“No. Just go away and leave me alone! You haven’t been any help to me at all.”
Fagan was nonplussed; he looked to Anna and back to Julia. “Should I stay? Julia, do you want me to stay?”
“I don’t fucking care anymore!” She started to sob uncontrollably, hunching forward in her seat, her arms wrapped around herself. Fagan hesitated, and then walked out.
Anna closed the door behind him. She went to the woman’s side and sat on the arm of her chair. “What is it, Julia?”
“I’m so scared. I think he will kill me, kill the children because I won’t let him have it, and now it’s such a mess.”
“Who will kill you?”
“Anthony.”
“Why would he want to hurt you and the children?”
“Money,” she wept.
Bit by bit, between long pauses and bouts of crying, Julia started to explain the complicated transactions she had done to protect her wealth.
Anna took notes as the jigsaw began to take shape. The more Julia talked, the more relieved she appeared to become, as if, by at last admitting the truth, she would be safe. She was scared that Collingwood would threaten her or take the children; she had already handed him the four million, but he was not satisfied. At no point did she admit that Collingwood and Fitzpatrick were one and the same; she continued to deny ever knowing anyone called Alexander Fitzpatrick.
Phil and his team were still searching the farmhouse and outbuildings, but were coming up empty-handed. They would not know for some time if the computer they had taken would give them any evidence or connection to Fitzpatrick. Honour had sat in the kitchen for hours, but Damien had insisted he go to college for his lecture. Phil had let him leave.
Every time Phil had passed Honour, she had asked the same thing: “What are you looking for?” He said only that they were searching for evidence connected to a murder inquiry. She had proffered tea and coffee to the officers, and then asked if she could do some baking.
Phil was seriously doubting that Fitzpatrick had ever hidden out at the farm. If he had, there was not as yet any incriminating evidence. They had evidence that the Mitsubishi had been driven into the farm’s courtyard, but were still merely surmising that Julius D’Anton had inadvertently come across Fitzpatrick at the farm, drove the Mitsubishi back to London, and then was murdered.
Phil headed up the stairs to join the three officers who were searching over the couple’s bedroom and small box room. They gave Phil the thumbs-down. He checked his watch; they had been there nine hours, and all he had to show for it was two scraps of paper.
He turned to walk out, then paused, looking up. “You done the loft?” There was a pull rope attached to an old brass hook, very high up. He stood on tiptoe to release it and jerked it hard. The trapdoor to the loft opened and a ladder unfolded, but then got stuck; he had to reach up and pull it down the last few feet. It didn’t look as if anyone had used it for years, but he nevertheless climbed up slowly, step-by-step. He crawled into the loft on his hands and knees, stopped, and asked for assistance.
The far side of the loft had a camp bed, blankets, and pillows. There was an overpowering musty smell, the dust was thick, with cobwebs trailing from every corner. But the area where the camp bed was situated was clean. There were fingerprints in the dust and, beside the camp bed, a jug with a glass, shaving equipment, and a wash bag. When he gingerly eased back the sheet, there were some bloodstains. “I think we might have just got lucky,” Phil said quietly.
The incident room was buzzing. The search of Julia Brandon’s home was over; the search at Honey Farm was still active, and would be continued the following day. Cunningham gathered everyone together for an update. By now, it was half-six in the evening.
Anna was first up, to disclose her findings from the Wimbledon property. There was a murmur of disappointment when she said that, after an extensive search, they had found no evidence that proved Alexander Fitzpatrick was ever there—but she was certain that, using the name Anthony Collingwood, Fitzpatrick had been a very big feature in Julia Brandon’s life.
She then opened her notebook and gave a look around at the expectant faces. “This is quite complicated but, I think, a major step in sorting out the Frank Brandon connection.”
She went to the board and began writing up the details.
“A young and impressionable Julia Kendal, living in Oxford, meets up with the charismatic Alexander Fitzpatrick, using the alias Anthony Collingwood. This was fifteen years ago. He was in the UK, sorting out business transactions and money laundering; he had a lot of cash. He and Julia began a relationship and moved to London, where he bought a large property in St. John’s Wood. He then spent considerable time abroad—sometimes taking her, sometimes not—and began to shift his cash around, using Julia as the innocent; laundering it via bank accounts in her name.”
Anna stopped and smiled. “Just how innocent, I couldn’t say, but she ends up with accounts worth twenty-odd million, according to her. This he uses when he requires it, and she maintains the front: nice wife, nice house. He even arranges for her to have IVF treatment to produce two kids, since he has fertility problems, and shifts more money into accounts for them. He acquires many offshore accounts and various businesses. By this time Fitzpatrick was wanted by the FBI and the U.S. DEA, so it became more difficult to move around. He lost millions when the BCCI bank crashed, and this is where it all starts to get unpleasant.”
Anna continued to explain how Fitzpatrick had poured his liquid assets into a German bank that went big with the remortgage of properties in the U.S., but started to go belly-up two years ago. At the same time, the FBI and the U.S. DEA were closing in on Fitzpatrick, and he lost properties in Florida, the Bahamas, and Los Angeles. He also sold his yacht at the same time.
“Julia saw the high life going downhill fast. Fitzpatrick made visits to the UK as Anthony Collingwood. Each time, he wanted more and more money, and Julia started to freak out that she would end up with nothing. Even more so, when he became abusive toward her. At some point, she found out he had another woman. He said that if she didn’t do what he wanted, he would take the children. She felt betrayed and very angry; she repeated over and over that she had really loved him.
“Around this time, Julia used, as a chauffeur, Donny Petrozzo. He introduced her to Frank Brandon. Julia put into motion the salvaging of what she thought of as her fortune. She sold the house in St. John’s Wood and bought the Wimbledon property outright. At the same time, with the assistance of her financial adviser, she began moving the money around so that Fitzpatrick could not get his hands on it.
“We have to bring in David Rushton again,” Anna insisted. “He has been lying through his teeth. Rushton was paid a fortune to protect the bulk of her cash, and make sure that Fitzpatrick cannot get his hands on it. Now we’re coming to the point where Julia hires Frank Brandon to take care of her. She’s terrified that, if Collingwood/ Fitzpatrick finds out, he might do something terrible to her and to her children.”
Anna could feel the team getting restless; it was a lot to take in, but she pushed on regardless. “Julia maintains that she was never aware of any kind of drug dealing. She believed that her so-called partner was only into property scams; she threatened him that, if he did put pressure on her, she would tip off the Inland Revenue.”
There was a general moan, and Anna laughed. “I am just repeating what she told me: she wanted to make sure that Collingwood couldn’t touch a cent, so this is where poor Frank comes into it. She now starts to switch accounts into his name, promising to pay him a big sum of money if he agrees to marry her, so they can use that as a cover. No sooner has she got it all organized, with Rushton working his butt off to lock the money down, than Fitzpatrick shows up. Julia claims he did not visit the house, but called her. He had told her he was broke—and not only broke, but pissed off because he couldn’t get to his own money! He puts pressure on her to release four million in cash; then disappears, but returns, wanting m
ore. When she refuses, he threatens her and the children. Again, she was adamant that he did not visit the house in Wimbledon, but phoned her.”
Anna closed her notebook. “That, she swears, was the last time she heard from him. The next thing that she says happened was the police arriving to say that Frank had been found murdered. She gets her solicitor, Simon Fagan, to hire bodyguards to protect her; she is very frightened, but not enough to run into hiding, because she has to have the death certificate—not only to get Frank’s life insurance policy but, as his widow, get her money returned from the accounts in his name. As I said, it’s all very complicated—but that’s it!”
She got a round of applause before she gave them the most important breakthrough: their prime suspect had been photographed on the au pair’s mobile phone. The pictures had already been processed and she was able to display the two photographs of the man they were now certain was Fitzpatrick, handing his daughter an ice cream. It was not until she had sat down that she noticed Langton had joined them, and was sitting unobtrusively at the back of the room. She glanced toward him, and he gave her a small nod in acknowledgment.
Next up was Phil, who described how, after hours searching the farmhouse, they had discovered the possible hideout used by Fitzpatrick in the loft. They had already sent to forensics the sheets and pillowcases, plus the blankets from the cot bed: there had been a bloodstain, which might prove useful, and many fingerprints from the loft. The two notes he had found were being checked by an expert to see if the handwriting on the note from the Mitsubishi, and on the exam paper, did indeed belong to the same person.
This brought Damien and Honour Nolan into the picture. Honour had seen them checking out the loft, but had said nothing, and did not seem agitated in any way. When Damien had returned, he joked that no one had used the loft for months, apart from a young student. Phil, however, had kept two officers at the farm as security, and requested that neither Honour nor her husband leave the country.
Cunningham, after listening to the reports, said that she wanted to bring in both Honour and Damien for questioning. She also wanted David Rushton, the so-called financial adviser, brought in to clarify exactly what Julia Brandon had hired him to do. Lastly, Julia was to be brought in for further questioning and to make a statement regarding her complex financial transactions.
Cunningham said all this with her usual folded-arm stance. She, more than anyone else, had felt the pressure of the silent Langton. She looked at him, to see if he wanted to say anything, but he shook his head for her to continue.
“We are getting a lot of action, but we still do not have the series of events that brought about the murder of four men. We know the Drug Squad is still holding our two dealers. They need to be requestioned, especially with the Glock pistol situation: one of them may have killed the car dealer, Stanley Leymore. They might have also shot Frank Brandon, as we have only their word that the shooter was Donny Petrozzo.”
Cunningham paused. “Last, but not least, where is Alexander Fitzpatrick now? If he did have a plan to begin using some of the stash of Fentanyl, where is it? We need to find out if he was at that drug squat and if he did use Frank Brandon. He was, as Travis has said, working for Julia—so why did he accompany Fitzpatrick to the squat?” Cunningham turned back to the incident board; with all the links, it looked like Spaghetti Junction.
Anna raised her hand. “We do have confirmation that whoever drove the Mitsubishi left bloodstains inside it, which we have matched with prints to Fitzpatrick. We also know that he could have been wounded, as the blood matches that on the bullet from the Glock pistol. If the blood also matches the stains on the sheets taken from the Oxfordshire farm, then we know Fitzpatrick was in the UK, and was the man standing behind Frank Brandon when he got shot.”
Cunningham frowned in irritation. “I am aware of that, Travis, but can someone bring in the bloody timing of events? We have four dead men and we are still unsure who died when; we know where, but we do not have a clear A equals B equals C equals D, and we need it to clarify who the hell did what. This has to be a priority. Tomorrow, we concentrate on that but, for now, we leave Damien Nolan and his wife loose until we have completed the search of the farm, and forensics gives us details on the items removed.”
The briefing over, it was after ten-thirty in the evening. Everyone was tired out, having been on duty since three in the morning. Then Langton eased his way to the front of them all. Those who had half risen to leave sat back down again.
“I think DCI Cunningham has outlined pretty much everything we need to be concentrating on. We have made progress but we cannot sit back for a second. I am very concerned by the couple at the farmhouse; I think they appear too confident. As yet, we do not have enough to arrest them, but they should be brought in for questioning—see if we can put some pressure on them. My main concern is that we might have lost our prime suspect and he has gone to ground. If he hasn’t, we have a very dangerous man on the loose. It is looking as if he has systematically wiped out anyone who could identify him, but he never guessed we’d get lucky—first with his fingerprint, and secondly with this.” Langton jabbed at the photograph taken from Mai Ling’s phone. “Get this to both Silas Roach and Delroy Planter; see if they can give us confirmation that he was the man with Frank Brandon at the drug squat.”
Langton had his back to the team as he glanced over the board; in his usual dramatic way, he paused, as he turned and stared at the team. “If this bastard is here in the UK, I think our body count is going to go up. He’s broke and he may have a stash of very dangerous drugs, so find him—before he kills again. That’s it; go and recharge your batteries.”
The team broke up. Anna was heading toward her office when Langton asked her to join him. “It was good work with Julia Brandon,” he said. “Up to a point.”
“I’m sorry?”
“As soon as she started to open up, you should have brought her into the station. As it stands, we are going to have to go over all that ground again. Even though it was informative, we need dates, and we need that financial guy to collaborate everything she told you.”
“I was supervising the search of her property.”
“Don’t make excuses. We can’t afford to waste any more time. Like I said, Fitzpatrick may still be in the UK, but he could also have done another disappearing act—which is why those two at the farm are so confident.”
“Maybe they won’t be if we get a result from forensics.”
Langton sighed with irritation. “Which gives us what? They had a visitor. They were old friends. We’ve got nothing, Anna.”
“I disagree. If we can prove that Damien Nolan wrote the note with directions to the farm found inside the Mitsubishi with Donny Petrozzo’s body, we know the same vehicle was driven by Julius D’Anton, and we know it was at some point at their farm—we’ve got quite a lot against them.”
“Bullshit. Until we know how that fucking jeep came to be driven first by Frank Brandon, then—you say—by Julius D’Anton, it’s all supposition as to who did what. They can say that they never even saw Julius D’Anton! He could have driven there; he could have started up a Morris-dancing team. We do not have any kind of order of events, and I asked you to make it a priority.”
“Yes, I know, but I didn’t have that much time.”
“Then find it—because if we don’t have it, this case will flatline. I want that photograph off Mai Ling’s mobile taken to see if the lab can enhance it with one of the pictures of him off his Web site, as we have only a partial single fingerprint, and I want to be certain.”
Anna bit her lip. “So, is it just me that you want to have a go at?”
“What?”
“Well, I am not the only officer on this case, but you seem to be insinuating that I am not doing my job.”
“I am not insinuating anything, just stating the facts, so don’t start with the excuses.”
Anna said nothing, waiting for him to have another go at her.
He
then moved close, close enough to touch her, and whispered, “I love it when you get angry. It reminds me—”
She stepped away from him. “Don’t play games with me,” she said fiercely.
He cocked his head to one side. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Good night.” He walked past her.
Anna remained standing, not turning to look after him; instead, she stared at the photograph of the man with the ponytail. If she were Fitzpatrick, where would she move next? He wouldn’t know that they had that fingerprint, or even that they had this photograph…Her eyes focused on the lists of names and one stood out: David Rushton.
Anna sat at her desk, checking over the address and contact numbers for Rushton. She called his home; his wife said that he was working late, but that she had expected him back at nine. It was now almost eleven. Anna called his office and the answer phone clicked on. She rang his mobile, but it was off. Jermyn Street was not on her way home, but she couldn’t resist driving past Rushton’s office.
She parked easily outside, as it was so late. She could see the lights were on and she went to the entrance. The glass doors were locked, but a night-watchman sat inside, reading a newspaper. She tapped on the door; he turned, and she showed him her ID through the glass. Accompanied by the night watchman, she went up in the lift to Rushton’s floor. The lights were on in the reception. The night watchman keyed in the code and the doors glided back. She said he could wait in the reception, and she headed down the corridor. Rushton’s office door was ajar and the lights were on; she called out, but got no reply. She pushed the door wide open, and saw the floor was covered in papers. As she stepped farther into the room, David Rushton’s dead eyes stared toward her.
He was sitting at his desk, leaning back slightly on the leather swivel chair. Anna moved cautiously around the desk, stepping over the strewn papers; she felt for a pulse, knowing there was not going to be one. His wrist felt cold; rigor mortis had already set in. She could not see any sign of violence; his immaculate shirt and tie were in place and his suit jacket had no bloodstains or tears. Anna looked beneath the desk: his well-pressed trousers were still immaculate, both legs bent at the knee, his shoes polished.
Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries) Page 31