The newsagent for whom Robert did his round was situated on Highbury Grove, approximately half a mile north-east of where I now stood. This street, Runmayne Avenue, was about halfway along his route. He would make his way down Runmayne, which was just under a quarter of a mile long, then come back the other way on Fairfield Avenue, the next street down, before returning along the main road back to the newsagent’s. I was sure it was on this street that Robert had been snatched. Even at that time in the morning, there were cars and people about. Not that many, but enough to expect that if he’d continued the whole length of it he’d have been seen by someone else. After all, he would hardly have been inconspicuous.
Franks’s house was about a hundred yards further along from the spot where Robert had last been seen and wasn’t one to which he delivered. Slowly, I started towards it, trying to remember the exact route he would have taken and which houses he delivered to, but without much success. It was too long ago. Too much time and too many cases had come to pass since then, and already the life of Robert Jones was passing into ancient history. He would always be remembered, of course, by his parents and his sister, but even they would think about him less and less as time wore on, and to everyone else he would simply become a vague memory, a smiling, permanently young face in a photograph that would occasionally inspire a sad and wistful conversation. It was more than a tragedy, it was an injustice. Someone, some day, would have to pay.
Franks’s place was the end extension of a huge villa, set back a few yards from the road, that probably housed at least half a dozen professionally spacious flats and which had two grand entrance porticoes along its length. The extension had been built much later than the villa, probably in the sixties, and looked as if it had been attached at a slightly crooked angle. The paintwork was a fading sky blue rather than the white of the rest of the building, making it stand out for the wrong reasons. Apart from that, though, it looked OK. Small, but reasonably well kept. Newish windows had been installed on both floors, and there was a tiny, recently cobbled driveway in front of it with room for two cars at a squeeze. A high stone wall separated it from the main parking area in front of the rest of the villa, as if its occupants didn’t want anything to do with their tattier neighbour.
Today, Franks’s driveway was empty as I walked up it to the front door. Through the net curtains, I could make out a clean, well-furnished interior but no obvious signs of life. I rang the doorbell but no-one answered, then looked through the letterbox. There was a pile of tacky-looking brochures and various other bits of junk mail on the carpet – at least a week’s worth, probably a lot more. It looked like he might have moved out.
I went round to the nearest entrance portico and saw that there were buzzers for three flats on the wall outside. Beneath the buzzers was a sticker saying that the building was protected by CCTV cameras – not that I could see any in evidence. I rang the first two but got no answer, so I tried the third. I needed to ring several times but eventually a moderately annoyed female voice came on the line. ‘Yes?’ she said in an accusatory voice. I identified myself, and explained that I was here as part of an inquiry. Her voice immediately lost its initial hostility, and she buzzed me in. Hers was the ground-floor flat, and she came out of the door to greet me, clad only in a dressing gown and slippers. She was about thirty with short blonde hair, and nice-looking in a Sloaney sort of way. In a dressing gown as well. Perhaps I was going to have to watch out.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize you were the police. I thought you were here to sell me something.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,’ I told her.
She smiled. ‘I don’t know either. Anyway, please, come in. You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve got a terrible cold. That’s why I’m not working.’ She sniffed loudly to prove it, then stepped aside to let me in. ‘I hope it’s nothing about David,’ she added, leading me into a spacious, well-furnished lounge.
‘David?’
‘My husband.’
I took a seat and she sat down on the sofa opposite, her legs tightly pressed together. Somehow, I got the feeling I was safe from any predatory advances. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with him. It’s about your neighbour to the left, a Tony Franks?’
‘Oh yes, Tony. Nice-looking guy. Dark hair.’ Her tones were clipped and upper-class. This girl had definitely not been educated at the local comprehensive. Mind you, who had round here?
I nodded. ‘That sounds like him. This is a photo.’ I removed the mugshot from my jacket pocket and briefly showed it to her.
‘Oh yes, that’s him.’ She excused herself while she sneezed into a tissue she’d removed from the pocket of the dressing gown. ‘Why? Has he done something wrong?’
‘I don’t know is the short answer. Possibly.’
‘I thought it was funny.’
‘What?’
‘Well, the way he moved out. It was all quite sudden.’
‘When was that?’
‘I don’t know for certain. I didn’t actually see him go. All I know is about a week ago a man turned up in a van and took some stuff away.’
‘This man, had you ever seen him there before?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I hadn’t. On the day he came I was outside putting the rubbish out for the dustmen when I saw him loading it up. I don’t normally take too much notice of what the neighbours are up to – I mean, you don’t in London, do you?’ I nodded, thinking that that was probably the root cause of so much that was wrong with it, and waited while she continued. ‘But there are quite a few burglaries around here, as you probably know, so I asked him what he was up to, and he told me he was Tony’s brother.’
‘Those were his exact words: “I’m Tony’s brother”?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right, so I thought he must have something to do with him. He was friendly enough, too, not at all furtive, as you’d expect a burglar to be.’ She paused to blow her nose, once again apologizing. ‘He said that Tony was moving out, and he was helping with the removals. There wasn’t a lot I could say to that. I asked him if Tony would be coming along later and he said he would. But he never did.’
‘You never saw Mr Franks again?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him for two or three weeks at least.’
I made some calculations. It was sixteen days since Shaun Matthews’s murder. The timing sounded very convenient. Now for the big question. ‘Did you take down the registration of the vehicle this gentleman was driving?’ I mentally crossed my fingers.
‘Yes, I did. I don’t like to be a busybody and I know it’s none of my business, but I memorized it while I was speaking to him, just in case, and I wrote it down on a piece of paper as soon as I got back in.’ She stood up, sniffing loudly. ‘Now, what have I done with it? Excuse me for a minute, will you?’
She wandered out of the room and I hoped I was going to get a break. Even if it proved difficult to locate Franks, whoever was moving his stuff had to have some information as to his whereabouts. Somehow I knew I was on the right track. Call it instinct, if you like. It was just a matter of continuing to pursue the scent while at the same time persuading my superiors that it was a worthwhile investment of my time. This would be the hardest part, particularly now that it looked like the area’s criminals were beginning to wake up from the previous week’s inactivity. An aggravated burglary the previous night in which a pregnant woman had been threatened with a knife by two intruders, who’d threatened to cut her open if she didn’t reveal the whereabouts of her valuables, had already caused the chief super yet another serious resources headache. What with the continued clamour over the assault on the young girl, things were getting extremely stretched. Already Knox had hinted that the murder squad was likely to be reduced still further in the next twenty-four hours, so time was of the essence.
‘Here it is,’ she said, coming back in the room with a piece of paper. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I’d thrown it away or not, but it was in the drawer.’ She han
ded it to me, and I put it in my top pocket, thanking her.
‘Can you describe the man for me, Miss…?’
‘Deerborne. Mrs Judy Deerborne. I’m not too good at this, but I’ll give it a go. He was quite well built. Sort of tough-looking, which was why I wasn’t entirely sure about him. About fortyish, maybe a couple of years older, five nine or ten, and I think he was bald, although it wasn’t easy to tell, because he was wearing a cap. He also had quite a big head.’
‘I disagree with you,’ I said, ‘I think you are good at it.’ I was glad I’d worn the suit I’d been wearing yesterday because it still contained the photograph I’d shown to Martin Leppel. I fished it out now, and handed it to her. ‘It wasn’t the man on the right, was it? The one in the suit?’
She looked at it closely for a few seconds. In the photo, the Slap had a cap with him but was holding it in his hand rather than wearing it. His bald dome seemed to stand out a mile.
Finally, she looked up. ‘You know, I think it is. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure – it’s not a brilliant photo, is it? But, yes, it looks a great deal like him.’
Interesting. ‘You’ve been here for how long, Mrs Deerborne?’
‘My husband and I bought this place ten years ago. I think it cost us about a third of what it would go for now.’
‘That seems to be the case for most of London. And how long has Mr Franks been your next-door neighbour?’
‘A long time.’ She appeared to think about it for a moment. ‘Three or four years at least, probably longer. Why? What is it you think he’s done?’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I’m dying to know.’ I told her politely that I couldn’t divulge that. ‘I hope it’s nothing to do with what happened to that poor paperboy. The one who got killed.’
I smiled reassuringly. ‘No, it’s a separate matter entirely. Did Mr Franks live there alone?’
‘I saw people come and go occasionally, but as far as I know it was just him in there. He wasn’t always there either. He’d be away for a few weeks at a time sometimes.’
‘Did he ever tell you what he did for a living? I mean, it’s an expensive house.’
‘I know he rented it but I don’t know how much for. A lot, I suppose. But no, he never said what his job was. He tended to keep himself to himself. He’d talk if you talked to him, and he always said hello, but I don’t think I had more than half a dozen conversations with him in all the time he was here, and not one of them lasted more than two or three minutes. Usually they were about the weather or something mundane like that.’
‘Do you know who owns the house?’
‘Yes, his name’s Roddy Lee Potter. He’s owned it for years. I know because he’s come round here a couple of times, trying to buy our place. I think he owns a few houses in London. It’s how he makes his money.’
I asked her if she had a phone number or an address for Mr Lee Potter and, after a bit more hunting around, it turned out she had both. She wrote them down on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. ‘I don’t know why we bothered keeping his details,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if we’d ever consider selling. We love it round here.’
‘I can see why,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘It’s a nice area.’ I put out my hand and she shook it vigorously. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Mrs Deerborne. It’s most appreciated. If Mr Franks does for some reason turn up, can you call me on this number straight away?’ I handed her my card.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, leading me back to the front door.
‘I hope your cold improves,’ I told her as I stepped outside.
‘I’m sure it will. They never did catch the man who killed the paperboy, did they?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We didn’t. But one day we will. We always get them in the end.’
* * *
When I was back out on the street I phoned Berrin and brought him up to date. ‘I’ve got a couple more visits to make,’ I told him. ‘We’ll meet back at the station. Do me a favour, can you check on a car registration for me?’ I reeled out the number.
‘Do you think you might have something then, Sarge?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Possibly. Do me another favour as well, will you? Speak to Capper and Hunsdon. See how the interview went with Jean Tanner.’
When I’d rung off, having given Berrin plenty of things to do for the morning, I suddenly felt guilty. There I was, supposedly teaching the poor kid the ropes of CID, and instead I was dumping all the routine stuff on him and going my own way. I made a conscious decision to be more inclusive in future. But for now, I needed to move fast.
I’d turned my mobile off for the duration of the meeting with Judy Deerborne, a long-standing habit since interruptions always messed up my thought process, and I now saw that I had a message. It was Malik returning my call, and he’d only phoned ten minutes ago. I pressed 5 for callback and waited while the phone rang. Malik was a sod of an individual to get hold of so I had to make the best of the opportunities I had.
He picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Hello, John, I’ve just tried to phone you.’
‘I know. You got my message, didn’t you, and the emails I sent you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The guy in fatigues in the photo with Jack Merriweather. We’ve identified him as a Tony Franks. He’s been living at 41F Runmayne Avenue in Highbury Fields for the past few years. Do you know anything about him?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘He was suspected of being involved in drug-running for the Holtzes out of eastern Europe, where he’d built up a lot of contacts. He was brought in for questioning and put under surveillance for a while in 1998, mainly because of that article in Der Spiegel, but nothing ever came of it. In the end, apart from that photo and two or three other snippets of information, there was no real hard evidence to speak of. Franks has also been seen with Merriweather at least twice in the past few months, but then so have a hundred other people. We’ve got nothing concrete on him.’
‘The address he’s been living at doesn’t ring a bell, then?’
‘Not off the top of my head. I’ll have a look for you, but I don’t think so.’
I was undeterred. ‘It’s a decent place in a nice area. The rent must be two grand a month, absolute minimum, probably more. As far as I can tell, this guy Franks’s job was as a part-time bodyguard, so someone else must have been paying for it. The question is, why?’
Malik sighed. ‘You’re right. It does seem an odd set-up, even if he is linked to organized crime.’
‘Listen, let me run something by you. It’s strange, it might even be outlandish, but it’s something that’s bugging me.’ I looked up and down the quiet street. A brand-new-looking BMW 7-Series drove slowly past in the direction of the Holloway Road. ‘And, you know, the more I think about it, the more I think there’s something in it.’
‘Go on.’
So I told him, and when I’d finished Malik said that I was right, it was outlandish.
‘But if there is something in it, think of the possibilities. Think of what it could do to help you against the Holtzes.’
‘Talk to the landlord,’ said Malik. ‘Find out how he gets paid every month and where the money comes from.’
Wednesday, four days ago
Gallan
Roddy Lee Potter lived in a swanky apartment situated on the ground floor of an attractive Georgian townhouse just off Kensington High Street. When I’d finally got him to answer the phone the previous day he’d been in a bar in Soho, sounding extremely drunk. We’d arranged to meet today at midday at Roddy’s place, but I’d phoned ahead to make sure he hadn’t forgotten our conversation, which he had. He’d wanted to postpone, the hangover in his voice obvious, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily and insisted we keep the time as arranged.
I got there ten minutes early and was buzzed in straight away. The door to the apartment was opened by a large, red-faced gentleman with curly, greyish-black hair who looked like he hadn’t been out of bed that l
ong. He was dressed in a crumpled pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.
‘Detective Sergeant Gallan, please come in.’
I followed him inside and through to a lavishly furnished but very messy lounge. It looked like the cleaner hadn’t been in for a few days. Lee Potter motioned me to a leather armchair and I sat down, wrinkling my nose at the three-quarters-full pub-sized ashtray on the table beside him, the smell reminding me why I’d chosen to give up all those years ago.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked.
I said I would, and waited while he went to get it. He seemed a genial enough chap, but then I guess you would be pretty genial if you lived an easy, relatively wealthy life from rental income, and had no responsibilities. Was I jealous? What do you think? Of course I was.
When Lee Potter came back with the coffees, he asked how he could be of assistance. ‘I hope I’m not in trouble for anything,’ he added in a tone that was a little bit too ingratiating, and sat down opposite me.
‘No, but it’s something you might be able to help with. You’ve been renting a house out to a Mr Tony Franks?’
He nodded his head. ‘That’s right. He moved out a couple of weeks ago.’
‘How long’s he been renting from you?’
‘About four years now, something like that.’
‘Can I ask how much you charged him in rent?’
Lee Potter looked taken aback. ‘Is it strictly necessary to know that? What’s it got to do with anything?’
‘I’m trying to build up a picture,’ I said, ‘and this information’s an important part of it.’
‘Two thousand two hundred a month. I probably could have got more but he was an easy tenant, and they’re not all like that, I can tell you.’
‘How many properties do you rent out, Mr Lee Potter?’
‘Four altogether.’
‘I expect they make you a tidy little income, don’t they?’
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