Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  Markham nodded and pointed to the shoes. “Any bloodstains on these?”

  “Nope. We have mud particles, but no blood.”

  “So he wasn’t at the murder site?”

  “The footprints we have from there are not his size. He is, or was, size-nine shoe and, I think I was told, around five feet nine, so he wasn’t the man standing behind your victim Frank Brandon. Travis and I have ascertained he had to be over six feet two or three—”

  “Really? DI Travis seems to have spent a lot of time here,” Cunningham said sarcastically. She gestured to Markham that it was time to leave, and walked off without so much as a thank-you to Jenkins.

  Their next stop was Vernon Lee, the ballistics expert. Lee had little to add, apart from the fact that the bullet was from the same Glock pistol and, as with the other bullets, they did not have the casing. Frustrated, Cunningham and Markham returned to their car.

  As they left the car park, Cunningham switched on her BlackBerry and began checking her messages. Then she looked at Markham. “You ever worked with Chief Superintendent James Langton?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Travis worked three cases with him. He rated her, but said she was a bit of a solo artist; got into some trouble with a journalist on one case. I need you to watch over her. I don’t want her creating any more problems for me than I’ve already got.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And we do have problems, Phil, big ones. We’re now four days into the investigation with fuck all, and Frank Brandon being an ex-cop is starting to create pressure from the chief. We need to get some kind of a result, and fast, so all weekend leave will be canceled.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You see Travis acting like she’s running this investigation, you report straight back to me—understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Markham didn’t like this at all, and decided he would have a quiet word with Anna when he returned to the station.

  Anna and Gordon went back to question Paul Wrexler and Mark Taylor, who had both scored drugs from Donny Petrozzo. Again, they were spun virtually the same story. Donny always insisted that he was not a dealer; he could just get a few grams for when they needed it. Both the companies they worked for had used Donny’s firm of chauffeurs when they required clients to be collected from the airport, or for special functions. Donny was not on a permanent payroll, but worked freelance; due to his good record, they had used him for over eight years. He owned a Mercedes-Benz and a Ford Escort, which he and his wife used for personal driving. Donny’s Mercedes had not been recovered.

  When Anna and Gordon called in to the station, Cunningham had still not returned. Anna made sure that the duty manager reported to Cunningham, when she did get back, that she and Gordon were going to see Mrs. Petrozzo.

  Donny Petrozzo’s address was in Fulham. As they were arriving, Gordon got a call from the station. When they saw Mrs. Petrozzo, they should tell her that a car had been arranged to take her to the mortuary. She was required to identify her husband.

  Anna was stunned that no one had yet been to see Mrs. Petrozzo to give her the news. “You know, DCI Cunningham should have sorted this out.”

  “Well, I suppose as we only found him yesterday…” Gordon said uneasily.

  “We had him identified fast enough by his prints. His wife should have been told straightaway. It’s really disgusting.”

  “I suppose so.” Gordon checked his A–Z. “Next right. The flat faces the Palmers Green Park. Nice area.”

  They drove over to the bays at the rear of the block. Parked underneath a cloth cover was Donny Petrozzo’s Mercedes and, next to it, his Ford Escort. Anna had lifted the cover to check the number plate and then, being on best behavior, called in to the station to suggest they remove the Mercedes to be checked over by forensics.

  Mrs. Petrozzo lived on the top floor. The stairs and corridors were well kept, with buckets of flowers on each landing. Flat 10 had a freshly painted front door, with a polished brass letterbox.

  “You ever done one of these before?” Anna asked Gordon.

  “One of what?”

  “Telling someone that their loved one’s dead, then trying to get information out of them?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. This is the way I am going to work it: we keep the death until last—‘we are not sure,’ et cetera—I need some answers first.”

  “Right,” Gordon said as Anna rang the doorbell.

  Mrs. Petrozzo was a pale, nervous woman with straight, unflattering hair pinned to one side with a clip. She was quite well dressed, if rather drab, and she had an Irish accent.

  “Mrs. Petrozzo?” Anna said pleasantly, at the same time showing her identification. “This is Detective Gordon Loach, and I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis. I wonder if it is convenient for me to ask you some questions?”

  “What is it about? Only I was just going out.”

  “It is important. Could we please come in and talk to you?”

  “Is it about Donny?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been waiting for him to call me,” she said, gesturing for them to go down the immaculate little hallway, to a large sitting room overlooking the park.

  “Oh, this is a lovely room,” Anna said.

  “Yes. I’ve lived here nearly all my life. My parents had the flat, then when they died, me and Donny moved in.”

  “You own it?”

  “Yes, my father did, so we took over the mortgage. Can I get you tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Mrs. Petrozzo, this is a very serious matter we are here to discuss. When did you last see your husband?”

  “About four days ago. He was working. He often goes away—well, not often, but he sort of said this was a possibility. He usually calls me, but I’ve not heard from him and I’m worried.”

  “Do you know who he was working for?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention any names at all?”

  “No, he keeps his business very private. I knew some of it, but he never really bothers to talk to me too much. He’s often out early and back very late. I know he was collecting someone from Heathrow.”

  “But you don’t know who?”

  “No.”

  “Does Mr. Petrozzo have an office?”

  “He has a phone and a desk next door.”

  “Mrs. Petrozzo, I really need to see your husband’s office.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you; he will go mad. I hardly ever go in there accept to hoover and dust. It’s his business, you see.”

  Anna braced herself, and then leaned forward. “Mrs. Petrozzo, your husband might have met with a fatal accident. We are here to ask you to accompany a police officer—”

  “Accident?”

  “Yes. We have someone at the mortuary—”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s possible your husband is dead. I am so sorry.”

  Anna was not prepared for the reaction, because there was hardly one at all. The woman just sat there, with her hands in her lap.

  “I really do need to see your husband’s workroom,” Anna repeated gently. “Would that be possible?”

  The lack of response was unnerving. Still Mrs. Petrozzo sat, with her rather big rawboned hands folded in her lap. She then made a soft coughing sound, as if clearing her throat. “I am afraid that is not possible. If you insist, then you will have to get a search warrant. I would like you to leave, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Petrozzo—”

  Anna was interrupted as the reticent woman suddenly stood up, her face now twisted with rage. “I allowed you to come in here, because I thought you were coming to talk about that bloody CCTV camera right outside our block of flats. It swivels and looks straight into the flats—it’s outrageous they can just set one of those intrusive things up without ever getting permission from a single tenant, and I know they are looking into the bedrooms. I know that for certain, because we have two young girl
s in the flat next to us and they are complaining about it.”

  “If you would like me to make you a cup of tea…”

  Mrs. Petrozzo turned on Anna, her big hands clenched into fists at her side. “You will not set foot in my kitchen! I want you to get out. My husband is going to make you pay for this. I don’t believe you are from the police. I think you’ve come here to steal from me, that’s what this is all about. I know about you people, I know…” She was like the mouse that roared. She began thrashing at her sides with her fists, and spittle formed in the corners of her mouth as she hurled abuse at them.

  It took an hour. They had to call a doctor. Gordon found the address in a book by the telephone. Anna rang into the station to request a search warrant be issued. All the time, Mrs. Petrozzo shouted and argued with them, and screeched and threw cushions. Even with Gordon trying to calm her, she was unstoppable. By the time the doctor arrived, she had quietened down but was still unstable.

  The poor woman had a history of mental illness and had been sectioned numerous times. She was sedated and taken to her bedroom. The doctor knew of a niece who had often stayed to care for her; he was dismissive of Donny, saying that he kept his distance from his wife at all times. By the time they had arranged for the niece, Ella Douglas, to leave her work and come to the flat, another hour passed. When Anna told Ella the reason for their visit, her response was equally shocking. She just said that she hoped Donny was dead, the way he had treated his poor wife.

  Anna glanced at Gordon, who was even redder in the face than usual. “Look, Gordon, this entire scene is not the usual,” she told him. “I’ve never had a reaction like it, but we just have to sit it out.”

  Ella tended to Mrs. Petrozzo and handed Anna a set of keys to the office. “These are what you want. I will go and identify Donny. She can’t be put through that.”

  The small room was neat and orderly, with a desktop computer and a filing cabinet. Donny was meticulous: a large desk diary listed his clients and his commitments. He wrote in different colored pens his airport drops and pickups, city functions and dinners. The last entry was a collection from Stansted Airport. This was four days ago; he had added to the entry a note of a payment in cash, then underlined no tip. He had picked up the passenger at 8:15 A.M., dropped them at Claridge’s, and returned home. There were a few future dates, but nothing of interest. His bank statement, however, was very interesting.

  Donny Petrozzo had savings of seventy thousand pounds. In another account, they found even more money: over a hundred thousand pounds. There had been large cash deposits; the last one for twenty thousand pounds.

  Anna listed the items she wished to take away, then contacted the station for the computer to be removed and checked. There were two mobile phones and these were taken too, plus his address books and files. It was late afternoon by the time a patrol car arrived with a female officer to accompany Ella Douglas to the mortuary for the formal identification of Donny Petrozzo. Anna wanted to go over the diary entries in more detail, so once a neighbor had agreed to sit with Mrs. Petrozzo, who was sleeping, she and Gordon returned to the station.

  Although it wasn’t on the way back, Anna wanted to stop at Selfridges. She needed to pick up something and asked Gordon to wait in the car park there.

  Anna went straight to the sea of perfume counters and asked if she could talk to someone called Connie. Anna was directed to the Dior counter. Walking around, she couldn’t see any well-stacked blondes as Harry Blunt had described. She eventually asked a girl with the name tag Sharon where she would find Connie. Sharon said she’d got some bad news and was at home.

  “Was it about her bloke?” Anna inquired.

  “Yeah, but I dunno much else. She got into a state a few days ago and she’s not been back.”

  “Do you have her phone number? I would like to call her—I know him well and I might be able to help.”

  Connie agreed to see Anna that evening at seven. She lived in Notting Hill Gate, close to Portobello Road. As Anna wrote down the address on the back of her hand in the car, Gordon glanced at her. “Got a date?”

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  She would have to cancel poor old Pete Jenkins once again. As the car continued across London to the station, Anna called the forensic lab. An assistant told her that Pete had gone out for a while, but would be back later. Anna didn’t leave any message, deciding she would call him later from her office.

  By the time Anna had made copious notes and typed up her report, it was after six. She went into the incident room to mark up the data and was surprised that they still did not have the completed autopsy report on Donny Petrozzo. They had no match on the blood found on the bullet and, as yet, no forensic details on the Mitsubishi. Anna still had Donny Petrozzo’s diary in her briefcase, keeping hold of it until she had finished checking it over. The rest of the items removed from his house were now with forensics. She knew from Pete they were already inundated; now they had even more to contend with.

  Anna called Pete’s mobile as she was leaving the station. Before she could say that she would not make dinner, he told her that he had started cooking and was looking forward to seeing her. When she heard that, she said simply that she might be a bit late as she was still working. She didn’t want to let him down again.

  Anna was fifteen minutes late for her meeting with Connie. The woman lived in a first-floor flat, with a dingy threadbare carpet on a rickety staircase. Connie was, as Harry had described, very well endowed but with a small waist, accentuated by a wide elastic belt. Her blouse was flimsy and frilly, and she wore black pedal pushers with pink ballet shoes. Her hair was dyed blond and held up in a loose bun with a comb. Her attractive face was blotchy and her eyes were puffy from crying. She was nowhere near as sophisticated as Julia Brandon.

  “You want a drink or anything?” she asked in a cockney accent, leading Anna into the flat.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Well, I got enough of it. I’ve not been in to work—just can’t function. I dunno nothing except for what that bloke Harry told me. I keep on trying Frank’s mobile number. I just dunno what to think. I mean, why don’t someone call me and tell me what’s going on?” She slumped onto a large leatherette sofa. “Is he dead? I mean, is that true?”

  Anna sat opposite on a matching chair. “Yes, I am afraid he is.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Connie hung her head and broke down sobbing. It was some time before Anna could really ask any pertinent questions. Connie became even more distressed when Anna gently broke the news that Frank had been murdered and that he had been identified by his fingerprints. She could not bring herself to go into the details of his relationship with Julia.

  She and Frank were engaged to be married, Connie said; they had been living together for over a year. Between tears, she explained how they were saving to buy a place, as the flat was only rented. Gradually, Anna turned the conversation to what work Frank was involved in. Connie knew that he had been taking employment as a chauffeur with Donny Petrozzo. It was not full-time, but he was on call for when he was needed. He would often work late and sometimes would be gone for a few days at a time.

  “Did you ever hear any names of the people he was driving?”

  “No. He said that sometimes they’d come into Heathrow and he had to drive them up north. You know, long journeys that Donny said he didn’t want to do.”

  “Did you ever meet Donny?”

  “No.”

  “What about the last job Frank was on?”

  Connie sighed and leaned back on the sofa. “He come in an’ he was real up, said that he’d just landed a big gig, but he was gonna be away for weeks on end. I didn’t like it, but he said the money would be enough for us to get married and put down on a place of our own so, I mean, I couldn’t not want him to do it, could I?”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, it was more’n a fe
w weeks; it was starting to be months. I only ever heard from him a few times at weekends, like, and he didn’t like me callin’ him. He used to say he had ‘POB’—that meant ‘person on board,’ like, so he’d ring off.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Connie closed her eyes. “Long time. Months—gotta be months.”

  “Did he ever say anything about who he was working for?”

  “Not really, just that they was mega-wealthy and he was coinin’ it in.”

  “Could I see his things?”

  “Yeah, if you want.”

  Connie got up. She seemed sluggish and so despairing that Anna felt truly sorry for her. They went into the bedroom next door. The double bed was new, and there was a white fitted wardrobe with long mirrors on the doors. “Frank done this room up; we picked the bed and things between us, and me mum ran up the curtains and bedcover.”

  Anna smiled and said it was very tasteful. It wasn’t—it was rather tacky, with mounds of frilly cushions. Connie’s decor and Julia’s were poles apart. Connie opened a wardrobe to reveal Frank’s suits, shirts, and shoes, with rows of sweaters next to them on the hangers. Her side was crushed with clothes and she gently touched one of Frank’s jackets. “I come in and hold them sometimes. You know—make it like he’s still here.”

  Anna nodded. Again, she could smell Frank’s familiar cologne. She looked around the room. “What about papers, documents…did he keep his diary and things here?”

  Connie crossed to her dressing table, and stared at herself in the mirror.

  “I need to have anything you’ve got that might help our inquiry, Connie.”

  In the small kitchen, there was a Formica table stacked with two boxes of Frank’s documents, from car insurance to old pay slips from the Met, his pension details and bank statements, envelopes stuffed with petrol receipts, and a large foolscap notebook with addresses and pickup times.

  “Donny would just call, like, and Frank would go round to his place, pick up his car—it was a Merc—and leave his own car there, as he said it wasn’t good enough for the clients.”

  “What car was Frank driving?”