by Nick Louth
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gillard was running late. He had a flight booked back to Paris in three hours, and still had to get to Gatwick. Knight had seemingly made a new cash withdrawal, and Kincaid reckoned he had a plan to catch him red-handed for the next one. So when his desk phone rang he was tempted to let it go to voicemail. But something made him pick it up.
It was Dr David Delahaye. ‘Craig, it’s about the bones in the marsh. I’ve just got the results back and emailed them to you. But just to confirm, we had three connected human lumbar vertebrae, two disconnected thoracic vertebrae and a coccyx, all in unexpectedly poor condition given the assumed duration of immersion. There was too little DNA in the bone and remaining flesh for PCR. There was contamination with salt residues, which might explain some of the problem. However, we have had the benefit of corroboration. The scrap of fabric, displaying a lacy edging, appears to be part of a woman’s underwear, within which were trapped a number of pubic hairs. Now I expect the dismemberment scene was fairly bloody, but sadly blood seems to have dissolved from the material due to the prolonged exposure to cold water. But luckily not from the hairs. They absorbed blood cells along with some of the insoluble human fat, presumably during dismemberment, and that fat protected them from aqueous damage. So we were able to extract some DNA in the end.’
‘And?’
‘And all that DNA belongs to Mrs Knight.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Well, not completely. There is a 0.03 per cent margin of error.’
‘That’s pretty certain in my book.’
‘Mine too,’ Delahaye responded. ‘I’m sure the coroner will be satisfied. We’re still waiting for a technical opinion on the origin of the textile. The bones seem in my experience an appropriate match for a woman of her age. Some of the vertebrae bear abrasions indicating a serrated knife or saw blade had been used on them. Our Professor Knight is a brutal fellow, isn’t he?’
* * *
Kincaid met Gillard at the airport, looking very pleased with himself. ‘I’ve cracked it. Just a bit of brainpower, that’s what was required.’ The detective superintendent tapped his temple.
‘Oh yes?’ responded Gillard, far from convinced. ‘What have you found?’
‘I’ll tell you in the car. Don’t want anyone overhearing.’
As they were driving back to Paris, Kincaid said: ‘Name all the places where Knight has withdrawn money.’
Gillard sighed, and closed his eyes. ‘Let’s see. Neuilly-sur-Seine, Itteville, er, Houdan…’
‘Yes, that’s an N, an I and an H. Any more?’
‘Gretz-Armainvilliers, the first one. And Kirch.’
‘Yes, Kirch-en-Bourses, so that’s a K, what does all that spell?’
It was a moment before Gillard responded. ‘K, N, I, G and H. Ah, I see what you’re up to.’
Kincaid nodded smugly. ‘Guess where yesterday’s withdrawal was?’
‘I’ve no idea. Troyes?’
‘Nope. A hamlet called Saint-Martin-en-Forêt, an hour and a half south of Paris.’ He looked at Gillard and enunciated the word: ‘Martin.’
‘So once we get a T we have Martin Knight.’ Gillard looked out of the window. ‘He’s playing with us. Have you called Glomiquet?’
‘Yes. He’s unwilling to commit the surveillance required to cover every place beginning with T within 100 clicks of Paris.’
‘I see his point. So we’ll have to be ready ourselves.’ Gillard was unconvinced this approach would work, but in the absence of other live leads he would give it a go.
* * *
For the next three days there were no new cash withdrawals, and no shortlist of number plates from ANPR that matched Professor Knight’s curious crab-like journeys backwards and forwards across Île-de-France. Later Glomiquet escorted the two British detectives to the French regional ANPR control room. Though it was interesting to see the set-up, Gillard felt they were killing time with a bit of official tourism. Glomiquet disappeared on other duties, leaving Gillard and Kincaid at a loose end, with Kincaid having spent 90 minutes over coffee in the refectory scoring the passing female officers marks out of ten for ‘shagability’. By breakfast time on day four, Gillard called a halt.
‘I think we can use our time better,’ he said, putting down his croissant.
‘Fed up with pain au chocolat already?’ Kincaid replied, his moustache thick with crumbs.
‘Not exactly. But I am wondering about the Knights’ newly purchased holiday home. It’s an obvious place for Martin Knight to use as a refuge.’
‘A bit too bloody obvious, surely.’
‘Ah, but remember Osama bin Laden, hiding in plain sight? He was virtually next door to the HQ of the Pakistan intelligence service.’
‘I don’t think Knight would have gone to Pakistan.’
Craig rolled his eyes. ‘We can catch a flight to Malaga and be back by tomorrow morning.’
‘I suppose I better check in with the dominatrix before we do that,’ Kincaid groaned. He lamented how tight a leash Alison Rigby kept him on. He constantly chafed at having a micro-managing female boss, something he never imagined he would have to suffer in what he called the good old days of policing in the 1990s.
Rigby, though, was happy to let them spend a day in Spain. Gillard had already tipped off his Spanish counterparts two weeks ago through the formal channels, but now on the quiet had phoned one or two he’d worked with before on the extradition of Costa Brava-based gangland figures. He was looking forward to seeing just what Knight had spent his inherited millions on.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Friday, 11 November
It was a warm and sunny afternoon when Kincaid and Gillard emerged through customs in Malaga and walked over to the car hire desk. When Kincaid saw the modest economy vehicle that had been booked for them by Mount Browne, he said: ‘Bollocks to that. I’m not driving a frigging Micra.’
Gillard stood back as an irate detective superintendent tried to negotiate an upgrade to something he thought appropriately grand. Finally, after lots of gesticulating and poring over papers, Kincaid turned around to him. ‘Got us a Seat Leon ST Cupra. Plenty of poke.’
‘We’re only going a few miles up the road,’ Gillard said.
‘I need a little respect at my time of life,’ Kincaid said, patting Gillard’s shoulder.
With Kincaid driving, and Gillard in charge of the satnav, it didn’t take long to find the district of Marbella where the Knights’ expat palace was. It was on the inland side of the coastal motorway and, as described on the brochure that Gillard kept on his lap, occupied the top of a hillside terrace a few miles inland off the A355. He could see it well enough, but every road they took seemed to go past it. The liaison officer for the Guardia Civil was supposed to meet them outside the nearby Coviran supermarket entrance at five, but Kincaid wanted to find it for himself. Consequently they were a half-hour late. Sargento Primo Irujo from the Policía Nacional criminal investigations department stood in the shade of the supermarket. He looked like a middle-aged male model, with a crisp white shirt, mirror shades, absurdly tight trousers and black, pointy shoes.
After introductions were made, Irujo asked them to follow him, and climbed back into his Land Cruiser. Gillard soon realized why he needed such a vehicle when Irujo turned off, just past a narrow bridge, down into a ravine on a steep concrete track encrusted with sheep droppings. Kincaid’s hire car ground out a couple of times as he wrestled it around a tractor-rutted path, and climbed again up a narrow winding track. ‘The Micra would have been even worse,’ he growled in self-justification.
They continued to wind upwards through a maze of narrow walled lanes overshadowed by stands of prickly pear and aloe vera until five minutes later they ground to a halt outside the grand wrought iron gates of a two-storey stucco house, merely the gatehouse to a more extensive series of whitewashed buildings and palm-tree-lined terraces beyond. ‘No wonder we couldn’t find it,’ Kincaid said. There was a CCTV c
amera on the wall beyond, and what looked like a video link from the gate.
‘This is Casa Alta de Marriego,’ Irujo said. ‘I came earlier this morning, but there is no one here. It was sold a few months ago, according to the agent, no?’
Gillard dug out the keys. They were old and rather rusty, with a tatty and illegible paper label. They didn’t look at all like they were designed for the modern gates, which would probably have a remote control. They pressed the button on the control panel, but nothing happened. ‘These must be keys for a side gate,’ Gillard said.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Kincaid said. He flicked through the glossy brochure, and then turned to the back where the address was printed. Gillard meanwhile was looking at the legal document from the Spanish land registry. ‘It’s Alta de Marriego all right.’ They all trooped along a narrow path, spattered with sheep droppings, which skirted the right-hand side of the high whitewashed walls of the estate. The land here was rough. Piles of rubbish had been thrown down the slopes: plastic bottles, polythene bags, fruit peel and rusting bed springs had been dumped over many years. There were a few olive trees and some tethered goats, before the land fell away sharply in a series of eroded sandy terraces towards the main road heading inland, at least 200 metres below. Straight ahead was a flat-roofed building with an unpainted wooden gate.
‘Maybe this is the way in,’ Gillard said. He tried the keys, which worked to unlock the door.
‘This is the Casita Alta de Marriego,’ said Irujo, tapping an ornate ceramic tile set into the wall by the door.
‘Pardon?’ said Kincaid.
‘It’s not the same. It means the small house at the high place of Marriego.’
‘Well it must be part of the same estate,’ Gillard said. ‘The key works.’ He looked inside the building. It looked like nothing more than a shepherd’s hut, with a wooden table, a small portable TV and some old dark furniture. There were sideboards full of odd crockery, half-finished bottles of various local spirits and an array of spiders and ants. A large and elderly three-piece suite dominated the main room. It certainly looked like no one had come to visit for a few months. They emerged again into the warm sunshine, and inspected the wall beyond the Casita. There didn’t appear to be a side gate.
‘Can we ring the agent?’ Kincaid asked. ‘We need to get into the main house.’
‘Mañana, of course,’ said Irujo. ‘He is closed this afternoon.’
‘Can’t we ring him at home?’ Craig asked.
Irujo’s face turned downwards in disapproval at this rather hasty approach. ‘Is it so urgent? You can see the place exists. You have the paperwork, and I think it’s very unlikely that your fugitive professor is here. I mean he is not a moron, eh? To hide in his own house.’ Irujo permitted himself a laugh which displayed a perfect semicircle of whitened teeth.
‘We need to get in today, sonny.’ Kincaid’s jaw was set, bulldog-fashion. ‘Can you see to it?’
Irujo shrugged and turned away to make a phone call.
The agent, Miguel Vila, was there in half an hour, his Pajero jeep revving hard as he came up the hill. He was a short, slightly chubby man with deep-set eyes and a sallow pockmarked face. He shook hands effusively with each of them. He produced a key fob, which he pressed to open the gates. ‘I have telephoned Mr and Mrs Van der Hoeven, but they seem a little confused why the British police need to look around the villa.’
‘Who are the Van der Hoevens?’ Kincaid asked as they walked inside the courtyard.
‘They are the owners.’
Craig exchanged a glance with Paddy Kincaid. ‘I think there is some confusion,’ Craig said, passing across the brochure from his collection of papers. The agent looked through it, nodding. ‘Yes, that is the sale particulars. Casa Alta de Marriego,’ he said, pointing to the address printed on the brochure. ‘It was prepared by my firm, for the vendors, Desarrollo de Propiedades Costeras Marbella SA.’
‘Martin and Elizabeth Knight bought this in June,’ Craig said. ‘Here are the documents from the Spanish land registry to prove it.’ He passed across the English copy of the registration and the transfer documents.
‘Have you the Spanish original?’ Vila asked. Craig passed across the six-page document written in Spanish.
Miguel glanced at it and said. ‘No, this is not correct. The original has a seal on it. This is a photocopy.’
‘I don’t see what bloody difference it makes,’ Kincaid said. ‘They’ve paid the money, they’ve got the signatures.’ He flicked through the document to the final page, and jabbed his finger on the final page of the transfer.
Miguel stared at it, creasing his face at the names. ‘This is not correct. These people…’
‘Martin and Elizabeth Knight,’ Kincaid growled.
‘Yes, I know them. They came to look around the casa, but they didn’t buy it. And the sellers listed here, Desarrollo de la Tierra Costeras Marbella, this company, are not my clients. They could not have sold it.’
‘Sounds pretty bloody similar,’ said Kincaid.
‘Perhaps deliberately,’ Miguel responded. ‘The property was not theirs to sell. These documents are, I’m afraid to tell you, false.’
‘You mean forgeries? Deliberately falsified?’ Craig asked.
Miguel shrugged. ‘Deliberate, I cannot say. Do not worry. The Colegio de Registradores, the land registry, will not have made this mistake. I will get a certified copy from them. That will clear up what has happened.’
‘How long will that take?’ Craig said, aware that their flight back was tomorrow.
Miguel blew out his cheeks, and Irujo said something to him in Spanish. After a short conversation Irujo said: ‘I can get this pursued through a magistrate’s request if you want, but it may take a day or two. There will be expenses, of course.’
Kincaid looked at Gillard. ‘Come on, Craig. We don’t need to sort this out,’ he said. ‘It’s a civil matter if the Knights have been diddled out of their inheritance. We really only need to know if the fugitive professor is here or not.’ He turned back to the agent. ‘So perhaps you would be good enough to show us around, Miguel?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Miguel said. ‘Now the main entrance here leads to the outside jacuzzi and the main swimming pool…’
* * *
While Kincaid and Irujo were given the full buyers’ tour, Gillard sat in a shady corner, flicking through the bundles of documents. Unlike his boss, he was far from convinced mistakes in the legal technicalities of sale were an irrelevant detail in the murder of Liz Knight. A £4 million investment was an obvious motive for murder. If the money had been siphoned off somehow, that could explain everything. He decided to phone Oliver Knight for help. He was a conveyancing solicitor, after all, and had claimed to have checked the documents.
Oliver’s reaction was chilly and defensive. After 15 minutes of trying to read parts of documents to each other, Gillard could see he was getting nowhere. ‘Okay, Oliver, we’ll obviously have to wait for the originals from the Spanish land registry. But I’ll tell you this. The agent who sold the place you think you bought says he knows the owners, a Mr and Mrs Van der Hoeven from Utrecht in Holland. It has their furniture and books in, and for much of the year they live here. In the end it may come down to your family having to take civil legal action.’
Craig Gillard was surprised by the furious volley of foul language that Oliver bellowed at him before hanging up. Everyone had their breaking point, and for Oliver Knight hearing that his family, already short of two parents, may have lost most of its wealth could well have been it. Craig rang liaison officer Gabby Underwood and tipped her off that Oliver Knight was likely to be a handful because of this news. Her reaction showed some wisdom.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, this news should have been given face to face. It’s a bereavement too, in a way. And if it makes him feel that he was responsible for any losses, that’s even worse.’
Craig was forced to agree. Why was it, though, that every female poli
ce officer seemed to make a habit of correcting him?
Kincaid emerged after the full 40-minute tour. ‘Bloody lovely place,’ he breathed. ‘Wine cellar, choice of jacuzzi, sauna. I’d love to live here.’
‘So would the Knights, poor sods.’ Craig risked a grim smile. ‘So any sign of the mad professor?’
‘Nope.’
‘Any unmade beds? Any recently used crockery or glasses lying around? Any paperwork? Any recent oil stains on the garage floor? Where might we find the best dabs?’
Kincaid looked upwards. ‘Okay, so I may have been a bit distracted.’
‘I’ll take a quick shufti, then, shall I?’
After he had walked around the impressive house, Gillard had to admit that it seemed unlikely that Knight had been there. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘About time. Now on to more important matters. I want to find a good place to eat this evening before we go home,’ Kincaid said, rubbing his hands together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kincaid met Gillard in the reception of their motel at seven, wearing a rather flamboyant open-necked shirt, and some obscenely tight maroon trousers. ‘I tell you what, Craig, let’s get ourselves a massive seafood feast, paella with lobster on top, and wash it down with a bottle of Rioja, eh? Maybe head on to a nightclub after.’
‘Fine, if you’re paying,’ Craig said. His mobile vibrated, and he picked it up. ‘It’s Townsend,’ he explained. ‘Yes, Rob, what have you got?’
Craig listened, and nodded, while Kincaid looked on.
‘Paddy, Professor Knight’s just used his credit card to get a cash advance. In a town called Reus. He’s here in Spain.’
‘R for Reus,’ Kincaid muttered. ‘No, it doesn’t begin with a T. We’ve got K, N, I, G and H. It has to be a T.’ He looked crestfallen that his theory had crumbled.
