Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Donny Petrozzo?”

  “No.”

  “Alexander Fitzpatrick?” Anna stared at the beautiful, wide eyes.

  There was not a flicker of recognition. “No.”

  “Anthony Collingwood?”

  “No.”

  Lastly, Anna showed Frank Brandon’s photograph. “This was your sister’s husband.”

  “Really? Well, as I said, I never met him.”

  Anna replaced the photographs, as Honour looked to Gordon. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Not really.”

  Honour gave a friendly laugh, then fetched a tray and began to clear away the tea things. It felt as if the interview was over, but Anna wasn’t through yet. She slipped a note to Gordon as she passed him.

  “Could you show me around?” she asked politely. “I’d love to see the rest of the house.”

  Honour gave a rather tight smile. “Why not? There’s not a lot to see, but please…”

  Anna followed her out into the hallway, full of Wellington boots and umbrellas, old folding chairs, and some browned prints on the shabby flocked wallpaper.

  “We keep meaning to do something out here, but we never get around to it.” Honour opened a door to a large, rather musty-smelling lounge. “We don’t even use this room much; it faces north and doesn’t get much sun.”

  Honour led Anna up the small staircase. There was a large master bedroom, with books lining the walls, but the furnishings were modern, especially the king-size bed. The other room was a small single bedroom, taken over with canvases and an easel and Honour’s painting equipment. Anna thought it was not difficult to see why her sister didn’t come to stay.

  “This is where I work. I have a small kiln in one of the outhouses, as I’m trying my hand at pottery.”

  “It’s so peaceful,” Anna said, looking out from the lattice windows. She was taken by surprise as Honour moved close to her.

  “What is it you want? I mean, I really don’t understand why you are here.”

  “Just part of the inquiry into your sister’s husband’s murder; we often have to make what appear to be unconnected interviews.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you had to come such a long way.”

  “It was quite a relief to get out of the station,” Anna said as she followed Honour back toward the stairs.

  As they entered the kitchen, Gordon was sitting on the sofa.

  “What time do you expect your husband home?” asked Anna.

  “That depends. If he has lectures, he’s often quite late, as he stays in Oxford for dinner with his cronies.”

  “Is he lecturing today?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Could you call him and ask?”

  Honour hesitated and then shrugged. She walked back out into the hallway.

  Anna looked at Gordon and then sat beside him.

  “There’s a room off the side of the kitchen: an office, or what looks like it—they’ve got computers and mobile phones in there, and…”

  Anna wondered why Honour had gone into the hall and not used the room Gordon was referring to. “Any photographs?”

  “No.”

  This was strange—there were no photographs anywhere in the house. They remained silent as they heard Honour saying, “Thank you,” to someone, then she walked back into the kitchen.

  “He’s not in his office; he left about an hour ago.”

  “So is he on his way home?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does he have a mobile you can call?”

  “No, he hates them.”

  Anna stood up and looked at her watch: it was after five. She smiled and thanked Honour, and walked toward the back door. “You have a lot of barns and outhouses.”

  “Yes. Some we use, others are rented out to farmers who leave their tractors here occasionally. Do you want to walk around? Only it’s a bit muddy underfoot.”

  They heard a car pulling up. Honour said it sounded as if her husband was home.

  Professor Damien Nolan was a tall man, at least six foot, dressed in a tweed suit, with a checked shirt and a thick knitted tie. As he walked in, he dumped a bulging briefcase on the floor. He was a handsome man, with dark hair flecked gray at the temples and sideburns. He was tanned and looked fit, almost athletic.

  “Hello, there. I’m sorry, I did try and get home earlier, but I had a tormented student to deal with.” He smiled with white, even teeth; like his wife, he had a relaxed air about him. “Is it too early to have a glass of wine?”

  Anna refused, but he opened a bottle and poured himself one. Honour sat at the table watching him with open adoration. He stood beside her, resting one hand on the nape of her neck.

  “So, this is all very intriguing,” he said, smiling.

  While Anna explained the reason for the visit, Honour excused herself—she wanted to check the henhouse and close up for the night.

  Damien took his wife’s seat as Anna joined him at the table; she went through the same scenario as she had done with Honour. Like his wife, Damien was shocked to hear about the death of Julia’s husband, but had never met him, nor had he any knowledge of Donny Petrozzo, or Julia’s ex-partner.

  “You know, Julia is a gorgeous woman but, to be truthful, she’s a pain in the arse. On the few occasions she has stayed here, it was very tedious. One can’t really have an intellectual conversation with her. The only thing she seems to be interested in, apart from herself, is her wardrobe.”

  “What about her children?”

  He seemed nonplussed by the question and then shrugged. “I’ve not met them. To be totally honest with you, it’s quite an area of…” He hesitated. “My wife can’t have children, so…”

  Anna noticed the way he moved his long legs for comfort beneath the table. She wondered if he could possibly be the man in the Mitsubishi but then dismissed it: he was obviously in the peak of health, with no outward show of any injury.

  When Honour walked back in and went to the sink to wash her hands, Anna stood up.

  “Thank you both so much for your time,” she said, shaking the professor’s hand. It was a strong firm grip. He was head and shoulders above her.

  “If there’s anything else, do call,” Damien replied.

  Driving back down the now dark lane, night drawing in, Anna took a deep breath.

  “Nice couple,” Gordon said.

  “Yes, very nice.”

  “Good-looking pair.”

  “Yes.” Anna began to chew her lip. “But there’s something I don’t feel easy about.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. That place is a perfect hidey-hole; almost too perfect.”

  “He drives a pretty rundown old Range Rover.”

  “Yes.”

  “They don’t seem to have a lot of money.”

  “No.” Anna didn’t want to discuss them any further. She had a gut feeling there was a lot more beneath their relaxed and charming exterior. First thing in the morning, she would see how much she could dig up on the duo.

  It was nine when Anna got back to her office. She typed up her report, and then went to look over the incident board. A skeleton night duty was working and she saw that yet another of Cunningham’s briefings was to be held at nine the following morning. As she was walking out, she noticed that Cunningham’s office light was on. She decided she would go in to see her, just to make a show that, at nine-thirty, she was still busy. She passed the half-drawn blinds, looked in—and froze.

  Detective Chief Superintendent James Langton was sitting with Cunningham. She was leaning forward, listening, as Langton talked. The shock to Anna’s system, seeing him, was like a panic attack. She didn’t want to be caught listening, so she backed away. She had to gasp for breath and then skedaddle out fast, as Langton stood up as if he was about to leave. The last thing Anna wanted was a confrontation with him: she was simply not ready for it. She felt so inadequate as she hurried back to her office to collect
her briefcase and coat. She had shut down her laptop, and was about to turn off the light, when she heard his laugh. Her heart was pounding as she heard Cunningham saying he could look over the incident board. She knew that if he decided not to, he would have to go past her window to leave and, if he looked into her office on the way, he would see her. She sighed with relief as she heard him saying that he would like to get up to speed.

  “Dear God,” she murmured, “please don’t let him come onto this case.” She physically jumped when her door was opened.

  Phil Markham looked in. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes,” she said, hastily grabbing her coat. “I’d love one.”

  “See you in the pub, then.”

  “I’ll walk out with you.”

  He grinned and waited as she turned off her lights and shut her door. “You see who’s busy on this?” he said as they headed down the corridor.

  “No.”

  “That guy Langton, the new Chief Superintendent. He’s been holed up with the boss for hours.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s taking over the investigation.”

  “No way, he’s got his hands full—there’s a serial-killer case over in Hemel Hempstead—but he was certainly putting old Cunningham through the wringer. He was just going into the incident room when I left.”

  Anna relaxed as they entered the car park. She saw Langton’s old, beat-up, brown Volvo parked erratically as usual across two spaces. “You know, maybe I’ll take a rain check on that drink,” she told Phil. “It’s been another very long day.”

  Phil looked at her, then shrugged. “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah, see you then.”

  In the confines of her Mini, she started to breathe more freely, knowing she would not have to see Langton. She drove out of the station, longing to get home. Then she reprimanded herself. This had to stop.

  She had to come to terms with the fact that she would have to confront Langton at some time; it was just that she wanted to be in total control, and not taken by surprise. Yet as she drove home she began to think, not about him, but about Damien Nolan.

  By the time she got home, she understood why she had been so unsettled by Nolan. It was because he reminded her of Langton. He had the same charm, the same handsomeness; they were even similar in looks. She knew not to trust James Langton and she was certain that the professor was one of the same breed. They were both dangerous men.

  10

  Anna did some sporadic unpacking before having an early night. Just as she was turning her bedside light off, she remembered something: the scrawled writing found inside the map from the glove compartment in the Mitsubishi. The torn piece of notepaper had only numbers and odd letters written on it. She had copied the information down, but done nothing about it. She doubted if anyone else had, because it had not been brought up; the forensic team still had it to check for fingerprints along with the map. She closed her eyes, trying to recall what area the folded map was for, but couldn’t remember. It was already after eleven-thirty; there was nothing she could do but wait until morning.

  Anna was the first of the team in the station. She went back over the incident board. There were the lists of items removed from the Mitsubishi, but no further details. Frustrated, she went into her office and called the forensic lab. She waited for what seemed an age before Pete Jenkins came onto the phone.

  “Morning, Pete. I’m sorry to be such an early bird, but can you give me any details on the map removed—”

  “What?”

  “It was sent over to you for fingerprints.”

  “Christ, I don’t think we’ve got round to it yet.”

  “Is it at hand? Can you just check something for me?”

  “Sure, like what?”

  “Where is it for?”

  “The map?”

  “Yes, it’s very important.”

  She waited another few minutes before he came back on the phone. “It’s still bagged up.”

  “Can you just tell me if it’s for Oxfordshire, that area?”

  “Hang on.”

  Again Anna had to wait; then Pete was back on the line. “That’s right.”

  “What about the note that was sent in?”

  “Do you know it’s only eight-thirty? I’ve not had my coffee yet.”

  Anna hadn’t had any breakfast herself. She was getting impatient; even though she was certain she was correct, she wanted verification. Five minutes later, she got what she wanted. She gave Pete instructions to work on both items as soon as possible. He sounded tetchy, but she didn’t care.

  “Do you want to have dinner with me again?” he asked.

  “Yes—yes, I do.” She was eager to get rid of him.

  “Talk to you later, then.”

  Anna replaced the phone and almost hugged herself. Before she could go up to the canteen, Gordon knocked on her office door. “You got a minute?” he asked.

  “Just one, what is it?”

  “I’ve had the photographs printed up.”

  “What photographs?”

  Gordon held up his mobile phone. “From when you went upstairs with Honour Nolan and I did a snoop job.”

  Anna looked impressed and then laughed. “Good for you, Gordon!”

  He laid out six photographs. She didn’t say anything because they were of the kitchen, the outhouses, the henhouse…“These are of the rooms off the study.” He placed down three more.

  Anna picked one up and scrutinized it. “What’s this?”

  “His books and papers on the desk, computer, and—”

  Anna held the photograph closer. “No, no, not on the desk—the picture on the wall behind it.”

  “Oh. I dunno.”

  “It’s a painting of a boat.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Listen, get this blown up, will you? I want to see the picture more clearly.”

  “Okay, will do. When do you want it for?”

  “Like now!”

  As the team grouped for the briefing, Anna ate a bacon sandwich. When Cunningham asked for any developments, it was painfully obvious that they were getting nowhere, until it was Anna’s turn. She took great pains to cover the interactions with Honour and Damien Nolan. At the end, she left a theatrical pause; she had learned a lot about delivery from Langton, and she had everyone’s attention.

  “I think they were lying. I believe they are involved. Their farm is a perfect hideaway; you could stay there for weeks and not be discovered. If Alexander Fitzpatrick has returned, he could be living there. Found in the Mitsubishi jeep was a map: it detailed the area in which the farm is located, and the numbers on the scrap of torn paper that we recovered, I think, are actually directions to Honey Farm. It’s not easy to find.”

  With perfect timing, Gordon joined the team. It would have been even better if he had had the blown-up picture to show, but he had been unable to get it done in time. Anna described the painting of a large yacht in the farm office. It could mean that the Nolans had been in touch with Fitzpatrick. Cunningham was impressed.

  Coming up after Anna was Phil Markham. He had also been busy. He gave a mock bow as he listed his new developments. First up was the verification that a set of prints from the squat, found on a crumpled plastic takeaway carton, belonged to Donny Petrozzo. There was no evidence as to the time or date the prints were left. They could have been there from before the night of the murder. From the residue inside the carton, however, they could perform further tests. Second, there was at long last a set of prints from the squat that came up on the database, identifying Shane Browne, a known addict with a long record for drug abuse, a Bernard Murphy, and Julius D’Anton. The last two had record sheets for theft and housebreaking, D’Anton for domestic violence as well.

  As Phil continued to detail the trace on the three men, which was already under way, Anna jotted down their names. None were big-time, and none had a record for using weapons. The forensic teams still had many more items to check for prints before
they started on the Mitsubishi, which had now been taken apart. The number plates were false and the vehicle identification number had been destroyed by acid. It had also been customized, the black windows tinted darker than was legal. It was no more than a year old, so it was probable they would get a trace on it through dealers quite quickly.

  Phil reported that the blood swipe did match the blood spattering from the squat, so it must belong to the man who was standing behind Frank Brandon, but, as yet, forensics had no further evidence for them. Tests were still being done on the road map and the scrap of paper, as Anna had mentioned. He then turned over a page in his notebook and grinned.

  “Saving the best for last…We suspected that, after the shooting, either the shooter or his cohorts left via the back window of the squat. This had been nailed down, so they’d used a wrench to get it open. We have a right-hand print, half the palm and four fingers; the tip of the right index finger is missing. They did not have a match, but we started sifting through any known drug dealers with similar injuries, specifically before the database was compiled. We were coming up with a big fat zero, until we got a break from chatting to a few blokes from the Drug Squad—and we got a name.”

  Phil looked around the incident room, really milking it. “Stanley Leymore, secondhand car dealer. No previous, but known to the squad because at one time he was a useful informer—this was until eighteen months ago. His connection is to Donny Petrozzo, as he sold him the Mercedes; we know this from Donny’s documents. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out that the Mitsubishi also came from his garage.”

  There was a buzz around the incident room; at long last, they appeared to be making some headway. Cunningham gave out the details for tracking down and bringing in the men named by Phil, and the search for Shane Browne, Bernard Murphy, and Julius D’Anton went into overdrive.

  Phil, accompanied by DC Pamela Meadows, left to pick up Stanley Leymore at his garage. This was situated behind Kings Cross Station and occupied three of the old railway arches. They had sent someone to his home address, but with no luck. As they parked up, it also looked as if the garages were not in operation either: the three massive double doors on each of the arches were locked and bolted. They made inquiries on either side of the garages and talked to the mechanics, who said they hadn’t seen Leymore for days. Armed with warrants, Phil used a crowbar to force open the center of the three arches.