A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  Caroline continued to stare in horror at the spot that they had occupied. She could still ‘see’ them crystal clear in her mind’s eye. Probably always would.

  “One of the sophisticated gentlemen she entertained might have done that to her,” Matt said, keeping up the almost insufferable pressure. “He had beaten her with his fists, bound and gagged her with adhesive tape, burned her body with the ends of cigarettes, and finally strangled her to death with a pair of tights. She died hard on the cold concrete floor of a ramshackle garage in a derelict area of Putney.”

  “All right!” Caroline shouted. “Fuck you! You’ve made your point. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Are these two upsetting you, dear?” Rosalie said, bustling into the office carrying a tray with three mugs, a bowl of sugar and a milk jug on it.

  Pete watched as a drooping length of ash detached itself from the cigarette in her mouth, to fall onto the wet tray, narrowly missing the sugar bowl.

  “No, Mother,” Caroline lied. She had never been so upset in her life. “Just put the tray down and leave us alone. Go into the house and watch television or something.”

  Rosalie slammed the tray down in the precise spot the photographs had occupied a few seconds before, turned on her heel and left the office, unable to throw the door back and slam it due to the hydraulic arm that regulated its movement.

  Matt eyed the now wet ash that had become dark mulch. It struck him that he had not had a smoke since running out. He immediately wanted one, but focused hard and waited for Caroline to speak.

  “Marsha was a little desperate, Inspector,” she said, dropping into a swivel chair and staring at a horsy calendar hanging on the wall next to a cork board that had dozens of mainly red and blue rosettes pinned to it. “As a top model, you get used to the spotlight and the attention of the rich and famous. It’s like a drug. You hardly have time to take stock. And then it suddenly stops. Someone turns your career off and the light goes out. You may have a healthy bank account, but it doesn’t replace the buzz of fame. It may be shallow, but there it is. You are no longer the centre of attention, and find that a bitter pill to swallow.”

  “You seem to have made the transition,” Matt remarked, going with the flow, knowing that this was Caroline’s way of getting to the point.

  “Don’t believe it, Inspector. Every day that dawns I wish I was eighteen or twenty again. Running a riding school is not quite the same as posing for the cover of Vogue, spending a couple of weeks doing a shoot in Mauritius or Rio with the world’s top photographers immortalising you, or fronting a commercial and being paid more for a few days’ work than a regular working stiff can make in five years. But when the carpet gets pulled and you end up on the floor, stunned and without a clue as to what happened, then everything that follows is an anticlimax. What I am trying to say is, that Marsha couldn’t cope with the fall. A part of her could never accept that what she had was temporary and inevitably ran its course. When the paparazzi quit hounding her and the phone stopped ringing, she became bitter. She resented the grey, faceless men and women who used other people’s talent or assets, only to unceremoniously dump them with less thought and energy expended than they would employ to flush a toilet. She got hooked on coke, but it was no cure. You can never run away from who or what you are. After going through rehab, she decided to get back at life and become a user, not a product that could be discontinued at the stroke of a pen.”

  “How did hooking do that?” Matt asked, wanting to move it along.

  “At first, she told me that when she had amassed enough money, she planned to open an agency―”

  “Modelling?”

  “Yes. But even with what she charged, she knew that it would be a long time before her dream would be realised. That was when she started filming her clients and keeping records.”

  “To blackmail them?”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Who was she squeezing?” Matt said. “How many were paying for her silence?”

  “Only one that I know about. Damon Lee.”

  Matt recalled seeing Lee on one of Marsha’s videos. He had not worn the right type of dress ring, but there was always the possibility that the killer did not put it on every day. Lee was an international film star, who if the tabloids were to be believed, was reputed to be in line for the role of Bond, should Daniel Craig bow out. Lee was on the A list, up there with Pitt, Depp and the like. Marsha had been aiming high, making powerful enemies.

  “I told her that she was playing with fire,” Caroline said. “But she said, ‘Cassie, you’ve got to be as ruthless as they are, or you don’t get your foot back on the ladder’.”

  “Think, Caroline,” Matt said. “Who else was on her list of prospective marks?”

  “She talked a lot about Colin Westin. Said that someone like him could pay enough to turn everything around. But I don’t think she would be stupid enough to try to blackmail him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Westin is a very powerful and dangerous man. No one who knows him would be foolish enough to take him on. The only rules he plays by are the one’s he makes.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “He wanted to buy out a large bottling plant in Belfast. The main hurdle was the managing director, who was trying to negotiate better terms than Westin was prepared to meet. The man was killed in a hit-and-run a few weeks later, and the deal went through without another hitch.”

  “That could have been a coincidence,” Pete said, speaking up for the first time.

  “Do me a favour,” Caroline said with a sneer. “Cops don’t believe in coincidence. And if you knew the man, you wouldn’t have even suggested it. Check him out. People are either with him, or end up with a lot of grief.”

  “You think he would be capable of doing that to Marsha?” Matt said, tapping his briefcase.

  “I know that he is capable of having something like that done. He wouldn’t necessarily get his own hands dirty, but has the connections to do whatever it takes to protect all his interests, and Marsha knew that. I find it almost impossible to believe that she would be so stupid to think he would pay her a penny under duress.”

  “You said almost,” Matt said.

  “She had changed. Become a little unpredictable. I’m not a hundred percent certain that she knew where the line was anymore. She might have crossed it.”

  There was nothing more. Ten minutes later, Matt and Pete left. Matt was eager to meet Colin Westin. The tycoon had just become the prime suspect.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They took the lift up to the fifteenth floor of the Airscape HQ in London. It was art deco, as the large foyer had been. Matt was reminded of the Chrysler building, which brought thoughts of Beth up front and centre again. They had jetted off for a weekend together to New York; gone to look at Ground Zero, went up the Empire State Building, and did the regular sights, including a dinner cruise round the harbour to see Liberty and the city’s skyline at sunset.

  “I thought Westin would give us the run-around, boss,” Pete said, unconsciously wiping the tops of his black leather shoes against the back of his trousers legs in turn. They hadn’t seen polish for weeks, and looked no different when he had finished.

  “So did I. He’ll probably have a team of lawyers ready to tell him to give us nothing but his name,” Matt said.

  They were shown into an office with a square footage larger than Matt’s maisonette. Colin Westin rose from behind his behemoth of a desk and met them in the middle of the room.

  “Detective Inspector Barnes and Detective Sergeant Deakin, welcome. I’m Colin Westin, and I hope I can help you with your investigation. Let’s take a seat, have some coffee and get to it.”

  At face value, Matt was impressed. Westin had the accent and presence of how he imagined a Texas oil baron would speak and conduct himself. He wore an oatmeal chambray shirt with the collar open and sleeves turned back, a pair of navy mohair trousers and cream loafers. At ov
er six feet three, he was imposing, and had the look of a man who worked out and ate sensibly. There was no fat on him. As he led them across to an area with overlarge sofas the same colour as his shoes, he looked at his Rolex, implying that time was a commodity he could ill afford to waste. Matt was not now surprised that he was prepared to face them alone. The man’s eyes generated complete self-assurance, as befit a mogul of his standing.

  Matt and Pete sat at the other side of a low, long marble-topped table that could have been the cover of a tomb. All that was on it was an intercom. Westin stabbed a button and ordered coffee.

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s not fence,” Colin said. “You know that I was spending some recreational time with Marsha Freeman, and that the dumb broad kept a book and video of every john she screwed. Let’s go from there, shall we?”

  “How did you know that?” Matt asked.

  “I make it my business to know everything that I need to. I have contacts, Matt.”

  The man’s smile was one of upmanship. He had pre-empted them and was now trying to disrupt the formality of the interview by using Matt’s Christian name. It was a ploy he no doubt used to great effect with people. But he was scattering corn on barren rock if he thought his attempt to impress or gain Matt’s favour would pay off.

  Matt smiled. He wished that the Yank was wearing a wolf head ring, but the fact that he wasn’t, did not eliminate him as a suspect. Whoever his contact at the Yard was, could have mentioned that detail as well. And as Caroline Foster had pointed out, this guy would not do the deed himself.

  “You had an appointment with her on the evening she was abducted and murdered, sir,” Matt said, without appearing to be phased by Westin’s inside knowledge.

  “Correct. I arrived outside her apartment building at the arranged time. She didn’t show. My limo driver, whose details I will furnish, rang her bell and got no answer. I phoned her on my mobile and got no reply. The restaurant I then went to, alone, will confirm that I was there until midnight. I was then driven to my house in Kensington. I have time-coded CCTV footage that will show my arrival. And that I did not subsequently leave the house again until seven in the morning.”

  “Were you aware that Marsha was contemplating using what she had to blackmail you, Mr Westin?”

  Colin gave them a broad smile. “That would have been a very silly thing for her to embark on, Matt.”

  “She was desperate to make serious money,” Matt said. “We have to wonder why she would have been in possession of her address book when we found her. Maybe she was going to hand it over for a bundle of cash. And just what do you mean, it would be a very silly thing for her to do?”

  “I have no idea why she would carry such an item on her person, Inspector,” Colin said, letting his expression morph into one of circumspection. “You’re grasping at straws. She had not at any time given me the slightest reason to suspect that an attempt of extortion was in the offing. And she would have been out of her gourd to think that I would have handed over a bent nickel. I would have contacted the police.”

  Matt was pleased to have cut through the man’s outer defences. That he had now gone from ‘Matt’ to Inspector, signified that Westin was becoming irritated.

  “But you do realise that―”

  “What I realise is, that you haven’t done your homework, Inspector. If you had, then you would know that twenty-five years ago, after I’d made my first few million dollars, my son Jay was kidnapped. He was three at the time. The bastards that did it contacted me. They wanted a million dollars for his safe return. I followed their instructions to the letter, and...and lost my son. He had been dead from day one. They had at no time intended to return him. At that moment I promised myself to never, ever try to deal personally with scum again. I now have a security set-up that is second to none. The team is headed up by an ex-assistant director of the FBI, and he only uses first-rate personnel.”

  Matt was almost lost for words. Westin was right, he hadn’t dug deep enough into the man’s background. But despite what the details of the long ago kidnap were, he was still convinced that Westin was more than capable of looking out for himself, and would not have involved the police to handle Marsha, had she actually made a move on him.

  “What do you think, boss?” Pete asked as they left the building. “You believe a single word he told us?”

  “Yes. I believe that his son was kidnapped and murdered. And I also believe that a part of Westin – the good part – died a little when it happened. There is a side to him that is totally ruthless and not above carrying out any act to protect him and get anything he wants, by whatever means necessary. I think he was meeting Marsha on the pretence of paying her off. Maybe she got in his limo and maybe she didn’t. I doubt it. We can check CCTV. But if she had, then the address book and her body would never have been found.”

  “So you think he’s in the clear?”

  “Only because someone else got to her first.”

  “He needs to be looked at in depth, boss.”

  “Not by us, Pete. We have a killer to find. Whatever Westin might be guilty of, I don’t think he had a hand in Kelly’s or Marsha’s deaths.”

  “Fat cats like him put themselves above the law. They need to be made accountable.”

  “Men like Westin make their own laws. They have the clout to buy people. It’s called power. He’s got the juice to make things happen, good or bad, and doesn’t have to answer to anyone.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “Initially, with three pages of missing names to run down. Whoever is on video but not in the book is a priority.”

  “But you don’t reckon it will be one of them, do you?”

  “No. I think it’s unrelated; a psycho who is targeting prostitutes with red hair. He may stalk them, but doesn’t know them.”

  “Are you going to ask Beth to come on board when she gets back?”

  “Not officially. I might ask for some pointers as to his personality, but I don’t want her in the spotlight, not after what she’s been through over the past year. I have no intention of putting her at risk again. There are other psychologists on the consult list who we can use.”

  “They’re not in her class, boss.”

  “Like I said, I’ll show her the paperwork. She doesn’t need to be on the team.”

  Colin was seething. When the two shoddily dressed nonentities left his office, he paced up and down and tried to suppress the hot anger that was smouldering in his mind. Only the knowledge of how hard Trudi – as he had known her – had died, gave him a certain sense of relief. She had been a good lay, who had catered to his perverse need for a certain level of pain. That she had filmed their escapades was inexcusable. If she had not been murdered, then he would have had Arnold interrogate her before making her vanish permanently. The evening that she was due to meet him with the book was to have been her last. It was ironic that someone else had lifted her and punched her ticket. Bad timing. He now knew from his contact at the Yard about the damning, embarrassing tape, and that the two cops would have watched it and probably laughed at the sight of him bending over the bed to be caned, and then having crocodile clips attached to his nipples, and an eight-inch dildo rammed up his rectum. Jesus H Christ! His penance and humiliation to Jay’s memory was supposed to be a private experience. It helped offset the terrible guilt that he would never be able to fully rid himself of. A certain level of humbling at the hands of a whore gave him temporary respite from his concealed anguish. It was not something he had enjoyed. Any pleasure derived from the treatment he demanded would have defeated the object of the sessions.

  He stopped next to the desk, lifted the phone and punched-up Arnold’s extension number.

  Arnold Chase plucked up the phone before the first ring had time to fade.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get your ass up here, Arnie.”

  Arnold slipped his jacket on, checked the knot in his tie, and hurried out of his office to summon the lift. He des
pised Westin, but was paid handsomely to guard him and run errands, and the perks of the job included world-wide travel by private Lear jet, and staying at the finest hotels.

  Arnold had been head-hunted from presidential protection duties. He had been agent-in-charge of guarding the first lady’s shapely ass, then the president’s. But the private sector, in the form of Colin Westin, offered far better pay and conditions than the agency. At forty-four, Arnold was a rangy six-footer with a lined face and salt and pepper crew-cut. He was highly-trained in both armed and hand-to-hand combat, and to date had personally killed seven men and one woman for Westin.

  “Come,” Colin shouted when Arnold knocked on the door.

  “Problem, sir?” Arnold asked, feigning measured concern.

  “Yeah, Arnie. You remember the guy who connected me with the dead hooker?”

  “Sure do. It was that mincing little photographer, Lance Parnell.”

  “Right. He introduced me to her. Said she was sound. Find out if he was setting me up, and if he was, get rid of him.”

  “What if he wasn’t?”

  “Then hurt him for being a god-awful judge of character.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was seventy-two hours later that Tom dropped the paperwork pertaining to a Jane Doe onto Matt’s desk.

  “What now?” Matt said. “Not another high profile case to spread us even thinner on the ground?”

  “Same case. Pour me a cup of coffee while I run through the salient points.”

  Matt got up and went over to the coffeemaker.

  “What we have here is a murder that at face value seems to bear no similarity to the case,” Tom began. “The victim, who has yet to be ID’d, is a female in her late teens or early twenties. And the only way we know that is due to the pathologist’s assessment of the skull, pelvis and other bones, and odontology’s inspection of the teeth. The woman was strangled, and forensics says the trace of material recovered from her neck is synthetic and matches nylon used in the manufacture of tights.”