Archie looked across at her, smiling. “And I thought you said you didn’t know much about firearms.”
“I have to confess, I looked some of it up before I got here.” Everyone joined in Jan’s laughter.
De Souza, for his part, was fascinated. “Who would use such a weapon?”
“I’m not exactly sure but I do remember something about this weapon being used in the 1979 Russian invasion of Afghanistan. Apparently, Spetsnaz operators used it to quietly dispatch almost everyone in the Afghan Royal Palace.”
“Yikes,” exclaimed Pamela. “This is heavy-duty stuff. Where would our boys get a gun like that? The story about the man with the Eastern European accent and tattoos is beginning to sound more plausible.”
“I think the sooner we interview our man in the hospital, the better,” said Burgess as he looked up from writing notes in his black book. “De Souza, we should get over there after this meeting. He was operated on over the holiday, so should be ready to talk now.”
“Jan, anything else?” Burgess was eager to get the ball rolling.
“As a matter of fact, there is. Turning now to your other case, the one about the insulin poisoning, I may have something for you there.”
Instantly she had everybody’s attention. “Mr. Flood was right-handed. We received Dr. Brangman’s report, as well as the tox report. As Dr. Brangman indicated to us, there was definitely a needle mark in his right arm with bruising, consistent with a poorly administered injection. The toxicology report showed traces of insulin. It breaks down fairly quickly in the body, so Dr. Brangman was really on the ball when she noticed the needle mark and asked us to screen for insulin, amongst other things. The angle of the needle and the place where it was located made it impossible for the victim to have injected himself. Somebody else did it. The whisky was heavily laced with Percodan and we reckon he was unconscious but, of course, still alive when he was administered the fatal dose as he managed to produce a bruise, indicating the heart was still pumping. Basically, he died from a cocktail of insulin poisoning, Percodan and alcohol. The insulin alone would have sent him into a coma and eventually killed him. We have enough forensic evidence to treat this as suspicious.”
“Now, as for the whisky glass, other than injecting him in the wrong arm, the murderer made another mistake. They must have touched it, so they wiped it clean and then wrapped Flood’s hands around it to produce one set of prints. This would indicate he touched the glass only once. That, in and of itself, is suspicious. The murderer made the mistake of not wrapping his fingers around it several times to make it look like he had taken more than one sip. It’s unlikely he would have drunk a tumbler of whisky in one gulp. There’s also the possibility the murderer wanted it to appear like suicide but then have us come to the conclusion that it was murder. That would be very sneaky. Mrs. Flood would inherit nothing if she had murdered her husband but the personal assistant would get the life insurance if it had not been suicide.”
“Then there’s the motive for the murder. Who had a motive to kill him? To answer this, I think we need to get to the bottom of the relationship between Mr. Flood, his personal assistant, his wife and also his extracurricular activities over at his Russian neighbor’s house.”
“The plot thickens,” announced Archie. “Perhaps Pamela and I should pay a visit to this Clarissa Lightbourne. What do you think, boss?”
Burgess nodded in agreement. “Yes. You can do that while De Souza and I follow up on the hospital prisoner. I’m beginning to feel there is a lot more to both of these cases than meets the eye. Hopefully, these two witnesses can offer us some sort of a lead. Anything else, anybody?”
“Yes, I have some information.” Pamela filled them in on the identities of the two bodies found in the garden and gave them all a little background information on the Vory v Zakone. Archie whistled.
“This is unbelievable stuff. I feel like I’m in the middle of a Hollywood gangster movie. I only hope the action doesn’t heat up too much.”
“You and me both,” echoed Burgess. “Pamela, keep us posted as to any more information from Khitarov. Has he found Alexeev yet?”
“No, sir. No sign of the director. He has simply disappeared off the face of the Earth. Apparently, when all hell was breaking loose during the collapse of the Soviet Union, you could buy passports on the black market quite easily. Khitarov bets he’s travelling somewhere under a fake identity. He’s promised to let us know as soon as he has something.”
“Okay, good. Let’s get going, everybody.” Burgess closed his notebook and left while Pamela was making notations on the whiteboards. Archie lingered, waiting for her, while De Souza went to his desk to close down his computer and grab his jacket. He was as eager as Burgess to get to the hospital.
CHAPTER 41
Pamela and Archie arrived unannounced at the plush offices of Flood & Hayward. They were immediately ushered into a small, windowless conference room where they waited for the arrival of Clarissa Lightbourne. They were unsurprised when the door opened and in walked a striking, brown-skinned lady in her late twenties. Pamela raised her eyebrows to Archie as Mr. Flood’s personal assistant turned her back to pour them each a coffee.
“If you don’t mind, I have asked one of our lawyers to be present… just in case.”
Archie looked her squarely in the eyes, flashed his irresistible grin and agreed, in his most charming way, that it was no problem at all. They were just conducting routine enquiries at this time. The three sat in awkward silence, making a great show of sipping coffee, until a self-important young man bustled in, introducing himself as one of the lawyers from the litigation department. Business cards were exchanged and another coffee poured. All the while, Pamela watched the young woman and could not help but notice that her hands shook. She was a good little actress but definitely she was ill at ease with their visit.
Archie had instructed Pamela to observe the girl’s every reaction. She enjoyed doing this and prided herself on being able to tell if someone was lying, although her ego had recently taken a bruising when she had felt that Mrs. Flood had duped her. This time, she was going to make sure she would pick up on any nuances of body language, movement of the eyes or intonations of the voice that might give away the lie.
“Ms. Lightbourne, excuse me, Mrs. Lightbourne…”
“Ms. Lightbourne will do.”
“Ms. Lightbourne, could you tell us if Mr. Flood appeared depressed in the days leading up to his death?”
“No. He was the same as always. I only knew him on a business level so, of course, I would not know if he had any personal problems.”
Pamela was immediately on alert. Methinks she doth protest too much. Why would she underline the fact she only had a business relationship with him? Totally unnecessary to say that; overcompensating. Lie? She made a show of noting this in her notebook.
Archie pressed on. “Did Mr. Flood keep any personal items in his office? Does he have an office safe?”
“No. He had a couple of files for his personal affairs. I have access to them, so they can’t be that confidential.”
“Think carefully, Ms. Lightbourne. What does Mr. Flood use to sign documents?”
“He has his fountain pen. He prides himself on it. It’s quite lovely.” She appeared to be relaxing now that the questions appeared innocuous.
The young lawyer had placed himself in a corner chair, out of direct eyesight of the two detectives but in range of his client. Clever boy, thought Archie. At the moment, he appeared to be somewhat disappointed at the lack of creativity in the questions. Stick around, buddy boy. It’s gonna get better. Archie was used to the disdain of lawyers towards the police.
“Would it be possible to have a look at his office? Has anything been moved since his death?”
Clarissa Lightbourne looked over at the attorney. “Is that okay?” she queried.
“We can come back with a search warrant, if you prefer, but since this is just routine, it might be helpful. On the oth
er hand, it might not. I have to be honest with you. We just want to be able to tell his wife we have covered every avenue.”
“I guess that’s okay. Would you like to come along now?”
Pamela got up. “There’s no time like the present. Thank you.”
They all filed out behind the personal assistant and she took them up a spiral staircase and on to the executive floor. Here the walls were oak panelled with oil paintings of Bermuda scenes by local artists, Jonah Jones and Sheila Head. The carpet was soft underfoot and the atmosphere hallowed. As they entered the office of the late Robert Flood, Pamela started, almost as if she had received a physical blow. The floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office showcased glorious views of Hamilton’s buildings on one side and the harbor on the other. The office could not have been more different from the one in his home. Ultramodern with a gleaming wooden floor overlaid with colourful rugs in an abstract design. Gracing the walls, several abstract seascapes by Caroline Troncossi and another artist, whom Pamela did not recognize, provided colour and texture to the room, whilst an exquisite bronze nude lying on her back with her arms over her eyes, featured prominently in a glass-and-chrome bookcase. Pamela guessed it was a work by Bermudian sculptor, Desmond Fountain. A huge piece of bevelled glass, supported by two plexiglass trestles, served as a desk. The modern white leather armchairs were by Philippe Starck. The whole room, flooded with light, was metropolitan, state-of-the-art and glitzy. It was almost as if Mr. Flood had two personalities. Pamela was entranced and her mind began to work overtime. What an enigma this Robert Flood really was. It was almost as if he was schizophrenic: traditional, conservative family man on the one hand and unconventional, risqué, man-about-town on the other. Just who the hell are you? Pamela wished she’d done a degree in psychology. This was fascinating stuff. She looked across at Archie who was examining the desk.
“I see he has a desk set with blue ink in the inkwell. Does he not use a blotting pad for those fountain pens?”
“Oh yes, he does. He keeps the blotting paper in the top drawer of the credenza next to the desk.”
Archie opened the drawer and there it was. Several sheets of pink blotting paper covered in blue ink and also some black ink in inverted writing. “May I take this with me?”
The lawyer in the room stiffened. Clarissa picked up on his body language. “Why? What do you want it for?”
“Oh, we need to compare the writing on the blotting paper with the writing on the suicide note. It’s probably just an excess of caution to make sure we’ve covered everything.” Archie was lying through his teeth and hoped he sounded convincing. He had noticed a light-blue notepad in the drawer. If the blotting paper panned out, then he would want to come back with a search warrant.
“Okay. Fine,” Ms. Lightbourne shrugged. She seemed to have lost interest.
Archie picked up the blotting paper and put it in a plastic evidence bag. He then closed the drawer.
“Ms. Lightbourne, did Mr. Flood ever use black ink in his fountain pens?”
“Oh, no. He would never change the ink in the ones on his desk. His favorite pen, however, was the one he carried in his breast pocket. That was the only one with black ink in it.”
“Thank you. Just one last question, Ms. Lightbourne…”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell us why Mr. Flood would leave the contents of his life insurance to you?”
“What?” She blinked her large brown eyes a couple of times, giving the impression of a startled deer locked in the sights of a shotgun.
“Well, it does seem a little odd. Is there any particular reason for that?” Archie kept his voice gentle while Pamela’s eyes never left her.
“I can’t say. In any event, if he committed suicide, I would not inherit anyway. Isn’t life insurance invalidated by suicide?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. Do you think he committed suicide?”
“No, detective. I think his wife may have killed him. I don’t believe they had much of a marriage.”
“Oh? Based on what?”
Pamela watched the woman closely, noting she had picked up a pencil on the desk and had begun fidgeting with it.
“Oh, you pick up on these things when you’ve worked with someone for a few years.”
Archie decided to leave the interview there on fairly friendly terms. There would be enough time to come back with a search warrant, bring her in for questioning and then go for the hard questions.
Pamela picked up on Archie’s cue and smiled reassuringly, thanking both the personal assistant and lawyer for their time. Best to leave now and make them think the police had no untoward suspicions. The life insurance question had rattled the young woman a little but she had managed to sidestep that with the suicide comment. Interesting though, that almost immediately afterwards you pointed the finger at Mrs. Flood, implying murder. If it were not suicide, that would mean she would inherit his life insurance after all. There was a lot going on here and Pamela was keen to get outside and discuss it all with Archie.
CHAPTER 42
News of the explosion of Alexeev’s yacht was all over the Russian news. It was now assumed that Russian director, Vladimir Alexeev, and his entire family had been killed by a gas explosion whilst holidaying together on the family yacht. It was a non-polemic way of handling the issue and played well with the powers-that-be. Obituaries for the successful late director appeared in the various newspapers whilst interviews were given by famous Russian film stars with whom he had worked and the accolades poured in from Hollywood. Previous films he had directed ran again in tribute, attended by the Russian glitterati. Khitarov felt nothing but disgust.
He had travelled out to the scene of the explosion and talked to those who had gathered debris and provided eyewitness reports. He then went on to examine personally the washed-up remains of what had been the Alexeev family, the skeleton crew on board at the time, and their belongings. What interested him the most was the testimony of the only survivor – one Grigory Tarasov. He was heavily sedated and recovering in hospital with third-degree burns over seventy percent of his body. He could not wait to interview him. He knew already from Alexeev’s Personnel Department that Tarasov had been the director’s personal bodyguard. If anyone could tell him what was going on, it was this man. Khitarov prayed his horrific injuries would allow him to live long enough to talk to him.
Housed in a small seaside hotel, waiting for the hospital to give him a time when he could visit the witness, he paced up and down in frustration, smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat burned. On several occasions, he resisted the impulse to dial the hospital. He needed the doctors onside, not alienated, but he also knew every minute counted. The witness could go into cardiac arrest or a coma and then would be lost to him forever. Oh, how he wanted to spend ten minutes at his bedside. Stay alive, you bastard. Stay alive.
In Mallorca, Alexeev had watched the breaking news on CNN with absolute horror. The fear had gone. He was numb. His boys were dead… and it was his fault. According to the world, he was dead. How should he play that? Should he become Gerhard Braun, German entrepreneur, like his black market passport said? Or should he resurface? Part of him was relieved that no one would be looking for him and the other part mourned the loss of his sons. The ex-wife, he could not care less about but his boys were his legacy, his flesh and blood. Now they were gone. He drank more and more as he sat on the terrace. The views of the Mediterranean, the sunsets, the sea birds that had so soothed him upon his arrival, now went unnoticed. His life was a blur, his mind frozen as he poured more vodka, gin, wine, whatever he could find, into his system to dull the pain. In a moment of lucidity, he had found his ex-wife’s hair dye and had used it to color his grey hair auburn. It changed his appearance considerably and, with sunglasses, he felt he could leave the house unrecognized and go to the supermarket to buy a newspaper and provisions. He worried, however, about neighbors or the local police coming to the house. If they found him there, he would sa
y he was his ex-wife’s friend. He hoped they would not notice his Russian accent when he pretended to be German. He would have to concoct a story that he had grown up in Russia. Yes, that might work. He needed to remain incognito, otherwise whoever blew up his yacht might come after him again.
He went online and almost laughed at the obituaries and comments from colleagues and former stars with whom he had worked. Such hypocrisy! Several of them, he knew, could not stand him, yet their saccharine comments made the news and, by extension, put them briefly back in the spotlight. They might not be intelligent but they sure were street smart and recognized a good public relations occasion when it presented itself. If the situation was not so terrifying, he might have found it almost comical. His number one priority now was to keep himself alive and find out who was after him. The papers had said it was an accident but he was under no such illusion.
CHAPTER 43
When it came to hospitals, De Souza and Burgess had met with more success than Khitarov. They had managed to secure a time to interview their bedridden suspect at King Edward’s. When they arrived, his lawyer was already present as was a uniformed guard outside his private corner room.
“Funny how you get the best room in the hospital if you’ve committed a crime,” commented De Souza.
Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series) Page 13
