by Duncan James
“Be useful to know where he went,” commented the DCI.
“Be useful to know anything about the man, frankly,” admitted Wilberforce. “He doesn’t seem to have a criminal record, and we haven’t found any credit cards either.”
“What about the postman?”
“Checked. So far as he can remember, mainly junk mail, and not a lot of that.”
Flower sat thoughtfully. “Have you checked the missing persons register?”
“Being checked.”
“It’s almost as if the man deliberately wanted to remain invisible from prying eyes,” he said eventually.
“He certainly didn’t live in a goldfish bowl,” agreed the Sergeant. “It looks as if he went out of his way to remain anonymous.”
“What sort of man would want to do that?”
“Probably up to no good,” suggested the detective.
“Or perhaps he shouldn’t be here at all.”
“You mean an illegal immigrant or something?”
Flower nodded, frowning. “It would be useful to know where he came from.”
“He doesn’t look foreign,” observed Wilberforce. “What there was left of him, that is. And Barclay isn’t exactly a foreign name, either.”
“Could be a spy,” said Flower, quietly. “Perhaps he was a spy. Maybe I’ll have a word with Special Branch.”
“I suppose spies have to live somewhere,” commented Wilberforce. “Special Branch will have contacts in the Security Services, so it might be worth checking.”
“If Barclay was a spook of some sort, we could be looking for a foreigner, with a key to Barclay’s flat,” said Flower.
“And a gun we haven’t seen before.” Wilberforce sighed. “As if this case wasn’t difficult enough already.”
“We’re only guessing,” Flower reminded him.
“We’re not guessing at the fact that there are simply no clues, or that it wasn’t an opportunist murder, or a family feud, or that Barclay was almost an invisible man, or that the villain had a key and a gun with no previous record, and that he probably knew Barclay because there was no struggle.” Wilberforce sighed again, and topped up his glass. “I’m only guessing, too, that he was some kind of scientist, judging from the magazines.”
“Where do you look for missing scientists?”
“Pass!”
“I suppose somebody did actually live there,” queried Flower.
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it had been bought to let. The flat. Or perhaps it was some kind of holiday retreat, not lived in regularly.”
“That’s a very expensive part of London, squire,” said Wilberforce. “You’d need quite a bankroll to buy a place like that and not live in it.”
Although it was late, Flower’s phone rang.
“DCI Flower,” he said, as he picked it up. As he listened, he frowned. After a time, he said ‘thank you’ and hung up.
Wilberforce could sense something was wrong.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“You’re not going to like this, Stan,” replied his boss. “That was the pathologist. He says there are no powder marks on Barclay’s temple where the bullet entered. That means that he wasn’t shot at close range after all.”
“Shit,” exclaimed the detective. “I never noticed that. In fact, it never even occurred to me to look.”
The two men sat in silence for a few moments.
“But it just has to be close range, dammit,” protested Wilberforce at last. “The flat’s too small for it to be anything else.”
He thumbed through the set of photographs.
“Look at the body,” he said pointing. “It’s in the kitchen – just about the smallest room in the house. From the angle of the body, whoever shot Barclay was also in the kitchen. He couldn’t have been targeted from the hall or the adjoining living room.”
His boss studied the picture.
“What if the force of the bullet hitting him spun him round?” he asked. “He could have been sideways on to the living room, and spun round to fall where he was.”
“No way,” protested the detective. “It was a small calibre bullet and not heavy enough to do that.”
“High velocity? That could have done it, surely.”
“If it had been a high velocity shot, the bullet wouldn’t have been on the floor where I picked it up, it would have been buried in the wall behind him,” said Wilberforce. “It just has to be close range.”
“So why no powder round the entry point?”
Wilberforce shook his head.
“Looking at these photographs,” said DCI Flower, “I’d say that the assassin was between Barclay and the window over the sink, wouldn’t you?”
“More than likely, judging by where the body fell,” agreed the detective.
“Was the window open?” asked Flower.
“Not that I noticed,” replied Wilberforce. “It was as hot as hell in that flat, and there was even a dead fish in the goldfish bowl on the windowsill.”
“Why did you get the SOCO to take a picture of the bloody goldfish bowl anyway?” asked his boss. “Keen on fish or something, are you?”
“I’d noticed the dead one floating in it,” replied Wilberforce, “and wondered how long it might have been dead.”
“Ah,” said the DCI. “And how did you find out?”
“Phoned a vet, who knew about goldfish,” replied Wilberforce.
“And what did he say?”
“It all depended on the water, apparently,” said the detective.
“Water?”
“That’s right. It’s what they live in,” said Wilberforce, immediately wishing he hadn’t. “It seems that they get their oxygen from the water, and the warmer the water the less oxygen there is. He reckoned about two to three weeks in that heat without being fed, so that gave me a clue as to how long Barclay might have been dead.”
Harry Flower idly looked at the photo of the goldfish bowl again, thinking that Wilberforce wasn’t so stupid after all.
“It looks to me as if that sash window was open a bit,” said Flower, squinting. “You can just see the top sash behind the goldfish bowl.”
Wilberforce looked at the picture.
“Could be open an inch or so,” he agreed. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking,” mused the Chief Inspector. “I was just wondering if perhaps the villain might not have been in the flat at all. No evidence of a struggle, no fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, no powder marks on the wound. Perhaps he wasn’t even in the flat. Perhaps he wasn’t even in the building. Perhaps he was a sniper.”
Wilberforce sucked his teeth. “From the block of flats across the car park,” he almost whispered. “Shot through the open window.”
“Bloody good shot if that’s what did happen.”
“Telescopic sight and a tripod? All he had to do was wait until Barclay walked into view. I’m going back to the flat.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Flower, finishing his whisky.
His driver was in the outer office, patiently waiting as he often did, and reading the Evening Standard for the third time.
“Where to, Governor?” he asked.
“Battersea,” replied Flower. “Block of flats called Alberta Mansions, off Albert Bridge Road. Quick as you like, Bob.”
They were there in fifteen minutes, even without the blue lights on and the siren going. Bob was a Londoner, had been a driver at Scotland Yard most of his working life, and knew every London back road there was.
The two detectives climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the duty Constable saluted smartly and let them into the flat.
“Place hasn’t been touched,” said Wilberforce. “Apart from getting the body to the morgue, it’s just as we found it, more or less. The agent’s getting a bit fidgety, but we can’t find a next-of-kin to clear out Barclay’s stuff, so he’ll just have to wait.”
They went straight into the kitchen, dried blo
od still on the tiled floor.
“There you are,” said Flower, pointing. “Sash window over the sink open at the top.”
“Only a couple of inches,” observed Wilberforce. “Not enough fresh air to keep the fish alive.” He nodded towards the dead goldfish still floating in its watery grave.
“Bugger the fish,” said Flower. “Let’s have a look at that block of flats opposite.”
“Not a difficult shot from there,” commented Wilberforce. “A bit of an angle, range about - what - seventy five meters across the car park between the two blocks?”
“About that,” agreed Flower. “We should find out who lives in the flat immediately opposite.”
“Not opposite, boss,” said Wilberforce. “One floor up – third not second.”
“Why’s that?” queried the DCI.
“Let me show you,” said the detective. “I’ll stand here, where Barclay would have been standing, and you stand behind me. Barclay was a short chap – about up to my shoulder, so you bend down and look at the flats opposite through the open window from my shoulder height.”
“I see what you mean,” said Flower, stooping to look over Wilberforce’s shoulder. “The sniper, if that’s what it was, would need to have been on the third floor, and aimed down to get Barclay through this open window. And I remember the pathologist said on the phone that the bullet entered at a slight angle.”
“Now you tell me,” grumbled Stan Wilberforce.
“We need to get into that flat,” said Flower.
“And quick,” agreed the detective. “The one directly opposite has got the lights on, but the one we want seems to be in darkness.”
“I’ll use the car radio to get this organised,” offered Flower. “You’re in charge of this case, so any suggestions?”
“I want that block sealed off, but as quietly and covertly as possible. Don’t mind people entering the block, but nobody leaves. We’ll need some heavies to take the flat door down, and an Armed Response Unit to be first in, just in case. After that, forensics into that room opposite – looks like the kitchen – in particular looking for traces of powder near the window. I doubt they’ll find the cartridge. And plenty of plods to keep the neighbours out, and the area press officer in case the media turns up. O.K.?”
“Sounds about right,” said the DCI. “I’ll get it organised. Do you mind if I hang around and watch?”
“Be my guest,” said Wilberforce. “If you’re right about the sniper, then this could be a contract killing of some sort, and we don’t often get those.”
“And forensics haven’t identified the weapon, yet, either,” added Flower.
“Let’s go!”
It didn’t take long for reinforcements to arrive. Nobody much seemed to be aware that the building was being sealed off – the police vans parked down side streets, and it was dark anyway. No sirens, no flashing lights – “as quick and as quiet as you can,” Wilberforce had said. It was a well-rehearsed operation, as the men from the two Armed Response Units sprinted up the stairs, broke down the door and spread out into every room almost without a pause. The neighbours heard the noise of splintering wood, but soon beat a hasty retreat back into their flats when ordered to do so by the policemen with Heckler and Koch automatic carbines.
The flat was empty, as expected, and most of the armed men were able to leave the scene quickly, leaving the white-clad forensic science team to start their painstaking work in the kitchen. It looked like being a long job. There were no immediate signs of anything suspicious – just an empty flat, that’s all. No powder marks near the window, no cartridge case on the floor, and no obvious signs of a forced entry. They soon discovered that there were no fresh fingerprints, either, and no footprints worth talking about on the dusty floor.
The two detectives were no nearer than they ever had been to solving the mystery, but they remained convinced that the murderer had struck from that kitchen in the opposite block of flats. There could be no other explanation. They also concluded that whoever had carried out the killing had been no amateur. He had not only been an excellent marksman, but had known how to cover his tracks after the event. Their only hope now was that the forensic team would turn up something useful.
None the wiser for their night’s work, Wilberforce and Flower went home.
So did the two men on a motorbike, who had seen the whole thing from across the road. As they drove quietly away, another biker arrived to take their place, this time keeping watch from a side street at the back of the flats. They, and their colleagues, had been hanging around the block of flats for a few days now, watching what was going on. Not that anyone had noticed.
***
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - NEW FRIENDS, OLD ENEMIES
Retired Air Commodore Mark Perkins was a frequent visitor to Buscot Park now that he had been given the responsibility for overseeing the transformation of Professor Jack Barclay into Dr. Roger Lloyd. The skin graft over Barclay’s scar was healing quickly after his surgery in Harley Street, and it seemed almost certain that the scar would be invisible to all but the closest scrutiny in the future.
Dr. Roger Lloyd, as he was now known, was making good progress in other aspects of his makeover, too. He certainly seemed happy with the way things were going, and had thrown himself into the task with great enthusiasm, not least because he was still alive, and wanted to stay that way. He was also quite enjoying the break from the recent pressures he had been suffering, and certainly regarded his stay at Buscot as something of a holiday. He had comfortable accommodation, good food, and excellent tutors, all in a delightful rural setting.
Apart from Doc Perkins, he had several other visitors as well, and was always particularly pleased to see Clayton, who he regarded as something of a saviour. He had immediately got on well with Miller, too, and on their first meeting they quickly struck up a firm friendship. Lloyd had been surprised when he learned that Miller had been to Buscot himself, since it had never occurred to him to wonder what else went on at the discreet, if not secret, government establishment. He had been intrigued to learn of the vastly different experience that Miller had undergone at Buscot, in another part of that rural ‘safe house’, and they frequently went on long walks together in the extensive grounds of the house.
Miller himself found it therapeutic to discuss his stay there and the rigours of the course he had attended, while Lloyd needed the exercise, to practice walking in his built up shoes, and to get used to his walking stick. One shoe was slightly more built up than the other, and although neither of them added much to his height, they were enough to make a difference to his appearance and to give him a slight limp. At first, the shoes gave him cramp, but he had got over that now. Although he was getting used to his slightly ungainly gait, he secretly wondered if he would ever be brave enough to run for a bus. But he had quite quickly got used to the shoes, and a cobbler, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, was now busy making him several pairs in different styles. He had even turned up one day with a pair of special Wellington boots, and some carpet slippers. He didn’t think he would ever wear the trainers, but you never know.
Lloyd was now starting to grow a decent set of whiskers, which was quickly beginning to look rather better than just a bit of stubble. There was already enough for the hairdresser to start grooming it into something quite smart, including a goatee beard. Roger Lloyd quite liked his new look. His hair had been tidied up a bit too, and the parting shifted to the other side. It was a nice grey, and he was having it shorter than before. In truth, he hadn’t often had time to get it cut on a regular basis at all recently, but the barber who came in to see Lloyd from time to time was taking infinite care to ensure that he no longer looked like the old Professor Barclay. It had been decided that there was probably no need to flare his nostrils or build up his cheek bones after all. His spectacles were sufficient to give his nose a new look, and the beard took care of the rest.
Buscot Park was owned and run by the National Trust, and although
still the home of Lord Faringdon and his family, the grounds and parts of the house were occasionally opened to the public. Dr. Lloyd was therefore getting used to meeting people, none of whom ever gave him a second glance except to wish him ‘good-day’ as they passed. After a while, he went out of his way to get into conversation with visitors, rather than avoid them as he had in his early days there. This was doing his confidence a power of good, although he had to admit that on his first real outing, to Burford, he felt as if he was in a goldfish bowl, with everyone looking at him. Not that anybody was, of course. But he felt very self-conscious, nevertheless. It was quite a nerve-wracking experience, going into a shop for the first time with his stick and glasses. But he easily bought a bottle of sherry from the off-licence to have in his room at Buscot, and, a bit further down the main street, a packet of nuts and some crisps from the small supermarket to go with his evening aperitif. His confidence was growing all the time.
It was immediately after this outing that the police found his brother, Roger Barclay, in the Battersea flat where he had lain for over three weeks.
Clayton and Miller both went immediately to Buscot, by helicopter, to break the news to Lloyd.
“We now come to a crucial part of this whole exercise,” said Clayton. “It will mean a difficult few days for you, Roger, but we have to announce your death later today.”
“What will you say?”
“Something to the effect that a world-famous nuclear physicist has been found murdered in his London flat. They may have noticed that your lecture to the Royal Society was cancelled, but we have to make quite sure that the Russians know that their mission was a success, so as to ensure your future safety. Once that’s been established, you will be free to start your new life.”
“And when shall I read my own obituary?” Lloyd almost joked.
“We shall have to make the announcement tonight – or rather, the police will, in time for the late news bulletins and tomorrow’s papers.” replied Clayton. “In a day or so, we shall have to persuade the Police to call off their investigation, since we know who did it. It will then be necessary for you to come forward as Professor Jack Barclay’s cousin – we’ll tell you when, if we may – for formal identification. If there is any family likeness in spite of your ‘new look’, it won’t matter as you are supposed to be related. After that, we shall arrange a coroner’s inquest. That will probably be held at the Westminster Coroner’s Court in Horseferry Road, at the top end of Marsham Street, near Victoria. You may need to attend, but hopefully not. We shall be able to brief the coroner privately before the hearing, so I would expect him to bring in a verdict of unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. With any luck, he may also agree to hold the inquest ‘in camera’. Once those formalities have been completed, the body can be released to you and there can be an immediate funeral, which again we can help you to arrange if you wish.”