by Graham Ison
But there was a recorded message in Flemish on an answering machine.
‘I’ll try it again tomorrow. Perhaps the Belgian police are lucky enough not to have to work on Sundays.’
Having failed to make contact with Pim de Jonker, I located DS Tom Challis, to whom I’d assigned the job of examining the CCTV tapes obtained from the concierge. I’d intended to do it yesterday, but time had just run away from me.
‘I’ll have a look at the tapes now, Tom.’
‘All set up, guv.’ Challis led me over to a player in the corner of the incident room and put in the first of the tapes.
Nobody got into the lift carrying a firearm, or wearing a mask or behaving furtively. But that doesn’t happen in real life, anyway. There were several shots of Lydia Maxwell in the lift in her swimsuit and a short towelling wrap. The indicator at the side of the recording showed her to have travelled between her floor and the basement pool area at three minutes past eight. There were shots of another woman similarly attired, and I wondered if this was the woman Lydia had seen in the pool. Other tapes showed the swimming pool itself, and one frame showed Dennis Jones making his way along the side of the pool towards the changing rooms.
‘Mrs Maxwell claimed to have heard gunshots at a minute or so past one, Tom. Let me have another look at the tape that was running in the lift just before that time.’
Challis ran the tape again, and stopped it at fifteen minutes to one on the day of Cuyper’s murder. ‘There’s just one woman in the lift, guv.’ He pointed with his pen. ‘The indicator at the side of the screen shows that she got in on the ground floor and exited on the first.’
‘Are there any shots of the landing, Tom? Do we see where she went?’
Challis laughed. ‘No. Mark Hodgson, the concierge, would have liked it that way, but it was vetoed by the management committee. They reckoned it would be too intrusive to see who had what visitors.’
It was either bad luck or the woman was conscious of the CCTV camera in the lift and deliberately avoided being recognized. Whatever the reason, at no time was there a clear shot of her face. All we could see was that she was about five foot ten tall, had shoulder-length brown or Titian hair and was wearing a black bomber jacket and jeans, with black knee boots.
‘Meet Miss Everywoman, Tom,’ I said. ‘She could be Cuyper’s killer or she could have been visiting any one of the other three apartments on that floor. Get one of the DCs to make enquiries of Apartments G and H, and I’ll speak to Mrs Maxwell. I wonder if there was a car that came in that tallies with those times.’
‘I’ve checked that with the concierge,’ said Challis and referred to his pocketbook. ‘The only car that entered between midday and five past two was a Volvo belonging to a resident.’ He laughed and looked up. ‘Apart from God knows how many Job cars coming through on blues and twos,’ he added.
Apart from the outside chance that we had seen the murderess, I was forced to conclude that, like everything else in this enquiry so far, there was nothing that would immediately provide any further evidence of Cuyper’s killer.
FIVE
‘I’ve been doing a bit of research on the Belgian police, sir,’ said Wilberforce, when I arrived in the incident room at nine o’clock on Monday morning. ‘They’ve undergone a complete reorganization, and they’ve combined the judicial police, the gendarmerie and the town police into one huge force called the Federale Politie.’
‘God help them!’ I said. We in the Metropolitan Police are subjected to frequent upheavals as a result of the outpourings of the funny-names-and-total-confusion squad. This is a team of boy superintendents who sit in the ivory tower of Scotland Yard thinking up ways to interfere with us poor guys at the sharp end, secure in the knowledge that they won’t get their own hands dirty. For example, Special Branch had been called that for well over a hundred years, but for some inexplicable reason the wunderkind decided to rename it the Anti-Terrorist Command. And they also decreed that Thames Division, the oldest part of the Met, should now be called the Marine Support Unit. Although it wasn’t one of their masterpieces, I’m sure they claimed credit for the edict requiring road traffic accidents to be known as ‘road traffic collisions’. But, as my pedantic sergeant once acidly enquired, ‘How could an accident that involved a car overturning without leaving the road or hitting anything be called a collision?’
‘I’ve been reading a report about the Belgian police, sir,’ Wilberforce continued. ‘It seems that Belgium, and Brussels in particular, has become the world capital of sex slavery. Apparently, the police over there were heavily criticized in a report that accused them of negligence, amateurism and incompetence in the handling of a number of paedophile murders. And that’s why they got this drastic overhaul.’
‘Thank you for that, Colin.’ Although there are times when Wilberforce likes to air his knowledge, he often comes up with interesting background material, even though I think he probably culls it from the Internet.
I went into my office and called the number that had been found on the note that accompanied Dirk Cuyper’s ID. This time there wasn’t a recorded message, but the phone rang for quite a long time before it was answered.
‘Hallo, wie is dat?’
I knew that Flemish is the language spoken in many parts of Belgium and that it is a dialect of Dutch. A Dutch police officer once told me that there are less than seventeen million Dutch people in the world and, because no one else can be bothered to learn Dutch ‘just so that they can talk to us’, the Dutch have to learn English. I was soon to find out that the same went for the Flemish-speaking Belgians.
‘Is that Commissaris de Jonker?’ I enquired.
There was a further pause and then, somewhat hesitantly, ‘Yes, it is.’ The voice spoke excellent English. ‘Who is this?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, London, Commissaris.’
‘Ah! How can I help you, Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘For a start you can call me Harry, Commissaris. Otherwise half of our conversation will be taken up repeating my rank all the time.’
There was a muted chuckle from the other end of the line that sounded almost if it had been forced out. ‘Good. I’m called Pim. Now, what can I do for you, Harry?’
It confirmed, yet again, that police officers the world over share a common bond that transcends any language difficulties that may arise, although in this case there weren’t any. I explained about the murder I was investigating and that we’d discovered that the victim was a Belgian national whose name, according to his passport and the ID found in his apartment, was Dirk Cuyper.
For a moment there was absolute silence at the other end. And then, ‘Mijn God, ik geloof het niet!’
‘I’m sorry, Pim,’ I said, mystified by this sudden impassioned outburst of Flemish, ‘but I don’t understand.’
‘My apologies, Harry. I said I don’t believe it, but obviously I must. This has come as a terrible shock.’
‘I understand that Dirk Cuyper was a police officer. Is that correct?’
There was another pause and then, ‘Yes, he was one of the officers in my department.’
‘What was he doing in London, then, Pim?’ I doubted that he could have been on leave. Not for a year or more.
‘I’m afraid it is too delicate to be discussed on the telephone, Harry.’
‘Can you come to London then?’
‘That is out of the question. It is much too risky.’ De Jonker paused again, as if formulating a plan. ‘Would it be possible for you to come over here? I will be able to tell you everything we know, and then perhaps that will lead you to Dirk’s killer.’
‘I’ll call you back as soon as I know when I’ll be arriving, Pim.’
‘A trip to Belgium, guv?’ asked Dave as I replaced the receiver. It was about the third time he’d asked that question since the murder had occurred.
‘Looks like it, Dave.’
There was now little doubt in my mind that I was de
aling with something extremely serious. If the commander was his customary indecisive self about granting me permission, I’d go over his head to the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, or even higher if necessary. But knowing that the DAC was a real detective, I knew that I wouldn’t need to. However, protocol demanded that I started with our beloved commander. Now that it was just after ten o’clock, he would be in his office and would remain there until six o’clock, when he would go home. But I wasn’t going to rush. I spent the rest of the morning going through all the statements we’d amassed. One might be forgiven for thinking that nothing had really happened since the murder – and it hadn’t – but, believe me, that doesn’t stop the paper piling up.
Having had lunch at my favourite Italian, I made my way back to the office at about half past two. I could no longer put off my interview with the commander and made my way to his office.
‘Ah, Mr Brock.’ Reluctantly pushing aside a bulky file, the commander stared at me with the sort of critical expression that implied I’d interrupted something important. ‘What progress have you made with this suspicious death in North Sheen?’ He leaned back in his chair and peered enquiringly at me over his half-moon spectacles, which I was certain had plain glass in them and were worn in the mistaken belief that they lent him gravitas.
‘None, sir.’
‘What d’you mean by that, Mr Brock?’ The commander shot forward in his chair with an alacrity that I thought would be denied by his portly frame, his cheeks and double chin wobbling alarmingly. ‘I must warn you that such a statement is tantamount to admitting neglect of duty.’
‘It’s gone beyond being suspicious, sir,’ I said, ignoring his empty threat. ‘There’s no doubt it’s a murder.’
The commander always described any death we were dealing with as a ‘suspicious death’, in case it subsequently turned out to be due to natural causes. He would never call it murder, manslaughter or even suicide until a jury had said it was. And only after the verdict had gone through every appeal process known to the legal system.
‘Yes, yes. But what do we know about it?’
‘Only that the victim was shot twice in the chest with two 9mm rounds, probably from an automatic handgun.’
‘Well, who is this victim? And what is he? Why was he murdered? These are fundamental enquiries to which there should be an answer.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, sir,’ I said, disarming the commander somewhat. ‘He’s a bit of a mystery man, but we have discovered that he’s a Belgian citizen. And that brings me to my request, sir. I need to go to Belgium to follow up my enquiries.’
‘I see no reason for that, Mr Brock. I suggest you speak to the Belgian Embassy.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the police in Belgium, sir, and I can assure you that it is of paramount importance that I travel to Ieper without delay.’
‘Where?’
‘Ieper, sir. You may know it better as Ypres. Ieper is the Flemish name for the town.’
‘Ah, yes!’ The commander brushed a dismissive hand across the top of his desk. He hates being caught out, and I suspect he just had been. ‘I can’t give permission until I know more about it, Mr Brock.’ He drew his abandoned file lovingly closer, signalling an end to our brief exchange.
I had no intention of telling the commander that Richard Cooper was actually Dirk Cuyper, a Belgian police officer. The mere whiff of some secret operation going on in the Metropolitan Police District – because that is what I think it was – would send him spiralling into his bogus detective mode.
‘There’s no point in appealing to the DAC, either, Mr Brock.’ The commander looked up sharply and smiled owlishly as he delivered his parting shot. ‘You’ll fare no better with him,’ he added coldly. ‘The DAC is a stickler for the correct procedure.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I knew that the moment I left his office the commander would be on the phone to the DAC, peddling his version of our conversation, just in case I did go up the chain of command.
Not that the commander’s intervention would make any difference. The DAC, as I’ve said before, is a real detective, and he and I go back a long way to when I was a DC on the Flying Squad and he was my DCI. The commander, on the other hand, is the beneficiary of what is known in the Job as a sideways promotion. To be thoroughly bloody-minded about it, when the Uniform Branch got fed up with his meddling in the control of football crowds and his frequent and unsuccessful attempts to solve London’s traffic problems by unilaterally imposing his own hare-brained schemes, he was duck-shovelled off to the CID, where it was thought that he could do no harm. Unfortunately he now believes that he really is a detective and frequently offers advice on crime investigation, a subject for which he is totally unqualified.
I returned to my office, closed the door and made a phone call to Fiona, the DAC’s secretary, to arrange an urgent meeting.
Unfortunately, the DAC’s office is at New Scotland Yard, over a mile away, and I had no intention of walking there in today’s blistering heat.
I put my head round the door to the incident room. ‘I’m going to the Belgian Embassy if anyone asks, Colin.’
‘D’you want a car, sir?’ asked Wilberforce. He knew exactly who I was talking about when I said ‘anyone’.
‘No, I’ll take a cab.’ I could have asked Dave to drive me, but I did not wish to put him in the invidious position of having to lie about where he’d taken me. I know that he would have done so unhesitatingly, but no senior officer has the right to put a subordinate in such an awkward situation.
‘Go in, Mr Brock,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s expecting you.’ The DAC’s secretary shot me a conspiratorial smile.
‘I’ve just had your commander on the phone bending my ear, Harry. What’s the SP?’ The DAC waved a hand at one of the armchairs in his office and sat down in the one opposite me.
I gave the DAC chapter and verse on the murder of Dirk Cuyper, alias Richard Cooper, and recounted the somewhat mysterious telephone conversation I had had with Pim de Jonker, the Commissaris at the Federal Police office in Ieper. I also suggested that the fewer people who knew about it the better, at least until we knew what it was all about.
‘So what’s a Belgian police officer doing living in an expensive drum in North Sheen?’ Having posed that rhetorical question, the DAC stared into the middle distance for a moment or two before returning his gaze to me. ‘We’ve had no official notification that the Belgian police sent anyone over here to work under cover. You’d better get across there and find out what it’s all about, Harry. It sounds very much as though this Cuyper was on to something and was topped because of what he found out. Incidentally, don’t worry about the commander: I’ll square your trip with him.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get over there as soon as I can.’
‘And when you get back from Belgium, report to me direct. Not a whisper to anyone else, Harry, and that includes the commander. At least not until we know what it’s all about.’
When I left Scotland Yard, I walked out to Victoria Street and found a coffee shop. If, following our discussion, the commander had made enquiries as to my whereabouts, which I was certain he would’ve done, I wanted to make it seem that I actually had been to the Belgian Embassy in Grosvenor Crescent. I deliberately timed my return to the incident room for ten minutes to six. The commander had an inflexible rule: he always left for home at six o’clock on the dot. Thus he now had only ten minutes in which to grill me about where I’d been before hurrying off home. It was widely known that he was terrified of Mrs Commander.
‘The commander would like to see you urgently, sir,’ said Wilberforce, the moment I stepped through the door.
‘What’s that all about, I wonder?’ I asked of no one in particular, and made my way to the commander’s office. ‘You wished to see me, sir?’ I said, having been granted permission to enter the great one’s office.
‘Ah, Mr Brock. Close the door, and tell me how you got on at the Belgian Embassy.’
‘
I regret to say I drew a blank there, sir.’
‘Mmm!’ The commander always managed to make that short and oft-used utterance of his sound thoughtful and at once critical. ‘I’ve just been speaking to the DAC, Mr Brock.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘He informed me that a short while ago he engaged in a telephone conversation with the head of the Federal Police in Brussels.’
‘Anything to do with my job, sir?’ I asked innocently.
‘It would seem so. The DAC told me that the Belgian Police are quite exercised about the murder of Richard Cooper. He has therefore directed that you proceed to Belgium with all despatch to liaise with the appropriate authority.’
‘I shall make the arrangements immediately, sir,’ I said, astounded, as ever, that the commander managed to sound his pompous best when passing on a direction from the DAC. But then I knew that the DAC scared the pants off him. Probably as much as Mrs Commander did.
Grateful that the DAC had covered up my visit with an entirely spurious tale about speaking to the head of the Belgian police, I returned to my office and telephoned Commissaris Pim de Jonker.
‘I’m coming to see you tomorrow, Pim.’
‘That’s good, Harry. Are you coming alone?’
‘I was intending to bring my Detective Sergeant Dave Poole with me.’
There was a pause before de Jonker answered. ‘Could I ask you to be as a discreet as possible, Harry? If you appear obviously to be two police officers, it may alert parties that I would prefer did not know you were here. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.’
‘In that case, Pim, I’ll bring a woman officer with me, and then it’ll look as if we’re a couple on holiday.’
‘That’s a good idea, Harry. The less people who know you’re coming, the better. I’m sorry it’s all so secretive, but I’ll explain everything when you arrive. It would be best if you flew to Calais, that’s the nearest airport to us for direct flights from London.’
‘Will you be there to meet us?’
