Anna hoped that the terrible injuries to Frank’s face had somehow been fixed. The three of them entered the cold, bare room where a mortuary assistant was waiting. Rushton guided Julia toward the body. Anna stood to one side and quietly asked Julia to look at the body, and say if it was Frank Brandon.
Julia clung onto Rushton as the cloth was eased away from her husband’s face. She stared down; her face was drained of color, her breath coming in short sharp hisses.
“It is Frank, isn’t it?” she whispered.
Rushton held her gently and nodded.
Anna guided them out of the room, still feeling that it was unnecessary to have put the widow through the process. Rushton drove Julia away in his new Mercedes, having agreed that he would return to the station later that afternoon to talk with Cunningham.
Cunningham was standing, arms folded, in front of the incident board as everyone gathered. By now Anna had met three of the team: DS Phil Markham, who was a big, square-chested man with iron-gray hair, an old pro; DC Pamela Meadows, who was pleasant enough, with bad acne; and DC Mario Paluzzo, a part-Italian, swarthy-faced officer who had hardly given Anna the time of day.
“Right, everyone, listen up. We’re doing quite well tracking down the owners of these vehicles. So far we don’t have any with a police record, but we’ll be running them by the Drug Squad in case they have any information that’s not on the database. As you can see, we still have around twenty more to track down, so maybe one of those will give us a lead that’ll tell us what he was driving—or who.
“We don’t know what work our victim was doing, or who for. We think it was some kind of security chauffeur-type job, but we’re hoping to get more on this when the family accountant comes in later. We are waiting, as usual, on the forensic department to bring in their results, though I know they took a lot of prints. As yet, we haven’t got the full ballistic report, but we do know he wasn’t using drugs, so he wasn’t at the squat to score for himself.”
Cunningham went on to detail the fact that Frank’s widow was wealthy and would gain a half million on life insurance payouts. She described the Wimbledon home, mentioned the two little girls and the ex-partner.
Anna listened intently, surprised that Cunningham seemed to have some suspicion regarding Julia Brandon. Before the DCI wound down, they were interrupted by a visitor from the forensic lab.
Cunningham smiled broadly as he approached. “Well, we are getting special treatment. Everyone, this is Pete Jenkins, who heads up the forensic team.”
There were murmurs all round. Anna got a smile of recognition from Jenkins, who seemed very relaxed as he joined Cunningham at the incident board.
He began by taking out files from a bulging briefcase. “I sensed you’d be hungry for what we have to date. Obviously, you’ll learn a lot more when you come to the lab, but—”
He was interrupted by Cunningham. “How we doing on the fingerprints?”
“We have a fair amount and we’re running them through the database, but that’s not my department. I really wanted to discuss the blood spattering, as I think it’s crucial to the case.”
Jenkins pinned up a large drawing in four parts: one showing a door with bullet marks, then three of the blood-spatter patterns at the murder scene.
He took out a pen. “The first bullets went through this door. As you can see, I’ve made notes of the size of the victim. He was five feet eleven. The shooter, I would say, was much smaller, maybe five seven. He fired three shots at the victim through the door. Then I think he opened the door. Now, with the door open, the shooter fires again, this time at the head and face of the victim.”
Jenkins pointed to the red markings. “As you can see, the blood spattering is exactly the height of the victim, but what is important is the way the blood has hit the wall behind him. There is a clear outline: there was someone else standing directly behind your victim. This person I would say is at least six feet three. He must have been covered with the victim’s blood.”
He opened a notebook. “We’ve traced footprints from the area this person would have been standing in. They face at first toward your victim, then we have six quite clear footprints in blood as he walked away from the dead man. We also traced further prints outside the premises; then they faded. The prints are from a size-eleven shoe which would be about right for a man of the height I believe him to be.”
He flipped through his notes. “We have further footprints made by a sneaker and, as you know, substantial quantities of fingerprints—significantly, a set that have powder burns taken from the ledge and the wooded slat of the rear window. As I said, these will all be run by the database.”
Could that someone, who had accompanied Frank Brandon to the drug squat, have been involved in the murder? Or was he the reason Frank was at the drug dealers’? Back in her office after the briefing, Anna was making notes when there was a knock at her door. It was Jenkins.
“I know you were onto that blood spatter,” he said as he shut the door, “but I thought I should get over here to confirm it before the ritual visitation to the lab.”
“I’m sure we all appreciate it. I’ve never known anyone to come into the incident room before. I think it’s very important, next to the fingerprints—almost equally so.”
“I was wondering if you’d like a drink one evening.”
Anna was taken aback. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“Are you free tonight?”
“Erm, I’m not sure. I think we’ll be under pressure here after what you’ve brought in.”
“Do you want to give me your number and I’ll call you later?”
Anna hesitated. Then it sank in—he was asking her out. She laughed and shook her head, jotting down her number on a Post-it note.
He stuck it against his wallet. “Until later, then?” He gave her a grin as he walked out.
She was left with a smile on her face. His invitation made her feel good; he was a nice-looking guy. She had no more time to think about it, though, as her phone rang. It was Cunningham asking her to join her in her office: David Rushton had arrived.
The two were already in deep discussion when Anna joined them.
“I am obviously bound by client confidentiality,” Rushton was saying. “I’m not prepared to divulge Mrs. Brandon’s financial situation, other than to say that she is well provided for and has substantial savings for both herself and her children.”
“Now she’s in line for a heavy pay out on her husband’s life insurance policy,” Cunningham pointed out.
“I am aware of that, as I myself arranged the life insurance for her husband.”
“Why?”
“Why? I don’t really think it is any of your business.”
“It obviously is. Mr. Brandon has just been murdered.”
Rushton paused a moment, then shrugged. “He was working in security as a chauffeur and bodyguard. The insurance was simply a precaution in case he was injured. As it turns out, I made the right decision.”
“Who was he working for?”
“I really don’t know. All I knew is what Mr. Brandon told me. In fact, I don’t think he had been given the job when we discussed the policy.”
Cunningham glanced at Anna. Something wasn’t right. “So he mentioned to you that he was going for a job?”
“Yes, I’ve just said that he was hoping for some work.”
“But you have no idea who it was for?”
“No.”
Cunningham sighed and doodled on her notepad.
Anna leaned forward. “What can you tell us about Mrs. Brandon’s previous partner?”
Rushton tensed.
“You’ve said she was well provided for, so could you tell us who he was? I suppose we can start checking ourselves. It would be simpler, though, if you helped us a little.”
“They were not married.”
“Yes, we know that,” Anna persisted, “but the children are his, is that correct?”
/> Rushton chewed his lips.
“Mr. Rushton, what on earth is the problem? You obviously know who he is, and you’ve stated that you take care of Mrs. Brandon’s finances…”
“The children were born two years apart, by IVF treatment. Mrs. Brandon’s ex-partner is now living in Bermuda.”
Cunningham looked to the ceiling. “Terrific. Could we just have a name?”
“He’s unlikely to ever return to this country.”
Cunningham leaned back, sighing. “His name, Mr. Rushton?”
“Anthony Collingwood…Well, that is the name I was told.”
“Do you also handle his finances?”
“No, I do not. I have no business connection to him whatsoever. In fact, I’ve never met him.”
Cunningham stood up. Rushton looked a little confused.
“Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll no doubt ask you to come in again. DI Travis will show you out.” Cunningham left Anna with Rushton, who was now pinkish in the face and flustered.
“I didn’t have any business dealings with Mr. Collingwood. I want that made very clear,” he stated repeatedly as he left the station.
Anna returned to the incident room. Seeing Cunningham’s door ajar, she went to get more details on Collingwood. She was about to knock, then stood listening.
“This case is really blowing sideways on me now. We’ve gone from a godforsaken drug squat in Chalk Farm to a connection with Christ knows who. I need someone from the Drug Squad over here to give me as much as they have on a guy called Collingwood. I’ve got a bit of a dozy team and could do with some backup.”
Anna hung back, unsure whether or not she should make herself visible. Then she froze.
“Well, she’s with me, but to be honest, she seems in a daze. I don’t know about her being sharp—I haven’t seen any sign of it. She seems loath to open her mouth. In fact, I’ve got a young redheaded DC who seems more on the ball. Whatever happened to her when she was working for you…”
Anna had to take a deep breath. Was she talking to Langton?
“All right, Jimmy, but I’d appreciate a few kicks up the arse, because right now we are going nowhere, apart from some autistic kid who has given us about every vehicle license plate in London.”
Anna did a fast U-turn and headed back to her poky office. She was shaking with anger. Cunningham obviously thought little of her, but to compare her with bloody Gordon was outrageous. She opened her laptop and went online. She Googled the name Anthony Collingwood: it came up empty. She tried known drug dealers and soon forgot her anger as she scrolled down.
An Alexander Fitzpatrick was wanted for importation of a vast haul of uncut cocaine from the United States. His last known whereabouts were in Bermuda, but he had been sighted in Colombia. He had homes in Florida, Barbados, and Santa Monica. He also had so many different aliases that it was almost laughable—but one of them was Anthony Collingwood.
Anna closed the file down, and went back online again to make sure she hadn’t misspelled the name Anthony Collingwood. She then Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick himself.
He was described as a handsome, charismatic man, with high intelligence; he spoke six languages. There were many pages on Fitzpatrick covering newspaper articles dating back to his original arrest for drug trafficking. Alexander Fitzpatrick was wanted on both sides of the Atlantic for drug dealing. Next Anna requested known aliases used by Fitzpatrick, and again, among twenty other names, was Anthony Collingwood. Photographs of Fitzpatrick showed him as a slim, attractive, long-haired hippy of twenty through to his midthirties, and then there was nothing. It was as if he had disappeared, but he still remained on the FBI’s Most Wanted lists.
Anna read and reread the attributes and stories on the Web site. Over and over again the words charismatic appeared, Oxford-educated, stylish, literate. Suspected of working with Mafia and Colombian drug cartels, the elusive and dangerous Mr. Fitzpatrick had accumulated massive wealth, but escaped arrest for now more than thirty years.
Frank Brandon had none of these attributes but, as a tough ex-detective with broad shoulders, he must have felt capable of taking care of Julia and her children. Anna was certain, if she was correct, that Frank Brandon must have known the identity of Julia’s ex-partner. Suddenly the life insurance policy made more sense. Fitzpatrick had been able to escape detection for so many years because, according to one of the articles on the Web site, he had tipped off the USA Drug Squad with names of other dealers. If that was the truth, then plenty of people would want Fitzpatrick dead.
Anna wondered if poor old Frank had paid the ultimate price for being with Julia. If so, she would need a lot more evidence, and above all, she would have to get from Frank’s widow the identity of her so-called partner. She printed off the details to take home. She didn’t contemplate passing on the information just yet. As it was, she was just acting on one man’s name being a connection to Fitzpatrick. Anthony Collingwood.
5
Anna had no time to continue checking on Fitzpatrick, as there was suddenly a buzz from the incident room. The checks into the car registrations were paying off, and the duty manager was dividing up the pickups of the vehicle owners. Cunningham wanted all of them questioned. A number had records: petty criminals, mostly drug offenders. It would be a hectic afternoon and a long night for everyone. Anna would have to put off her drinks date with Jenkins.
The mass exodus had been beefed up with uniforms, as they had fifty-eight license plates to check out. Many of the cars had already been eliminated, as they were connected to residents on the estate. Other vehicles were already on the wanted list, as they had been stolen, but uppermost were the last group: those which, according to Jeremy Webster, had been parked near the site on the night of the shooting.
The hoodies brought in for questioning filled up the cells and interview rooms, but the “smell” was wrong. Why would these smalltime punks shoot through a door? They were there, uppermost, to score—so why kill Frank Brandon? It became clear during the arrests and questioning that the key dealers were not among those traced.
Anna, still seething at Cunningham’s derogatory remarks, chose to take the more upmarket vehicles: one of them might belong to the man who had accompanied Frank Brandon. To her irritation, she was yet again paired with Gordon. They had addresses to visit right across London, from Hampstead to Chelsea and Brixton.
Anna arrived at the Hampstead address of her first owner-driver at five-thirty that afternoon. Paul Wrexler was not at home, but his pregnant girlfriend was. Helen was nervous and agitated when faced with Anna and Gordon, and became even more so when asked about her boyfriend’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. He had been at home, she said, until she went to bed and then had gone out for about an hour at nine-thirty to pick up some cranberry juice for her, as she had a craving for it. She had never heard of Frank Brandon, but what interested Anna was why she was so anxious. When asked if her partner ever took drugs, Helen broke out in a sweat, dabbing at her upper lip with a folded tissue.
Anna eventually grew tired of being pleasant. A man had been found murdered, she explained, at the same location where a police witness had seen Wrexler’s BMW parked.
“Let me ask you again,” she said. “Does Mr. Wrexler use drugs?”
Helen, in tears, stuttered out that he used cocaine, but only occasionally. He had promised not to use it anymore, with the baby coming. She had been worried about the people he was mixing with when he scored. It took another few minutes for Anna to calm her down and ask if she had ever met any of these dealers. She shook her head and repeated that Wrexler only resorted to taking cocaine when he was under pressure to work long hours. Just as Anna was about to get details of Wrexler’s workplace, to question him there, he arrived home.
Wrexler was in his early thirties, wearing a pin-striped suit, white shirt, and tie. He was a commodities broker in the City and, judging by his flat and his new car, he was earning good money.
When he learned the reason A
nna and Gordon were there, he became abusive toward Helen. “What have you been telling them, for God’s sake?”
Anna asked him to sit down, and calm down. He perched on the edge of a chair, giving Helen angry glances.
“I have not used for months,” he said tightly.
“Have you ever been to the Warren Estate in Chalk Farm?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“This would have been two nights ago.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“That may be so, Mr. Wrexler, but your car was seen parked on the estate.”
“There has to be a mistake.”
“I don’t think so. We know your car was on the forecourt on the night a man was murdered.”
“Jesus Christ! I wasn’t there, I swear; you must be mistaken.”
“Did you lend your car to someone?”
“No.”
“Then can you explain why we have your car registration as one of the vehicles seen parked there that night?”
“I wasn’t there.”
Anna began to tap her foot; she knew he was lying. “Perhaps we should continue this interview at the station?”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Mr. Wrexler. As I said before, a man was found murdered at a squat used by dealers and one that had been in operation for some months. If you were not there on this specific night, have you ever been there before?”
Helen looked at him with an almost pleading look. “You told me you weren’t using it anymore,” she said. “You promised me!”
“I’ve told you the truth, for God’s sake.”
Anna smiled at Helen. She suggested she make herself a cup of tea while they finished talking to Mr. Wrexler.
As soon as she was out of the room, Anna went for it.
“Right. I’ve impressed on you the importance of knowing what time you were at the estate and when you left—”
“I wasn’t there.”
Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries) Page 7