Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

  At the drug squat with Alexander Fitzpatrick aboard, plus Frank Brandon

  At the farmhouse, driven by Julius D’Anton

  With Donny Petrozzo’s body in the back, in the garage at Wimbledon

  Langton began shifting the dates around. At the same time, he had the team double-checking the times of death for Petrozzo and for D’Anton. Due to the latter being some time in the water, they were not able to give the exact date. Donny Petrozzo’s body was also very well wrapped and preserved. The time frame in which they both had died was therefore, loosely, a three-week period.

  Langton then drew an arrow to link each man. Donny Petrozzo knew Frank Brandon; he also knew Stanley Leymore, the car dealer. Did Frank arrange with him to take the Mitsubishi? They had no record of exactly how long he had been driving it; the insurance certificates they had taken from Julia Brandon’s, along with other papers, were for her car and his only. Lastly, he underlined the now-infamous name: Alexander Fitzpatrick. Just as he had half completed his arrow making, there was contact from Brighton.

  It appeared someone had made a fast getaway. Food was still in the fridge, beds were unmade, and, though they were removing trash from the wastebaskets, the main garbage had last been collected weeks ago. When shown the picture of Alexander Fitzpatrick, neighbors either side of the property were certain that he had been in residence. The sheets were bundled up to be tested for DNA at the lab, but it looked as if whoever left in a hurry also did a cleanup job: rubber gloves were found along with disinfectant and window-cleaning sprays.

  There was still no sighting of Adrian Summers, but the neighbors had said he was a familiar sight around all their houses; he did part-time gardening, window cleaning, and car washing. He appeared to be a pleasant young man, who was studying part-time at the local college for a master’s degree in graphic art. They would have to check out if Adrian Summers had made up the insignia for the hired white van.

  His parents had been contacted; they lived locally in Hove, but they had not seen him for seven or eight months. They were not too concerned, as it was usual for their son to go off without contacting them, but they changed their minds when told he had not been at college for the same period of time.

  They now had photographs of the young man. Sussex police had agreed to begin trying to locate him. Langton glanced uneasily at the fair-haired boy as he pinned his picture up along with everyone else’s.

  Langton had been moving arrows and dates around the board, as if he was playing chess. His theory that there were no coincidences was being proved with a vengeance; the more he had tried to calculate the time frames, the more bizarre were the coincidences that must have occurred.

  “As you know, from early on I have been requesting some kind of time frame; we are still surmising that this or that happened, so I am coming up with something else. Let’s go back to the report of the missing Mitsubishi.”

  In his opinion, for Alexander Fitzpatrick—even via Adrian Summers—to report a vehicle stolen would be a huge risk. He was still trying to fathom out the pickup of the drug haul from Gatwick. Going by the dates on the customs certificates, this occurred before the theft of the jeep. But they still had no idea where the drugs were taken afterward.

  “Now,” Langton continued, “it is my belief that, when the jeep was stolen, on board was maybe one box of the drugs. Stanley Leymore now has this box of drugs; he’s unsure what they are. As soon as Fitzpatrick sees Frank Brandon with his fucking jeep, he has to want to know where he got it from. So, that leads him back to Leymore. What if—and I am grasping at straws here—but what if Leymore contacted Donny Petrozzo, a known smalltime drug dealer? He takes the drugs, and tries to do a deal with our two punks at the Chalk Farm squat, but being cautious only gives maybe a few vials of it.”

  The team all had quizzical expressions, trying to follow Langton as he walked up and down in front of the board.

  “Frank drives Fitzpatrick to the drug squat,” Langton went on, “and there all hell breaks loose, as Frank is recognized by the two dealers, and the shoot-out goes down. The dealers had paid Leymore for the drugs; we know they have admitted killing him, and there is a time gap between them making a run for it from the squat and killing Leymore. In that time gap, I think D’Anton got hold of the drugs—not the mother lode, but a box containing some of the Fentanyl. Is everyone with me?”

  There was a low murmur, and a few jokes that they were trying to keep up. Anna sat quietly, watching Langton at work. He was, as he always had been, an extraordinary man; his mind ticking over so fast, he spoke in short sharp sentences as he tried to work out his theory. She knew he was treading water, though, as so much depended on the very thing he always detested: coincidences.

  “Now!” Langton paused. He explained that Fitzpatrick had possibly been injured in the shooting. He couldn’t return to his rented house in Brighton and, with Frank Brandon’s murder, he couldn’t stay at Julia’s, so he needed a place to hide out.

  Langton printed in large letters: FARMHOUSE. He then stepped back and gave a soft laugh. “Okay, I am hoofing it now but, around the same time—remember, this is all taking place within twenty-four hours of the murder of Frank Brandon…” Langton brought up the note found in the glove compartment of the Mitsubishi, with directions to the farmhouse. Did Fitzpatrick call and ask how to get there? Did he drive to the farmhouse? And did he stash the box of drugs in the Mitsubishi? He jotted down the dates of the antiques fair; again, this crossed their time frame. “Julius D’Anton: junkie, loser, desperate for money, rams his own rundown van into the ditch, no more than a mile from the farmhouse. Coincidentally,” he said, looking to Anna with a grin, “Julius D’Anton walks along the footpath. We know from Travis that the couple never use their front door, but what if Julius does try the doorbell first. It doesn’t work—right, Travis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What if D’Anton takes a look at the Mitsubishi, left parked; he sees the keys in the ignition—remember, we are just surmising all this, or I am!” He laughed, then stared at the floor, and shrugged. “D’Anton opens the glove compartment, and there’s a stash of cash. Remember the two drug dealers said they’d paid five grand to Petrozzo? Maybe it was that cash, maybe not; either way, for D’Anton, it’s like fucking Christmas.” Langton sat down, rubbing his head; he finished by saying that D’Anton had to have got a wad of money from somewhere, as he returned to the antiques shop and tried to take the table, but he couldn’t fit it into the back of the jeep.

  Langton asked for some water as he pointed to the board. “Julius D’Anton drove home. To make sense of the theory, he discovers the drugs, takes them to his storage warehouse, and stashes them there.” Langton sipped at the beaker of water handed to him. He stood up. “The one person that connects to almost everyone is Donny Petrozzo. D’Anton scored from him: did he contact him? They arrange to meet, and here I am really out on a limb. D’Anton OD’d on the stuff, he’s a junkie, maybe killed himself trying to fathom out what it was, Donny simply tips him into the Thames, and drives the Mitsubishi to Frank’s garage, like a fucking homing pigeon.” There was a long pause, and eventually Langton looked at the team. “So what do you think?”

  Anna waited for someone else to take the lead, but no one did.

  “Yes, Travis?”

  “I think if any part of your theory is correct, we have to arrest Damien Nolan and his wife. We also have to focus on tracing the two missing children. They should be our priority.”

  There was a hubbub of everyone talking at once.

  Anna held her ground. “We now have yet another missing person, Adrian Summers; it’s quite likely he was just a pawn in the entire thing. There is also the au pair. If we are to take on board everything DCS Langton has suggested, our prime suspect is still on the loose, and missing is a substantial load of drugs, which looks to be the reason he is still in the UK.”

  Langton turned to Cunningham, who had not said one word throughout. Now she coughed, clearing her throat.
“I personally need time to digest everything. I buy some of it, but not all; we need to really start ripping it all apart and get that time frame set, so we can dismiss or agree on this scenario. I also feel that we should now arrest both Damien Nolan and his wife.”

  Langton looked as if he was going to jab his finger in her chest. “No! We hold off until I am ready. In the meantime, I want a full press release. I want them at Scotland Yard: every pen pusher possible, from every crime page. We break the news on the search for the two children and the au pair—they are to be the priority—and we name our suspect, Alexander Fitzpatrick! Let them Google him, and see what they come up with!”

  Cunningham had two pink spots on her cheeks as she controlled her anger. She asked politely if Langton would join her in her office before she walked out. They broke for the night; it was after nine.

  Anna went into her office and collected her briefcase. She could still see the strange jabbing pencil dents in her desk made by Langton. She ran her finger over them, and realized the indentations were her own initials, A.T.

  23

  Pete was appalled that, since he had last been at Anna’s, the flat was still in the same state, as if she had only just moved in. Anna opened a bottle of wine and they ate fish and chips, sitting on kitchen stools. When Pete asked how the case was going, Anna went into an edited version of what Langton thought went down.

  Wafting his fork around, Pete mimicked Langton, launching into the various coincidences, especially the Most Wanted man in the UK and the USA leaving his drugs to be stolen from the jeep, not once but twice! “You know what I think?” he ended up.

  Anna scooped up some chips in her fingers, dipping them in ketchup. “Surprise me.”

  “I think you’ve lost him. All this surmising about who did what and where, is crap: the reality is that Alexander Fitzpatrick is way out of your reach.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Agree or not, you are still facing the fact that he walked into the station, hoodwinked the lot of you, walked out armed with the address of whatsit, D’Anton, picked up his wife, collected what you presume to be his missing drugs, and oh, I almost forgot, strangled her to death!”

  Anna pushed her half-eaten meal away. He was starting to annoy her.

  “Why this delay in bringing in the only suspects other than Fitzpatrick: Julia Brandon’s sister, and her husband?” Pete demanded.

  “The surveillance reports are giving us a day-to-day rundown; the couple can’t make a move without us knowing.”

  “If the surveillance guys are as obvious as they usually are…”

  She snapped at him. “They are not! We’ve got a crew digging up a part of a field for, supposedly, BT, and another crew laying down cables…”

  “Very inventive!” he said sarcastically.

  “Yes—and costly. I shouldn’t even be telling you all this.”

  “Why not? Who the hell do you think I am going to repeat it to?”

  Anna sighed and sipped her wine; she was tired and getting a headache, so she fetched a bottle of aspirin. Pete watched her, then picked up the dirty dishes and crossed to the sink.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Anna said wearily.

  “Terrific. Is that an invitation for me to join you, or should I go home? Sometimes you get me feeling like I should have a bike with Takeaway, Deliveries printed on it!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve got a headache?”

  “One coming; I can feel it tight round the back of my head.”

  “Ah, so that’s the excuse tonight, is it? You’ve got a headache! Well, fine. You go and shower; I’ll clean up and get my coat.” Anna didn’t answer; she walked out, leaving him stacking the dishwasher. As she was about to step into the shower, she heard the front door slam shut. She had no sooner showered, and got into her pajamas, than the doorbell rang.

  He stood on the doorstep, glowering. “I can’t get my car out. The gates won’t open without the remote and I don’t know the code.”

  Anna wrapped her arms around him and said she was sorry. She was about to pass him the code, when he kicked the door shut behind him. “Let’s go to bed.”

  She didn’t feel she could reject him. By the time he had showered and joined her in bed, she could hardly keep her eyes open. He kissed her lovingly and she knew they would have sex. She didn’t want that, but went through the motions, hoping it would be over as quickly as possible. It was a strange feeling; her mind was so distant from her actions. It was Pete who fell asleep first, lying next to her, one arm resting across her chest protectively. She gently stroked his hair, almost as if he was a child, feeling his warm breath against her neck, and a little guilty that she had not wanted him to make love to her. That was what really played on her mind: not the case, thankfully, but the fact that her relationship with Pete was for her just as friends. She didn’t even think of Langton; instead, as she closed her eyes, it felt like she was floating above herself, detached from Pete, looking down at her nakedness entwined with his and feeling nothing.

  She woke with a jolt when his wristwatch started buzzing. It was after eight and she went into panic mode. The team were to organize the big press gathering and she wanted to be present. By the time she had dressed and gulped down a cup of black coffee, they were both ready to leave. As they entered the car park, he kissed her and said he would call her later; maybe if she had time, they could take in a movie.

  Anna wasn’t really listening as she threw her briefcase into the Mini and switched on the engine. She reckoned if she put her foot down, she’d just make it for nine. Wrong.

  The garage doors refused to budge. Other tenants eager to leave for work were in the same predicament, and there were heated rows with Mr. Burk, the security manager, who was attempting to open the gates manually; he could only manage to get them open a few inches before they clanged shut again.

  James Fullford kicked at the closed gates. “I should get a fucking boat! This is the third time in less than a month this has happened!” He turned to Anna and Pete. “I could fucking anchor it on the river by the time this idiot gets these working; even if he does open them, there is no way I can make my meeting in time. I’m going to lose a fortune.” He stomped around as more tenants appeared and stood helplessly, watching Burk as he tried to operate the doors, but they held firm.

  By the time Anna was able to get a taxi to the press conference, it had already disbanded, so she caught a tube up to Chalk Farm. She knew she would be in the firing line; making an excuse about the garage doors would not be acceptable. Thankfully, Langton was not at the station—but Cunningham was, and she was furious. Anna was about to apologize when the photograph of the missing Adrian Summers caught her eye. Anna’s mind started ticking. She could feel it down to the balls of her feet, jigsaw pieces tumbling, and she had to catch her breath to steady herself. She snatched down the photograph and almost ran to her office. “Gordon, get in here, now!”

  She didn’t even realize she had done a familiar gesture: the Langton hand waft, which had always irritated her. “You recognize him?” She held up the photograph.

  Gordon hurried in after her. “No.”

  “Nor did I, until I looked at it from a distance. Take a good look, Gordon.”

  He stared at the photograph as she moved around her desk, holding it at chest height. “Go back to when we went to the farmhouse, Gordon.”

  He still looked nonplussed. She was exasperated, wanting him to get the same recognition. “The boy we saw when we were there, remember? The one who walked into the yard. Is it him?”

  “Christ, yes. Yes, I think it is!” Gordon picked up the photograph as she tossed it onto the desk.

  “I’m bloody sure it is,” she said as she heaved files onto her desk from where they were stacked on the floor. “Okay, now we go back to the painting in the farmhouse: the boat.”

  “Yes, it was there and then not—I remember!” Gordon could feel her energy; it made him nervous.


  “Okay, you tell me why would anyone remove it? It was of an old boat belonging to Alexander Fitzpatrick, right?”

  “Yes, Dare Devil, but we had confirmation that it had been sold,” Gordon said.

  “That’s not my point.” She began to give out orders. She wanted the marina in Brighton checked out; she wanted to know of every boat anchored there for the past six months and any boat coming and going; she wanted owners’ names—and fast. “Come on, Gordon, get thinking. Alexander Fitzpatrick’s rented house was in Brighton. What if he had a boat anchored there at the marina as well? We’ve not been able to trace him staying at any hotels, but we know he’s been in London—so get onto it.”

  Anna didn’t even put forward their findings to Cunningham, but instead left the station a little later and, in a patrol car, went over to Scotland Yard. After checking in at the reception, she took the lift up to Langton’s office.

  She could hardly contain herself as she approached him. “I think we’ve got him cornered,” she said.

  She had never been to his office before and was surprised at the size of it; his desk and comfortable sitting area were impressive. There were numerous family photographs of his ex-wife and the two children, Kitty and Tommy. That took her aback, as it was so unexpected: the domesticity of his life of which she now knew so little.

  “Come on, let’s hear it.” Langton sat in a large leather swivel chair behind his desk, but Anna couldn’t sit, she was so eager to give him the update.

  Langton listened as she described the sighting at the farmhouse of Adrian Summers, certain she was correct. She gave details of how, after two hours, Gordon had traced a large boat called Maiden to Brighton Marina. The boat had to give the harbormaster details of ownership: the name was one of Alexander Fitzpatrick’s aliases. The same boat was now anchored in Chelsea harbor. According to the harbormaster, it had been registered there for only one month.