Corpse in Waiting

by Margaret Duffy

  I was looking for photos of Irma, as we knew what she looked like, and also anyone who might be Imelda. There were none that could be described as family pictures, just a couple of framed snaps of temples. Then I discovered a professional portrait of a small group of young people taken on their graduation day but it was impossible to identify any of them as the women in whom we were interested.

  In the bedroom the bed was as good as a four-poster, only eastern-style, the whole thing swathed, festooned and swagged in heavy gold and crimson brocade that must have necessitated the wearing of dark glasses when the sun was shining on it. I had an idea this would never be allowed as the curtains, also heavy fabric, were almost closed giving the room a kind of phoney exotic feel like the inside of a fortune-teller’s tent. I was still looking for photographs and found one on a bedside table.

  ‘Here’s something,’ I called, only quietly. And, when Patrick had arrived, ‘I only had a quick look at the mugshot of Martino Capelli but if this man isn’t him I’ll take up knitting dishcloths for a living.’

  And with that, the dragon breathing red- and yellow-painted wooden flames in one corner of the room fired a shot at us.

  It missed, the bullet thunking into the padded headboard of the bed. It is unnecessary to report that we had both dived to the floor.

  ‘I did wonder about the apparent absence of a security system,’ Patrick muttered from somewhere on the other side of the king-sized monstrosity. ‘Silenced too. Please stay completely still where you are while I take a look at it.’

  Scuffling noises followed as he wriggled across the floor. Then, after a minute or two, there was a click and a soft thud.

  ‘Come and look at this.’

  The firing mechanism lay on the carpet, Patrick examining the inside of the carved figure, a section of the lower part of the neck of which was open like a small door.

  ‘Very crude but effective,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘An illegal booby-trap device armed with a low calibre firearm married to a domestic infrared sensor that’s been adapted to have a fixed beam. Thank God neither of us crossed it when we first entered the room. Where’s that photo?’

  I retrieved it from where it had been knocked off the table.

  ‘That’s him,’ Patrick said succinctly. ‘Right, I suggest we wait until this female returns.’

  ‘SOCA isn’t supposed to be here,’ I reminded him.

  ‘SOCA isn’t going to be here,’ he replied and commenced to dig the bullet out of the headboard with one of the tiny tools on the ring with his set of lock-picking keys. ‘And please don’t roam around until I’ve given the rest of this place a proper once-over.’

  In this ex-soldier’s mind, of course, we were now on a war footing, and, the tiny missile soon consigned to an evidence bag in his pocket, Patrick commenced to prowl around the flat to look for evidence as well as more booby-traps. I did as instructed and stayed where I was. Having removed the rest of the live ammunition he had replaced the dragon’s innards but, glancing at it, I was half expecting it to do something else distinctly unfriendly. It had that look about it.

  ‘I’ve only got as far as the kitchen,’ he reported, coming back. ‘Five thousand US dollars in a drawer, six thousand euros in the fridge, all new, plus some small packets of what are probably drugs hidden under the rubbish bag in the bin. I’ll have a quick look in—’

  He stopped speaking when there was the sound of a key turning in a lock of the front door. Patrick immediately exited, motioning to me to follow and we went into the living room. This now being war I saw that his knife was now in his hand. With people who keep live-firing dragons you never know what to expect.

  A woman who must be Irma Burnside became framed in the doorway. In the split second before she saw us she had been smiling, the reason for this probably because she had company; two men of Italian appearance, one of whom, on seeing Patrick stopped dead, an expression of shocked recognition on his face.

  ‘I know you!’ he blared, pointing an accusing finger. ‘You were Kimberley Devlin’s bodyguard!’

  ‘So I was,’ Patrick said. ‘A little business I used to have. But I thought someone had done the planet a favour, Tony, and cut your throat.’

  Whether the man nudged the one with him I do not know but this individual made a grab under his jacket. He froze into stillness when Patrick sprang the blade of his knife, that ghastly metallic slicing sound.

  ‘You’re some kind of cop,’ said Capelli, eyeing Patrick warily. He gave his minder a murderous look that said too slow, too stupid, consider yourself fired. The man put the weapon away.

  ‘Don’t insult me,’ Patrick said heavily.

  ‘I saw you in the company of a man called Carrick in Scotland. He was a cop.’

  ‘Carrick was investigating you and your scam. I was looking after the Devlin woman and as you were her agent it was hardly surprising that we were all in the same place at the same time.’

  Capelli seemed to accept this explanation. He was a fat little man with smooth brown hair that looked as though it had been painted on. His face was lined where it was fixed into a permanent scowl and he had the shiftiest eyes I had ever seen this side of reptiles.

  I was sure Patrick would stir things up a little and did not have long to wait. In conversational tones he said, ‘Why do you employ such crap to protect you?’

  That was what he actually said. But I could only assume from the minder’s reaction to the remark that it was accompanied by another look intended for him alone that spoke reams about his parentage, sexual inclinations of the unspeakable variety plus anything else unspeakably insulting Patrick could think of, and knowing him, lots. A second later the gun was in the man’s hand, in another it was falling to the floor, the room resounding with screams of pain, the knife blade embedded in his hand.

  Patrick walked forward and, having applied a thoughtful general anaesthetic in the form of a swift chop to the side of the neck, pulled out the knife.

  ‘I am minded of Luigi,’ he said in a deathly whisper to Tony Capelli. ‘One of your previous minders. He was crap too. Remember him?’

  ‘You humiliated him,’ said Capelli through his teeth. ‘You trussed him up like a pig ready for the oven.’

  ‘He was lucky just to get an apple between his teeth instead of being roasted. I told you that if you sent him in my direction again I would kill him. So you sent him after Carrick and his fiancée was shot instead. I killed him before he could fire again – and hit me.’

  ‘The police shot him.’

  ‘Wrong. I shot him. I took a police rifle and killed him before making my escape. The police were stupid and hadn’t set up road blocks and that was how Luigi had got through.’

  The woman found her voice. ‘What the hell are you doing in my home?’ she yelled furiously.

  Patrick looked her up and down. ‘I take it you’re Irma Burnside.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’ve a contract to take out Martino and decided to look you up first to get any information about him you might have.’

  Irma, who had gone blonde since her mugshot was taken, did not appear to find this strange, transferring her attention to me. ‘And her?’

  Busy looking stupid, I was given a leery smile. ‘She brings me luck.’

  ‘She must do. I don’t know why you didn’t trigger any of the security devices.’

  ‘Darling, I’m hungry,’ I whined. ‘And these people are so boring.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said my husband peaceably. The blooded knife blade was pointed in Irma’s direction with a gesture that was more than faintly obscene. ‘When’s Martino due out then?’

  ‘Soon,’ she replied scornfully. ‘But I don’t care. Kill him if you want to. He means nothing to me now I have Tony.’

  Patrick beamed upon Capelli, who was simmering gently. ‘Pinched your cousin’s girl then? That’s no surprise.’ And to the woman, ‘Will he come here?’

  ‘God knows. Now get out.’

  ‘All the us
ual networks are buzzing with news of a big job planned from inside. What’s that all about then?’

  Irma hesitated and glanced across at Capelli causing me to wonder whether there was no love lost between the two cousins and one would be only too ready to sell the other down the river.

  Having received no guidance, Irma shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I’d rather stay alive, thank you.’

  ‘It must be going to happen soon if he’s due to be released before too long and the idea is that whatever it is it can’t possibly be his fault as he’s still banged up. Actually, that’s pretty naive – the cops aren’t stupid. Everyone knows that big-time crooks are using smuggled interactive games consoles to get coded messages out in chat room facilities.’

  The two exchanged worried glances.

  ‘You’re a marked man,’ Capelli said to Patrick.

  ‘You always did sound like a Mafia B-movie,’ he was told as we took the opportunity to leave.

  EIGHT

  ‘That was pure revenge,’ I admonished gently when we were on our way back to SOCA’s HQ. ‘Although I know you needed to keep the upper hand.’

  I was given a cool smile. ‘Thicko won’t be handling any kind of weapon for a while though, will he?’

  And I had accused him of losing his edge. Perhaps I was losing mine. ‘I reckon Capelli swallowed your story.’

  ‘Yes, we might be lucky there. But surely the man’s assumed a new identity or he wouldn’t have been able to get back into the UK. He’s still wanted in connection with the Scottish case. I must phone James and give him the good news.’

  ‘Otherwise though . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ve done what I was ordered to. Irma exists. She’s hanging out with those who ought to be detained, helping with enquiries, but aren’t. End of story. You know,’ Patrick went on reflectively. ‘I might just take out Martino anyway.’

  I knew from the way he spoke that he was only joking. But there was a trace of wistfulness in there somewhere.

  ‘You don’t enjoy killing people,’ I probed.

  ‘No, of course not. It’s the planning, the tracking down, the fine weapon to hand, the outwitting of someone who employs vigilant and vicious armed minders and is responsible for the murders of innocent people and for various reasons has never been brought to court.’

  ‘You’ve done it!’ I gasped.

  ‘In Northern Ireland and elsewhere,’ Patrick admitted. ‘I’ve never quite got round to telling you. Forbidden ever to talk about it actually.’

  I knew it had gone on but . . .

  ‘We didn’t find out about this big job, which is a pity,’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘D’you feel badly about me because of it?’

  I risked taking my eyes off the traffic for a quick glance in his direction. ‘No. Soldiers are ordered to do all kinds of things.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Have you told your father?’

  ‘I had to. Because of—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain to me. What did he say?’

  ‘Almost exactly the same as you just have.’

  ‘I think because of what he is we must regard him as the protector of your conscience.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Patrick whispered.

  Commander Greenway was just leaving his outer office but did an abrupt U-turn when he saw us. ‘Well?’ he barked when the three of us were in the room and the door behind us was still shivering in its frame.

  No doubt all army officers are familiar with having to present a thirty-word report to grumpy superiors with catastrophically low blood-sugar. Patrick rattled one off now, standing to attention and providing the full stop by clicking his heels together. It had the desired effect: Greenway roared with laughter.

  Patrick took the evidence bag with the tiny bullet in it from his pocket. ‘I don’t know what you’re going to do with this but I’ve brought it anyway. Plenty of money and packets of what are probably drugs in the flat. I’d like to know what Tony Capelli’s game is and how long he’s been in this country. Irma’s not a particularly attractive woman so I can only assume that he’s using her to close in on his cousin’s empire with a view to taking that over as well. I’m afraid we didn’t manage to find out what the big job is.’

  Greenway brooded for a few seconds and then said, ‘I don’t really want to disturb that rats’ nest until a little more intelligence is forthcoming but I’d dearly like to pick the woman up and try and find out what she knows. It might save lives. Did you tell her that her sister’s dead?’

  ‘No. Why would a hit-man care? Besides, reports of such a gruesome killing must have been in all the national media.’

  ‘Good.’ With a rueful smile Greenway added, ‘I don’t usually have time to read the papers or watch television either.’

  I wondered, if David Bennett was telling the truth, if Imelda really had sent the letter to inform him that she had gone to live with her sister. What if she had gone off to London and got caught up in her life of crime? Had she threatened to inform the police about something she had discovered and paid a terrible price?

  ‘I’ll bring the Met up to date with this first thing tomorrow,’ Greenway went on, dashing out a reminder to himself on a pad on his desk and then lobbing the whole thing into a drawer and locking it. ‘Now, I’m off home before anyone thinks of anything else I ought to be doing. It’s my wife’s birthday and I’m taking her out to dinner.’

  ‘I’ll report for further orders in the morning then,’ Patrick said impassively as we moved to leave.

  ‘Do that. And tonight take Ingrid out too. You can put it on expenses. Oh, which Force wants to get Tony Capelli by the short hairs?’

  ‘Strathclyde police has more than a passing interest but this scam he had of importing foreign hoodlums for cash was actually based at Castle Stalker near Inverness. That’s in Northern Constabulary’s territory. James Carrick has more info than I do.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll give him a bell. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Capelli’s odious,’ I said with feeling as we were getting ready to go out, obeying orders, naturally. No doubt Greenway had been delighted that he had the answer to the Irma Burnside question so quickly. ‘But you know that, you’ve met him already.’

  Patrick glanced at me knowingly from perfecting the knot in his tie in a mirror. ‘I’ve been a marked man for a large proportion of my life. But I don’t think he’ll be in any rush to tangle with me again.’

  His mobile rang.

  ‘I’m in London,’ he said to whoever it was. ‘No, you can’t, I’m working . . . Yes, she is . . . No, sorry, it’s nothing to do with me, it’s DCI Carrick’s case . . . Yes, I know he’s a friend of mine but— No, sorry, I can’t do that . . . Yes, I know we have . . . OK . . . Bye.’

  ‘Alex?’ I queried.

  ‘Yes. She wants to get into the house on Lansdown with a builder. Carrick won’t let her have entry as the place is still a crime scene. She seemed to think I ought to be able to make him change his mind.’

  ‘But it’s nothing to do with changes of mind!’ I exclaimed. ‘The house is a crime scene.’ The house was hers then.

  ‘I know, but it probably won’t be for all that much longer.’

  I was pondering the reply, ‘No, you can’t, I’m working.’ She had wanted to come to London and had then asked if I was with him. But what about, ‘Yes, I know we have’?

  Things in common?

  Memories to share?

  A date next week?

  ‘You’re looking at me as though I’m a slug on one of your plants,’ Patrick complained.

  ‘I’m not,’ I protested, having been completely unaware of the fact. ‘Just . . . thinking.’

  He trilled, ‘Darling, I’m hungry. And these people are so boring.’

  Giggling, we went out.

  We had just been shown to a table in an Italian restaurant when Patrick had a call from James Carrick. Despite Patrick insisti
ng that he never minds talking shop their conversation was of short duration when the DCI discovered that we were having an evening out.

  ‘Bennett’s admitted that Imelda did stay longer at his aunt’s house than he wanted and they had a couple of rows about it but is emphatically denying having anything to do with her death,’ Patrick reported. ‘There’s more James wants to tell me and I’m going to phone him in the morning. But at least he now knows the exact identity of the murder victim.’

  ‘If the woman in Romford really is Irma,’ I observed lightly. ‘She didn’t look much like the mugshot.’

  ‘I shall make sure you have boiled squid with a double helping of eyeballs if you start saying things like that.’

  ‘Perhaps Capelli and Co killed Irma, or Imelda, for whatever reason, then installed another woman in her place.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Heaven knows. To conceal the murder perhaps. I’m only doing my oracle thing.’

  ‘Please switch it off for a few hours,’ he begged.

  ‘Martino will know whether it’s her or not when they let him out of prison,’ I persisted.

  Neither of us spoke for a short time while we perused our menus. Then Patrick said, ‘She was quite happy for me to top him.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘They might be planning to top him when he gets out and before he discovers the truth.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘And scoop all the dosh from this heist, or whatever he’s planning from behind bars, having already decided to take over the entire crime empire.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘I might trot that theory past Mike.’

  The Commander was very interested but restricted in what he could do. As he pointed out, ‘It’s not as though we can go and visit him in prison and warn him by saying we think something dodgy’s going on at home. I didn’t mention it before but a lot of work on the Met’s and our part has gone into planning to grab this lot red-handed. What used to be called snouts but now have to be referred to as CHIS, Covert Human Intelligence Sources, have been supplying snippets of information for quite a while. This is coming almost entirely from people who are connected in some way to those who work for Martino Capelli on the outside. There’s a lot of resentment. They haven’t been paid for months, there are violent, and loyal, characters who keep everyone in line with threats and punishment. A lot of people would like to see the big man in a pair of lead-lined Y-fronts being dropped off Tower Bridge.’