‘I’ve done me time,’ he said. ‘And I ’aven’t done nothing else wrong since I came out.’
At that point an impressively burly uniformed officer accompanied by a female uniform were buzzed through the security door and came to stand beside Craig. The woman put her hand gently on his arm. ‘We’re just going to check you for weapons, Craig. Is that OK?’
‘What?’ He wasn’t used to people asking permission to do things to him.
‘We need to be sure you’re not carrying anything which could be used as a weapon.’
‘Go on, then.’ He put his arms out to the side and spread his legs. The male officer stepped forward and ran his hands swiftly and expertly over Craig’s body and limbs. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Come on lad, let’s get you into an interview room and then we’ll have a little chat.’
Having sampled a small amount of Sir David’s peaty Laphroaig and chatted with him about family and world affairs for half an hour, Swift eventually made his farewells and got behind the wheel of his car once more. Before firing the engine, he selected a CD of Haydn quartets which had come free with one of the big Sundays a while ago. He pushed the disc into the player and the music sprang out, its crispness lifting to the spirit, and in no way interfering with his thoughts on the interview with the amiable Sir David.
He tried to pick out the salient points, the issues to discuss later with Cat.
First of all, why had Harriet omitted any mention of Julian Roseborough in her account of the desert murder. Why omit something so crucial, something which was surely potentially helpful in pulling Brunswick out of the frame.
What role might Roseborough have taken in the murder of Christian? If any? And why?
What might Cat be able to tell him about Roseborough, who was apparently a friend of Jeremy?
He made a small sound of annoyance through his teeth. He could have done without that kind of connection turning up.
A call came through on his bluetooth. It was Ravi Stratton. She told him that Craig Titmus had reported to the station in Thirsk.
Swift disliked driving and talking even with the hands-off equipment. ‘Give me a minute, Ravi, I’ll park up and ring you back.’ He pulled into a conveniently near lay-by and turned off the engine. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he’s talking to the Thirsk CID now.’
‘Did he have anything of interest on him?’
‘Two hundred pounds in notes and a mobile phone. He told the front desk both the money and the phone belonged to Ruth Hartwell.’
‘Right. Can you get the IT team in Thirsk to access the details from the phone and send them on to us. And if there are any photographs, to e-mail them though to me right away.’
‘I’ve already asked the Thirsk team to get in one of the local probation officers to talk to Craig. Fix up some temporary accommodation in Thirsk if the station don’t think it’s necessary to keep him.’
‘Does it sound as though he’s likely to be charged with any offence?’
‘They didn’t say so. He has broken the terms of his licence, of course. He was supposed to report in to his probation officer earlier today.’
‘Right. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see how things pan out. Cross any shaky bridges when we come to them.’
‘How did your interview with the ambassador go?’ she asked.
‘It was interesting. I’d rather not talk on the phone, Ravi. I’ll get a report to you as soon as possible.’
Having cut the connection with Ravi Stratton, Swift punched in Cat’s mobile number.
She answered almost instantly. ‘Ed?’
‘How are things going?’
‘Not sure. I’ve seen Brunswick and I had one of those feelings that I was on the scent of something. And then I’ve been following up a hunch which seemed a bit interesting, but now I’m not so sure about that either.’ She laughed. ‘But I’m quite enjoying myself, anyway. You know, being on some sort of trail even if it’s not the right one. And London is so gloriously big and anonymous.’
He could hear the lift in her voice. Already she was coming round after Jeremy’s assault. And maybe enjoying the freedom of being fairly sure he wasn’t in the near vicinity.
‘Has Brunswick given you anything new?’
‘Contrary to what he told us earlier, he and Christian have been buddies in recent years. Drinking partners and so on. Harriet doesn’t join in, and probably doesn’t know.’
Swift’s mind raced. Christian, Brunswick, and Julian Roseborough all on a night out together. What had been going on between them? Both in the distant and the recent past? He decided not to mention David Colburn’s account of Roseborough to Cat at this stage. No need to cloud her day, as yet. That would come soon enough.
He told her about Craig and the hopefully significant discovery of the mobile phone. ‘Are you coming straight back?’ he asked. ‘Or taking some time out in Bond Street?’
‘What? On a DI’s salary? I’m thinking of buying a coffee and a sandwich and relaxing with a stroll along the Regents Canal.’
‘Really. Aren’t there more exciting sights to see?’
‘Time will tell. I’ll give you all the details when I see you. I’m aiming to get the 7.05 out of Kings Cross. Be back in Leeds just after nine.’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
‘No need.’ She was sounding so much brighter.
‘Yes there is,’ he said gently. Perhaps more for himself than for Cat.
At the Fox and Hounds Hotel on the north-west section of the Leeds ring road, Lynne, the chambermaid who looked after floor two, was getting a little worried about the state of Room 26. She hadn’t been able to get in there to tidy up and put out fresh towels that day. The Don’t Disturb notice had still been hung on the door handle at 10 a.m. this morning. And it was now at 6 p.m. in the evening and it had not been moved. At the Fox and Hounds they liked to continue the old-fashioned service of turning down the beds in the evening and ensuring that the fridge, the bar and the tea-making facilities were all topped up. She was keen to get all that done without delay.
She stared at the door for a few moments, then knocked on it with gentle fingers. ‘Room service,’ she called out, beginning to be concerned. She put her ear to the door. There was no sound. She turned the key in the lock and went in. At least she tried to go in. But there was an obstacle behind the door. She pushed hard, but the resistance was too great. Looking into the room she could see the figure of a man slumped on the carpet. He was fully dressed. neatly pressed grey trousers and a dark-green sweater. He even had his shoes on. He must have fallen forward when he fell, as his face was hidden from view. Around his head was a huge sticky halo of blood. Lynne’s hand flew to her mouth but she made no sound. She closed the door and went quickly downstairs to locate the manager.
When Swift arrived back in his office, he went straight to his computer and accessed his e-mails. The file from the IT department in the Thirsk station was the first he opened. He went straight to the section labelled camera storage. Scrolling down the screen he found some stills of the frontage of the London Canal Museum and further stills taken at different points along the towpath of the canal. And then there was a short video. The stills had been taken in the daylight, but the video was shot in fading evening light, making the quality of the picture grey and grainy. It appeared that the photographer had been on the move as he filmed, the images being subject to a degree of jerkiness. But the story told in the film was unmistakably chilling. A stumbling male figure was making his way down the towpath, his footsteps uncoordinated and tremulous. As he weaved his way along there were a number of occasions when he seemed dangerously near the edge of the water and about to topple in. And then, with one clear fluent movement, a man following drew alongside, stretched out his arm hand and simply tipped the drunk into the water with the pressure of his outstretched fingers. As the body slowly disappeared, the killer lingered to watch. He took out a cigarette and lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs as he surv
eyed his night’s work. His profile was in clear view, but in shadow. And then he suddenly turned and faced the camera head on, his body stiffening. At which point, the video came to a sudden end.
Swift’s nerves tingled as the grim narrative of Christian Hartwell’s death began to fall into place. He was pretty sure who the perpetrator was, but the film had been made at a distance and in half-light, and he needed further clarity. He rang through to Les Patterson, the station’s IT wizard, told him what he was looking at and requested a blow-up and a clarity enhancement as soon as possible.
Whilst he waited, he sat at his desk, trying to work out the detailed planning in the lead-up to Hartwell’s killing, assessing the killer’s motivation, and going on to speculate on the way in which he had chosen to implement his murderous requirements.
*
Cat made her way back towards King Cross on foot. She went into a smart-looking delicatessen and bought a prawn and avocado sandwich and a black filter coffee. By the time she reached the first access point to the Regents Canal she had already eaten the sandwich and was beginning to wish she had bought some fruit or a pastry to fill her up. She hadn’t eaten so far today and her stomach was beginning to complain. No worries, she would get something on the train. She crunched up the cardboard wrapping which had held her sandwich and put it in a bin. Sipping her coffee, she strolled along the towpath of the Regents Canal, passing the London Canal Museum and heading in the direction of Islington.
It was coming up to five o’clock and the towpath was quiet, apart from the occasional cyclist and one or two dog walkers. There was a slight aroma of vegetables coming off the water, making her keep away from the edge, to avoid any risk of falling in. The canal made its way through scrubby, dusty bushes, punctuated with occasional illustrated information boards giving details of the area, its history and its flora and fauna. Not far from the museum the terrain became richer and more verdant, almost parklike.
It would be no problem at all for an evil-doer to lurk without being seen, waiting for a suitable victim to appear. What could be easier and less detectable than tipping an unsuspecting, befuddled drunk into the canal? The only problem was to be sure you weren’t seen.
She knew she was simply chasing rainbows doing this small piece of informal detective work on the ‘Tipper’ case. It had nothing to do with her, and probably nothing to do with Christian Hartwell’s murder, either. And yet the image of the casual disposal of an unsuspecting victim with the flick of a wrist which had been used on Hartwell and the tipsy tramps was strangely compelling.
She continued her walk. Looking up and ahead she saw a Eurostar train racing away from St Pancras, sending faint vibrations through the ground beneath her feet as its wheels punished the bridge. Her thoughts moved on to returning to Yorkshire, to being met by Ed at the station. And a calm, steady happiness rolled through her.
Swift got a call to go down to Les Patterson’s room. When he got there he saw a remarkably well-defined, recognizable image of the canal killer’s face up on the screen of Les’s wide-screen laptop.
‘Good enough for you?’ Les asked.
‘Brilliant.’ Swift never failed to be impressed by the miracles Les performed.
‘Good looking chap,’ Les said. ‘Is he a villain? Looks like a bit of a toff to me.’
‘Close on both counts. He’s heir to the Roseborough supermarket chain.’
‘We don’t usually attract such exalted company,’ Les commented, not inclined to get overexcited by tales of the rich and famous.
‘Murder knows no social boundaries.’
‘So this guy murdered our Mr Christian Hartwell?’
‘Maybe not with his own hands,’ Swift said thoughtfully.
‘That’s toffs for you,’ Les said. ‘Cute enough to get some lowly minion to do the dirty work.’
‘Quite. And powerful enough to cause a lot of grief. Can you keep all this to yourself, Les? Just for the moment?’
‘I’ll take it to the grave, if you like,’ Les said.
‘I sincerely hope that won’t be necessary.’
Back in his office, Swift sat behind his desk and considered his options for moving forward on the case. But even greater than the need to make the right tactical decisions in gaining a conviction was the awareness that a number of people could be in serious danger and it was imperative to offer them the best protection he could.
It would appear that Julian Roseborough was a cold and calculating murderer, who perhaps regarded killing as some kind of sport. Except his targets were not grouse or foxes or stags, but human beings. David Colburn seemed convinced that Roseborough had been the perpetrator of Hugh Ross’s death. Moreover, the retired ambassador had hinted that not only had Roseborough killed once but that he was capable of more of the same.
He moved on to work with the hypothesis that Hartwell had had his suspicions aroused by Roseborough during his last visit to London. It seemed likely the two had been at the lap-dancing club together, and that Hartwell had been enjoying his hobby of recording interesting events on camera. Had Roseborough spotted this and objected? Or spotted it and been entertained? Was it possible Roseborough had dropped his guard and given Hartwell and Brunswick hints about his liking for flying near the sun. They had both known him in the past, would presumably both have had their suspicions about his role in the Hugh Ross incident. And were the three of them on an arranged boys’ night out, or had Hartwell and Brunswick simply bumped into Roseborough at the club?
If Roseborough had a network of henchmen and informers then he would be aware of the progress in finding the incriminating video on Christian Hartwell’s phone. Ruth Hartwell, as Christian’s named next of kin, had been first in the firing line, the one who had, perhaps, been kept under surveillance and had been seen visiting her solicitor and emerging from the interview carrying a large envelope. After which Mac the Knife had stepped in.
He made a mental note of the names of those currently in the line of fire regarding Roseborough’s need to get hold of the video, and also dispose of anyone who might talk in the future.
His list of targets ran as follows:
Ruth Hartwell
Charles Brunswick and Harriet Brunswick. Their son Jake who could be used as a lever.
Craig Titmus, who was potentially at even greater risk, as he had been seen by Mac the Knife who would realize he had access to pretty much everything in Ruth Hartwell’s house.
He laid down his pen for a moment. When he took it up again, he wrote:
Me and Cat.
Oh, definitely both of them were at risk. They were probably under the surveillance of one of Roseborough’s minions right now. Cat had been talking to Brunswick. And he, Swift, had been talking with Sir David Colburn and even worse was in possession of the vital information Roseborough was desperate to get his hands on. He put a ring round the word ‘Me’ and pencilled in a question mark and then words ‘target number one’.
After talking to David Colburn and before seeing the disturbing video starring Roseborough, it had been in Swift’s mind to phone Cat and ask her to go back to see Brunswick and press him on the issue of his and Harriet’s silence regarding Roseborough’s being a member of the field trip in Algeria.
But now the pressing issue was to get Cat back home and safe.
He rang her mobile.
‘Ed?’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the concourse at Kings Cross. Looking at the departure board along with a few thousand other people. My train’s listed as on time.’
It struck Swift that if Cat were one of his next of kin, he would be gripped with the dilemma as to whether or not to tell them of the possible danger they were in. And basically he felt exactly the same dilemma regarding Cat. But Cat was his colleague. She was an experienced officer. She was on the Hartwell case. He needed to brief her. He gave her a quick run-down on his interview with Sir David Colburn and of Craig’s appearance at the station in Thirsk. And then he apprised her of the contents
of the mobile phone which Craig had been carrying since the previous morning.
There was an intake of breath and a brief silence. The noise coming from the concourse came down the connection as a low, constant roar. ‘Did you get all that, Cat?’
‘You’re saying you have video footage of our rich friend tipping an old drunk into a canal?’
‘Correct.’
‘Have you a date for it?’
‘Five days before Hartwell was killed.’
‘Well, he’s sent at least one further drunk to his watery grave since then,’ she said. ‘In the Regents Canal just minutes away from where I am now. Same MO.’
‘What?’ He was stunned. He rapidly thought through all the implications surrounding Cat’s statement. ‘Look, Cat. I think we should finish this conversation. I think we’re both at risk. Possibly being followed. I just want you back here,’ he said. Sweat was dampening the back of his shirt.
‘OK.’ She matched his briskness. ‘You need to contact DI Wilton. He’s at the nick in Snowdon Place. I have to go. They’ve put the platform number up; there’s a stampede. If I don’t run like hell I’ll have to stand all the way to Wakefield. I’ll take care – and you make sure you do too.’
She was gone.
He went to Ravi Stratton’s office, but she had already left. Which, on balance, he was glad about. It gave him the freedom to authorize whatever he thought necessary. And to keep the explosive revelations of the last few hours between himself and Cat for a little longer.
Hoping to find DI Wilton still at work, he called up Snowdon Place station.
When he got through to Wilton, the inspector’s tones were curt and clipped. ‘How can I help, Chief Inspector?’
‘I think we might be able to help each other,’ Swift told him. He outlined the Hartwell case and gave a short but comprehensive account of the recent discoveries.
‘Let me just recap, sir,’ Wilton said, his tone now enlivened. ‘Basically you’re thinking that the guy who killed Hartwell is involved in the “Tipper” case.’
The Killing Club Page 21