He wondered idly what the man was doing here. He just didn’t fit. Perhaps he was a journalist. The story of the body in The Lady of the Lake had not died down, and Graeme had had visits from reporters as far away as Manchester. He had followed the story in the papers, and he also knew plenty of people who were reliable purveyors of local gossip. The poor bloke had been killed by a single gunshot wound to the head – a detail that had been kept out of the press – and a buzz had begun to circulate around Keswick about the similarity to an execution-style killing. Graeme had shared a few pints with Johnny Frietze, who wasn’t at liberty to say too much. Everybody knew that Johnny was DI Kelly Porter’s boyfriend, and that Kelly had been called to London.
Graeme liked Kelly, but then most people did. She was fiercely private, but once you got to know her, she was good company. He’d taught them both to sail, though Johnny was by far the more interested. Kelly was one of those people whose job filled far more hours than her leisure pursuits. Johnny was the opposite. He’d come to the Lakes to find a life after serving in the army. Graeme’s own short stint hadn’t involved any active duty, but he had trained – and been stood down – for Iraq once. He had no medals, but great memories. It had never been a long-term goal anyhow; it just looked good on his CV. It was ironic that after all that he’d ended up back at home, running a quiet marina, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
‘Morning, mate. Can I help?’ he said.
‘Bracing weather. What a lovely spot. I came here as a child occasionally, but never ventured down this way.’
‘Where are you staying? Walking holiday?’ Graeme peered at the man’s shoes; they were impractical and expensive. He looked like a City type on the hunt for a posh weekend hideaway that he’d never use. The guy clearly had too much money.
‘Sebastian Montague-Roland, Allerdale House. You probably knew my grandfather; everybody seemed to.’
The man spoke of the late Lord Allerdale with a side portion of resentment. Graeme had seen it before many times, especially within the officer class. It was the paradox, he assumed, of getting to one’s station in life because of Daddy’s status, but at the same time feeling acrimony over the fact.
‘Your grandfather was a great man; I was sorry to hear of his passing. He was a gentleman and you don’t see a lot of those these days.’
‘Quite.’
‘How can I help you today?’ Graeme asked once more.
Sebastian looked around the cabin and picked up a few brochures. ‘Well, you might have heard that I’m refurbishing the estate, and I’m after a few select sailing items that are quite difficult to get hold of.’
Graeme nodded. That was his trade. ‘Such as?’
‘Antique racing shells.’
‘Composite?’
‘Good heavens, no. Spanish cedar.’
Graeme raised his eyebrows. ‘Like rocking horse shit, I imagine.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I deal in plastic, mate. If I rented Spanish cedar boats, I’d be out of business in a week.’
‘I was clearly mistaken. I could have sworn that my grandfather said you knew your racing shells.’
‘Of course, I admire them from afar, but I don’t deal in them. You need a specialist for that, someone like Pocock.’
‘I was hoping to circumnavigate the obvious dealers. I want it to be unique. It’s for decorative purposes, obviously. I’m planning a high-end restaurant as part of the leisure complex at Allerdale Estate.’
Last time Graeme checked, the property was called Allerdale House, but the guy had aspirations, he gave him that.
‘I can have a look and ask around,’ he said.
‘That’s what I was hoping. I am most grateful. I’m interested in any decorative oars, rigging and boat paraphernalia as well. I’m going for a classical look; think roaring twenties.’
He passed Graeme a card with a phone number on, brushing his hand and lingering just a little too long. Graeme took the card and flicked it between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Righty-ho,’ Sebastian said. ‘I’m about all summer – well, apart from looking after business in London, of course. I’ll be up and down, so to speak.’
Graeme ignored the blatant flirting. ‘You got yourself a project manager, have you? I’m handy as they come and know all the local trades.’ He might as well use the man’s obvious interest to his advantage.
‘Are you applying for a job?’
‘If you put it like that.’ He smiled his best and widest grin, holding Sebastian’s gaze. ‘We could negotiate the use of the beach in return for me sending custom your way. There’s plenty of wealthy Americans come here asking about good food and facilities.’
‘Perhaps you’d come over to the house this evening for a chat? We can discuss it then.’
‘Sure.’
Sebastian looked pleased and turned to leave. Graeme watched him go. He found the man odd, for sure, and certainly couldn’t see him fitting in around these parts. He was definitely in need of a local manager if his vision was to succeed, and Graeme fitted the bill perfectly: local knowledge, good business sense, a passion for water sports, an already trusted relationship with the community and, of course, the perfect balance between customer service and a head for profit.
He laid the card on the counter and went to his computer. There were a few dealers he’d come to know over the years, and he had a good idea where to start his search for an antique Spanish cedar racing shell.
Chapter 14
Kelly had forgotten where she was until she heard the traffic. She’d slept fitfully and she felt anything but refreshed. Her dreams had been vivid and unsettling, replicating dreams she hadn’t had in years. They were brief, intense, and generally placed her in danger, with no backup and the life of an innocent at stake. Just before the dream ended, great violence threatened the victim she was supposed to be protecting, but she never knew what happened to them. The point was that she was alone. And vulnerable.
She sighed. She felt as though she’d tossed and turned all night, and her vest and pants were soaked in sweat. Light poured through the thin curtains, as it had all night. Sirens, drunken arguments, aeroplanes in holding patterns, car horns and thumping music all conspired to make her first full day in the capital an uphill struggle. She decided that lots of coffee and Emma’s excitement might dull the edges. She’d packed her running kit, but knew deep down that it would stay in her bag. She could pound the streets after dark, but that would only serve to heighten her anxiety, not soothe it. She felt tension in her shoulder blades and realised that she was carrying within her a sense of dread, and she knew exactly why.
She sat up and got out of bed. The room was sparse, with no tea and coffee facilities, and a modest shower room. It was all she needed. She washed her hair under the hot water and already felt herself becoming more alive. The towel was fluffy and large and she rubbed herself briskly. Now all she needed was coffee. She had flashbacks of grabbing a pastry before work, years ago, outside a Tube station. It was a pleasant memory but she was glad that it was behind her. The thought of how much sugar and caffeine she’d flooded her system with was enough to make her shudder, but funnily enough, that was exactly what she wanted this morning.
She’d arranged to meet Emma at eight downstairs. Her junior was already waiting. A car had been organised to transport them to the office every day for as long as they were here in the city, and Kelly winced at the waste of money. Looking at Emma, it would also be a lot more fun to see her on a Tube train. Her colleague was starry-eyed and couldn’t wait to get started.
‘There’s a Starbucks on the corner. I’m not going anywhere without one.’
‘How do you know, guv?’
‘It’s a wild guess. I’m joking; this is where I used to work.’
Emma followed her. There was indeed a Starbucks on the corner, and their driver was instructed to wait. The streets were rammed, and Emma gaped around her, hypnotised by the sheer volume of busy people on
the move, determined and focused, barking into mobile phones and gulping coffee. Kelly smiled. The queue in the coffee shop was long and made up of impatient, sullen, stressed individuals, shifting from foot to foot, peering round the person in front, like cars trying to find a way through a traffic jam.
Emma said hello to a few people, but soon stopped doing it when she received only glares in return.
‘Why is everyone so angry?’ she whispered.
Kelly shrugged her shoulders. It was true. She’d never seen it from an outsider’s point of view, because she’d always been in the thick of it. But it was glaringly obvious now. Rudeness, impatience and tetchiness were commonplace and normal. Finally they reached the front of the queue and placed their orders. Emma picked up a Danish pastry with apricot, and Kelly chose a pain au chocolat. It was a lethal habit to slide into, and she kept telling herself that they’d be home in Cumbria soon, and she could run it off.
Armed with their sustenance, they got into the waiting car and it set off. They hit traffic straight away, and didn’t arrive in Hendon until almost 8.50. They could have walked quicker; in fact, Kelly would suggest it tomorrow.
DCI Matt Carter had briefed them with an update last night, and today would be their first day of actual lead-chasing. The array of screens, audio equipment, PNC access points, interactive whiteboards and bodies dashing from one office to the next startled Emma, and Kelly strode in front of her, showing her the way. She knew the building well, and it was already beginning to feel like home again.
Their priority was finding Alexandros Skarparis. After all, he was the only one of the foursome working in the neurocellular lab who might still be alive, and he was also, so far, their prime suspect. He was the common denominator between the three colleagues and had mysteriously disappeared around the time Emily Wilson and Mike Hudson were brutally killed in the garage in Bethnal Green. Matt was already in the office, despite being the last to leave last night. Kelly recognised the look behind his eyes: hunger. He’d begin a period of twenty-hour days if he had to, and wouldn’t let up until he had answers. That was the way he operated, and Kelly had learned from him. She felt her stomach tense. He smiled broadly at his visitors and took their hands warmly, lingering on Kelly’s. She dropped her hand and looked away.
They got down to business, first discussing George.
‘His body was moved to the dump site,’ Kelly said, ‘and we have forensic evidence that someone was killed in one of the bathrooms in Allerdale House – DNA to be confirmed. That’s the same property that was burgled for some pretty expensive kit, we believe on the same day. But nothing inside the house was missing and there’s some valuable equipment and belongings in there.’
‘Do you think the burglary was connected in some way to his death?’ Matt asked.
‘Definitely, either as a bonus or planned. It could have been a smoke screen to throw us off, or the intended target; the high-end sailing market is small but worth millions. George would have been collateral damage if the burglars stumbled across him unwittingly, to prevent him raising the alarm, which would explain why they perhaps panicked and decided not to burgle the house, despite having access to both the boathouse and the main house.’
‘Do we know who had keys?’
‘The owner said that doors generally weren’t locked.’
Matt rolled his eyes.
‘Did you manage to establish motive?’ he asked, knowing that she hadn’t yet had the luxury of clarifying that one. The execution MO suggested convenience, and that usually meant money. The blunt-force trauma MO in the killing of George’s colleagues also suggested a lack of compassion seen in business-like killings.
Matt delivered the sparse updates about the Bethnal Green murders that had come in overnight, and then they headed to the morning briefing. It was conducted in a vast incident room, and was attended by around thirty officers, with pads, screens, phones and radios at the ready. Kelly knew she wouldn’t be anywhere near boots on the ground in this investigation, but it was still invigorating watching the uniforms, DCs and DSs go about their business and report real-time, sometimes in the form of live CCTV or tracking computer software. Matt was at the helm and would remain in his ivory tower commanding the troops. For Emma, it was an incredible opportunity to learn from the best.
‘DI Porter and DC Hide are familiar with the area of Derwent, and I’m going to hand you over to them now,’ he said. ‘We’re lucky to have them with us and I want everyone to give them absolute cooperation as long as they’re here.’ He sat commandingly on the edge of a table and an officer tapped notes next to him. Kelly looked around and met a sea of eyes, all on her. She spoke from where she sat.
She’d been assigned her own lap-top computer, which she referred to along with the maps on the whiteboard and the slides she’d hastily constructed in her hotel room the night before. It was a struggle to concentrate with Matt’s eyes boring into her. She couldn’t work out if he was willing her on or willing her to trip up. Their relationship had been kept secretive, and, to her knowledge, no one in the room knew about it. A sudden flashback to him naked jumped into her head and she closed her eyes, willing it to leave. She wondered if he still slept with a knife in his bedside cabinet. In London, detectives received death threats all the time. They put a lot of people behind bars, and criminals who’d already crossed the line wanted to punish those responsible for getting them caught. All killers thought they were clever and believed they’d get away with it, but in reality few did.
‘These are the items stolen from Allerdale House. As you can see, it’s a specific market and we need to pursue all known dealers. The insurance money is substantial. DC Hide and I have interviewed the owner, but I haven’t worked him out yet. He’s a cross between shifty and plain awkward. I didn’t get the immediate impression that he was withholding, and equally I wasn’t sure I would trust him either. My initial summary is that he was a disappointment to his grandfather: the old man didn’t name him as heir straight away, leaving his fortune in trust initially. I’ve got solicitors calling me back to tell me the details of that arrangement. He could have had a grudge. His name is Sebastian Montague-Roland; some of you might remember the name from the colantropine scandal back in 1995. Alan Montague-Roland – Lord Allerdale – exposed an aide of Margaret Thatcher’s, which led to two lords being stripped of their titles, and three MPs and a smattering of CEOs of large pharmaceuticals being sacked. One of those companies was Ravensword.’
‘Where all our victims worked,’ Matt interjected. The room was silent, with everybody paying attention. Kelly was impressed: Matt ran a tight ship.
‘For background,’ she continued, ‘colantropine was an additive in breakfast cereal – it aided the absorption of vitamin D added to the cereal during fortification. It passed all its safety tests, but the problem was that the results of lab tests showing that it burned lesions in rats’ brains were buried under a pile of top-secret documents, only accessible by a few in the know.’
‘I don’t like coincidences.’ Matt stole Kelly’s line.
‘Neither do I,’ she agreed. She chided herself for playing his game and blushed a little. He was as wily as a fox and she needed to concentrate. ‘We need a warrant for the neurocellular lab at Ravensword, and I want to go through the place carefully. We’re looking for anything that might have got George Murphy into trouble.’
Matt took over. ‘Our next lead is the pellet found in George’s skull. Ballistics confirmed it’s a Glock, which narrows it down.’ That got a few laughs. ‘I want all the gun amnesties alerted, major cities on board and known contacts pushed for anyone trying to get rid of a handgun. Long shot, excuse the pun. If they have any sense, they’d have dumped it in the lake up there.’
Matt spoke about the Lake District as if it was make-believe and separate from the rest of the UK – which consisted primarily of London – and it irked Kelly. She’d grown protective of her county, and its reputation for being backwards and in the sticks was somethi
ng that infuriated her. She also noticed that, despite introducing her to deliver what she knew on George Murphy, Matt had taken over. He just couldn’t help himself. She decided to let it go. Let him sweat over the detail. A young officer caught her eye and a tiny curl of his mouth indicated to her that his boss did this a lot. She gave him an imperceptible nod, and they both went back to concentrating on the DCI.
‘What’s next?’ Matt looked at Kelly and waited. Now he wanted her to speak!
‘Like I said, the burgled items include some very specialist sailing equipment. We need to contact as many dealers as we can. These are few and far between, due to the high value and antique nature of the artefacts. I want to include overseas interest.’
She waited for people to take notes.
‘Sebastian Montague-Roland.’ His picture came up on screen. ‘His business is mainly in London. He dabbles in stocks and told me that the trust issue had been “sorted”; he’s now worth a handsome sum. I think we need to treat him as a person of interest. Only he and George had access to Allerdale House on the night in question, though it is highly likely that the doors were unlocked. There’s no cleaner, and an expensive refurb planned for later this year hasn’t yet started. The place should have been deserted, though we are looking into a building company who’d made some initial plans. Montague-Roland informed us that he tried to contact George on Sunday evening to see if any workmen had been to the property, but he didn’t answer the phone. He supplied us with a number for the builders and they told us that they hadn’t yet got round to sending anyone. So that rules them out of our inquiry for the time being.
‘Now we come to George’s colleagues. DCI Carter?’
Matt stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t use notes.
‘The note left with the victims firmly places the blame on Emily Wilson. Was it a plant? A diversion?’
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