Stealth

by Margaret Duffy

  ‘Um, but that’s a bit irrelevant these days,’ Patrick muttered and went into a reverie, in his mental ops room.

  I had begun noting down a few ideas for a new novel but having turned on my laptop to do a little more work on them I looked up Anthony Thomas on the internet instead. Understandably, or not, he did not have a website but as was usual the football club did. As well as lists of other officials there was one of the directors with his name included, each with a short profile. It stated that he had moved from Russia, where he had retired from acting four years previously, to promote boxing. He had come to London ‘to further his interests in sport’, and no doubt, I thought, to better line his pockets. There was no mention of a family. Other interests were listed as classical music, the theatre and going for long country walks.

  Did I believe a word of that hogwash? No. Did I think he had left Russia with the police in hot pursuit? Yes. In my heart of hearts was I sure that most of his earnings still came from crime? Natch.

  Greenway had already told us that the man ‘only’ had several convictions for speeding and non-payment of fines for the same offences. Frustratingly, as far as the police were concerned, was that his name had been mentioned by witnesses and suspects in several serious cases involving murder, extortion and drug-dealing. By the time these cases – which was where there was a link to the policeman under scrutiny – had come to court people had either changed their evidence, saying they had been mistaken, or failed to appear, two witnesses due to testify against men known to be in Thomas’s circle, including a couple of boxers, having gone missing. The body of one of these had been found floating in the Thames in similar fashion to that of Fred Duggan, the small-time mobster recently murdered.

  The commander had updated us on the investigations into the murders of the other two gang leaders and their ‘second-in-commands’: Tom Berry, or Jerry, thought to be in league with Duggan, and the illegal immigrant, known only as Rapla, who appeared to have had no dealings with them. There was not a lot to tell: the Met was cautiously treating the killings as one case and were already finding links between them, mostly in the shape of thugs for hire. So far there were no links to Anthony Thomas.

  Greenway had also given us the information that the investigation into Claudia Barton-Jones’s, Hamlyn’s girlfriend, expenses irregularities was now a police matter as larger sums of money than had first been realized were involved. She had been questioned but had been uncooperative and enquiries were continuing.

  SEVEN

  Fortunately, SOCA had Anthony Thomas’s Barnes address on file. We decided to go house-hunting, taking a camera.

  ‘How much are you looking to spend?’ drawled the toothy young woman in the estate agents.

  Patrick looked at me: he knows next to nothing about house prices.

  ‘Around a million,’ I told her. ‘And preferably near the common. Not too far from the railway station either.’

  ‘It helps, you know, if people have already spotted something they like online.’

  ‘We prefer to see places as they really are without funny lenses effects and artificial lighting,’ I retorted. Such superciliousness really does bring out the worst in me.

  This, obviously, was heresy but she bore with us more or less politely and delved into the drawer of a filing cabinet, finally handing over the particulars of five properties. ‘You can phone us if you want to have a look round any of them and we might be able to arrange it for this afternoon,’ she said in a manner that suggested such technology could well be beyond us.

  ‘Perhaps I should have worn my crown,’ Patrick said when we were outside. ‘Anything in the locality of Thomas’s place?’

  I had my London A–Z open at the page. ‘There’s one in the next road.’

  ‘Good, we can go and make sure there’s no other riff-raff living in the area.’ Patrick chuckled and walked off.

  ‘It’s the other way.’

  He paused to say over his shoulder, ‘I know, I had a look at the map before we came. But there’s a nice little baker’s shop over there with a board outside advertising sandwiches and coffee; it’s almost two thirty and we haven’t had any lunch.’

  Later, the property details prominently in my hand, we wandered along the road next to the one where Anthony Thomas’s house was situated. We then turned the corner at the end of the road, feigned interest in another house that had a For Sale notice outside with a different estate agent and then slowly wandered on until we approached the property in which we were really interested, also semi-detached. Patrick, I knew, was scanning the area with professional interest but there were no cars with anyone sitting in them parked nearby and, to me at least, nobody appeared to be watching from any of the houses opposite which were smaller and older, built in the thirties, I thought.

  ‘Perhaps no one’s here because he’s not here,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’m not sure about that yet. Put your street map away and we’ll call next door.’

  A man was in the front garden which was very, very tidy, the kind of place where every stray leaf, twig and creature that moved has been eradicated by the regular, and ruthless, use of a garden vac. There were no plants growing up the walls of the house and no spring flowers in the borders around the lawn, just bare, neatly-dug earth.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ Patrick said breezily in a plummy voice. ‘Sorry to bother you, old man, but can you tell us where Cavendish Road is? We’re looking to buy a house round here.’

  The man, who had been peering with distaste for any sign of misbehaviour at a tightly-clipped holly, shook his head. ‘Never heard of it, sorry.’

  Crestfallen, Patrick made a play of consulting the details. ‘Oh, stupid of me. That place is in Roehampton. Sorry to have bothered you.’ Then: ‘Perhaps I can pick your brains for a moment. We’ve been looking for a detached place. But are these semis solidly built? Do you hear your neighbours much through the party walls?’

  ‘They’re not very often there and I haven’t been aware of anyone for weeks, if not months, just the bloke who tidies the garden,’ said the man. ‘So that’s not much help to you. But all the property in this immediate area is good quality so I can’t see it being a problem – unless people start having loud parties, of course. But everyone’s very quiet and law-abiding. These gardens back on to the common too so it’s open ground behind with nice views.’

  ‘Are there rear gates to these properties with access to the common?’

  ‘Yes. Very handy for taking the dog for a walk.’

  We thanked him and left and I knew exactly where we were heading.

  ‘Not very often there, eh?’ Patrick said softly. ‘My guess is that he doesn’t live there at all except perhaps once in a blue moon and is more likely to be found not a stone’s throw from Wanstead Flats because that’s where all his hirelings hang out, so he can keep them all well screwed down.’

  His mobile rang. It was a very short call, from Greenway I guessed, during which Patrick mostly listened and said little.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he announced. ‘Hereward Trent has returned home – he was spotted by whoever it was from the Met who removed the crime scene tape from outside Miss Smythe’s house and checked that the back door had been repaired – and I’m to interview him immediately. Greenway doesn’t want us here any longer, especially as Thomas appears to be somewhere else. Not only that, he’s been in contact with someone he described as his mole at the Yard who told him Thomas’s place is being watched from a loft room in a house opposite. They must be rather bored so I think I’ll wave to them on the way back.’

  Which he did. Big smile too. I could almost hear the motorized camera shutters whirring.

  ‘Further anarchy?’ I suggested.

  ‘Splendid. What have you in mind?’

  ‘I’ll come with you when you talk to Trent.’

  ‘It was Mike who thought it a risk.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but your presence is always a plus.’

>   Yes, whether I am sober or not, he is a truly gorgeous man.

  ‘Any significant reasons why you want to be there?’ Patrick went on to ask.

  ‘I’ve a funny feeling about him, that’s all.’

  In the past these have paid off and he did not enquire further.

  ‘Mr Trent?’

  The man who had answered the door nodded brusquely without speaking.

  Patrick produced his warrant card and introduced us, just referring to me as his assistant. This is routine practice to avoid any possible repercussions or revenge against me personally should he happen to really upset a suspect, for example by threatening to screw their head off.

  ‘The police have already questioned us.’

  ‘There have been developments, sir. May we come in?’

  ‘Well, if you must . . .’

  Sumptuous was the word that immediately sprang into my mind as we walked on deep carpeting through the house to a large living room at the rear. Adjacent to it, through a wide archway, was a conservatory that appeared to be of almost equal proportions that contained ferns and palms in pots, a small fountain tinkling against a backdrop of orchids and more ferns in a raised pool in the right-hand corner.

  ‘You’d better sit down,’ said Trent, dropping into a four-seater sofa and frowning at us, one each. He was in his late forties, I guessed, smooth complexioned and had fair, thinning hair. Everything about him was as expensive and well-groomed as his house.

  ‘My assistant will take notes, if you don’t mind,’ Patrick murmured.

  The assistant had removed all her make-up, assumed a gormless expression and scragged her shoulder-length hair back into an untidy ponytail.

  Another curt nod.

  ‘I can tell you absolutely nothing about the death of my neighbour,’ Trent said tautly. ‘I’ve repeated this until I’m blue in the face.’

  ‘It would appear,’ Patrick said slowly, ‘that her killer might have taken a short cut through your back garden.’

  ‘Her killer?’

  ‘Yes, this is now a murder inquiry. Miss Smythe was strangled just before or after, most likely after, her fall down the stairs.’

  ‘That’s appalling – but I still can’t help you.’

  ‘There are security cameras out there. Did anything show up on those?’

  ‘I’ve already been asked that. They’re not working.’

  ‘Cast your mind back. Had your lawn been mown that day?’

  ‘We were on a skiing holiday in Klosters. Besides, I can’t possibly be expected to know things like that,’ the man protested.

  A crack appeared in Patrick’s urbane and cultured manner – actually his normal manner. ‘There must be a record kept so you know how much to pay whoever does it for you. Think.’

  Trent dropped his gaze and shrugged helplessly. Then he said, ‘Oh, that’s right, my wife, Sonya, notes down when the gardener’s due on the kitchen calendar. I’ll go and have a look.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It would appear that it was,’ Trent said when he returned very shortly afterwards.

  ‘It it a petrol or electric machine?’

  ‘Petrol.’

  ‘Do you happen to know if any oil leaked from it?’

  ‘I believe he phoned when we got back a couple of days later and my wife spoke to him about it not being quite right, but didn’t take much notice. That’s what you employ people for. Why?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to explain. I assume that your gardener would have mentioned it if oil had leaked from the machine on to your grass and he also would have had to obtain your permission before taking it away for attention.’

  ‘No, he brings his own tools and machinery. I hate being cluttered up with stuff like that.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me his name and phone number.’

  This was done, but with ill grace, Trent again having had to leave the room.

  ‘Is your wife at home?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she’s – er – with friends.’

  ‘And your daughters are with her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘They’ll have to go back to school on Monday, presumably, as it’ll be the end of the half-term holiday.’

  ‘Is it? I’m afraid I leave remembering that kind of thing to Sonya.’

  ‘Were you living here when the previous owners of Miss Smythe’s house were there?’

  ‘The Cuthbertsons. Yes, but they moved quite shortly afterwards. He was in the diplomatic service and was posted abroad or something like that.’

  ‘How disappointing for the children when he’d just had the tree house built for them.’

  Trent’s impatience was growing. ‘Yes, I suppose it must have been,’ he responded heavily.

  ‘Did your children play with them?’

  ‘I believe they did.’

  ‘But they weren’t allowed to go and see Miss Smythe.’

  ‘No, of course not. She did initially make it clear that they were welcome to play over there but you simply can’t be too careful these days.’

  ‘But she was a retired teacher.’

  ‘I really don’t see what this has to do with anything,’ Trent snapped.

  ‘And it’s just as well seeing the tree house collapsed when Miss Smythe was in it,’ I persevered. ‘They might have been seriously injured.’

  I caught Patrick’s eye and he said, ‘May we have a look at the garden?’

  ‘Carry on. The conservatory door’s not locked and you can let yourselves out afterwards. I won’t accompany you – I’ve work to do.’

  He left the room and an interior door slammed.

  ‘Other than indicating that he’s on edge and a lousy father what did that achieve?’ Patrick said when we out in the garden.

  ‘Greenway did tell you to tread lightly,’ I reminded him. ‘But I think Trent knew the tree house had been tampered with and that’s why the girls weren’t permitted to go over there. I reckon it was sabotaged shortly after Miss Smythe moved in and was spotted sitting up there reading and, anything dodgy going on then or not, he didn’t like being overlooked.’

  ‘Surely, all he’d had to do was ask her to put up a blind or curtain.’

  ‘You’re right, these are supposed to be intelligent people. It does rather point to him being really nervous about what was going on here. And then when nothing happened to the tree house after a while he, or someone else, might have gone over there one night and done a bit more sawing. Didn’t she say in one of her letters that she thought she’d heard someone in the garden one night and was scared Trent was out to silence her?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘He was a bit hesitant as to where his wife was too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I noticed that. Does any of what was said reinforce your funny feeling about him?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘No, not yet, as if I’m wrong I might completely throw the investigation.’

  We sauntered around generally, not sure if Trent was watching us. Then, when it might be assumed that he had become bored, Patrick walked the length of the boundary wall on the right-hand side, branches of the oak tree next door leaning over it. The wall was brick built and probably as old as the house. Various kinds of creepers were growing on it together with a couple of rambling roses of large proportions, a thornless one near the house, the second farther down.

  ‘Oil!’ I hissed when we were working our way towards the bottom of the garden.

  Patrick was a few yards away examining the wall as well as he could for the vegetation. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here, on the gravel path.’

  ‘Enough to take a sample of?’

  ‘There might be. But surely, mower oil’s mower oil.’

  ‘You never know with forensics these days. Do your best. And grab some blades of grass as well. We can go and get some samples off the machine afterwards to clinch it.’

  Thinking that grass wa
s grass too I nevertheless did as requested. We always carry small sample bags and gloves in our pockets when we are working.

  ‘Eureka,’ I heard Patrick say quietly. ‘Someone got caught up on thorns and holed their sweater. Near the top of the wall too, when they were climbing over it. Does your bag have a pair of tweezers in it?’

  ‘I’ve used them on my eyebrows – they’ll contaminate the sample.’

  ‘I’ll try and use them through the bag.’

  A couple of minutes of reaching up and muted swearing later he had what he wanted: several strands of navy-blue wool.

  ‘A scenes of crime team should have looked at neighbouring gardens,’ I remarked as we were finding our way out.

  ‘Resources, resources, resources,’ Patrick said, grimacing. ‘Yes, in an ideal world. And first of all, don’t forget, it was thought to be aggravated burglary. Who’s to say how long it’s been there? It might have happened when the tree house was sabotaged or be nothing to do with anything at all.’

  A little later we spoke to the gardener, by phone, who was working elsewhere in Richmond but with no useful results. He had taken the mower he had used on the Trent’s lawn to be repaired and they had drained out all the oil and stripped down the engine.

  ‘I shall just have to go and talk to a few leading mobsters and ask them if they’re paying protection money,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Would it be risky to ask Jane Grant first about her tall friend? I’m concerned that she’s in danger.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer to put that on hold at present. But, I agree, it is worrying.’

  ‘You are far too valuable to me to go off alone raking over the London underworld for info,’ Greenway said grimly.

  The argument had gone on for some time, Patrick laying out his reasons for the proposal, concisely and politely, just as he would have done in his military days. Rarely then would he had received such a completely negative reaction from a superior. But this was the police, not an army intelligence unit.

  ‘Look, we can’t just sit around waiting for someone else to be firebombed or clubbed to death,’ Patrick continued. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think you realize how this could escalate. If whoever’s behind these murders either kills or gets a real hold over crime barons you’re going to end up with a criminal empire to end all criminal empires as he’ll control everyone left standing and be anonymous and untouchable.’