“I went along with your theory, but now I’ve come up with a slightly different one.” Anna’s chest heaved because she was talking so fast; Langton had to gesture for her to slow down. Anna dragged out papers from her briefcase. One of the things that had bothered her was the scrap of paper with directions to the farm—written, they believed, by Damien Nolan. How had that paper got into the Mitsubishi’s glove compartment? If, as they believed, Fitzpatrick knew the location, why would there be directions? Unless…
“The white van hired to collect the drugs: what if that van was driven by Adrian Summers to Honey Farm? We’ve so far not found any trace of the drugs: what if they were taken there, straight from Gatwick, and the directions were for him to find it? The van is then emptied and driven back to London by Summers. By this time, the stuff from that glove compartment has been put into the Mitsubishi: this includes the directions, money, and maybe one box of drugs—for sales purposes, you know? Fentanyl is not a common street trader’s drug, right?” Anna fumbled with her array of papers. “This would place Fitzpatrick at the farmhouse when Julius D’Anton is sniffing around the cottage, trying to find some antiques. He takes advantage of the jeep sitting there and nicks it. On board he has, as you suggested, the box of drugs.”
The desk phone rang. Langton picked it up, then switched it to speakerphone. Phil, who had been sent to Chelsea harbor with two other officers from the team, was now able to verify that the boat was occupied by a young blond guy, identified as Adrian Summers. There was no sign of Fitzpatrick, or the children, but the harbormaster said he had seen two small boys on deck two days ago. As the call continued, with Phil obviously somewhere he could monitor the boat, he swore. Walking along the harbor was the au pair, carrying two bags of groceries.
Langton gave out the order to maintain surveillance, and not to approach the boat. He was silent for a few moments before asking Anna to take him through exactly what had happened on her first visit to the farm. She described how they had been lost, so had stopped at the small cottage and spoken to the elderly woman who had directed them to the farm. They had found Honour around the back of the house, tending to the henhouse. Anna went on to explain about the painting of the boat that was subsequently removed.
She took out a map and indicated the route Julia Brandon had taken on her last journey, from Wimbledon out to the A3 and then a loop, as if going back to the M40. “What if she knew she was being followed and tried to throw off the surveillance vehicle? They kept on saying she was driving at a reckless speed; what if she was trying to head toward Brighton, and the boat?”
Langton stood up. They had enough supposition, he said; now they had to act on the possibility that they had their man cornered. If he attempted to withdraw any of the money that he had forced Rushton to transfer for him, they could track him. So far there had been no withdrawals, and still no sighting of him, so where was he?
As they went down in the lift together, he smiled at her, and touched the nape of her neck. “Good work, little one. You are working on the adrenaline rush. I know just what it feels like.” The touch of his fingers to her neck sent shock waves through her, but she said nothing. He was right, she was buzzing.
She turned to him. “They searched the farm, right? Found nothing. If Honour was tipped off by my visit, enough to remove the painting, then she would also know enough to be wary about the drugs. I think they were stashed in the henhouse.”
They were heading toward the patrol car, when Anna stopped in her tracks. “She was very relaxed when the search went down—because she knew we’d find nothing.” She looked up at him. “We never searched the cottage, did we! The old lady said it had been refurbished, with all mod cons. She could be connected—I mean, she could have tipped Honour off about me making inquiries, which was why she was locking up the henhouse.”
Anna was rubbing her head so that her hair stood up on end, as the sirens screamed and they sped across London. Langton turned around in the front seat and touched her knee. “Just relax. I agree with you. I think we’ve got Fitzpatrick cornered. Now we bring in Honour and Damien Nolan.”
The station was on full alert as Langton arranged for a helicopter to get to Oxfordshire fast. The local constabulary were on standby to assist in the arrests, and to instigate the search of the cottage. Via their surveillance officers, they were told that both Damien and Honour were still at home. Langton had said he wanted to go in very softly, no sirens blazing. He spent considerable time orchestrating the hit. In the meantime, the surveillance on the Maiden in Chelsea harbor was stepped up and they ran a check on the cottage, specifically the old lady.
By the time the helicopter had landed in a field over a mile from the farmhouse, Anna’s stomach was in a tight knot. At the Chelsea Marina, there was still no sighting of Fitzpatrick, so the surveillance officers were instructed to stay back and wait. Langton was using his mobile, listening to a call; when he shut it off, he gave one of his strange short laughs. “She’s his fucking mother! Mrs. Doris Eatwell—previously married to Alistair Fitzpatrick—and she’s owned that cottage for forty years.”
The patrol cars were lined up at the end of the lane, leading into the dirt track to the farmhouse. It was a clear sunny day. As everyone waited for orders, it was the sound of birds twittering that Anna found extraordinary; on the surface, it was all so peaceful. Langton was concerned that somehow Adrian Summers might have been contacted, so decided that they should move in to the boat at the same time. The two sisters were dressed as boys, so he made certain that Phil had photographs to prove their identity, though he was sure that they were Julia Brandon’s children.
It was now 4:15 P.M. Langton and Anna, in the lead patrol car, drove past the cottage and stopped. Behind them came two more patrol cars and a van, with four locals to begin the search of the cottage and outhouses. Anna watched them heading up the flower-bordered pathway. Before they reached the front door, Mrs. Eatwell opened it. She appeared frightened as they showed their warrants; then they were inside. At the same time, two more uniformed officers with sniffer dogs approached the garage. Snapping off the padlock, they heaved open the old wooden door, which swung upward and back into the small garage. Two more uniformed officers went over to the tumbledown greenhouse and lean-to sheds. The search began.
It didn’t last long. The officer who had entered the garage walked out and signaled to Langton. They had found the “mother lode,” protected by only a cheap padlock and covered by a tarpaulin. “Crates up to the ceiling, about thirty of them.”
Langton clapped his hands and gave the go-ahead to the driver to continue up the lane. Anna looked from the rear window to see Mrs. Eatwell being led to a patrol car and helped inside. She appeared to be crying.
It took no more than five minutes to drive up the narrow lane and reach the open gate. The car behind Langton drove around to the rear of the farmhouse. Hemmed in, with more officers still in their surveillance positions, Langton and Anna walked around the side of the house. Honour was baking bread, her hands covered in flour. Damien was sitting at the kitchen table, marking up papers from his lectures. Langton leaned on the half-open stable door and showed his warrant card.
Anna was fascinated by Honour’s reaction. On hearing she was being arrested, she asked if she could wash her hands. Damien screwed back the top of the fountain pen he had been using and carefully placed it down on top of the papers. They were separated and led to two different patrol cars, and driven past the cottage that now looked as if it was under siege, with so many uniformed officers around. Honour showed no reaction when she was told that Mrs. Eatwell had also been arrested. Damien sat with his head bowed, hands held loosely together; he glanced at the action around the cottage but then, like his wife, chose to say nothing.
At the local station, they were read their rights and the charges against them, and told that they would be driven to London to answer questions. Neither said a word; they did not appear resigned or scared about their situation, but quietly confident.
Damien had written down names of two solicitors he wished to represent him and his wife.
Phil had gone on board the Maiden at exactly four-fifteen. The two children were watching a DVD on a small TV in the main cabin. Adrian Summers was lounging on a bunk bed, reading some maps. Mai Ling was cooking their tea; she started screaming hysterically when they showed their warrants. The little girls had short, boyish haircuts, but were well and, although initially frightened by the appearance of so many officers, were excited to be driven in a patrol car with the siren wailing, their au pair seated between them. Adrian Summers acted the innocent, but then grew quiet as he too was led out to a patrol car.
By the time arrangements had been made for the children to be placed in care with a family liaison officer, Adrian Summers had been read his rights, and the charges of drug trafficking and perverting the course of justice. He had become very agitated, and was placed in a holding cell.
When Langton and Anna questioned Mrs. Eatwell, she became very distressed and a doctor was called to examine her. She said she didn’t know what was in the boxes and had agreed to allow them to stay there because her son had asked her to help him. She recalled that she had only seen him a few times in the past eight months and had had little or no contact with him for twenty years. She had only met her grandchildren once, when they had stayed with their mother at the cottage. She had no idea where her son was and insisted he was not a bad person.
As Langton stood up to leave the room, he had leaned close to Mrs. Eatwell. “I don’t think you ever knew your son because, believe me, he is a very bad man. And with or without your help, we will find him.”
At the same time, Damien and Honour were being driven to London. It was almost 9 P.M. when they were placed in cells beside Adrian. Meanwhile, Langton and the team had a major briefing session. From his initial elation, Langton now seemed moody and tired. They had plenty of ammunition to fire, but no trace of Alexander Fitzpatrick himself. The boat was impounded and a search was in progress. They also had the mother lode of drugs, and their suspect’s very own mother. Due to her age, she had been returned to stay at her cottage, along with a female officer.
To give them time to orchestrate the interviews, and arrange for solicitors to be present, Langton decided that they would wait until first thing in the morning to interview Damien and Honour, but would see what they could get out of Adrian Summers that evening. In the meantime, he wanted the search for Fitzpatrick to continue; by now, the evening papers were plastering his photograph on every front page. The TV news and morning papers were told that arrests in connection with the inquiry had been made. Langton also asked that they give good coverage to the fact that they had discovered drugs to the value of ten to twelve million pounds.
Adrian Summers was represented by a solicitor from the station’s lists. She was young and a tad inexperienced but, at such short notice, was the only one available. Summers had no police record, and by the time he had spoken to his solicitor, he was very scared. Knowing what heavy charges were leveled at him, he gave them more than they could have expected.
Via Adrian, the jigsaw puzzle with so many of its pieces still missing finally took shape. At long last, Langton got what he had wanted from day one: a time line.
First, they got from Adrian that he did not know Alexander Fitzpatrick’s real name. He knew him as Anthony Collingwood; however, Langton suggested they now use “Fitzpatrick” for clarity. Adrian was asked about the theft of the Mitsubishi jeep. Although it had been bought in Adrian’s name prior to the theft, it had been paid for by Fitzpatrick. Adrian said that, while Fitzpatrick maintained the rented house in Hove, he was aboard his boat in Spain, preparing to bring it to the Brighton Marina.
Adrian was getting into debt repaying his student loan, when he met Julius D’Anton in Brighton. D’Anton was quite a familiar figure to the students, and had at one time run a shop in The Lanes. Though he went bankrupt and sold up, it was well known that he could always get a stash of dope to sell on to the students. He still kept up the odd visit to The Lanes, rummaging around for antiques, and it was there that he got into conversation with Adrian.
Over coffee, Adrian told D’Anton how broke he was. D’Anton, seeing the jeep, suggested he should sell it. Adrian explained that he didn’t own it, it belonged to the guy he worked for. However, it was registered and insured in his name. D’Anton said he could pull a bit of a scam. He knew someone—Stanley Leymore—who would take the jeep and give it new plates. Adrian could report it stolen, claim the insurance money, and get the same jeep back and split the insurance cash. Taken with the idea, Adrian let him drive off with the jeep.
Langton asked if Fitzpatrick had been aware of the scam at any time. All he knew, Adrian said, was that the insurance had paid out. D’Anton took a few hundred from the insurance money, and Leymore even more. Leymore had fixed the engine numbers and new plates, but had no time to do anything else because Fitzpatrick had arrived back in Brighton sooner than expected.
Adrian remembered that, around this time, Fitzpatrick had said he was having problems with his ex-partner—and he was very short of funds. “It was about the only time I ever saw him really angry. He told me that he had a major deal going down, so he had to raise money and fast.” Adrian swore that he had no idea who Fitzpatrick was, nor that the “major deal” was drugs. He had been hired by him eighteen months prior, when he had knocked on the door at the rented house in Hove to ask if he needed any odd jobs done. He had done some sweeping up of leaves and window cleaning in the area. Fitzpatrick offered to buy and insure him a vehicle, the Mitsubishi, so he could act as his driver when he needed to make trips back and forth to London.
“So he came and went?”
“Yeah. I knew he was organizing the boat. Like I said, he left Brighton to go to Spain to bring it into the marina.” Adrian became increasingly nervous when they moved on to the hire of the white van. He admitted that he had made up the plastic stick-on logo, and also that he had helped Fitzpatrick load up the crates. Adrian then clarified another detail: he had indeed driven the white van with the drugs to Oxfordshire, to leave at Honey Farm. Honour had helped to unload the crates, and they had stashed them in the henhouse.
“Where was Fitzpatrick at this point?”
Adrian puffed out his cheeks, trying to remember the exact order of events. Eventually he said that, as far as he could recall, Fitzpatrick was on the Isle of Man—didn’t know why. His job was to ship out the crates to the farm. He returned to London, deposited the keys of the van back at the rental, and burned the logos. Then he got a phone call from Fitzpatrick, worried about how safe the crates were, wanting them moved; he also wanted one box to be retained and brought back to the house in Brighton.
Adrian then drove the jeep back to Honey Farm and moved the crates, having split open one and removed one box. He was driving back down the dirt track when he saw Julius D’Anton, whose van had driven into a ditch. Adrian gave him a lift into the village, to arrange for the local garage to haul the van out and repair it. At this point, D’Anton asked if he could borrow some money, as he had a good deal on a table in the local antiques store. He would split the profits with Adrian. When the table wouldn’t fit inside the Mitsubishi, the deal was off.
Adrian, with D’Anton as passenger, drove them both back to London. During the journey, D’Anton said he needed to sleep—he was having the sweats—and he curled up on the back passenger seat. He then saw the box and wanted to know what it was, but Adrian was very cagey and refused to tell him. “I should have just said it was cleaning fluid, you know, anything; D’Anton was a real nosey sod. By me not coming clean, he sussed there was something inside the box and wouldn’t stop going on and on about it.”
At this point, Adrian’s solicitor leaned close and whispered to him; he bowed his head, listening. It was obvious that she was advising him to keep quiet. Langton swung back in his chair, and urged Adrian to tell the truth. If he assisted them and was totally honest, it would prove benefic
ial. He soft-soaped about how their main priority was the capture of Fitzpatrick. Adrian was nervous and sweating, but went on.
D’Anton had opened the box and, never having seen the vials of Fentanyl before, asked Adrian what the stuff was. All Adrian knew about them was that Fitzpatrick had taken crates of the same stuff from Gatwick customs. Via his mobile phone, D’Anton had gone onto the Internet to find out exactly what it was. He told Adrian that it was worth a fortune and that he had a friend who could off-load the stuff. Adrian had become very anxious about the whole thing.
“Did he give you the name of this friend?” Langton asked.
Adrian sipped at a beaker of water, unable to remember the name; just that he thought it was Italian.
“Donny something,” he recalled after a moment. “That’s all I can remember.”
Langton wrote down the name Donny Petrozzo, but did not repeat it to Adrian; he just began to tap the table with his pen. “Go on, Adrian. You’re in the jeep with D’Anton; what happened next?”
They waited as Adrian squeezed his hands together; sweat hung in small drops from his hair.
“Let me help you.” Langton opened his folder and put down the photographs of the dead Julius D’Anton. “You have anything to do with this?”
“No, no, I swear before God.”
Langton pushed the photographs farther toward the now-shaking boy. “So, if you didn’t have anything to do with this, keep talking. We are treating his death as murder, Adrian.”
Adrian spent a few moments whispering to his solicitor. She asked for a bathroom break to confer with her client. Langton agreed to ten minutes. They left a uniformed officer in the room.
Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries) Page 43