Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  “Phil, I can’t really spend time on this. I don’t see the connection with our case.”

  “I’m only doing what Langton told me to do!” he said, tight-lipped.

  “Where is he?”

  “I dunno; I thought he was interviewing Damien Nolan.”

  “He was, but then he left. We still haven’t questioned Honour Nolan.” Anna looked around the incident room, and then headed toward Cunningham’s office. It was empty. Frustrated, Anna approached her own office but, when she tried to open the door, she found it locked. “Is somebody in here?” She pressed her face to the window, trying to see inside. Then the door was unlocked, and she had to catch her breath.

  Langton looked terrible. His face was pale, and it had a sheen of sweat, making it appear almost gray. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he had no shoes on.

  “James?” she said, closing the door quickly behind her. She saw his jacket on the ground, his shoes beside it.

  “I needed to have a break,” he said, slumping into her chair.

  “Have you got a temperature?” She felt his brow; it was cold, and he shivered. Anna picked up his jacket and slipped it around his shoulders. “You want a cup of tea?”

  “Just some water,” he said quietly.

  Anna opened one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and passing it to him.

  He took a few sips and then closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No, I just need a few minutes.”

  “I think you should see a doctor.”

  “I’m fine; just couldn’t get my breath. If I sit tight for a while, it all eases up. There’s no need for you to stay with me.”

  Anna sat on the edge of her desk. “How often does it happen?”

  “It happens,” he whispered, leaning forward.

  Langton had suffered from a collapsed lung after his attack; he had almost died and the scars on his chest were proof of his appalling injuries. He seemed very frail and his hand shook as he continued to take sips of water.

  “I’ve just been listening to Phil collecting information regarding numerous thefts of Fentanyl.”

  “Yeah, the medical profession has got to pull out their fingers and get some kind of tamper-proof mode of Fentanyl administration. What we’ve got coming in is widespread theft from various institutions—could create a fucking epidemic.”

  “I think we should concentrate on our case,” Anna said. “We haven’t even questioned Honour Nolan yet.”

  Langton pushed back the chair and got unsteadily to his feet. “I am aware of that!” He started to redo his tie. She bent down and placed his shoes in front of him; he slipped them on. “Thing is, Travis, we’ve only just touched on what that bastard intended dealing. In my position, I have to look at the whole perspective. If Fitzpatrick was able to ship this amount of Fentanyl into the UK, it’s only the beginning.”

  “It would be good to get him locked away.”

  “Quite, but my gut feeling is he’s long gone.”

  Anna shrugged, annoyed by the suggestion that they had lost Fitzpatrick. “You fit to question Honour now? Or do you want to wait until after lunch?”

  Langton slowly pulled on his jacket and yanked the collar down; she could see that the color was coming back into his face. “Let’s go in ten minutes.” He walked to the door and unlocked it.

  “What about Damien Nolan?” she asked.

  “What about him?”

  “His solicitor’s getting very tetchy.”

  “We hold him until we’re finished with Honour.” They walked out of her office.

  Anna asked if he felt Damien had just been drawn into the edges of the Fitzpatrick scenario, but played no part in it. Langton gave a soft laugh. “He’s a player, Travis, and a clever one, because we don’t have anything to pin on him, bar the fact he lived at the farmhouse, is married to Julia Brandon’s sister, supposedly had an affair with Julia, and, according to her, fathered her child! For someone on the periphery, he certainly got into heavy relationships.”

  “I didn’t find out if he was related to Alexander Fitzpatrick. I spoke to Mrs. Eatwell; she said it was none of my business and that Damien was a wonderful person.”

  “Maybe he is just that.” Langton opened the interview-room door.

  Already sitting, waiting with her solicitor, was Honour Nolan. She gave a nervous smile to Anna, and nodded to Langton as he took his seat opposite her. She was wearing the same dress she had been arrested in: it was hippy-styled, caught under the bust with a row of hand-embroidered strawberries, and fell in loose folds of soft fabric over her motherly figure. She wore numerous heavy silver bangles and rings, and silver hoop earrings. She wore no makeup but her skin looked fresh, none the worse for a night in the cells. Her long dark hair was wound around her head, the two braids long enough to cross over the top and coil around again, rather like the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

  Langton took a while, selecting his files and placing them in order. Anna took her notebook and pens out, and her own file. She glanced at him; he showed no ill effects from the episode she had just witnessed.

  Langton started the tape, explaining that they would also be recorded on video. He repeated the charges against Honour: she was being questioned with regard to drug trafficking, harboring a known felon, and perverting the course of justice. He added that this alone was a very serious offense and, if charged, she could be given ten to twelve years, as the authorities took a very serious view of anyone tampering with the law. Honour had her hands folded across each other on top of the table, heavy silver rings on almost every finger, even one on her right thumb.

  “Very well, Honour, let’s go from the top, shall we? Please give your name and address.” Langton kept his voice low, almost encouraging, as Honour cleared her throat and answered his seemingly innocuous questions about how long she had lived at the farm, how long she had been married to Damien Nolan, when she had worked at the antiques store, and her relationship with Mrs. Doris Eatwell. Her answers were concise and to the point.

  Seated beside Honour was her solicitor, a gray-faced man, with extremely bad halitosis. Matthew Webb used a stubby pencil to jot down notes in what looked like a child’s exercise book. His solid square face gave no hint of expression, his watery eyes unblinking, as his client continued.

  Langton paused before he asked Honour to detail her relationship with Alexander Fitzpatrick.

  Webb looked up. “My client will refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that it could—”

  “Your client, Mr. Webb, has already admitted to knowing Mr. Fitzpatrick and, according to her sister, had an ongoing sexual relationship with him.”

  “That is a lie,” she said.

  “I’m sorry; do you want to explain why you say it is a lie?”

  “My sister did not tell you the truth. I have never had a sexual relationship with him.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Again, Webb interjected that his client would not answer, on the grounds that it might implicate her.

  “Your client, Mr. Webb,” said Langton, “was fully aware that Fitzpatrick was a man wanted on both sides of the Atlantic. Your client aided Mr. Fitzpatrick to store a sizable amount of medical drugs, first at Honey Farm, and then subsequently in Mrs. Doris Eatwell’s garage.”

  “I did not.”

  “Were you aware that your husband fathered a child by your sister?”

  “That is preposterous! If my sister claimed that this happened, then she lied to you. Julia was incapable of ever telling the truth.”

  “Could you please explain why this has been brought up?” Webb tapped the notebook with his stubby little pencil.

  “We are simply trying to establish the relationships that enabled Alexander Fitzpatrick to avoid detection for such a considerable time. His mother, Doris Eatwell, was a close friend to you, Mrs. Nolan; you assisted in moving the drugs to he
r garage with the help of Adrian Summers.”

  “That is not the truth.”

  “Do you admit to knowing Mr. Adrian Summers?”

  “I have never met him.”

  “But we have a witness who saw him at your farmhouse,” Langton persisted. “He also submitted a statement, claiming that you helped store the crates containing the drugs in the henhouse at your farm.”

  “I did not.”

  “Then, at a later date, when it became known that the police were making their presence felt, possibly about to orchestrate a search of the farmhouse, you moved the crates to Mrs. Eatwell’s garage for safekeeping.”

  “That is not true.”

  “At this time, you assisted the injured Mr. Fitzpatrick; you tended to, I believe, a flesh wound to his right shoulder.”

  “That is not true.”

  Langton glanced at Anna, and took out a photograph of Julius D’Anton. “Do you recognize this man, Mrs. Nolan?”

  Honour hesitated, then admitted that she did recall seeing him, when he tried to buy a table from the antiques shop where she worked. She was shown the photograph of D’Anton, taken when his body was dragged out of the water. She gave a strange lift of her eyebrows, but said no more.

  Anna sat patiently as Langton began to bring out the photographs of all the victims: David Rushton, Donny Petrozzo, Frank Brandon, Julius D’Anton’s wife, Sandra. Lastly, he laid out the pictures of Julia Brandon’s mangled car, and the mortuary shots of her body. He kept up a fast delivery, slapping down the pictures, not giving Honour time to query, or her lawyer time to interject. He spread the photographs out like a fan across the table and stared at Honour.

  “Why are you showing me all these terrible photographs?” Her voice was now starting to sound strained.

  Langton laid down numerous photographs of Alexander Fitzpatrick, taken from Rushton’s security CCTV footage. “This is Alexander Fitzpatrick, correct?”

  Honour chewed her lips.

  “Or maybe you still refer to him as Anthony Collingwood? Which name do you call him by?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “All these people—including your sister—died because of him!”

  “That is not true!”

  “Yes, it is. She had the brakes of her car sliced in two, Honour. Now, for God’s sake, why are you protecting him?”

  “I’m not! This is all supposition; you have no proof of any of these accusations.”

  Langton leaned forward. “What makes someone like you willing to put their own life on hold? Because you will go to prison, Honour. You have consistently lied to cover the truth, and now you maintain this farcical front that you never even knew Fitzpatrick.”

  Webb rapped the table with his pencil. “Detective Chief Superintendent, you are trying to goad my client into answering these accusations. I advise her not to make any reply, on the grounds that it may—”

  “Are you maintaining that your client never knew what was going on right under her nose—that she never saw anything?”

  “You have no evidence that Mrs. Nolan ever, at any time, allowed her premises to be used for storing these drugs.”

  “It doesn’t matter how many people die, how many people this man, whom you are so desperate to protect, has killed? He even used his elderly mother! You think she’ll be let off? Mrs. Eatwell is going to stand trial just like you, and she will die in prison. So what is so great about her son—about this evil, twisted, sadistic monster, who even used his own children to launder money?”

  Webb now banged the table in anger. “If you have any further questions relating—”

  “I haven’t finished yet!” Langton snapped, then he pointed at Honour. “He used you, Honour; you are just like everyone else who has ever come into contact with him. You should try and assist my inquiries, because I am going to charge you with accessory to murder.”

  “Exactly who are you now referring to?” asked Webb.

  “Take your pick.” Langton pushed forward the array of photographs.

  Honour began to remove the clips from her hair.

  “Can you please stop that,” Langton said angrily.

  “It’s tight—I have a headache,” she said as she loosened her two braids, uncoiling them to hang down around her shoulders.

  “Right. Let’s go from the beginning again, shall we?”

  Anna could feel her own headache starting, never mind Honour’s. She was surprised how exhausted she felt. She knew Langton must be as drained, but he didn’t let up, this time trying a calmer approach. Still Honour maintained her composure, but kept on fiddling with the hair grips she had removed.

  They were getting nowhere; even Webb began to show that he was tired of the repetition as Langton continued to ask the same questions and again received the same replies. She knew nothing; she did not admit to knowing Alexander Fitzpatrick by that, or any other name; she was not aware that any illegal drugs had been stored at her farmhouse and subsequently moved to Mrs. Eatwell’s garage. It was preposterous: she claimed to be totally innocent of all charges.

  Anna could sense Langton’s frustration building to boiling point. It was at this moment that he leaned close and whispered that she should take over. Anna began by picking up the photographs and stacking them like a pack of cards. “Could you tell me about your relationship with your sister?”

  Honour gave a small shrug. “We were not on good terms.”

  “Why was that?”

  Honour sighed. “We were very different creatures. All Julia ever cared about was herself, and money—the more she had, the more she wanted.”

  “So, when Julia was living at the house in St. John’s Wood, were you a frequent visitor?”

  “No.”

  “But you did visit the property? According to Julia, you moved in for some considerable time, as Alexander Fitzpatrick’s mistress?”

  “That is not true.”

  “Why would she lie about it? According to Julia, you were in love with her partner. When she found out that the woman he had moved into her home was her own sister, she began to arrange her finances, to block his access to any of the monies he had arranged for her to live on. In a fit of jealousy, she also claimed that, although her first child was conceived by IVF treatment, the second child was in actual fact your husband’s. She was adamant that the relationship was purely sexual.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “That Damien Nolan fathered her second child was the reason you and she were not on good terms. You found out. Not content with having a relationship with Fitzpatrick, you became very distressed to discover this liaison; partly out of jealousy but, Julia maintained, it was more to do with the fact that you were unable to have children of your own.”

  Langton kept his head bowed; he knew what Anna was doing, leading in with a more personal motive to try to open Honour up. It was working.

  There was a flash of anger as Honour shook her head. “Julia was a liar; she couldn’t tell the truth to save her life, especially if it didn’t suit her. She was very manipulative.”

  “And you are not? I would say that living with her lover, in her house was—”

  “I did not live with him.”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  “You know who; you are trying to trap me into admitting something that is just a pack of lies. I love my husband.”

  “Really? So it must have hurt you considerably to find out he fathered her child?”

  “He did not.”

  “We will be taking DNA tests to prove it, so it is immaterial whether you admit it or not. It must have been very hard for you: your sister was younger, beautiful and wealthy, living in great luxury, able to conceive two children, and, at the same time, arrange a very complicated scheme to block her partner from gaining access to her fortune. You claimed that you were not aware she had married Frank Brandon—”

  “I keep on telling you that I had very little contact with my sister. We did not get along; to be honest, I never lik
ed her.”

  “But you were jealous of her.”

  “No, I was not; I had my own life.”

  “In a rented, rather squalid farmhouse?”

  “That is your opinion.”

  “It’s a fact. It must have been very tempting when Alexander Fitzpatrick surfaced—and he did, didn’t he? How did he first approach you after almost twenty years living abroad?” Anna placed down his photograph. “He is still a very attractive man, isn’t he? Did he cajole you into helping him? He must have dangled untold wealth to get you to take the risk, and allow him to store crates of drugs at your property; or maybe he threatened you? Put you under terrible pressure to assist him?”

  Honour remained silent.

  “We have a witness, Honour, who has given a statement that you were fully aware of the content of the crates, and that you assisted in moving them to Mrs. Eatwell’s garage.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “I’m sorry, what was that? You didn’t know what the crates contained?”

  Honour was twisting her braid round and round in her fingers. “You are making me say things.”

  Webb sighed. He tapped the table. “My client has denied, over and over again, any knowledge of what was in these crates. She is fully aware that nothing was discovered at her farmhouse that connected her to the drugs haul—”

  “Because she had already helped move them to a safer place! Mr. Webb, we have a witness who assisted her; to persist in denying any knowledge of them is now ridiculous.”

  “I didn’t know what they contained.” At last, a breakthrough.

  “You were totally unaware that these crates contained a class-A drug, Fentanyl, in vast quantities?”

  “I didn’t know what was in them.”

  “Who arranged with you to store them at the farmhouse?”

  Honour was cracking. Her cheeks were flushed, and she licked at her lips nervously.

  “Do you see his picture amongst these photographs? Yes or no?”

  Honour shifted her weight in the chair. “I got a call from Julia.”