‘How did we miss these, first time?’ Dave asked, but I’d seen him nudge Jeff.
‘Don’t ask me.’ I replied.
We found three more straight off and then I called a halt to the search. There were another fifteen pashminas in the box that we didn’t unfold. ‘Let’s pack them back up,’ I said, ‘and take them to the station for safe keeping. Tomorrow we’ll hand them over to customs and excise. This is their baby.’
The ACC had gone and I hadn’t eaten all day, so I collected a ham sandwich in the canteen and had it at my desk. I was catching up with the whereabouts of everybody else when Nigel Newley rang.
‘What’s happened to Wallenberg?’ he asked.
‘No idea. Why?’ I replied.
‘We were keeping him under surveillance, nothing heavy, just normal hours, but he seems to have vanished.’
‘On my patch,’ I protested with feigned indignance. ‘You mounted a covert operation on my patch without telling me?’
‘I know. Scandalous, isn’t it? So where is he? You haven’t arrested him, have you?’
‘No. How long has he been missing?’
‘Well, he hasn’t been home for four days, or to the Painted Pony or any of his haunts that we know about.’
I thought about things for a few seconds. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You’re invited. Tomorrow morning we’re going to raid his house. It’s a big place so we need all the help we can get. Meet here at seven a.m. for a briefing. We’ll supply the forced entry party, you bring along a couple of searchers.’
It was a murder case, but I still needed a warrant. I sweet-talked my favourite magistrate and sent a DC to collect it. Mrs Wallenberg would be at home, hopefully, and I wanted a substantive interview with her. Also I was confident we’d find at least one shahtoosh on the premises. That would do for starters.
At the briefing I outlined the cases and tried to identify what we were looking for. The sawn-off end of the ice axe was number one target, followed by photographs of his parents posing with the axes. I described the shawls as best I could and suggested that the two women officers in the party might be best qualified to look through Mrs Wallenberg’s wardrobes. Their eyes gleamed at the prospect. Then they could empty all his jacket pockets to see if the napkin with the address that I’d seen him write at the football club was still there.
There were ten of us, plus two customs and excise officers I’d managed to find and the audio visual unit. We drove to Wallenberg’s in five vehicles and parked in the lane at the front of the house. Two officers went round the back and radioed when they were in position.
I dialled the only number I had for the house but nobody answered. Pressing the bell on the imposing gatepost brought a similar result. I nodded to the two most agile officers I’d brought along and within a second or three they were over the gate.
They hammered on the door with their fists and eventually Mrs Wallenberg came and shouted at them through the glass. She let them in after they’d explained who they were and threatened to break the door down. The big gates slid sideways and the rest of us drove up the short driveway.
Selina was my objective. Tough, but I believe in leading from the front. Never ask the troops to do something you’re not prepared to do yourself, with the possible exception of facing armed men and going up ladders. I showed her my ID and said we were investigating the smuggling of the products of endangered species. Nothing heavy. Nothing about murder. She was wearing a long bathrobe and her hair was a mess. I suggested she dress and asked where we could talk.
Half an hour later she joined me in a room on the ground floor lined with books and CD racks. There was a huge TV at one end, with a B&O hi-fi system and all the latest gismos for watching and listening. The material available was depressing: Readers’ Digest editions that looked untouched; CDs of classical and pop compilations, plus plenty of Elvis; and DVDs of all the Lethal Weapon and Rocky series. Selina was wearing trousers and blouse when she reappeared, but hadn’t had time to apply the normal half-pound of makeup. Her face was pale but her expression defiant.
‘Who’s the Elvis fan?’ I asked, replacing the CD I was holding as she came into the room.
‘I am. How long are your people going to be?’
‘How many staff do you employ?’ I asked, ignoring her question.
‘Three, all part-time. A secretary, a cleaner and a gardener. They just work mornings. I asked how long you would be.’
‘It depends what they find.’
‘They won’t find anything. I hope you’ll pay for any damage they do.’
‘Sit down,’ I told her, and pulled an easy chair round to face the one I’d indicated for her to take. ‘We had an appointment on Monday,’ I said, ‘but you weren’t at home.’
‘I lead a busy life.’
‘So do I. Where were you?’
‘I met a friend for lunch. We over-ran.’
‘You left your friend at one o’clock and went home. Our appointment was at two.’
‘Was it? Well, let’s just say that I decided I didn’t want to see you.
‘What have you to hide?’
‘Nothing. I couldn’t be bothered.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘I don’t know. Am I under arrest?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Should I have a solicitor present?’
‘If you think you need one. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘So where’s Peter?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She thought about it for a few seconds, then said: ‘Saturday lunchtime.’
‘Does he often leave home without saying where he’s going?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘For four days?’
‘No. Not usually for this long, but sometimes he’s gone for a day or two.’
‘Did he say anything before he left?’
‘He said he had some business to attend to, that’s all.’
‘Have you any idea where he might be?’
‘No.’
‘What was he wearing when he left?’
‘His normal clothing. Black suit and overcoat.’
‘He likes his black clothes, doesn’t he? How many black overcoats does he own?’
‘Four or five, I think.’
‘He met you in Amsterdam, I believe.’
‘Yes.’
‘When you were working there?’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Your lunch friend? She just said you were working there. I take it she rang you.’
‘Yes. She couldn’t wait. It was in a club. Peter thinks he rescued me. What else did she tell you?’
The door burst open and one of Nigel’s detectives stood there, looking awkward. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘Thought it was empty.’
‘Ten minutes,’ I told him and he closed the door again. ‘She told me that Peter is a violent man. Is he?’
‘No. No, he isn’t. She’s wrong.’
‘Then why are you scared of him?’
‘I’m not.’
‘I think you are. Tell me about the time he beat you up.’
‘Beat me up?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Which time?’
‘The first time.’
‘It was nothing. A misunderstanding.’
‘Did he use his fists?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was nothing.’
‘Tell me about Dale, then,’ I said. ‘You were fond of him, weren’t you?’
‘Dale!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you know about Dale?’
‘A lot. Were you having an affair with him?’
She nodded her head and bit her lip, close to tears. I waited a minute until she recovered then asked: ‘Did Peter know about it?’
‘No, of course not. He’d have killed me. Dale was everything Peter wasn’t. He was funny, and generous, and…’
‘And what?’
‘And he was goo
d in bed.’
‘So why didn’t you leave Peter?’ As if I didn’t know.
‘We talked about it. We were trying to work out a way of doing it. A way that would hurt Peter financially.’
That was one way of putting it, I thought.
‘And then,’ she continued, ‘Peter found out.’
‘About you and Dale?’
‘No. About me and someone. We were seen by one of his so-called friends, but he didn’t recognise Dale. That’s when he beat me up. One of the times. He wanted to know who I was with. Said he’d have them killed. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t. Then he went out and came back with this…this…thing. It was like a long gun. He touched me with it and it gave me an electric shock. It was terrible. After that I’d have told him anything. He was yelling names at me. “Is it so-and-so?” he’d shout, and I’d shake my head. They were all his business friends. All the people he suspected I was having an affair with were his business friends. He’d have killed me there and then if I’d said it was his driver. “Is it Krabbe?” he shouted at me and jabbed me with the thing. “Yes,” I screamed. I had to, to make him stop. “Yes,” I said. “It’s Krabbe,” and he stopped.’
Mrs Wallenberg was sobbing like a jilted bride. When some composure was restored I said: ‘Tony Krabbe was murdered on the night of the eighth of November. A Saturday. Do you remember where you were on that night?’
‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘I was here, at home.’
‘And was your husband with you?’
‘Yes.’ She fidgeted with the cuff of her blouse then added: ‘At first.’
‘So he wasn’t with you all the evening?’
Another long hesitation, but she’d made up her mind that she’d had enough. The time had come to make the break. ‘No, he wasn’t.’
‘Where was he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But he definitely wasn’t here with you?’
‘Not…not later.’
‘So he was here at home with you for the early part of the evening and he went out later?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he go in the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Driving himself?’
‘No. Duggie came for him.’
‘Duggie? Who’s Duggie?’ As if I didn’t know.
‘He works for Peter, as his driver. He was an old friend of Dale’s, apparently, and he worked for an acquaintance of Peter’s. When his employer died Dale asked Peter to give him a job. When Dale died he started driving Peter. He’s a bit of a thug. I don’t like him.’
‘Would that employer happen to be Joe Crozier?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Hmm, that’s interesting,’ I said, although I already knew it. ‘So where were we? Duggie came and picked up Peter. What time would this be?’
‘I’m not sure. Fairly late.’
‘Nine? Ten?’
‘About then.’ She stood up and walked over to a reproduction sideboard that was doubling as a video cabinet and found a box of tissues in one of the cupboards.
When she was seated again I said: ‘And what time did he come back?’
‘Not much later. He was only gone about an hour, an hour and a half. I hadn’t gone to bed. I was surprised to see him so early.’
‘Did he say where he’d been?’
‘No…he…he didn’t say.’
‘What did he say, Selina? Tell me what he did say.’
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘He said…he said that I was to forget he’d been out. He’d stayed in all night. He was tense, excitable. I thought they’d had too much to drink and crashed the car or something. Next day I learnt about Tony Krabbe.’
‘And you put two and two together?’
‘No. I…I don’t know.’
I went over to the door and stood with it open, waiting for someone to come by. It was Robert. ‘Ask one of the WDCs to come here, Bob, please,’ I said to him.
Maggie appeared and I asked her to take Mrs Wallenberg up to one of the bedrooms and take care of her. Maggie gave me a look that my mother would have called old-fashioned and off they went.
Jeff had set up station in the hallway, with a fresh notebook to catalogue everything we were taking away. The WDCs had found Mrs Wallenberg’s shahtoosh hanging in her wardrobe, with another one like it, and a box containing ten brand new ones was found tucked away in one of his wardrobes. There was no sign of the napkin with the address that I’d seen him put in his pocket at the charity bash. I gave instructions for his collection of long black coats to be seized and placed in evidence bags.
Nigel appeared. ‘Found these for you,’ he said, and handed me a pair of black and white photographs that were creased and tattered at the edges. One showed two figures, male and female. He was wearing plus fours and she a long skirt, with tweed jackets and snow goggles. They were each leaning on an ice axe. The other photo showed just the woman, sitting on a rock with an ice axe leaning against her leg. She looked like Grace Wallenberg.
‘That’s brilliant, Nigel,’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant.’
I had a wander around, taking my first decent look at the house where two generations of crooks had lived. The impression was that the old man and his wife had a certain amount of taste, but little of it had passed down to their only child. The place was desperately in need of a makeover. Modern tat sat uncomfortably with several decent pieces of furniture that looked as if they belonged there. Most of the rooms had real fireplaces, and the ones in the lounge and kitchen had the embers of log fires still smouldering in them. Neat piles of kindling and logs were stacked in the fireplaces. Very nice, I thought, when you had someone to do the dirty work.
A team was going through a room upstairs where they kept all the stuff of memories. Every house has somewhere like that. There were bicycles with upright handlebars and wicker baskets, wooden skis that must have weighed a ton, boxes of Beano and Film Fun annuals. Everything was piled up in the order that it had ceased to be of interest, like an archaeological site dedicated to amusement. I reminded the troops what to look for and resumed my wanderings.
The audiovisual team took video footage of everything. Their role is two-fold. They are part of the evidence-gathering process but they also protect our backs against accusations of wrecking the place.
‘The staff arrived at nine,’ Jeff told me, next time I passed through the hallway, ‘so I sent them home. There’s a secretary, a housekeeper and a gardener who looks about 90. I’ve taken their names and addresses.’
Two DCs came down the stairs carrying bulging evidence bags. ‘Three overcoats, as requested,’ one of them said, and Jeff wrote the details in his book and labelled the bags.
Maggie arrived back from ministering to Selina. ‘Another one you left sobbing, Charlie,’ she said, and then coloured up and looked embarrassed.
‘Is she OK?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. I made her a cup of tea. I’m…sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Don’t worry about it. C’mon, show me where the fixings are and we’ll make a cup for the troops.’
We were standing in the kitchen, checking on the strength of the brew before allowing it to be distributed, when Dave knocked at the window. I held up my steaming mug and mouthed: ‘I’m busy,’ at him, but he shook his head and gestured for me to come outside. I gestured for him to join us but he was adamant.
‘It’s important,’ I heard him shout, his voice reduced to a murmur by the double-glazing.
‘I’d better see what he wants,’ I said, standing my hardly touched mug of tea on the counter. Maggie did the same and followed me outside.
He was round the back of the house, where the sun rarely shines. The ground was still wet and the brief dry spell had not been enough to drive off the air of decay and dereliction that lay around there. The grass was long and the hedge overgrown with brambles. Dave was standing outside the woodshed.
‘In there,’ he said, nodding towards the lean-to buil
ding.
I went in very slowly, looking all around me, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Down at the floor, up at the tiled roof, forward at the wall which was whitewashed and hung with various tools. One end was piled to the roof with neatly sawn logs, and at the other end an ancient circular saw stood, its motor caked in sawdust, only the gleaming blade indicating that it was in working order. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the smell of the wood. It conjured up memories of childhood bonfires and school camps. I was looking for the sawn-off end of the ice axe used to kill Krabbe, but it wasn’t there. Between the saw and the logs was a pile of kindling, each piece cut to precisely the same size as its companions. It was a big pile, enough, I imagined, to see them through the winter.
I turned back to Dave and shrugged my shoulders. ‘What?’
‘Keep looking,’ he said.
The sawdust in the air was making my eyes water. The tools on the wall were old carpenters’ tools. Giant brace and bits, several clamps and a spare saw blade with teeth the size of chocolate Hobnobs. I looked up at the roof. Big hooks were screwed into some of the beams. An ancient hurricane lamp hung from one, and various threaded components, caked in rust and dust, from some of the others. They looked as if they might be for screwing through fenceposts, or be gate-hinges, but I was guessing.
I turned round. ‘C’mon, sunshine,’ I said. ‘What have you found?’
Dave broke away from the conversation he was having with Maggie and joined me in the shed. He stood in front of the pile of kindling and pointed. ‘Down there.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I followed his pointing finger. Hooked over a nail, half-hidden by the pile of sticks, was the implement used to chop them. It was the head of another ice axe, but with a different handle. A short one designed for a hammer, at a guess, and suitably modified. I wondered about fingerprints, decided we had nothing to learn from them, and carefully picked it up. Cast into the side of the pointed blade was the manufacturer’s name: Scheidegger. Dave had found the twin of the axe that had killed Krabbe. For 50 years, unknown to Wallenberg, it had been used by the gardener to chop kindling to keep the home fires burning. Now it was going to put the head of the household in jail for the rest of his life.
Over the Edge Page 22