18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  Thirty-four

  ‘Wasn’t that an interesting drive home?’ Bob asked, with a slightly mischievous look on his face.

  ‘Interesting?’ Aileen exclaimed, unbuttoning her shirt as she spoke. ‘It had so many twists and turns I’m still dizzy. Mind you, the view across the bay from the far side was worth the effort. It’s left me parched, though. Do we have any beer in the fridge?’

  ‘Always, love,’ he replied, ‘always. You go and have a swim and I’ll fetch us some.’

  She was in the pool when he returned from the kitchen, with two bottles of Coronita, uncapped. ‘Hey,’ he laughed, as he lowered himself on to its edge, ‘what’s this with you and swimming in the buff?’

  ‘I like to,’ she called back. ‘Always have. It’s okay. None of the houses around us can see into the garden.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He pointed upwards. ‘But there’s all sorts of traffic in the air around here, light aircraft and helicopters. I wouldn’t put it past some of our sleazier tabloids to try for some candid-camera shots of the First Minister, off duty. I’ve had experience of the paparazzi; I don’t want to see you embarrassed.’

  She winked at him as she pulled herself out of the water and sat by his side. ‘Who says I’d be embarrassed?’ she teased. ‘I’m proud of my body.’

  ‘I’m proud of your body too,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t want to share it with a few million readers.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all yours.’ She prised one of the beers from his hand and took a long slug from the neck. ‘Jeez, I needed that. It’s been a long day already, and there’s still some to go.’

  He bumped her, shoulder to shoulder. ‘Then maybe we should have a siesta to get ready for the rest of it.’

  He felt her wet arm slide under his shirt and up his back. ‘That, my boy, is not a bad idea, not a bad idea at all . . . as long as it involves a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  She swung herself round and sprang lithely to her feet. Bob was in the act of following her when his mobile sounded in his breast pocket. He flipped it open. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bob, it’s Amanda. Can you speak?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, gazing at Aileen’s slim back as she ran indoors, ‘we’re back home.’

  ‘Fine. The answer to your question is yes. That gentleman was issued with a side-arm by the protection squad, and with a supply of ammunition. He’s been schooled on the Metropolitan Police firing range.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about the weapon?’

  ‘Nine-millimetre Beretta Storm, seventeen-shot capacity.’

  ‘A proper gun, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It will do the job. Exactly what job do you think it might have done?’

  ‘Someone put a bullet in the back of his son’s girlfriend’s head a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Good heavens! Is he a possibility?’

  ‘Only in my book so far. There are other people above him on the list.’

  ‘Have someone send me a detailed image of the bullet taken from the woman . . . assuming you found it. These pistols are all test-fired before issue.’

  ‘Will do. Right now. Thanks, Amanda.’

  ‘No problem. I find myself hoping that we get a match. I know people who do not want to see Mr Colledge become a member of Her Majesty’s Government. As a matter of fact, I’m one of them. There’s been talk that after the next election he might become my boss. I wouldn’t like that.’

  Thirty-five

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebecca Stallings, Mrs Weekes, and this is DS Jack McGurk. Do you think we might come in? We’d like to talk to you about your former husband.’

  The woman seemed to slump in the doorway of the tenement flat. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked urgently. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ McGurk assured her. ‘He’s fine. It’s just something that’s come up at work.’

  Lisanne Weekes sighed. ‘He’s not in bother, is he? He hasn’t been on the take, has he?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. It would be much better if you let us in, though, rather than talk on the stairhead.’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, stepping aside to allow them to enter. ‘Living room’s straight ahead. I’m sorry about the mess. I’m not long in from work so the place is as I left it this morning . . . a pure tip.’

  ‘I know you work in a bank, but what do you do there?’ asked Stallings.

  She slipped off a lightweight blue jacket, part of a suit that the detectives recognised as a uniform. ‘I’m a mortgage adviser.’ She was a tall woman, big-breasted, narrow-waisted, physically similar to Mae Grey, but dark-haired rather than blonde.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, dropping into a chair herself. ‘So, what do you want to ask me about Theo?’

  ‘Do you see much of him?’

  She nodded. ‘Quite a bit. Truth is, we get on better now than when we were married.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘All the fun with none of the hassle, I suppose. I don’t have to worry about where he is any more, but I know he’ll always come back here.’

  ‘And he does?’

  She looked at McGurk as if his question had annoyed her. ‘Yes, and what’s wrong with that? Being divorced doesn’t mean never seeing each other again.’

  ‘Granted. How long were you separated before your divorce came through?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember. Our difficulties started not long after we were married. It was the hours he was working: add on his playtime and it was pretty difficult.’

  ‘Playtime?’

  ‘He likes a pint, likes to go out with the boys.’

  ‘And the girls?’ McGurk suggested.

  ‘Not as far as I know; but then I never ask. As far as I’m concerned we have an open relationship.’

  ‘And as far as Theo’s concerned?’

  She winced slightly. ‘I don’t see other guys, so that’s irrelevant.’

  ‘But if you did?’ McGurk probed. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be relevant then? Are you telling me you’ve never dated another man since you and PC Weekes were divorced?’

  She sighed. ‘There was this bloke, once, right after the divorce. I admit I was a bit angry with Theo then, and I decided that I’d get on with my life and sod him if he didn’t like it. So I went out with Byron, a man I work with. We went for a meal, then to the Omni centre, and afterwards he brought me home. I invited him up for coffee.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Maybe more. We were necking a bit and it was heading that way, when the doorbell went. I opened the door and it was Theo. He barged past me, said, “Who the fuck are you?” to Byron and thumped him.’

  ‘He beat him up?’ Stallings exclaimed. ‘A serving police officer?’

  ‘Not exactly. Byron’s huge, bigger than Theo: he nutted him, laid him out. I made him leave before things got worse.’

  ‘Who, Theo?’

  ‘No, I chucked Byron out. Theo wound up staying the night.’ She looked at the other woman. ‘He’s my weak spot.’

  The inspector gave her the understanding she sought. ‘You are not alone,’ she said, with a smile. ‘So you and Theo, divorce or no divorce, you still see each other?’

  ‘On and off . . . on mostly.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Usually he comes here. I’ve been to his place, but usually, he comes to me, or we go away somewhere for a weekend when his shifts allow it.’

  ‘Does he ever leave stuff here?’

  ‘He has a wardrobe, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, not clothes; personal items.’

  ‘He might. I never look. Has he been stealing? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Mrs Weekes,’ said McGurk. ‘That’s not it. We’ll get to the problem in a bit. When did you see him last?’

  ‘Monday night. We got a takeaway, and he stayed over.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, a Friday night.’

  ‘How w
as he, those times? His usual self?’

  ‘He was maybe a bit quieter than normal on Monday. The time before that he got drunk: that’s unusual for him.’

  Stallings sighed inwardly. She had taken to the woman, and was not looking forward to what was about to happen. ‘Lisanne,’ she began, ‘have you ever heard of Sugar Dean?’

  Mrs Weekes thought for a moment or two. ‘The name’s familiar,’ she replied, ‘but I can’t place her.’

  ‘What about a woman called Mae Grey: Police Constable Mae Grey?’

  ‘Never. Why?’

  ‘Because Theo Weekes has been engaged to both of them since your divorce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. His relationship with Sugar Dean ended two years ago, but he’s been going out with PC Grey since before that time.’

  The woman’s mouth tightened; then she shrugged. ‘He’s a free man,’ she declared. ‘He’s got the right. He was probably getting back at me for Byron.’

  ‘He’s never said anything about other women?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘And you’ve seen each other regularly since he moved out.’

  ‘There was a time, year before last, it would be, when I didn’t see him for a couple of months, but apart from that, yes.’

  ‘Did you really want to divorce him?’

  ‘What do you think? But after what you’ve told me, maybe I should be glad I did.’

  ‘Does Theo have a temper?’

  ‘Not with me. The Byron incident, though, that was pretty fierce.’ She paused. ‘Has he assaulted a prisoner, is that what it is?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Lisanne,’ said Stallings, ‘Sugar Dean’s name was familiar to you because it’s been all over the press for the last day or so. She was murdered, shot dead, twelve days ago, on a Friday morning. Her body was discovered on Monday. Those are the two days when you last saw Theo. And yet he told us that he hadn’t seen you for three weeks.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ the other woman gasped. She sat forward in her chair, and grasped her knees. ‘Do you think he did it? No, no, not Theo, surely not.’

  ‘He’s admitted to stalking her,’ the inspector told her. ‘He also made a threatening statement against her to a third party. At the moment, we’re carrying out certain tests that may tell us if he was at the murder scene. We’re also searching his locker at the station in South Queensferry, and his flat. We need to search here too, I’m afraid. We have a warrant to do so, but we’re hoping that you’ll allow us.’

  ‘Just his wardrobe?’

  ‘No; the whole place, I’m afraid. Something could have been hidden without you being aware of it. I have to ask you this: Theo hasn’t given you anything to keep for him, has he?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t.’

  ‘Can you remember back to the Friday? Specifically, the clothes he was wearing?’

  ‘Yes, tan jacket, blue shirt and jeans. I washed the shirt for him and put it in his drawer, but the other stuff must be hanging in the wardrobe. When he left next day he was wearing a dark blue top and chinos. I’d just bought them for him in John Lewis.’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  ‘When do you want to do this?’ she asked.

  ‘It has to be now,’ Stallings replied. ‘We have a team of officers waiting out in the street. We’ll be as quick, as neat and as discreet as we can, I promise you.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Primarily, a gun: but generally, anything that shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘A gun! My God, this is unreal.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Before we start, do you know of anything in the flat that isn’t yours?’

  ‘There’s some shaving stuff in the bathroom, and a toothbrush, but other than that, no. Everything that’s his should be in his wardrobe and in the bottom drawer of the chest alongside it.’

  ‘Nothing is locked away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Can I stay while you do it?’

  ‘You might find it distressing. We’ll be very thorough.’

  ‘Then let’s get it over with,’ said Mrs Weekes. ‘Once you’re finished,’ she continued, ‘can you do something for me?’

  ‘Sure, if it’s appropriate. What is it?’

  ‘If I box up his stuff, all the things you don’t need, will you take it away with you and give it to him, or dump it at his place, or in the first skip you find in the street? After tonight, I don’t want anything of him in this house, ever again.’

  ‘We’ll handle that for you,’ McGurk told her. ‘Have you got somewhere to go while the team does its work? We’ll be a few hours.’

  She sighed despondently. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Maybe we can help with that too,’ said Stallings. ‘Jack, I’ll stay here while the search is under way. Would you like to take Mrs Weekes for something to eat? Cooking here’s going to be impossible. Is that all right with you, Lisanne?’

  A small, sad smile crossed the woman’s face. ‘It’s the best offer I’m going to get tonight, that’s for sure. If it’s all right with you, Sergeant Jack, it’s okay with me.’

  Thirty-six

  ‘Thanks, boss. Sorry, thanks, Bob,’ said Maggie Steele. ‘That contact may well come in useful. I have a feeling that I’m about to run into a brick wall. I’ve been digging into Dražen’s company. He’s no longer part of it: his shares have been sold to a Bermuda trust.’

  ‘What about his co-directors and senior colleagues?’

  ‘I’ve spent most of the day digging into their backgrounds. Leaving aside his mum, who’s taken over as chair of the company, there are only two of any consequence. Fishheads is a very tight operation: there’s no excess baggage at the top level. The CEO is an accountant named Godric Hawker. He was originally recruited as finance director, from one of the major accountancy firms, to impress the City, it’s said.’

  ‘Any connection with your man before that?’

  ‘None that I can see. I did find out something interesting about him, though, from a friend of a friend who did some asking around for me. Hawker jumped at the chance to join Fishheads because its headquarters are in London. He has a severe flying phobia; that meant that his promotion prospects with an international accountancy practice were a bit limited. It also means that if Dražen were to contact his old associates, Hawker would hardly jump on a plane to go and meet him.’

  ’That’s assuming Dražen’s not hiding somewhere in Britain.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Maggie replied. ‘On the day the Met raided his apartment his father’s company jet logged a flight plan for Iceland. There’s no record of it ever landing there. Three days later it flew into our air space from the US and landed back at its home airfield. It was flown by Davor Boras’s driver, David Barnes. The day before that, Barnes was a passenger on the morning flight from Heathrow to Dulles International, in Washington.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Maggie, my girl, you really are good. Dražen flew the plane across the Atlantic, his friends in the intelligence community helped him disappear, and his dad sent his minder and pilot to fly the thing back.’

  ‘Why would anybody help him?’

  ‘For services rendered, and maybe still to come. What about the other business associate?’

  ‘He’s very interesting. His name’s Ifan Richards; he’s the public face of the company in the City. Age twenty-nine, a year older than Dražen, son of a Welsh printing millionaire. They were at Charterhouse, and they both attended Harvard Business School. Ifan majored in management sciences, and Dražen did international business. They were both on the students’ council board in their final year. Dražen was a vice-president and Richards was the communications director. Both graduated summa cum laude on the same day. Ifan was recruited by IBM in London, and was there until he joined Dražen in the start-up of Fishheads dot com.’

  ’Dražen’s best mate, from the sound of it,’ said Skinner. ‘What’s his personal background? Gay? Mind you, Dražen’s hetero
: we found that out from Amy Noone.’

  ‘He’s still single, but he has a girlfriend called Chandler Lockett, who was a member of a girlie band when they were fashionable. Nowadays she’s mostly seen with him on the pages of Hello! magazine and the like.’

  ‘Legends in the surgery waiting room?’

  ‘And the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘So? What’s your thinking?’

  ’If anyone’s going to lead us to Dražen, it’ll be Ifan.’

  ‘Not his mother?’

  ‘I’m going to assume she wouldn’t put him at risk. We know for sure his father won’t. Anyway, Sanda’s a figurehead in the business. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was replaced as chair pretty soon by the non-exec that the LTN Trust put on the board.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Nobody I’ve ever heard of. His name’s Ignacio Riesgo.’

  ‘What? Spell the surname.’

  ‘R-I-E-S-G-O.’

  Skinner’s laugh took her by surprise. ‘He wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Yes, he bloody would!’

  ‘What are you on about?’ asked Maggie, puzzled by his reaction.

  ‘His name. Riesgo, translated, means “risk” in English. You’re telling me that Dražen’s replacement on the board of the company he founded is called “I. Risk”. He’s pulled another one, the cheeky bastard. You find Ignacio, and you’ve found Dražen.’

  ‘But his shares have been sold. I checked with the company registrar: his signature is on the transfer document.’

  ‘Transfer being the key word. They’ve been moved into a trust, not sold to an individual. Mags, I don’t know anything about this LTN operation, but if the L doesn’t stand for “Langley” I’ll bet you it should. This will be a CIA front. I wanted to tell you this face to face, but Davor Boras has been enabling operations in the Balkans for years, and latterly his son’s been involved too. These guys have a stack of Brownie points with the Americans; now some of them have been cashed in.’

  ‘Maybe, but if I can find him . . .’

  ‘There will be one significant problem with that.’

  ‘What?’

  ’Three of our people have met Dražen. Mario, and the two DCs down in Leith, Tarvil Singh and Griff Montell. But that was weeks, months ago. I’m pretty sure that by now they could all sit in the same room as the guy and not know him, at least until he spoke. He’ll have had cosmetic surgery, his hair colour and style will be different, he’ll be bearded and he’ll probably have been to fucking Specsavers. We’re going to need his DNA to identify him for sure.’