The men stood up and Paolo immediately moved her chair back for her. ‘Shall I get you a taxi?’ The words and the meaning in his eyes meant two different things. Angelica shivered.
‘No, thank you. Come on, Mark.’
‘Night, night everyone. Wonderful evening!’ Mark slurred as he leaned against the table to help him to his feet.
Angelica put her arm through Mark’s to steady him as they walked away. Paolo followed them and said. ‘I’m asking Mrs. Montgomery to come to see Salvi’s Madonna and Child next Tuesday at 5 p.m.’
She ignored him and carried on walking out of the room with Mark.
‘Why the hell was that prick telling you that?’ Mark said.
‘I have no idea,’ Angelica answered. ‘He’s a very strange man.’
CHAPTER 22
16th December 2012
Jack was at Mrs. Montgomery’s apartment early the next day so that he could question Frank, the tapestry-obsessed concierge, before taking Mrs. M to the doctor. Frank was concentrating on creating the Battle of Hastings in embroidery.
‘You’ve obviously got a lot of patience to be able to create that, Frank.’
Frank looked up at him in surprise. ‘Hello, Jack. I suppose I have. I just thought I had a talent for it, but perseverance helps, I suppose.’
‘You see everything that happens here, don’t you? I’m sure you wouldn’t neglect your duties.’
Frank looked aghast that someone might think he could. ‘Of course not! I’m the forerunner of any battles that are fought here.’
Jack smiled at his overzealous job description, but who was he to say what people thought their job entailed? He seemed to spend more time talking to Mrs. M than being her chauffeur.
‘Do you think anyone could get through the foyer without you noticing, Frank?’
‘Not a chance,’ he said without hesitation. ‘And if they did, the CCTV cameras would pick them up.’
‘What time did you come on duty the night Mr. Cellini died?’
‘What’s it matter what time I come on duty? He had a heart attack, Jack. It said so in the papers. Over a week ago now so why you still interested?’ Frank looked up at Jack curiously.
‘Something is puzzling me about that evening and I have to solve puzzles, that’s all.’
‘You sound like me brother Stan and he’s got Asperger’s. He were always lining up his pens like soldiers. You wouldn’t credit some of the things he got up to, once—’
‘So the day Mr. Cellini died you saw everyone who passed this desk?’ Jack stopped him before he launched into a lengthy genetic profile of his entire family.
‘Course I did. Once I comes on duty no one gets past me. Mind you, they could with the other bloke what calls himself a concierge. You know the one that looks as if he’s too wet behind the ears to shave? Talks to his girlfriend on his mobile most of the time. I’d sack him if I was—’
‘So from what time wouldn’t they have got past you, Frank?’ Jack smiled at the older man to stop him indulging in another diatribe.
Frank studied his embroidery as if the answer lay in his stitching. ’10 o’clock. I started late that night. Minus 2 it was. Nearly froze me bollocks off.’
‘You can even remember the temperature? Hope my memory is as good as yours when I’m your age.’ Jack suddenly thought that perhaps he was overloading the flattery.
Frank beamed at him. ‘Yeah – not all of us ancients have got Alzheimer’s.’
‘Could I have a look at the tapes? You know I’m an ex-DCI so there’s no problem.’ Jack kept his face impassive to disguise how important the tapes were to him.
‘Sorry, Jack. But I wipe them after a week. If you’d asked me four days ago, you could have watched them. Not important, are they?’ Frank looked up at Jack’s impassive face.
‘No, not really,’ Jack said nonchalantly as he walked towards the lift, thinking shit, four days ago I could have found out who the killer was!
As he glided up in the luxuriant carpeted lift to the fifth floor, he tried to work out how Federico Batas and the unknown woman were linked. They came from different worlds. So how the hell did they meet? If he could discover that, he’d be closer to finding out who killed Cellini.
Alice, Mrs. M’s helper, opened the door for him on his first knock as if she’d anticipated it.
‘Hello, Mr. Bradley. I’m just off. Mrs. M is waiting for you in the lounge and the tea’s all ready in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks, Alice and it’s Jack, not Mr. Bradley.’
She smiled at him before calling out. ‘See you later, Mrs. M. Just off to get some food. Jack’s just arrived.’
She closed the door behind her and Jack went into the lounge.
Mrs. M was reading Agatha Christie’s Death On The Nile by the large window of her apartment, her glasses glinting in the winter sunshine.
‘Morning, Mrs. M. So you’re an Agatha Christie fan.’
She took off her glasses and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Jack. Yes, I love the way she keeps me guessing who the murderer is and then solves it in such a clever way.’
‘She’s far too neat for an ex-DCI. We don’t solve half the crimes that are committed.’
Mrs. M looked shocked. ‘Good heavens! Do you mean there could be killers wandering our streets as we speak?’
‘Fraid so – like some tea?’ Jack said as he strolled into the kitchen.
‘Yes, but make sure you don’t put any arsenic in it!’ she called out.
Jack smiled as he picked up the large tray Alice had arranged with the pot of Earl Grey Mrs. M loved and her shortbread biscuits.
‘How’s your wife, Jack?’ Mrs. M said as Jack walked back in.
Jack put the tray on a table near her and watched her pouring out the tea.
‘She wants to work,’ Jack said, taking the cup she offered him. He sat down in a small armchair overlooking the window and looked out. It was good to see sunshine again.
Mrs. M looked startled. ‘But I thought you said she had Muscular Dystrophy.’
‘She has, but she’s also a fighter. She wants to help solve Cellini’s case. Did I tell you she was a forensic scientist before her illness? A brilliant one. She’s working on the computer today, looking for information about Cellini and this beautiful blonde who went to his funeral.’
Mrs. M’s eyes lit up. She put her tea down and asked. ‘You mean there was a special one?’
‘I think so. If you’d have seen her, you’d know what I mean. My wife said she looked virginal.’
‘But how does your wife know? She was in hospital when you went to Paolo’s funeral.’
‘Modern technology, Mrs. M. I took her photo.’
Mrs. M put down her cup, shocked. ‘You took a photograph at a funeral. It’s not the done thing, Jack.’
Jack smiled. ‘I don’t normally, but there was something about her.’ He got out his mobile, scrolled down to the woman’s photo and leaned over to show her.
Mrs. M put her reading glasses back on. ‘I’ll never get used to all the gadgets we have now, Jack. In my day we used box cameras.’ She looked down at the photograph and said with surprise. ‘That’s Angelica Logan. What was she doing at Paolo’s funeral? She only met him once.’
Jack felt his heart racing. All the time the answer to the woman’s identity was in this room. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s the wife of the editor of one of the most influential tabloids in London, Jack. Her husband’s Mark Logan.’
Jack’s stomach contracted at the sound of the name. It conjured up images he wanted to forget; memories of the night of the siege; the night when everything started to go wrong for him. The day after the siege, Alan had been delighted to tell him that the editor of The Daily Reporter was running a big story on how DCI Jack Bradley; one of the Met’s top officers had mismanaged the siege and his name was going to be plastered all over the front cover in its next edition. The nicest thing Logan had called him was incompetent; the worst, Jack had tried to forget.
Mrs. M was giving him a sympathetic look. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’
‘I’m fine. ’
‘Angelica’s husband certainly didn’t like Paolo. I could tell that the first time they met at a charity dinner. He was far too interested in Angelica but she adores her husband. She’s not the sort of person to have a liaison with a playboy.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because we’re on the same children’s charities. She loves children. She told me, in confidence, of course, that she’s desperate to have a child. A woman who’s in love with her husband and is desperate for a child isn’t going to have an affair with a charmer like Paolo.’
‘She might, if her husband can’t give her one.’ Jack took a small sip of his tea and shuddered. He hated Earl Grey.
‘Jack! That’s so cynical. I didn’t mark you down as a cynic.’
‘It’s not cynical, Mrs. M. It comes from long experience – from years of listening to people lie about their lives. People are incredibly clever at disguising their real lives.’
‘You really think they could have been lovers? Oh, how wicked!
‘Then why are your eyes shining, Mrs. M?’ Jack teased her. He felt euphoric. Another piece of the puzzle had slotted into place.
‘Do you know her address?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. She’s always too busy to call in. I don’t know exactly what she does. She can’t work for charities all the time, but perhaps she doesn’t want to see an old bat like me.’
Jack smiled at her. ‘You’re the most interesting old bat I’ve ever met and I’m sure Angelica Logan thinks so too. Something else is keeping her busy and I intend finding out what that is.’
All he had to do was discover where Angelica Logan lived and tail her. And he knew exactly the right person to give him the answer: Jamila.
CHAPTER 23
17th December 2012
Jack was surprised by the exhaustion on Jamila’s face highlighted in the light from the log fire. They were sitting in a corner of The Red Lion; the pub he and Lucy used to go to when they first started going out together. He’d been surprised that Jamila didn’t seem to want to meet him when he’d rung her.
‘So how are you?’ Jack asked after he’d bought them two halves of beer.
Jamila sipped her beer. ‘Tired. How’s Lucy?’
The question threw Jack. ‘The same. Her parents are staying with us over Christmas so her carer can have a long holiday. Good for Tom to have some company.’
‘How are you coping?’
‘Me? I’m fine. Better than you look at the moment. You’re working too hard. What case are you on?’
Jamila sipped her glass of beer without speaking.
‘Alan has told you not to talk to me about it, hasn’t he?’
She looked at him and smiled. ‘He’s driving us all nuts, but I can’t discuss the case, Jack. He hates the thought that you were a better DCI than he is. Why the hell did you have to resign?’
‘You know why.’
‘Oh come on. You know what short memories people have. The super would soon have forgotten the publicity once some new story was uncovered. You should have stuck it out.’
Jack stared at the fire; knowing she was right, but hating to admit it.
‘Are you still obsessed with that art dealer’s death?’
Jack stared at her in astonishment. ‘Is that what you call trying to find a killer? An obsession?’
‘You told me you were obsessive when I first joined the Met. Once you’ve got your teeth into something, you don’t let go. Mind you, it usually worked.’ She smiled at him. ‘What do you want to know?’
Jack smiled back. ‘Am I that obvious?’
‘Yeah,’ Jamila said. ‘If it’d been anyone else but you I’d have said no. I wanted an early night.’
Jack looked at his watch. ‘It’s only 7.30 p.m. You could be in bed by 8.30 if you hurry.’
Jamila smiled at him again. ‘Well?’
‘Could you get me an address? Remember Mark Logan, the editor of The Daily Reporter?’
‘How could I forget? The guy who did a hatchet job on you in his paper and made you resign.’
‘I need his address.’
Jamila looked worried. ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything you’ll regret, are you?’
‘No, I’ve already done that. His wife was at Cellini’s funeral. She saw the manager of a jazz club there. They obviously know each other. She’s frightened of him and I want to know why.’
‘How’s she know these guys?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I need the address. I’m going to tail her.’
‘And then what?’ Jamila queried.
‘I don’t know that either, but I’m not giving up until I’ve discovered the truth.’
Jamila sighed. ‘I wish Alan was like that. If something doesn’t fit in with one of his theories, he dismisses it. He only wants facts he tells us yet he keeps sending us out on wild goose chases so that we can’t get any. I don’t know how much longer I can stand working for him, Jack. We’ve got so many leads on this case but he keeps following the wrong ones.’
‘What leads?’
‘Tip-offs about where the drugs are coming in from.’ She winced. ‘Oh, shit.’
Jack smiled. ‘Oh, come on – I’m not going to inform anyone, am I? Want some help?’
She looked around the pub as if Alan was about to step in at any moment.
‘He never comes in here. Relax.’
‘You’re a mind-reader, Jack.’
He laughed. It was a good feeling.
‘We had a tip-off about three weeks ago that a large haul of cocaine was being smuggled into the UK inside religious statues.’
‘Religion is the opiate of the masses,’ Jack said, smiling at her.
She frowned. ‘Not in the mood for jokes. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Do you know where they’re coming in from?’ Jack spoke seriously, matching Jamila’s mood.
‘South America, then it’s shipped or air-lifted to countries all over Europe. That’s the problem. We’re having to check every consignment of religious statues arriving in every port and every airport. You know Brodie Clark, don’t you?’
‘Of course. The Head of the UKBA’s border force. Worked with him last year on that drugs haul when all that cocaine was discovered on a yacht. Bloody great operation involving seven countries. It’s not as big as that, is it?’
‘We don’t know…that’s the problem. We’ve checked hundreds of cargo planes and ships arriving containing statues and the BA and SOCA found absolutely nothing. As if that’s not enough, we’re now facing a number of law suits from religious organizations for destroying some of the most expensive religious icons in the world. Alan is losing his hair over it and the super’s ulcer is getting bigger. We can’t keep smashing statues to get the drugs.’
Jack was puzzled. The dogs at Border Control were highly trained. They’d discovered tons of Class A drugs in the past. ‘What about the sniffer dogs?’
‘They can’t seem to find anything, that’s what no one can understand; even after we’ve had the tip-off that they’re arriving. So we’re opening random crates and smashing statues.’
‘Perhaps they’re not smuggling them in statues at all.’
‘What?’
‘The tip-off could be a plant, Jamila, to get you looking in the wrong places. I talked to Brodie last month when Border Control was tipped off that Class A drugs had been packed inside frozen animal carcasses. You know where they found the drugs, eventually? In innocent-looking boxes of Pringles; only each Pringle had been cut from cocaine. Labor intensive, but very ingenious.’
Jamila looked stunned. ‘If you’re right, Jack, we’ll be massacred in the press. This is going to cost the tax-payer millions. Alan is going to have a fit.’
‘Don’t tell him yet. Check on the people who are giving you the info first.’
‘We’ve used them many t
imes before. They’ve always been reliable.’
‘How much cocaine are we talking about?’ Jack asked.
‘About 25 million.’
Jack sipped his beer and raised his eyebrows.
Jamila groaned. ‘I’ll have to go back to the office to run more checks on them. I’ll phone you with the address in the morning. Night, Jack.’
Jamila left, looking dejected, and Jack suddenly thought: religious icons + Paolo Cellini = drugs. His heart started racing. When Jamila rang him in the morning to give him the address, he told her to take up kick boxing to get rid of her stress – it was better than kicking Alan. She’d laughed.
Today he was going to take Lucy out for a drive; her first for many months. Her parents were taking Tom to the pantomime and he’d planned a surprise for her; they were going to visit a house she’d always wanted to see. It was also, Jack discovered, only two houses away from the Logan’s house.
He lifted Lucy’s slight body into the car and put her wheelchair in the back and they drove across the Christmas-decorated city towards Hampstead. Jack glanced at her; she looked almost happy as the winter sun shone onto her face.
‘Special day today, Luc,’ he said when they reached Hampstead.
She typed how?
‘Wait and see,’ Jack answered as he turned into Keats Grove. Lucy made an excited sound as she typed keats lived here
‘Really?’ Jack said disingenuously as he turned into the driveway of Wentworth Place and stopped the car.
u cant park here!
‘I’ve arranged it, Luc. You’ve always wanted to see Keats’ house and we never seemed to find the time, so here we are. I’ll just get your wheelchair.’ Jack got out, feeling good for the first time since her illness; at least they could enjoy one happy day together.
He didn’t see the tears that ran down her face as she typed.
Jack wheeled the chair beside the passenger door and opened it. He saw Lucy crying and was upset. ‘What’s the matter?’
She tapped her fingers on her keyboard and Jack saw the word happy
Jack smiled at her. ‘So am I. Come on, my lovely girl. You can see where Keats wrote some of your favourite poems. He lifted her out of the car and put her in the wheelchair. She looked at the beautiful two-hundred-year-old mulberry tree which covered one section of the beautiful garden around the house and almost smiled. A young woman came out and greeted them.
A Fatal Façade Page 11