17 - Death's Door

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘And confronted him?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She felt hurt by him, she felt betrayed, but she didn’t want a big scene. She simply told him that she didn’t love him, and that their relationship had run its course. She didn’t tell him that she knew who he was. She didn’t tell anyone except me, and eventually Stacey Gavin, when she discovered that Ballester had moved on to her.’

  ‘That explains a lot. It ties in exactly with what your mother told DCS McGuire and DI Steele.’

  ‘No doubt, but Mum never met the guy.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He never even knew about the relationship. Our father is old-fashioned. He may have cut and run from Yugoslavia when he saw what was going to happen there, but he retains the strict Orthodox values with which he was raised, and they definitely do not allow for his daughter living with a man to whom she is not married. No, my father never knew about it, or he would have put his foot down.’

  ‘Could it be, David,’ Montell asked gently, ‘that your father did know but chose to do nothing to avoid provoking a split with his daughter? As you’ve told us, you and he are estranged. Is it possible he couldn’t face being at odds with both his children, so he turned a blind eye?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, I promise you. Davor Boras sees everything.’

  Fifty-seven

  ‘Mags, love, I’m really sorry that this should happen, today of all bloody days, but the situation down here has developed in a way I didn’t anticipate. I’m waiting for some intelligence reports and then if I can find him there may be a man we need to call on. If I can, I’ll catch the last shuttle.’

  ‘Do you want me to pick you and Ray up?’

  ‘Hell, no, I’ll take a taxi. If I do make it I’ll be on my own. That smooth bastard Wilding’s made alternative arrangements, and as far as I can see they’re looking better by the minute. I promise, I’ll do my best to get home.’

  ‘Fine, just let me know; I’ll be in. As it happens I’m expecting a visitor in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bob Skinner. He called and asked me if he could visit to follow up something we spoke about yesterday. I’ll tell you what I can when you get back.’

  ‘What you can? What does that mean?’

  ‘You know the DCC, he also moves in mysterious ways. Love you.’

  ‘Me too. So long.’

  Steele flipped his Motorola shut to end the call, then opened it again and dialled his office, only to be surprised when the desk sergeant answered the call. ‘Where are my troops?’ he asked.

  ‘On enquiries, you might say, sir. They’d a visitor, a guy called Barnes, and they went out with him.’

  The inspector smiled. ‘Any excuse,’ he said, although he understood why the two constables would want to take Zrinka’s brother out of the depressing drabness of the office. He found the South African’s cellphone number in his directory and called it. ‘Are you still with Boras?’ he asked.

  ‘David? No, sir. Tarvil’s taking him up to the George Hotel and I’m walking back to the nick.’

  ‘He got our e-mail?’

  ‘Yes, boss; this morning, as soon as he got back from America. He got on the shuttle and came straight up.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Cut up about his sister as you’d expect, but helpful. He’s dead certain that his father had no idea about her and Padstow living together.’

  ‘That more or less confirms Barker’s story.’

  ‘David knew about it, though, and he knew who he was. Zrinka discovered his real identity, and told David, but she persuaded him to keep it from her parents. She didn’t want them upset.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. She might not have wanted her father to do anything drastic, either.’

  ‘Did you get something out of Barker, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Steele murmured. ‘We hold the mortgage on his soul. We’re just about to follow up his information.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Montell paused. ‘Just out of interest, sir, can you tell me if DS Wilding’s staying in London tonight?’

  ‘Yes, he is. Why?’

  ‘Bastard! I owe Tarvil and his wife a curry, thanks to him.’

  ‘I won’t tell Ray, or he’ll want the fucking poppadoms. Cheers.’

  ‘What was that about poppadoms?’ the sergeant asked.

  ’An “in” joke,’ Steele told him. ‘Doesn’t matter. Dražen Boras turned up in Edinburgh this afternoon; the lads have been babysitting him.’

  ‘Damn!’ said Becky Stallings. ‘I was hoping he’d come looking for you here. I’ve seen his picture in Hello! magazine; he’s a looker, and eligible, too.’

  ‘Detective inspectors don’t read Hello! do they?’ asked Wilding, with a hint of scorn.

  ‘Detective inspectors go to the dentist like everyone else,’ she replied, then looked towards her office door as it opened, and a black man in shirtsleeves handed her a folder.

  ‘Sorry about the delay, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’d to dig out the SIA duty officer to get this, but it’s finally come through.’

  ‘SIA?’

  ‘Security Industry Authority; they’re phasing in the licensing of security firms, and Aeron comes under their umbrella. That’s what they hold on them.’

  ‘I see; thanks, Wayne.’

  She opened the slim folder as he left, and scanned through the file within, reading as she went. ‘Aeron Security plc. Michael Spicer, aged fifty-two, chairman and CEO. Founded 1995, registered office and trading address seventeen Aeron Passage, NW1. A total of twenty employees, five administrative and clerical and the rest all holders of the appropriate SIA licences. No member of staff has a criminal record of any sort. Firm was among the first to seek licensing and met all criteria at the first time of asking. No complaints against Aeron have ever been registered with the SIA, and they are regarded as maintaining high professional standards.’

  ‘What about Spicer himself?’ Steele asked her.

  ‘According to this he has a military background. Good: Wayne’s found his private address and telephone number.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Van Dyke Terrace, Blackheath. Posh.’

  ‘Is it far away?’

  ‘We should do it in half an hour. Do you want to call first, to make sure he’s there?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Wilding interjected. ‘We’re assuming that he’s at home. Aeron’s a security business: its office is probably manned at weekends.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ The two Scots watched as she picked up her phone and dialled, then they listened. ‘Aeron Security? ... Ah, good, you do have somebody on duty. This is Detective Inspector Stallings, Metropolitan Police; something’s come up relating to a security issue we believe you were involved in. We’ve come into possession of some information, and want to cross-check it with you . . . No, I’m afraid I can’t do that: this is too sensitive to discuss over the phone. Who’s your managing director? . . . Pardon, I didn’t catch that . . . Mr Spicer, you say. I really think I have to speak to him . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.’

  Stallings put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We may be in luck.’ She removed it again; her face fell slightly. ‘He isn’t? Who’s in charge? . . . You’re the general manager, did you say, Mr Lemmon? In that case, we’ll speak to you, in Mr Spicer’s absence. We’ll be there inside twenty minutes, if the traffic permits . . . Okay, that’s excellent. I appreciate that.’

  She grinned at her visitor colleagues. ‘How about that, then? Come on, let’s commander a patrol car and turn up there like the Sweeney, with lights and sirens blazing. My job’s usually boring, dealing with white-collar crime; I miss the excitement.’

  The sergeant looked at her, pure admiration in his eyes. ‘You really are nuts, Becky, aren’t you?’

  She smiled back at him, and nodded. ‘Just a little.’

  Aeron Passage was hard to find, a side-street off a side-street, behind Euston railway station. The sirens were entirely unnecessary t
here, but Becky Stallings had them sound until the car drew up outside number seventeen, an ugly modern four-storey building. The company’s offices were on the first floor and so the three detectives used the stairs, rather than the lift.

  A middle-aged man was waiting in the reception area as they stepped inside. He was small and lean, with bags under his eyes. ‘What the hell was the noise about?’ he asked abruptly. His accent was strange, a little guttural.

  ‘It helps to clear traffic,’ Stallings replied cheerfully. ‘Are you Mr Walker Lemmon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She introduced the two Scots. ‘It’s really them who need to talk to you,’ she added. ‘I’m just the facilitator here.’

  Lemmon frowned. ‘Okay, but I don’t have a lot of time: Saturday’s a busy day for us. Come through to my office.’ He led the way into a small room at the back of the building. The window was open, but it still reeked of cigar smoke. Wilding sniffed theatrically; the man ignored him. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re involved in a multiple murder investigation in Scotland,’ said Steele. ‘You’ve probably heard about it. One of the victims was the daughter of a client of yours.’

  ‘We don’t discuss our clients . . . Inspector, was it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector, yes, and I’m not here to discuss anything. I’m here to ask you some specific questions and to obtain any information you might have that will assist my sergeant and me with our enquiries. We’ve been told that about three years ago you investigated a man who had become a nuisance to your client Mr Davor Boras, of Continental IT. You identified him as Daniel Ballester, a journalist, and delivered a dossier on him to Mr Boras.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Wait till I’m finished, please,’ Steele told him curtly. ‘We’re not clear on the instructions which Mr Boras gave your firm after that. However, it’s been suggested that you were told to persuade him to desist from making a nuisance of himself, but that when you went to do that, he’d disappeared.

  ‘Yesterday, Ballester was identified as the prime suspect in our enquiries, a man we were seeking under the assumed name of Dominic Padstow. We believe that before that you received further instructions from Mr Boras to trace Ballester. We need your co-operation, Mr Lemmon. We need all the information you have on this man.’

  ‘This is all conjecture,’ the general manager protested. ‘Why are you so sure this dossier exists?’

  ‘Our informant saw it.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘He has every reason to tell us the truth.’

  ‘Then get the dossier from Boras.’

  Steele shook his head. ‘That would be very difficult. He shredded his copy yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Lemmon asked.

  ‘This really is conjecture on our part,’ Wilding told him, with a casual smile, ‘but we reckon he was taking no chances of being accused of withholding information from the police investigating his daughter’s murder. Now we could, if we were so inclined, put a hundred officers on to searching through the Continental IT rubbish bins, and piecing together all the shredded paper, but actually, pal, we don’t need to, because we know that folder existed, we know what was in it, and we know your company provided it. What we want from you is quite simple: any new information you or your people might have dug up on where Ballester might be hiding.’

  Lemmon’s mouth twisted. ‘You have to understand this, Sergeant. This business delivers confidential services to its clients; that’s our stock-in-trade. Any information we possess belongs to the client, because he’s paid for it. A court can require us to disclose, so maybe you should go and get an order.’

  ‘Naw, that’s not how it works,’ Wilding retorted. ‘You have to understand this, pal. While you’re standing there spouting shite about clients and ethics in an industry that basically involves renting out muscle, a man we want for four murders is at liberty. If you make us go to court then we’ll do it.’ Lemmon’s eyes went to the impassive Steele.

  ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’ the sergeant barked, startling him and securing his renewed attention. ‘We’ll do it,’ he repeated, ‘but while we’re hauling a bad-tempered judge off the golf course, we’ll hold you in custody and we’ll fill this place with uniforms to make fucking sure . . . pardon my Scottish, Becky . . . that no information is destroyed or leaves this building. We might not be able to touch Boras, but we can fucking well touch you. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.’

  ‘Give me time to think about it,’ the man muttered.

  ‘You’ve got three seconds,’ Steele told him. ‘One, two, three. Right, Becky, who’s the nastiest judge you know?’

  ‘Okay!’ Lemmon shouted angrily. ‘I’ll co-operate.’

  ‘Then talk.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about this.’

  Steele glared down at the man; he stiffened, and seemed to become an inch or so taller, and, suddenly, menacing. ‘Now listen, chum . . .’

  ‘I don’t, honestly, not the detail. Mr Spicer always deals with Mr Boras personally. All I know is that he was contacted by him yesterday and after that he was very busy. Then, in the evening, he called him back. Today, just before midday, he had another call from Boras. When it was finished, he and Ivor, his personal assistant, left in a hurry.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No. All he said was that they’d be gone for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Is he contactable?’

  ‘Yes, if his phone’s switched on.’

  ‘Then call him,’ Steele ordered.

  The three officers watched as he took out a mobile and selected a number. ‘Mike,’ they heard him say, ‘it’s Walker. Something alarming has happened. The police are here, asking questions about Mr Boras.’

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ the Scot demanded. Tamely, Lemmon handed him the phone.

  ‘Mr Spicer,’ he began, ‘my name’s Steele; I’m a detective inspector from Edinburgh. I’ve just interviewed a well-placed informant, who has given me chapter and verse on your dealings with Davor Boras in respect of a man named Daniel Ballester, a suspect in an investigation on which I’m engaged. I require you to tell me where you are, where you’re headed, and what your instructions are.’

  ‘I’m not obliged to do any of that,’ said a terse voice, slightly distorted by the connection. Steele listened for background noise, but heard nothing he could identify.

  ‘I think you’ll find that you are. This is a homicide investigation, and I believe you have information I need. You either answer me or your colleague will give me the number of your vehicle, and within five minutes every police force in Britain will be on the lookout for you. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking, for a single moment, that I’m not serious about this.’

  ‘No,’ said Spicer. ‘I can tell that you are.’

  ‘Good. Now pull over so we can talk.’

  ‘I don’t have to; my colleague and I have just arrived at our destination.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘We’re in Northumberland, in a village called Wooler. We’ve discovered a possible location for Ballester. Last year his grandmother died, and left him her house; we’re just outside it. He’s been living here on and off, or somebody has; the telephone is still in his grandmother’s name, E. Maybole, and it’s been used recently.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Don’t ask, please.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll allow you that much. What’s the address?’

  ‘Hathaway House, Gallow Law.’

  ‘And you reported this to Boras?’

  ‘Yes. Yesterday evening.’

  ‘What instructions did he give you when he called you today?’

  ‘He told me to get up here and apprehend the man, if he’s here.’

  ‘Apprehend?’

  ‘Yes. He said that he wanted to hand him over to you personally.’


  ‘He instructed you to kidnap this man?’ Steele exclaimed.

  ‘To make a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘There’s a fine line between the two, but we’ll discuss that later. Where are you right now?

  ‘We’re overlooking Hathaway House.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Not much. There’s no sign of movement. However, there is smoke coming out of one of the chimneys.’

  ‘Describe the place, please.’

  ‘It’s more of a cottage than a house, built in a dip in the land. You can barely see it from the road. There’s a car in the driveway, a blue Suzuki saloon. I’ve used a contact to check the number. It’s registered to Ballester’s grandmother, but I reckon it’s been used recently because it’s splattered with mud. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Nothing. Keep the house under observation until police officers arrive. If Ballester leaves before, then do not let him see you, and do not confront him, repeat do not confront him: assume he is armed. If you have an opportunity, do your best to trail him, but from a distance, and call in his position and direction of travel to Northumbria police as soon as you can. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  Steele handed the phone back to Lemmon, and turned to Stallings. ‘Becky, could your air support unit get me up there?’

  ‘I’m sure they could, but it’ll take a formal request from further up the line than us.’

  Steele took out his own mobile and called Mario McGuire. ‘I need your muscle, sir,’ he told the head of CID, as he answered. Quickly he explained the situation.

  ‘Okay,’ the chief superintendent responded. ‘I’ll get you airborne. I’ll also alert Northumbria and get an armed-response team on station; you take command on arrival and run the operation. It’s your bus, Stevie, you drive it. While all that’s happening I’ll advise the fiscal that we might be on the edge of something. Who are you with down there?’

  ‘DI Becky Stallings, Charing Cross station.’

  ‘I’ll ask air support to liaise with her. I’ll tell them to get you up in the air as quickly as they can.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He ended the call and nodded to Stallings and Wilding. ‘Mario will make it work. We need to get somewhere that a chopper can land to pick us up.’