‘Do you think they’ll have kept them?’
‘Probably.’
‘There’s not enough grounds for a search warrant.’
‘I know. It was just a thought.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ I replied and told them about Crozier’s death being murder.
‘What’s the link between Wallenberg and Crozier?’
‘Crozier was a business acquaintance of Wallenberg Senior. Wallenberg Junior has just bought a nightclub called the Painted Pony that Crozier had a share in. They were mixed up in all sorts of deals.’
‘He bought it since Crozier died?’
‘Mmm.’
‘What’s the link with the youth who crashed the car?’
‘Wallenberg knew him. His wife may have been having sex with him. Other than that, we assume he was just an employee. Apparently Wallenberg will gamble on anything, so it’s possible they were arranging car races and betting on the outcome.’
‘My driver is better than yours?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sounds fun. So why would Wallenberg want Krabbe dead?’
‘I don’t know.’ I told them about the shop in the mall – Art of Asia – and suggested that there might be more to the relationship than we knew.
The SIO nodded sagely. ‘I think that’s where I’d focus the investigation, Charlie,’ he suggested.
Thanks, I thought. Thanks a lot. I wouldn’t have dreamt of it, myself.
Word about the investigation spread through the climbing fraternity like chlamydia through a polytechnic, and we had some feedback about it from a couple of rock-climbing constables. There was no shortage of theories about Krabbe’s death, right down to it being divine retribution for the desecration of holy places. We’d had a look at the shop in the first days of the enquiry, but nothing leapt out at us. There were no hollow sandalwood elephants stuffed with hashish, or solid gold frames on tapestries of tigers drinking from a stream, destined for the walls of local restaurants. We even wondered about animal parts for traditional medicine, but found none. We looked at woollen rugs, hessian bags, incense from Tibet, silver jewellery and a variety of wooden artefacts. Some of it was elegant and expensive, produced by artists and craftsmen as good as any in the world, but much of it was tacky and cheap.
So we went back and this time we took the shop apart. Everything we could find was pulled and poked, weighed and measured, checked against the stocklist. The sniffer dog worked overtime but never gave a reaction. I wondered if it had been overwhelmed by the variety of scents, but the dog-handler threw the piece of impregnated rope he uses as a test piece behind some boxes and the dog found it in seconds.
The pashminas were on a shelf, priced at £250 each. I carefully lifted them off and put them on a table. The colours were gorgeous, rich and muted at the same time, and the pile of garments was as light as a feather. One by one I picked up each shawl and, without unfolding it – I’m not very good at folding – felt for anything hidden between the layers. When the dog had sniffed them and given its all-clear I replaced them on the shelf.
We looked for hiding places and copied all the addresses off the empty packing cases in the stock room. The postman delivers the mail via the back door and there was a big pile. Jeff Caton divided it into two heaps: junk and non-junk, and analysed every syllable of the good stuff.
I went back to the office, dispirited. I found a postcard with a picture of Ingleborough from Crina Bottom with a light covering of snow and wrote: ‘Enjoyed Saturday, hope you did,’ on the back and put it in an envelope. I addressed it to Rosie and dropped it in the out tray. Jeff came in two hours later, long-faced and morose.
‘Sod all,’ he declared, flinging his notebook on the desk as he removed his jacket.
There’s a database somewhere in deepest Hampshire that lists thousands of MOs of murders in close detail. Krabbe’s killing was peculiar in that the murder weapon was related to the way in which he earned his living. The word poetic came to mind. I asked Jeff to prepare a submission to them, then I wondered about Joe Crozier and rang Nigel to suggest he do the same.
‘Already done,’ he replied. ‘No other similar uses of masking tape on record.’
‘Have you made any progress?’ I asked.
‘Ye-es,’ he replied, warily. ‘We’ve had one small development.’ I kept silent, waiting for him to volunteer the information. ‘We searched his clothes, of course, but didn’t find anything interesting. But the scientific boys have given them the once-over and discovered something we overlooked. His jacket had a little pocket inside one of the other pockets. I’m told it’s for keeping your condoms in but I think they’re having me on. Inside there was a little scrap of paper, screwed into a ball.’
‘Which the scientific boys have unfolded with their usual care and read the message thereon,’ I said, hoping to hurry him to the point of the story.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It was the wrapping off a toothpick. A purpose-made one, with the name of a restaurant on it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sometime, while wearing that suit, Crazy Joe Crozier had eaten at L’Autre Place restaurant in Heckley.’
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you know who owns it?’
‘Mmm. Peter Wallenberg.’
‘That’s right. Were there any credit card receipts on Joe?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a pity. So somebody else paid.’
‘There’s more.’
‘Go on.’
‘Joe was famous for his dapper appearance. We found receipts in his office for a new suit, dated about the time he went in the river. We’ve checked with the tailor and it more or less looks as if that was the first time he’d worn the thing.’
‘So it could be that his killer invited him out to L’Autre Place and treated him to his last meal. Poor Joe put on his best bib and tucker for the occasion.’
‘Could be. The meal was beefsteak, incidentally.’
‘Any pastry?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Speciality of the restaurant is Beef Wellington.’
‘I know.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve been straying on to my patch.’
‘I was about to ring you. We ought to have that conference.’
‘Have you spoken to Wallenberg?’
‘No. We don’t know when exactly Crozier died, so there’s little point, yet. It was about the twentieth of October, give or take a couple of days, but that’s not much help.’
‘I don’t suppose he kept a diary.’
‘If he did we haven’t found it.’
‘Old habits die hard,’ I said. ‘Never write anything down.’
‘So how’re things going with the Krabbe enquiry?’ Nigel asked.
‘They’re not. Yet.’
I’d left some lamb chops and vegetables in the slow cooker, so I ate reasonably well that evening. I wondered about ringing Rosie but decided not to. I’d said a fortnight, so three days was a little premature, and she wouldn’t have received the card, yet. The board with the paint splashes on it was in the garage, taking up space. The gallery wanted my pictures in four weeks but I wasn’t happy with my early efforts so I decided on a fresh start. I sanded off the blobs and gave the whole thing two coats of matt white emulsion, ready for the next attempt. Time was tight, so I’d have to settle for a couple in the style of Jackson Pollock. They always go down well, and they’re dead easy.
I was flicking round the channels, wondering whether to have some cornflakes, when Nigel rang. ‘We’ve had a breakthrough,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ I invited.
‘A woman came into the station, about half-past five, asking to see me. Apparently she’s just finished with her boyfriend and was indulging in a bit of revenge therapy. He lives in Waterside Heights, ninth floor, bang opposite where Joe Crozier lived. This woman and her boyfriend were, to use her words, ‘messing around on the balcony…’’
‘Having
sex,’ I interjected.
‘OK, having sex, when she saw some figures down below. They appeared to roll something into the water. She wanted to report it but the boyfriend convinced her that it was someone dumping a roll of carpet.’
‘Really? And this was when?’
‘Monday the twentieth of October.’
‘Bingo. You’ve got your time of death.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘So why didn’t this woman call you earlier and say that they’d seen someone drop something into the river but they thought it was only a roll of carpet?’
‘Ah, this is where the revenge bit comes in. They’d done a couple of lines of coke. We’ve just paid him a visit and caught him in possession, but he verifies her story. He was most cooperative, managed to fill-in a few blanks. The carpet dumpers – he thinks there were three of them – were in a Range Rover, but there were two other cars on the wharf. He estimates the time to have been between half-past midnight and one o’clock.’
‘Wallenberg drives a Range Rover.’
‘I know.’
‘How the other half live, Nigel. See what you’re missing.’
‘Yep. He’s a director with an insurance company and she calls herself a financial consultant.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘I was thinking of visiting L’Autre Place, with your permission, to see if the manager remembers them being there.’
‘Good idea. Tonight?’
‘Oh, I had tomorrow lunchtime in mind, but we’re probably more likely to catch him tonight. Shall I pick you up?’
‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
I did a quick change out of my painting clothes and was just going round with the electric razor when Nigel rang the bell. At half-past ten we breezed into Heckley’s poshest watering hole and a flunky asked if we’d like a table for two.
‘No, we’d like to see the manager,’ Nigel told him, showing his ID, and the waiter went to fetch him from the kitchen.
He wanted to talk standing in the doorway, but we persuaded him that his office might be more appropriate. ‘This is Inspector Priest and I’m Inspector Newley,’ Nigel had said.
‘That’s detective inspector,’ I added, ‘not environmental health,’ and I swear he looked relieved.
Before Nigel could say his piece I went on: ‘We’re investigating the murder of Tony Krabbe, the mountaineer. You may have read about it in the papers.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t see how I can help.’
‘Well, we’re going through all Mr Krabbe’s acquaintances and checking their alibis. Mr Wallenberg had business dealings with him. He tells us that he had dinner here on the night of Monday, the twentieth of October. Can you verify that, please?’
‘Yes, no problem. He did have dinner here one Monday evening, which was unusual for him. It’s our quietest night of the week. I’ll just fetch the diary.’
When he’d gone Nigel glared at me. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Charlie,’ he hissed. ‘We haven’t spoken to Wallenberg yet. It’ll be inadmissible.’
‘He’s been spoken to about Krabbe, Nigel, and we’ve got what we wanted.’
The waiter came back and spread a large diary on the desk. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The twentieth of October, Mr Wallenberg, table for two, nine p.m.’ He pointed to the entry and I read the name.
‘So he’d be safely in here at ten p.m.?’
‘Most assuredly, Inspector.’
‘Does he always dine so late?’
‘No, not usually.’
‘Who was his guest?’
‘His guest? I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Er, male, I believe.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘He was a small man, fairly old, going bald.’
‘Well-dressed?’
‘All our customers are well-dressed, Inspector. Well, most of them.’
I gave him a big smile. ‘You’ve been most cooperative, thank you. I think we can safely cross Mr Wallenberg off the list of possible witnesses, don’t you, Mr Newley?’
‘Oh, er, y-yes,’ he stuttered. Nigel dropped me off at the door and refused my offer of a coffee. He was displeased at the way I’d conducted the interview but he’d got the information he required: Joe Crozier dined with Peter Wallenberg shortly before he was murdered. He agreed that a talk with Wallenberg might be appropriate but it was doubtful if it would achieve much. Motive and opportunity were there, but we needed some forensics, desperately, and none was forthcoming.
I breezed into the nick, Wednesday morning, and saw this…this monstrosity standing in the foyer. I stopped short and gaped at it.
‘What’s that?’ I demanded of the desk sergeant.
‘What does it look like, Charlie?’
It was big and square, with illuminated Coca-Cola logos all over it, and stacks of cans visible inside.
‘It looks like a drinks machine.’
‘Well done. CID strikes again.’
‘Does Mr Wood know it’s there?’
‘’Spect so, but it’s over his head.’
‘What’s wrong with going to the canteen?’
‘The canteen? It’s not for us, Charlie. It’s for them.’
‘Who?’
‘Villains. The enemy.’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘No way. Human rights says they’ve to have access to fizzy drinks at all times. Otherwise, we’re in bother for depriving them of essential E-numbers.’
‘Strewth! What next?’
‘Don’t ask, Charlie. Don’t ask.’
Jeff Caton was keeping an eye on Krabbe’s shop, checking the mail. I was in Mr Wood’s office when he rang to say that there was a message from Parcel Force, saying that they’d tried to make a delivery. I told him to collect the parcel and give it the full treatment. I kept the afternoon clear because Nigel had invited Wallenberg in for a talk, but Wallenberg cancelled at the last minute.
He kindly agreed to call in Heckley nick on Thursday morning, when it was more convenient for him, and he came with not one, but two briefs in his entourage. Nigel brought one of his sergeants and agreed that I could sit in on the interview. We didn’t bother with the tape recorder. Those tapes cost money, and we weren’t expecting anything other than a series of evasions.
‘How well did you know Joe Crozier?’ Nigel began by asking.
One of the briefs put his hand on Wallenberg’s arm and whispered something to him. Wallenberg shook his head and turned to Nigel. ‘Fairly well,’ he said.
‘How did you come to know him?’
‘He was a friend of the family. When I was small I called him Uncle Joe.’
A good one, I thought. Who ever heard of anyone murdering his Uncle Joe?
‘So he was a friend of your parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you continue the friendship after your parents died?’
Nigel is slow but methodical. It gradually emerged that Peter Wallenberg had inherited considerable property interests from his parents. Grace Wallenberg had run the empire after the old man died and now the baton had passed to Peter. No, he’d had very few contacts with Crozier since then. Yes, he had put a bid in for the Painted Pony, but directly to the other two partners, who were accountants. He hadn’t known at the time that Joe was the third shareholder.
‘So when did you last see Joe Crozier?’ Nigel asked.
A leading question, the answer to which depended on whether his restaurant manager had told him about our little visit, 36 hours earlier. Wallenberg stretched a hand out on to the formica tabletop and drummed his fingers, as if deep in thought. He pursed his lips, looked at me and then back at Nigel. He was wearing a long black coat and had declined to take it off, even though it was stifling in the interview room. Removing his black leather gloves was his only concession to the warmth. After an eternity, drawn out for maximum effect, he gave a big sigh and said: ‘I sa
w Joe about four or five weeks ago. It was a Monday night. We had dinner together. Is that accurate enough, Inspector, or would you like me to consult a calendar?’
‘Monday the twentieth of October?’ Nigel suggested.
‘Yes. The twentieth does ring a bell.’
‘And you ate at L’Autre Place, in Heckley, which you own, I believe.’
‘Correct on all counts, Inspector. Have you ever dined there?’
‘No, it hasn’t been my pleasure.’
‘You should. You won’t be disappointed. Tell Raymond that I sent you and I’m sure he’ll look after you.’
‘Thanks for the offer. So how did Crozier get there?’
‘His driver brought him.’
‘There were just the two of you? No wives.’
‘No.’
‘And what time did he leave?’
‘I’m not sure, but it must have been around midnight. Joe was particularly taken by our Chateaux Margaux, finished nearly three bottles of it. He was legless.’
Nigel looked across at me. I shuffled in my seat, sat upright, and asked; ‘Who organised this cosy little party, Mr Wallenberg?’
He turned his gaze to me. His eyes were dark and the brows almost met in the middle. ‘Crozier did,’ he replied. ‘He rang me, out of the blue, said he’d heard about the restaurant and wondered how things were with me. That’s all.’
I looked at my notebook. ‘Crozier went in the river at nineteen minutes to one on the morning of the 21st,’ I said, ‘and a Range Rover with the same description as yours was seen in the vicinity. Was it yours?’
His expression changed. He’d been in control up to now. Not quite cocky but ahead of the game. Hit them with a precise time and they start wondering how much you know; had the whole thing been captured on CCTV?
‘No, of course not.’
‘Where were you at that time?’
‘I went home. I’d be getting ready for bed.’
‘You didn’t stay behind to have a nightcap with your manager?’
‘No, I went home.’
‘Can anybody verify that?’
‘My wife, I suppose.’
‘And poor Joe fell in the river.’
‘Yes. As I said, he was well away with the drink. Perhaps he went for a little stroll, or just mistook his directions. The apartments at one side of the river look much like the ones at the other.’
Over the Edge Page 12
