by Graham Ison
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, declining to explain what ‘scam’ meant. ‘We’ll probably have to involve the Fraud Squad, but at the moment my priority is to discover the murderer or murderers of Eberhardt and Schmidt.’ I then told him what Horst Fischer had found in Eberhardt’s basement. ‘The German police are interrogating Wilhelm Weber as well, sir.’
‘Who is this Weber, Mr Brock?’
‘He’s the man who lent the camper van to Eberhardt, sir. But all he’s told them at the moment is that Eberhardt travelled several times to the Bahamas.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of going to the Bahamas either, Mr Brock.’ The commander looked quite distressed at this latest piece of information.
‘I doubt it, sir,’ I said, without wishing to antagonize him further, but I was by no means sure that a trip there was out of the question.
‘Very well, Mr Brock,’ said the great man, ‘but keep me informed.’ He turned enthusiastically to a pile of files in his in-tray and moved the topmost one to the centre of his desk. He loves paperwork does the commander and devours it with all the enthusiasm of a dedicated bureaucrat.
I returned to the incident room and began to read the statements about the team’s visits of yesterday. They all told the same depressing story of naive people taken in by unscrupulous fraudsters.
‘This Lady Fairfax, Lizanne . . .? Did she know the address of William Rivers?’
‘No, guv,’ said Lizanne Carpenter. ‘She just said that he picked her up in his car every Tuesday to take her to this social club they belong to. But she did say that he lived locally.’
‘Rivers was on Herr Fischer’s list, sir, and he was interviewed by Charlie Flynn,’ said Colin Wilberforce, proving yet again that he was well and truly conversant with every aspect of the enquiry. ‘His statement’s the third one in the file you’ve got.’
‘Where is Charlie, Colin?’ DS Flynn was a former Fraud Squad officer and it was beginning to look as though he would be a useful man to have on this enquiry.
‘He’s just slipped out for a haircut, sir. Should be back any minute.’
‘Ask him to see me the moment he gets back.’
Charlie Flynn appeared in my office five minutes later. ‘Sorry, guv, but I needed a quick trim,’ he said apologetically.
‘No problem, Charlie.’ I knew that my detectives, working the hours they did, rarely had time off when civilized establishments like hairdressers were open. ‘Tell me about Rivers,’ I said, waving Flynn to a chair.
‘His story’s much the same as the one Lizanne got from Lady Fairfax, guv, and from the documents I obtained from Rivers it appears to be the same bogus company that the poor old fool invested in. Some IT company in Buenos Aires.’
‘Did you find out what sort of car he’s got? Apparently he picks up Lady Fairfax and takes her to this club.’
‘Yeah, it’s a red Renault Twingo, about five years old, I should think. And it’s registered to him. I checked.’
‘That doesn’t tally with the description of the car that Guy Wilson saw near the van. The one he told Miss Ebdon about.’
‘I shouldn’t think Rivers is capable of committing a murder anyway, guv. He must be at least eighty and he looked as though he was at death’s door.’
‘He’s a former soldier, according to Lady Fairfax.’
‘Yes, he said he’d been a sergeant major. There was a shield on the wall of his sitting room that looked like it was one of those regimental things, a bit like the Met Police shields we give away. I don’t know what it was, but it had what seemed to be a flaming dagger on it. Anyway, I took a photo of it while he was upstairs looking for the documents.’ Flynn fiddled with his mobile phone and held it up for me to see.
‘That’s not a flaming dagger, Charlie,’ I said. ‘According to a book I read it’s a downward-pointing Excalibur wreathed in flames on a crusader shield.’
‘Yeah, well, whatever, guv,’ said Flynn.
‘It’s the crest of the Special Air Service, Charlie.’
‘Blimey, the SAS. I wonder if he took part in the Iranian Embassy siege back in 1980. He’s about the right age.’ Every policeman knew about the siege; it was the only time the SAS had been called in to assist the Metropolitan Police.
‘Whether he did or not, if he’s ex-SAS he’s a trained killer, Charlie. Not the sort of bloke you’d like to meet on a dark night if you’d upset him. Like if you’d defrauded him. How much did he lose in this scam?’
‘Ten grand, guv.’
‘Did he indeed? I think it’s worth me having a chat with him.’
‘But the car isn’t the one that Wilson saw, guv.
‘There is such a thing as hiring a car, Charlie.’
‘Possible, I suppose,’ said Flynn.
‘By the way, there is a job you can do when you’ve got a moment.’ I gave Flynn details of the bank into which Lady Fairfax had deposited her two cheques totalling forty thousand pounds. ‘The cash got moved on a bit sharply according to the enquiries that Lady Fairfax made, Charlie. See if you can get any more details. Not that I think you will.’
William Rivers’s house at Pinner was nothing like the house in which Lizanne Carpenter had said that Lady Fairfax lived. The old soldier’s abode was a two-up-two-down semi in one of the less salubrious parts of the Harrow suburb.
I hammered on the door, but there was no reply.
A woman in a flowery apron immediately appeared from the adjoining house and stood on tiptoe, peering over the dividing fence. She had frizzy bottle-blonde hair and an excess of make-up.
‘If you’re looking for Bill Rivers, he’s gone away,’ she said.
‘D’you know when he went?’ I asked, silently thanking God for nosy neighbours.
‘Late last night. Can I give him a message when he gets back?’
‘I’m a police officer, madam,’ I said. ‘I rather want to talk to him urgently.’
‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’ But the woman’s attitude gave the impression that if Rivers was in a spot of bother with the police, it would be something to gossip about to her neighbours.
‘No, not at all,’ I said, although I wasn’t too sure about that. ‘Have you any idea where he went?’
‘He said he was going on holiday for a week or two. He usually goes to Brighton. He’s very fond of Brighton, is Bill. He mentioned several times that he always goes there. I think he even goes sea-swimming. Not something I’d care to do at his age, but he’s a tough old nut.’
‘Have you any idea where he might be staying. If he always goes to Brighton, he might be putting up at the same place.’
‘No, love, he never let on. He tends to keep himself to himself does Bill, if you know what I mean.’ The woman smiled and touched her hair. It was black at the roots.
‘Did he take his wife?’ asked Dave.
‘No, dear, Bill is a widower. His wife died about twenty years ago, I think.’
‘Did he take his car?’ asked Dave.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said the woman. ‘At least it’s not outside where it usually is.’
‘That’d be the Renault, would it?’
‘I think that’s what it is,’ agreed the woman. ‘He used to have a Volkswagen, but then he bought that French thing he’s got now.’
We left it at that and returned to our car.
‘Have you got an address for Lady Fairfax, Dave?’ I asked.
‘Yes, guv,’ said Dave, and read out the address from his pocketbook. It was only a ten minute drive from where we were.
Lady Fairfax appraised the two of us somewhat nervously. Dave, being six foot tall and black, tended to have that sort of intimidating effect on people.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Lady Fairfax,’ I said, once I’d told her who we were, ‘but I’m anxious to speak to William Rivers.’
Catherine Fairfax showed us into her sitting room. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where he lives, Chief Inspector.’ Being an army officer’s widow, Lady Fairfax obviously knew about r
anks and didn’t leave out the ‘chief’ as did the actors who appeared on television. I’m always irritated that fictional TV chief inspectors not only allow themselves to be called ‘inspector’, but even introduce themselves as such. There’s a difference of about eight grand a year in pay, and real coppers don’t make that mistake or allow others to do so.
‘We know where he lives, Lady Fairfax,’ said Dave. ‘We’ve just called at his house, but I was told that he’s gone on holiday. Quite suddenly it seems. According to a neighbour he went late last night, probably to Brighton.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Catherine Fairfax. ‘He didn’t say anything about that to me. I wonder how I’m going to get to the club tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can do to help you there.’ In view of what DS Carpenter had told me about the amount of money the woman had lost, I didn’t like to suggest a taxi.
‘There were two nice young lady police officers here only yesterday, Chief Inspector, a sergeant and a constable. Is it something to do with the enquiries they were making?’
‘It is connected, Lady Fairfax,’ said Dave, smiling almost beatifically and as usual oozing charm as he did whenever he dealt with old ladies. ‘Those officers are colleagues of ours.’
‘It’s such a dreadful business. I don’t know how I was so stupid as to get mixed up in it. But they threatened to go to the police if I didn’t make the second payment. They said I’d entered into a parole contract, whatever that is.’
‘It’s legal jargon for a verbal agreement,’ said Dave, ‘and in these circumstances not worth the paper it’s not written on.’
Lady Fairfax appeared bemused by this bit of Dave Poole doubletalk and smiled. ‘I see,’ she said, but I doubt that she did.
‘What are we going to do about Rivers, guv?’ asked Dave, once we were back at Curtis Green.
‘Supposing Rivers has in fact gone to Brighton, Dave, it might be worth asking the local police to keep a look out for his car. Charlie Flynn will give you the details.’
‘If that’s where he has actually gone,’ said Dave pessimistically.
‘We just have to hope that his neighbour was right,’ I said. ‘If the local law down there are lucky enough to spot it ask them to let us know, but to take no other action. If they do manage to locate him, we’ll take a trip down there and have a word. It could be that he really has gone on holiday.’
‘Yeah, maybe, guv, but it seems all too convenient to me that he vamooses straight after Eberhardt and Schmidt were murdered. There we have an ex-SAS geezer who suddenly takes it on the toes just after Charlie Flynn called in to see him.’ Dave regarded everyone involved in an investigation as a suspect until proved to be innocent. ‘Guilty knowledge, no doubt about it,’ he added, just to make his point.
‘You might be right, Dave. It seems odd that he took off straight after he’d had a visit from the police. However, there are some loose ends to be tied up.’ Although I knew damned well that the address on the letters sent to the ‘investors’ was false, I had to show in the final report that this had been checked. And that meant a trip into the foreign territory cared for by the City of London Police.
The address on the letter received by Lady Fairfax turned out to be premises occupied by a firm of solicitors. In my view, not the smartest move on the part of the share-pushers. But as it happened, the lawyers hadn’t even opened the letters that had arrived at their address.
‘Yes, we had quite a few letters addressed to this fellow Anthony Cook,’ said the senior partner, after he’d consulted his office manager, ‘but we sent them back to the post office marked “Not known at this address”.’
‘You weren’t interested in why letters for this man kept arriving here?’ I asked, just for the hell of it. ‘Didn’t you open them to find out?’
‘They were not opened because so to do might have constituted an offence under Section 84 of the Postal Services Act 2000,’ said the solicitor. He was a smug sort of character, mid-forties and expensively suited. ‘And lawyers are not in the habit of breaching the law, Chief Inspector, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
Really? I’ve certainly known a few who’d bent it, to say the least.
‘If any such letters arrive in the future, perhaps you’d let me know.’ I handed the lawyer one of my cards. ‘I’ll arrange for an officer to seize them as evidence in a case of double murder I’m dealing with. I’m sure you’ll agree that such action will exonerate you from any allegation of interfering with Her Majesty’s mails.’
‘Quite so,’ said the solicitor acidly.
So much for that. Now we had to look into the matter of the discontinued 0845 telephone number that Lady Fairfax, and doubtless the others, had tried calling. But I knew what the outcome would be.
Back at the office, I set Colin Wilberforce the task of discovering details of the subscriber from British Telecom. Or BT as it now styles itself in the prevailing fashion of using abbreviations for everything. It took him about ten minutes.
‘According to the director of security at BT the number has never been issued, sir,’ said Wilberforce.
‘But Lady Fairfax said that it came up as disconnected,’ I said.
‘It would’ve done, sir. I was told that it’s the standard recorded response to numbers that have been disconnected or never issued.’
‘But how was our mysterious share-pusher lucky enough to come up with a number that had never been issued?’
‘He probably kept dialling 0845 numbers until he hit on one that had been disconnected and then put that on his bogus letterhead,’ suggested Dave.
‘Sounds right, sir,’ said Wilberforce. ‘It was a bonus that it hadn’t been issued, but in the event it didn’t matter.’
‘It wouldn’t’ve really have made a difference if he’d picked any number,’ said Dave, as usual getting to the nub of the matter. ‘After all, he picked a solicitor’s address for his letterhead.’
‘One other thing, Colin,’ I said. ‘Get on to the delivery office that serves the solicitor’s address and find out what they did with the Anthony Cook letters that were returned to them.’
Later that night we had surprisingly good news from Brighton, although at the time we didn’t realize how surprising or that it wouldn’t be good. At near midnight, a Sussex traffic-division officer had seen Rivers’s Renault Twingo and followed it to a guest house. The driver – a man in his eighties, it was reported – had alighted and gone inside. It was that simple! I never cease to be amazed at how often uniformed constables will find someone for whom the CID had been searching for days if not months. Not that that was the case here. Less than twelve hours was pretty good going.
The Sussex police message had come in straight after the discovery, but the night duty incident room staff had wisely decided not to bother me with it.
SEVEN
The next morning I entrusted myself to what Dave calls his purposeful driving, and we arrived at the guest house at about half past eleven. William Rivers’s car was parked outside. The guest house was one of those seedy establishments that had a signboard boasting a sea view, but a sight of the sea could probably be achieved only by standing on a chair in the attic.
Dave and I walked into the entrance hall and I banged a table bell on a desk that bore the optimistic sign ‘Welcome’. That the owner was a harridan in her fifties and as dowdy as the guest house itself came as no surprise.
‘We haven’t got any vacancies,’ said this vision of loveliness, viewing Dave with obvious distaste.
‘That’s all right, this is the last place on earth I’d want to stay,’ said Dave, who was quick to recognize a racist when he met one.
‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘I want to speak to Mr Rivers, one of your guests.’
‘I don’t know as how he’s in,’ said the woman, obviously intent upon being as obstructive as possible. I got the impression that she didn’t like the police and idly wondered why, but it wasn’t my concern. ‘He never
come down for breakfast this morning, but I’ve got more to do than run about after guests what can’t be bothered to get out of their bed of a morning.’
‘Perhaps you’d find out if he’s in,’ Dave suggested, ‘or we could go round knocking on doors until we find him.’
The woman tossed her head as she realized it would be futile not to cooperate. She snatched at the telephone and dialled a two-digit number, but replaced the receiver after a few moments. ‘He’s not answering,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure he’s in. Perhaps he’s asleep. It’s Room Five, top floor,’ she added tersely and walked away muttering to herself.
We trudged up two flights of worn nylon-carpeted stairs and Dave knocked on the door bearing the number of Rivers’s room. The number was a cheap stick-on affair, the sort that people buy at DIY shops to put on their dustbins.
I pushed open the door. Sprawled across the bed was a fully dressed man. There was a pistol in his right hand, and blood had stained the bedclothes and was congealed on his neck from a head wound. His eyes were wide open.
Dave crossed to the bed and felt for a pulse. He looked up. ‘He’s a goner, guv,’ he said. ‘Still, he could hardly miss at that range.’
‘Bloody hell!’ I said. This untoward event introduced an unnecessary complication into our investigation. Not because Rivers, and I’d no doubt it was him, had obviously committed suicide, but because it would now mean involving another police force.
I took out my mobile phone and paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got the number of the local nick, Dave, have you?’
‘It so happens I have, sir,’ said Dave and reeled it off from memory. It was one of Dave’s little foibles that he always called me ‘sir’ whenever I made a fatuous remark or asked for something I should’ve known. And he always called me ‘sir’ in the presence of members of the public.
I called Brighton police station and asked for the detective inspector. Having eventually made contact, I introduced myself and went on to explain our interest in William Rivers and what had happened.
