by David Smith
‘Yes, one of the reporters phoned our number earlier. A young woman. But I didn’t tell her anything and put down the phone as soon as I realised who she was.’
‘That’s probably Lucy Fleming. She’s OK but best not to speak to any of them; leave that to us. Eddie, did you happen to notice anything about the assailants?’
‘No nothing, I didn’t really get a good look at them. Alice already told your officers that she thinks she saw them the previous evening in the park while she was out running, but she can’t be sure. Hugh has a theory also that he saw them in the car park last night, we were out drinking late I’m afraid – Penny was with us so she’ll know. How’s she doing by the way? She’s a good kid.’
‘She’s doing just fine. OK Eddie, well that’s all for now, let me leave you in peace, thank you again for all you and Alice did, you were both terrific in the circumstances. Look after your family, they need you to be strong now. I’ll get one of the lads to come and take a more detailed statement later, but let me know if you or Alice think of anything more or get bothered again by those reporters.’
‘So I suppose we won’t see you tonight, I’m in two minds whether to just cancel?’
‘No, I’ll definitely have to give tonight a miss. Let me know if you’re still going though and I’ll see if I can pop in just to say hello.’
Hunter noticed a photograph on the mantelpiece.
‘My, is that Alice?’ he asked, pointing to the picture of a young, long-haired girl sitting cross-legged on a beach in cargo pants and black vest top, carefully tending her little baby. She was smiling up at the camera; behind her there was a row of surfers holding their boards.
‘Yes, that was before we were married, just after Carrie arrived. We were winging it then, happy new parents.’
‘She could have been a model, couldn’t she? You’re a lucky man, Eddie,’ Hunter said, looking again at the pretty eager face staring back at the photographer.
Hunter turned to go but noticed the audio equipment Eddie was working with on the kitchen table.
‘By the way, I was going to ask you this evening but I guess I won’t have a chance now. I realise this might not be top of your mind either but didn’t you have that big interview with the video company yesterday? How did the pitch go?’
‘Not good. It seems like a long time ago now. I don’t think Alice is too pleased with me about that, either. They were obviously looking for something else entirely. I did push myself. You know when something’s outside your comfort zone, and you’re living on the edge a bit. I thought I had the brief nailed, but I obviously got it wrong. After this, I think I might as well take up kite-flying instead.’ Hunter laughed.
‘Oh no Eddie, please don’t give up. I know a lot about music and although your style isn’t exactly my thing, I know that you’ve got talent. You mustn’t give up yet; maybe I could help you work on the composition?’
‘Has Alice been working on you as well?’
‘Well, maybe a little. Just a hint, look at what Elgar was doing in his Nimrod variation. He wrote about something that happened, not about the man, most people don’t see that, they think it’s a portrait. When you know that, it lets you get underneath the whole piece, there’s something in there you could emulate.’
A day’s attack of the blues… will not drive away your desire, your necessity, which is to exercise those creative faculties, which a kind providence has given you. Your time of universal recognition will come.
Augustus Jaeger to Edward Elgar
*
It was now about 10.30am. The housekeeper brought morning coffee to Arthur Troyte in the beautifully furnished formal drawing room of the Lansdowne Circus villa, around a mile from the incidents in Clarendon Square. Like No. 6, this house also once had a famous resident, commemorated by another blue plaque. Nathaniel Hawthorne, ancestor of Arthur and the author of The Scarlet Letter, stayed here for several years with his family.
The house itself was a William Thomas designed, two-storey stucco villa, with a pretty garden and balconies, looking out onto the central circus. Thomas was trained by Pugin but went bankrupt trying to develop housing in Leamington too quickly. In 1843, he emigrated and left England for Toronto. He went on to design many famous gothic-revival buildings across Ontario. The circular road called Lansdowne Circus was constructed in the 1830s; it had eight pairs of semi-detached villas, each in a Regency style, grouped around a private central garden. The land was leased by a Squire Willes for two thousand years. The villas and another unusual gothic house at one end of the circus are largely pristine, one of the lesser-known but practically perfect architectural gems in our delightful Leamington town.
Troyte had spent a couple of hours unpacking and settling in. In complete contrast to his own modernist house in Ann Arbor, he realised this house had breeding. Although neither grand nor particularly spacious, it was a very pleasant size, in a quiet backwater away from the town centre. He had been admiring the detailing of the marble fireplaces, cornices and mouldings that decorated most of the main rooms. As well as the architectural details, he was of course also fascinated by the house’s connection to his literary ancestor, a completely unexpected coincidence. The peace of the circus, however, had been broken ever since he arrived. Indeed, Leamington seemed a much livelier place than he had ever expected; there had been sirens sounding in far off streets all morning and a police helicopter circling overhead. Worryingly, he had still heard nothing at all from his friend Arish, whose mobile number was just going to voicemail.
This was all beginning to concern him a little. Although it had been twenty-five years since they had last met, he was very eager to see his old friend again. He was sure Arish must be busy with the moving arrangements in some way or another but he was very surprised not to have heard anything from him. The housekeeper had called Sir William Flyte’s house a couple of times on his behalf, but nobody was answering the phone there either. He was beginning to think that he ought to stretch his legs and walk over to the address in Clarendon Square himself to find out what had happened. He consulted the housekeeper, it did not sound like a great distance to walk.
Along with his coffee, the housekeeper brought him an unstamped letter that had just been put through the letterbox, addressed to him personally in beautifully crafted handwriting. Maybe this was a message from Arish. Arthur opened the envelope immediately. Inside he found an equally carefully handwritten invitation, on a fine vintage carte de visite with elegant gold edging.
I heard that you are in England and wondered if we might meet up for old times’ sake. I will be in the bar at The Holly Hotel around noon. P. xxx
Troyte was puzzled. He was a somewhat vain man with an over-inflated view of his rapidly waning attractiveness to women. He was balding, had poor skin and still suffered somewhat from the embarrassing physical complaint that had bothered him in his younger days. He had been a widower for a number of years, but he was also wealthy, with little to spend his considerable wealth on, now that his children were all married. But he certainly wasn’t expecting an invitation from an admirer.
After his second wife died, the absence of a visible partner had the potential to cause him some difficulties in his chosen career. For a period there were even rumours about him being gay. He had felt his masculinity somewhat under threat. That, combined with his underlying homophobia, a hangover from student encounters, had driven him to set out on a determined campaign to take advantage of his new found freedom. He had used a variety of escorts in public for female company at outward facing and company events and to fulfil the conventions of his professional persona. In private, he increasingly used recreational drugs and indulged in ever wilder opportunistic sexual encounters. He was both manipulative and smart, satisfying his sex drive by running through all the usual suspects of divorcees, frustrated married women and a selection of vulnerable, young, single women from the office. He was therefore more than intrigued by this invitation and started to rack his brains to reme
mber who, from a long list of female acquaintances, had a name beginning with P who would be inclined to add three kisses and more importantly who would know his whereabouts and be currently present in Europe.
‘P… who on earth could that be?’ he said aloud to the housekeeper, trying to give the impression to her that he had a whole crowd of lady friends who might be addressing him so.
The housekeeper was already wise to his nature after a couple of inappropriate touches and told him in a no-nonsense and slightly uninterested way that the Holly Hotel was just around the corner; he could be there in a couple of minutes. She further suggested that he could easily continue on to Sir William’s house afterwards to investigate what was delaying Mr Nariman (rather than continuing to bother her around the house). Accepting this advice, Troyte asked the housekeeper to prepare lunch for him and put it in the fridge with some champagne. Secretly he wanted to be prepared in case this mysterious acquaintance turned out to be an attractive woman and a return invitation to lunch was accepted.
After the housekeeper had prepared the requested lunch of cold cuts and smoked salmon, she explained to him all the other delights that she had stocked in the fridge, made sure he had all the towels and linen he needed, demonstrated the workings of the various electronic gadgets in the house, showed him the book of instructions she had carefully written out – including contact numbers – and then, seeing her chance to escape his wandering hands, finally added that although she did not usually work weekends, she could always pop over if he needed her. She then asked him if there was anything else he needed for now. In other words she had done her job and had no intention of hanging around all weekend at his beck and call unless he was paying overtime.
He was blind to her messaging but all the same thanked her for her diligence. He told her his plans for the weekend and that he was sure he could now manage by himself. He would see her first thing Monday morning. He had been unusually polite in this discussion, quite against his normal sharpness. He could not fail to notice that she too had her own womanly attractions and was somewhat disappointed, but not without hope, to learn that she was newly married. Still, she may be a good back up later, he thought, he was sure she could do with some extra cash.
*
By now it was 11am on Saturday – a little more than three hours after the fatal shooting. Detective Inspector Hunter was irritated. His train of thought had just been interrupted by a totally predictable phone call from the chief constable. He hated this kind of political interference, especially with such a complex and dynamic situation. He looked out over the neat files and empty coffee cups grouped on the desk in his office. Unlike most DI’s offices, his was decorated with artwork and books. The crime squad was based in the oldest part of the Justice Centre complex – the original 1970s police buildings that overlooked the park. The chief constable had been short with him:
‘Hunter, this is already getting out of hand in the press… a knife attack, a drive by shooting, the involvement of a senior politician… you need to get a grip and take drastic action,’ all rendered in a raised and directive voice. Hunter was polite but had no intention of being browbeaten by such pressure.
His new assistant recently assigned from uniform branch, Penny or DC Penny Dore as he should more properly refer to her, sat opposite the entrance to his office, typing reports into her computer. Hunter called her in and asked her to collect the squad together in the major incident room. Before he finally released her, he said one further thing:
‘Look, Penny, err DC Dore, I really want you on this case but I realise that you have pretty close connections with the witnesses as well as family connections. If you ever feel compromised you must let me know. I will monitor the situation carefully of course, do you understand?’
‘Of course, Sir, but you can absolutely count on me. There won’t be a problem. And please call me Penny, guv.’
*
The team crammed into the constrained space of the incident room, where other officers were busy pinning photos on maps and filling the situation whiteboards with the information that was flowing in from the field.
‘So what do we have now?’ Hunter asked Detective Sergeant Jones, his deputy, who immediately began to summarise the situation. Hunter had a gold Crossman pen in his hand that he tapped against the desk rhythmically but impatiently, as if he were a conductor marking time for the Welshman. Jones proceeded with his exposition.
‘At approximately 8am this morning, there was a knife attack by two assailants outside No. 6 Clarendon Square. One assailant had a large hunting weapon and approached and stabbed the victim, the other was backing him up with a scooter a few yards down the street. The attack was aborted following the intervention of a neighbour, but was followed by a single rifle shot to the same victim’s head from range a few minutes later. We believe this shot killed him outright. The victim was Mr Arish Nariman, a respected, retired foreign businessman and houseguest of Sir William Flyte.’
‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant, but maybe we could have a few more details?’
‘Yes Sir, of course. Mr Nariman emerged from and then shut the front door to No. 6 accompanied only by his two dogs. He apparently intended to walk to meet an American visitor at the station. He was struck in the chest with a knife by the first assailant. Seconds after this initial attack, this first assailant, still holding the knife, was approached, tackled and then frightened off by a neighbour, Ms Alice Roberts, who of course we all know well as one of the forensics team. As they were escaping, the two assailants were knocked off their motorcycle by a black car. Ms Roberts applied immediate first aid to arrest the victim’s bleeding while an ambulance was called by a passer-by. Her assessment at that time was that the wound was severe but probably not life-threatening. She assumed she’d witnessed a mugging. She left the victim in the care of her husband while she went to attend the RTA involving the assailants down the street.’ He paused but the inspector indicated for him to continue.
‘A few seconds later, while Ms Robert’s husband Eddie Peters was tending to the man, there was a shot to Mr Nariman’s forehead that appears to have killed him instantly. It looks like it came from a high velocity rifle. Mr Peters mentioned a red laser spot appearing on the man’s head in the instant before the shot. He did not hear anything so we are assuming the shot was from long range, maybe with a silencer.’ Hunter scowled as he heard about the red spot and interrupted his sergeant’s account.
‘Sergeant, are you sure about the red spot? Eddie didn’t mention that to me when I saw him earlier. Nobody round here would use laser sights for a robbery, that’s just for the films.’
‘Mr Peters was pretty sure about it, Sir.’
‘Then that indicates to me that this was an assassination and someone was probably shooting from a moving platform, maybe at shorter range. Was it a pistol or something like an assault rifle? Did we find any rounds?’
‘There’s nothing yet, Sir.’
‘OK that must certainly be one of our priorities. Do we know anything about these men with the knife and scooter yet?’
‘No identification yet, Sir. They had absolutely no paperwork on them. They both seem to be of Indian sub-continent extraction, very dark skinned. Ms Roberts told me that she had seen men similar to the two assailants the night before in the tunnel under Jephson Gardens, cooking fish and using a similar knife. She noticed them again with the scooter as she wheeled her bicycle up the steps from her basement flat. The attack occurred while she was getting the bicycle through the gate. Uniformed officers are being asked to look urgently for any sightings of these two men around the town in the last few days, but we’ve got nothing more yet.’
‘And tell me more about the RTA.’
‘After Ms Roberts frightened them off, the two men made to escape on the scooter but were hit at the corner of Clarendon Square and Clarendon Place by an unknown black car or cab. This part is still a bit confused. It appears to have then halted for a few seconds and subsequently been dri
ven off again at speed. There is one report of a man getting out of the car, possibly the sniper. There was also a report of a black cab a few minutes later down the street doing a pickup, which may or may not be the same vehicle we don’t know. One of the assailants, the pillion passenger who had the knife, was killed instantly by the impact of the car hitting their bike, the other, who was wearing a helmet, died from severe internal wounds and a severed artery before the ambulance arrived. Ms Roberts, a friend – a Mr Hugh Powell – and one of our off-duty uniformed officers tended to the surviving assailant while waiting for the ambulance. They thought they heard him saying something like ningma just before he died.’
‘Ningma?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Which officer was it?’
‘Sergeant Singh, Sir.’
‘I see. What about the sniper, did our man see him?’
‘No, he was down by the fire station when it happened and ran up to help. There are no other accounts, nothing more than I just mentioned, Sir. We are searching the square for evidence, but nothing yet and no other witnesses to the shooting.’
‘Ok well our second priority is to find that car. It sounds like it quite possibly may be linked to the sniper.’
‘Yes, as I said, we do have a report from the resident of No. 10, the corner house, who was working in his study at the front of the building. Mr Richard Baxter. He thinks that the vehicle was a black cab and he was the one that reported that another man with a turban got out of the car before it sped off. He thought he saw the same cab pick someone up down the street a few minutes later. DC Dore also spoke later to a witness in the top floor of the care home opposite – a former actress who now suffers with dementia I’m afraid. It seems she got a good look and referred to a black vehicle. She was heard shouting ‘Busy Mab’ just after the incident happened. However we have not been able to get anything else out of her yet.’
‘‘Busy Mab’, as in a registration number maybe?’ said Hunter, as sharp as a whistle. Jones looked at him as if he had just spoiled his party piece.
