She heard him moving because he put his mobile on speaker-phone. Her eyes never left the TV screen as she waited.
‘Bollocks,’ Calum said.
‘Keep this news away from her. We don’t need her tipping over the edge. I need to take care of a couple of things, then I’ll be with you.’
Rio terminated the call as Adeyemi Ibraheem’s face disappeared from the screen. But she read the breaking newsfeed at the bottom of the screen.
Body of student Adeyemi Ibraheem found in the River Thames.
Passengers in rows 20 to 40 for the 4.00 p.m. flight to Northern Cyprus from Stansted airport started lining up for a final security check before they boarded the plane. First in line was a man wearing a waist-length leather jacket and shades. He curled his lip slightly when a soft request was made for him to take off his sunglasses. But he took them off and handed over his passport. The airline employee opened it and looked at the name.
The employee looked at him, back at the photo, then handed the passport back to him.
‘Have a good trip.’
Terry Larkin smiled as he took back his passport.
4:10 p.m.
Rio walked into the coroner’s office. Harsh memories of accompanying families to identify bodies of loved ones swept over her, and she thought of the bodies of those who were never claimed by anyone. Over the years she’d learned how to push her emotions down deep and get on with the job of consoling, lending a temporary shoulder to lean on, but ultimately reserving all her energy for solving the case.
She would never forget her first one. A nine-year-old boy found lying at the foot of a snake-shaped slide in a community playground. The only evidence of violence had been a bruise to his right temple. Her superior had told her the way to deal with it was to imagine the person was in a deep sleep; she hadn’t been able to do that with the boy. All she’d seen when she’d gazed at his still body, his mum sobbing beside her, was the life that had been ready for him to live – maybe university, maybe a career that helped other people, maybe the father of another little boy. That was the last time she let any feelings sit on her shoulder when entering a coroner’s.
Until now . . . The night of the raid, Adeyemi’s mum had turned up at The Fort desperate to speak to her about his disappearance and what had she done? Ignored her because she was preoccupied with the raid. And now a young man was dead. Rio hadn’t even known Adeyemi, but she’d never forget the genuine protective emotions that glazed his dark eyes when he stared at Nikki Bell.
She shook the memories away as she headed for the partially opened office at the start of the corridor. A young woman, hair tied back into a practical ponytail, was working at the desk. Her head came up as she heard Rio push the door further back.
‘I’m looking for the Ibraheem family . . .’
The awful sound of wrenching from the corridor stopped the rest of her words. Rio pulled away from the door and eased slowly around to find Adeyemi’s mother bent and sobbing, being supported in the arms of a man she suspected was her oldest son. They halted when they saw her, the hostile stare the man sent Rio’s way didn’t stop her from approaching them.
‘You’re that pig that came to Mum’s house.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement. A statement filled with bile and over-flowing rage.
‘I’m sorry—’
Mrs Ibraheem’s head swung up, her bloodshot eyes bursting with such grief she looked like she was facing death herself. ‘I came to see you . . . to plead for your help. This is all because of that girl, isn’t it? I told him to stay away from her, to keep his head and mind in his books.’ Her head moved from side to side. ‘But he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t . . .’ Tears clogged her throat stopping her from continuing.
‘We don’t know if this has anything to do with the case surrounding Nikki—’
Chiwetel Ibraheem, well-known South London villain, punched over her. ‘I see that girl again, she’s dead—’
‘Don’t be putting threats around that you may come to regret.’
‘Or what?’ His question was belligerent and defiant. ‘You going to make sure my mum comes back here to view the body of her other son as well?’ He ended by sucking his teeth long and hard.
They walked past Rio, never looking back. Rio stood there for a good few minutes afterwards, the other woman’s grief still ringing in her head, thinking how a week ago a sixteen-year-old girl had been just like any other teen and now she had the corpses of the people she loved most in the world stacked up behind her.
Rio’s phone pinged. Text. She pulled it out and read:
It’s a long long way to Tipperary.
The strange message finished with a picture of a skull and crossbones. ?
Rio couldn’t make head nor tail of the message and decided that whoever had sent it must’ve have got their phone lines mixed up.
forty-nine
4:31 p.m.
‘I want to see Stephen Foster. And I want to see him now.’
The look on the face of Foster’s receptionist suggested to Rio that the idea that anyone could just blow into his suite of offices and demand to see her boss was a kind of crime in itself.
‘I’m sorry but I don’t think that’s going to be possible – can I suggest you try and make an appointment?’
Rio loved the ‘try’. She leaned over the desk. ‘Just buzz your boss, babe – tell him it’s Rio Wray and I want to talk about Greenbelt . . .’
The woman pursued her lips, then relaxed. ‘One moment, please.’ Then picked up her phone and spoke in a hushed voice to Foster.
Almost before she had replaced the receiver, Rio heard the great man himself coming down the stairs, so she left the receptionist’s office to meet him. He stopped halfway down the staircase, his full head of sweeping black-grey hair looking like it had been freshly groomed. Rio was used to his two standard expressions – the blank one that told you nothing and his look of contempt, which told you everything. But this one was new: open curiosity.
‘Detective . . .’ He paused. ‘I mean Ms Wray. What a surprise, I hear that you are no longer part of an investigation, which I believe is no longer on-going.’
‘We need to talk.’
He gestured with his hand for her to follow him upstairs. When they were seated in his spacious office, Foster ordered coffee before sitting in silence for a few moments. It seemed to Rio as if he was trying to work out on his own accord what the reason for her visit might be. But evidently he failed.
‘So, Ms Wray – to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
‘I’ve got information that the Greenbelt Gang weren’t responsible for the murder of the Bells and their cleaner. I need you to answer a few questions for me.’
‘I see.’
Foster wore his blank expression now: a poker player with what might have been a very good or very bad hand. He sighed and leaned back. ‘And what on earth makes you think the Bells weren’t murdered by Gary Larkin and his group of amateur gunslingers?’
‘A member of Larkin’s gang—’
The lawyers shuffled in his chair. ‘I thought all of the gang were dead?’
Rio had already made her mind up not to mention Samson Larkin’s name. ‘My source told me they did raids one to five, but didn’t do number six. Also that fits in with the pattern of the gunmen at the Bells not wearing clown masks as the Greenbelt Gang did or expertly paint spraying all the security cameras. Plus no one spoke on the sixth raid unlike the other five raids.’
Foster seemed curious. ‘And this member of the gang you’ve discovered – is he reliable?’
‘I think he is. On this, yes.’
Foster frowned. ‘It could make sense I suppose. A piggy back raid on the Greenbelt murders to get rid of Maurice Bell?’
Rio leaned forwards. ‘Why would anyone want to get rid of Maurice Bell?’
Contempt crawled across the face of the man opposite her. ‘Are you telling me you didn’t look into Maurice Bell’s affairs and background as a matt
er of course, as part of the investigation?’
Rio didn’t like the finger pointing he was doing. ‘If you’ve got something to say, Mr Foster, say it.’
He hesitated, straightening the cuff of his expensive looking powder-blue shirt over his wrist. ‘I’m not saying Maurice Bell had enemies per se.’ He reached into his drawer and produced a Cuban cigar, which he clipped and lit with an art deco cigarette lighter. ‘But all successful men have enemies, Ms Wray. It’s one of the key indicators of a well-lived life. Look at me for example – I’ve got plenty. It’s only failures that everyone likes. Mr Bell was no different from any other man who’s made something of himself.’
Rio pulled out her notebook and pen. ‘Did you hear of any specific enemies he had? His daughter said she thinks he had a business partner when he started out?’
Foster blew cigar smoke upwards. ‘Look, Ms Wray, I’m willing to help you here but not at the expense of my reputation. I’m afraid I can’t divulge confidences that I’ve heard from my clients. I wouldn’t have any if I did that.’
‘Not even when they’ve been murdered?’
‘Especially when they’ve been murdered.’
Rio knew better than to press the matter. But at least she had another potential piece of her puzzle – Maurice Bell might have been a target for some reason and that was worth investigating.
She moved on. ‘You were one of the last people to see Gary Larkin before he went on the run to the place where he was killed. Did he give you any indication where he was going and why?’
Foster started laughing but it was a laugh without humour or warmth. ‘Of course not; I advised him to go home and sit it out – he told me that’s what he was going to do, but he either panicked or decided it was safe for him to do another job and relocated. Going on the run was the worst thing he could have done. In fact, in light of how it turned out, the very worst thing . . .’
‘OK. The house in Kent, where the gang were holed up, was owned by a front company in the Caribbean. Did you know how Gary would have been able to arrange the hire of a place like that?’
Foster puffed more vigorously on his smoke. ‘I’ve got no idea. Perhaps he knew some major league people who arranged it for him. I don’t know. Perhaps he broke in and squatted.’
Rio remembered the chaos of the raid. It was indeed possible that Larkin and friends had broken in. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you could find out who actually owns it? I’m not doing this for me, but to make Nikki’s life safe as soon as possible.’
‘No chance.’ He saw the look of annoyance on her face. ‘Front companies are fronts for a reason, Ms Wray. It’s hard to trace who is the real person behind them. Even I couldn’t do it.’
There was a long silence. But that was something Rio had noticed about Stephen Foster. He never used ten words where one would do and he never engaged in small talk. Like most lawyers he knew words were power. But then Rio was surprised that he was answering any questions at all. He usually didn’t do so unless he was paid or had the opportunity to trip up the police. But Rio decided to take advantage while she could. ‘What do you make of the two Bell kids?’
‘You think they’re suspects?’ That was the great thing about Foster; he always cut to the chase. ‘Two spoilt little rich kids I’m afraid. Shame that Cornelius committed suicide. I don’t think either of those two is – was in his case – capable of tying their own shoelaces, never mind organising a murder. Although,’ Foster flicked ash into the ashtray, ‘my dealings with young Cornelius suggested that when he was under the influence of narcotics he’d be capable of anything. So perhaps . . .’
‘You think he was capable of murder?’
‘Maybe. He was a deeply troubled young man. The other one, the girl, I don’t know her so well. She doesn’t like me for some reason. But, of course, she’s entitled to her opinion – however badly informed. But having seen her act on the TV, I’d say she can’t even play a murderer properly, never mind actually be one. So no, I don’t think they’re your culprits.’ He stubbed his cigar out on an ashtray. ‘But then again, your source – this other member of the gang – might be lying and sending you on some wild goose chase.’
Abruptly Foster rose and checked his watch. ‘I’ve got another client arriving soon.’
Knowing the interview was at an end, Rio got to her feet as well, but she had one more statement to make before leaving. ‘I’m rather surprised actually.’
‘About what?’
‘You’re not noted for helping the police, so why are you giving me a helping hand?’
There was a glint in Foster’s eye. ‘But you’re not the police anymore, are you, Ms Wray? They’ve suspended you. I’m willing to bet your superiors don’t want you poking your nose into a case they’ve decided has no loose ends. You need to watch your back, Ms Wray. If you poke the authorities in this country with a stick, they don’t like it and they turn nasty. They’re ruthless people. Believe me, I know.’
fifty
4:53 p.m.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ Rio told Foster’s PA.
They were both on the staircase – Rio going down, the other woman going up. Foster’s PA carried a tray filled with the coffee he’d requested earlier.
‘Sorry,’ the woman apologised, ‘the espresso machine was playing up – again.’
‘No matter.’ Rio smiled in an off-hand way as she passed her and was soon letting herself out of Foster’s world, her mind preoccupied by what the lawyer had told her.
Or not told her. He hadn’t told her anything really; his answers and talk full of mights and maybes. Typical lawyer – the act of spewing hot air down to an art form. Even the part about Maurice Bell was a maybe-maybe not scenario. But as Rio picked up her pace, she decided to go over their conversation, picking over everything . . .
Maurice Bell might have an enemy . . . but all businessmen had those.
The Greenbelt Gang didn’t do the sixth raid . . . but was Samson Larkin telling the truth?
Cornelius Bell committed suicide, left a note with Nikki’s name all over it blaming himself, was a troubled junkie . . .
All roads seemed to lead back to Connie Bell. But who was his accomplice? And how was she going to find out? What about . . .?
‘Ms Wray! Ms Wray!’
Hearing the frantic yelling of her name Rio turned around. Foster’s PA stood just outside the house, her arms gesticulating wildly at Rio.
‘What’s the problem?’ Rio asked quickly as she rushed over.
The woman’s face was pale. ‘There’s someone in Mr Foster’s private bathroom with him . . . I couldn’t open the door . . . there’s a lot of noise.’ She grabbed Rio’s arm tight. ‘I think something very bad is happening . . .’
Rio rushed back into the house, remembering that Foster had an en-suite bathroom attached to his office. She took the stairs quickly and entered the office, reached the bathroom door to hear Foster shout out, ‘Get off me!’
Then there was a loud bang as something inside the room hit the floor. A groan of pain rippled through the air. Rio slammed her shoulder against the door. The wood bowed, but not enough to free it from the prison of the lock. So she barrelled her body into it a second time. The door flew open.
Rio noticed two things at once: Stephen Foster lay on his knees on the floor and the frosted window was open.
‘What happened?’ She dropped to one knee by the injured lawyer, as her gaze cased the room; she couldn’t see anyone else.
When her eyes snapped back to Foster she saw the blood streaming from his hand. He looked up at her, his face creased with pain. ‘He got out through the window.’
Rio shot to her feet, rushed to the window, peered outside. She looked left, right, straight ahead . . . no one in sight. Whoever had been here would be long gone by the time she got outside. She turned to find Foster trying to struggle to his feet.
‘Don’t move,’ Rio cautioned, as she knelt by him again. This time she saw the palm of his bleedi
ng hand had two deep slash wounds across it.
‘Take a deep breath and then tell me what happened.’
Stephen Foster made a scoffing sound. ‘Being attacked is a hazard in my line of work.’
‘Did you recognise your assailant?’
He shook his head. ‘But I think I know who it was.’ He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘He asked me where Nicola Bell was.’
The hitman. So she was right: the gun for hire was still out there trying to get the job done.
‘He was going to stab me, so I reached out to defend myself . . .’ He looked down at his hand. ‘Managed to grab the knife, but he cut me.’ He looked back up at her. ‘But when you arrived he hightailed it out of here.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Once again he shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain, but he was wearing the same style of raincoat zipped over the lower half of his face as the man who tried to harm Nicola in the hospital.’
‘Oh, Mr Foster,’ his PA said fretfully from the doorway. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure I just need a few stitches, so can you contact Doctor Purcell.’ He turned back to Rio. ‘An ambulance means being taken to a hospital and this unfortunate incident will become public news. I don’t need that at the moment. You should go.’
Rio knew he was right. The last thing she needed was the top brass finding her footprints still all over this case.
5:45 p.m.
‘Can you trust Samson Larkin?’
Rio let Calum’s question soak in as she sat opposite him in his office above the butcher’s shop in Brixton. Nikki was in the room next door, doing whatever it was teenage girls did when they had time on their hands.
‘Trust him? Hell no,’ Rio replied. ‘Do I believe what he’s telling me? Yes. There are just too many inconsistencies between the other raids and number six, including the gang having the money for a hitman. Someone is paying that hitter and we need to find out who that is. If he came gunning for Foster, he’s still out to get Nikki too.’
Death Trap Page 26
