Cunningham was sitting at her desk, leaning her head on her hands, elbows resting on the desk. She looked up when Anna knocked and opened her door. “Come in, sit down.”
Anna sat opposite. Before she could say anything, Cunningham gave a deep sigh. “Travis, I have a personal problem. I need to take the day off. Can you take my notes and handle the briefing for me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. I will try, if possible, to get back by this afternoon, but it’ll more than likely be the morning.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” Anna asked, wondering what the “personal problem” could be.
“No, I’m going to take off now, but if you need me, I’ll be at the Harley Street clinic. You can contact me on my mobile.”
“Okay. I hope there’s nothing wrong.”
Cunningham stood up and fetched her jacket from the back of her chair. “Not with me—it’s my partner. She found a lump in her breast last week. I want to be with her when she sees her doctor. If it’s malignant, she’ll have to go in straightaway for treatment.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself, which is the reason I’ve asked for you to stand in for me and not Phil. But keep me informed. As I said, I’ll have my mobile turned on.”
Anna stood up.
“You have a good weekend?” Cunningham said as she picked up her briefcase.
“Yes, thank you.” This was not the time to bring up the developments.
“Well, I’m glad you had a restful time; it’s been hideous for me. I had bloody Langton giving me a grilling all of Saturday and then, when I got back, Sheila had the news about the tests. Still, the good thing is she has medical insurance…”
It was the first time Anna’s heart hadn’t jumped at hearing his name mentioned.
“Still, I think we are making progress, albeit at a snail’s pace. I’ll keep in touch.” She passed Anna a file as she headed for the door.
As Anna followed Cunningham out of her office, she couldn’t help wondering just how much of a grilling Langton had given her. She also wondered if her name had cropped up, but she didn’t ask. “I’ll just look over your notes, then crack on.”
“Good.”
She watched Cunningham walk down the corridor and out of the building, before branching off to enter her own office. She remembered how she had felt when her father had been diagnosed with lung cancer. It had been a terrible moment. He had joked, warning her never to start smoking as he lit up one of his ever-present Silk Cut cigarettes. She couldn’t reprimand him. It was a sad show of defiance and all she could do was wrap her arms around him and tell him that she would be there for him. The disease had taken its toll fast, and watching him waste away in hospital had broken her heart. As much as she didn’t really like Cunningham, she hoped that she would not have to go through such an ordeal with her partner.
Anna forced herself to get back to her work.
The typed notes were a run-through of the case to date, nothing new. Anna had time to find herself a coffee before she stood by the board and began to write up her notes from the weekend’s trip to Oxford. The discovery of D’Anton’s van was a plus; it had by now been towed to the forensic yard. She arrowed the connections to the antiques shop, then to Honour Nolan’s farmhouse. She also arrowed the connection of the Mitsubishi with D’Anton, that he might have returned home while his wife was away. She then underlined the possibility that D’Anton could have been at the farm, and that tests would be made on the mud from his post office van and the Mitsubishi.
Phil joined her. “Somebody didn’t have time out this weekend!”
Anna smiled, and finished writing on the board. By this time, the team had gathered and were talking quietly to one another; only Phil was paying close attention to the added details. Anna then asked for everyone’s attention. As Cunningham was not available, she said, she was giving the briefing to update them all on the weekend. They listened attentively as she outlined the links, then opened the floor for a discussion. She did not refer to Cunningham’s notes, as they related the possibility that D’Anton had been killed because of who, or what, he might have seen at the farmhouse.
“I think we need more pressure on Frank Brandon’s widow. I also think we need to find out more about her finances. If, as we know, she does have ten million or more, then this must be checked out. If it was drug money paid into her various accounts over the years, we need the accountant to be requestioned. The fact that she has admitted that her ex-partner was Anthony Collingwood, one of the names used by Alexander Fitzpatrick, makes it possible that he is in the UK.”
Phil gestured that he wanted to say something. “But if, as we are led to believe, Fitzpatrick has megamillions stashed in the USA, why is he back here? Also, what is the connection to the drug squat in Chalk Farm?”
Anna looked at the board. “I keep on coming back to the possibility that it was something or someone inside the squat he was after—that is, if we can prove that the man who accompanied Frank Brandon was Fitzpatrick.”
To date, Phil interjected, the people identified and murdered were all lowlifes. Why would a man like Fitzpatrick want to be involved with the likes of Donny Petrozzo, let alone Stanley Leymore, and even Julius D’Anton? D’Anton may have been a cut above the others, but not much: he was a junkie, living hand to mouth, buying and selling antiques.
Anna turned back to the board. “Okay, I hear what you are saying, Phil, but D’Anton was at Balliol at the same time as Alexander Fitzpatrick; he dined out on the fact that he used to know him. By coincidence, he went after an antique table at a local fair in Shipston on Stour, then tried to find out where the table came from—a cottage not far from the farm where Honour Nolan lives. D’Anton’s van breaks down; it’s a really narrow lane with ditches either side, maybe he walks to the farm…”
“And maybe sees Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes.”
“That is, if he is there, or even in the country.”
“Let’s say that he is,” Anna said tetchily.
Phil continued. “D’Anton next gets to borrow a Mitsubishi—from the farm?”
“We don’t know, but he is seen driving it. The table wouldn’t fit into the back, remember.”
“So D’Anton, without his table, returns to London; his wife is off with her builder; he gets dumped in the Thames; then we find Petrozzo’s body inside the Mitsubishi!”
Anna chewed her lips. “We’ll have more details as soon as the tests have been done on the samples of soil taken at the farm.”
“Yeah, but in the meantime, we’re still waiting on toxicology reports—how long is that all going to take? Right now we have no confirmation on what killed Donny Petrozzo or our junkie friend from the Thames.”
“What about the boat, Dare Devil, seen at the Nolans’ farmhouse?” This was Gordon asking.
Anna said they would need verification of ownership, as it did not have the same name as the boat they knew to have been previously owned by Fitzpatrick. She again brought up the fact that the painting of the boat had been taken down from the study in the farmhouse.
“So what is that going to give us?” Phil again.
“That both Honour and Damien lied about how well they knew Fitzpatrick.”
“Even so, what does that give us? I mean, maybe they knew him a long time ago; he was with Honour’s sister for years—if he is the man she calls Anthony Collingwood.” Phil was getting rattled.
“How many Anthony Collingwoods are in the phone book?” Anna was starting to get angry herself. “Has anyone tried to trace him?”
Pamela Meadows said that she had been running through the Anthony Collingwoods listed in the telephone directory, but to date they had all checked out as legitimate.
“Keep going. If Julia Brandon admits to living with him or someone using that name, there has to be some kind of record that he existed,” Anna said briskly.
Phil gave an open-armed gesture.
“Why? Right now Julia Brandon is not a suspect for the murder of her husband. The fact she lived with someone doesn’t give us anything, even though you believe that man could possibly be Alexander Fitzpatrick. Let’s say he was: we have not a shred of evidence in our case that involves him. What we do have are three dead men.”
“And we’ve made a connection between all of them,” Anna snapped, her patience at breaking point. “What we do not have is the identity of the man we know entered that drug squat with Frank Brandon, and the reason I am constantly bringing up Alexander Fitzpatrick is because there is a strong possibility it was him.”
“In your opinion.”
“Yes, in my opinion!”
“Why? Why does an international drug dealer, a man wanted around the world, a man known to have stashed away millions from his drug trafficking, want to be back in the UK? In addition, for me, the big question is still what the fuck is he doing with Frank Brandon in that shithole in Chalk Farm? All we’ve got are smalltime drug dealers. Yes, they do all link together, but none link back to your kingpin. You think he’d bother with this lowlife? That is, if he is even in the country? Far be it from me, but all you are bringing up is supposition without any firm evidence. I mean, I may eat my words when we eventually get the bloody forensic reports in, but I can’t jump the hoop of coincidences with you.”
Anna took a deep breath to calm herself. “Okay, if that is the consensus, let’s concentrate on how we proceed until we do have the toxicology reports and the geographic tests. We are still hanging loose with a number of registration numbers of cars known to have been parked around the drug squat, so push for tracing those outstanding.”
Anna continued to outline the work for the team, tight-lipped. In the meantime, she would attempt to firm up her suppositions, and would start by requestioning Julia Brandon and her accountant. She caught the look Phil gave to two members of the team and her irritation boiled over: she said crossly that, to date, they should all pay notice to exactly what she had personally produced for the case. They broke up and a trolley of coffee was wheeled in. Phil kept well away from her.
Anna returned to her office, furious. She sensed that part of the reason Phil had been deriding virtually everything she said was that he felt that he should have been handling the case in Cunningham’s absence.
Her office door opened and the man himself put his head around the door frame. “I’m having meetings with the Drug Squad—checking out what they can give us on the occupants of the squat, see if they have any leads for us. You want to come along?”
“No, I’m going into the West End to meet with Mr. Rushton, Julia Brandon’s financial adviser.”
Phil gave a noncommittal shrug and walked out, as Gordon entered.
“I should have brought this up at the briefing; you’re taking your time checking out that boat from the painting, Gordon.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve already done some digging. I’ve got a call into the Registry of Shipping and Seamen, they’re in Cardiff. Apparently, all ships are registered and given a number which never changes. A registered ship must also have a name different from any other ship and these numbers are carved into the main beam of the ship.”
“For Christ’s sake, Gordon, get on with it—see if you can trace Dare Devil. I’ll be on my mobile.”
“It’ll cost twelve pounds for a current search of ownership and, if we want photocopies of the ledgers, that’ll cost twenty-three pounds. These searches will show mortgages of the boats and—”
Anna sighed. “Just do it, Gordon, and get back to me.”
“Okay, I just wanted your permission to pay them.”
“You’ve got it. Now go on, get moving.” A minute later Anna snatched up her briefcase and was leaving the office, when her desk phone rang. She hesitated and then answered.
It was Gordon again. “Look, this is going to take some time. Any ship used outside UK waters, or over twenty-four meters, has to be registered, but it’s quite a haul, as any ship can be owned by up to five people or companies. Those five can be divided up into as many as sixty-four shareholders.”
Anna closed her eyes. “Gordon? Are you saying that you’ve traced the boat?”
“No, not yet, but I am just saying it might take a lot longer if there are, say, sixty-four shareholders and maybe four or five owners.”
“Just do it, Gordon, and also check out Fitzpatrick’s previous boats listed on his Web site. One was a big power cruiser—see who bought it from him.”
“Okay, I’ll get cracking.”
“Thank you!” Anna slammed down the receiver and walked out.
David Rushton’s offices were located on Jermyn Street, on the fifth floor of a small, but smart office block. Anna noticed how much security there was, from the CCTV cameras to the double locking device on his reception door. She had to wait to be buzzed in by a receptionist who was very guarded, as Anna did not have an appointment. Anna said she would wait until Mr. Rushton was available.
She sat in the reception area on a gilt-and-leather chair, having a good look around. Mr. Rushton was obviously very successful; numerous smart young men passed to and fro, and two attractive girls, carrying mounds of files, and wearing tight black skirts and high heels clicked past, flicking back their blond hair. Anna was pleased she had taken time dressing. Then she saw Rushton guiding out a young man in a bomber jacket and jeans. Rushton glanced at Anna and ushered the man out before he acknowledged her.
“Sorry not to have made an appointment,” Anna said, standing.
Rushton glanced at his large gold-faced wristwatch and told the receptionist to ask his next client to wait. “I am very busy,” he said coldly.
“So am I,” Anna said, picking up her briefcase. She was led into a large, comfortable office with a leather sofa and matching armchair. The desk was oak with carved legs; the top was covered in thick glass and rows of telephones. On the walls were many certificates in gold frames, listing Rushton’s credentials and awards.
“Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” Anna perched on a leather chair in front of his desk; Rushton moved around to sit in a large swivel office chair. “We can do this informally here, or at the station. I need verification of exactly how your client Julia Brandon came to be such a wealthy woman.”
“That is a preposterous invasion of privacy. Mrs. Brandon pays her taxes; her wealth is no one’s business. If you require details of her various companies, then you could do that without my help. Just go to Companies House and check—it is all legitimate.”
“We have her bank statements from the time she lived in Oxford.”
He shrugged.
“You have given us the name Anthony Collingwood as Mrs. Brandon’s previous partner, and told us that he had engineered her finances—is that still correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever meet Mr. Collingwood?”
“No.”
“But if you never met Mr. Collingwood, how did he do that?”
Rushton sighed. “Telephone, e-mail, fax…I never knew where he was contacting me from.”
“Did this Mr. Collingwood arrange for Mrs. Brandon’s finances?”
“Yes. She was left a considerable fortune by him.”
“Is he deceased?”
“Not that I am aware of, but my association with Mrs. Brandon is as her financial adviser. We do not have any social connections.”
“How did you become her financial adviser?”
“She contacted me. I think she may have met one or two of my clients.”
“When was this?”
He rocked in his chair. “About ten years ago.”
“You have handled her fortune since then?”
“That is correct.”
“Did she ever disclose where this money had come from?”
“She was given it, but that is really governed by client confidentiality.”
“So this very wealthy lady just contacts you?”
“Most of my clients
have considerable wealth, some far more than Mrs. Brandon. She required my assistance in protecting her finances.”
“From what?”
“Taxes.”
“So when Mrs. Brandon contacted you she had what, this money in a bank account?”
“Yes, various accounts.”
“We would like access to these accounts.”
“They are dormant. I have, as I have already said, as Mrs. Brandon’s financial adviser, ensured that her monies are in the most productive and beneficial accounts. Added to that, her investments are substantial.”
Anna crossed her legs. “But didn’t you ever inquire where these monies came from?”
“That is not my job. There did not appear to be anything illegal; I am obviously aware that is exactly what you are trying to imply. All I know is Mrs. Brandon was left this fortune, I believe, by a Mr. Collingwood. As I have said, I did not meet him, but he did very early on make contact with me. He basically left everything to Julia and me to deal with.”
“You say you are not on social terms with Mrs. Brandon?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Then why did she contact you, before anyone else, to be with her at the mortuary to identify her husband, the late Mr. Frank Brandon?”
He shrugged.
“She appeared to be very dependent on you, and you were very protective of her.”
“Under the circumstances, that is understandable; her husband had just been murdered.”
“You also arranged a substantial life insurance policy for Mr. Brandon.”
“Yes,” he hissed angrily.
“Why did you do that?”
“I also arrange her house insurance and pay her household bills, so therefore it would only be natural that she would approach me with regard to her husband. Again, this was all done in the proper manner, with medical tests, et cetera.”
“But why would she want her husband to have such a large life insurance policy?”
“It may appear to be a large amount to you, but it isn’t. Her children also have life insurance policies, as does she.”
Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries) Page 22