Death Count: A Kat Munro Thriller (The Kat Munro Thrillers Book 1)

by SL Beaumont

  “No,” Mrs. Smyth said. “He has a lovely big cottage in the Cotswolds and a ski chalet at Chamonix.”

  “Was he a collector? Books, wine?” Kat said.

  Mr. Smyth gave a sad smile. “Yes, he was always quite the collector and more so once he could afford it. That bookshelf will be worth thousands and thousands of pounds; there are many first editions. As for the wine,” he followed her gaze to the wine rack, “I’m not sure, but some are pretty old.”

  “What did he do before CIP?” Kat said.

  Adam glanced at Kat. Perhaps Stevenson had been correct when he said they were financial detectives if Kat’s careful conversational questioning was any indication.

  “Investment banking,” Mrs. Smyth said.

  “Did he have a partner?” Adam asked.

  “No one special that we were aware of,” Mr. Smyth said.

  “We are, were, very proud of our Henry,” Mrs. Smyth said. “He worked hard at school and Cambridge. He got a blue for rowing. And he was one of the most successful equities traders at the International Bank of Commerce before he started Capital Partners with those people.” Her voice wobbled with barely concealed emotion.

  Mr. Smyth put a hand on his wife’s arm. “The business was very lucrative right from the start, but it wasn’t enough for the others. They just kept pushing. Henry was tired and stressed the last few times we saw him. Something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk to us about it.”

  Mrs. Smyth picked up a small picture frame sitting on the bench and passed it to Adam. Henry Smyth stood between his parents in the photo holding a glass of champagne and wearing a wide, dimpled grin. He was a handsome man, broad-shouldered with short wavy brown hair.

  “That was at his sister’s wedding last year. The last time we saw him happy,” Mr. Smyth said.

  “They’ve said that it was a drug overdose, a deliberate one,” Mrs. Smyth added, removing a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Kat put her cup back on its saucer and placed her hand on the old lady’s arm.

  “Henry liked to party, but drugs? That wasn’t his style,” Mr. Smyth said. “But he had seemed so out of kilter lately that we thought maybe it had all gotten too much for him and he’d decided to take his life. But we don’t believe that any longer.”

  Adam hid his surprise. “And what changed your mind?”

  Mr. Smyth stood up and retrieved a book from a drawer in the kitchen. He sat down again and placed the well-worn copy of Kipling’s The Jungle Book on the bench. It fell open at the centre binding. Tucked into the fold was a piece of paper.

  “May I?” Adam asked.

  “Please.” Mr. Smyth pushed the book towards him.

  Adam pulled a pair of thin disposable gloves from his pocket and prised a handwritten note from the book with care. He laid it on the counter. Kat leaned closer.

  Dear Mum & Dad,

  If you are reading this, then something has happened to me. Perhaps I’m paranoid, but I think I’m being followed. Someone has been in the apartment, and the others have been making decisions without me, which makes me nervous. Don’t believe everything they tell you about me; I’ve been naïve. I love you. I’m sorry, but I must leave.

  HS

  “Yes, this does put a different complexion on things,” Adam said. “Where was the book?”

  “That’s the thing. I know that Henry left it for us to find because it was here, in the kitchen, on the shelf with his cookbooks. Henry had a very particular filing system for his books, and a childhood favourite most definitely does not belong in the cookbook section,” Mrs. Smyth said.

  Kat leaned across and read the letter. “By ‘leave’, do you think he meant to go away rather than take his life?”

  Mr and Mrs. Smyth exchanged glances, and Mrs. Smyth gave a delicate shrug.

  “May I take this?” Adam asked, producing an evidence bag from a pocket and tucking the note inside.

  “Of course.” Mr. Smyth nodded. He looked as though he were about to say something else, but didn’t.

  “We should have the pathologist’s initial report and findings this afternoon, which may give us some more answers,” Adam said, standing.

  “Do you think it was them?” Mr. Smyth blurted out.

  “Them?”

  “Those bastards he was in business with.”

  Adam shook his head. “We have no evidence of that, sir, but we will most certainly look into Henry’s death from all angles.”

  Mr. Smyth visibly deflated. “Thank you.”

  “May I see the rest of his apartment before we leave?” Adam asked.

  “Certainly, this way.”

  Chapter 4

  Adam was deep in thought as they waited for a taxi outside the apartment.

  “You think he was killed and staged to look like suicide, don’t you?” Kat asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything at this stage. But it will be interesting to compare the writing in this note, with the ‘suicide note’ that Smyth left,” Adam replied as a taxi pulled up.

  “He left a suicide note?” Kat said.

  “Well, someone did.”

  They climbed into the back of the black cab, and Adam gave Kat’s office address to the driver.

  “Who found him?” Kat asked.

  “The cleaner. Smyth had been dead a day. Unfortunately, it seems she called the firm before the police,” Adam replied.

  “Really, how strange? Did she say why?”

  “That was what she’d been told to do by someone at the firm. Her English wasn’t good, and she was distraught, so the uniforms didn’t get much from her. We’ll need to interview her again.”

  “What happens now?” Kat asked.

  “Well, I’ll drop this off with the crime scene team for analysis, and then I thought I’d head over to Credit Investment Partners. It’s time I introduced myself to Henry’s partners. They were unavailable when I was there a couple of days ago looking into the circumstances surrounding the security guard’s death.”

  “Can I come?” Kat asked. “It might help with my report for DI Greenwood if I had a feel for the other people involved.”

  Adam hesitated for a moment and considered her suggestion, then smiled. “Why not? Sorry, mate,” he called to the driver. “We have a change of destination. London Wall.”

  The driver pulled over and swung the taxi around.

  “How did the security guard die?” Kat asked.

  “Broken neck. He appears to have fallen to his death from the second floor.”

  “Appears?”

  “There are some anomalies that we’re following up.”

  Several minutes later, the taxi dropped them outside a shiny glass-fronted tower. Kat craned her neck to look up. The structure was modern and sleek, nestled between two other towers, one with a three-story nineteenth-century façade, the other an ugly 1960s building, which was in desperate need of refurbishment. Above the revolving glass doors, the name ‘Capital Investment Partners’ stood out in tall silver lettering.

  They walked through the entrance into the busy foyer. Groups of people sipping take-out coffee purchased from the small café by the front window, gathered around the clusters of comfortable chairs dotted about the space. A collection of tall indoor plants with shiny leaves separated the seating areas from the reception desk and the elevators. A four-level atrium surrounded the ground floor on three sides, and Kat looked up to the second floor and shivered. No one could have survived a fall onto the marble floor.

  Adam strode to the security desk, pulling his warrant card from his jacket’s inside pocket to identify himself.

  “I’m here to see Roger Chen, Mary McFarlane, and Eduardo Diaz,” he said to the attractive young woman wearing a smart black jacket, a headset and mouthpiece, seated behind a tall counter.

  “Hello again, officer,” the receptionist said, smiling. “As I told you the other day, you need to make an appointment to see the partners; they are b
usy people.”

  Adam shook his head. “Not this time. Tell them it’s regarding the murder of Henry Smyth,” he said.

  The low-level hum of chatter from those in the foyer ceased. Kat felt, rather than saw, heads swing in their direction.

  The receptionist looked shaken. “One moment, please.” She spoke into her headset in a soft voice.

  She looked up at Adam a few seconds later. “They will see you now. The eighth floor,” she said, pointing towards a bank of glass-fronted elevators.

  “Thank you.” Adam flashed a smile.

  Kat followed him to the lifts very aware of the attention that they had attracted. She slipped her left hand into her pocket, then checked herself and pulled it out again.

  “You certainly know how to make an entrance,” Kat murmured as she followed him into the lift.

  The doors closed and the lift rose at speed to the eighth floor. An efficient looking woman with a hawk-like nose and her hair pulled into a tight bun waited to greet them.

  “I’m Avery Willis, Mr. Chen’s executive assistant. This way, please,” she said.

  She ushered Adam and Kat into a large meeting room with opaque internal walls and windows with a view over London Wall to the building opposite. The end wall contained a bank of computer screens displaying all manner of financial indices, and directly opposite was a large painting which Kat could only assume was a Banksy original. Two men and a woman, all dressed in immaculate expensive-looking business suits, were gathered around an oval-shaped polished wooden table. They broke from their conversation and looked up at the newcomers, their expressions displaying displeasure at being disturbed. The atmosphere was tense.

  Avery Willis retreated, and the door closed behind them with a soft click.

  “Mr. Chen, Ms. McFarlane, Mr. Diaz, thank you for seeing us at short notice,” Adam said.

  “DS Jackson and ah…” Mary McFarlane, seated on the far side of the table, began. She had the willowy figure of a fashion model, and her shoulder-length dark hair was styled into a long straight bob.

  “Kat Munro.” Kat filled the silence.

  “Now, here, what’s this murder nonsense? I thought Smyth topped himself?” Chen said, his public school voice sounding indignant. He shot his cuffs and leaned back in his chair. A pair of square black-framed glasses perched on his nose gave him an intellectual air.

  Eduardo Diaz, mid-thirties, bald with a ruggedly handsome face, was studying them with a poorly disguised look of contempt. “’e did, Rog, that suggestion was just a ploy to get in here unannounced.”

  “Not entirely,” Adam replied. “New evidence has come to light, suggesting Mr. Smyth may not have taken his own life.”

  “What evidence?” Diaz demanded as he shoved back his chair and stood. Kat watched him walk over to the window, intrigued. His East End accent was at odds with his otherwise glamorous image.

  “We’re not at liberty to disclose anything further at this point in the investigation,” Adam replied.

  “Is there anything that we can do to assist?” Mary McFarlane asked, smiling at Adam. Her eyes flicked over Kat from top to toe, and Kat felt herself bristle under the assessing gaze. McFarlane removed her blue-framed spectacles and placed them on top of a pile of papers on the table, looking at Adam expectantly.

  Adam pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Could you all confirm your whereabouts on Monday evening between eight p.m. and midnight?”

  “You’re not suggesting…,” Diaz said.

  “I had dinner with Joey Martin, the actor and we went to the theatre. A large number of people saw us there,” Chen replied, giving Diaz a pointed look.

  McFarlane gave a saccharine smile. “And I was with the director of the London Wall Gallery finalizing details for the opening night gala we’re hosting this week.” Adam nodded and turned to Diaz. “And where were you?”

  “I was working out at my gym on Cannon Street,” Diaz said. “Really, is this necessary?”

  “Until midnight?”

  He nodded. “Their access system will confirm it.”

  Kat watched as Adam raised an eyebrow while he scribbled in his notebook. “We understand that someone from the firm entered Mr. Smyth’s apartment shortly after his death and removed his laptop and other property.”

  McFarlane shrugged. “That would have been our head of security. It’s the standard operating procedure to secure confidential information in an unfortunate situation such as this.”

  “We’re going to need that laptop and anything that was taken,” Adam said.

  “I don’t think so,” Diaz said.

  “Tampering with evidence at a crime scene is an offence,” Adam said, his tone even and pleasant as though he were discussing the weather instead of a possible murder.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Chen replied for them all. “Where would you like it sent?”

  Adam looked to Kat, who pulled a business card from her bag and set it down on the table. “Address it for my attention.”

  “Now, was there anything else? We’re in the middle of an important management meeting,” Diaz said. He hadn’t moved from his position leaning against the windowsill and continued to scowl at them. “Smyth has left us with a bit of a gap.”

  “Actually, there was one other thing. The night your security guard, Andreas Popov, was killed, records show that someone accessed the building through the first basement parking garage stairwell. Who parks on that level?” Adam asked.

  “Partners and senior management,” Chen replied. “It’s normally locked by a security gate, with swipe access, but vandals broke it last week. You lot haven’t found out who it was yet.”

  Kat opened her mouth to ask a question, but Chen held up his hand.

  “And before you ask, there is no CCTV footage.”

  “So it’s possible that whoever killed Mr. Popov entered or left the building through a stairwell that leads to that level,” Adam countered.

  The partners exchanged glances.

  “We’ll need to take a look,” Adam said.

  “The security desk in the lobby will show you,” Chen said. “Now, if that’s all, we need to get back to our meeting.”

  “That’s all for now, but please continue to make yourselves available. We may need to speak with each of you again,” Adam said, dropping his calling card on the table beside Kat’s business card. “In the meantime, if you think of anything relevant, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

  ***

  Adam and Kat handed in their security passes at the reception desk and retraced their steps across the foyer.

  “I thought we were going to check out the basement parking,” Kat said.

  “We are, I just wanted to remind myself of something first,” he said, standing just inside the revolving glass doors and looking up to the second floor of the atrium. He walked beneath the overhang and stopped, looking up again, before nodding to himself.

  “Is that where Mr. Popov fell?” Kat asked.

  “Yeah,” Adam said and strode back across the lobby to the reception desk.

  “I need access to the B1 parking garage,” Adam said to the receptionist.

  “Certainly, officer,” she said, standing and leading them behind the bank of elevators to a door. She held a card hanging from a lanyard around her neck against an electronic reader, and the door popped open. “The gate to the street is damaged, and the engineers are coming today to repair it. The green exit button there will reopen this door when you’re finished.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kat and Adam took the stairs down to the first basement level. The door at the bottom of the stairwell was ajar. They entered a parking garage with a low ceiling, filled with expensive late model cars. Adam glanced around, letting out a low whistle of admiration. He turned and walked to the far end, reading the nameplates on the wall behind each car. He walked back to where Kat waited as the overhead lights flickered and died, plunging the space into a dusk-like gloom. A wedge of li
ght showed at the far end coming from the direction of the exit ramp.

  “Really? They chose now to fail,” Kat said, fumbling in her bag for her phone, but Adam was quicker and illuminated the flashlight app on his phone. He shone it towards her to help. A shadow moved behind him at speed.

  “Look out, Adam,” Kat exclaimed as Adam staggered forward, reeling from a blow to the back of his head. She reached out to catch him as he lurched towards her, but someone grabbed her arms from behind, and Adam fell. His phone clattered to the ground, the flashlight illuminating one side of the garage. Adam grunted as a heavy work boot slammed into his side.

  Kat reacted on instinct and slammed the heel of her shoe back into the shin of her captor. He grunted in pain and released her. She swung around as the man lunged toward her, reaching for her arms again. Instead of running away, she stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him towards her. She slammed her knee into his groin. Her attacker doubled over as the overhead lights flickered once again. The man howled in pain, raising his head in time for Kat to smash the palm of her right hand onto the underside of his nose, forcing his head backwards. There was a loud crunch, and blood started pouring from it.

  The man spluttered, holding his nose and backing away.

  Kat turned her attention to the man laying into Adam. He was massive, wearing a beanie, black t-shirt and scruffy jeans.

  “Hey,” she shouted.

  He turned to her with a sneer and pulled a knife from his belt.

  Kat planted both feet and readied herself. The man rushed forward, jabbing the knife towards her as she raised her left arm to block his thrust. The knife hit her prosthetic hand with a thud. The man’s eyes widened. Kat took advantage of his momentary surprise and twisted, kicking up and out with her right leg, landing a solid blow in his abdomen. He grunted at the impact and staggered back a step. Kat spun and followed through with her left hand, bringing the prosthesis down hard on the hand holding the knife, knocking it from the man’s grip. It clattered as it hit the ground and skidded under a nearby car.

  Kat bounced on her toes, readying herself for the next onslaught. Sure enough, the man roared as he charged at her. Kat waited until the last possible second to move. She stepped aside and lashed out with her leg, catching him on his thigh with her foot. His leg buckled and he went down on one knee before rolling back up onto his feet. Kat continued bouncing, waiting for his next move.