by Ian Simpson
Baggo beamed at her. ‘No, ma’am. Thanks to your husband, we shall put a serial killer behind bars.’
* * *
Baggo knew that, to make the case water-tight, he should track down the woman who had been Candy Dalton’s accomplice. He drove to the Mile End Road hostel, where Maggie was preparing for another busy Saturday night and was reluctant to take time speaking with him. He felt bad about threatening to alert Health and Safety officials about possible breaches of fire regulations by an organisation so obviously dedicated to doing good, but that had the desired effect, and he left with the address of Lena Vannet, a former client of the hostel with whom Candy kept in touch. Lena was aged thirty-five, with black, straight hair, and lived in a block of flats in Archway Road, not far from McElhinney’s shop.
By the time Baggo had located the flat, Lena had gone out for the evening, and the very young baby-sitter said she had no idea where she might be. He wondered if he should head north and catch up with her later, but he knew that it would be safest to get her signed statement in his notebook as soon as possible.
After a quick visit to the nearest McDonald’s, Baggo parked where he could see the door of the flat. Keeping warm by running the engine, and trying to concentrate on radio programmes to pass the time, he waited for Lena to return home.
It was after one that a dark-haired woman with glasses walked unsteadily across the car park and climbed the stairs leading to the flats. Baggo climbed out of the car, his joints stiff, and followed her. Lena stopped at her door, fumbled for her keys and went in. Baggo pushed his way in after her, his warrant card in one hand.
Whatever substance she had taken, Lena could still defend herself. She landed a hard kick in his balls that made him double up. ‘I’m police,’ he gasped.
‘He is, Lena, he is.’ The baby-sitter emerged from the door on the right as a baby’s cry came from the door opposite.
‘Well, he’s got a bloody nerve following me like that.’
‘This is very urgent. I have some questions for you about Candy Dalton,’ Baggo said, trying to ignore the pain between his legs.
‘Can I go?’ the baby-sitter asked.
‘Yeh. Thanks. Sorry, I needed all my cash for the bloody taxi. I’ll see you all right next week, doll. Here, take these.’ She fumbled in her bag and took a handful of cigarettes from a packet.
‘I need your name and address, love,’ Baggo said.
Shaking her head, the girl rattled off her details then left. Baggo took a seat in the living room while Lena picked up her child. She sat opposite him, quietening the baby with a bottle.
At first she was reluctant to tell Baggo anything, but became more cooperative after he threatened to tell Social Services about an obviously under-age baby-sitter and how she was paid.
‘Candy said she’d visit on Monday afternoon. She’s always kept in touch with me, helping me and that. We were sitting right here, having a cuppa, when she said she’d got this text and she had to go into the centre right away. She said she had to pick up some book for her hubby’s birthday, and asked if I would, as it had to be done at a special time, and it was near here. She told me where the shop was and gave me her credit card and the PIN as she didn’t have the cash on her. She told me to talk posh when I had to, pretend to be her and tell the bloke the book was great. I had to do this between half five and six. I was to go in her car – I can drive legally, in case you’re wondering – park it in the car park near Mile End Road Tube Station and lock it, leaving the book, the credit card and the slip under the driver’s seat. She handed me a twenty, to cover expenses, like. She said she’d go on the tube and pick up the car later. I got Arlene to watch Zak, and did as she said.’
‘What about the car keys?’
‘She gave me her spares, said she’d pick them up later.’
‘Do you still have them?’
Lena paused.
‘I mean it about Social Services.’
Still holding the baby, she went to a wooden box on her mantelpiece and took out a set of keys. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing them carelessly towards Baggo. ‘If she asks, I’ll tell her I dropped them in the street. Is she in trouble?’
‘It’s just part of a routine inquiry,’ Baggo lied. ‘Now, I need to write down what you’ve said. After I’ve read it over and you’ve signed it, I’ll leave you in peace.’
Ten minutes later, he pointed the car north. The pain in his balls was easing and he was glad he had waited to see Lena before setting off.
* * *
The final miles of the drive passed quickly. North of Perth, Baggo saw why Scotland had a reputation for splendid scenery. He knew he must reach The Pride O’ Atholl before the final session started at noon, and he would do so with an hour to spare. He took the slip road for Pitlochry, drove deliberately slowly through the town, and turned down the hotel drive.
When he saw a police car, with Osborne, Fortune and a big man he did not recognise standing round a body on the front step of the hotel, he hoped he had not arrived too late.
26
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Osborne asked Baggo.
‘I know who Crimewriter is, gov. Is that Johnson?’
‘Yes.’ Osborne could not keep the relief out of his voice as he looked down on his sworn enemy.
Hotel staff gathered at the front door, and a chambermaid burst into tears. ‘He was a lovely man,’ she wailed.
Jane, Tara and McCrone joined the group, followed by Liz Morrison, the hotel owner, who rounded on Jane.
‘Jane, please tell me what’s going on here. This is no ordinary retreat. I’m not daft, you know.’
As Jane stuttered, Danny Peters ran across the lawn from the direction of the road. He carried a long rifle with a metal frame for a butt. ‘I found this in the bushes near the lay-by,’ he said. ‘Lucky I had plastic gloves with me.’ When he saw Baggo, he did a double-take.
‘I’ve cracked it, Danny.’
‘Well done, mate, but too late for him.’
As Peters held it up, Fergus inspected the weapon. ‘This is a Dragunov SVD, a Russian sniper rifle. It’s semi-automatic but only one shot fired. A pro.’ Seeing Flick’s look of admiration, he added, ‘I went on a course.’
The noise of wheels on gravel made them turn. From the direction of the drive, Wallace struggled to move his wheelchair towards them. He was out of breath. ‘I heard a shot,’ he gasped.
‘What have you been doing?’ Osborne asked him.
‘Gov, I am sure Chapayev did this,’ Baggo raised his voice.
‘Chapayev? What are you talking about?’
‘I can explain, but right now I am sure that Chapayev will be heading south in a black VW Golf. I have the registration here.’
‘Is he one of yours?’ Fergus asked Osborne, who nodded. Fergus reached for his mobile, punched in a number and spoke sharply to the person who answered. ‘Maxwell here. This is urgent, so top priority. I want a south-bound car stopped on the A9. You should be able to intercept just north of Perth. Suspicion of murder. It’s a black VW Golf.’ He read out the number from Baggo’s notebook. ‘He could be dangerous. I’ll hand you over to a man from the Met.’
Baggo took the phone. ‘Hello, the man you are looking for is Nikolai Chapayev.’ He paused while the instructions were forwarded. ‘Chapayev is Russian, in his forties, with an untidy, black beard. Just under six foot. He has connections with the Russian mafia, and is very dangerous. Yes, murder. He shot a man in Pitlochry a short while ago. William Johnson. Yes. Thank you.’ He handed the phone back.
‘Chapayev visited me on Friday,’ he explained. ‘He came into the CID room and saw what the gov had written about Johnson on the whiteboard. I told him about the retreat, but did not say where it was. Unfortunately, he took a brochure of this hotel that had been lying on a desk. I realised this once he had gone, but I managed to glimpse him driving away, and noted his number.’
‘Why should he kill Johnson?
’ Flick interjected.
‘So that he would be blamed for Swanson’s murder while acting for the Russians. That is the point. Everyone would assume the Russians had silenced Johnson before he could implicate them. But they have nothing to do with this. A friend in the Foreign Office told me Chapayev is a criminal: arms smuggling, money laundering and so on. Swanson’s murder was one of Crimewriter’s. She left a poison pen by the body. Chapayev used the murder for his own propaganda purposes and to publicise his book, just as I’m sure he plans to use Johnson’s shooting. The very last thing he wanted was Johnson, whom he must have taken to be the prime suspect, to say the Russians had nothing to do with Swanson’s murder.’
‘Johnson was killed because of what he wouldn’t say about the Russians?’ Peters asked.
Baggo nodded.
‘You said “she” there,’ Flick said.
‘Yes, Sarge …’
He was interrupted by a scream for help from the far end of the garden. Candy Dalton half-ran towards them, her clothes and hair askew and her glasses missing.
Flick and Baggo ran to help and led her, panting, to the others.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m glad you’re here,’ Dalton gasped. ‘Cilla Pargiter is Crimewriter and she’s just tried to kill me.’
Ignoring the noises of shock and disbelief, she carried on. ‘We went for a walk to see the Soldier’s Leap, and everything seemed normal. When we got there, onto that rock overlooking the river, she said, “This isn’t a proper retreat. This is a police operation.” I said “Rubbish”, but she asked if I had been interviewed in the Crimewriter inquiry and I said I had. She said we were all suspects, and they were trying to trap one of us. And it came to me in a flash, it was her. It had to be. I must have shown it in my face, because she said, “Yes, it’s me, but you’re going to tell no one”. Then she made a dive for me and tried to push me over the edge, but I was too quick for her. We both fell down and fought on the rock. She was determined to kill me. I’ve had to learn some judo for my work in the hostel, and I threw her, but she went too far and fell over the edge. I went to grab her hand as it scratched the lichen off the rock, but before I could reach her she was away.’ She dissolved into tears and shook uncontrollably. ‘I’ve killed her, I’ve killed her,’ she repeated.
Flick put an arm round her and was about to lead her into the hotel when Baggo reached into a pocket, brought out his handcuffs, and secured both wrists. ‘Candice Dalton, I am arresting you for the murders of Laurence Robertson, Denzil Burke and others. You need not say anything, but anything you do say will be liable to be used in evidence.’
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Flick snapped.
‘It is her, and I can prove it,’ Baggo replied hotly.
‘Nonsense, nonsense, I’m a victim,’ Dalton wailed.
‘He’s right, you know,’ Jane said firmly. ‘That was our unanimous opinion.’
‘A narcissist,’ Tara said. McCrone nodded.
‘What about Cilla?’ Baggo asked.
Liz said, ‘If she fell into the pool at the Soldier’s Leap, she has no chance. It’s very deep, with a lot of currents.’
‘She’s a very strong swimmer,’ Flick said. ‘We must go and see.’
‘Do you have a long rope?’ Fergus asked Liz.
‘There’s an old rope some climbers left behind. I’ll go and get it.’
Baggo said quietly to Osborne, ‘Gov, we’ll have to run to this place. I think it would be best if you were to look after Mrs Dalton back here.’
Osborne put his cigarettes away. ‘That’s what I was thinking, Chandavarkar.’ He took one of Dalton’s arms. ‘We’ll wait inside,’ he said.
Liz brushed past them as she ran out, carrying a coil of faded blue climbing rope. ‘I know the way,’ she said, and ran across the lawn, Flick, Baggo, Peters, Fergus and Tara in her wake. McCrone followed at his own pace.
By the time they reached the National Trust shop, nearly half a mile from the hotel and closed for the winter, Liz was exhausted. ‘You go on,’ she said, handing the rope to Baggo. ‘Stick to the path until you reach a big, flat rock on your left.’
The path zig-zagging downhill through the trees was steep and rough. Baggo nearly went over on his ankle, but reached the rock first. Dalton’s glasses lay on it, the brown frame crushed and the lenses shattered. He climbed through the simple wooden fence, approached the edge, and looked down and across the ravine to the other side. ‘Cilla, Cilla,’ he called, but heard only the roar of rushing water far below.
‘There’s a deep pool below here. If she survived the fall, she’d have swum to the nearest rock and grabbed it,’ Flick said.
‘There’s an over-hang, so we won’t be able to see the rocks on this side. I can’t see her on the other side. If she got swept downstream to the rapids there’s very little hope.’ Fergus sounded gloomy.
‘I am going to go down on the rope,’ Baggo said.
Flick said, ‘I’m lighter. I’ll go.’
‘I am stronger.’ Baggo looked to Fergus for support.
‘Can you abseil?’ Fergus asked him.
‘I’ve done it a couple of times. I know what to do.’
‘We don’t have the right equipment and strength is going to count,’ Fergus ruled. ‘Sorry, Flick.’
Fergus had assumed command. First, he tied one end of the rope round Baggo’s waist then he tied the other end round his own. ‘I shall be the anchor. We’re going to lower Baggo down slowly. If he reaches Cilla he will grab her and we will all pull them up, like a tug o’ war team.’ He allocated everyone a place on the rope, Peters at the front, followed by Liz and Tara. McCrone he placed in front of himself. Flick, still scowling, was to check Baggo’s progress and relay messages.
After a quick prayer to Ganesh, the elephant god, Baggo put his trust in his colleagues and leaned back over the river, his feet against the rock. Slowly and carefully, he moved down the rock face. The rope bit into his back and his hands, making his eyes water. Past the bulge of the over-hang, his feet slipped and he dangled vertically. Anxiously, he looked down at the cauldron of melted snow, now swirling, treacherous and brown. He searched for Cilla on the rocks at its edge.
She was there. She had hauled herself up into a cleft below the over-hang, so was out of the water from her waist up.
‘Cilla, Cilla,’ Baggo shouted, but saw no reaction. He looked up at Flick, gave her the thumbs-up, and pointed to his right. ‘Two metres right,’ he yelled, and was relieved to see her acknowledgement.
It took time and patience to lower him into a position from which he could wrap his arms round Cilla. By the time he did so he was frantic, and soaked from the waist down by cold, numbing water. She had not moved and he feared she was dead. Barely noticing the blood from his hands that stained her coat, he grasped her securely round the waist, and pushed back from the rocks so they swung on the rope, their legs tugged by the current. He looked up to Flick, who gave the thumbs-up.
The moan Cilla gave as they were lifted was one of the sweetest sounds he had heard. When they reached the over-hang he realised they had a problem: unless he could protect her somehow, she was going to be scraped against the rock face, and his arms would have to withstand the grazing contact with the rock and still hold on. He kicked out with one leg then the other, but could not get the leverage he needed. Eventually he managed to turn sideways so his left shoulder was punished by the rock. There were only a couple of metres to go.
Above him, Danny Peters noticed that the bit of rope passing through his fingers was badly frayed. Several strands had broken and the precious burden was hanging by only a few threads. Immediately, he went forward, grabbed the rope below the flawed section and pulled. Flick threw herself to the ground and also seized the rope. Guessing what was wrong, Fergus shouted to McCrone, who went to help Peters.
A few strong tugs and the emergency passed. Some more, and Baggo and Cilla lay on the rock like newly-caught
salmon, one exhausted, the other barely conscious and moaning. Baggo’s chilled hands were so tightly clasped together that he had difficulty in freeing Cilla from his embrace.
Green-suited paramedics arrived, wrapped Cilla in reflective foil, and took her away in an ambulance. Flick went with her to obtain her version of how she had come to fall. As her stretcher was placed in the back, she repeated, ‘She pushed me. She pushed me.’ Baggo refused treatment; he was determined to see Dalton brought to justice.
When they returned to the hotel, they found Osborne and Dalton side by side on a sofa in the lounge. Both were red-faced and looked angry. A small table near them lay on its side.
‘She tried to escape, but I was way too fast for her,’ Osborne explained.
While Fergus arranged for their prisoner to be detained in Perth, Baggo, wearing borrowed clothes, sat next to the fire and described how he had identified Dalton as the killer. He concluded, ‘And I expect that her mobile records will show that some time after two am today she received a call from Lena Vannet. Once she knew I was onto her, she decided to kill Cilla and try to make out that she had been Crimewriter.’
‘Good, old-fashioned police work,’ Osborne commented.
‘And Jane’s psychology hit the back of the net, too,’ McCrone said.
‘Yes,’ Jane said. ‘Candy is a classic narcissist, desperate for approval, manipulative and incapable of reacting rationally in the face of criticism. We saw that several times during our workshops. And her composition was most revealing. It was a story about someone who should have been head girl of her school, but the mother of another girl started false rumours about her taking drugs, so her daughter became head girl. The protagonist arranged for drugs to be planted on this other girl so she replaced her as head girl for the summer term. The interesting thing was that gaining revenge was more important than becoming head girl.’
Tara said, ‘It had a really autobiographical feel to it. I suspect she was describing what actually happened.’
McCrone nodded. ‘When one agent after another rejected even her bonking book, she wisnae going to take it lying down.’