“Good morning. How can I help you?” a friendly, twinkly-eyed, middle-aged receptionist said, as they entered.
“We have an appointment to see the councillor,” I said.
“Ah, yes. You must be the detectives. I’m Carole. We spoke on the phone. Take a seat. Can I get either of you a coffee while you wait?” she asked, nodding towards the state-of-the-art coffee machine.
Frances and I both declined.
“Will he be long, do you know?” I asked, feeling agitated. This case was all over the place, and I still had no real leads. Everyone in our team was working around the clock trying to come up with the smallest link, and by tomorrow another team would be sent in to help. Not that I thought we needed it—we had absolutely nothing to go on, but the request had come from higher up. We were getting too much media attention, and my boss wanted it solved asap.
“I don’t think so, lovey. He’s just in with somebody.” Carole reminded me of my nan, a lovely, warm and homely woman. I wondered if the councillor made a conscious decision to employ her as his receptionist. She made you feel at home.
Two men emerged from a door next to the reception desk. I recognised the councillor from the photos and videos on Fiona’s laptop, although he was much shorter and stockier than I’d expected. He had a kind and trustworthy face, deeply creased with laughter lines, and his once-dark hair was now mostly grey.
After a few moments of good-natured banter, and a promise of a game of golf, the other man left.
“Hi, Detectives. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in.” He led us through to his office and jovially offered us a seat.
“Well, I must say I am perplexed. I have no idea what you would want to talk to me about, so, please, don’t leave me in suspenders.” He gave a loud bark of a laugh at his own stupid joke.
We both smiled politely. “We shouldn’t take too long, Councillor. We would just like any information you could give us about a friend of yours,” I said.
“Fire away.”
“A Miss Fiona Mills.”
Suddenly serious, the councillor shook his head. “No, sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”
“It’s possible you know her by an alias.” I opened up an envelope I’d been carrying and pulled out a photograph. I leant forward, keeping the image facing away from him until the very last moment.
The colour drained from the councillor’s face, and he blinked several times in rapid succession. “No. I’m sorry, I still don’t know her.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite happen.
“Are you sure, sir? Take a closer look.”
The councillor glanced down at the smiling image of Fiona Mills before shoving the photograph back towards me. “No. Now I’m sorry to have to rush you, but I am a very busy man and ...”
I pulled two more images from the envelope. They both clearly showed the councillor and Fiona engaging in intimate relations.
“You see, Councillor, we think you know Miss Mills very well. Very well indeed.”
The councillor’s breath caught in his throat, and I thought he was about to blow a gasket.
“Recognise her now, sir?” Frances asked sweetly.
“This is outrageous. What is the meaning of this?” he boomed, finally finding his voice.
“Miss Mills was found dead yesterday, sir. Murdered, to be precise,” Frances continued. “And we discovered several instances of blackmail and extortion on her laptop. These images are only the tip of the iceberg. You may be interested to know she recorded every single session with you, Tiger,” she said, delighting in making the councillor squirm by using the name she’d heard Fiona call him on the tapes.
Councillor Rowntree turned a deep shade of purple, and his eyes bulged. “I had nothing to do with her death. She didn’t even blackmail me.”
“No, sir. It seems you were to be the next on the list. A letter was due to be sent to your home address within the next few days, by all accounts. So, you’re lucky, wouldn’t you say?”
“Please, this can’t get out. My wife! My kids! My job!” Each word sounded more irate than the last.
“We will try our best to keep your name out of our investigation,” I said. “But first, you need to tell us everything you know about the victim.”
“Of course, but you must promise me ...”
“Sir, I am conducting a murder enquiry. However, I do promise to do my best to keep your name out of it—you need to trust me.”
The councillor nodded and took a deep, bracing breath.
“I met her at a hotel while away at a conference. She told me her name was Gaynor. We hit it off right away and talked until sunrise.”
“Talked?” Frances asked, her face screwed in a pull-the-other-one stare.
“Yes, honestly. We went back to her room but we just talked. We had so much in common, or at least that’s what I thought.”
“But, considering the photos, your relationship escalated from just talking. Didn’t it, sir?” Frances raised one quizzical eyebrow, obviously revelling in his discomfort.
“That’s true. But I was going to finish it. This isn’t me. I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife before this. We’ve been married over thirty years.”
Frances sneered, shaking her head in disgust.
“Did you ever meet anybody connected to Miss Mills?” I asked.
“No. Nobody.”
“Where did your meetings take place?”
“She always invited me to her hotel room at the Carlton. She paid. My wife has tight control of our finances, and I wouldn’t use my business credit card, so it had to be this way.”
“Didn’t you ask yourself what a beautiful young woman would want with you?” Frances asked. “You’re a man almost twice her age who didn’t even spoil her, for Christ’s sake.”
“Of course I wondered why. But we got on so well. You probably won’t believe me, but it wasn’t all about sex.”
I cleared my throat. “Do you remember the room number at the Carlton and the dates you met?”
“Yes. It was always the same. Room 219. As for the dates, I’m unsure. I never put our meetings in the diary, for obvious reasons. However, the last time was last Thursday.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s all for now, but we’ll be in touch should we have any further questions.”
*
The receptionist at The Carlton was a tall, skinny jobsworth, called Wesley, who had no intention of helping us. After a ten minute heated discussion, ending with Frances threatening to take him into custody for obstruction of justice, he reluctantly began searching the database for Fiona Mills. Of course Frances was joking, but he didn’t know that. However, the search came up with a big, fat nothing.
“What about Gaynor Mills?”
“Still nothing.”
I felt like smacking the smug expression off the little prick’s face. “All right. Then tell me who booked out room 219 last Thursday.”
Wesley’s face dropped. “219?” he repeated, frowning.
I nodded.
Wesley glanced at the screen and back.
“Well?” I bounced a pen off the desk.
“I’ll need to contact my manager. This is confidential information.”
“What’s keeping you? Chop, chop.” My tone was snarky. “Don’t forget to mention this is a murder investigation.”
Wesley took the portable handset and moved to the back of the room. He spoke in hushed tones covering the mouthpiece with his hand. When he hung up, he still had the same shifty expression on his face.
“There must be some mistake,” he said. “The room number you gave me is occupied on a fulltime basis by a highly respected gentleman. Maybe your source gave you the wrong information.”
I shrugged. “Possibly, so the best thing for you to do is give me the man’s details, and I can confirm this with him. If you’re correct, we will be able to eliminate him from our enquiries.”
Wesley seemed to be having trouble swallowing his saliva, and he wiped his fo
rearm across his forehead. “Okay. His name is James Cassidy.”
“Jimmy Cassidy?” Frances asked with wide-eyed interest.
I turned to face her. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, I most certainly do. Let’s go.”
“But I thought he lived here full time.” I pointed to the lifts.
She shook her head. “He owns the big white house at the top of Vale Crest. And I’m interested to find out why he would pay for a permanent hotel room when he will easily have at least ten bedrooms going spare up at the house.”
“I think Mr Cassidy has some explaining to do.”
*
As we pulled up at the impressive white house, my phone rang over the loud speaker.
“Hey, Cal,” I said.
“We’ve had another shooting, boss.”
“Fuck!” I reversed out of the driveway and turned back towards town.
*
The roof of the multi-storey carpark resembled a circus. As well as a sea of uniformed officers, people were trying to retrieve their cars from within the cordoned off areas. Another crowd of people were almost falling over themselves to get a good look. I had to shove my way through them in order to duck under the police tape. I approached the senior officer.
“So, what do we have?”
“Female, in her forties, I’d say. Shot in the chest three times, exactly like the others. We didn’t find any ID or phone on her.”
“Any witnesses?”
“A dozen or so. They all saw her come from that direction.” He pointed to the rear of the carpark. “She handed a bag to a man wearing a grey suit and tie, who fired the gun without even flinching. He got into a black or navy blue car and drove away.”
“Did they give a description of the shooter?”
“Mid-forties, shaggy brown hair and unshaven.”
“And nobody thought to get the plate number?”
“Afraid not, sir, although one man seems to think it was an Alpha Romeo.”
I sighed. “Okay. At least it’s something to be getting on with. There must be more than a hundred cars over there, and we won’t know which one belongs to the victim until later today. What time does this place close?”
“Six. But the security guard said most cars are gone by five-thirty.”
I glanced at my watch. That meant we had more than six hours to wait.
Chapter 22
Leaving the burger restaurant, Grayson made his way to the vacant office block in the centre of town. He could’ve kicked himself for being late, especially knowing the importance of this appointment. He couldn’t fuck it up.
As he got out of his car, he saw his client stride across the road and open the door to his BMW.
“Pete,” Grayson shouted, waving his arms. “Pete, sorry to keep you, mate.”
He knew Pete Deveraux, a no-nonsense businessman, wouldn’t take too kindly to being kept waiting. Grayson would need to do lot of grovelling in order to get back in his good books.
Pete slammed the car door and stomped towards him. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do with my time than to wait for you to get your lard-arse out of bed?”
“I know. I know. Believe me, it couldn’t be helped. A young woman crashed her car right in front of me,” Grayson lied. He could lie on cue—a talent he developed at a young age.
“You own a phone, don’t ya?”
“I do, but I didn’t think to call. The poor girl’s blood was everywhere. Around your daughter’s age, she was.” Pete idolised his only daughter, and Grayson hoped the mention of her might soften him.
“I’ll give you ten minutes,” Pete said, striding towards the building.
Grayson sighed. He’d swerved a kicking this time but would have to get his A into G if he was going to keep his business afloat.
“So tell me about the owners. How desperate are they?” Pete asked, as Grayson opened the double shutter door.
“They want ...”
“I said tell me how desperate they are. That means bottom line, Grayson. Don’t waste my time with all that they want this much, bullshit, because I ain’t interested.”
Chapter 23
After dropping the kids off at school and day care, Amanda flew around the supermarket filling her trolley with a mountain of party goodies. On the way home, she picked up a cake ordered especially for the occasion.
Her heart contracted whenever she thought about her baby girl starting big school tomorrow, but she intended to make sure the party would be perfect. Except for inviting Adam, that is. She promised Emma she would invite him, but she refused to be the one to call. Not a chance.
He’d told her he wouldn’t give up trying, but then didn’t bother to call her all week, and no matter how many times she told herself it was for the best, her stomach lurched every time the phone rang. The murders were all over the news, and she knew he would be flat stick, but still ...
After inflating lots of pink balloons and decorating the room and the table, Amanda got cracking on the food. She made cupcakes, jelly, sausage rolls and mousetraps—all Emma’s favourites.
The party room looked amazing. Sickly-pink, from the princess cake, candles and cupcakes to the tablecloths, balloons, and a special treat of pink fizzy drink. Emma would be overjoyed. She had invited four friends from daycare who were also starting school with her.
“My baby’s growing up,” she muttered, as tears pricked her eyes. Although more relaxed since finding out her stalker was Andrew and not her sick father, she still had to force herself to stop being over-protective where the kids were concerned. But big school! What if Emma got lost among the older kids?
Satisfied, she’d done all she could for the party preparations, she ran upstairs to get changed and headed off to her appointment. Another thing she dreaded.
The thought of discussing the pregnancy with a doctor made things more real somehow. Then there would be the antenatal classes, scans and blood tests to look forward to. Oh, boy! Let the games begin.
Chapter 24
I called the station. “Cal, could you get me a list of all the black and blue Alpha Romeos in the area?”
“Will do. Are you at the crime scene now?”
“Yes. And as we expected, the victim appears to be Fiona Mills’ killer. I’m pretty sure we’ll find nothing,” I said, with a sigh. “We may as well crack on tracking down Fiona’s blackmail victims—unless something else comes to light, of course.
“No problem, boss.”
*
“This is getting to be a bloody joke,” I said, as I eased the Mondeo into the flow of traffic, heading back to James Cassidy’s house.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Frances said. “This case is so confusing. Just as we begin to build a profile on a killer, they turn up dead.”
“I know, but try telling that to my boss.”
“Is he giving you a hard time?”
“And the rest. We just need a break. Someone’s got to slip up sooner or later.” Frustrated, I slammed the heels of my hands against the steering wheel.
“Well, here’s hoping.”
“It’s as though each murder has been planned with meticulous detail, and there’s no evidence of this on any of the victims’ belongings. No connection with the other victims. Nothing!” I stopped the car at a zebra crossing allowing a woman, with a baby in a pushchair, to cross. “Also, why would they go to a pre-arranged place with a sack of their hard earned cash, knowing they were likely to get shot? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe their families are under threat. I mean, who would you put your life on the line for?” Frances asked. “Nobody in their right mind would do as you say unless they were trying to protect somebody.”
She was right. I’d certainly do all I could in order to protect Amanda and the children. “Yeah, perhaps. But you’d think the victim would, at the very least, beg and plead with the killer. Or leave a note informing the police or a loved one. However, there appears to be nothing like that.”
We pulled up outside the large white house once again.
“So what do you know about this bloke?” I asked.
“He’s dodgy and as slimy as a slug. No matter what he’s accused of, nothing seems to stick.”
“What sort of things?”
“There’s a file at least two inches thick on him, yet he’s never been charged. His kosher business is cars. He’s a car dealer. He also owns several mechanic garages. His books are always squeaky clean. That said, the word on the street is he deals with ringers and cut-and-shuts. People are too terrified to give evidence against him. He’s a nasty piece of work.”
I knew, from my time as a uniformed cop, a ringer is a stolen vehicle with identification plates from a written off vehicle, and a cut-and-shut is when two or more parts from written off vehicles are welded together, which is not only highly illegal, but a certain death-trap.
“The guy sounds delightful. I can’t wait to meet him.” I climbed from the vehicle and approached the front door.
A petite Asian lady answered the door.
“Hi there. We’re looking for Mr Cassidy,” I said.
“Ee not eer. Gone to Eetaly.”
“Sorry?” I glanced at Frances to see if she could understand.
“He’s in Italy?” Frances asked.
The woman confirmed this with a rapid nod.
“How long has he been gone?”
“Eh?”
“When did he go to Italy?” I spoke slowly.
“Ah, two week.”
“He left two weeks ago?”
More nodding.
“When will he be back?”
“Back nek week.”
“Are you Mrs Cassidy?” Frances asked.
The woman pointed to her chest. “Cleana.”
We thanked her for her time and walked back to the car.
“So I guess that rules him out,” I said.
“Out of the murders, yes. But not out of the blackmail. This type of extortion is right up his alley, and probably what’s paying for his holiday. I would love to nail the cocky bastard.”
“Well, that’s at least a week away. Where to next?”
Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender Page 49