Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Anna drained her coffee mug, placed it on the kitchen counter, and took a deep breath. “Right, you little turd, I am going to start with you!”

  She opened the door to the moody little man. “Please do come in, Mr. Burk. Thank you so much for coming to see me.” She smiled sweetly.

  He glared at her, stepping over the packing boxes and following her into the kitchen.

  She picked up her list and turned to face him. “I have made a list of all the appliances that are not working correctly. You can start on that today—”

  “Miss Travis, I am the security manager here. I am not paid to do maintenance work in any of the apartments—that’s not my job.”

  “Then I suggest you get whoever it is to do the work.” She listed her complaints about the garage door, the parking in her space, and the fact that a visitor knew the security code.

  He sat on one of the kitchen stools, frowning bad-temperedly. As she finished, he was breathing heavily, as if trying to maintain calm. “Miss Travis, I can get someone else in to do the odd jobs, but it will cost you.”

  Anna leaned over. “No, it will not. Let me explain. It is not actually Miss; my correct title is Detective Inspector. I have been very patient, but the list of items that I require repaired should be in perfect working order. I want hot water by the time I return this evening and, if this means a new boiler has to be installed, then I suggest you get onto the owners of the block and talk to them. I would also like confirmation that no resident gives out the private entry code to their guests. I want those garage doors tested until I am confident they are secure.”

  Mr. Burk didn’t say a word. His jaw had dropped open slightly as he watched Anna walking around the kitchen pointing to stickers on the dishwasher, the oven, and two wall plugs.

  She opened her wallet and took out a fifty-pound note. “You will get this when the packages are opened and the cardboard boxes removed. I have left details of where I want everything to be placed. You can arrange for someone to put up the blinds.”

  Burk blinked.

  “I need you to take very good care of me,” Anna said quietly. “Do you understand, Mr. Burk, what I am saying? What I am asking you to do?”

  He nodded.

  “Good, it’s settled, then. You go off now and have your breakfast. I will see you at this time tomorrow morning.”

  Anna drove out of the garage. There was Burk, waving her through, almost saluting her. She smiled and waved as she passed. Having sorted her domestic problems, she was now determined that she would turn over a new leaf at work. Cunningham reckoned she had a dozy team, specifically describing Anna as being in a daze. Well, she would make her boss eat her words.

  She hadn’t felt this energized for a long, long time—not since Langton had left her. In some way she was back to being Anna Travis, the daughter her father had been so proud of, the officer with whom Langton had been more than impressed. DI Anna Travis was not going to be anyone’s doormat ever again.

  6

  Anna was at her desk before eight-thirty that morning. She checked over her report from the day before, and called Gordon to her office. “You got your report of last night ready?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I’d like it before the morning briefing.”

  Gordon hesitated. “It’s just I’ve not had breakfast yet.”

  “That’s your problem. Go on, hop it. Oh, and by the way—it was a good question regarding the man’s shoes at Eddie Court’s flat.”

  Gordon flushed and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll get that report done straightaway.”

  Next, Anna called in the duty manager for an update. She was buzzing with adrenaline and he was taken aback. She asked him to arrange for the team to gather just before the briefing so she could really get to know them.

  Anna had forty-five minutes before the briefing started, so she Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick again. She had a feeling about him, but she was not quite ready to share it.

  Born 1948 in Surrey, into an affluent middle-class family, Fitzpatrick was educated at Eton, then Oxford, where he gained a First in PPE—Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Skimming through the mass of data, Anna tried to picture what he would look like, all these years later. The photos were at least thirty years old. Now he would be in his early sixties, and she doubted he would still look like a hippy.

  Fitzpatrick had joined the local newspaper as a fledgling reporter and subsequently worked for The Times and Guardian as a travel reporter. He used this as a cover to smuggle tons of hashish into the UK from Pakistan and Thailand, broadening his sales into America and Canada. Later, he had switched his drug importation from hashish to heroin and cocaine, and built a worldwide operation, laundering money through offshore banks and fake business dealings. Making millions, he lived a luxurious life, with an extraordinary ability to maintain his profile as a journalist at the same time. At the peak of his drug dealing, he had his twenty aliases, with passports for most, and an astonishing array of phone lines: sixty that had been traced.

  In the late eighties, Fitzpatrick formed a company making documentary films, which turned out to be yet another means of shipping his drugs worldwide under the cover of respectability. He had homes in Spain, Florida and the Bahamas, a fleet of cars, a jet, and a powerful ocean-equipped yacht called White Trash. It was not until 1991 that he became the focus of the Drug Enforcement Agency; the fact that they had been monitoring Fitzpatrick for many years without success gave him the confidence of being outside the law.

  It was one of his close friends who had betrayed him and eventually caused his downfall. A heroin addict, Michael Drencock had been arrested for abusive behavior outside a nightclub. In possession of heroin and with even more discovered at his flat, Drencock had given police details of offshore banks and money-laundering businesses. But, before Fitzpatrick was to stand trial, Drencock withdrew all his statements and, on bail pending his own charges, he committed suicide. Fitzpatrick made another outrageous move by hiring some of his men to arrange a helicopter to lift him as he was entering the courthouse. He had been on the run ever since, remaining on America’s Most Wanted list. Like a modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel, the hundreds of sightings of him in various countries gave him a mystic persona; underlined was the fact that Fitzpatrick, or whatever alias he now used, remained a very dangerous man.

  Anna closed her laptop and sat deep in thought. Unlike the infamous Howard Marks, who spent time in a federal United States penitentiary for his drug dealing, Fitzpatrick had never been to prison. Marks, now a best-selling author, depicted in his books his life of drug trafficking and his career as a respected journalist, his work featuring in national newspapers. He also campaigned vigorously for the legalization of recreational drugs.

  Fitzpatrick appeared to Anna to be a very different creature. When he couldn’t make enough money from soft drugs, he turned to heroin and cocaine. This meant he had to mix with more lethal partners, including the Mafia. Could Anna be right? Could Julia Brandon’s partner have been Fitzpatrick? Could he have been audacious enough to return to England using the name Anthony Collingwood? She opened her notebook: it was imperative they discover just what monies Julia Brandon had access to. She made a note that they would need to bring in David Rushton again, Julia’s so-called business adviser, as well as questioning Julia herself again.

  Anna checked the time and went into the incident room. The team was already gathered, ready for the morning briefing. She was relaxed and confident as DS Phil Markham shook her hand, then DCs Pamela Meadows and Mario Paluzzo. The mug of coffee that Gordon brought her was tepid, but it was a show of respect nonetheless. At last, Anna felt part of the team rather than an outsider.

  One of the kids Phil Markham had brought in for questioning, whose vehicle had been listed by Jeremy Webster, had no license and no insurance, and the steering wheel went off at a right angle. It was a death trap on wheels, but the boy maintained that it had been in perfect working order, as he
was taking his driving test in it the following day. Anna was laughing as Markham mimicked the boy’s accent, and did not see Cunningham walk out of her office.

  “Right, if we can just cut out the comedy and get serious.”

  Anna sat back and looked attentive. Markham gave her a sidelong glance and a wink. He was attractive, with an iron-gray crew cut and bright china-blue eyes. She liked him.

  “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got from each of you and then decide how we progress today.”

  One by one, the officers stood up and gave Cunningham details of their interviews. It appeared that, despite the many boys brought in for questioning, they were dealing with punk kids scoring a few grams of coke for themselves or trying to earn money as runners. They had only sketchy details on the dealers. They rarely, if ever, came out of the squat and most of the deals were done on the doorstep, as Eddie Court had described. It was clear that the squat had been active for many months; it was also suspected it might be protected. This was an uneasy suggestion, as it would involve the local police. In all likelihood the dealers had changed over, there had been some heavy punch-ups and many of the boys said they had been warned not to get involved, as the new dealers were tougher and had their own lookouts and runners.

  It also transpired that, unlike a few months back when the squat had been smalltime, it was now trading with more upmarket clients. Crack cocaine was being sold, plus the addictive ice and heroin wraps as the more affluent punters had replaced the street kids.

  The owners of the vehicles traced all said virtually the same thing: they’d heard about the squat via someone at a party. They might be scoring cocaine and crack, but it didn’t seem that many of them were out-and-out addicts. This is what marked the squat as not typical. Any bust of a similar base would bring in addicts, desperate for a fix. They would often be found crashed out in the street or in a pitiful state of begging from anyone scoring. Cunningham continued to mark up the board as they gave their reports.

  Eventually, it was Anna’s turn. She flicked through her notebook.

  “We have to bring in a driver working for a City bank that employs a user we interviewed called Paul Wrexler. We have only a Christian name for the driver: Donny. The same name came up when we interviewed a Mark Taylor. It seems they used to score from him, then tried to cut out the middleman and go direct. The same scenario applies: no one ever went into the squat, but scored on the doorstep, paid the money, and got what they came for. I don’t think either of the men questioned were addicts—more weekend users—and cocaine was the drug of choice. This links back to the kids saying the dealers have changed over, that they’re now dealing in the more expensive narcotics.”

  Cunningham folded her arms. “Is that it?”

  “No. We got a good lead from Eddie Court. He went to the squat to score, but got frightened off. He described a jeep, a Mitsubishi with blacked-out windows; he was able to identify Frank Brandon as the driver.

  “He wasn’t able to give us a license plate, and we don’t have one from Jeremy Webster, but he thinks he saw the Mitsubishi at two forty-five A.M. This meant he saw Frank Brandon just before he was shot.”

  There was a murmur among the assembled officers.

  “We asked about the passenger in the car. Eddie did not see his face, but reckoned he had to be tall, by the way he bent low to get out of the jeep. He was wearing smart polished shoes. These fit the description we got in from forensics about the bloody footprints around Frank Brandon’s body. Whoever this man was, we know he was tall—over six feet—and that he stood behind Frank Brandon when he got the fatal shots to his head and face.”

  Cunningham folded her arms and perched on one of the tables, frowning.

  Anna continued. “We need to trace that Mitsubishi jeep. We need to have it verified that this was the vehicle Frank Brandon was driving.” She wondered if she should bring up what she had been working on, or was it too early? “I would like to reinterview Julia Brandon, and I think we also need to have another session with her financial adviser.”

  Cunningham stared at her.

  “The reason is, she must know about the Mitsubishi. She must have documents for the insurance, and if not, her business adviser will. As he arranged the life insurance for Frank Brandon, he more than likely knows a lot more than he was willing to divulge. I think we need to know what Julia Brandon’s financial situation is.”

  Cunningham nodded her head. She gestured to Anna and asked her to join her in her office. Once there, she rounded on Anna and demanded, “What are you holding back?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’m older than you, and a lot more experienced, and I know you’ve not come clean. So: what is it?”

  “It’s just supposition. Until I am more certain, I would like some time.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “If you insist, but I may be putting two and two together and coming up with six!” Anna smiled.

  Cunningham was not amused. “Share it.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “Okay. Mrs. Brandon—Julia—has an ex-partner. We know, because her accountant told us, that his name is Collingwood. He provided for her and the two children, who, we have been told, are not his biological kids.”

  Cunningham leaned back in her chair.

  “Anthony Collingwood is one of the aliases used by a big-time drug dealer called Alexander Fitzpatrick.” Anna filled in all the details she had acquired off the Internet. Cunningham didn’t say a word. As Anna concluded, there was an ominous silence.

  “Shit,” Cunningham said softly when Anna had finished.

  “It could be coincidence.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “What I can’t piece together is why he would risk going to that dive in Chalk Farm.”

  “Well, we are going to have to find out. First, let’s you and me get over to forensics; ballistics have some details for us. Then we visit the widow again.”

  “If I am correct, then she should be monitored. We don’t want her doing a runner.”

  “I agree.”

  “With two young kids, it’s not that easy to just pack up and run, but if she has access to a lot of money, then…”

  Cunningham stood up. “I hear you. I’ll get that organized. Give me fifteen minutes and we’re out of here.” Cunningham gave Anna a hooded look and then leaned forward. “Word of warning. You were not about to spread this information until you, DI Travis, were ready. Well, don’t you ever do anything like this with me again, you understand? You have any information, you pool it. I don’t want you running around like a headless chicken, because I’ve heard that you have done so in the past.”

  Anna stepped back. “I was just not certain, that was all. I wanted to be sure.”

  “That may be so, but you come to me and let me decide; do not take it upon yourself to make decisions. Is that understood, Travis?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay. Now get back to your office and write up whatever you’ve got on Fitzpatrick.”

  “It’s all on the Internet, apart from a recent photograph.”

  “Go on, get to it. I’m impressed—up to a point!”

  Anna closed the door quietly; she was so uptight she could hardly speak.

  Pete Jenkins looked up from a microscope as they entered the forensic lab. He smiled a welcome and indicated for them to come to his bench and see what he was working on.

  “Did you know a person’s left thumbprint does not match his right thumbprint? So it’s possible we can get a right thumbprint at a crime scene, and it won’t match any we have on the database, but we could have a left thumbprint that may produce a result. What I have here is a partial left thumb.”

  “Good. What else have you got for me?”

  “Well, it’s off a set of prints from the window ledge. Again, we have no match, but the prints were made from a person who has, on the right hand, an index finger minus the top section.”

  Jenkins displayed
the enlarged prints on a computer. “Looks like he had some injury to his hand, apart from the missing fingertip, because there’s also a big indentation on the fleshy side of his palm. Another interesting point about these prints is the width between the thumb and first finger; they used to say it meant a person was very artistic!”

  Cunningham sighed and looked at her watch. “So from all the prints taken at the murder site we have no match?”

  “Correct, but if you find a suspect minus his fingertip…”

  “Yes, yes, I’m with you,” she snapped.

  “We have eighteen different prints from the various paper cups and takeaway food cartons, but as yet no luck with a match.” Jenkins moved across the lab, to where they were examining the footprints in the victim’s blood. They had marked out how the footprints faced the door of the inner room in the squat and then turned and moved out. “Large feet—wearing, I’d say, a size eleven or twelve, a loafer with hand-stitched soles.”

  Anna remarked that this would fit with the description taken from Eddie Court of the passenger in the Mitsubishi. Ignoring her, Cunningham moved over to where they had been looking at the blood spattering. As they already knew from Jenkins’s visit, when Frank Brandon was shot, someone was standing directly behind him. That someone had to be at least six feet three and would have been covered in bloodstains.

  Lastly, they went to stand by the vast trestle table covered in items removed from the squat. Sleeping bags and blankets were pinned out as the scientists removed hairs and possible fibers that would assist their inquiry. The items smelled of mildew and sweat and could have been left there by any of the previous dealers, Anna thought.

  Jenkins stood close to Anna as they looked over the items. She didn’t meet his eyes, not wanting to get over-familiar with him in front of Cunningham.