by T J Walter
Collins laughed into the phone. ‘Perhaps if you weren’t such a good detective, you wouldn’t have that problem. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s the other way round actually; it’s what I can do for you. But not over the phone; can we meet?’
‘I’m under pressure here, John, is it urgent?’
‘It’s pretty important and might just release some of that pressure. Now do you want what I have or not?’
Collins sighed. ‘Yes, of course, John, where are you?’
‘Leman Street Incident Room.’
‘Right, I’ll be there in an hour.’
Brookes smiled as he put the phone down. He turned to DS Rose. ‘So, Brian Collins is one of your mentors is he, Jacqui? You’re a lucky man, he’s going places.’
Her face reddened with embarrassment. ‘He says the same about you, sir.’
Middlemiss chimed in, ‘Sky’s getting a bit crowded, boss, with all these fliers about.’
Brookes smiled at him. ‘No need for you to duck, Fred, you can dogfight with the best of them.’ Then, in a more sober tone, he said, ‘Right, back to business. I want a twenty-four hour observation set up on Fleming, starting immediately. Once I’ve seen Collins, I’ll interview Fleming; you come with me, Fred. We’ve got enough now to make him uncomfortable. Get warrants to have his phones tapped and to search his house and business. I want to see what he does and who he talks to after I’ve spoken to him, and I don’t want to give him the chance to run.’
Middlemiss sat frowning, something obviously on his mind.
‘What is it, Fred?’
‘Well, boss, this Silver is well-organised; he’s got his own enforcers. But Alison’s wasn’t a professional hit, more like amateur night at the proms. I’m wondering why Fleming did the job himself. Why not get Silver to put the heavy mob in?’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking, Fred. I wonder if Silver knows of the leak at Luxury Homes?’
Middlemiss nodded. ‘Great minds think alike, boss. Maybe Fleming found out about the leak and decided to plug it before Silver got to know.’
‘Then we must keep what we know under wraps and get a move on. And on a personal note, Fred, how’s the study going for the inspector’s exam?’
‘Not well, boss. I can’t get my head around the instruction book, let alone General Orders.’
‘Well we’ll have to do something about that. As soon as we solve this one, you’ll take a month off and get your head down. And that’s an order; otherwise we won’t be able to move for all these damned fliers. It’ll be like swimming in treacle.’ Looking at Rose, he added, ‘Present company excepted of course.’
Middlemiss grinned. ‘Yes, boss.’
Rose found something interesting outside the window to look at.
*
Chapter 9 – The Fleming interview
‘Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.’
Oscar Wilde
Detective Chief Superintendent Brian Collins arrived at Leman Street exactly an hour after their telephone conversation. He and Brookes were as different as chalk and cheese. Collins was no better than a competent detective; his strength lay in managing others that were.
To Brookes, the successful prosecution of a wrongdoer was the goal, to Collins it was the kudos that came with it. Like all the most successful detectives, Brookes sailed close to the wind at times when there was evidence to collect, though he drew the line at inventing or planting it. Nor was he averse to making things happen when he came up against a brick wall. Collins, on the other hand, shied away from any action that might later be brought into question.
The two were as unalike in appearance as they were in character. Brookes stood two inches over six feet tall, was heavily built, and had a full head of hair. Collins stood barely five feet eight tall and, despite being only in his early forties, the only hair on his head was a fringe around the edge of his scalp. Brookes’ suits were off the peg and his ties Marks & Spencer bought. Collins favoured tailored pin stripe suits complete with waistcoat and habitually wore his old school tie.
Even their voices and speech patterns were very different: Brookes spoke in the soft tones of the gentle giant and without affectation, Collins’ speech gave evidence of his public school upbringing; but there was something else about his speech that set him apart. His voice had a resonance more fitting to the church pulpit; when he spoke it was as if he were intoning a prayer. Although no one ever said it to his face, he was known among the junior ranks as ‘The Bishop’; he both looked and sounded the part.
In every sense, they made very strange bedfellows, and trod warily around each other. None of this showed, however, in the warm greeting each gave the other.
Then Collins got immediately down to business. ‘What’s this that can’t wait, John; have you arrested the Mitchel gang for me?’ He referred to a notorious gang of drug dealers who were building an empire after the demise of the Russian and Jamaican gangs at Brookes’ hands.
‘Hello, Brian, straight to the point as usual. No, but I might have something that will help you screw someone else down.’ He spent ten minutes outlining the Alison MacPherson case; Collins listened intently. When he’d finished, Collins said,
‘You have been busy, John. How firm are you on this?’
‘My gut tells me it’s right but we’ve a long way to go yet.’
Collins sat thinking for a long moment, working out the implications. Finally he spoke, choosing his words carefully.
‘That is good news. You are of course aware that there are implications about your enquiry that effect the work I am doing?’
‘That’s why I called you, Brian.’
Collins allowed his face to crease into a smile. ‘Yes, and thank you for doing so promptly. It would help if I knew what you were going to do before you did it, John.’
‘No problem, I’ll keep you informed when I can.’
‘Thank you. What’s your next step?’
‘Once you leave, I’m going to interview Fleming. I’ve got enough hard facts to shake his tree; we’ll see what falls out.’
‘I think your evaluation of Silver’s lack of involvement in the murder is correct. One of my team has an informant in his camp. The man is not exactly close to the inner circle but I’m sure he would have heard if the gang’s enforcers had a hand in the McPherson woman’s death. That means your killer was probably acting alone.’
‘OK, how do we keep in touch?’
‘I could give you one of my sergeants as a liaison officer. He is of course fully aware of what we are doing at The Yard and he knows the whole organised crime scene well. He can advise you and keep me informed of your progress.’
‘That should work. I’ll let you know how the Fleming interview goes. We’ve got him under close observation; I’ll put the frighteners on him and see where he runs.’
*
Brookes left strict instructions with Short that he should not let Jacqui Rose out of his sight, then set out with Middlemiss to the offices of Luxury Homes Abroad. As they drove, he brought Middlemiss up to date with the information he’d received from Collins.
Middlemiss replied, ‘Magic, boss.’ He glanced sideways at Brookes and added, ‘As long as this isn’t a takeover bid by The Bishop.’
Brookes let the words hang for a moment. Then he said, sharply, ‘You leave the politics to me, Fred. Just concentrate on the job on hand.’
‘Yes, boss.’
*
The offices of Luxury Homes Abroad occupied the ground floor of a tall office block in the newly gentrified part of Wapping. When the ships that brought the wealth of the empire to London stopped making the long haul up the Thames, the vast system of docks in the capital’s East End quickly became defunct. Premium land within a stone’s throw of the City of London became vacant. What used to be known as ‘The Docks’ became ‘Docklands’ and the price of land shot up five hundred percent.
Even with the decline of empire, the wealth
of the third world continued to pour into England’s capital city. But now the ships discharged their containers in the Thames Estuary and the goods arrived in London by road and rail. The space-hungry institutions and commercial enterprises that occupied the square mile of the City gobbled up the newly available space.
All of this was obvious to the naked eye; what was less obvious was the change it made to a whole way of life for the people who had lived and worked in the area for centuries. The dockers, warehousemen, and ancillary workers found themselves without employment. Nor could they simply move up the river to where the ships now docked; technology had taken over most of the jobs. Brookes’ father had been a docker and had had to find another trade in his fifties. He ended his working life on the production line of a car manufacturer in Essex.
Brookes looked, with a jaundiced eye, at the monolith in front of him. Twenty stories of blue tinted glass, the steel and concrete that must form the core of the building all cleverly disguised by mirrored glass. The effect was almost surreal. It looked as if the whole edifice would collapse in the first gust of wind.
As they pushed open the entrance door, Brookes saw three attractive young women and a man in his fifties seated at desks spread around the generous office space. The furniture was in tune with the modern state of the building. The desks had glass tops that rested on bright chrome tubular frames. The chairs had matching chrome frames with moulded plastic seats. A few discretely placed photographs of villas and homes in exotic locations adorned the mirrored interior walls.
Going straight to the manager’s desk, Brookes introduced himself and his DS, showing their warrant card.
He added, ‘We need to talk to Mr Fleming, please tell him we are here.’
The manager licked his lips and asked, nervously, ‘Do you have an appointment, Superintendent?’
‘I’m not looking to buy a holiday; I’m investigating the murder of one of your employees, Mr Brown. Just tell Mr Fleming we’re here.’ His tone left no room for discussion.
‘Mr Fleming is very busy, sir, I’m not sure he has the time to see you.’
Brookes gave him a hard look. ‘This isn’t some bloody game we’re playing, man. Any more argument and you’ll find yourself being frog-marched down to the station on a charge of obstructing police. Now, pick up the damned phone and tell him we’re here.’
Brown picked up the telephone receiver and dialled a two-digit number. There was a moment’s pause.
Then he said, ‘Mr Fleming, there are two policemen here to see you.’
There was another pause, then, giving Brookes a disapproving glance, he said into the phone,
‘Yes, sir, I’ve told them that but they insist on seeing you.’
He put the receiver down and looked up at Brookes. ‘He’ll be out in a moment, Superintendent.’
After a few seconds, a door in the rear mirrored wall opened and Fleming appeared. He was tall and slim, about forty years of age and deeply tanned. His attire reflected the casual elegance of Savile Row. He wore a fawn suit, beige shirt, and brown tie. On his feet, he wore a pair of soft leather tan shoes that no doubt cost more than the average working man’s weekly wage.
He stalked across the office and stopped with his face within a foot of Brookes’. ‘This is not a police state yet, Detective. I’m sure your superiors will have something to say about your demand to see me without notice.’
Brookes looked him in the eye and said, in an even tone, ‘My name is Brookes, sir. Detective Superintendent Brookes, and this is Detective Sergeant Middlemiss, who I think you have already met. My senior officer is Commander Mclean, whose office is at Leman Street. I have his phone number if you wish to speak to him.’
Fleming stood for a moment without replying, his attempt at bullying not having worked. Eventually he said, testily, ‘You are here now, what is it you want?’
Middlemiss smiled to himself and thought, Fifteen – love to the boss.
Brookes said, ‘I need to ask you some questions about the death of one of your employees, Mr Fleming. Would you like me to conduct the interview here or in private?’
‘You had better come into my office; you have ten minutes.’
Not giving an inch, Brookes said, ‘I may need more time than that, sir; perhaps you would like to re-arrange your other appointments before we start?’
Fleming made no reply but led the way to his office, his face red with rage. Middlemiss noticed amused smiles from the women at the desks. He’d no doubt they had enjoyed seeing Fleming brought down to size.
The office was furnished in similar style to the general office, except that the carpet pile was thicker, the desk larger and the seats covered in tan leather. Fleming sat behind the desk and nodded to two other upright chairs opposite.
He said, ‘I’m very sorry about the death of Alison, of course, she was a good employee. But I don’t see how I can help you with your enquiry.’ His accent was a strange mixture of English public school and Michael Holding, the West Indian cricketer.
Brookes said, ‘I understand that all of your staff worked the whole day on Saturday, is that normal in your business?’
‘What could that possibly have to do with her death?’
‘It’s customary that police ask the questions in situations such as this, sir. Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer them.’
‘Because we are busy, why do you think?’ Fleming almost snarled.
‘What exactly is your business, Mr Fleming?’
‘What does it look like, we make washing machines.’
‘Very droll, sir. Why don’t you simply answer the questions, then we won’t take up too much of your valuable time. Alternatively, we can all go down to the station and conduct the interview there.’
Fleming looked at Brookes, trying to see if he was serious; Brookes’ face was impassive.
Thirty – love, thought Middlemiss; the boss had him firmly on the back foot.
‘We sell holidays, Superintendent, holidays that I doubt you could afford.’
‘Really, sir; I suppose you use the best hotels, do you?’
‘The rich generally prefer somewhere more private, we hardly use any hotels. Surely you noticed the photographs in the office. And the name of our company should give even you a clue. Most of our accommodations are private villas and homes.’
‘And who owns those villas and homes, sir?’
Fleming’s eyes flickered. ‘Other rich people, of course.’ A film of sweat had appeared on his face; he rubbed at it with his right hand, revealing the plaster on its back.
Brookes said, ‘I see that you have hurt yourself, sir; nothing serious I hope.’
Fleming quickly withdrew his hand from sight. ‘No, I was tinkering with my car, it’s just a scratch.’ This time he used his left hand to ease his shirt collar away from his neck.
‘I assume you have a list of the owners of the villas you use, sir?’
‘That is private information; you have no right to ask for that.’
‘I think you’ll find that in a murder enquiry, I do have a right, sir. If you won’t voluntarily give me the information, I can quickly get a court order enforcing my request.’
‘Listen, Superintendent, everything about my business is legitimate, but the rich like their privacy, can’t you see that?’
‘What I can see most clearly, Mr Fleming, is that a young woman has been brutally murdered. Any small inconvenience other people are put to in order to identify her killer is hardly an issue. Now, will you tell me who owns the property you rent to holidaymakers?’
‘Not without consulting my solicitor, no.’
Brookes smiled. ‘That might be a wise move on your part, sir; it could save you a lot of hassle.’ Then he abruptly changed the subject. ‘What kind of car do you drive, Mr Fleming?’
‘A BMW, but what has that got to do with your enquiry?’
‘Were you driving it on Saturday evening, sir?’
‘No, I was at home on Saturday evening.�
�� The sweat was now beginning to pour down his face; he took out a handkerchief and mopped at it. Realising that he was revealing the plaster on his hand again, he quickly withdrew it. ‘Why are you asking these questions? I had nothing to do with Alison’s death.’
‘How did you get from the office to your home?’
‘In my car, of course.’
‘So you were driving it on Saturday evening after all.’
Fleming shouted, ‘Only to get home in, then it was in my garage!’
Brookes’ voice remained calm. ‘Can anyone verify your movements on Saturday evening, sir?’
‘Why should they have to, I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Should I take that as a no, sir?’
Fleming made a visible effort to control his temper. He said through his teeth; ‘I live alone, Superintendent. I left here just after six, drove to my home, and put the car in the garage. It was there for the rest of the night.’
‘How well did you know Alison MacPherson, sir?’
‘She was an employee, I saw her in the office each day, that’s all.’
‘Did you never socialise with her, sir?’
‘No of course not, she was an employee.’
‘How did you get on with her, sir?’
‘I get on with all my employees.’
‘But you don’t socialise with them?’
‘I’ve told you, no.’
‘So you never visited Alison’s home?’
‘Do you want me to write it down for you? I’ve said no.’
‘No, that’s all right, sir, DS Middlemiss is writing everything down. Where do you socialise, Mr Fleming?’
‘That is no business of yours.’
‘Perhaps I should remind you, sir; the reason that my sergeant is recording this conversation is that it might subsequently be used in court. Juries do not take kindly to evasive answers.’
Fleming looked shocked. ‘What do you mean, in court? You have nothing on me; I had nothing to do with Alison’s death.’
‘Then it is in your interests to co-operate with us, Mr Fleming. I’ll ask again, where do you socialise?’
‘I have friends in the West End; I visit one or two restaurants and nightclubs occasionally.’