by Parker Bilal
‘If they haven’t called in ten minutes we call them back.’
They found Milo sheltering from the rain in the lee of the site office. Drake tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Try and find out if there is any CCTV on the approach road, or failing that, the closest in the vicinity.’
Milo pulled a tablet out from under his jacket and went to it. Drake pressed his back against the side of the shelter. The rain was coming down hard now, puddles danced on the glistening mud. He squinted through the rain at a couple of technicians in overalls dusting the lorry cab for prints. Forensics would carry on sifting patiently through every chip of stone in the hope that it might yield a clue. It was all time, the one thing they didn’t have enough of. Drake suspected that when Wheeler discovered that the abandoned car of the property developer’s wife had been found at the site, this case would take on another level of importance. Forty-eight hours would look like wishful thinking.
He turned his attention back to the crime scene. Water was dripping down his neck and he stamped his feet to keep the blood flowing.
Procedure was a waste of time, until it wasn’t. There was always a chance the killer had been surprised, that he’d left the flatbed up and the door open because he’d departed in a hurry. Somehow, Drake knew that didn’t chime with someone who had gone to all the trouble of setting this up. Choosing this location. The stone chips. Instinct told him this wasn’t the type to leave fingerprints behind. Still, if criminals never made mistakes most of them would never be caught.
Kelly Marsh came back over. She was pointing to her phone.
‘I’ve got Howard Thwaite’s PR person.’
‘Ask her to confirm who the car belongs to, and tell them we will be coming over to speak to Mr Thwaite. Make sure he stays where he is.’
Kelly nodded and turned away. She shook her head as she finished the call.
‘Thwaite is waiting for us at his home. You really fancy him for this?’
‘I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. Get the uniforms to sit on Thwaite until we get there. I mean, in the same room. We don’t want him trying anything stupid.’
‘Roger that.’ As she turned away Kelly nodded towards the gate. ‘Looks like things are about to get interesting.’
A sleek black saloon car was bumping over the uneven ground onto the site. When it came to a halt a uniformed driver leapt out, nearly losing his footing on the wet ground. The tall, awkward figure of Division Superintendent Dryden Wheeler unfolded itself from the rear. With a quick glance around him he strode towards Drake. Kelly made herself scarce.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here, sir.’
‘You didn’t tell me whose site this was.’
‘You know Mr Thwaite, sir?’
‘Howard Thwaite, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’ Wheeler’s thick eyebrows knit themselves firmly together. ‘Frankly, this complicates matters. Thwaite has a lot of friends in the House of Lords.’
‘Always good to know, if I happen to be passing that way.’
The Yorkshireman was a good head taller than Cal. He glowered over him. ‘This is going to draw the media in like flies to a shitstorm.’
‘I still have forty-eight hours, right?’
Wheeler gave Drake a withering gaze. ‘If this goes the way I think it might, you’ll be wishing you’d never heard of this place.’
‘I’m willing to take my chances.’
‘Fair enough. On the positive side, my feeling is that Pryce is going to be wary of walking into this now.’
Wheeler was a politician first and a policeman second. Drake knew that much. Clearance rates, crime statistics, a clean sheet. It wasn’t so much about policing at that level as management. When the Police Commissioners started calling you needed to have your house in order. Wheeler was a specialist in keeping his nose clean. He’d back you just so long as it was convenient. Right now he was calculating the fallout risk against possible gains. If Thwaite was to become prime suspect then every step they took would be under scrutiny. And the officer in charge of the case could find himself at the wrong end of an inquiry, which was the last thing Drake needed.
‘What have we got so far?’
‘Two victims. Female and male. Both look to be in their fifties or thereabouts. Hard to tell before the coroner gets to work.’ Drake took a deep breath. ‘We haven’t ruled out the possibility that the female victim might be Thwaite’s wife.’
‘Bugger!’ It wasn’t clear if Wheeler was referring to the case, or the mud he was trying to scrape off his polished shoes without much success. ‘We need to let him know.’
‘I thought it might be best to do it in person.’
‘I should bloody well hope so!’ Wheeler broke off from worrying about his shoes. ‘This is not your way of telling me you think Thwaite was involved?’
‘At this point I’m not telling anyone anything.’
‘Good, because to make an accusation like that you need to have brass bollocks the size of King Kong’s.’ Wheeler stared out over the killing ground. The rain had stopped for a time and the icy wind blew hard and cold across the muddy clay. Crows fluttered overhead like tattered flags. ‘He’s got a bloody knighthood,’ he muttered. ‘I’d better tag along with you.’ Wheeler saw Drake’s objection and waved it down before he could speak. ‘You have no choice in the matter. We’ll take your car. Mine can follow behind.’
Drake took a moment to fill Kelly in. ‘He insists on coming along.’
‘I don’t like the way this is shaping up.’
‘It might work in our favour.’
‘Careful, chief, that sounded almost like optimism.’
‘Let me know the moment the coroner mutters a word. However trivial it might seem.’
‘Not sure he sees me as worthy of his time.’
‘Just use your charms.’
‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
On the way over to Fulham, Drake had to listen to Wheeler laying down the guidelines.
‘I’m taking a chance on you, Cal, so I want this run by the book. No fanciful leaps, no cutting corners. You have to keep me in the loop. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘No going off-script. Everything must be accountable. There will be a lot of eyes on this one. Don’t make me regret giving you the case.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Okay, so tell me: if we put aside this absurd notion that Howard Thwaite killed his own wife, what does your instinct tell you?’
Cal was silent for a moment. In his mind’s eye he saw the crime scene once more. The barren, open stretch of ground, the lorry, the heap of rock chips.
‘I don’t know. There’s something almost medieval about it.’
‘Medieval?’
‘The hoods . . . It’s almost like the enactment of a ritual.’
‘Interesting,’ murmured Wheeler. His expression changed. ‘What the hell is that smell?’
Drake had been wondering the same thing for days. Judging by the way Wheeler was looking at the car, it was worse than he had been telling himself.
‘It’s like something died in here. You shouldn’t be using a personal vehicle for public service.’
‘Our motor pool is down to just one car, and nobody ever seems to know who has it.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘It’s fine. I just need to take it in for a service.’
‘Don’t bother, man. Just drive it to the dump and have done with it. Christ! How do you stand it?’
CHAPTER 4
Howard Thwaite owned a townhouse overlooking a leafy private square off the Fulham Road. Drake wondered vaguely how much it might have cost and then told himself he was wasting his time. A squad car was parked outside. Two uniforms stood shaking the rain off their hi-vis jackets as a brief ray of sunshine cut thorough the dense cloud.
‘Anyone spoken to him?’
‘Our orders were to leave it to you,’ said the first one.
/> He had the sullen attitude of a man unhappy with his lot. Drake couldn’t place him, though he recognized the distrust. It often felt as though he was walking in the shadow of his own ghost.
The front door swung open before they had reached the top of the front steps. A WPC was standing there, adjusting her hat in the mirror.
‘We’ll take it from here, constable,’ Wheeler said, marching straight past her.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The tiled floor was spotless. A staircase led upwards. Another, tucked behind it, led down to the basement. Cut flowers stood wilting in a vase under a coat stand. A muffled voice from below told them somebody was finishing a phone call. A moment later they heard him coming up the stairs and Howard Thwaite arrived in the room.
He was a spry figure in his early sixties. Dressed in a black polo neck and jeans, his greying hair shaven close to the skull.
Seeing Wheeler, his face fell. ‘Dryden? Now I know something bad has happened.’
‘Howard, I wish the circumstances could have been better.’
‘What is this all about? They won’t tell me anything. Is it to do with Marsha?’
Wheeler straighted up to full height. ‘I’m afraid it’s too early to say,’ he said awkwardly, glancing at Drake before going on. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Drake. He’ll be in charge of the investigation.’
‘I see.’ Thwaite looked Drake over as if seeing him for the first time. ‘We’d better go in here.’
He gestured towards a drawing room to the right. Drake waited for Wheeler to go first, then Thwaite walked right in front of him and took up a position by the ornamental fireplace. The room was crammed with heavy furniture and thick carpets. Built-in bookcases took up one side, while the other walls were crammed with expensive-looking paintings and framed photographs. To Drake it looked almost like a trophy room.
‘Now, will one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?’
Drake cleared his throat. ‘Might I ask when you last saw your wife, sir?’
‘Yesterday morning. I was working at home. I have a studio downstairs. She was off to the theatre that evening. She said she wouldn’t be returning from work.’
‘Where does she work?’
‘She runs a gallery, the Arcadia, in Beauchamp Place.’
‘And that’s normal, for you not to see each other?’
‘It’s fairly common.’ Thwaite cocked a beady eye. ‘We both work a great deal. During the week there are often days when we don’t have much chance of meeting up until the evening.’
‘Did you realize she had not come home?’
‘Well, we sometimes sleep in separate rooms. I work late into the night and it’s usually me who takes the spare room.’ Thwaite broke off. ‘This is really intolerable! What have you found? Is she hurt?’
With a glance at Wheeler, Drake went on. ‘Two bodies were discovered early this morning on a building site in Battersea run by your company.’
‘Two bodies?’ Thwaite shook his head as if to clear it. ‘And you think one of them is Marsha?’
‘Your wife’s car was found close to Magnolia Quays. It appears to have been parked there last night.’
There was a long silence. Drake carried on.
‘Was there any reason Mrs Thwaite might have been visiting the place late in the evening?’
‘No, of course not. None at all. She had nothing to do with the construction.’
Wheeler had installed himself on one of the sofas in the middle of the room, his hat perched on his knee. ‘I know how distressing this must be, Howard, but any details you can give us might be vital.’
Thwaite didn’t even register Wheeler’s words. He put out a hand and gently eased himself into an armchair.
‘You said there were two bodies.’
‘That is correct, sir. The second victim is a male of about fifty to sixty years old. Also unidentified at this time.’
Thwaite stared lifelessly at the polished wooden floor. ‘I assumed she had come in late. She went to the theatre. Usually she goes on afterwards to eat something.’
‘Was she going with somebody?’
‘A friend.’ Thwaite’s gaze came to rest on Drake. ‘I don’t have much patience with contemporary theatre. Something to do with my age, no doubt. I like the classics, Greek, Shakespeare, that kind of thing.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Drake, as if the state of contemporary theatre kept him awake at night. ‘Do you happen to know the name of this friend?’
‘I’m sorry. Mary? Diana?’ Howard Thwaite shook his head. ‘She told me, but I don’t recall.’
‘I’m sure you’re not the first husband to be guilty of that,’ Wheeler chuckled. Old pals, Drake recalled. The remark failed to draw a smile from Thwaite.
‘How did they die?’
Drake closed the cover of his notebook. ‘It’s important to remember that we still have not identified Mrs Thwaite as being one of the victims.’
‘You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think there was a high probability it is her.’
‘Until we have confirmation from the coroner’s office we can’t be sure.’
Thwaite glanced at Wheeler. ‘Was it that bad?’
‘As DS Drake has indicated, we’ll know more when the forensic investigators have done their work.’
‘I’m not asking for a detailed analysis. Just tell me how they died. Please.’
Drake hesitated. ‘They appear to have been crushed by stone.’
‘What?’ Thwaite leaned forwards, his fingers white where they dug into the chair’s arms.
There was a long silence. Thwaite’s voice trembled as he spoke. ‘They were alive at the time?’
‘We don’t know for sure.’ Drake recalled the anguished expressions on the faces protruding from the rock pile. ‘But that seems likely.’
‘My god.’ Howard Thwaite glanced at Wheeler. ‘I appreciate this, Dryden. Coming to me like this. It can’t have been easy.’ He fell silent.
‘Is there someone we could call, Howard? A friend or relative?’
Thwaite didn’t seem to hear. Drake took a moment to look around him. The paintings on the walls were a mix of old and new. In one, hunters gathered in a dark green landscape alongside horses slung with dead pheasants. Opposite this was what looked like a female Christ being crucified on Golgotha.
Between the French windows hung a number of framed photographs. These showed a smiling Thwaite, sometimes with his wife. They were in glamorous company. In one it was the Duke of Edinburgh, in the next someone who might have been Elton John. All dressed up as if attending a gala of some kind. Several were of people Drake did not recognize. Politicians, some of them. Thwaite’s friends in Whitehall. Another set showed foreign locations. A villa in what might have been Spain or Greece. Others showed him wearing a hard hat in what appeared to be China.
‘What can you tell us about Magnolia Quays?’
Thwaite stirred, coming back to the present. ‘It’s a luxury complex. Penthouse flats. First-class fittings. Excellent view.’ He spoke as if reciting from memory.
‘So, it’s a major project, for you and your development firm?’
‘Of course. This kind of thing is the future, and it’s happening now. London is a global reference point and if you’re not in the game you’ll be sidelined by the competition.’
‘You own the Thwaite Property Group?’
‘I hold a majority of shares, along with Marsha, my wife.’ The mention of her name gave him pause. ‘Are you suggesting this might have been aimed at me in some way?’
‘You’re a big man, Mr Thwaite. People in your position have enemies.’
‘Why would they hurt my wife?’
‘Sometimes, to hurt someone you go after the things that matter to them.’ Thwaite made no attempt to reply, so Drake continued. ‘May I ask what were you doing last night, sir?’
‘What?’ Thwaite blinked in disbelief. ‘You’re asking me?’
‘It’s a formality. I h
ave to ask. If you would just answer the question.’
‘I was here. Working in my studio downstairs.’
‘Alone?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Thwaite glanced at Wheeler, who studied his hat.
‘You said you worked late,’ said Drake.
‘Oh, I often lose track of time. It was after midnight. As you can imagine we’re incredibly busy right now. Magnolia Quays is a big project. We have ongoing constructions all over the world, but this is London, our stomping ground, if you like.’
‘Is there any reason that you can think of why your wife might have visited the site late last night?’
‘None at all. Especially at that time. It makes no sense.’
‘Could she have been showing the place to a potential buyer?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Thwaite frowned. ‘I don’t really understand where this is going.’
‘That’s all right, sir. I think that’s all I need to know at this point. We’ll need a full statement from you eventually.’
‘Of course, anything.’
‘And we may need you to identify the body formally at some point, if it turns out to be –’
‘Are you sure there’s nobody we can call?’ Wheeler said.
‘No, I . . .’ Thwaite relented. ‘Of course, there are people I should . . .’
Drake waited in the hall while Wheeler said his goodbyes. The door was not quite closed and he could hear Thwaite’s urgent whispering.
‘All I’m saying is that you might have found someone more senior.’
Outside, Wheeler stopped halfway to his car.
‘You should have handled that a little better. At least you could have tried to go gently on him.’
‘I thought I did.’
‘You need to be discreet, Cal. A man like Howard Thwaite will automatically draw interest, from the press as well as anything else.’
Drake watched him climb into the Mercedes, the driver standing to attention to close the door shut before running round to the front. As the car pulled away, his eye caught the uniforms across the street. They stopped talking and looked away. Drake walked back to his car. The smell hadn’t improved.
