Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  “Julia, listen to me. If this man has taken your children—”

  “Emily and Kathy are his children—his money provided for them,” she said dully. “He will have got passports—by now they’ll be on a plane somewhere.”

  “This man is wanted in the United States as well as here.”

  Julia gave a strange, hard laugh. “He’s been wanted for how many years? You told me that! You say he is this Alexander Fitzpatrick—well, how long have you been trying to find him? Twenty years? Thirty? He is out of your reach, and out of mine. At least he’s left me alive. I even believed him when he said that if I gave him four million, he would disappear; he had no intention of walking away from the rest of the money. He forced Rushton to reverse all the accounts we’d worked on hiding, back into his hands.”

  “We wish to question him about the murder of David Rushton.”

  Julia gave a hollow laugh. “Question him? You’ll have to find him first! He was in England from the moment I moved into this house, laughing because nobody could ever touch him; somehow he got to Frank as well. You know what is sick? All I’ll be left with is Frank’s insurance money! Still, it’s something out of all this mess; I deserve that much at least. So, now you know it all.”

  Anna stared as Julia’s egotistical side emerged. She loathed the sight of her, but she wasn’t finished. She now had to find out exactly what Julia meant by saying that she knew the man they were hunting had not only been in England, but had obviously contacted her numerous times. “When did you first know he was here in London?”

  “He turned up at the wedding! He thought it was all very amusing; he said that it would be very useful to have another name! He had a virtual card deck of passports; he planned to do some business here and then go back to Florida.”

  “This business, did you have any idea what it would be?”

  Julia shook her head, smiling. “You tell me! All I know is, Frank was just like everyone else who ever came into contact with him: won over totally, and then got screwed—in his case, shot dead.”

  Anna stood in front of the team, repeating all this new information. Langton was leaning against the far wall of the incident room. He raised his hand. “Do we now have the connection between Donny Petrozzo and Frank Brandon clarified? Not that he was hired as a driver, but how Petrozzo’s body was found inside the Mitsubishi?”

  Anna turned to the board. “Julia recalled Frank saying he was going out to do business; this was on the night of the murder. She did not see him with Fitzpatrick, but she knew they had met on numerous occasions, and it was possible Fitzpatrick had negotiated some big payoff.”

  Langton threaded his way to the front. “Did you get from her where Fitzpatrick was hiding out?”

  Anna shook her head, saying that she had repeatedly asked this question. Julia had said that he would not hide out anywhere, but more than likely stay at the Ritz or Claridge’s.

  “What about Honey Farm?”

  “I obviously asked about that. She said she doubted it, as it was not his style.”

  “But her sister was?”

  “Again, she was not able to tell me if Honour was still in contact with him. She felt that he was more than likely using Honour, as he had used Julia herself. She was very scathing about Honour, as she was part of the reason Julia had attempted to hide Fitzpatrick’s money. The sisters are not even on speaking terms.”

  “So what are you saying? That he might have been staying in luxury hotels, or could have been in Oxfordshire?”

  Anna said that they had, so far, no evidence that Fitzpatrick had been in the farmhouse; tests on the cot bed in the loft had proved inconclusive. The bloodstains did not match the smear on the bullet, and according to Honour might have been left by a student at some time in the past. She said that no one had stayed there for months. Langton paced up and down along the now-sprawling incident-room board. The number of names and statements listed was awesome.

  He jabbed his finger at the board. “Okay. We now have the time frame for when Donny Petrozzo was killed; next, Stanley Leymore. Still outstanding is Julius D’Anton’s murder. Even though we have the fucking bastard on CCTV footage from David Rushton’s office, we still do not have any evidence that Fitzpatrick was the killer. We do have the drug Fentanyl that connects Donny Petrozzo’s death, David Rushton’s death…”

  Phil stood up with his notebook open. “We’ve got confirmation that the handwriting in the glove compartment of the stolen Mitsubishi probably belonged to the same person who wrote the notes on Damien Nolan’s examination papers.”

  “Probably?” snapped Langton.

  “Yeah. They won’t confirm it one hundred percent.”

  “Shit. Is the surveillance of the farmhouse still in place?”

  Phil confirmed that it was, but that there had been no suspicious movements or visitors. Langton swore again; the investigation was way over budget and seemingly still gathering moss. He hitched up his trousers and again turned to the board. “Bring that bitch Julia Brandon back in and requestion her. Have we anything from customs or ports?”

  Gordon said that they had no report of anyone using Fitzpatrick’s known aliases, or the name Brandon, and no report of anyone with two young children leaving the UK who fitted his description.

  He could be on a private plane or boat, Langton muttered; in fact, their wanted man could be anywhere. “The key is, we trace him via the money he regained from Rushton. It has been moved, right? Find out where!”

  “What about the couple at the farmhouse?” Phil asked.

  “Leave them there. We bring them in when I’m ready. We need some more details on this fucking Mitsubishi, like who drove it to Oxford, and how come Julius D’Anton was wheeling around in it and then ended up in the Thames. We are putting a massive load on this man being superhuman: he’s killing one guy after another, kidnapping two kids. I don’t buy it—he’s got to have help.”

  Anna interjected that he had the two bodyguards, and maybe the Chinese au pair! If they also took on board Julia’s claim that Fitzpatrick—or Collingwood, as she knew him—had been in the UK since May, the time she moved into the Wimbledon property, he could have done a lot of planning: it was now October.

  The sheer length of time they had all been working the case hit home and Langton, especially, became angry at the lack of developments. He returned to the information on the board, detailing the murder of Frank Brandon. “We know he went to the drug squat; we know there was someone else with him; we have a possible—and it’s only a possible—ID from this junkie, disco rapper Eddie Court, but we still have no real evidence on the man who accompanied him. We are pretty certain that this man sustained a bullet slash or graze wound and, we suppose, that this same man was in the Mitsubishi. Now, what we don’t know is whether or not Donny Petrozzo was already dead in the back of it. Everyone with me?”

  There was a low murmur of agreement. Langton moved on to the photograph of Julius D’Anton. “Right: our Thames floater was seen by the antique dealer in Shipston on Stour driving the Mitsubishi. His van was located, dumped in a local garage for repair. His body was discovered, two days after Frank Brandon’s murder. Forensic have come up with nothing, but lab reports say that he was possibly drowned around four days before Brandon’s murder.” Langton sighed with irritation as he continued, ruffling his hair until it stood up on end. “I have been asking for a fucking time frame for two weeks, because from what I can see, that jeep was at the farm before the murder of Frank Brandon. That puts our unknown man, our prime suspect, driving it from London to Oxfordshire, maybe hiding out there, then allowing it to be used by Julius D’Anton.”

  Langton clapped his hands and stared around the room. “Any bright ideas? Did this bastard accompany D’Anton back to London, kill him, and then arrange with Frank Brandon to visit the drug squat?” He shook his head, returning to the board. “I still think we are heaping a hell of a lot on this motherfucker’s shoulders. We are presuming he escaped, because Frank Brandon
took the bullets: does he then drive to meet Donny, kill him, dump the jeep, and take off to we don’t know where, having already knocked off D’Anton? Everyone still with me?”

  Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the team.

  “Now, we have a new load of evidence against him from Julia Brandon. She maintains that he was actually in London for months, possibly staying at Claridge’s or some other five-star hotel. Have we anything on that?” There was, to date, no one at any of the top hotels who recognised the photograph they had of Alexander Fitzpatrick, but inquiries were still ongoing.

  Langton continued. For his part in diverting funds, to make them inaccessible to Fitzpatrick, Julia’s financial adviser was also killed. This had given them Fitzpatrick’s picture, caught on the security cameras at Rushton’s office; their hunted man had audaciously looked into the camera and turned it to face the wall. “He bloody knew he was on camera! He could have ripped it out of the wall, but he didn’t. So, we have yet another death down to him. At least we know he didn’t shoot Stanley Leymore, the bloke who owned the garage and who, we think, sold the Mitsubishi on to Frank Brandon through Donny; it’s pretty conclusive because of the movement of money into Frank’s account and then out again in cash.”

  Langton drew up a chair and sat; he bowed his head as if he was having a real headache, wincing and clenching his teeth. “Something does not add up.”

  Anna stood up, and he looked at her gratefully. “We know from your interviews with Delroy and Silas that Donny Petrozzo was trying to off-load this Fentanyl, but it wasn’t working because they had no idea what the drug was, or how powerful.” She stopped.

  “Go on, Travis.”

  “I think a possible scenario is that Donny Petrozzo had recognized Fitzpatrick: we know it’s a possibility, from an old trial years ago. He was constantly doing pickups and drops at Heathrow Airport. He might have seen him and approached him; he might even have been driving him to Julia Brandon’s.”

  Langton nodded and sighed, as if bored. “So get the bitch back in and requestion her. She’s lied from day one; maybe she’s also lied about not knowing about the drug trafficking her lover boy made his fortune from.”

  Anna nodded. “I sort of believed her but, by all means, we should requestion her—maybe put the frighteners on her, charge her with perverting the course of justice. But I am telling you, she is a very hard nut to crack.”

  Langton looked at Anna. “So what are you suggesting?”

  “She might be more useful if she thinks we are no longer interested in her.”

  Langton gave a rueful shrug. “Thing is, our man is now with two kids, two bodyguards, and a Chinese au pair; I doubt if he can move as easily as we’ve suspected. He’d need a bloody camper van.” Langton looked to Phil, to ask about the paper trail of money; they were still waiting to hear back from the various banks that Rushton had used. Langton raised his hands in frustration. “How bloody long do we have to wait, for Christ’s sakes? We need to know if this bastard is moving around with millions or waiting like we fucking are! Get onto it now!”

  Cunningham now joined everyone. She was very agitated. “Julia Brandon left her house ten minutes ago, carrying an overnight bag.”

  “They let her just drive past them?” Langton snapped.

  “They’re right on her tail. I’ll bring in the box so we can hear the progress, but she was heading toward the A3.”

  Langton clenched his teeth; he was so angry, it was obviously hard for him to keep control and not explode. “Okay, let her run. The A3? It isn’t as if she is heading toward Oxfordshire, is it?”

  Cunningham brought up the street map. She indicated that it was possible for Julia to branch off the A3 and pick up the M40 to head toward Heathrow. She got a scathing response from Langton, who pointed out that she could also be driving toward Southampton; even more likely, Gatwick Airport. Cunningham became agitated by his rudeness in front of the team and said, curtly, that they were holding Julia Brandon’s passport. Langton turned on her, saying that, as Alexander Fitzpatrick appeared to be able to print off Christ knows how many for himself, with so many aliases, it was possible she would be using a forged passport.

  He then addressed the team. “This woman is something else. After hours of interrogation, screaming that her babies have been kidnapped, she’s now heading down the A3 to Christ knows where. Travis, you were the last person from here to talk to her.”

  Anna stood up. “She was very distressed, and drinking. In all honesty, I found her to be telling me the truth. If she was lying, and knew where her children were, then she deserves an Oscar.”

  “Thank you for that insight! Think over what she said to you; was there any time you suspected an ulterior motive?”

  “You mean her panic about the children being taken?”

  “Christ, yes! It got her out of the station and back home, didn’t it? Was she also giving, as you say, an Oscar-winning performance in the interview room?”

  Anna shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. At one point she seemed very hyper, as if she’d taken something. When she learned, via her lawyer, that it was David Rushton who had suggested the bodyguards, she went haywire. The only time I did feel she was not behaving like a woman whose children had been taken was after she was certain they had gone.”

  Langton closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Go on?”

  “Well, it was then she disclosed how she had lied about never seeing the man she called Anthony Collingwood. I was with her for over an hour.”

  “Could she have been stalling for time?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Langton had a go at her. “Think: have her kids been kidnapped? Or did she know they wouldn’t be at home?”

  By now, Cunningham had set up the connection with the surveillance team. She had organized a backup vehicle, to help keep track of Julia. The radio crackled, as they reported that Julia had turned off the M25. Via the surveillance team, they put in a request for any patrol cars in the vicinity not to pull her over; she was driving at over ninety miles per hour and they didn’t want her journey halted for a speeding ticket.

  Langton returned to discussing the case. He underlined Julius D’Anton’s name. This was one death he couldn’t quite fathom out. They knew that Julius went to Shipston on Stour for an antiques fair; they knew he wanted to buy a table from the antiques dealer Michael Sudmore, but Honour, Julia’s sister, working in the shop that day, had refused until he made a cash payment. D’Anton had called on the woman who owned the cottage close to the farm, as he reckoned that, if the table came from her cottage, she might have something else to sell. Did he, at some point, have contact with Alexander Fitzpatrick? And, therefore, become a real risk? Because the next sighting they had was D’Anton driving the Mitsubishi, trying to fit the table into the back; so, since the time of the fair and his failed attempt to get the table with a deposit and a rubber check, he had come by a fistful of cash and a jeep.

  All the while Langton talked, the radio continued to report the whereabouts of Julia Brandon. Still driving way over the speed limit, she was cutting across the M25 to head onto the slip road for the M40. The next four radio contacts silenced the incident room.

  Julia’s Mercedes had driven at eighty miles an hour off the motorway, careering and skidding along the slip road, and hurtling at an even higher speed onto the hard shoulder of the M40; she had created a near collision as she got onto the motorway. They listened as the two surveillance teams reported, in pitched voices, that the Mercedes had jackknifed across the slow and middle lanes. In an attempt to steady the skidding car, she appeared to turn the wheel to her right to avoid heading back into the traffic, only to do an almost ninety-degree spin and crash through the barrier, directly into the path of a juggernaut.

  The incident room could even hear the colossal bang and squeal of brakes, then a terrible sound of crunching metal and splintering glass, followed by an almighty boom as the massive juggernaut tipped onto its side and caught
fire.

  By the time Anna and Langton arrived at the crash site, traffic cops had laid out cones to direct oncoming cars to use a single lane. Cranes were hauling the juggernaut out of the motorway. Already moved was the crushed and blackened Mercedes, the roof completely caved in, the driver’s side covered in blood. An ambulance was at the scene, but there was no hope of anyone getting out of the car alive. Langton and Anna walked over to the ambulance.

  The driver of the juggernaut was being attended to; he appeared to have no severe injuries, just deep cuts and bruises. They were waiting for a second ambulance to take him to hospital. Langton spoke quietly to the ambulance attendant. He was told that the victim had virtually been sliced in two, and decapitated. Langton then looked from the open back door into the interior. He turned to Anna and said he was sorry to put her through it, but they needed to know for certain.

  Anna stepped inside and placed a mask over her face and put on rubber gloves. It was hideous; the body was so severely mangled. She gave a nod that she was ready for the attendant to pull back the cloth from Julia’s decapitated head. The blond hair was matted with blood, but Anna recognized the diamond earrings. She couldn’t really look into the face at first, but she had to; she bent down, moving some hair away from the cheeks. It was definitely the once-beautiful Julia Brandon.

  Langton was standing with the police around Julia’s wrecked Mercedes as they prized open the boot. He removed the overnight bag, and was handed a handbag in a plastic container. The contents were crushed almost flat: a pair of sunglasses shattered, likewise a perfume bottle. To avoid getting shards of glass on his hand, he wrapped a handkerchief around it, then brought out a smashed mobile phone. He closed the bag and said they would examine it later. There was no passport.

  By the time Anna returned with Langton to the station, it was late. She felt drained, but he was still energized and eager to discuss what the car crash meant to the investigation. Julia’s belongings had been sent to the lab, but nothing would be done until the morning. Anna was told by Cunningham to take off and return early. She looked toward Langton for his confirmation that she could go home. He wafted his hand and turned back to talk to Phil.