Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  They watched the replay of the reception-area footage showing Julia Brandon entering and moving toward the lifts. Marlow shook his head.

  “He must have buzzed her in almost as I left, because I went back into Jermyn Street to wait and see if I recognized who this client was. I sat in the car for about half an hour, and then walked back to the service door to see if anyone entered that way. I was there for at least another half hour, then called it quits and left.”

  “Play the audiotape,” Langton said.

  Marlow looked surprised. “You’ve got one?”

  Cunningham set up the tape, explaining, to Langton’s irritation, that Rushton had had a hidden tape deck, but that, except for the section with Julia, the security camera footage had no sound.

  “Well, if it’s of any use to me, I’d like to hear it.”

  Marlow leaned forward to listen. Anna watched him intently, but he gave no reaction apart from shrugging his shoulders when the tape ended.

  “Pity it cut out, and because I turned the camera around, you didn’t get a shot of the killer. Still, I’d like a copy of the tape for my files.”

  Langton was sitting in sullen silence. Gordon tapped and entered. He had photocopied the documents showing the money transfers made by Rushton for Julia Brandon. Marlow thanked him.

  “We continued our investigation and, as we had no suspicious contact from Rushton, we were planning for me to keep the new appointment; that was when we found out about his murder.”

  “Bloody marvelous,” muttered Langton.

  “Why I’m here,” Marlow added, with a shrug.

  Langton seemed tired out. He stood up and asked for access, if it was possible, to the Fraud Squad’s findings and their list of clients. Marlow asked if they believed one of them killed Rushton.

  Langton shook his head. “I doubt it, unless you’ve got one dealing in Fentanyl.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The way Rushton was killed: injection, big overdose of this lethal drug.”

  “Shit. Well, that’s two years down the fucking drain. I’ll talk to our guys and get the files over to you.”

  Marlow was thanked for coming in and left. When he had gone, Langton was cursing. “We’ve been acting like bloody fools, going after the wrong man.”

  He stalked out to have a smoke outside, to try to calm his fury.

  The team looked to Cunningham, who was sitting, arms folded, by the incident board. She stood up and nodded to Anna. “You almost missed Marlow; he was about to leave before you two came back. I’ll need the update from the labs, but I suggest we all take a break from the case for tonight; pick up tomorrow.”

  There was an overall feeling of dejection. Anna asked for someone to get in touch with their computer boffins to see if they could access any of the calls from Julia Brandon’s mobile.

  Langton made them jump, the doors banged so hard as he walked into the room. “Get onto the Fraud Squad, Phil,” he rapped out. “Get me the details of Marlow.”

  Phil looked surprised. “You have a problem with him?”

  “Yeah I do, a big one. Just do it!” Langton had to sit down. He asked someone to get him a beaker of water. He was so tense that Anna was worried.

  She crossed to his side. “You okay?”

  “Could use some of that Fentanyl; my knee’s killing me.” He gulped at the water. She could see his hand was shaking as he fumbled in his pocket to take out a foil wrapper of tablets. He pressed out two, taking them both with a mouthful of water, then tossed the beaker into a trash can. “I think we have all just been fucked over.” He said it so quietly, it was hardly audible.

  Phil was holding on, waiting for a connection. “Looks like they’ve gone home. You know those guys—work a nine to five.” Then he was through.

  Langton couldn’t contain himself. He got up and snatched the phone. “This is DCS James Langton, Murder Squad; it’s imperative we speak to one of your officers, a DCI John Marlow.” There was a pause. “In connection with the ongoing investigation into a fraud involving a David Rushton.” Langton listened; he was so tense, Anna could see the muscles in his neck twitching. “Thank you—must be some screwup on our end.” He put the phone down. “There is no DCI John Marlow working with the Fraud Squad, and no ongoing investigation involving David Rushton.”

  The room fell silent. Anna couldn’t quite take it in.

  When Langton eventually continued, his voice was like gravel. “I think we just had a visit from Alexander Fitzpatrick. The bastard had the cheek to walk in—walk in!—and we all fell for it!”

  Cunningham had to clear her throat before she could speak. “But he had ID—he showed it to me. Why would he take such a risk?”

  “He carried it out with him, the information about what Rushton has done with Julia Brandon’s cash; he also now has every single piece of information we’ve got involving him. Maybe he just wanted to see how close we are to catching him!” Langton gave a short bark of a laugh. “Answer is, we’re so off the mark that the two-faced bastard had the audacity to walk in off the street with fake ID.”

  What had made Langton suspicious? Anna wanted to ask. No one else had questioned Marlow’s authenticity. On the contrary, they had passed over a copy of the file he requested and even thanked him for coming in.

  “Well, at least we know he’s here in London. I said that, didn’t I?” He looked to Anna. “I said he would surface. Well, he did, and he’s made the lot of us look like total arseholes. At least we know one important thing: Alexander Fitzpatrick is broke and hurting for cash so much that he risked walking in here. Rushton did us a favor; now we concentrate on that money he stashed away for Julia Brandon, because Fitzpatrick is after it, and we are going to get him. Right now he must think he’s so clever he’s out of reach, but he’s not.” He made a gesture with his right hand as if catching a fly; then he clapped, as if killing it between his hands.

  Langton’s speech seemed to inject energy into the team. He picked up his coat, saying he would be with them first thing in the morning. He needed to get home, suggesting that a break would probably do all of them good. He didn’t say anything more to Anna; not that she was expecting him to.

  It had sounded strange to her that he had said he needed to get home. Langton had never appeared to be, in all the time she had known him, a man who needed a home life; quite the reverse. It was yet another sign of how far apart they had grown. The thought that he now had a domestic life that he wanted to get back to made her envious, because she didn’t have one.

  She felt the need for company, at the very least—which was why she called Pete, and arranged to drive over to his house. He was, as ever, pleased to hear from her, and said they could order in a pizza.

  “I’d like that,” Anna said. She replaced the receiver, and collected her briefcase and coat.

  As she went out to her car, she felt better. She decided she would stop off to buy a good bottle of wine. To have someone waiting, eager to see her, was exactly what she needed.

  21

  Pete and Anna had drunk half the bottle before the pizza arrived. The fire was lit and they ate in front of it, leaning their backs against the sofa; the bottle empty, they opened another. Pete sat back on his heels. “I know you don’t approve, but I’m going to have a joint.”

  Anna, rather tipsy, said she didn’t care. She started to tell Pete about the man they had suspected to be Alexander Fitzpatrick posing as a Fraud Squad officer. Pete handed her the joint and she took a couple of deep drags as she went on to explain how they had all been totally taken in by his fake ID.

  Pete was having a hard time following the gist of what she was saying. “You are telling me he just walked in?”

  “Yes, and everyone was taken in by him.”

  Pete started to laugh; it was so preposterous and so audacious, he couldn’t stop laughing.

  Anna, at first, wasn’t that amused, but the more he laughed, the less serious it all sounded, until she too was helpless with giggles.
“He hoodwinked us all,” she said, and then broke up, rolling about laughing.

  It took a while before they both calmed down. Anna crawled over to her briefcase and took out the folder with Fitzpatrick’s photograph. Pete, although bleary-eyed, took a long look at it; then Anna showed him some of the Web site pictures from years before. Pete fetched a large magnifying glass and held it over the image taken from Rushton’s CCTV camera. Then he looked at the younger man’s pictures. “He’s had a lot of work; you see the way his earlobes are sort of stretched? That’s a telltale sign of a full face-lift. Jawline is firm, and his neck—and what were his eyes like? I mean, how old is he?”

  “The guy calling himself Marlow didn’t have any bags or lines, looked a lot younger than Fitzpatrick’s age, early sixties.”

  “Doesn’t look it. His nose has been reshaped, and I’d say he’s had implants in his cheekbones, plus, judging by the texture of his skin, he’s maybe had a face peel; there’s hardly a line on him. You see this early photo off the Web site and the one with the ponytail and the two kids?”

  Anna leaned closer.

  “On both he’s got a mole on his right cheek. But not on the one with the baseball cap. Did you catch it?”

  “No—no, I didn’t. Shit, I didn’t even think about it.”

  Anna held the magnifying glass and peered at the face of Fitzpatrick. “No one thought it was odd he was attached to the Fraud Squad; if he had been, he would have retired years ago. He’s well over six feet, and he didn’t look as if he was carrying any excess weight.”

  Pete yawned. “Liposuction.”

  Anna felt as tired.

  “You going to stay overnight?” he asked as she closed her eyes.

  “There is no way I could drive home.”

  Pete gave a soft laugh. “Well, that’s really encouraging—not so much as a peck on the cheek! I meant, are you going to stay with me—in bed, with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached over and took her hand, and hauled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. It’s after three.”

  He had to steer her up the narrow staircase; she was so out of it, he had to help her undress. By the time she was down to her underwear, she was half asleep; he flipped back the duvet for her to crawl inside.

  “Oh, this feels so nice,” she said sleepily.

  Pete looked at her, curled up like a child, her hands cupped beneath her chin. By the time he had undressed and got in beside her, she was dead to the world. He didn’t wake her, but turned off the light to lie next to her and smoke his bedtime joint.

  He couldn’t fathom her out: why she had called him, why she had come over. He wasn’t sure if it was just loneliness, or whether she had really wanted to see him. Her red curly hair was just visible above the big duvet as he took a couple of deep drags, inhaling the grass deeply. Sex had been on his mind—was, to some extent, on it even now—but after a while, his eyes drooped, and he stubbed out the roach and snuggled down beside her. She turned, in her sleep, onto her side and he curled up around her, resting one arm across her waist. There was an innocence to their sleeping which belied both their professions.

  Langton had taken a load of medication to ease the never-ceasing pain that affected his knee. Sometimes, at night, his chest felt as if it was on fire where he had been sliced by the machete; the scar burned and was often inflamed. Only when he lay naked, his chest bared, did he feel it cool. To embrace sleep, he drank heavily to block out the constant pain, but most nights were restless and tormented. Often, while he was sinking into limbo before he slept, he would go over the case—or now, in his position, various cases—but tonight, all he could turn his mind to was Alexander Fitzpatrick. He couldn’t help but have some admiration for his risk taking, even though he knew that, if it were to get out, it would make not only himself but the entire murder team a laughingstock. As he lay half asleep, the pain finally easing, he wondered if he had been correct about it just being the money Fitzpatrick was after. With his senses lulled, he came to the conclusion it had to be something else, but what, he was unable to grasp, as at last he went into a deep sleep.

  Anna woke up with a start; then had to flop back against the pillow, her head throbbing.

  Pete was already showered and dressed; he carried a mug of steaming black coffee to the bedside. “I’ve already been called. My guys are at the station dusting down every surface our superhero may have touched for prints. I’m going to have to make an appearance, so I suggest you get this coffee down you. I’ll cook us some scrambled eggs and we can drive in together.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “Oh God!” Anna showered and dressed and, with a raging headache, went downstairs. “I don’t think I could eat anything.”

  “Try—you’ll feel better; then we should get a move on.”

  Anna perched on a stool as he dished up breakfast.

  He hooked an arm around her and nuzzled her neck. “You slept like a baby.”

  “I don’t remember getting into bed.”

  “Well, I didn’t have any physical contact with you! I think we were both out of it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She dipped her fork into the eggs.

  It was nine-thirty when Anna hurried into her office, and the incident room was hopping. Thankfully, there was no sign of Langton. No sooner had she put her briefcase down than Cunningham marched in.

  “This is an almighty fuckup. We’ve got them dusting for prints all over my office and on the file we handed to the piece of shit, but so far…” She shrugged.

  Anna wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Cunningham didn’t appear to want her to; she just leaned against the wall. “Christ Almighty. I couldn’t sleep last night, just thinking about it. The fucking civilian on the desk ushered him in and he walked straight up to the incident room—talk about overconfident! It just beggars belief. We’ve had financial experts in since the crack of dawn trying to assimilate Rushton’s accountancy expertise. The room looks like it’s spewing out the bloody phone directory: we’ve faxes that cover the length of the entire floor, and some accounting machine that they keep clicking that’s knocking out what looks like the National Lottery numbers.”

  “I’m sorry I was a bit late.”

  “Well, Langton’s not in yet. We’re all sort of on tenterhooks trying to be one jump ahead of him. I’ve given up trying.” Cunningham looked at Anna. “Did you have so much as a hint who he really was?”

  “To be honest, I was so taken aback when I saw him, it took a while to sink in. I noticed his teeth, though, how white they were—probably implants or caps, but very good ones.”

  “I didn’t, to be honest, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  “I think he’s had a lot of facework, so it’s no wonder we didn’t recognize him.”

  “That’s not really the point, is it? Not only did not one of us suss out who he was, we bent over backward thanking him for coming in!”

  Gordon appeared, rather flushed in the face, his red hair standing on end. “Excuse me, ma’am, but Pete Jenkins wants to see you.” Cunningham walked out. Gordon glanced at Anna. “You seen the incident room? Looks like a snowstorm!”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “What a joke, eh? Bloody walked in off the street!”

  Anna sighed. “Yes, Gordon, I think we are all aware of that.”

  Cunningham looked glum as Pete gestured to the edge of the desk she had been certain Fitzpatrick had touched. “We’ve got smudges, plenty of them, but no clear prints, and we’ve none off the document you handed to him.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Not if he covered his fingertips with a coat of clear nail varnish. I’m not saying that is what he did, but you can see in the dust the marks on your desk where, if he hadn’t used something, we would have prints.”

  “Christ, he thought of everything, didn’t he?”

  “’Fraid so, ma’am. I’ll go back to the lab, sha
ll I?”

  “Yeah. We are still waiting, you know, on that blood swipe off the sheets at the farmhouse.”

  “I know that, ma’am. We have ascertained that it did not match the small residue taken from the Mitsubishi, nor the sample taken from the bullet DI Travis found at the drug squat. As we don’t have a sample of your suspect’s blood, I can’t—”

  Cunningham interrupted him. “Yes, you do. We had a sample brought in from the Oxfordshire police. They had it from the time Fitzpatrick was picked up for drunk driving.”

  “I am aware of that. I did send a memo to say that it was proving impossible to make a match with the bullet and the swipe mark as, not only due to the age, but—”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, as I said, it’s coming up for forty years old. It had been opened, and possibly left open, so could have been contaminated. For DNA extraction, we need—”

  “I know what you need!” she said irritably. At that moment, Langton appeared at the end of the corridor and signaled for Cunningham to join him.

  The team were all gathered as Langton took the floor, holding up an Internet printout. It described how the Metropolitan Police were introducing a new warrant card to deter forgers. Langton shook his head as he read how these warrant cards would have the name, rank, number, and a clear digital photograph. “As you can see, they also supply, on the same Web page, a clear picture of the Met Badge. It doesn’t take much brainpower to see just how Fitzpatrick was able to show the civilian downstairs a fake ID, and for him to bring him up to the incident room.” There was a sort of embarrassed murmur around the team. Langton asked the guys working on the financial paper trail to stop clicking their machines for a few minutes, as they were giving him a headache.

  Next, he looked around the team and asked, one by one, for them to repeat the exact interaction they had had with Fitzpatrick.