The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  'And of course they had the scholarship scheme,' Jimmy said.

  'Aye, clever that,' Frank said, 'because it wouldn't have worked if poorer kids were put off applying because of the cost. Actually Pete Burnside's got a smart wee lassie on his team at the moment called Yvonne Sharp who's got direct experience of it. She applied to them but didn't get taken on. Lovely girl, and pretty in her own way.'

  'But not a stand-out in the looks department I'm guessing,' Jill said.

  'No ma'am, and all the better for it in my opinion. But Chardonnay Clarke was a real beauty, and that's why she got the scholarship. Except there were strings attached.'

  'I can really sympathise,' Jimmy said, giving Maggie a hard look, 'being used as a sex object and all that.'

  Maggie laughed. 'Says Captain James Stewart in all modesty. But when I think about it, they probably weren't overtly told to have affairs or anything like that. My guess is they were just instructed to do what they needed to do to get information out of the clients they were placed with. And then of course, being so incredibly attractive, well it was inevitable that something might happen.'

  'Aye, I sort of agree,' Frank said, 'but maybe there was a bit more in the Luke Brown case. Remember, Belinda Milner was just a non-executive director there, so she wouldn't have been around at Alexia Life on a day to day basis.'

  'Yes, that's easily explained,' Maggie said. 'It was Greenway Mining that Morgan was interested in, not Alexia. So Luke would have been specifically instructed to get close to Belinda.'

  'But no one bargained on anyone falling in love,' Frank said. 'That's what happened with Chardonnay and Jeremy Hart. He was their top financial guy, and so he was right at the heart of HBB's takeover deal with the German bank. And it was that information that Morgan was desperate to get a hold of. The trouble was, Hart turned out be a decent guy and he was single too. Although he wasn't exactly Brad Pitt in the looks department he was kind and clever and she fell for him. And he fell for her too. So of course she was conflicted.'

  'I can imagine what happened next,' Maggie said. 'She begins to get uncomfortable about what she's doing and decides that enough is enough. She tells Morgan's team that there's not going to be any more info coming their way.'

  Frank nodded. 'It was worse than that I think. When she saw all the stress Jeremy was under after Morgan made his move, I believe she decided to blow the whistle on the whole thing, go public with it, and she told them that was what she was going to do.'

  'Right,' Jill said, 'so Morgan decided she had to be silenced. Just to protect his damn reputation I suppose.'

  'Aye, exactly ma'am. Wouldn't do if the big investment genius turns out to be a cheap con-artist, would it? But of course, he didn't do the killings himself, that goes without saying. That bit would have been subcontracted to person or persons unknown.'

  'And what about the other one. Luke, wasn't it?'

  'We don't know as much about that one ma'am. I think Belinda Milner was besotted with Luke, but I don't know if it was reciprocated. What we do know is that someone at Alexia found out about the affair and so Luke was quietly shovelled out the door. My guess is that Morgan then panicked and decided he'd better be shut up too, just in case he decided to blab.'

  'And you say there's no evidence linking the murders back to Morgan?' Jill asked.

  'I said that. Not unless Pete can catch up with the folks who shoved them in front of these trains and they're prepared to admit to being in his employ.'

  'And what about that woman who runs the agency? Fitzwilliam isn't it?'

  'Aye, well I'm ninety-nine percent certain that she wasn't involved in the killings, because you should have seen how she absolutely wet herself when we said she was looking at twenty-five years for conspiracy to murder. She knew that Morgan was using these kids, but that was as far as it went.'

  Maggie nodded. 'If you ignore the murders, it wasn't actually a crime what they were doing. Obviously it's going to trash Morgan's reputation if it all comes out, but he'll still have his billion quid in the bank.'

  'Morgan will deny knowing anything about it,' Frank said. 'I can tell you that right now.'

  'So why did you bring him in?' Jill asked.

  And then Maggie remembered the meeting, just two weeks ago, at the Brasenose offices.

  'Because he's not infallible Jill,' she said. 'Without realising it, he let it slip he knew about Chardonnay and Luke. I guess you thought he might make another mistake. Is that right Frank?'

  'Aye. Not exactly inspired detective work, is it?'

  But there was something else about that meeting, and it came to her and Jimmy at the same time. He got it out first.

  'It was us,' he said, looking at her in dismay. 'Do you remember, when we were bringing him up to speed on how we we're doing on the Justice for Greenway investigation?'

  'I know, I know.' She felt her heart crashing as the consequences of what they had done hit her properly for the first time. 'We told him about Liz and her big story. We told him she was going to reveal how he managed to find out about the problem with the cobalt ore.'

  'Aye,' Jimmy said ruefully, 'Morgan got it from Luke. And he got it from Belinda. That's what Liz meant by pillow talk.'

  Suddenly Jill Smart leapt to her feet, clenching her fists. 'Right, that's it,' she barked. 'Three murders with the same MO and Morgan's got a clear motive for all of them. I don't care what's happened to his bloody family. Bring him in.'

  'Pete's job,' Frank said, smiling broadly. 'I'll go and find him right now ma'am.' He swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  ◆◆◆

  Now the incident room fell into silence, a mood of quiet satisfaction pervading in anticipation of Aphrodite beginning to pick up pace. But for Maggie, a dense fog was beginning to clear and through the shimmering mist, she could see the road ahead. Four murders executed in an identical way, the killers placing their trust in a modus operandi that had proved its efficacy and reliability. And the murder of Rosie Morgan the exception that proved the rule. This time, there had been no attempt to dress the murder up as suicide. The people behind this one had a clear objective. Justice for Greenway, that justice being delivered by making Hugo Morgan suffer for the rest of his life. So was it with cruel deliberation they had chosen the same method as he himself had used to prevent three people tell their damning story, a chilling copy-cat killing designed to maximise his pain? But who knew about his connection to these killings? The case, if it could be called that, hadn't made the papers, so almost nobody knew that Morgan was suspected, apart from her, Jimmy and Frank. Except of course, for one other group of people. The killers.

  That just left one big unanswered question, a question that was currently conflicting with the crazy theory that was half-forming in her head. That picture of the girl Rosie was carrying in her handbag and that brochure. Where they hell did they fit?

  In her pocket, she felt the gentle vibration of her phone, set to silent. A message. From Robert Trelawney.

  I hear you've had a tough day. Dinner? Pick you up at eight xx.

  It was the last thing she wanted after the day she'd had, but Robert had some questions to answer, and she wanted to hear him answer them. It all depended on whether she could find a babysitter at such short notice.

  Luckily she had someone in mind. Two someones in fact.

  Chapter 27

  It was ridiculous behaviour from a grown man of forty-two years of age, he knew it was, skulking around like some stupid love-struck teenager. Pathetic. The Protection of Freedoms Act 2012 had a lot to say about it too and he should know, he'd been on the course. Officially, they didn't call it stalking but it amounted to the same thing. Following a person, watching or spying on them or forcing contact with the victim through any means, including social media. He didn't do social media but he could pretty much tick off the rest of the list. No bother at all.

  He had parked his car across the street from her house, about fifty metres further along so he couldn't be
seen from any of her windows. This was the fourth or fifth occasion in the last month that he done it, and if that didn't qualify as stalking, he didn't know what did, but what he was trying to achieve, he wasn't entirely sure. He was pretty sure she was still seeing that gallery owner, but he had no idea how serious it was. He'd seen him just once, about three weeks ago, when he called for her in his convertible Mercedes. She'd invited him in, but it was no more than five minutes later when they emerged, and that made Frank feel a bit better, because in his nightmares, he'd imagined her showering him in kisses then ripping off his shirt and dragging him upstairs to her bedroom. But you couldn't do all of that in five minutes, thank God.

  He'd already been parked up for three-quarters of an hour, inactive, but somewhere in an obscure recess of his confused mind he did have a plan. Tonight he was just going to get out of the car, walk up to her door, ring the bell, and when she opened it, he was simply going to tell her how he felt about her. How hard could that be? Hard enough to mean he hadn't been able to execute his master-plan on the previous four occasions he'd been sat there.

  It was a quiet street, a few cars passing from time to time, a couple of these on-line grocery delivery vans, and the odd person out walking their dogs, wrapped up to repel the early-evening drizzle. Sleepy suburbia, where nothing much happened. He glanced in his mirror and noticed a small van making its way down the street, slowing to a crawl every few yards before setting off again. Frank assumed the driver was checking house numbers to find the one he was looking for. As it passed him, he clocked the elaborate graphics stencilled on the side. Blooming Beautiful. Flowers for every occasion. Fifty yards on the other side of the road it pulled up, right outside her front door. A man got out, squat and broad, wearing a dark leather bomber jacket with a beanie hat pulled down tight on his head. He made his way to the back of the vehicle, opened the double doors and emerged with a large bouquet which from a distance looked almost as tall as he was. From that bloody gallery fella no doubt. He was obviously a smooth operator, worst luck. Women loved flowers, he knew that, and of course, if he was with her, he would buy her them every week. Some chance.

  The delivery guy scrutinised the label then, evidently satisfied, closed the doors, blipped the central locking and walked the few yards along the pavement to her gate, from where it was only three or four steps up to Maggie's front door. Frank watched as he rung the front bell and waited for her to respond. And then, with unfortunate timing, another van crept past his car, this time tall enough to obscure his view of the door. And when it was once again clear, the man was not there. A bit strange he thought, but then maybe she'd asked him to bring them through to the kitchen whilst she looked for a vase big enough to hold them. He should be back out in a couple of minutes, no worries.

  But he wasn't. Five, six, seven minutes and still he hadn't emerged. Something was wrong, he was sure of that. He jumped out of the car and sprinted across the road, through the gate and then up to her door, taking the steps two at a time. He pushed the bell and waited. And listened. Nothing.

  He looked in through the adjacent bay window but the room was in darkness and there was nothing to be seen. He hadn't been in Maggie's house, more's the pity, but he knew the typical layout of these upmarket Victorian terraces. Full height extensions out the back, built on top of luxury open plan kitchen-diners, with bi-folds or double doors opening into the garden. Her house was in the middle of a row of eight or so properties, with no way to get round the back except over the neighbours' fences. Awkwardly, he clambered over the low brick wall that divided her path from the nearest neighbour. No bell as far as he could see, but there was a flimsy-looking knocker. He wrapped on it firmly, four or five times, then banged the door with his fist. He waited a few seconds but there was no response. No surprise really because although it was nearly eight o'clock, it wasn't just the cops who worked stupid hours in the capital. Giving up, he jumped down the steps onto the pavement then ran the few yards to the neighbour on the other side. This time there was a bell, and he jabbed at it impatiently, muttering come on, come on under his breath.

  The door was opened by an elderly man of South Asian appearance who gave him a curious look then asked politely, 'Good evening, can I help you?'

  Frank flashed his ID. 'Sir, I'm a police Inspector, can I come in please?'

  'Of course.' The man ushered him through the tiny entrance porch into his front room. 'Would you like a cup of tea?'

  He shook his head. 'I need to get into your garden sir. This is an emergency. Can you show me the way please?’

  The man led him through another sitting room into his kitchen, which contrary to Frank's expectations was small and had clearly seen better days. 'There it is,' he said, pointing to a green-painted panel door that looked as if it could have been there since the place was built. 'I'll get the key.'

  'Quickly sir, if you don't mind,' Frank said, trying to mask his impatience.

  The man walked over to a dresser, opened a drawer and began to rummage in it.

  'I'm quite certain this is where I put it,' he said unconvincingly, 'or was it in the unit over there? I can't quite remember. I don't go out there all that often you see.'

  Frank just managed to strangle an explicative at birth. 'Sir, I need that key. Shall I look in the other drawer?' Without waiting for an answer he yanked it open, pulling it clean off its runners, then emptied the contents onto a worktop. Which included a key.

  'Ah there it is,' the man said, smiling. 'I remember putting it there now. Here, let me open the door for you. There's a bit of a knack to it I'm afraid. It can be rather stiff sometimes.'

  He picked up the key and ambled over to the door, then attempted to slip the rusty key into the keyhole. After a few exploratory prods, it finally went in. Frank expected there would be more precious seconds of cocking about, but this time his fears were unfounded, as with a loud click, the lock yielded to a twist of the key.

  'Right sir,' Frank barked as he swung open the door, 'I have to tell you that a serious police incident is currently ongoing and as a member of the public, I need you to stay inside for your own safety, do you understand?' He hated the cringe-worthy jargon but somehow it seemed to lend authority to the message. Fortunately in this case, the member of the public didn't need telling twice. Frank watched as he scurried indoors and closed the door. And locked it behind him.

  It was a dark evening and the garden did not seem to benefit from any artificial lighting. As he had surmised, Maggie's house had been extended outwards, her wall forming the first four or five meters of their mutual boundary. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could just about make out the fencing that bordered the unkempt garden. On the left, tidy and well maintained. On the right, the one bordering on to her garden, ramshackle and scruffy. No prices for guessing which boundary Frank's householder was responsible for.

  He saw that the fourth panel along had separated from its concrete post, and was lying at an oblique angle, held precariously in place by the other fencepost. It was an eyesore, no arguing with that, but it left plenty of room for someone to squeeze through, even someone of his generous proportions.

  Edging his frame into the gap, he cautiously stuck his head out, peering down the garden towards the house. As was the fashion, the kitchen extended the full width of the plot, its features illuminated by a blaze of light streaming through its windows. Although he guessed it was a relatively new addition, it had been constructed in traditional style, with a pair of glaze-panelled French doors framed on either side by decorative latticed windows above a brick base. He slipped through into the garden then tentatively crept towards the house, being careful to keep his back to the fence where the light did not directly reach. Now he was close enough to see into the kitchen. The lattice framework served to partially obscure the view but it didn't prevent him seeing all too clearly what was playing out in front of him. Shit.

  The flower delivery guy had his back to him, but he was now close enough to make out the badge on the
side of his hat. The staff-bearing lion rampant of Chelsea Football Club. In the room, facing him, were Maggie and her son Ollie, who was clinging onto his mother, his face set but betraying fear. Next to them, a young woman wearing a defiant expression, whom he vaguely recognised as the feisty girl who worked in her office, Polish or Latvian or something like that. And next to her, to his astonishment, stood his brother. Looking serious. A glint from something metallic caused Frank to involuntarily screw up his eyes, at the same time explaining the look on his brother's face. Chelsea man had a gun. Double shit.

  Desperately, he tried to weigh up his options. Really, he should call in the specialists, trained and armed to deal with hostage situations like this. But maybe this wasn't a hostage situation and the gunman simply meant to shoot them all and be done with it. A gunman who neatly met the description of the Kings Cross abductor. And if it was he, then this was a guy who already killed once that day. A professional.

  So that was it. Decided. He was on his own and the only weapon he had was the element of surprise. Doubtless, the killer would have weighed up the risks of his mission, but had he considered the chances of anything coming at him from his rear flank, such was the inaccessibility of these back gardens? Frank hoped not.

  The problem was, not only did he have no clue what to do, he'd also no idea how long he had before the shooting started. Not long, was his gut feel. Calmly, he tried to put himself inside the gunman's head. This guy was a professional, so he would want to get out of the situation as quickly and cleanly as possible, but that wasn't easy when you had four victims to take care of. Shoot one and there was every chance that one of the others might make a grab for you, reasoning that there was nothing to lose, and it could go rapidly downhill from there. And then suddenly, it came to him. This was a hit that had gone belly-up. None of this had been meant to happen and now the gunman was in uncharted territory, just like he was. Frank played it through in his mind. God knows why, but it appears that Maggie is his original target. The job's straightforward, all he has to do is ring the bell, shoot her, then slip away. Mission accomplished. But to his surprise it isn't Maggie who opens the door but some unknown guy, a massive guy, and now he has to think on his feet. He jabs the gun into the guy's ribs and pushes him along the hallway, somewhere along the line bumping into Maggie, the kid and another woman whom he wasn't expecting to be there either. He ushers them at gunpoint into the kitchen which is where he is now, trying to figure out what the hell to do next.