Mortlock was seated in one of the armchairs, legs crossed and hands linked behind his head, gazing at the black body of Samson Adekunle. It was naked and tied to an upright kitchen chair, and showed signs of having been tortured quite savagely. Judging by the bloody weals, it was obvious that the victim had been whipped repeatedly, and there were several burns on the body that had probably been caused by a cigarette. There were numerous lacerations where deep incisions had been made. A piece of bloodstained rope lay on the floor near the victim’s chair together with a blood-encrusted kitchen knife.
‘I get the distinct impression that someone didn’t like this guy too much, Harry.’ Mortlock’s dry humour matched that of any detective I’d ever met.
‘Any idea how long he’s been dead, Henry?’ I asked.
‘We’re talking days rather than hours,’ said Mortlock. ‘I’ll have a better idea when I’ve carved him up. A bit more than he’s been carved up already,’ he added with a chuckle.
‘A rough idea?’ I asked hopefully, sniffing the fetid air.
‘There’s a certain amount of putrefaction and marbling, and the blood on the body and the carpet has congealed. A week at least, possibly longer, but as I said I’ll probably be able to narrow it down a bit when I do the post-mortem. But it’s clear that he was tortured quite brutally. He must’ve yelled his head off, but with the triple-glazing, I don’t suppose anyone will have heard anything. Somebody obviously wanted something from him. But what he wanted, Harry, is your problem not mine.’
‘Have you finished here, Henry?’
‘Yes, you can get the body down to the mortuary as soon as you like.’ Mortlock picked up his bag and made for the door. ‘By the way,’ he said, pausing, ‘it looks as though he was shot in the back of the head and that’s probably what finished him off. But I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve done the PM.’
‘What do we know about this job?’ I asked the local DI once Mortlock had departed.
‘We got an anonymous phone call earlier today from an untraceable mobile, tipping us off to the presence of the late Mr Adekunle, guv. We came round and forced an entry and that’s what we found.’ The DI gestured nonchalantly at the body. ‘No sign of a break-in and nothing appears to have been taken. There’s some pretty expensive gear lying about, too. It looks as though the murderer was admitted by the deceased and was after information rather than property. I’d guess that the killer was known to the victim.’
‘Where did you find the dodgy share certificates that were mentioned in your email?’
‘Spread about in the study. There’s a lot of sophisticated IT gear up there, too. I did a search on the police national computer re the certificates and found that you had an interest. I guessed you’d be copping this one, so my lads didn’t go any further than having a quick look round. Nothing like a pristine crime scene for you to get stuck into, is there, guv?’ The DI grinned, probably at his good fortune at not being lumbered with a murder that had all the signs of being complicated and prolonged.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I said.
‘Anything else I can do?’ the DI asked. ‘If not, I’ll leave you to get on with it.’
‘If there is, I’ll give you a bell,’ I said and paused. ‘By the way, d’you know if Adekunle owned this property?’
‘No idea, guv. Like I said, we didn’t do anything once we knew it was down to you.’
‘How did you know the victim was Samson Adekunle?’
‘The guy who made the duff phone call obligingly told us who he was. And he added the useful information that Adekunle was a villain, but there’s no trace of him in CRO.’
The fact that Criminal Records Office didn’t have an entry for Adekunle did not, however, mean that he wasn’t a villain; just that he hadn’t been caught. It was interesting too, that the murderer had left it as long as he had before informing the police. It looked as though he wanted to make s
ure of his escape – probably abroad – before telling us about the presence of Adekunle’s body.
Linda Mitchell had followed us into the room. ‘I’ll carry on now that Doctor Mortlock’s finished, Mr Brock, if that’s all right.’
‘Go ahead, Linda. Have you done the study yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve finished in there; it’s on the next floor up. There are a host of fingerprints, so it’ll take time before we’ve any chance of getting an ident. Incidentally, I had a quick look at the keyboard of the computer for fingerprints, but we’re not going to be able to get any from there. I’ve taken the victim’s prints, but there’s no trace of him in records.’
‘That much the local DI told us,’ I said. ‘And that was about all.’
‘Incidentally, there’s a balcony at the back of the top floor and what looks like a garage with an access via a road from the rear of the property.’
Dave and I made our way upstairs. As the Paddington DI had said, the study was full of hi-tech equipment. The share certificates were strewn about on a desk and on the floor, as though someone had glanced at them and then abandoned them. There was a safe against one wall, but it was locked and I knew from experience that only a skilled locksmith – or a safe-breaker – could get into it. I’ve tried opening safes before and the widely held concept that you can hear the turning of a combination lock’s tumblers with the aid of a stethoscope is an urban myth.
‘We’ll take the computer with us, Dave, and get one of our boffins to see what he can find. You never know, we might get lucky.’
‘In view of Dr Mortlock’s estimation of the time of death it couldn’t’ve been this Adekunle guy who topped the camper-van duo, guv,’ suggested Dave. ‘Given that Adekunle is an associate of Eberhardt, I reckon that he was tortured by the murderer to reveal how Eberhardt could be found. An SAS job, d’you reckon?’
‘I’d like to think that the SAS is a bit more subtle than that, Dave.’
We had a quick look round the rest of the house, making sure that we didn’t get in the way of Linda’s photographers, videographers and fingerprint guys, but found little of interest. We did note, however, that other parts of the house were as expensively furnished as the sitting room.
The top floor consisted of two empty attic rooms and, as Linda had said, there was a balcony that looked down on the rear access and the garage.
Going back downstairs, we found a door that opened straight into the garage. Inside was a new Bentley Continental in grey livery that must have been worth at least a hundred and forty thousand.
‘Would you believe that?’ said Dave, looking around the garage. ‘He’s only had it carpeted.’
What Dave said was true. The garage had been covered, wall to wall, with expensive Axminster. The car was unlocked, but the interior contained nothing that would further our investigation.
We made our way back to the street in time to meet Kate Ebdon.
‘It looks as though this Samson Adekunle guy lived here on his own, Kate,’ I said. ‘Once Linda’s finished, have another detailed look round, and then get the team to start on house-to-house enquiries. But I doubt they’ll turn up very much. And see if you can find out who owns this place. Meanwhile, Dave and I will get back to the factory.’
‘Have a look in the garage, guv,’ said Dave to Kate. ‘Our victim has only had it carpeted.’
As usual we now had to await the results of the scientific examination of the scene of Adekunle’s brutal slaying. But at least we had the computer to play with. When I’d told Dave that we’d get a boffin to look at it, I’d meant Colin Wilberforce. He’s an absolute wizard at interrogating these mysterious machines.
‘Everything had been deleted, sir,’ said Wilberforce, an hour later. ‘The computer’s as clean as a whistle.’ He had a disappointed look on his face.
‘So much for that,’ I said. ‘All we’ve got to do now is find who murdered Adekunle. And it’s a racing certainty that he also murdered Eberhardt and Schmidt.’
‘How about Guy Wilson, guv?’ suggested Dave tentatively. ‘Why else would his place have been selected? D’you think he knows more than he’s telling?’
‘Maybe, Dave. The murderer certainly knew the Richmond area well enough to give Eberhardt specific directions, and that might give us a lead. I think it’s time we had a word with Wilson. Although I doubt we’ll get any more out of him than Miss Ebdon did.’
I decided that we’d call on Guy Wilson straightaway. Kate Ebdon had said that he was an antiquarian book dealer, and she thought it likely that he worked most of the time at home.
It was just after three o’clock when we arrived at Richmond, and Wilson answered the door.
‘Mr Wilson?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m Guy Wilson.’
‘We’re police officers, Mr Wilson,’ I said.
‘What again?’ said Wilson, effecting an air of surprise. ‘An attractive young lady inspector called on me last Saturday.’
‘Detective Inspector Ebdon is one of my officers,’ I said.
‘One of your officers? So you must be the grand fromage,’ said Wilson, as he opened the door and invited us in.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, if that’s what you mean, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’ I could see why Kate had taken a dislike to this man whom she’d described as a galah. I could immediately see a likeness to that colourful Australian cockatoo, although I think that Kate had the other meaning in mind: that he was a fool. My own instant assessment was that he was an egotist with an inflated perception of his own sagacity, and a tendency to make what he thought were terribly witty remarks.
‘I suppose this is to do with the fire, is it?’ Wilson ushered us into his wood-panelled study at the rear of the house. Thickly and expensively carpeted, the room had been fitted from floor to ceiling with custom-built oak bookshelves and a matching workstation bearing a proliferation of computer equipment. The shelves were full of books and there were several piles on the floor. A shelf above the workstation held a number of trophies apparently to do with skiing, if the little silver man on skis was anything to go by, and a model of Bluebird, Sir Malcolm Campbell’s record-breaking car. Gail’s father would undoubtedly have been able to tell me the year and the speed that this particular model triumphed at Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah.
‘Yes, Mr Wilson, our enquiries are connected with the fire,’ I said.
‘Please take a seat and tell me how I can help you.’ Wilson indicated a pair of club armchairs with a nonchalant flourish of his hand, but remained standing in front of one of the bookshelves, relaxed and hands in the pockets of his maroon trousers. If his stance was designed to impress me with some sort of ascendancy, it failed. It’d been tried too often in the past to have any effect.
‘The two occupants of the camper van that was parked opposite this house had been murdered in what we’re viewing as an execution-style killing,’ I began. ‘They’d each been shot in the head.’
‘Good grief! Are you sure?’
I declined to dignify that question with a reply. After all, I wouldn’t tell him how to run an antiquarian book shop. ‘Furthermore, Mr Wilson, we now know that the driver of the van was given specific instructions to park opposite your house. In that way the murderer would know exactly where he was and thus be able to kill him. And his girlfriend.’
‘Oh my God!’ Suddenly Wilson’s pomposity vanished. ‘I just thought it was an unfortunate but tragic fire.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘You don’t think that I was responsible for killing these people, do you?’ An element of panic crept into his voice as he posed that last question.
‘Well, did you, Mr Wilson?’ Dave took out his pocketbook and opened it to a blank page. He managed to make it look menacing.
‘Of course I didn’t. I didn’t even know they’d been murdered. Your inspector told me that they’d been burned alive.’
‘That was our assumption at the time,’ I said, ‘but it was subsequently discovered that they’d
been shot before the van was set alight.’ Kate was always careful not to give too much away to anyone who might prove to be a suspect. And right now Wilson was moving rapidly to the top of my list. It surely couldn’t have been a coincidence that the murderer had selected this particular house when telling Eberhardt where to park.
‘Do you know anyone called Samson Adekunle?’ asked Dave.
‘No. He sounds like some sort of foreigner.’
‘Have you ever invested in any shares—?’ I began, but got no further.
‘I don’t see that my financial affairs have any bearing on this,’ snapped Wilson, recovering his haughtiness and interrupting me sharply.
Any minute now I thought he was going to ask if we’d got a warrant to search his house. I have to admit that the possibility of obtaining one was crossing my mind.
‘The only reason I ask is that we’re also investigating a large-scale share fraud that’s connected with the murders. Have you ever invested in, say, an IT development company in Buenos Aires or in a cargo of oil allegedly being shipped from Nigeria? Both of them failed to yield any dividends.’
‘Good God no,’ said Wilson vehemently. ‘I’m not stupid and that sort of fraud is going on all the time. Well, you’d know that better than me, Chief Inspector,’ he added, making a rare concession that someone might know more than he did. ‘If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you what sort of investments I make.’ He was clearly at pains to distance himself from our probing questions and from the implication that he was connected with the murders.
We crossed the hall and followed Wilson into his sitting room.
‘This is my wife Helen,’ said Wilson, waving casually at an attractive raven-haired woman wearing tight-fitting white designer jeans and a long white sweater around which was a gold chain, all of which probably cost a fortune.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ I said.
‘These gentlemen are from the police, darling. They’ve come to see me about that awful fire last Thursday night or Friday morning or whenever it was. The chief inspector was just telling me that the two people in it were murdered.’