Deadly Intent

by Lynda La Plante

  Anna grabbed her sandwich and, ramming the lid on her coffee, ran to her Mini. She drove out of the car park, turning right onto High Street; she could still see, four cars ahead, the Mercedes. She tailed them about a mile up the road before she saw they had turned left onto Old Windmill Lane. Still keeping her distance, afraid that Fagan would recognize her car, she drove slowly up the lane. The lane branched out into a large car park. Worried she would easily be seen, she quickly parked between two stationary cars, and used her wing mirror to look for Fagan’s car.

  He was parked at the far side of the car park; both he and Julia remained inside the car. Heading into the car park, and passing Anna, was a navy-blue Range Rover. She could clearly see the two burly occupants looking around; then Fagan got out of his Mercedes and waved toward them.

  The Range Rover parked alongside Fagan’s car. He bent inside to talk to Julia, as the two men got out of the Range Rover and joined him. Fagan was clearly introducing the two men, Julia leaning across the driver seat to acknowledge them. They wore cheap gray suits and ties; both were muscle-bound and looked like ex-army. Anna jotted down their license-plate number and then had to duck down as Fagan appeared to look directly toward her, but she was mistaken; instead he walked around to the passenger side and helped Julia get out. The two men shook her hand, and one guided her to the passenger seat of the Range Rover. She got in; the two men talked for a few more moments to Fagan, before they got back into the Range Rover. Fagan drove out, passing Anna, as did, shortly afterward, Julia and the two men in the Range Rover.

  Anna waited awhile before she left the car park and drove past Julia Brandon’s house. The Range Rover was already parked outside. The men beside Julia took a covert look around before they stepped inside her house. Their presence confirmed to Anna that Julia might well have hired Frank, and now these two goons, for protection. The question was,from whom?

  Anna knew she was stepping on Phil Markham’s toes but, before returning to the station, she decided to see if she could talk to someone from the Drug Squad. She needed to know more about Alexander Fitzpatrick, and she hoped they could help her. She was, yet again, certain that he was behind Julia Brandon’s fear.

  CHAPTER 14

  Anna waited in a small outer office for over twenty minutes. A rather scruffy officer, wearing denim jeans and bomber jacket, eventually joined her. Sam Power was an undercover officer, and one with quite a reputation; he had busted a very big cocaine ring in 2002, so, for his own protection, he was “paperworking” until the heat of the trial died down. They were up to their ears, he explained, and having spent some time with Phil Markham that morning, the officers didn’t want to cover the same ground again.

  “So you got me.” He grinned. He was rather good-looking, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes, and a very confident manner.

  Anna thanked him for seeing her. She then came straight out with it. “I have this gut feeling that Alexander Fitzpatrick is back in the UK. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.”

  “Of course I do—he’s the one that got away. But we don’t act on gut feelings. To be honest, he’s been dormant for so many years, we’ve kind of dismissed him as having any hand in trafficking big-time anymore. He made a lot of money; he’s probably lying low and enjoying the proceeds of his ill-gotten gains.”

  “How dangerous was he?”

  Sam shifted his weight in the hard-backed chair. “Well, you can’t compare him with Howard Marks, not the same animal. Marks was never violent; never, to our knowledge, killed anyone. He’s kind of a hero to the pot-smoking oldies who still maintain a hippy attitude to soft drugs. I don’t agree with any kind of leniency regarding hash or marijuana—I’ve seen too many kids fall into the trap of moving up the scale to use heroin—and nowadays, Christ only knows what they mix up with so-called class-C drugs.”

  Anna nodded, letting him expound his personal theories with regard to drug taking, and flushing as she recalled her time with Pete the other evening. She waited for the opportunity to bring the conversation back to Fitzpatrick. It took a while; Sam seemed to like the sound of his own voice.

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, he was before my time. He’s at pension age now; no one’s heard a dickie bird from him for at least fifteen, twenty years. The guy made millions. He is either living a life of luxury, or he could even have been topped—he was known to mix with the Colombian cartels and the Mafia, and you don’t mess with those types. In the mideighties, they reckoned he mobilized the law enforcement agencies in fourteen or fifteen different countries. That’s the U.S., UK, Spain, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Thailand, Pakistan, Germany …”

  “Good heavens,” Anna inteijected.

  “Yeah, good heavens. He also shipped to the Netherlands, Canada, Switzerland, Australia, and Austria—a lot of dope, and a lot of money. He was rumored to have something like twenty homes around the world.”

  “And boats?”

  “Yeah, Christ knows how many yachts—maybe as many as his different identities. After he’d flooded the market here and skipped bail, he went on to bigger deals, trafficking cocaine and heroin into the U.S. They couldn’t capture him either; he’s still on their Most Wanted list.”

  Anna tried not to sound as if her supposition regarding Fitzpatrick was implausible. “His ex-partner, a very beautiful woman, lives here. She has two children. Whether they are fathered by him or not, I don’t know.”

  Sam tapped her knee. “He had beautiful women all over the world; with his money and his drugs, he could get any woman he wanted.”

  Anna continued, even though she could feel Sam almost laughing at her insinuation that Fitzpatrick would want to be with this woman or her children. “He possibly has close friends here?”

  “No way would he risk it. No one was his close friend; he couldn’t afford the risk that they would give him up! There are rewards out for him in the States …”

  Nothing Anna said appeared to dent Sam’s overconfident attitude that she was wrong about Fitzpatrick. In fact, he made her feel almost foolish in suggesting it.

  When she brought up the yacht and the fact that it had been docked in Southampton, he shrugged. “Listen, whether or not he had speedboats, yachts, and Christ knows what else, any boat would have to be registered. If it came into UK waters, we’d have nabbed him.”

  “What if you didn’t know the boat? What if it was chartered to someone else?”

  Sam agreed that it was possible, but he was dismissive of whatever she said. In his opinion, Fitzpatrick had no good reason to be in the UK.

  “So he was very dangerous?” Anna prompted.

  Sam did another of his shrugs. He conceded that, in his prime, Fitzpatrick took no prisoners; to maintain his drug trafficking in the U.S., he would have had to have an army to protect him, or kill for him. “Nowadays, I don’t think he would be any threat. We’ve not had so much as a rumor that he’s still active—he’s an old-age pensioner, for Chrissakes!” Sam stood and hitched up his jeans. “If you want to leave me with the details you’ve got on this yacht, I can check it out for you, see if we have anything on it, but we’re up to our ears with Yardies and gang wars; they’ve got weapons nowadays that’d make your hair stand on end.”

  Anna wanted to discuss the drug squat in Chalk Farm but, by now, she sensed that Sam was eager for her to leave. She gave him the information she’d gained from Gordon that morning, but didn’t mention the Oxfordshire farm or even Julia Brandon.

  By the time Anna was back in her office, it was after four. Phil was waiting in the corridor.

  “Can I have a word?” he said.

  “Sure, just let me get my breath; I’ve only just walked in.” She could feel his animosity as she put her briefcase onto her desk.

  “I’ve just had the fucking guy I spent half the morning with at the Drug Unit calling me. What is it with you?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “I was checking them out, then you t
urn up. Now they’ve got back to me about a fucking yacht. You know these guys don’t like to be messed around.”

  “Yes, well, I only just got the details this morning and we are still checking it out.” Anna looked at him. “Can you just wait for the briefing, Phil? You’ll get everything I have. If you want to talk to Gordon, he can give you the information on the boat, which I don’t have.”

  “Too fucking right we need a briefing: we’ve got four dead bodies, and one an ex-cop. Instead of working on his case, you are running around on some crazy investigation into a guy that even the Drug Squad thinks is long dead. If he isn’t, he’s not likely to be getting his leg over a hard bitch in Wimbledon or hiding out in a barn in Oxfordshire!”

  “That hard bitch cashed four million nine months ago! And if you haven’t tracked down the man she calls her ex-partner, Anthony Collingwood, then bring it up at the briefing.”

  “What’s he got to do with the murders?”

  “Because, as you well know, it is one of the aliases used by Fitzpatrick. Phil, if no one can find the bastard, then it could be for a bloody good reason!” Her desk phone rang and she reached for it. “Can you give me fifteen minutes?”

  Phil slammed out of her office as she picked up the phone.

  “Hi there, it’s me—it’s Pete.”

  She sat down. She really didn’t want to talk to him.

  “I’ve got a result for you, my darling.”

  “I need one, Pete. What have you got?”

  “The soil particles—and you may ask how this has come through so quickly; it is because yours truly has been pressing for details. Okay, are you ready for this?”

  “I am.”

  “The Mitsubishi, D’Anton’s post office van, and even my dear old Morgan all have matching soil particles. Not one hundred percent confirmed—you know what wankers they are, far be it from them to commit to anything on paper yet—but I’m telling you, and it’s not just mud, it’s also horseshit! This made it even easier: shit is shit … Hello, are you still there?”

  Anna leaned back in her chair and grinned. “I am, and thank you.”

  “Do I deserve dinner tonight?” “Maybe you do, but can I see how the rest of the day pans out?” “Okay, call me back.”

  Anna said she would and replaced the receiver. She got her notes together and, with knots in her stomach, because she knew this was not going to be easy, made her way to the incident room. The entire team were gathered. Anna went to have a quiet talk with Gordon. He had made no further progress in tracking down who had actually chartered the boat to Carlo Simonetti, the name they had from Spain. He had also been unable to, as yet, track down any crew members, but the shipping registry office was confident they could give more details eventually. Gordon had some information about the boat being sold in Florida, but again lacked any confirmation as to who had bought it. He had not, as yet, listed his findings on the incident board. Anna said he should mark up what he had so far before the briefing. Phil was sitting, thumbing through his notebook, and DC Pamela Meadows was writing up on the board the name Anthony Collingwood: no known address, not on any voting register, but a passport had been issued to someone of that name in 1985. Anna joined her, and asked if she would also check with passport control all the other aliases used by Alexander Fitzpatrick. Phil glanced up, as if he had overheard Fitzpatrick’s name, then took a deep breath and looked back down to his notebook. “Okay, everyone. Can we kick olf with you, Phil?” Phil went over his dealings with the Drug Squad.

  He had been given short shrift over the possibility they had “overlooked” the dealers at the squat. He listed the number of times the police had been called to the estate, and how many arrests had been dealt with; he then reiterated the problems they had encountered. No sooner was a drug squat raided and boarded up than another reopened in another empty flat. He did not believe that either the local police, or anyone from the Drug Squad, had turned a blind eye to the dealing in the flat where Brandon was killed. They had now succeeded in tracing virtually all the vehicles listed by Jeremy Webster, though a few more interviews were outstanding. “The delay in tracking these vehicles, and owner/drivers,” Phil continued, “is due to the fact that three were stolen; two more had no tax or insurance, and were used by kids for joyriding.” Two motorbike riders had also been traced, but again, neither had any connection to the murder of Frank Brandon.

  Anna looked at the incident board and then back to Phil. “We still do not have an ID on the dealers from the squat. Somebody has to have known them, so we need that covered.”

  The rest of the team gave a rundown of what their allocated workload had produced. They now had confirmation that the still-unidentified man, who they presumed had accompanied Frank Brandon, had not presented at any of the hospitals suffering from a gunshot wound or graze. The diary of Donny Petrozzo had been checked and all names taken from it interviewed but, as most of them were legitimate clients who had simply used Donny as a chauffeur, they had been eliminated. Pamela repeated that she had not been able to trace Anthony Collingwood and had no luck from telephone directories or voting registers. She was now proceeding to check with passport control all the aliases used by Alexander Fitzpatrick, as they knew that Collingwood was one of them. Phil almost snorted, only just managing to restrain himself.

  Anna waited until everyone had finished, then did a Langton pause before she began.

  “Frank Brandon’s widow withdrew four million in cash some months ago. According to her financial adviser, David Rushton, she was advised not to, as it would mean a considerable loss of premiums, but still she went ahead. She then attempted to withdraw another large sum but this time, acting on Rushton’s advice, decided not to.The dates for the withdrawal and attempted withdrawal coincide with her marriage to Frank Brandon—which I believe to be a marriage of some kind of convenience. Frank’s life insurance policy was arranged by Rushton;Julia paid the premiums.” Anna paused for another moment, then continued, aware that the team already knew most of what she was saying, but she wanted to underline its importance. “Frank, as we all know, was murdered at the drug squat. He was accompanied by someone we have been unable to identify—but we do know they drove there in a black Mitsubishi jeep.

  This jeep featured again, when the body of Donny Petrozzo was discovered in the back of it.The same vehicle, as you can see, features again: this time driven by Julius D’Anton in the village of Shipston on Stour.”

  Anna waited as they all took in the links on the board.

  “D’Anton’s body was subsequently found in the Thames. It has been ascertained that he did not drown; we are still waiting on the results from toxicology to give us the precise cause of death. We are also waiting for the same department to give us details on how Donny Petrozzo died. We do know that Stanley Leymore was shot—and here we go with the links: the bullet that killed Stanley has been matched to the bullets that killed Frank Brandon.”

  She gestured to Stanley Leymore’s name, and the red arrow that linked it to the black Mitsubishi. They had found papers in his garage that meant he had sold it; they knew the vehicle had been originally stolen from Brighton.

  Anna pointed to the post office van used by D’Anton. “Okay, here is another link: we have traces of the same horseshit …”

  Phil muttered, showing his boredom at the repetition.

  She turned to stare at him. “I mean real horseshit, Phil: the same dung, for want of a better word, has been matched on the post office van, and the Mitsubishi—and, guess what?” Anna drew an arrow from the two vehicles to the names of Honour and Damien Nolan. “Their home—Honey Farm! So why was the Mitsubishi there? And did D’Anton—who, coincidental^, had been at Balliol with none other than Alexander Fitzpatrick—by accident approach the farm and perhaps recognize Fitzpatrick hiding out there?”

  Anna placed down her marker pen as the team muttered. She continued by saying that, although the Drug Squad found her hypotheses about Fitzpatrick almost laughable, she had not backed
down. Even if he was at pension age, she believed he had returned to the UK.

  Anna next discussed the painting of the yacht at Honour’s farmhouse: it had been taken down, but not before Gordon had photographed it and subsequently traced it. They did not yet know, however, if the yacht was Fitzpatrick’s, nor whether he could have been in England in 1997.

  Anna next turned back to the widow, Julia Brandon. “She has two children: she has admitted both were by IVF treatment. We have no named father. She insists her ex-partner was Anthony Collingwood; as we all know, we have no trace on him.”

  Anna was in full stride. She now began using another colored pen to arrow the next set of links. “Julia Brandon is Honour Nolan’s sister. Honour denied ever knowing Fitzpatrick, and yet there was a painting of the yacht Dare Devil at the farm.”

  Phil interrupted. “You know, I see all these links—in fact, it’s looking like a tube map right now—but I can’t see how this all adds up to a string of four murders: an ex-cop, a chauffeur, a crooked car dealer, and a junkie antique dealer. I mean, if this Fitzpatrick is here—which I do not believe for a minute—what does it give us? Why is he here? Why would this infamous drug trafficker be visiting a shithole of a squat in Chalk Farm?”

  Anna could feel her exasperation building. “Phil, I don’t know why Frank Brandon or Alexander Fitzpatrick was there. I am trying to bloody find out. I have said from day one that maybe, just maybe, it’s not anyone in the squat they wanted-—it was something they had and that something, whatever the fuck it was, links all the dead men together and may, ultimately, link to Fitzpatrick.”

  It was at this point that Langton walked in. Anna almost had heart failure.

  Cunningham, who accompanied him, threaded her way between the tables and chairs to the front. “In case any of you don’t know, this is Detective Chief Superintendent James Langton.”