The men had liked each other from the outset, each well aware the other knew every score backwards and that there wasn’t going to be any need for explanations. Christopher Pennington, who was Basildon’s support officer, felt the same way about Anthony Bennett. Townsend’s aide was satisfied, too, although he’d tempered his initial enthusiasm about the benefits of the Bayswater murder. All four men wore single-breasted, waistcoated pinstripes that every professional villain recognized from fifty paces as the undesignated uniform of don’t-fuck-with-us detectives who’d heard every alibi and even invented a few themselves. They were confident men.
They’d met at the Yard to compare dossiers and because it was convenient for the taxi driver who’d come forward that day to say he’d picked up Beryl Simpkins and her third client. As an unnecessary reminder Christopher Pennington said, ‘I’ve never known a case where there’s been so much evidence in such a short time.’
‘I wish it led somewhere,’ complained his superior.
In the thirty-six hours since the discovery of Hargreaves’s body by his morning carer, AB group blood from the Bayswater hotel had been matched with droplets lifted close to the cats’ basket in Hargreaves’s living room. That was already undergoing DNA comparison, together with the black head and pubic hair found in both bathrooms and the semen and pubic hair from Beryl Simpkins’s mouth. Already fingerprints from both bathrooms and from one of the £50 notes from the hotel safe had been matched, although nothing had so far shown on fingerprint records in England, Europol or Interpol. For that reason they weren’t hopeful when they got the genetic string of an identity from Britain’s DNA bank of recorded sex offenders.
‘Imagine anyone doing that to a cat,’ protested Pennington. ‘Decapitating them and taking their eyes out like that!’
Both Townsend and Bennett, neither of whom knew that Pennington’s wife exhibited short-tailed Siamese, looked surprised.
‘Hargreaves was probably pissed off losing his head, too,’ said Basildon, impatiently. ‘We absolutely sure about the psychiatric hospitals?’
‘Total blank. Nothing that fits,’ insisted Bennett.
Pennington nodded in agreement.
‘There can’t be a connection between a £30-for-thirty-minutes slag and a shitty old-age pensioner, surely?’ mused Townsend.
‘We’re running all the antecedents we can find, on both of them,’ assured Pennington. ‘Absolutely nothing so far.’
They stopped at a knock on the door and the police artist escorted the taxi driver back into the room. Paul Stanswell was a fat, mottle-faced man whose hair receded to the middle of his head. The respectability of a suit, shirt and tie was spoiled by the two-toned red and white trainers. The detectives knew that Stanswell had dressed for his own self-orchestrated arrival press conference, posing for pictures, television and press interviews after telephoning the Press Association to announce the time he would be getting to New Scotland Yard. He sat now with his hands cupped across a sagging belly, a man sure of his sudden importance.
Stanswell’s drawing was of a lightly built, young-faced man with slightly protruding eyes and dark hair cut short at the crown but worn comparatively long at the back. There was no facial hair. It was a dark suit, with a muted tie against a white shirt. Down the side of the impression the artist had printed the physical description.
Townsend said, ‘You sure that’s him?’
‘Stake my life on it.’
‘The hotel clerk said he carried a satchel on his shoulder?’ reminded Townsend. ‘Thought it might contain sex aids.’
‘Don’t remember a satchel.’
‘You’d recognize him again?’ asked Bennett.
‘Guarantee it.’
‘You knew Beryl?’ said Townsend.
‘Picked her up a few times. That’s why I recognized her when I saw her picture in the paper.’
‘You run a lot of toms and their clients to hotels?’ asked Basildon, the questioning prepared.
‘I drive a cab. Customers flag me down.’
‘Paul!’ sighed Townsend. ‘Answer the fucking questions properly. We’re in a hurry.’
‘I’ve run a few around,’ conceded the man, deflated.
‘Since it’s happened, you heard anything about girls getting customers rougher than usual? Real kinky?’ asked Townsend.
The driver shook his head. ‘I know the word’s out, but no.’
‘You hear, you call me right away, OK?’ said Town-send.
‘You betcha life on it,’ promised Stanswell.
‘It’s other people’s lives we’re worried about,’ said Pennington.
After the man left the four detectives considered the drawing in silence for several minutes. Basildon said, ‘I’ve seen better.’
‘And worse,’ said Townsend. ‘It’s all we’ve got that’s new so I think we should issue it, keep the publicity going. You never know.’
The artist’s impression, together with the pavement interview with Paul Stanswell, was the second item on that night’s television news. Harold Taylor watched in the lounge of the Midhurst hotel, sipping brandy to help digest an uninteresting dinner. The resemblance was too vague – his eyes certainly didn’t protrude – and the item was too brief to be of any real concern but it would obviously be carried in the following morning’s newspapers, enabling much closer and more detailed study. And he’d thought a lot during the meal, contemplating something new.
‘I hope I’m not ringing too late,’ he apologized, when she answered the telephone. ‘We met this afternoon when you were pruning the hedge.’
‘I don’t go to bed early.’
‘I’m not particularly happy where I am. I wondered if I might book in with you tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’ She sounded pleased. ‘You haven’t asked how much.’
‘How much?’
‘How about £40?’
The hope reminded him of how Beryl had named her price in Shepherd Market. ‘Forty pounds is fine. You were wearing gardening gloves this afternoon?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Miss? Or Mrs?’
‘Janet,’ said the woman. ‘Janet Hibbs. Miss.’
‘Maurice,’ he supplied, deciding upon his favourite previous reincarnation, which he often did when he was enjoying himself. ‘Maurice Barkworth.’
He apologized to the hotel receptionist for having to cut short his stay and spent some further time getting her to list the best restaurants roughly within a twenty-mile radius. For that she accepted the £5 tip. He really was going to enjoy himself, Taylor decided.
‘For fuck’s sake, Wes!’ protested Harry Beddows. ‘Jethro Morrison Jnr has been cruising Birmingham for days, boasting about an FBI amnesty and giving the local PD the stiff middle finger! And then you pose on television drinking rum and being called Brother by the son-of-a-bitch!’
‘I was set up,’ accepted Powell. ‘First there is no general amnesty. Secondly I needed information in a hurry, I needed Junior’s co-operation to get it and I didn’t have time to argue about the cameras. If I’d tried, he would have thrown us out – on camera – and on balance I think we came out better the way I did it.’
‘The Birmingham Commissioner has complained to the Director,’ disclosed Beddows. ‘Word is that the local congressmen are going to get in on the act, as well. It’s always open season on the Bureau, you know that.’
‘I got what I wanted, when I wanted it,’ insisted Powell.
‘At a cost.’
‘Worth it,’ persisted Powell.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so? Or the Director doesn’t think so?’ demanded Powell, in open challenge. It had already been a frustrating day: Amy had made no progress in locating other likely victims and no-one had been able to come up with an acceptable suggestion for anything that had happened.
‘It’s the same,’ said Beddows. He paused. ‘We’re wide apart, aren’t we?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘That saddens me.’
Powell shrugged, disbelieving the man. ‘Things change. I guess I’m sorry, too.’
‘After what happened before and these complaints now – especially if we get some smart-ass congressman wanting home state headlines – I’m not going to be able to save you if this case doesn’t come out 101 per cent right.’
‘I don’t expect you to.’
‘Just wanted you to know.’
‘And now I do.’
In New York John Price, the agent in charge of the FBI’s Manhattan office, said, ‘I agree, Mr Durham. I think there are a lot of things my superiors in Washington would like to talk to you about.’
Chapter Fifteen
It was Powell’s conscious decision to go to New York to meet James Durham on the lawyer’s territory, on the man’s own terms, rather than have him come to theirs in Washington. They didn’t have enough – have anything – to bring Durham to them, so at the moment it was co-operation, not coercion time.
In the brief time available before the meeting towards which Powell was flying with an FBI attorney, Amy Halliday had discovered that James Durham was a retired criminal lawyer with a lifetime’s record of success, ability and respect on the New York circuit, the well earned holder during that time of every prestigious honorary office and position not just at state but on two occasions at federal level.
Additionally John Price, who was old and experienced enough to know the difference between shit and gold, judged Durham to be a frightened man who knew something important enough for it to be well worth an hour’s flight to find out what.
‘Impressive guy,’ assessed Brett Hordle, next to him on the shuttle, handing back what Amy had assembled. ‘American Bar Association maxima cum laude. I’m awed.’
‘If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be going myself to see him,’ said Powell, who didn’t get the impression that Hordle was awed about anything. ‘As of this morning we’ve had fifty-five calls from people positive they know who our serial killer is. Two say it’s aliens, collecting samples of earthly beings.’
‘The Director doesn’t like immunity deals,’ announced Hordle. ‘We think there’s a need here, I want us to discuss it first. No knee-jerk stuff, OK?’
Powell turned towards the other man. ‘No, I’m not sure it is OK. This is my case. If I think it’s worthwhile I’ll go for it.’
‘Those aren’t my instructions.’
‘How many immunities have you negotiated?’
‘Enough.’
‘How many with lawyers with Durham’s track record?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that we might only get one chance and I’m not going to risk blowing it seeking an adjournment. We’re into an investigation here, not a trial or an arraignment. I lead, you follow.’ The pause was intentional. ‘OK?’
‘I think I may have to talk with Washington before we meet Durham.’
‘I think that may be a good idea,’ said Powell. When the fuck was something going to go easy! Just easier would be enough.
‘I despise crooked lawyers: they’re the worst,’ announced Hordle. The FBI lawyer was a neatly dressed, meticulous man who’d marked his place as he read with a silver pencil. Sometimes he’d made notes with it on a yellow legal pad.
Powell sighed. ‘That’s our job, dealing with crooks. And sometimes that really is what we do. We deal, for the greater good. Durham came to us with something to offer. I want to know what that is. And I’m going to find out.’
‘He didn’t come to us voluntarily,’ cautioned the other man, with legal pedantry. ‘He got caught and told the DEA he wouldn’t talk to them without talking to us at the same time. We don’t even know how a drug enforcement agency is involved. This isn’t a one-shot meeting.’
‘The DEA is a situation that needs resolving,’ agreed Powell, impatiently. Along with several others, he thought. The Alabama senator had given lengthy complaining New York Times and local newspaper and television interviews about apparent FBI association with known criminals, and the Washington Post had that morning run a critical leading article. It would be good to have something – anything – that made sense, and infighting between government agencies helped no-one except a wandering serial killer.
‘It’s essential we have an agreed strategy, before we meet Durham,’ insisted the lawyer.
‘We going to play it softly, softly, until I give an indication otherwise,’ ruled Powell. ‘I need a friendly witness, not a hostile one. We need a break, a big one. There’s things about this that don’t have any logic, any sense.’
‘How desperate are we?’
‘As desperate as it gets,’ said Powell. Was he talking professionally or personally? As far as he was concerned the two were indivisible.
Powell had refused Price’s offer to meet them, choosing the quicker 53rd Street helicopter service. At the Bureau office Price said, ‘He’s dirty, obviously. Too clever to give me anything but this is a no-shit guy. Good front, but he’s flaky: the ice rattles a lot in his drink.’
‘What’s he given?’ demanded Hordle.
‘Only that he may know something that could help in the murder of General Marcus Carr. But won’t go any further than that until he meets a senior FBI representative as well as a Bureau lawyer with authority to accord legally binding undertakings.’ The Manhattan agent was a man past his prime sliding into carelessness. He was balding and dishevelled in yesterday’s shirt, the seat of his pants shining from wear. The lapels of his jacket were oddly curling in on themselves, the pockets sagged by the weight of hidden mysteries.
‘You tell him it’s an offence to withhold information material to a federal murder investigation?’ demanded Hordle.
Powell shifted uneasily. John Price looked at the lawyer with something close to astonishment. He said, ‘Sir, I was talking to a man with close to forty years’ experience of the American criminal system, state and federal. And I was trying to get a steer to what he had to offer us. No, I didn’t remind him of the law. I figured he knew that pretty much as it was.’
‘Softly, softly until I decide otherwise,’ reminded Powell. ‘Everyone clear on that?’
‘I have to see the law is properly observed here,’ persisted Brett Hordle.
‘And I have to find a serial killer as of this moment causing the Bureau a lot of heat,’ said Powell. ‘I want this taken as far as it will go – as far as I say it will go – before resorting to pressure and legal arguments. If that means bending the rules, I’ll bend the rules. And take all the responsibility for doing so.’
‘You try anything clever and Durham refuses to co-operate in court, where’s your prosecution?’ challenged the FBI lawyer.
‘We get our killer, we’ve already got enough forensic to put him away for a million years,’ said Powell. ‘All we need is where to look. We get that, I don’t give a damn about Durham or what he did.’ He looked at Price. ‘What’s the Drug Enforcement Administration got?’
‘Just the required notification from a Washington bank, under the 1970 Act, of a large deposit in favour of a new customer.’ He offered a Photostat of a cheque for $100,000 made out by James Durham to a Harold Taylor against a Washington bank. The holder’s address on it was Belmont, Virginia.
‘They seen him yet?’
‘He refused. Said he’d only talk to us. And mentioned General Carr.’
‘The DEA want involvement?’
‘I work closely with them sometimes,’ disclosed Price. ‘I said if there was any drug involvement, I’d bring them in straight away.’
‘Let’s go and find out,’ said Powell.
James Durham was flaky but doing his best to disguise it, apart from the size of the midday whisky. The ice really was rattling, very slightly. Everyone refused the lawyer’s offer to join him. Durham was an indulgently large man who perfectly fitted the opulence of his Park Avenue apartment. In normal circumstances Powell guessed the lawyer would have the condescension of a very self-satis
fied man: even now there were touches of it in the way he was offering seats and accepting introductions after the drinks refusal, trying to give the impression of a man in control of his surroundings and the people in it. His concentration was upon Brett Hordle, one lawyer trying to establish the mettle of another.
Formality, with the necessary reminder of the seriousness, Powell decided. He said, ‘I am the agent investigating the murder of General Carr, which is linked to two other killings. I understand you have information that is material to that investigation?’
Durham sipped his drink to cover the nervous swallow. ‘I think I have. But I want legal understanding between us.’
Brett Hordle shifted, but before the man could speak Powell said, ‘What understandings?’
‘I am in no way legally or criminally involved in these murders,’ insisted Durham, quickly.
Powell remained silent, willing the other men with him not to speak, either. Durham gulped at his drink.
‘I want that accepted, agreed, at the outset,’ the man added.
‘It’s very difficult to accept or agree anything,’ said Powell. ‘We’re here at your invitation, Mr Durham. Why should we imagine you’re in some way involved in a multiple homicide?’
Durham clattered his empty glass on to the table beside him. ‘I can possibly save the lives of others,’ he announced. ‘In return I want your legal guarantee that I will not be called or named in any subsequent prosecution. Nor will I be enjoined in any subsequent prosecution concerning these killings or on any other matters.’
‘That’s a very sweeping immunity,’ said Hordle, getting in ahead of Powell.
‘With every reason for your agreeing,’ said Durham. ‘You’re hunting a killer who has to be stopped.’
‘You know others he intends to kill?’ pressed Powell.
‘I think I might. I didn’t, at first. Now I think I do.’
‘Is the killer Harold Taylor, to whom you made out the cheque for $100,000?’
Return Page 14