“You see, we believe,” went on David, ignoring the remark, “that there is possibly a link between the killings and Mrs Deverall’s suicide – an act of revenge on her behalf. You knew they called her Deverall, didn’t you, Mr Anderson? Yet you gave her name as Coleridge both to Mr Venables and to the undertaker. Why was that?”
“Mrs Deverall was worried that she might get into trouble if the council found out that she had rented another place while she was still in council property. I told her there wouldn’t be a problem, but you know what elderly people are like, once they get something into their heads. So I suggested she used her maiden name for the tenancy agreement. It then seemed obvious to give that name to the undertaker as well, but I did make sure both her names were on the headstone.”
“Yes, that’s another thing,” said David. “Did she talk about her husband much?”
“No, apparently he died when they were both in their forties.”
“Yet she told you his name, including his middle name. And the full name of her son as well. They were on the headstone.”
“Yes, she did. I can’t remember how that came up in conversation.”
David paused for a few moments.
“I think we should call it a day – or night – Mr Anderson,” he said, with finality this time. “We shall be holding you overnight. It’s not my intention to charge you, but if you want, I can do – with possession of a firearm and threatening a police officer. When we resume in the morning, I suggest you get in touch with your lawyer. I think we should then go over again what we’ve covered tonight so there is no misunderstanding and then take it on from there. Thank you for your cooperation so far.”
The man said nothing.
“Interview finished at 12:13 am,” said Jo to the digital recorders, and switched them both off. “Good night, Mr Anderson,” she added, as the two officers rose. The police constable standing behind them opened the door and they left the room.
CHAPTER 7
The following morning, Peter Drake heard the news item on his personal radio, crushed in a carriage on the Docklands Light Railway on his way to work…
“Police investigating the murder of three brothers, Jimmy, Kevin and Karl Brady, in the Cullen Field area of Marlburgh, East London, have issued a statement that a man was detained yesterday evening and is helping them with their enquiries. Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard, the officer in charge of the investigation, said that no charges have been made and that this line of enquiry is at an early stage.”
By the time he got to the office at a few minutes after 8.00 am, he had set in motion the ‘wiping’ of one of their apartments. He had also called the Brigadier’s PA. Vicky was already at her desk when he arrived. As usual, she had beaten him in by over half an hour.
“How do you manage to get in so early?” he asked. “Do you live here?”
“No, sir. But I didn’t join the army to work nine-to-five; so I thought I’d work seven-to-seven instead.”
“I wish I hadn’t asked,” he said. “I don’t suppose you heard the news this morning, did you?”
“Do you mean all of it, sir, or did you have a particular item in mind?”
“You are on form today,” he gave a brief laugh, “but actually this is no joking matter. I meant the news item about the arrest in the Cullen Field case.”
“No, I didn’t hear that,” she said, suddenly very serious. “Did they say who it was?”
“No. Was there anything on the download from NPD?”
“Nothing, sir. No mention of Page One.”
“That’s good, of course, but I think it’s time to tell the big guy. I’ve set up a meeting with him that should be starting… ” he looked at his watch, “… right now.”
That same second the door opened and a large, barrel-shaped man with a very red face, sporting a huge moustache and wearing a loud-checked three-piece suit, marched into the room. He looked every inch the archetypal senior officer from an Ealing comedy.
“Sir!” said Peter and Vicky together, standing to attention and saluting.
“At ease,” said Brigadier Barry Henshaw. “What’s all this about, chaps? Eight-fifteen? Not had my second cuppa yet. Better be good.”
He lowered himself into one of the wing chairs next to Peter’s desk, his considerable bulk barely fitting between the arms, and waved his two subordinates to be seated. Peter’s office was a good size and well furnished with comfortable chairs and smart cabinets and tables. What spoilt the overall effect was his desk, which was purely functional with two PC monitor screens, four rather old-fashioned-looking phones and an attendant mass of cables, along with a huge angle-poise lamp which was unmanageable and never used.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, sir,” said Peter. “It’s bad, in fact – or most probably bad. We’ve been following up a True Identity Event on Phoenix Agent One. I’ve asked Corporal Barrowclough to join us because she has been pulling the data together.”
“Okay, let’s hear it then, Corporal,” he said, turning to Vicky.
She took the Brigadier very quickly through what they had so far with Peter adding the latest news about the arrest the previous evening, which had prompted his calling the meeting.
“Conclusions?” asked the Brigadier.
“Well, based on the facts, inconclusive, sir. We could have just a nominal,” said Peter. “But gut-feel it’s an actual and worst case he’s spilled already. That’s highly unlikely, though. My expectation is that he’ll play for time until we can exorcise. I don’t know what name he’s using but I’m certain it won’t be ours yet.”
“Highly unlikely, you say?” repeated the Brigadier. “About as highly unlikely as his going off-programme?”
“I take your point, sir,” said Peter. “What do you think?”
“Do the wipe right away – that’s the first thing… ”
“Already under way, sir.”
“Good, and get everything in place to exorcise, because this looks like a cast-iron actual to me,” he said, squeezing out of the chair and standing up. The others immediately got to their feet.
“He’s the best we have, sir,” said Peter.
“Was the best; not any more it seems.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” he said, nodding to Vicky, and, after returning their salutes, he spun on his heel and marched from the room. Vicky sat back in her chair looking miserable.
“What a pity,” she said, with a sigh. “He’s the best-looking as well.”
A phone on Peter’s desk rang and he dived for the handset as if a second ring would cause the world to end.
“Yes?”
“Wipe completed.”
“Excellent. Report, please, Jim.” He pressed the speaker button so Vicky could hear.
“CCTV monitors and cameras removed; all alarms removed except one domestic external; keypad entries to all rooms removed and replaced by traditional locks and bolts.”
“PCs?”
“Removed and substituted with work PC, plus printer, fax and hard-drive with client lists, investment plans, performance data – all the usual stuff.”
“Handguns?”
“Four replaced, like for like. There’ll be no fingerprints, of course, but that would be consistent with an enthusiast, who’d clean them thoroughly after use anyway.”
“How long, Jim?”
“Twenty-eight minutes twelve seconds, sir. Over two minutes outside our record, but not bad.”
“More than not bad, Jim; bloody brilliant. Well done to you and the guys.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So,” said David Gerrard. “You’ve had time to sleep on it. What do you think of our friend’s account so far?”
They were back in David’s office again. It was less than seven hours since he had briefed the Press Officer the previous night before going home. He looked weary and dishevelled and was as yet unshaven. By contrast, Jo looked her usual immaculate self in a dark blue trouser suit
and cream shirt, her hair hanging loose and natural.
“A lot of it holds water,” she said, “but I don’t believe that about an admin cock-up at the Social Services. I don’t believe he’s an official carer. Cathy says when the guy approached him in the cemetery, she didn’t actually see him go for his gun; it was suddenly there in his hand. In fact, she reckons if it had been loaded he could probably have taken him out – if he’d wanted to – before he’d have had chance to fire. It doesn’t fit the profile of your average health worker, multi-skilled though I’m sure they have to be.”
“But it does fit the profile of a clinical killer, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. And she also said that when she asked if he was Alex Anderson, he said, ‘it’s a long story’. I’ve no idea what he meant by that. If he’s not using his real name, of course, that might explain why he wasn’t carrying anything which would confirm his identity – no credit cards, nothing with a name on it. And the name itself – a bit of a coincidence – Alex Anderson.”
David sat back in thought for a few minutes, rapidly clicking the point of his pen in and out.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Well, yes. How do you think Mrs D came to be able to afford a flat in Hammersmith – even at a knock-down price – in addition to her place in Cullen Field? Or even without her place in Cullen Field, come to think of it? It cost her six grand altogether.”
“Yes, I thought of that, too,” said David. “She probably got a good pay-out from the army when her son died, and she may even have had him insured privately – although that’s less likely, given his occupation. That would also explain why she paid the lot up front. It would just mean writing a single cheque from a savings or investment account, rather than setting up a standing order or DD. But let’s not lose that thought.”
Geoff Drury entered the room carrying a sheet of paper and a transparent plastic wallet containing a firearm, both of which he placed on the desk in front of the Chief Inspector.
“Report on the gun,” he said. “Not the one used to kill the Bradys. Same 9mm, but the signature on the bullets didn’t match.”
David was indifferent to the news.
“No surprises,” he said. “Anyone carrying out contract or revenge killings would, no doubt, have more than one weapon, so it doesn’t tell us anything. Jo, can you set up for us to start talking to him again in about an hour, let’s say nine-thirty. And get him to make a phone call or something. He’s not been charged; he can call who he likes. I don’t want any technicalities to get in the way if we take this further. Oh, and Geoff, set up an ID parade for mid-afternoon; get the landlord of the Wild Boar to look him over.” DC Drury left the room. “And now, Detective Sergeant, I’ll get a shave and see if I can make myself look a tenth as respectable as you do.”
One of the phones rang in Peter Drake’s office at 8.45 am. He clicked in the loud speaker button but said nothing, just listened to the message.
“Hi, just to let you know I won’t be able to make it this morning. But someone needs to take care of the stuff on page one. I suggest the best way would be to delete it and arrange for cover as soon as possible. See you as soon as I can get away.”
The caller rang off. Peter shook his head and clicked the button out again. Then he picked up another phone.
“Actual confirmed,” he said. “Exorcise.”
This time, sitting across the table from them in the interview room, next to the prisoner, was a very large man with a prominent stomach in a crumpled, albeit expensive, grey pinstriped suit, white shirt and grey tie. His face was round and ruddy and what hair he had was parted low on one side and stuck to his head in a classic comb-over.
The room itself was reasonably large and not unfriendly, with a carpet and comfortable chairs, and brightly lit by a number of spotlights set into the ceiling panels. On the wall next to the table where they sat was a large mirror which, from the other side, was a window.
Jo switched on the recorders. “Interview started at nine-thirty,” she said. “Present, Mr Alex Anderson, Mr Clive Granville – solicitor, Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard and Detective Sergeant Jo Cottrell. Also in attendance, Constable Simon Long.”
For the second time in the space of twelve hours, they listened to the man tell his story.
“You need to know,” he began, “that I am not Alex Anderson, a carer with Social Services. My name is James Philip Lorimar; I am an Investment Manager with a company called Germaine and Rolland.”
David’s eyes blazed.
“Are you saying that you sat in that chair last night and told us a pack of lies until after midnight?”
“No, I’m not,” said Lorimar. “The story was correct, but I withheld my true identity.”
“Please don’t try to be funny with me, Mr… Whoever. I don’t fair well without a good night’s sleep at the best of times. Now just tell us the real story.”
“As I said, I am currently employed as an Investment Manager at Germaine and Rolland on Canary Wharf. I joined them three years ago as an Analyst prior to which I was in active service in Afghanistan where I was a close friend of John Deverall, Alma’s only son.”
“This will check out, won’t it?” asked David. “I am not in the mood for any more works of fiction.”
“I promise you it will – and all that follows. We – John and I – were both in the SAS operating as lead marksmen – snipers – out of Bagram. On our way back from a hit, our patrol was involved in an explosion and John was fatally wounded. Before he died, he told me about his mother; how he had had a major falling-out with her over his role in the war. She was horrified that he was, as he said she put it ‘a hired killer shooting people who were looking the other way’. They had an enormous row and she completely disowned him; he hadn’t seen her for well over a year.
“It was clear that the knowledge that he would never be able to make it up with her was more upsetting for him than the closeness of his own death. He made me promise, just minutes before he died, that I would check that she was alright and keep an eye on her.”
He faltered briefly in his story.
“Go on,” said Jo.
“To my shame,” he said, “I left the Special Forces shortly after John’s death, but it was well over two years before I visited her. It wasn’t like I was at the other end of the world, either. So no excuses – I just simply never got round to it.”
“But you did eventually go to see her?” asked Jo.
“Yes. I actually visited the estate on several occasions before meeting her and, I tell you, it was a real eye-opener. God knows how you can let people like that get away with it.” His demeanour changed quite dramatically, just like the previous evening, when he got on to this subject. “They really hounded her. I had a couple of skirmishes with the bastards myself.” He paused a few moments to regain his composure. “But it was a while before I actually went to see her. I wasn’t quite sure how to break the ice, but in the end I just knocked on her door and introduced myself. She seemed really pleased to meet me – because of John, of course. I told her how much he regretted their quarrelling and she cried a lot. Then I went back to see her about once a week after that.”
“Why did she tell the neighbours that you were a carer?” said Jo. “Why didn’t she just tell them the truth?”
The man laughed. “I said everyone would think she had a toy boy, and she got quite serious as if she was really worried that they would. So, jokingly, I said, ‘Okay, just tell them I’m from Social Services’ and apparently she did. So that’s what we told everybody. She seemed more comfortable with that.”
“And then?” asked David.
“The rest of the story’s the same as before. I made up a name for the carer for when I did things like paying the rent and collecting her pension, and I gave the same name to the undertaker when Mrs Deverall died just to keep the separate identity. It was based on John’s middle name – Alexander. I just split it up and added ‘son’ – Alex An
derson. It was sort of symbolic and Alma seemed to take some comfort in that.”
He paused, as if waiting for any more questions. David and Jo were silent.
“About the gun,” he continued. “I guess old habits die hard. I know I shouldn’t carry it, but frankly, once I started going onto that estate, it seemed like a good idea anyway. But I never have it loaded and I’d only ever use it to frighten, certainly not to kill.”
“Where were you on the evening of Saturday, 7th of May, Mr Lorimar?” asked David.
The man smiled. “Saturday evening, let me see. Usual riotous weekend stuff, I expect. Concert on BBC2, followed by Casualty on one, then news and Match of the Day. Except was that after the end of the season? If so, probably reading or listening to CDs – or both.”
“How can you be that sure? Are you trying to tell us you do the same every Saturday? I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”
“Just about every night, Chief Inspector, not just every Saturday night.”
“A bit different from the excitement and camaraderie of conflict. Is that normal for someone leaving the Special Forces?”
“It is for people in my line of work. Snipers are notorious loners, anyone will tell you that. We’re seen as sort of vermin in the forces, even by our own side. Not really cricket, is it, shooting people who are looking the other way, as Alma put it? Until, of course, they’re pinned down somewhere and suddenly we get the call and we’re heroes when we get them out. Then as soon as it’s over, we’re back to being scum again.”
“I see,” said David, “So what do you do for relaxation? You’re not a sniper now; I can’t believe your colleagues at Germaine hold that against you.”
“No, of course not, but it’s just what you become. I do go out for a drink with them occasionally, most often on a Friday after work. And I go four or five times a week to the gun club. Quite a number of ex-service people are members there.”
“Except they won’t talk to you, I expect, because of what you did.”
“Actually, I forgot to share that detail with them.”
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