Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  She nodded, irritated that she seemed to be paired up with him. “See you then.”

  “You coming to the pub for a drink? Sort of to get to know everyone?”

  “No, I have things to do at home. See you in the morning.”

  Anna went to Cunningham’s office and knocked. She waited for her to answer before entering. “Sorry about the interruption in the briefing.” Anna explained that, in the hope of finding out more about Frank Brandon, she had contacted Harry Blunt.

  Cunningham, on hearing his name, gave a derisive snort. “That bigoted buffoon! Can’t stand him.”

  Nevertheless, Anna explained how Harry thought Frank might be working as a driver or bodyguard; he also doubted that Frank was using drugs, and recalled that Frank had once worked with the Drug Squad.

  Cunningham snapped that they knew that; then she tipped back in her chair. “He’s been formally identified by his prints, Anna; it’s just come in. Right now we don’t have an address, but that should be through soon enough.” Her desk phone rang.

  Anna gestured that she would leave.

  “No. Stay put. DCI Cunningham? Terrific—yes, yes, thank you.” She pointed to a jar of pencils.

  Anna picked one up and passed it to her, then watched as the DCI listened, jotting down notes.

  She finished the call and replaced the receiver. “Frank Brandon married a Miss Julia Kendal five months ago. She has two children from a previous relationship. We’d better go and see her.”

  Anna nodded, though she was eager to get home. It was already after six, and the thought of all the unpacking she would have to do made her head ache. She would have liked to have gone in her own car, but Cunningham had insisted they ride together in a patrol car with a driver.

  “This isn’t a social visit, Travis!”

  Anna said nothing, doubting that Cunningham, she of the folded arms and classy voice, would be able to give much compassion to the poor woman they were going to visit.

  Anna was surprised by the house in Wimbledon. It was set back from the common, with pillared front steps up to a large oak studded door: modern, but expensive and quite tasteful. The carport had a Range Rover parked, leaving space enough for a second car. Anna could not imagine Frank Brandon here, but then she had never seen where he had lived as a bachelor.

  Cunningham took a deep breath. “Christ, I hate these meetings.” She rang the doorbell and stepped back, almost onto Anna’s feet. “Frank seems to have been doing all right, though; this must be worth about three mil at least.”

  A Chinese girl opened the door.

  “Mrs. Brandon, please,” Cunningham said.

  The girl hesitated. “One moment, please.” Her English was good.

  “Who is it, Mai Ling?” another woman asked from inside.

  “Will you please tell Mrs. Brandon that I am from the police,” Cunningham said. “I need to speak with her on a very urgent matter.”

  The door was swung wider and a very attractive blonde in a chic dress and high heels appeared. “Is it about Frank? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Are you Mrs. Brandon?” Cunningham asked quietly.

  “Yes, do you want to come in?”

  “Please.”

  They went into a spacious hall with a wide staircase. It was thickly and newly carpeted in a pale oyster; there was also the faint smell of fresh paint.

  “I’ve been calling him all day,” Mrs. Brandon said as she led them into a big family room. Again, there was a new carpet, and some of the furniture still had bubble wrapping around it. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. We only moved in fairly recently.”

  Cunningham nodded and introduced Anna.

  Mrs. Brandon knew then, by how quiet they were, that something was wrong. She touched a gold chain at her neck as she perched on one of the new easy chairs. “Something has happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I am sorry, but I have some distressing news. There is no easy way to tell you this, but I am afraid your husband has been fatally wounded.”

  Julia just seemed to sag, her head leaning forward. “Ah, no.”

  “We will need you to give us a formal identification.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “Yes. I am very sorry. It happened sometime early this morning.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. Do you know what he was doing last night?”

  At this point, Julia lost control; she slid forward as she vomited over her new carpet.

  It took them some time to help her up, and get Mai Ling back to clean up the mess. Julia didn’t cry, but seemed to be in a daze, as she was helped to lie down and a cold cloth was put on her forehead. Cunningham sat close to her, and asked the girl to call Julia’s doctor.

  By the time the doctor arrived, an ashen-faced Julia was holding on to Cunningham’s hand. She had not said a word since she had collapsed. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and even her mouth seemed to have lost its color. As soon as the doctor went to her side, she closed her eyes. Cunningham had to ease Julia’s fingers away; her grip had been so tight, it left white marks on her skin. Julia was in a state of shock and the doctor said he would give her something to help her sleep.

  While Cunningham remained with Julia and the doctor, Anna busied herself, helping to clear up. The bright, happy family kitchen was full of children’s toys and games, all so new and pristine. There were many photographs of the two little sisters as babies, then toddlers; there were also numerous wedding pictures of Frank with Julia, and the girls as bridesmaids, as there were in the lounge. It was hard for Anna to reconcile the Frank she had known with this proud and happy man in a pale suit and a pink silk tie.

  Mai Ling, who had come down from putting the girls to bed, was placing the children’s dishes into the dishwasher.

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Brandon?” Anna asked her.

  “One year, six months. I have a work permit.”

  “I’m sure you do. Do you understand the reason we are here this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Brandon’s husband has been found dead.”

  The face remained impassive.

  “How did you get along with Mr. Brandon?”

  “He is a very nice man.”

  “Did you work for Mrs. Brandon before their marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she married before?”

  “She had partner.”

  “But they weren’t married?”

  “I don’t know; he was much older.”

  “Is this house Mrs. Brandon’s?”

  “Yes, she buy this house; we move in not long ago.”

  “After her marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what work Mr. Brandon did?”

  “No. He go out early; sometimes come home very late.”

  “But you don’t know who he worked for?”

  “No.”

  “So—the children are in bed?”

  “Yes, we have tea and then I take them up for bath and bedtime.”

  Anna picked up the photograph of Mrs. Brandon and the two pretty girls. “They are lovely. They were from Mrs. Brandon’s previous relationship?”

  “I think so.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Emily and Kathy.”

  “Does Mrs. Brandon work?”

  “No, she at home.” Mai Ling turned the dishwasher on. “He have a heart attack?”

  Anna cocked her head to one side.

  “Mr. Brandon? He have a gym upstairs and he work out every morning.” The girl opened a cupboard to put away the jams from the table. It was filled with vitamins and health drinks. “He very fit man; he take all these with fresh orange juice.”

  Anna looked over the mass of jars and health-food supplements and shook her head. “No. It wasn’t a heart attack. Thank you for talking to me.”

  Anna turned to walk out of the kitchen. From the array of vi
tamins, it was doubtful Frank would also have been pumping himself with drugs. She remembered how he was always working out; she recalled his massive shoulders and the overwhelming cologne he had always used. She was jolted out of it by the sound of the girl sobbing, sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

  “Let’s go.” Anna jumped as Cunningham tapped her shoulder. “We’ll need to come back and talk to the wife. She can’t string two words together right now.”

  They returned to the patrol car.

  Cunningham yawned. “What do you make of all that?” she said, not looking at Anna.

  “Well, it’s a very nice house; they only moved in after they were married. I think she has the money. She doesn’t work, and that place must have cost a fortune to furnish. From what I could gather from the au pair, Mrs. Brandon’s last partner was older—maybe he had the money originally. She didn’t know what work Frank Brandon did; she just said he left early and often came home late. He also has a cupboard full of vitamins. It didn’t look as if he was spoiling all that with drugs.”

  “I know someone who works out and takes speed every morning, so you can never tell.” Cunningham tapped the driver to tell him to take her home, not back to the station. She then settled back and took out her BlackBerry, checking e-mails all the way to her home in Belsize Park, ignoring Anna.

  By the time Anna had collected her Mini from the station car park and driven home, it was half-past nine. She had not eaten since the sandwich before the briefing, so dropped into a late-night shop on the way. Anna parked in her allocated space, then took the lift up to the top floor. Stepping out, she could hardly believe her eyes.

  Stacked up outside her front door were boxes and boxes of deliveries. Attached to the top one was a note, saying they had been unable to gain access, but that the security manager had agreed the items could be left. She wanted to weep.

  It was another half hour before she had dragged everything in from the hallway into the flat. She was too tired to begin unpacking and just wanted a hot shower and something to eat. She heated some soup and filled the fresh rolls she had bought with ham and cheese, then carried them into the bedroom. It would have been lovely to flop down on her bed and switch on the TV before crashing out, but the large plasma screen sat ominously in the drawing room, waiting to be connected. Wherever she looked were boxes; she knew there was no way she could start the marathon task that evening. She half wished she was back at her old flat.

  It got worse: there was no hot water. No matter how much she fiddled and twisted the dial, it remained icy cold. By this time, it was almost eleven-fifteen, too late to call the duty security manager.

  Anna had just closed her eyes when a foghorn bellowed. She shot up. It felt as if her bed was being shaken by an earthquake. She opened the balcony window doors. It was terrifying; the whole apartment seemed to be moving. Anna’s mouth gaped open: the massive bridge was closing, which was why the apartment was shuddering. As soon as both sides joined, and it reverted back to its usual position, the apartment became still.

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, wondering if anyone else had felt it. Surely they must have, but she saw no one else on their balconies. As she returned to her bedroom, she knocked against one of the boxes, stubbing her toe. Back in bed, she bashed her pillow, but sleep didn’t come easily; she was waiting for another foghorn blast.

  It was her alarm that eventually woke her. She felt like hell. She was going to give it to the security manager.

  Anna was still in a foul mood when she tried to get out of the garage. It didn’t respond to her remote. She was swearing and cursing, when it opened of its own accord; she drove out and pressed for it to close, but it remained open. Even after she had had her breakfast in her cubicle of an office, she was still uptight. She typed up her report of the meeting with Julia Brandon and then put in a call to the security manager. His answer phone was on.

  Gordon was not a morning person; he yawned so many times, it felt contagious. Cunningham had underlined that they were to question every single tenant on the estate, as one or another could have details or descriptions of the drug dealers. He didn’t understand why they had such an early start. Anna pointed out that many of the residents went to work; the few they had not yet spoken to would still be at home, she hoped. It was to be another tedious round of knocking on doors and questioning the neighbors. Also, as instructed, they were to interview Mrs. Webster’s son.

  Gordon remained silent while Anna did all the inquiries. She was so irritated by his constant yawning that she snapped, “Did you have a late night or something? You seem half asleep.”

  “No, I crashed out early, but I shouldn’t have eaten so much breakfast. It always makes me sleepy—well, that’s what my mother says.”

  “Well, in future, do you think you could just listen to what your mother says and maybe have a bowl of cereal?”

  “I hate cereal, all that chewing. I like scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes.”

  “Gordon, I don’t want to know.”

  “Sorry.”

  They went from floor to floor on the estate. This was usually a uniform job but, considering the seriousness of the crime, Cunningham had felt a show of rank worthwhile. It wasn’t. Some tenants were still not at home, and most of their inquiries were carried out on the doorstep. Anna was feeling that it was all a waste of time. She had been inundated with the same complaints about the state of the building, and how many tenants had been waiting years to be rehoused.

  Anna had left Mrs. Webster until last. Knowing the situation with her son, she had called to ask for a convenient time. Mrs. Webster had said that Jeremy would talk to them, but they had to interview him in his room. Anna felt this would be another real time-waster, but far be it from her to put a foot wrong with Cunningham.

  Mrs. Webster was as neat and smart as she had been on the previous visit. Anna and Gordon waited in the hall as she tapped on her son’s bedroom door and then went in. They waited three or four minutes before she came out and said they could now see Jeremy.

  Anna walked in ahead of Gordon—and could hardly contain her surprise.

  The room was quite spacious; shelves of DVDs were built around a large desk with a computer and small TV set on it. The speakers and DVD deck were stacked on top of one another next to some expensive-looking sound equipment. The walls were lined with tapes and records, all in alphabetical order. There were many magazines, neatly placed beside the desk. The small bed was made in a military style: folded top blanket, white sheet wrapped around, with two inches showing, and a pristine white pillow on top. There was a desk chair, and two spare canvas chairs propped against a wall. The carpet was dark blue and what space on the walls was not taken up with his collections was pristine white paint. Just as Anna was taken aback by the clinical room, in complete contrast to the rest of the flat, Jeremy himself was also something of a surprise.

  He was extraordinarily good-looking. He had blond hair, well cut with a long top layer, and bright blue eyes with dark lashes; his cheeks were pinkish, almost like a child’s. He was wearing slacks, a white shirt, leather slippers, and a blue knitted sweater. He had the appearance of someone scrubbed clean, almost too much so.

  “Jeremy, I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis and this is Detective Constable Gordon Loach. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

  Jeremy stared at Anna but made no move toward them.

  “May we sit down?” Anna moved to the bed.

  Jeremy stepped forward. “Not on my bed.” He took the two canvas chairs and carefully opened one, setting it down straight, and then the next, making sure they were exactly side by side.

  “Thank you.” Anna and Gordon sat down, and she took out her notebook from her briefcase. Jeremy stood directly in front of them. “Now, Jeremy, I am here to ask you about an incident that happened the night before last. Do you mind answering some questions?”

  He nodded his head but remained standing, staring at them.

  “Your mother
contacted the local police station after hearing what she thought were gunshots and loud voices arguing. Do you remember that night?”

  No reaction.

  “We have subsequently discovered that a man had been shot.”

  No reaction.

  “I am here just to confirm that and check out the time the shots were fired.”

  No reaction.

  “Do you recall anything that might be of interest to the police?”

  No reaction.

  “Have you ever seen the people who were using the flat along the corridor? It’s number nineteen.”

  No reaction. If he was taking in anything she was saying, there was not a flicker of interest in his bright button eyes. His presence was very unnerving, as he was standing so still, looking at a point just above their heads. Anna closed her notebook.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” His voice was low and guttural.

  “Thank you but no, we won’t keep you any longer, Jeremy.”

  “I don’t like to be called that.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Webster.”

  “Jay.”

  “Oh, Jay. Well, I am sorry to have taken up your time. I know you work two mornings a week at Waitrose. You clear the trolleys, don’t you?”

  No reply.

  “Shall we put the chairs back against the wall for you?”

  “Have you finished?” he asked.

  Anna looked to Gordon and then back to Jeremy’s impassive face. “I think so.”

  He almost whipped the chairs from under them both, folding and replacing them against the wall. Gordon raised his eyebrows at Anna as Jeremy took a long time making sure they were exactly on top of each other.

  “Thank you, Jay.” Anna put out her hand, but he didn’t touch it. He stepped back a fraction and turned to face his desk.

  “Well, we will leave you to it.” Anna crossed to the door and Gordon followed.

  On a large sheet of paper, pinned behind the door and therefore not seen when they had entered, was a handwritten list of dates and times, printed in different inks and highlighted with a marker pen.

  “What are these, Jay?”

  “Visitors,” he said.