No Time to Lose: A Matt Flynn Thriller

by Iain Cameron

  ‘They didn’t come through here,’ Rosie said, stating the obvious. ‘God, David is cleaner than clean. There isn’t a plate or glass where it shouldn’t be. If I’m looking for a cup or a mug I usually start in the sink.’

  ‘His fastidiousness should help the forensic teams. Anything out of place will be blindingly obvious.’

  They turned to see someone walking down the hall towards them.

  ‘Who the fuck are you people?’ the man in a tired grey suit asked brusquely. ‘And how the hell did you get in here?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ Matt replied.

  The man was tall, thin, and officious looking with a large nose and the fading grandeur of what had once been a full head of fair-coloured hair.

  ‘Don’t be a fucking smartarse with me, pal. I’m Detective Inspector Jeremy Wates, Metropolitan Police, Kidnapping Unit. I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on this case. Who the hell are you two? If you’re journalists, you’ll spend the night in the cells and somebody will swing from a great height for this.’

  ‘I’m Rosie Fox,’ Rosie said, showing her ID, ‘and this is Matt Flynn. We’re from Homeland Security.’

  He took the ID and scrutinised it before handing it back, but his sour expression didn’t mellow. ‘What’s HSA’s interest? Why would the security services be interested in this householder’s disappearance?’

  ‘You do know who lives here?’ Matt said.

  ‘Of course I bloody do. Mr David Burke and he works for MI5.’

  ‘He’s a senior officer in MI5, Detective Inspector, an Assistant Director with responsibility for anti-terrorism operations. He’s involved at the highest levels of government, including the prime minister.’

  His face went through a range of expressions that if vocalised would surely have said, ‘Oh shit, I didn’t realise!’ Instead, the inspector gathered himself together and said, ‘I see. How can I help you?’

  ‘What have you found so far?’

  ‘There are no signs of a breakage in any of the windows or doors, and we can only conclude that if he was kidnapped, as everyone seems to think, he opened the door to them. He either invited people inside because he knew them, or they forced their way past him when he unlocked the door.’

  It was the logical assumption, but Burke was security conscious, with cameras over the front and back doors. He would have been able to vet any visitors before opening the door.

  ‘You said there were no breakages,’ Matt said. ‘Are there any other signs that might indicate a struggle?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say a struggle as such, but one of my lads spotted a wet patch on the hall carpet. When we checked the vase of flowers sitting on the table, it was nearly empty.’

  ‘You’re thinking, maybe there was a scuffle in the hall, a vase got knocked over without breaking, and someone put it back?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘That’s a good spot, Detective. Have you dabbed it for prints?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will.’

  ‘I noticed the video camera outside.’

  ‘The recording unit has been taken away for analysis.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to look at it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Can you send a copy of Monday night’s recording to me?’

  ‘Will do,’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Did neighbours report a disturbance, or did they see a strange car in the area, for example?’

  ‘We’re conducting door to door enquiries as we speak.’

  Rosie fished out a business card from her bag and handed it to him. ‘If anything of interest comes out of your enquiries, make sure you give us a call.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘If it’s okay with you, we’d like to take a look around the house. It shouldn’t take long, we’ll be out of your hair in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  The lounge looked much as the kitchen did: large, tidy, and well-equipped, with nothing obvious out of place. While the windows in this room didn’t merit the same security as the kitchen, they were leaded, double-glazed units, and hard to break.

  On the wall beside the stairs were photographs of David’s daughters at various stages of their lives: competing in their primary school sports day; one captaining the hockey team in senior school, the other leading the swimming team; both girls standing outside their chosen colleges at Oxford. Matt knew David was immensely proud of their achievements, as neither David nor his wife, or any immediate members of his family, had gone to Oxbridge.

  On the upper landing, the HSA officers nodded at the various members of the forensic team, who acknowledged them in return, no doubt glad to see it wasn’t DI Wates giving them grief for their slow progress. A quick look at the windows, the position of furniture and the soft furnishings, plus the small amount of incriminating material in the evidence bags, suggested to Matt that nothing of importance had taken place up here.

  A few minutes later, Matt and Rosie walked out of the house and back to the car. Matt took out the key fob and opened the doors. Rosie pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the seat, but Matt had stopped at the end of the garden path and was looking up and down the road.

  He took one last look at the neat gardens, the smart 4x4s and exotic sports cars, and the For Sale signs, before climbing into the car and closing the door.

  ‘You took your time,’ Rosie said. ‘You’re not considering buying a property around here, are you? Dream on with the salaries HSA pay.’

  ‘No, I was sceptical at first when I heard that David had been kidnapped. I’m convinced now, and I think I know how they did it.’

  FOUR

  Matt drove into the main shopping area in Highgate and pulled the car into the first available parking spot. If Rosie had been driving, she would have refused to park there, saying other cars were too close, it was beside a car carrying children, or it was beneath an overhanging tree, any number of reasons. As a result, she would have been cruising around the car park or another one for a further five or ten minutes until she found a more suitable space.

  They headed to Highgate High Street. Matt had no trouble ignoring the artisan bakeries, trendy hairdressers and smart clothing stores, all a cut above what was available in a normal high street, but he knew Rosie was tempted.

  Up ahead he saw the place he was looking for, Hemmingway’s Estate Agents. Nowadays, most properties were bought and sold through online estate agents, but to view a house, particularly an up-market property like those around here, required the assistance of a local office. Matt stood for a moment, looking at their window display, before he and Rosie headed inside.

  They waited several minutes while an advisor dealt with a posh lady holding a Pekinese dog as she repeated her complaint about a leaking gutter on the roof of the house she was renting. The sales advisor in the neighbouring desk was a slightly younger clone of his partner, with freshly gelled hair, a clean-shaven face, dressed in a smart blue suit. He was giving the prospective buyers of a property the hard sell, telling them several other people were in the frame, and if they wanted to buy it, they needed to make a decision soon. Matt smiled, thinking back to his own experience with the purchase of his new house in Clapham, glad he wouldn’t be buying or selling for a long time to come.

  Hemmingway’s had the air of an upmarket business. The advisors were smartly attired, the floor covered in a trendy patterned carpet, with a seating area to one side, a sofa and chairs for more informal discussions, and works of art hung from the walls.

  The lady with the small dog reluctantly departed after receiving assurances that a builder would be around the following morning. Her expression was sour, suggesting disappointment. Perhaps she was expecting a gang of builders and tradesmen to be sitting in the back of the office drinking tea, waiting to spring into action whenever someone like her needed their services.

  The two HSA agents sat down while the advisor concluded his call, presumably to a property
management company to inform them about the leaking gutter.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, introducing himself as Ben Cordell. He assessed them with an expert eye, trying to decide if they could afford to buy in this area, or if he needed to suggest they should try somewhere cheaper, perhaps Kentish Town to the south. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You have a house for sale in your window,’ Matt said. ‘A large white house in Hillway.’

  ‘Ah yes. It’s located on a private estate, a very exclusive part of Highgate; there are restricted traffic flows–’

  Matt held his hand up. ‘Ben, we didn’t come here to view the property.’ He laid his ID down in front of him. ‘We would like to know who’s been to see the house, in particular, the day before yesterday. Monday evening.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s against Data Protection legislation.’

  Matt pointed to his ID, still lying on the desk. ‘For the purposes of this discussion, issues of national security supersede any reservations you may have about data protection. If you don’t believe me and you decide to refuse our request, I’ll come back here this afternoon with a search team and remove every piece of electronic equipment and paper we find.’

  ‘You can’t…We wouldn’t have any way of conducting business.’ His shoulders slumped.

  ‘No, you would not, and just think what it would do to your reputation among the good people of Highgate. I think we need to take a more sensible approach. Why don’t you give us, let’s face it, an inconsequential piece of information, and we’ll say nothing to the Information Commissioner’s Office about your little… indiscretion?’

  Cordell looked around the office to ensure no one was watching or listening, before delving into a drawer beside him and withdrawing a file. He opened it and passed over a single sheet.

  ‘There was only one viewing on Monday, at 8pm. This is the contact form we are required to fill out. The details are supplied by the property viewer.’

  ‘Are we talking about one person, or more?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Male.’

  ‘Okay, tell me about him.’ Matt glanced at the contact form and a photocopy of the man’s passport. They were both in the name of Stephen Fraser. If this person had been involved in David’s kidnap, Matt would expect all the details, including the passport, to be bogus, but it always paid to check.

  ‘Did you deal with this man yourself, or was it your colleague?’ Rosie asked, nodding at the other advisor, still dealing with the prospective buyers.

  ‘I dealt with Mr Fraser. He said he was in the music business, a producer, and needed a large detached house as he wanted to set up a studio.’

  ‘Did this tally with his appearance, the way he spoke, etcetera?’

  He considered this for a moment, perhaps wary of giving away too much personal information about his clients, before relenting. ‘Funny you should ask, as I thought at the time he must be having an off-day or something. He didn’t want to talk to me about music.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m into hip-hop. I go to a lot of gigs and I’m always on the look-out for new discs in record shops and market stalls. I mentioned a few artists that I liked to him and asked if he’d met any of them, but he just blanked me.’

  ‘Perhaps, as you say, he was having an off-day,’ Rosie said. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He had a rugged face, short hair, not trendy, more like a crew cut. Aged about forty, stocky and well-built. Not dressed as I would expect a record producer to be, but I learned long ago never to judge anyone by their appearance.’

  ‘Did he look anything like this?’ Matt asked, pointing at the photocopy of the passport picture.

  He shook his head. ‘Not especially, but then it isn’t so clear. It could be any forty-year-old man.’

  ‘Did it not strike you as odd, him not matching his photograph?’

  ‘No, I assumed the picture had been taken a few years ago.’

  ‘Did you or your colleague accompany the prospective buyer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t estate agents normally show people round?’

  ‘Yes, we do, but Mr Burke insisted. If he was at home when a viewing was scheduled, he would do it. He wanted the least amount of people coming to the property, he said, for security purposes.’

  ‘Did you offer Mr Fraser anything?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t a salubrious place like this stretch to offering your clients a drink? A coffee perhaps, or maybe a glass of wine?’

  ‘Yes, we do. I made him a cup of coffee.’

  ‘And the cups?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What happened to the cups?’

  ‘We have a dishwasher in the back.’

  ‘Show me.’

  They left Cordell’s desk and walked through a door at the back. The contrast was marked. Gone was the smart carpet, replaced by plain floor tiles; no pictures by local artists on the wall; no vases of fresh flowers. They did have a dishwasher however, not some bloke up to his armpits in Fairy Liquid suds, but a white box powered by electricity. Rosie walked over, opened it, and instinctively stepped back. It wasn’t a clever thing to do in many households, but as this was an upmarket estate agency, and they were in something of a rush, needs must.

  ‘This is run how often?’ she asked, looking at a large array of cups and saucers.

  ‘Weekdays, there’s four of us, seven at the weekend. It’s operated twice a week, usually Wednesday and Saturday.’

  ‘Thank goodness you haven’t run it yet. The big question is, which cup did Mr Fraser use?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Cordell said, ‘this one,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He blushed slightly. ‘We get a lot of clients from the Far East, and what with Bird Flu and SARS, you can’t be too careful. We give all our visitors those blue cups. Myself, and the rest of the staff stick to white. When we run out of blue, we give them brown. Mr Fraser’s was the first brown cup this week and we haven’t made coffee for anyone since.’

  Rosie pulled out an evidence bag from her pocket and, using a pen to lift the cup, dropped it inside.

  ‘Can I ask,’ Cordell said, ‘what’s your interest in Mr Fraser? Is there something I should know? Has he done something wrong?’

  ‘How well do you know the vendor of the house he was viewing?’

  ‘Mr Burke? I’ve met him several times. He’s a very nice man. He told me he’s selling the house as it’s too big for him now that he and his wife are no longer together.’

  ‘Take a seat over there, Ben,’ Rosie said, indicating a scratched plastic chair. He did as he was told, his smart blue suit looking incongruous against the cheap seat, its once radiant red colour faded to a light pink.

  ‘The night before last, Mr Burke disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? How?’

  ‘That’s what we are trying to find out.’

  ‘He told me he travels abroad a lot on account of his work. At least once a week, he goes to Oxford to see his daughters. They’re both at university there.’

  ‘We are investigating all possibilities.’

  ‘What has this got to do with Mr Fraser?’

  ‘Have you never watched a cop drama like Morse or Endeavour?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Yes, I have. Oh, I see what you mean. Mr Fraser was the last person to see him al–’

  ‘He’s not dead, Ben, only missing,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘You’re right, Mr Fraser was possibly the last person to see him before he disappeared.’ She paused. ‘With this and all the police activity going on around the property, I’m afraid your house sale is on pause for the moment. I suggest you take the details out of your window.’

  ‘Not to mention,’ Matt said, ‘once this story gets out to the press, there will be reporters all over Highgate. If one of them spots those details in you
r window…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will, I will.’

  ‘We’ll leave you now, Ben, but if there is anything you think of later,’ Rosie said, handing him her card, ‘be sure to give me a call.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Hang on, there’s something I do remember. Now, what was it?’ He paused for a few moments thinking. ‘Ah yes, when he left the office, he stood outside waiting for a lift. I expected to see his wife arrive, as he’d mentioned her a couple of times, but the car was being driven by a man.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Matt asked.

  ‘It wasn’t the driver who drew my attention, it was the car.’

  FIVE

  Rosie looked at her watch for the third time in five minutes. ‘Is it late enough now?’

  ‘Why are you so keen to make a start?’ Matt asked from the driver’s seat beside her. ‘Which is it? Are we keeping you from a date with Phillip, or because you haven’t fired your gun for a while, you’re desperate to shoot someone?’

  ‘No, I just want this to be over, so I can get to my bed. It’s been a draining couple of days searching for this guy and looking for clues about David Burke’s disappearance.’

  ‘I can’t argue with you there.’

  They were parked outside a building in Hayne Road, Beckenham, the home of Karl Tamplin. Facing them, and not stashed safely away in the integral garage, was a 2011 Dodge Challenger, instantly recognisable to the American-car-nut-cum-estate-agent, Ben Cordell. After eliminating Cordell and his fellow advisors’ fingerprints from the coffee cup retrieved from the dishwasher, it was discovered the others belonged to the Dodge’s owner, Karl Tamplin, the man posing as music producer, Stephen Fraser.

  A search of the database revealed Karl Tamplin to be muscle for hire. Since he wasn’t affiliated to any gang, it might prove difficult to obtain much information from the guy, providing tonight’s raid captured him first. If he could be persuaded to talk, it was possible he wouldn’t know the name of the person who hired him, and even if he did, it might be an alias. However, Matt, ever the optimist, refused to lose sight of the fact that this was their first real lead in the search for Burke, and as such he would milk it.