Proffitt shook his head. “Call it a copper's gut instinct. It was just a feeling Peters and Tanner had that something wasn't quite right. There was no reason to think that. I had terminated the night's proceedings. Theoretically they were off duty.”
“Didn't their instincts tell them to stop this fellow…er… Greenfield?” Hawkes had to consult a piece of paper lying on his desk to be sure of the name. “Could they not have done something to prevent this thing happening?”
“The last thing Peters and Tanner were expecting was someone walking brazenly up to Donovan on the street and blasting four bullets into his body,” said Proffitt. “Don't forget they had no reason to suspect anything was going to happen at all. They also had to keep a discreet distance for fear of blowing his cover. This was still very much an on-going operation. Then it all happened so quickly. This man Greenfield closed up, produced a gun and it was over in a matter of seconds. It doesn't make a lot of sense. It's certainly not the way you would expect a pro. to operate. And yet, if Peters and Tanner hadn't been there, he would probably have got away with it. He picked a spot away from the houses, could have been away before anybody realised what had happened. A respectable business executive, no criminal record, no known criminal contacts or associates, there would have been absolutely nothing to connect him with the murder of an undercover policeman.”
“Couldn't Peters and Tanner have stopped and searched him with a bit of tact and discretion?”
“Discreetly or otherwise, on what grounds?” Proffitt opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It was only around a quarter to ten last night, hardly a time when a mere presence on the street could be viewed with suspicion and these officers were armed, remember. If the guy had turned out to be as innocent as he looked, there would have been hell to pay. The media and some of our politicians would have had a field day, questions in the House probably.
“I'm sure they will, anyway. The headlines will make it sound like a Wild West shoot-out on the streets of London. I have a press conference to chair in a few minutes and you know how I hate doing those.”
“We walk a thin political tightrope sometimes. It's a fact of life. But there was much more to this one. Our chaps had no way of knowing Donovan was under some sort of surveillance or that his life was in any immediate danger. We had no way of knowing for certain how much the people he was dealing with trusted him. No, Peters and Tanner had to be one hundred per cent sure Donovan was at risk before they acted, otherwise they could have blown the whole operation or even exposed Donovan to the very danger they were seeking to protect him from.”
“And by the time they were certain, it was all over, I suppose.”
In the bad weather conditions and the dark I doubt they even saw the gun. Probably the first they knew was when the shots were actually fired.”
“What about the pub earlier, what went on there?”
“We have been after this drugs syndicate for months now. We know they are big, but they are also well organised. Our enquiries were getting nowhere. Donovan went under cover with remarkable success. He had a meet set up with their number one, their top man. We were that close. For some reason the man never showed. Donovan put on an impressive show of anger and left.”
“Who did show up?”
“Some freelance muscle, Lenny Carson and Horace Pemberton, all brawn, no brains, do their bit for anyone prepared to pay. What was interesting was Miles Brassington, usually calls himself the Beard, for obvious reasons. A nasty piece of work this one, even more so because he has the brains to go with it. University graduate, got his degree with honours. Could have had a brilliant career in the civil engineering line. We have a thick file on Mr Brassington, but, incredibly, he has no form to date. Plenty of suspicion, but he's simply been too clever for us. We've never been able to prove a thing. What was worrying about his showing up at the meet is that we think he may have Mafia connections. I said we knew this syndicate was big, but it could be it's much bigger than we thought.”
“If we had a file on Brassington, wouldn't Donovan have known him?”
“Possibly, But I doubt it. There's no way of knowing for sure. Donovan filed no regular reports on this one and we didn't keep him under surveillance until last night when we thought the top dog was putting in an appearance. We thought it was too risky. We only had two telephone calls, both from public call boxes, only long enough to pass on bare essentials; one to tell us he had made contact initially, the other yesterday to tell us of last night's meet. Otherwise, we had no contact with him. He was set up with his new identity in his own place before he started putting the feelers out and for the past month he lived that identity totally and utterly.”
“Are you saying his wife hadn't seen him for the past month?” Commander Hawkes eyes widened, his bushy eyebrows raised. Proffitt nodded. “My God, the poor woman.”
Proffitt said quietly, “Yes.”
The two men fell silent, struck by the enormity of the impact last night's news must have had on Mike Donovan's wife in such circumstances. After a pause long enough for Proffitt to presume the interview was over, so that he was about to dismiss himself, Commander Hawkes continued, “What do you know about this Greenfield fellow?”
“Very little so far, certainly nothing as yet to give any indication why he did what he did. Howard Greenfield seems to have been a highly respectable and respected business executive at the height of his career, promoted only this week to Managing Director of the advertising agency he worked for. He certainly found a strange way to celebrate his success.”
“Have you spoken to his wife?”
“Yes, but only within the last hour. She wasn't at home last night. She broke down completely at the news, so much so we had to get a doctor to her. He put her under sedation, so we haven't really got anything at all from her yet.”
“That's a pity; we could do with talking to her. There is always a possibility Greenfield had a personal motive. We are presuming Donovan's murder was something to do with his undercover operation, but that may not be necessarily so.”
Proffitt nodded his agreement. “I had considered the personal angle, but somehow it doesn't seem very likely to me. Mike Donovan wasn't the sort to make enemies outside his police work. He liked the quiet life, devoted to his wife and kid. Although it's too early at this stage to be sure of anything, nothing has turned up so far to show any previous link between Donovan and Greenfield. My guess is they never even met before last night. No, I think we must presume at the moment Donovan was killed because of his undercover activities. How or why Howard Greenfield became the man to do it is a mystery that may never be solved. The answer could well have gone to the grave with him.”
“No leads from the gun?”
“Forensics is checking it now, but I don't think they are going to find anything that will help us much. Automatic pistol, seemed to be custom-built, no manufacturer's name, no identifying marks of any sort. This is what gives this killing a professional touch, yet I can't see Howard Greenfield, advertising executive, as having a secret career as a hired gun. I think we face an uphill struggle on this one. There are too many unanswered questions only Greenfield himself could give us the answers to.”
“Keep me informed of any progress, however small.” Commander Hawkes gathered together the papers on the desk before him, indicating that now the meeting really was at a close. “Losing one of our own officers in the line of duty is always a bitter pill to swallow, Dick. Like losing a member of your own family. It also knocks morale for six, brings out all the suppressed anxieties, fills the place with an air of gloom that is difficult to shake off. An unsolved mystery to go with it isn't going to help any, so let's have maximum effort on this one.”
“We'll give it everything we've got.”
Hawkes nodded. “Good. The Commissioner will want your report in writing, of course, but for the moment I'll give him a verbal one based on what you have told me.”
“I.P.C.C. will be involved I assume.”
“Ah, the Independent Police Complaints Commission,” Commander Hawkes sighed, adding sarcastically, “what would be do without them? Yes, I had to refer it and they've already been on the telephone. Obviously, they will want to talk to all involved in this operation, but right now I think you should call it a day. You look absolutely bushed. Go home to bed; write your report up later.”
Proffitt got to his feet. “Yes, it has been a long night.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Detective Chief Inspector Richard Proffitt downed his fourth whisky – or was it his fifth, he was already losing count? – as he struggled to keep open his tired eyes. How much he would have preferred to be at home, looking for sleep rather than alcohol to bring him respite, however temporary, from his anguish, instead of propping up a bar in a half-empty lounge at Heathrow Airport.
There had been no surprise in receiving the summons to a meeting after such a disaster. What did surprise him was the sight of the figure that settled on a seat at an empty table. Those large, beautiful, blue, eyes, so alluringly full of promise, seductively flashing a greeting in his direction, could only belong to one person. He had never expected to see her again. Glass in hand, he moved across to join her.
“Well, this is a surprise, to say the least,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toasting gesture and swallowing a large mouthful of the fiery liquid.
“It's not my usual line of work, as you well know,” she agreed, taunting him with an arrogant smile. “So many people have already gone home for Christmas. There was no-one else to come.”
“What shall I call you?” asked Proffitt. “Which name are you calling yourself today?”
“Whatever takes your fancy.”
“What did Greenfield know you as?”
She paused to recollect. “Julie, I think. That's one of my favourites.”
“Then Julie it will be.” Again he raised his glass in mock salute. “In honour of the dear departed.”
“Richard, you're drunk.”
“Not drunk enough, unfortunately. Not yet.”
“Men are so unbecoming when they are drunk.” Her tone was now abrupt and angry. “I'm sure if they could see themselves, they wouldn't do it.”
“I would rather not see myself at the moment, thank you.” He stared down into his drink. “I don't want to see the blood on my hands.”
“Don't be melodramatic, Richard.” It could have been a schoolteacher admonishing a naughty child. “That's what the drink does for you.”
Proffitt looked at this woman who sat across the table from him, unable to conceive how so much evil could manifest itself within so much beauty. It so often happened and it was one of nature's cruellest tricks. As her long sable coat fell casually open to reveal a beige woollen dress, drawn in at the waist by a narrow belt, so that it clung tightly against the shape of her body, it wasn't difficult to see why he and God knows how many others had fallen so easily under her spell. What man could resist those eyes? He hated her for what she was, yet just to see her and sit this closely to her was enough to arouse a degree of sensual intoxication within him.
It was she who broke the silence. “Richard, your masters are not pleased.”
“No, it did turn out a bit of a mess, didn't it?”
“Why did you not tell us there was a surveillance detail?”
“There wasn't. Those officers were not under orders; they were acting on their own initiative. I told you who Tommy Morgan really was, didn't I?”
“That information was worth a lot of money to us. It also got us the elimination contract, so we are happy enough on that score. There is a feeling, however, you didn't go far enough.”
“I didn't know you were going to take him out. I thought the information would lead to the bad guys pulling out and disappearing into the sunset. In any case, I didn't know two officers were going to follow him. There were four officers at the pub with me. I couldn't watch what all of them did or where they went after the operation had been called off for the night.”
“How much is known?”
“Not a great deal. I don't think the weapon is going to reveal anything and Greenfield, himself, is a complete mystery. At the moment there's only one lead.”
“The private investigator's report.” Proffitt looked surprised, but Julie only smiled. “We helped write it and stopped the enquiries going any further. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, Greenfield's wife had it. I haven't told anybody yet, but I can't suppress it indefinitely. It doesn't say much, although it does mention you – by description, of course, not name. It could lead to some police investigations in Barcelona.”
“We have covered our tracks. It would have attracted attention if we had blocked the private investigator's report completely, but we were in control of it. We have always had contingency plans for such a happening, but I don't think we expected to ever have to use them. Our methods had always proved so successful. No, it's more harmful to our reputation than anything else and that is bad. We can not advertise in our line of work obviously, we have to rely on word-of-mouth recommendation. Our reputation is everything to us.”
The voice over the public address system announced a flight to Munich.
“That's my flight, said Julie. “I have to go now.”
“Germany?”
“I am stopping with some friends over Christmas. When you have something to report, use the normal channels. Keep us up to date on this.”
“No Julie.” Proffitt spoke calmly, but resolutely. “I want out.”
“That's impossible, Richard.” She looked genuinely shocked. “A Detective Chief Inspector inside Scotland Yard, you're one of our prize assets. The information you have given us over the past three years has been worth a small fortune to us.”
“Then settle for what I've given you, Julie. Let me have the film,” he pleaded. “You've had three years of my life and now I have to live with the death of a dear friend and colleague on my conscience. I can't give you any more. You ask too much.”
“Forget it, Richard, you're with us until the day you retire,” she snapped, “unless you want your wife and kids, plus the whole of Scotland Yard, including the Commissioner, to see tapes of that film. We could probably get one to the Home Secretary too. Don't underestimate what we can do, not for a second.”
“I can't go on.” Proffitt's voice trembled as his alcoholic mood of melancholy tightened its grip. “I've seen too many widows' tears today.”
Julie made no effort to conceal that her patience was close to being exhausted. “Today's tears will be yesterday's memories when you wake up tomorrow morning. Pull yourself together, Richard.”
“You don't feel anything, do you?” Proffitt could eye her now with nothing but contempt. “No remorse, no compassion, not anything. How many times have you made love, Julie? Hundreds? How many hundreds? But I bet you've never loved. You don't know what feelings are.”
“I weary of your sentimental rambling,” she said coldly, showing no reaction to his analysis of her lack of sensitivity. “I really do have to go now.”
“I have a gun, Julie.”
She laughed out loud. “Really Richard, why don't you just go home and sleep it off? Even if you did have a gun, which I doubt, what would you hope to achieve by using it on me? Do you think I am the only one doing this sort of work?”
“You're the only one I know.”
A further call for the Munich flight beamed out over the public address system.
“I must declare our little meeting closed,” she said, gathering up her gloves and handbag.
Proffitt stared deeply into her eyes, searching in vain for a trace of emotion. “You can't even feel fear, can you? There's nothing there at all. You're an emotional zombie. You might as well be a robot.”
Remaining unmoved, she replied in a brusque, matter-of-fact manner, “Call me names if it makes you happier, Richard, I can easily live with that, but you know well enough the consequences of harming me. You have too muc
h to lose. You're not that stupid.”
Proffitt watched her as she left the lounge, disappearing in the direction of passport control and the security checks, turning every male head as she passed. It was too easy for her. The thought depressed him further. Returning to the bar, he motioned for his glass to be refilled. Now he really had lost count.
As he sat on the bar stool the regulation issue .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, tucked into a holster attached to his belt, pressed against his hip. Weapons had been carried during the previous evening's operation at the Mole with Two Heads and, in the ensuing chaos of the night, he had simply overlooked turning his back in.
He found himself wondering if Mike Donovan's little boy had yet been told his Daddy was never coming home; not this Christmas or any other Christmas. The face of Donovan's widow – how swift was the transit from wife to widow, a fleeting moment in the passage of life – tear-stained, questioning, fearful, appeared before him, swirling around the remaining liquid in his glass, uttering over and over again, “Why, why, why?” The word reverberated around his brain, a never-fading echo. He shook his head violently and rubbed his eyes until tears welled up in them, but the image refused to go away.
They were being too greedy. If only they would release him now, let him have the film to destroy. Perhaps, in time, he could learn to live with the misery he had caused the previous night, but how many more would there be? How many more widows' tears was he going to have to face? The answer, he knew, was in his hands. The clock showed twenty-five minutes until the departure of the flight to Munich. He didn't finish his drink. He didn't need to. The decision had been easier than he expected.
How he wished he could turn back the clock. He had been assigned to help a police investigation in Kenya into the brutal murder of two British nationals working there. The Kenyan police had asked Scotland Yard for additional expertise and a team had been assembled, but Proffitt had been unable to travel with the other members due to a family commitment. It was a long flight and she was such good company, so charming, so attentive and so very beautiful. He knew he was not the best looking fellow in the world. A couple of inches under six feet, a body that looked somewhat overweight, despite his strength and general fitness, his thinning hair and premature bags beneath both eyes, he looked older than his forty-one years. Yet he was happily married and had a good home life, so had no reason to complain. However, having married his childhood sweetheart he had never been with another woman, so he had yielded to the temptation of the young, so beautiful woman who lavished so much attention on him. For him it was like a living dream, detached from the reality of his everyday life. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stop the world and step off for a brief, but exciting, moment in time. What a price he had paid, yet regret was a hopeless emotion, borne only to make life's mistakes so much harder to survive.
The Hit-and-Run Man Page 14
