“The thing is, Ms. Morgan, he ended up dead, murdered in cold blood. And I’m wondering if it could possibly have something to do with Dockside.”
She looked at Evans with an odd expression on her face. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing at all,” Evans replied quickly. “I’m just trying to determine if there could be a connection.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said in a flat voice. She checked her watch. “I really should be getting back. I always like to be there when Rachel gets home from school.”
“What will happen to you?” Evans asked. “I mean, if Dockside goes ahead?”
She shrugged. “I don’t like to think about it. Rachel’s at a decent school now and seems to be settling down. But we’ll have to move, I suppose, if we can find a decent place somewhere we can afford.”
Evans smiled empathetically. “You’d better go meet your daughter. I can find my way back to my car. And Ms. Morgan …”
“Yes?”
“Good luck.”
The woman smiled wanly. “Thanks.”
When she was alone, Detective-Sergeant Evans leaned over the quayside railing and gazed into the murky waters of the Thames.
CHAPTER 15
As was his practice, Detective-Sergeant Bill Black stopped in at his local on the way home from work. He selected a table near the window well away from the rest and took a grateful sip of beer. He wiped the foam from his upper lip and then, as was also his practice when he was involved in a challenging case, he proceeded to lay his mental cards on the table—a sort of deductive solitaire, as he liked to think of it. It was a way for him to put his thoughts in order and sort things through in an organized manner.
Black had long ago recognized his limitations and suspected that there were some who thought him plodding and uncreative. And while he realized that he was unlikely to ever rise above his present rank in the force, he was content with the knowledge that he was good at his job and commanded the respect of his peers at the Yard. Too many times he had seen a colleague promoted only to be beaten down by the bureaucracy. He often wondered how Mr. Powell, whom he considered practical (the highest compliment that can be paid by a policeman to his superior), managed to maintain his sanity. Although he found him moody and abrasive at times, Black had a great deal of respect for his mercurial superior and believed that his super felt the same way about him.
He was also proud of the fact that he had always made an effort to better himself. Not having the benefit of a university education, which you really needed these days to get on in the Met, he had enrolled in evening classes at his local college to broaden his horizons and to keep his mind sharp. Last year, he had immersed himself in Adventures in English Literature; this year, he was considering Philosophy Through the Ages, if he could fit it in with the cabinetry course that Muriel wanted him to take. The thing is you had to play the hand you were dealt in life. The cards might be fixed, but how you played them was up to you.
A thought that brought his attention back to the problem at hand: Was there a link between the murders of Richard Brighton and Clive Morton? The fact that Morton had planned to open a restaurant at Dockside, the controversial development scheme that Richard Brighton had been so vocal in supporting, was a striking coincidence, to say the least. He mentally turned over another card: Clive Morton’s involvement with drugs and prostitutes and the gruesome manner in which he had died. If Morton had in fact been done by a ponce or a pusher and Brighton by a blagger, that was the end of the story. All nice and tidy. Except he couldn’t get his mind off all those council tenants who would be displaced by the Dockside development. Even more worrisome, he had been thinking a lot lately about Mr. Powell’s young friend—the missing Canadian girl, Jill Burroughs, and her secret admirer, Simon Snavely, the drug pusher. And the fact that the young lady had been bothered in the pub by Clive Morton the same night that Snavely had tried to follow her home, and just two nights before Morton was murdered. Realizing with characteristic self-awareness that he wasn’t going to win this particular game, Black packed up his mental cards and went up to the bar to get another pint.
The next morning, Powell met Adrian Turner, the Labour councillor, at a small cafe in Tooley Street, Southwark. Turner was a humorless young man with a chip on his shoulder who appeared to take himself very seriously. Incongruously, he reminded Powell of a younger Merriman.
“Why did you want to see me?” he asked directly.
“I won’t mince words, Mr. Turner. I’m trying to find out who murdered Richard Brighton.”
“Your time would be better spent, in my opinion, rooting out corruption in the Metropolitan Police Service.”
Powell mentally sighed. He could tell that it was going to be one of those days. “On the night of March eleventh, Richard Brighton was murdered not far from here. I was wondering if you might be able to shed some light on the matter.” He left it open-ended.
A suspicious look crossed Turner’s face. “What’s this all about anyway? I thought he was mugged.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t consider every possibility.”
Turner laughed hollowly. “Your bloody job. That’s rich. Keeping the working class in its place is the job of the police.”
“Spare me the agitprop. You seem to have lost sight of the fact that a man’s been murdered.”
“On the contrary, I think about it every day.”
“What exactly do you think about, Mr. Turner?”
“Karma, Chief Superintendent. Or the wages of sin, if you prefer.”
A theologian, no less. “Are you suggesting that Brighton got what he deserved?” Powell asked mildly.
“That would be rather presumptuous of me, I think.”
“Perhaps you could clear something up for me. You’re a member of the Labour Party, as was Richard Brighton, yet I get the distinct impression you didn’t see eye to eye. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can only assume that you represent some sort of fringe group within the party.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Powell shrugged. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Richard Brighton was clearly the standard-bearer for the Labour Party in Southwark. By all accounts, he would have been the next mayor if somebody hadn’t killed him. And the eventual success of the Dockside project will be due in no small part to his efforts in support of it.”
Turner looked at him without expression. “You’re trying to provoke me, aren’t you? Well, it won’t work. Because you’re dead wrong about Dockside. It will never happen. People around here are finally waking up to the corporate agenda. There’s no question that Richard’s misguided support gave the project a boost at the start, but the tide was beginning to turn. I think even he recognized that. Ironically, his death has probably increased support for Dockside—a temporary manifestation of public sympathy no doubt—but that will soon pass. So you see, Chief Superintendent, it was Richard who was becoming marginalized, not me.”
“Surely it’s not all black and white, Mr. Turner.”
“It bloody well is black and white!” Turner rejoined, showing the first sign of emotion. “Dockside is the architectural embodiment of Thatcherism. It’s smash-and-grab development of the worst kind. Where are the basic amenities, the green spaces, the public areas? Why was there no consultation with the local community? I’ll tell you why. Because we no longer live in a democratic society. Because all those tenants facing eviction have no bloody rights. It’s that simple. Let me give you a little history lesson, Chief Superintendent. The London Docklands Development Corporation was set up in 1981 to preside, supposedly, over the rejuvenation of the London docks. In reality, the LDDC was an undemocratic body imposed on us by Mrs. Thatcher to feather the nests of her friends in the City. One hundred percent tax relief on capital expenditures, no business rates for ten years, and freedom from planning controls were some of the tactics used. The LDDC was quite rightly opposed by the Greater London Council, and you know what
happen to the GLC. She simply abolished it. The LDDC finished its work in 1998, and we are now living with the legacy: two cultures, rich and poor, unaffordable pleasure domes like Dockside amidst huge swaths of dereliction, gleaming office towers rising above the ghettos. I don’t know about you, but it’s not the kind of community I want my children to live in.”
Powell had to admit that he had some empathy for Adrian Turner’s polarized view of the world. After all, good and evil, right and wrong, guilt and innocence were the stock and trade of the law as well. However, look at a monochrome photograph of anyone and you will see more shades of gray than black or white. The battered wife who lashes out at her tormentor with a bread knife; the addict who breaks into someone’s home to support his habit; the motorist, in a momentary lapse of attention, who strikes and kills a small child. But while we are all of us imperfect and fallible, we must ultimately be held accountable as individuals for our actions. Powell held this precept alone as an absolute truth in a relativistic universe.
“One more question, Mr. Turner: If everything you say is true, why do you suppose Richard Brighton supported Dockside?”
Turner smiled, but it looked more like a sneer. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, Chief Superintendent.”
CHAPTER 16
When Powell got back to the Yard, there was a message from Sir Reginald Quick, the Senior Home Office Pathologist, waiting for him. He rang back but got the engaged signal. He swore silently. He was debating whether he should pay a visit on spec to the Forensic Science Service Metropolitan Laboratory in Lambeth Road, where Sir Reggie presided in splendid isolation, when Detective-Sergeant Evans walked into his office.
“Well, Evans?” he asked.
She proceeded to fill him in on yesterday’s conversation with Tess Morgan. “She’s a woman on a mission, there’s no question about that. And who can blame her? Besides the prospect of losing her home, she’s got a teenage daughter to worry about. Frankly, I don’t know how she does it: raising her kid, holding down a full-time job, leading the campaign against Dockside.”
“A woman’s work is never done,” Powell remarked dangerously.
Evans glared at him.
“Would you consider yourself a political animal by nature, Evans?”
She looked surprised by this question. “What do you mean?”
“Are you a card-carrying member of a political party? A true believer in the dogma of either the right or the left?”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s between me and my cat.”
Powell smiled. “You’re quite right, of course. However, I will share my thoughts on the matter with you, fresh as they are from my recent encounters with two members of one of our local councils. I am going to let you in on a secret, Evans, the dirty little secret that lies at the heart of our democratic system. Politics as we know it is essentially a contest between conflicting versions of the truth; since by definition there can be only one truth, the entire system is based on a pack of lies. In the House of Commons, you can call a member a whore, a poltroon, or a drunk, but never a liar. Because that would expose the whole bloody farce for what it is.”
He noticed the bemused expression on her face. “Why is this relevant, you ask? Because I’ve come to the conclusion that Charles Mansfield and Adrian Turner are both liars. They are each fanatics in their own right, and they hated Richard Brighton for what he was and what he stood for. The question is: Is there any more to it than that?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, sir?”
Before he could make an appropriate reply, Sergeant Black lumbered into the office. He wore a solemn expression on his face.
“Excuse me, sir, but I just got a call from someone claiming to have the inside track on Dockside. He says he has evidence that Charles Mansfield, the local councillor, has a secret financial interest in the project, placing him in a conflict-of-interest position.”
“What evidence?” Powell asked sharply.
“He didn’t say, sir. He rang off before I could press him.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Powell sat in silence trying to grasp the potential implications of this anonymous phone call. He looked at Evans. “I rest my case,” he said.
Before confronting Charles Mansfield with what was, after all, an unsubstantiated allegation at this point, Powell decided that it might be wise to discreetly query Paul Atherton on the financial aspects of Dockside.
Atherton answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Atherton, Chief Superintendent Powell. Sorry to bother you again so soon, but I have a few more questions, I’m afraid.”
“Fire away, Chief Superintendent.”
“When we last spoke, you mentioned that you had an arrangement with Clive Morton whereby he would have owned and operated a restaurant at Dockside.”
“Chez Clive, that’s it.”
“Did Morton have any other financial interest in the project?”
“He had a ten percent share in addition to the restaurant. He was a junior partner, in effect.”
“Do you have any other partners?”
“No. Why do you ask?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“Force of habit, Mr. Atherton. Perhaps you could clear something else up for me. I understand that you don’t own the warehouse property outright but have an option to purchase the property once you get planning approval. Is that how it works?”
A slight hesitation. “You’ve obviously been doing your homework, Chief Superintendent. Yes, that’s how it works. The option is renewable every six months subject to an additional payment.”
“So the longer it takes to get the council’s blessing, the more your costs increase?”
“I’m afraid so. Just between you and me, I’ll be in dire straits if I can’t put this thing to bed by the end of the summer. As you can imagine, it would be difficult to raise additional money at that point because of the uncertainty surrounding the project. However, if and when I get the green light, I’ve got a commitment from my bank for the funds required to purchase the council property. Basically, it all hinges on the politicians now.”
Not an enviable position to be in, Powell thought. “Thank you, Mr. Atherton. I appreciate your candor.”
“Not at all, Chief Superintendent.”
After he’d rung off, Powell wondered about the best way to approach Charles Mansfield. He had no reason not to believe Atherton, but the anonymous phone call had obviously been intended to cast a spotlight on Mansfield for some reason. If there had been some sort of understanding between Atherton and Mansfield, was it possible that Brighton had found out about it somehow and then threatened to expose them? It occurred to him that if there was a financial agreement of some kind, documents must exist somewhere. He made a mental note to have Evans look into it. His thoughts suddenly turned to Adrian Turner, the po-faced young socialist—perhaps the opposition was up to some dirty tricks. And what about Tess Morgan, the community activist? Even a hint of scandal at this point could well tip the balance of opinion against Dockside.
He picked up the phone and rang Charles Mansfield’s office. Mansfield was in a meeting so he left a message with his secretary.
CHAPTER 17
Sir Reginald Quick’s office at the Forensic Science Service Metropolitan Laboratory was located more or less at the center of the building. As Powell made his way through a labyrinth of antiseptic-smelling corridors that would have done Daedalus proud, he caught occasional glimpses of white-coated boffins bustling about in gleaming laboratories. He eventually arrived at Sir Reggie’s lair and knocked on the door.
“Come!”
Sir Reggie’s office was a cramped and cluttered room filled with file cabinets, books, stacks of reports, and various liquid-filled sample jars with mercifully unidentifiable objects suspended in them. The pathologist sat hunched over a desk that looked far too small for him, pecking with two fingers at a computer keyboard. “Don’t hover, man. Sit dow
n, for God’s sake!”
“Er, where?”
“On the bloody chair, where else? Just move those papers.”
Powell did as he was told.
Sir Reggie continued typing. “I’m just about finished with this damn thing,” he muttered.
“Technical report?” Powell asked harmlessly.
Sir Reggie’s large, florid face suddenly grew even redder. “The Hampstead Amateur Players, of which my wife is a leading light, are putting on My Fair Lady next month,” he explained, “and I’ve been lumbered with doing the bloody program.” He turned to look at Powell, his white hair askew and a dismal expression on his face. “Victoria is playing Eliza,” he said.
Powell dared not crack a smile. He knew that Sir Reggie’s spouse, Victoria, was a woman to be reckoned with, both in terms of physical presence and force of personality. But the thought of her playing the simple cockney flower girl beggared the imagination. “That’s nice,” he said lamely.
“Perhaps I could sell you a pair of tickets,” the pathologist ventured slyly.
“Er, thanks all the same, Reggie, but my wife’s away, and I don’t get out much.”
Sir Reggie sighed heavily. “All right, Powell, let’s get on with it. What do you want?”
“Did you have a look at those postmortem reports I sent over? The Morton and Brighton files,” Powell prompted.
Sir Reggie frowned. “They must be somewhere around here … I put them on your chair, I think. What the hell have you done with them?”
Powel smiled. “On the corner of your desk.”
“Oh, right.” He flipped quickly through the reports as if to verify that he had in fact seen them before. He returned them to their pile and looked appraisingly at Powell. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you could see any similarities in the two cases?”
He pondered this for a moment. “Now that you mention it … they’re both bloody dead!” He laughed uproariously.
Malice in London Page 9
