‘I think you covered all the important stuff there, sir,’ Evans said, somewhat obsequiously.
We all sit dumbfounded, staring at each other for a second or two, until Carl rallies. ‘It seems all so easy, like an everyday occurrence.’
‘Unfortunately that what it is becoming,’ Lambert affirms. ‘With the internet and mobile phone technology, it is now commonplace for fraudsters to make themselves out to be some innocent person, often from foreign countries. Until a situation occurs to trigger suspicion, no one is any the wiser. Obviously it is less common on a scale such as this, but vulnerable and elderly people face the daily threat of being scammed by outfits professing to be charitable organisations but are anything but, not to mention false prizes and hard-luck stories that are pure fantasy.’
At this point Evans takes a call, speaks briefly, and then reports back to us. ‘It’s about the action outside, sir. Apparently there are now two TV crews in addition to the other media out there, and they are wanting a statement from you.’
‘Bugger!’ Lambert exclaims. ‘OK, we’ll have to be getting back to HQ soon, so we can give them a few words on the way out.’
‘Anything on the murder, before you go?’ Amelia enquires tentatively.
I make eye contact with her, not at all sure if this is the right time to reveal the darker side of Sophia’s temperament to the police. She obviously gets the message and says no more.
Evans takes up the conversation. ‘Yes, we’ve had Sammy Wang over at both the Lowry Hotel and Salford into Work today. He’ll be working on a report as we speak, and is hopefully finished, in fact, by the time we drive over there, so we can get back to you on that.’
‘Excellent,’ I congratulate.
‘Right, we had better be off, then,’ Lambert says, standing up and glancing at Amelia, Carl and me. ‘I assume you guys wouldn’t mind staying around a bit longer, in view of the circumstances?’
‘Not at all,’ we all agree.
The policemen gone, we all go to the window and watch the scene below. The media have made their own camp across the road. The traffic is still moving, albeit slowly, due to the valiant efforts of the police. There are no mounted police as yet. We see Lambert and Evans cross the road to the gardens side and speak to the press for a few minutes before being driven away in Evan’s big Vauxhall Insignia, now with a uniformed driver.
There is a bit of a lull as afternoon rolls into evening, and the darkness seems to quieten everything down outside in Piccadilly Gardens. Carl wanders off to check on staff who are finishing for the weekend, leaving Amelia and me to our discussions.
‘Do you think we should have told Lambert about Sophia’s behaviour?’ she asks.
‘No, not at this stage. Policemen are suspicious enough, without putting ideas in their heads.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she agrees.
‘I’ve been having a few thoughts, though. Once we hear back about Sammy Wang’s report, it might be a good idea to have a word with Carlo Peroni, see if he’ll reveal anything about Sophia’s general health and state of mind, you know. I’m sure you get the general idea.’
Amelia frowns. ‘I think I know where you’re heading with this, and agree it would be better to wait until we know what else the police have discovered during their re-interviews before we possibly mess things up.’
Carl has returned after sorting out his staff, and he tells us that two have volunteered to stay overnight with him to keep an eye on the premises.
‘I’ve just thought: it never occurred to me at the time when Lambert was leaving and said could we stay around a bit that he actually meant overnight,’ I say.
‘I guess that is what he had in mind,’ Carl replies.
‘I’m afraid I agree,’ Amelia says. ‘Sounds like a takeaway dinner.’
‘It’s on me, then,’ Carl offers.
My mobile rings, and its Lambert to bring me up to date on the re-interviews. I listen intently for a few minutes, before letting him know that we are staying overnight and that we will let him know if we find out any more information about Sophia.
‘Well?’ Amelia looks at me expectantly.
‘The re-interviews, whilst not conclusive in any way, do cast suspicion on both Phil Biggins and Sophia Peroni, in that neither were totally forthcoming in their first interviews.’
‘In what way?’
‘At first they denied they had been outside of the bar area on the evening of the murder. It was only when told that hotel staff had seen persons of their description outside that they remembered. In fact, Sophia needed a little prompting before agreeing that she had been outside for a smoke.’
‘I didn’t know she smoked!’ Amelia exclaims.
‘Maybe it was a one-off with drinking,’ I suggest. ‘He also confirmed that the time scales stated by both were sufficiently vague as to not rule them out from being outside at nine o’clock.’
‘Umm!’
‘Just a thought,’ I add. ‘We can do better than a takeaway. Why don’t we take a walk over to Peroni restaurant for a pizza or something, and have a chat with Carlo. We can see if we can get him to voice any concerns about Sophia.’
‘Now that is a great idea,’ she approves.
We offer to bring a pizza back for Carl and his volunteer staff, but he declines saying that he is too hungry to wait. Fifteen minutes later we are the bar at Peroni, sipping Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic with lime and waiting to be seated. Carlo welcomes us in his inimitable manner.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
‘It’s Amelia’s birthday, and we have been doing business in town,’ I lie, not wishing to divulge the real reason of our visit at this point.
The place is busy, so we figure we had better wait until it appears all diners have been seated and served. An hour later there is pleasant buzz and the waiters have everything under control. Our pizzas are long gone, and we are dawdling over the last dregs of wine left in the one glass each we had allowed ourselves. Carlo comes over to our table, hoping we’ll go for more food and drinks, but we decline and he sits down to join us for a drink. His raised eyebrows in disappointment are barely noticeable when we opt for coffee.
We had agreed that at the signal from me, Amelia would introduce the subject of his daughter. The usual politics and football are discussed until I make the signal.
‘Carlo, there is also an ulterior motive for our visit. We wanted to speak to you alone.’
‘Yes, and what would that ulterior motive be?’ he asks guardedly.
Amelia states the facts bluntly. ‘It’s about Sophia. You know she has been worried about something, saying she has someone stalking her, and that she asked us if we could help.’
‘That is true,’ he answers. ‘But I thought she was also worried about the situation at her work, the frauds and so on.’
‘That is also true,’ I confirm. ‘But we can find no evidence of a stalker, and feel she is using that as an excuse. Could there be some other reason?’
‘I don’t know,’ Carlo replies, looking perturbed. ‘She has been behaving strangely for a while, and I assumed it was the company business, you know.’
‘Has she ever been violent?’
‘Of course not!’ he states vehemently, looking outraged. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
I nod to Amelia, and she relates the incident of Sophia attacking her at the martial arts class.
Carlo is not as taken aback as we would have expected, but I am genuinely surprised that he is still sitting there answering our questions.
‘Oh dear! This is a problem for me,’ he confesses. ‘Perhaps I’d better explain. When she was in her first year at university she was a good athlete, then she was attacked and sexually assaulted. She fought back and escaped, but the attacker got away. Sophia knew who it was, but the police wouldn’t prosecute. She didn’t finish university. She never really got over it and became paranoid, looking over her shoulder all the time. She was on medicati
on for a while, and later on she took up martial arts classes. One day the police came round; she had taken revenge on her attacker, a young man from university. She beat him up quite badly: broken arm, broken ribs, and facial injuries. They wanted to press charges, but the fact that he wouldn’t give evidence speaks volumes. I wanted to kill him myself, but Miriam, my wife, calmed me down.’ Visibly upset, he turns to Amelia. ‘Are you all right? Are you still friends?’
‘Yes, she told me all about the attack at university, and I think she is over that.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Carlo replies.
‘What happened then?’ I ask Carlo.
‘Well, she ended up with a caution.’ There is a contemplative pause in the discussion before Carlo observes, ‘That is all over with, and so we don’t know what can be bothering her now.’
‘No, but that historic knowledge may assist us moving forwards,’ I affirm.
Carlo appears relieved that he has got the story off his chest. ‘Thank you for coming, and the bill is on me. I would appreciate it if you could keep me informed.’
I assure him that we will let him know as much as possible, then we leave the restaurant and make our way back to the Lowry Hotel. The cool December evening helps our thoughts to crystallise, and we are still convinced that Sophia’s problems are emotional and somehow connected with our other investigations, but how is another question. I take the opportunity to move the Saab off the street into a more secure NCP twenty-four-hour car park.
When we arrive back at FrackUK all appears quiet, and Carl advises us that it has been so all evening. Their takeaway appears to have been Indian, judging by the pervading aroma and the containers still spread around the office table. There is a smattering of Harmony Earth protesters and media still outside in the gardens. A large-screen TV on the wall of the office is broadcasting a review of the scene in Piccadilly Gardens outside, the newscaster artistically placed to make full use of the giant wheel as a background, in contrast with the Piccadilly Tower.
We have a last coffee before trying to settle down as best we can for the night’s vigil. Fortunately, there is enough sofa-type seating to accommodate the three of us in Carl’s office and the two staff volunteers in the reception area. Blankets magically appear and we take up our positions for the night.
Chapter 35
Morning comes and we wake, stiff and ratty, after a long night interrupted on several occasions by drunken revellers, mostly fans celebrating the prowess of the city’s football teams. It’s 7am on Saturday 13th December. No one wants breakfast this early, so its just coffees all round. Carl busies himself with his two staff and any other business to take his mind off the situation. We go over and over the situation with Sophia, trying to figure out what could be going on.
***
Meanwhile, in an aparthotel not far away, Hans Johansen was destroying his passport, to be replaced by one in the name of Knut Amundsen. John, the armed man, was still asleep in the other room. Knut had picked him up at the station the day before, after he had travelled up from London. The muscle could travel in easily enough from Salford.
Knut had discussed the general outline of his plan with John the night before, over a few beers in the aparthotel. Food had been frozen pizzas from the hotel kitchen freezer. Knut was keeping a tight rein on John until the plan was activated. He had finalised the plan for action today, and all that remained was to pick the precise time for ease of operation and maximum effect. He decided that the time would be early afternoon, when there would be less chance of them being spotted among the crowds milling around in Piccadilly.
He woke John, and they breakfasted on cornflakes and tea made in the small kitchen of the apartment. They conversed over breakfast in short sentences, as per usual.
‘Have you made a final check of the weapons?’
‘Yes,’ John answered.
‘Got your ticket back to London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it for any unspecified time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything you want to ask me?’
‘I thought there was going to be three of us.’
‘There is. We meet him later,’ Knut said.
‘What time’
‘Two o’clock,’ Knut said, in a tone to end the conversation. ‘I’ll tell you where later, when I ring him.’
They caught up on the news for a while, and John was unperturbed when the scene in Piccadilly came onto the screen. Knut was impressed with his equanimity. Knut called the muscle at eleven o’clock.
‘Are you ready?’ Knut demanded.
‘Yeah,’ the muscle confirmed. ‘Wearing dark clothes.’
‘Good,’ Knut praised. ‘Meet us outside Debenhams department store, facing Piccadilly, at two o’clock.’
‘OK.’ And there the conversation ended.
After finishing the call the muscle watched the rest of a trashy show on TV and then cleared up some of the pizza boxes and beer cans strewn over the floor from the night before. Surprisingly fastidious about personal hygiene, he then showered, but didn’t shave, preferring to leave several days of fashionable stubble for effect. Dressed and ready to go, he moved downstairs to the kitchen. He picked up a small workman’s bag – it could have been any plumber’s bag, containing a hammer, several spanners, and screwdrivers – all of which could be used as weapons to deadly effect if necessary. Ready for action, he left the house, bound for downtown Manchester.
***
Back at FrackUK, the waiting game is still the waiting game: we pace around the office, peer out of the window at the protesters, then pace around the office some more. We discuss a few more angles, but nothing conclusive begins to emerge. I get the tingling feeling that something is there, just out of reach. At noon the phone rings. It’s Lambert.
‘Morning. I won’t ask if you had a good night, but what I can tell you is that it is extremely likely that Hans Johansen – sorry, Knut Amundsen – is in town. He could have travelled up by car and we would never have known, but we checked the CCTV footage at the airport and Piccadilly railway station and got lucky with the railway station. We’re not totally sure, because the man was wearing a baseball cap and kept his head down, but the height and weight is pretty convincing. He met a man off the train from London Euston carrying a large sports bag. God knows what could be in it.’
‘Do you know who the man off the train is?’ I ask.
‘Not yet, but we passed it down to the Met. They’ve got a team trawling the files as we speak.’
‘Well, that confirms our worst fears,’ I observe. ‘When can you get rid of the protesters?’
‘It’s not against the law to protest, and as yet no offence has been committed,’ Lambert replies.
‘OK, at least we can assume that something is afoot and we are not waiting around here for nothing.’
‘I think that’s a fair conclusion,’ Lambert agrees. ‘How did you go on last night when you had a chat with Carlo Peroni?’
‘I have quite a bit of news on that front. I don’t think I mentioned to you before about Sophia attacking Amelia.’
‘You certainly didn’t,’ he grumbles. ‘I did notice the bruise on her face but felt it impolite to ask how it came about.’
‘Sorry. I was going to tell you at the golf club yesterday, but of course that got scuppered. Well, there was some kind of disagreement as they were sparring at their martial arts class, and apparently Sophia went mental. It became real fighting – at least it did for Sophia. Amelia was able to defend herself, but only after she had taken a couple of blows. It fizzled out as fast as it had started, and Sophia was full of remorse and crying, but still insisting it was to do with a stalker – which of course we are not convinced of.’
I start to relate the details of our conversation with Carlo the night before, but Lambert stops me. ‘Tell you what, we need to go over there anyway, to see what’s going on again, so leave it till then. We’ll be there in about half an hour.’
Amelia and
I remain with Carl, mulling over the lack of any activity below – the protesters seem to be behaving – and Lambert arrives just after noon along with Evans. I briefly wonder whether they go everywhere together.
The first thing the policemen do is to go to the window and look over the scene that they only minutes ago walked through – human nature, I guess, because I now do exactly the same. It looks the same as when I last checked, half an hour ago.
The office door is suddenly shoved open and one of Carl’s volunteer’s rushes in clutching an e-mail. Carl reads it first, before passing it around the table. As before, it is all in capitals.
IT WILL HAPPEN TODAY.
Hans Johansen
HARMONY EARTH
Lambert, the last to read the e-mail, places it on the table. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has an idea as to what the IT might be?’
We all shrug and hold our hands up in surrender.
‘We’ve got men watching all entrances to the building,’ he advises reassuringly. ‘And there are plenty of uniformed officers in the streets and the gardens around, as you can plainly see from the window. What you can’t see, though, is the plain-clothes guys also wandering around looking for anything suspicious.’
Troubled Waters Page 19