Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  DS Phil Markham had been monitoring the surveillance on Julia Brandon. She had not left the house other than to collect her children from their little private school and then, with Mai Ling, to do some grocery shopping. There had been no visitors.

  “What about phone calls?” Anna asked.

  “We haven’t had the go-ahead to tap into her landline.”

  “We should. What about her mobile phone?”

  “I’ve no idea. Right now they are just keeping watch over the house. Her accountant has called us a couple of times asking for the release of Brandon’s body so they can arrange the funeral. So far they are keeping him on ice, so to speak.”

  It felt as if everything was on hold as they waited for the autopsy results on Donny Petrozzo, and for forensics to report on any findings from the jeep. Anna went in to see Cunningham, asking if she could take off home.

  “Sure, we’ll have more developments to crack on with tomorrow.”

  “Good night, then,” Anna said, relieved that she could get back to do some unpacking.

  She had intended going straight home, but instead decided to call in at the murder site. The crime-scene tapes were mostly still intact, but a couple of them were loose and flapping. The teams taking evidence from the squat had long gone, but there were still two uniformed officers on duty. It was dark; the corridors of the boarded-up areas of the estate had no lights left intact. Forensics had removed their arc lamps. Anna walked over broken glass and debris to show her ID to the bored uniformed officer. She asked if they had booked any of the kids trying to score and he shook his head, pointing to the crime-scene tapes across the front door of the squat. “They see those and they get their skates on fast!”

  “You mind if I just take a look around? Do you have a torch I could borrow?”

  He handed over a high-powered torch and she ducked under the tape. With only the beam of the torch, she made her way into the dank, dirty corridor, now cleared of food cartons and beer cans.

  The heavy bolted door to the dealers’ room had been removed and taken into ballistics to examine the bullet holes. On the floor, she could see the forensic chalk marks, the white tape showing where Frank had fallen. The blood spattering on the walls was marked with chalk numbers, from one to fifty.

  She could see more numbers, where the officers had taken prints from the window and window ledge. Standing in the wretched, stinking room, she still couldn’t put the pieces of the jigsaw together. Why, if she were correct, would a man like Alexander Fitzpatrick come to such a smalltime den? She shined the torch around, and stood in the position where the door would have been. She knew there was a spyhole in the door, so whoever used the gun had looked through it, seen Frank, and opened fire. No cartridges had been found—the gunman must have picked them up. Would a street dealer have picked up the shells? Would he care?

  Anna aimed the torch slowly around the room. Way above the outline of Frank Brandon’s body was an old square air vent. Anna shined her torch up, holding the beam on the vent. She wondered if it had been checked out, but could see no chalk marks to indicate that it had been examined.

  The only piece of so-called furniture left in the squat was a wooden crate. She carried it to the air vent, climbed up, and examined it more closely, standing on tiptoe. Each square of the vent was large enough for her to insert her index finger; she poked and prodded, then felt in her pockets for a pen. She wiggled it around, and was about to give up when she felt something blocking the vent.

  When she shined the torch directly at the hole, she could see something glinting. The pen was no use; she got down to open her briefcase and took out a manicure set. She didn’t like doing it, because they were very good tweezers, but she stretched them wide and then climbed back up again. It took some time, standing on tiptoe, and she had to balance the torch in her left hand—but, at last, she was able to tease out the sixth bullet.

  Cupping it in her hand, she was afraid to clutch it too tightly, as she could see the dried blood on it. She almost lost her balance as she stepped down, and gently wrapped it in a tissue. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. If the blood was not Frank Brandon’s, it had to be from the man standing behind him. Was that man Alexander Fitzpatrick?

  7

  Pete Jenkins at forensics was, as usual, friendly and offered coffee, but Anna declined, saying she would have to move fast to get over to the station in Chalk Farm. When she showed him the bullet, their heads were close as she eased back the piece of tissue. “I think it’s blood,” she said.

  “Soon be able to tell you. Where did you find it?”

  “The air vent.”

  “Whoops. Someone’s gonna get rapped over the knuckles; probably me.” He took a small swab stick and prepared for a blood test.

  “How long will it take to confirm whose blood it is?”

  “Not long. Do you want to wait?”

  “I should get moving.”

  “You free for dinner tonight?”

  She hesitated, then smiled. “Can I talk to you later—see what I’ve got lined up?”

  “Sure. I can cook—do you like Italian?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, why don’t we say my place at eight, unless something crops up?”

  Again she hesitated, but he was so easygoing, she couldn’t understand why she was being so unsure. She agreed that they would talk later.

  “This is my address.” He jotted it down. When he had finished working on the bullet, he promised he would get it over to ballistics.

  Cunningham was holding forth when Anna joined the team. She broke off to look at her watch. “Nice of you to join us, DI Travis.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “So am I. I am not going to say everything again, so catch up, will you? We go over to the mortuary in an hour.”

  Anna raised her hand. Cunningham gave her a dismissive glance.

  “I went back to the murder site last night,” Anna announced, then explained how she had been constantly thinking about the statement from Mrs. Webster. She told the team about the discovery of the bullet, and that forensics was working on it and would be in touch that morning.

  Cunningham remained, arms folded, staring at the floor, until Anna had finished. She then looked up and gave her a strange, direct stare. “Good work.”

  “It is possible the bullet clipped the man we are trying to identify, the one standing behind Frank Brandon,” Anna went on. “If it is someone else’s blood, then—”

  “Yes, that’s obvious, Travis, but let’s not get too excited until we hear back from the lab. Right now it’s just speculation.” Cunningham walked off.

  Just speculation! Anna’s mobile phone rang; the caller was Harry Blunt. She hurried into her office.

  “Listen, Anna, this may be nothing, but I’ve been thinking—you know, about Frank. Sort of feel bad about him; he was a pain in the arse, but he was an okay bloke. You liked him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m not too far from you—want to have a coffee?”

  Anna checked her watch. She wasn’t due to go to the mortuary with Cunningham for another hour. “Sure.” They arranged to meet in the nearest Starbucks.

  Harry was already tucking into a doughnut and giant latte. He grinned when he saw her, his mouth full, and held up a small black coffee. “You can get your own cream if you need it,” he said, chewing, as she perched beside him.

  “Black is fine; I’ve not got much time.”

  “Nor have I. I’m gonna interview a bloke we think chopped up his wife, so I wanted to get something to eat before we drag him in.”

  Anna smiled—typical of Harry.

  “Fucker used a meat cleaver; we got bits and pieces of her all over London. You want one of these? I got three.” He proffered a doughnut and she took one, as she hadn’t had time for breakfast.

  “Okay, I was in Oxford Street getting the wife her birthday present, and I bumped into Frank’s ex; she works in Self
ridges on the perfume counter. To be honest, I didn’t remember her. I’d met her a couple of times but, if you recall, old Frank used to put it about. Anyways, her name is Connie—lovely looking, great figure, big tits. You know old Frank liked them top heavy.”

  “I didn’t,” Anna said.

  “Well, we had a bite to eat one night—me, Frank, and Connie—and so she recognized me—calls me over, right?” Harry demolished his doughnut and started on the next. “First, she is showing me all these offers on perfume. I said I was looking for the wife’s birthday, so she only sprays me so I smell like a whore’s bedroom, then suddenly she says she’s really desperate to contact Frank.”

  Anna listened as Harry, between mouthfuls, explained that, at first, he was wondering how he was going to tell Connie that Frank was dead. Then she showed him an engagement ring—nothing too flashy, a nice little three-diamond job. Frank had apparently told her that he would have to be away for a few months; he had got this blinding job, driving some big shot around. Part of the deal was, he was to be on duty twenty-four/seven, so it meant that he wouldn’t be able to see her until the job was over. He might also have to travel abroad. Frank had then asked her if she would stand by him; they would get married when it was over. Connie had agreed.

  “She tells me that Frank buys the ring: they were living together, right? Then, a week later, he goes off to work. He said he would have his mobile on and she could call him if something urgent cropped up, but to wait for him to contact her. He was worried that if he didn’t come up to scratch, they’d fire him. She never heard nothing, so she called a couple of times, but it was dead.” Harry finished the second doughnut. “Anyways, I am just about to tell her that so was he, when she says that he’d been working for a chauffeur firm. She’d called them; said he had been wheeling around in a flash Merc. Now, that would have been when I saw him. Remember, I said I saw him in a flash Merc in the West End?”

  Harry rummaged in his jacket pocket and took out a crumpled card. “She said he was working for this bloke but, when she called him, there was no answer.” He passed over the card, Chauffeur Hire, Donny Petrozzo, and a mobile number. “She said he worked for big-money blokes in the City; I tried the number and got nothing.”

  Anna pocketed the card as Harry continued. “I told her, Anna. I said that as far as I knew, Frank had met with an accident, but I didn’t have no facts—just that he was dead. She broke down. I felt terrible. Left without getting the wife’s perfume, I was so uptight.”

  “Listen, thank you for this, Harry—I appreciate it.”

  “Okay. I’d like to know when they’re burying him; show him respect, know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll be in touch.”

  Cunningham was about to have another tetchy go at her, but Anna didn’t waste time. Giving Cunningham the details from Harry Blunt, she said she felt it was important enough for her to meet up with Connie.

  Cunningham tapped Anna’s desk with the Petrozzo card. “Okay. Follow this up, Travis, and take Gordon with you.” She lightly touched Anna’s shoulder. “It was good work on the discovery of the bullet, but you were out on your own. I don’t want to have to tell you again: I do not want you acting like a loose cannon, running around London alone. Maybe the bullet will give us a lead, but it could also come back and slap us in the face. You should have had a witness and you should have discussed your concerns about Mrs. Webster’s statement.”

  “Ma’am, I did write it in my report.”

  “Don’t interrupt! I do not want you going out on your own fucking inquiry. This is a murder investigation, not Anna Travis proving herself to be better than anyone else. As from now, any misgivings you have, any single thing that crops up in that little red head of yours, you discuss with me and the team—do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I don’t want to stunt your obvious ability, but I will get you off this case if I feel you have disobeyed my direct order one more time. I am fully aware of the problems you had with Detective Chief Superintendent Langton—or, should I say, his problems with you. You consistently flaunted his authority. In case you are not aware, it’s on your record sheet. If you ever want to get promotion, Travis, I should warn you that I’d add my ten cents in, as well as Jimmy Langton’s.” She left the room.

  Anna had to grip the sides of her desk to keep control. Langton had to be protecting his own backside, conferring with the arm-folding Cunningham. Anna was so angry that she wanted to pick up the phone and get him on the line there and then. Suddenly her phone rang.

  She snatched it up. “Travis,” she snapped.

  “Hi there, it’s Pete. You were right: the blood on the bullet is not Frank Brandon’s. We are running tests and seeing what the database throws up, so I’ll be in touch later.”

  “Good. Thank you,” she said, still hot with rage.

  “You know if you will make dinner tonight?”

  Anna had to take a deep breath to be civil. “Not yet. Can I call you later?”

  “Sure. Don’t make it too late, though, because if I am cooking, I need to get the food in—”

  “I’ll talk to you later!” She felt bad about being so uptight, but she just couldn’t contain herself.

  She picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number. “Gordon, can you check out if they have a record of the marriage between Frank Brandon and Julia? And, Gordon, write this up on the bloody incident board, and give the duty manager details.”

  She slammed the phone back down, and started her report on the meeting with Harry Blunt. If Cunningham wanted her to go by the book on every single detail, she would do so. The phone rang again. It was Gordon asking if she had Mrs. Brandon’s maiden name. She snapped that it was in the file; he should find it himself.

  Cunningham arrived at the mortuary with DS Phil Markham. They had not completed the postmortem on Donny Petrozzo, but she was putting the pressure on for any new evidence. Ewan Fielding was irritated by their arrival, he loathed to hurry and complained that he had stated, innumerable times, that he was not able to give any details until his work was completed. Donny Petrozzo’s body had already been “sliced,” and his organs removed and weighed, so Cunningham was somewhat surprised by Fielding’s annoyance. Looking over his notes, he said that the victim was a rather unhealthy individual. His last meal had been a hamburger and chips. He also had quite a high blood-alcohol level. The victim had been quite a heavy cocaine user. His septum was weak; there were still traces of cocaine inside both nostrils. Death had occurred some three days previously, but they had so far been unable to ascertain the actual cause. “I will obviously require time to do more examinations. That is about all I can give you at this moment.”

  “Was it a drug overdose?” Cunningham demanded.

  “I’m unable to confirm that,” Fielding said wearily.

  “But you have found cocaine?”

  “Yes, traces. It appears that he was a regular user, but I don’t have, as yet, evidence to prove he overdosed on that particular drug. I don’t want you to take this as verbatim—but my gut feeling is that he has overdosed; on what exactly, I am unable to tell you, but I think it was some kind of opiate.”

  “Why do you say that?” Again, this was from Cunningham.

  “From his heart. I am just about to run some tests. Until I have done so, that is about all I can give you.”

  DS Markham looked over the body and then asked if whatever drug Petrozzo had died from could have been self-administered.

  Fielding glanced at him and shrugged. “Quite possibly, but even if his death was self-inflicted, I doubt he would have been able to place himself in the black bin liners—four of them, to be exact—and wrap them around his entire body with masking tape!”

  Cunningham had heard enough.

  Markham hurried after her. She banged through the doors, removing her protective green overall and tossing it into the bin provided. “Those pricks make me so pissed off. Pompous arsehole,” she
muttered.

  Markham removed his overall, then had to hurry to catch up with her once more as she headed toward the forensic department.

  Pete Jenkins looked up as the double doors to his lab slammed open and Cunningham strode in. “Hi!” he greeted her. “I was just about to call. We’re pretty swamped with work on your case, but we have the clothing from Donny Petrozzo on the benches. Downstairs, they’re stripping down the Mitsubishi.”

  “You get something from the blood on the bullet from the murder site?”

  “Yes. I was just about to contact DI Travis.”

  “Well, I’m here, so what have you got?” Cunningham demanded.

  Jenkins picked up his report. “The blood is not a match for the victim. We have run it through the database but we have come up empty-handed; in other words, there is no match on file.”

  “So what is your take on it?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Pretty much the same as DI Travis: your gunman fired six shots, five into your victim. One shot clipped the man we believe was standing behind him. We’ve made a few more tests on the angle of the bullets and the spattering.”

  “No, no! Let me look over Petrozzo’s clothes. Found any bloodstains on them?”

  “Not as yet, I believe, but we’re still checking them over. His pockets were empty. We had no papers or identifying documents, but we got his ID from his prints.”

  “Yes, I know. What about the bin liners and the tape?”

  Jenkins led them over to a trestle table. “We have four bin bags. Pathology department sliced through them as neatly as possible to help, but the bags and the tape are a common variety and hard to trace. Also, I would say whoever wrapped him up—and, by the by, did it very well, the body was quite well preserved—I think must have worn gloves, as we have as yet no fingerprints. Often we get a good result from duct tape but, in this case, nothing.”

  Cunningham sighed and looked to Markham. “You want to ask something?”