Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  Anna eased her way back to the door. Moving around the opposite side of the desk, she paused: Rushton had a small bruise on the vein in his neck and a tiny trickle of blood. She remained standing for a few moments, unsure what she should do, then took out her mobile and dialed. “It’s me.”

  “I know. Listen, I’m sorry if I sounded off at you—”

  “You said he would kill again.”

  “What?”

  “He has; it’s David Rushton.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I am looking at him.”

  “Jesus Christ, are you there alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

  “Should I call it in?”

  “No. Wait for me, and for Christ’s sake, don’t touch anything.”

  Anna couldn’t resist sliding open the dead man’s desk drawer. She took out a tissue, then removed a leather-bound diary and carefully flicked over the pages, until she came to today’s date. Written in fountain pen, in a neat hand, was Julia Brandon’s name.

  Langton had the night watchman in the palm of his hand; the man even offered to make them a cup of tea! Anna stood back, watching him, and was as impressed as ever at how fast he took control of the situation. He was pulling on rubber gloves as he walked into Rushton’s office and, like Anna, he gingerly stepped over the fallen documents to examine the body. He checked Rushton over and said quietly that it looked like he had been dead only a few hours. He then crossed to a shredder and looked at the mounds of shredded paper in the compartment below. By the smell of the shredded strips, it had been put into action not that long ago. He then walked out of the office and returned moments later. “Good, he’s got CCTV cameras. See, just by the door? There’s more in the reception area.”

  Like Anna, he opened Rushton’s desk drawer; when he got to the larger one, he gave a soft laugh. “Look at this: it’s for taping clients—unawares, I’d say. Let’s see if there’s a microphone.”

  Anna pointed to the edge of the desk. By an in-tray was a small clip-on mike.

  “It’d be too much to hope this recorded anything of use.”

  “The recording light is still on,” Anna said.

  “Yeah,” he said, and looked at the dead man. “Well, we’d better do the right thing and get him removed.” With his gloved hand, he looked at the bruise on Rushton’s neck, and then glanced over to a large TV screen. “Let’s see what’s recorded on the security camera.”

  Langton asked the night watchman, George, for the tapes and to open another office for him to use, rather than remain in Rushton’s. He carefully removed the cassette from the recorder and, hardly paying any attention to Anna, walked out.

  George, when questioned about who he had seen entering the building, was adamant that there was no one else in the building when he came on duty at seven that evening. Mr. Rushton had said he would be working late and so to leave his office lights on; he would turn them off when he left. George gave them details of his nightly routine: he was employed to oversee all the offices, so there would have been some considerable gaps when he was not in the front office, but touring the various floors. He would have liked to remain with Langton and Anna, but they asked him to return to the main reception to let everyone else in.

  Langton sipped his tea and, still wearing his rubber gloves, inserted the tape from Rushton’s desk. He pressed play and sat back, Anna beside him.

  The tape began with Rushton detailing client interviews, with dates and times; they were from three days prior. Langton listened and fast-forwarded, only occasionally stopping.

  “In his diary, he writes Julia Brandon—”

  “Shhhh—is this her?” Anna leaned forward.

  “I had to try and explain everything to this detective; I had no option.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because it happened whilst she was at the house. I was so hysterical, to be honest, I just felt sort of relieved.”

  “Was Fagan with you?”

  “He was, but not at that point.”

  “Christ, Julia, why didn’t you use him?”

  “I just didn’t!”

  “All right, all right, calm down. Without any witnesses, what you said won’t mean anything.”

  “I told her everything.”

  “Well, start from the top; what exactly did you tell her?”

  Julia began, between sniffs and sobs, to say that she had come to him because she knew she needed help.

  “You bloody got it, but I warned you about keeping quiet. I don’t want any repercussions. I have a very legitimate business.”

  “I know that.”

  “I have done nothing illegal, Julia!”

  “Yes, but you’ve also been paid a lot of money.”

  “I charge all my clients for working out transactions with their finances, Julia, love. Yours was just that bit more complicated.”

  “What is going to happen?”

  Rushton sighed, and went into a lengthy diatribe about how she would require her husband’s death certificate for him to be able to revert monies back into her name.

  “I keep asking to bury him but they won’t release the body.”

  “I’ve told you, they will in time; you are going to have to wait it out.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Listen to me: nobody can touch your money. Right now it’s as safe as houses.”

  “I’m not scared about that; it’s what he’ll do to me. He knows what we’ve done, he knows and it’ll make him mad.”

  “He can get mad, sweetheart, but he still can’t release a cent; that’s what I spent months working on. What you have to do is stay calm. As soon as they release Frank Brandon’s body for burial, you will automatically get the death certificate and, once I have that, it’ll all come back to you. In the meantime, I’ve left you a substantial amount of cash in your current account to cover any costs you have.”

  “I want to get out, take the kids, and just leave.”

  Rushton sighed, and then there was the tapping sound of a pen against the desk.

  “Julia, stay put. This will all be ironed out in a few weeks, but if you run off to God knows where, it’s going to look suspicious.”

  “You don’t know what he’s like.”

  “No, I don’t, but I can’t see what he can do. We worked this entire scenario out so he can’t get his hands on your money. You already paid out four million.”

  Julia was crying. “I’m just so scared,” she repeated.

  The tap-tap of the pen on the desk started again. “Yes, but Fagan got you bodyguards, what can he do? Plus you’ve had police all over you like a rash; you think he doesn’t know that?”

  “I’m scared he’ll take the children.”

  “So pack them off somewhere.”

  There was then a long conversation about where she could send the girls for their safety. She said she did not have any family, apart from her sister. At this point, Langton and Anna leaned forward, as Julia said she couldn’t leave her children with Honour; she would be the last person Julia could trust. Rushton suggested she send them with Mai Ling to Disney World for a week or so. Whatever he suggested put Julia in an even more panicky mode. She wouldn’t be parted from them, and when Rushton said he was sure “he” wouldn’t hurt his own children, this made Julia really angry.

  “They are not his, for Christ’s sake! You don’t understand; he just wanted kids to open fucking bank accounts in their names. He used them like he has used me.”

  Rushton sighed. They were going around in circles. He then asked if he had threatened her at the house.

  “He’s not likely to show himself there, is he? He just calls me.”

  “Where is he?”

  Again, Langton and Anna leaned forward.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, of course I fucking don’t!” she screamed at him.

  Rushton tried to calm her, and said he would call
a taxi to take her home. She became abusive, saying she was with her bodyguards, who were waiting downstairs. They then exchanged a few remarks and Rushton was heard walking her to the door. There was the sound of it opening and closing; next, they heard Rushton give a long sigh and swear under his breath.

  Drawers were banged open and shut; then he used his intercom to call a secretary, but there was no reply. He swore again. They heard the door opening, as he called out for Serina. There was silence, then he slammed the door shut.

  “Fucking bitch. I said I was working late,” he muttered.

  A pause and there was the sound of the door being opened again. “I was wondering where you—” Rushton stopped midsentence. The door closed. “Who are you? How did you get in?”

  The voice was deep, upper-class, with a heavy smoker’s gravel tone. “You mind if I sit down?”

  Langton glanced at Anna: this was more than they could have bargained for.

  “Yes, I do mind. I want to know how you got into my office.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Put the phone down. Now, Mr. Rushton, you have some explaining to do. You have been playing games with my business. You know who I am, Mr. Rushton, and I want my money.”

  “Jesus Christ, listen to me—I had no knowledge that your wife’s finances were not—”

  “She’s not my wife.”

  “I acted in good faith at all times. I can explain everything, every single transaction; in fact, I’ve got the files in front of me, and you are—”

  The tape whirred and then ground to a halt. Langton closed his eyes with frustration. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  As if on cue, George, the night watchman, returned with the video recordings off the security cameras. He said they might not be good quality as they reused the tapes. “These are real old tapes; been used for about six months.”

  “Never mind,” Langton said, eager to get George out of the office.

  “There’s a doctor and police officers in reception.”

  “Show them into Mr. Rushton’s office, please, George. Anna, go and talk to them.”

  Anna wanted to see what was on the videotape, but Langton waved his hand impatiently. As she left she saw him crouch down in front of the TV set to insert the tape.

  She introduced herself to the team of SOCOs and the doctor called to check over Rushton. They had to have him pronounced dead at the site before his body could be taken to the mortuary. By the time Anna had led them into Rushton’s office, Langton was waiting.

  “There’s no sound, but the guy walked in about two seconds after Julia Brandon left the building. He slid in after her before the main door closed. We lose him for a few minutes, then he appears on the stairs outside Rushton’s office, chatting to a blond woman.”

  “The receptionist.”

  “He then goes out of shot, heading down the corridor to Rushton’s office.”

  “Let me see him.” Anna could feel her heart racing as she sat beside Langton.

  He was as tall as they knew Fitzpatrick to be, at least six feet four—and slender, with quite broad shoulders, but there was no ponytail. What they could see of his hair was dark brown, but he wore a cap pulled quite low over his face. He was wearing a long Harris tweed coat, jeans, and cowboy boots. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he headed for the lift.

  The next sighting was on the stairwell outside Rushton’s office. Again, they had no clear shot of his face; he was looking toward the receptionist and appeared very relaxed, shaking her hand, as she turned to direct him through the reception doors into Rushton’s office complex.

  The next footage was of the same man entering Rushton’s office. Though they had only his back, they could see him talking and gesturing. They could also see the fear in Rushton’s face. Both Anna and Langton knew what was being said because they had listened to the tape; watching it in mute was fascinating. He was so tall, he almost blocked out the whole picture; then he started to unbutton his coat. Still talking, he casually eased the tweed coat off; beneath it was a black polo-neck sweater. He held the coat in his right hand and then half turned; he walked away from the desk to toss the coat aside, but even full face to camera, with the baseball cap pulled down so low they couldn’t see all of it.

  “Is it him?” Langton asked softly.

  “I don’t know, his nose doesn’t look the same, nor his mouth.” His cheekbones were sculptured, and he had a dimple in the crevice of his chin.

  “Shit, it has to be him,” Langton said. They still had no clear picture of their suspect.

  Anna nodded, watching the man as he caught sight of the security camera. He was so tall, he could reach up to it; he didn’t wrench it from the wall, but turned it away from being focused on Rushton’s desk. The screen went blank.

  “That’s it,” Langton said.

  Anna rewound the tape to look again at the head shot. “We could get photo analysis to check this against the ones on the Web site and the one from Mai Ling. It would prove it definitely is him.”

  “It’s him, Anna. Now you see what I mean about this guy being fucking dangerous. He just walked in there, off the bloody streets, dressed like some old Harrovian gent, mixed with old groover. That is a man wanted right across the States, and wanted in this country for thirty-odd years.”

  “Do you think he got what he came for?”

  “Who knows?” Langton yawned suddenly, and looked at his watch. “It’s three o’clock. I’m going home.”

  They left the building together. Langton pulled up his collar as he turned to look back at Anna. “You did it again, didn’t you? It’s hard for me to reprimand you, but you have got to stop this. You cannot skive off to do your own fucking investigation, Anna. You’ll get into deep water, not just with me; one of these days, if you don’t straighten out, you’ll get more than you bargained for, and you won’t have anyone to help you. This man is very dangerous. How many times do I have to underline that, eh?”

  “I sometimes find it hard to take your lectures, knowing what I know about you.”

  He swung around. “Don’t go there. Not now, not ever.”

  “So it’s all right for you, but not—”

  His face was taut with anger. “You’re not me, sweetheart. You don’t have my experience or my ability to take care of myself.”

  “Oh, I know that. It wasn’t me who almost died, but it was me who had to pick up the pieces.” She was so close to him. The anger in his eyes would at one time have made her weak at the knees, but she wouldn’t look away.

  He seemed taken aback by her refusal to retreat, and stepped away. “I’d better watch my back, hadn’t I?”

  “I would never disclose to anyone what I know about you, but sometimes you make me angry. I don’t think you give me credit where it is due. I’ve grown up, James. I’m aware that I should protect myself. It won’t happen again. I apologize for acting without taking precaution.”

  He turned away from her and hitched the collar of his coat higher, almost hiding his face. “I loved you as much as I could, Anna.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  She turned and walked away from him, even though she was heading in the wrong direction. She needed to put as much distance between them as possible.

  She had loved him too, but, at last, she really felt that it was history on her part too. In the past, she would never have been able to stand up to him as she had just done. She also knew that she had to buckle down and not act impulsively; it was going to be hard but if she put a foot out of line again, Langton would make sure it went on record, and he could really damage her career.

  18

  The murder of David Rushton gave Cunningham more headaches. As the information filtered into the incident room, the fact that their prime suspect was without doubt in the UK made the pressure go up a few notches. The shot of Fitzpatrick’s face from the CCTV footage was now pinned at the center of the board. Anna had pored over the blurred photo and tried to match it with the ones off
the Web site. The man appeared to look much younger than she had thought. Perhaps he had undergone extensive plastic surgery around the lips and mouth, and it would have helped if they had got a clear picture of his eyes and nose. Until she could get the lab to confirm by matching old and latest pictures, she couldn’t be 100 percent certain.

  It was imperative they get a detailed account of each murder. She had the case files lined up on her desk: Donny Petrozzo, Stanley Leymore, Julius D’Anton, and Frank Brandon. She would need to spend time with the pathologist who had done the postmortem on each man. At the same time, now armed with the latest photograph of Fitzpatrick, she would need to reinterview Silas Roach and his friend Delroy Planter. Their statement that Donny Petrozzo was Frank Brandon’s killer could be a lie.

  Anna chewed the end of her pencil so hard, she had fine wood splinters in her mouth and spat them out. If they were to arrest Fitzpatrick, the evidence was still sketchy; they suspected he was involved in the murder of Frank Brandon, Julius D’Anton, and, obviously, David Rushton, but whether or not he killed Donny Petrozzo and Stanley Leymore was questionable. As Anna chewed another pencil, she began to tap her foot against the side of her desk. What they did know was that Donny Petrozzo, Julius D’Anton, and now possibly Rushton had all been killed with an overdose of Fentanyl.

  Anna wrote down the word Fentanyl and underlined it. They still had no firm evidence that Fitzpatrick was shipping it into England; even if Delroy and Silas identified him, they would be dependent on the statements of two drug dealers. They had found no trace of it in the farmhouse, nor in the property at Wimbledon.

  She sat back in her chair. Having only had a few hours’ sleep the previous night, she felt worn out. She rubbed at her head and tossed her chewed pencil into the waste bin. They had been running around like scalded rabbits, as one victim turned up after another. Unless they got something out of the two drug dealers, they could lose the case into one of the warrens they had created. She returned to the murder of Frank Brandon, and this time underlined the Mitsubishi. They had to establish the date Brandon came into possession of it. They knew it had been parked in the rented garage at Wimbledon; they also knew it had been stolen, and then passed on by Stanley Leymore.