‘Guv, take a peep at this.’
Palmer had forgotten about Claire, working away at her keyboard in the corner. She turned in her chair and smiled excitedly.
‘I think I’ve got an address for Mr North.’
Palmer crossed quickly at that remark and pulled a chair up beside her.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, just routine really. I input George North into the Land Registry database.’
‘The what Registry?’
‘Land Registry, it’s a national database where the owners of every bit of land and property in the UK are listed. If you buy or sell a house your solicitor has to check with them to make sure you own it, and then update the files to the new owner’s name.’
‘Right.’
‘Anyway, there’s loads of George Norths, as you might imagine.’
‘Is it legal for you to access the Land Registry database?’
Palmer wasn’t unduly worried whether it was or was not; he was just curious. He knew there were many databases that Sergeant Singh had hacked into and set up secret lines of communication with that were classified and password protected – or so their owners thought. Banks, building societies and credit card companies for a start. She’d won a bet with him by having his credit card details and spending record for the past year up on a screen within three minutes.
He turned to face Singh, who had heard the question. She smiled and nodded.
‘That one is perfectly legal, sir.’
‘Okay Claire, go on.’
‘Well, checking with North’s employment record he has lived in a company provided house or apartment for the past sixteen years, so I shifted the search down to the time prior to that. Another point is that he’s a bachelor boy; most owners are husband and wife, so I restricted the search further to a single name owner. There were still quite a few George Norths, though – so what about middle names? He hasn’t got one; bit unusual, but that got the list down to just sixteen.’
She pressed a key and the printer whirred.
‘And hey presto, there they are.’
She whipped the printed sheet off and handed it to Palmer. He beamed at it like a kid in a sweetshop with ten pounds to spend.
‘That is good, well done Claire. Right then, let’s get these out to the local boys and see what we can find.’
Three o-clock in the morning parked in a West Norwood side street was not Palmer’s idea of heaven; and it was drizzling. He sat in the back of the plain squad car with the local CID chief and a driver in the front. They all looked through the windscreen to a semi-detached house fifty yards up the road.
‘I bet he’s not in.’
Palmer was tired.
‘I’d go with you on that, Justin,’ Inspector Mann of South Thames Division CID agreed. ‘No movement in or out all evening, and no lights going on or off. Bloody place is empty.’
The offside car door opened and Sergeant Singh slipped quietly in and smiled at Palmer.
‘Good morning, Sergeant. Sleep well?’
Palmer was being sarcastic. Singh and Randall had been here as long as he had.
Claire’s printout had borne fruit, with five addresses that couldn’t be discounted from a suspect list due to lack of information on the ‘George Norths’ that lived at them. Four had proved to be totally innocent homes of somewhat bemused gentlemen, all called George North, for whom a visit from the local police had proved to be a novelty and just a little unnerving, especially being the plainclothes branch. The West Norwood one had proved more interesting. Preliminary enquiries by the local CID had turned up the fact that this George North had asked for no mail deliveries and elected to pick up his mail from a post office box instead. He was a very low-profile person, and a police officer posing as a gas fitter come to service the boiler had got no answer; and after knocking at the neighbours, which was the real reason for the visit, had been told that Mr North had only been seen very occasionally, and never passed the time of day or even acknowledged his neighbours should they be around.
Palmer reached for the car door handle.
‘Right then, let’s go see what we can find.’
They left the car and were joined by Randall, two uniformed officers and two firearms officers, fully armed. They silently approached the front door through the small paved front garden.
‘Not a flower lover, is he?’ Palmer commented, observing the concrete.
‘I think it’s called ‘low maintenance’ these days, guv,’ said Sergeant Singh.
Palmer stopped Inspector Mann’s hand just as he was about to push the front doorbell.
‘I’d rather he didn’t know we are here, Geoff; rather take him by surprise. And it’s odds on he’s not going to be in there anyway.’
Randall leant forward and whispered to Palmer.
‘I’ll go round the back, sir; in case he does a runner that way.’
He nodded to Randall and gave him a minute to get round the back, before indicating to the uniform officer to be ready to use the handheld door ram. Inspector Geoff Mann smiled; he had worked with Palmer before and was used to his circumvention of the rules when it suited.
‘Left the warrant in the car have you, Justin?’
Palmer felt his pockets hurriedly. A feigned look of shook crossed his face.
‘Do you know, Harry? I believe I have! Oh well, get it later eh?’
He nodded for the door ram to be used. 1930s wooden doors don’t take a lot of smashing to open them, and one swipe with the ram on the lock was enough. The wood splintered around it and the door swung invitingly open.
‘Careful!’
Palmer held back Gheeta, who was about to rush inside.
‘This guy’s clever; could be booby traps. After you, gentlemen.’
The firearms officers entered slowly, weapons at the ready.
Chapter 14
George North lay on top of the hotel bed. A pay-per-view video flickered on the television, but his attention was taken from it as one of the two mobile phones on the duvet beside him vibrated. He turned it off and keyed in a number on the second mobile phone, into which he pushed a single jack plug that had its other end connected into a small eight-inch cubed black box. He pressed the call button and listened as the mobile rang out the number. The unmistakeable sounds of a mobile ringing tone came from the small speaker on the side of the cube.
‘Come along Mr Plod, answer the phone.’
Chapter 15
‘Don’t answer that unless you want to die!
Palmer barked out the order when the mobile rang. They all looked round at the small Nokia 140 lying on a side table in George North’s hall and ringing invitingly, its aerial flashing like a tasty bit of bait. He turned to Sergeant Singh.
‘Can we get a trace on that call when it ends?’
Singh shook her head.
‘I can take the sim card out and get the number, but trying to trace it will probably just lead us through another mouse trap of proxy servers, sir.’
‘He knows we are bloody well here.’
Palmer was realising North was a very worthy adversary.
‘He’s a clever one, isn’t he – leading us around and second guessing our movements. Okay, get Forensics in asap and see if they can find anything in the house that could tell us where he is. The bugger knew we were here.’
‘He could just be watching from up the road, sir.’
Gheeta thought that was the most likely way North would know when the police were in the house and when to make the call, but Palmer shook his head.
‘No, too simple for him. He’s a ‘planner’; he’s got this whole caper planned out to lead us through the hoops, give us little morsels that lead us along and point us in different directions so that he knows exactly what we are doing. We need to upset the plan somehow, so he panics and breaks cover.’
He stifled a yawn and checked his watch.
‘Blimey, is that the time? Come on, leave Forensics to do their work. Let’s go and get
some sleep.’
Palmer got dropped off at home by a squad car as dawn was breaking over Dulwich and walked slowly up his front garden path, admiring the flowers and their scent which always seemed stronger to him in the early morning air. Mrs P. looked after the gardens, front and back, and it was her passion: manicured lawns and flower beds planted to give the optimum colour and fragrance all year round. She’d planted a new rose bed in the front garden earlier in the year, and it was a feast of colour and perfume. He stood on tiptoe to smell a white rose called Peace covering the top of the fence between his house and his next door neighbour Mr Benjamin, known to everybody in the neighbourhood as Benji.
Benji was not one of Palmer’s favourite people; an ex-advertising executive in his early sixties, with a liking for designer clothes, jewellery, fake tans and ‘poncing around like a prat’, as Palmer put it. A new car every year and three expensive holidays, usually ‘singles’ cruises, to some far-flung exotic island group. For some reason that Palmer couldn’t understand, Mrs P. and her lady friends in the WI and Gardening Club thought Benji was wonderful. Bald on top with a ponytail was the icing on the cake as far as Palmer was concerned. He’d said to Mrs P., ‘you know what you find under every pony tail don’t you, eh? An arsehole.’ She didn’t appreciate that and had told him to wash his mouth out.
Although the daughter of a petty South London criminal, Mrs P. had tried to pull herself and Palmer up the social ladder; although in Palmer’s case it was snakes and ladders – up one rung, and down three. She had long ago accepted that she wouldn’t ever change him, and in her deepest heart she didn’t really want to. A rough diamond he was, and a rough diamond he would always be. She was proud of his career, proud of the way they’d brought up their children, and very proud of her house and gardens. It was all a million miles from the small terraced house in Milkwood Road, Loughborough Junction she and her three brothers had been brought up in; the garden there was a twelve-foot square of cracked concrete that was usually piled high with very dubious merchandise her dad had ‘found’, and a ladder was always propped up against the back wall in case there was a knock on the door early in the morning, and dad had to make a quick exit over the railway marshalling yard behind. The knock on the door and the quick exit was usually when the young DC Palmer came with a warrant; something between them had clicked, and the rest is history. Forty years on, and both continued to surprise the other.
Palmer took another long sniff of the rose. The perfume was exquisite, but through the leaves over the fence what Palmer saw was not.
‘What the – ouch!’
He pricked his hand as he pushed the roses apart for a better look. What he had seen was that a rather over-large hot tub had been installed on Benji’s front decking and was gently steaming away. Palmer pulled an iron chair from Mrs P.’s front lawn set of four and table and stood on it for a better view. It was indeed a very large hot tub; but then Benji would have to have the biggest and most expensive available, or it wouldn’t be Benji.
‘It’s bigger than your kitchen.’
Palmer had come inside, patted the dog, washed and donned his pyjamas in the en-suite bathroom before going into the bedroom. Mrs P. stirred as he took another look out of the window at the hot tub.
‘What time is it, Justin?’
‘Quarter past five. Have you see that hot tub Benji’s had installed? Talk about big, you could book a cruise in the bloody thing!’
Mrs P.’s voice was muffled from under the duvet as she tried to shield her face from the light thrown into the bedroom by Palmer opening the curtain wider to look down at the tub.
‘It’s very nice, Justin. He’s invited the Gardening Club round to christen it next week.’
‘What? I hope you are kidding. Are they going to put their costumes on and jump in?’
Mrs P.’s head appeared, her eyes blinking in the light.
‘Of course we are. How else would you christen a hot tub? I’m looking forward to it – champagne and buffet, all provided by Benji.’
‘You’re going?’
‘Yes, and you’re invited as well.’
‘No way, too dodgy that. Some of those Garden Club members are a bit old.’
‘So?’
‘Well… just thinking about incontinence, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be so vulgar, Justin. Trust you to think of that.’
‘And flatulence. Knowing Benji he’ll have lots of those silly little floating perfume candles. If you see any bubbles coming up, extinguish all naked flames!’
He laughed. He was enjoying the thought of the Gardening Club members in a hot tub.
‘And there’s Benji’s fake tan too; that might wash off and you’ll all get out with a beige tint!’ He laughed even more. Mrs P. swung her legs out of bed and stretched.
‘Well, thank you for waking me so early. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘No, I’m going to catch a couple of hours’ sleep and then grab a bar of soap and have a bath in his tub when he’s out. Save on our heating won’t it, eh? I’ll take the dog in with me.’
He was still giggling as Mrs P. gave him a withering look.
‘If anything happens to that hot tub, Justin Palmer, you will be first in the frame.’
Chapter 16
Palmer exhaled loudly. He was in a small café off Trafalgar Square, sitting opposite Commander Layne. He took a sip from his coffee and cleared his throat.
‘Thank you, Harry. Not what I wanted to hear, but I appreciate you keeping me in the loop.’
The Commander shrugged.
‘Least I could do, Justin. But you didn’t hear it from me, okay? It really is one of those for your eyes only things. Upstairs wanted to let it roll on, but I could see trouble ahead with that strategy.’
Chapter 17
North’s mobile was humming on the hotel bed. He picked it up.
‘Yes.’
The voice on the other end was curt.
‘You got the Mayor’s secretary, not the Mayor.’
‘Damn! I wondered why there wasn’t anything on the news about it.’
‘We need a high-profile victim, George. They won’t pay up no matter how many Joe Publics you kill; but one celebrity and the cheque will be in the post right away.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘No, but I was thinking… You’re in a top hotel; they must get ‘names’ staying there. Easy to ring their room number and…’
The voice trailed off. North smiled
‘Of course. Leave it with me.’
The line clicked off. He crossed the room and looked out of the window, down onto the small drop off and pick up point in front of the hotel, where a queue of five limos and taxis waited for their passengers or were dropping them off.
Chapter 18
‘Who?’
Palmer raised his eyes from reading George North’s CV and looked across the office with an inquisitive expression.
‘Jamie Donnello.’
Gheeta felt an explanation was in order, as she knew Palmer’s knowledge of the entertainment world could at best be described as nil.
‘He is, or he was,’ she explained, ‘the winner of a television talent show last year. He’s just had a number one single and was on a national tour.’
‘Jamie Donnello?’
Palmer was none the wiser.
‘Yes.’
‘Sounds like Spanish for Jammy Dodger.’
He rose from his desk and started to put on his jacket and trilby.
‘I take it you’re telling me that he’s been found dead in his hotel room because the circumstances of his death are similar to our other corpses?’
‘Trickle of blood from the ear, guv.’
She said it in a resigned manner, shut her laptop and put it into its shoulder case, before following Palmer out of the office and down the stairs.
‘Big name was he?’
‘As big as they get these days, guv. All over the teen magazines, signed a big money deal w
ith a record company, plenty of TV exposure, and a million and a half twitter followers.’
‘Million and a half twits more like; and he’ll be forgotten next year when the next one hit wonder comes along.’
‘Yes, guv.’
Gheeta didn’t bother to answer him, although she was quite fond of Donnello’s songs. She had long suffered Palmer’s scathing remarks about TV talent shows and a certain Simon Cowell’s fortune made on the back of people’s misplaced hopes.
They crossed the foyer and got the duty officers to pull a panda car in to ferry them to the hotel. Palmer relaxed in the back, while Gheeta pulled out her mobile.
‘I’d better give Mark Randall a call and he can meet us there if he’s free.’
Palmer waved a hand sideways.
‘No, don’t bother him yet. I saw Commander Layne yesterday and Randall’s pursuing another line of enquiry for him. We’ll see what’s what at the hotel first. I bet we won’t be able to keep the media out of this one though, not if the record company sees a few thousand ‘sympathy’ sales of this bloke’s records on the horizon.’
Gheeta shock her head in mock disbelief.
‘Guv, only you would think that way.’
He laughed.
‘Yes, me and the record company, Sergeant. Give the Yard’s PR department a ring and see if we can put out a press release limiting the death to ‘unknown causes’. Being a pop star the media will think straight away it’s drug related, and they’ll be off trying to find links between Mr Dodger and his dealers. That should give us some time.’
‘Donnello, guv. Mr Donnello.’
‘Didn’t I say that?’
‘You know you didn’t, guv.’
Palmer smiled.
‘Have you got a hot tub, Sergeant?’
POETIC JUSTICE & A KILLER IS CALLING: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series, cases 3 & 4. Page 15
