Deadly Intent

by Lynda La Plante

  Petrozzo, a known smalltime drug dealer? He takes the drugs, and tries to do a deal with our two punks at the Chalk Farm squat, but being cautious only gives maybe a few vials of it.”

  The team all had quizzical expressions, trying to follow Langton as he walked up and down in front of the board.

  “Frank drives Fitzpatrick to the drug squat,” Langton went on, “and there all hell breaks loose, as Frank is recognized by the two dealers, and the shoot-out goes down. The dealers had paid Leymore for the drugs; we know they have admitted killing him, and there is a time gap between them making a run for it from the squat and killing Leymore. In that time gap, I think DAnton got hold of the drugs— not the mother lode, but a box containing some of the Fentanyl. Is everyone with me?”

  There was a low murmur, and a few jokes that they were trying to keep up. Anna sat quietly, watching Langton at work. He was, as he always had been, an extraordinary man; his mind ticking over so fast, he spoke in short sharp sentences as he tried to work out his theory. She knew he was treading water, though, as so much depended on the very thing he always detested: coincidences.

  “Now!” Langton paused. He explained that Fitzpatrick had possibly been injured in the shooting. He couldn’t return to his rented house in Brighton and, with Frank Brandon’s murder, he couldn’t stay at Julia’s, so he needed a place to hide out.

  Langton printed in large letters: farmhouse. He then stepped back and gave a soft laugh. “Okay, I am hoofing it now but, around the same time—remember, this is all taking place within twenty-four hours of the murder of Frank Brandon …” Langton brought up the note found in the glove compartment of the Mitsubishi, with directions to the farmhouse. Did Fitzpatrick call and ask how to get there? Did he drive to the farmhouse? And did he stash the box of drugs in the Mitsubishi? He jotted down the dates of the antiques fair; again, this crossed their time frame. “Julius D’Anton: junkie, loser, desperate for money, rams his own rundown van into the ditch, no more than a mile from the farmhouse. Coincidentally,” he said, looking to Anna with a grin, “Julius

  D’Anton walks along the footpath. We know from Travis that the couple never use their front door, but what if Julius does try the doorbell first. It doesn’t work—right, Travis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What if D’Anton takes a look at the Mitsubishi, left parked; he sees the keys in the ignition—remember, we are just surmising all this, or I am!” He laughed, then stared at the floor, and shrugged. “D’Anton opens the glove compartment, and there’s a stash of cash. Remember the two drug dealers said they’d paid five grand to Petrozzo? Maybe it was that cash, maybe not; either way, for D’Anton, it’s like fucking Christmas.” Langton sat down, rubbing his head; he finished by saying that D’Anton had to have got a wad of money from somewhere, as he returned to the antiques shop and tried to take the table, but he couldn’t fit it into the back of the jeep.

  Langton asked for some water as he pointed to the board. “Julius D’Anton drove home. To make sense of the theory, he discovers the drugs, takes them to his storage warehouse, and stashes them there.” Langton sipped at the beaker of water handed to him. He stood up. “The one person that connects to almost everyone is Donny Petrozzo. D’Anton scored from him: did he contact him? They arrange to meet, and here I am really out on a limb. D’Anton OD’d on the stuff, he’s a junkie, maybe killed himself trying to fathom out what it was, Donny simply tips him into the Thames, and drives the Mitsubishi to Frank’s garage, like a fucking homing pigeon.” There was a long pause, and eventually Langton looked at the team. “So what do you think?”

  Anna waited for someone else to take the lead, but no one did.

  “Yes, Travis?”

  “I think if any part of your theory is correct, we have to arrest Damien Nolan and his wife. We also have to focus on tracing the two missing children. They should be our priority.”

  There was a hubbub of everyone talking at once.

  Anna held her ground. “We now have yet another missing person, Adrian Summers; it’s quite likely he was just a pawn in the entire thing. There is also the au pair. If we are to take on board everything DCS

  Langton has suggested, our prime suspect is still on the loose, and missing is a substantial load of drugs, which looks to be the reason he is still in the UK.”

  Langton turned to Cunningham, who had not said one word throughout. Now she coughed, clearing her throat. “I personally need time to digest everything. I buy some of it, but not all; we need to really start ripping it all apart and get that time frame set, so we can dismiss or agree on this scenario. I also feel that we should now arrest both Damien Nolan and his wife.”

  Langton looked as if he was going to jab his finger in her chest. “No! We hold off until I am ready. In the meantime, I want a full press release. I want them at Scotland Yard: every pen pusher possible, from every crime page. We break the news on the search for the two children and the au pair—they are to be the priority—and we name our suspect, Alexander Fitzpatrick! Let them Google him, and see what they come up with!”

  Cunningham had two pink spots on her cheeks as she controlled her anger. She asked politely if Langton would join her in her office before she walked out. They broke for the night; it was after nine.

  Anna went into her office and collected her briefcase. She could still see the strange jabbing pencil dents in her desk made by Langton. She ran her finger over them, and realized the indentations were her own initials, A. T

  CHAPTER 23

  .Pete was appalled that, since he had last been at Anna s, the flat was still in the same state, as if she had only just moved in. Anna opened a bottle of wine and they ate fish and chips, sitting on kitchen stools. When Pete asked how the case was going, Anna went into an edited version of what Langton thought went down.

  Wafting his fork around, Pete mimicked Langton, launching into the various coincidences, especially the Most Wanted man in the UK and the USA leaving his drugs to be stolen from the jeep, not once but twice! “You know what I think?” he ended up.

  Anna scooped up some chips in her fingers, dipping them in ketchup. “Surprise me.”

  “I think you’ve lost him. All this surmising about who did what and where, is crap: the reality is that Alexander Fitzpatrick is way out of your reach.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Agree or not, you are still facing the fact that he walked into the station, hoodwinked the lot of you, walked out armed with the address of whatsit, D’Anton, picked up his wife, collected what you presume to be his missing drugs, and oh, I almost forgot, strangled her to death!”

  Anna pushed her half-eaten meal away. He was starting to annoy her.

  “Why this delay in bringing in the only suspects other than Fitzpatrick: Julia Brandon’s sister, and her husband?” Pete demanded.

  “The surveillance reports are giving us a day-to-day rundown; the couple can’t make a move without us knowing.”

  ‘If the surveillance guys are as obvious as they usually are …”

  She snapped at him. “They are not! We’ve got a crew digging up a Part of a field for, supposedly, BT, and another crew laying down cables …”

  “Very inventive!” he said sarcastically.

  “Yes—and costly. I shouldn’t even be telling you all this.”

  “Why not? Who the hell do you think I am going to repeat it to?”

  Anna sighed and sipped her wine; she was tired and getting a headache, so she fetched a bottle of aspirin. Pete watched her, then picked up the dirty dishes and crossed to the sink.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Anna said wearily.

  “Terrific. Is that an invitation for me to join you, or should I go home? Sometimes you get me feeling like I should have a bike with Takeaway, Deliveries printed on it!” “I’m sorry.” “You’ve got a headache?”

  “One coming; I can feel it tight round the back of my head.”

  “Ah, so that’s the excuse tonight, is it? You’ve
got a headache! Well, fine. You go and shower; I’ll clean up and get my coat.” Anna didn’t answer; she walked out, leaving him stacking the dishwasher. As she was about to step into the shower, she heard the front door slam shut. She had no sooner showered, and got into her pajamas, than the doorbell rang.

  He stood on the doorstep, glowering. “I can’t get my car out. The gates won’t open without the remote and I don’t know the code.”

  Anna wrapped her arms around him and said she was sorry. She was about to pass him the code, when he kicked the door shut behind him. “Let’s go to bed.”

  She didn’t feel she could reject him. By the time he had showered and joined her in bed, she could hardly keep her eyes open. He kissed her lovingly and she knew they would have sex. She didn’t want that, but went through the motions, hoping it would be over as quickly as possible. It was a strange feeling; her mind was so distant from her actions. It was Pete who fell asleep first, lying next to her, one arm resting across her chest protectively. She gently stroked his hair, almost as if he was a child, feeling his warm breath against her neck, and a little guilty that she had not wanted him to make love to her. That was what really played on her mind: not the case, thankfully, but the fact that her relationship with Pete was for her just as friends. She didn’t even think of

  Langton; instead, as she closed her eyes, it felt like she was floating above herself, detached from Pete, looking down at her nakedness entwined with his and feeling nothing.

  She woke with a jolt when his wristwatch started buzzing. It was after eight and she went into panic mode. The team were to organize the big press gathering and she wanted to be present. By the time she had dressed and gulped down a cup of black coffee, they were both ready to leave. As they entered the car park, he kissed her and said he would call her later; maybe if she had time, they could take in a movie.

  Anna wasn’t really listening as she threw her briefcase into the Mini and switched on the engine. She reckoned if she put her foot down, she’d just make it for nine. Wrong.

  The garage doors refused to budge. Other tenants eager to leave for work were in the same predicament, and there were heated rows with Mr. Burk, the security manager, who was attempting to open the gates manually; he could only manage to get them open a few inches before they clanged shut again.

  James Fullford kicked at the closed gates. “I should get a fucking boat! This is the third time in less than a month this has happened!” He turned to Anna and Pete. “I could fucking anchor it on the river by the time this idiot gets these working; even if he does open them, there is no way I can make my meeting in time. I’m going to lose a fortune.” He stomped around as more tenants appeared and stood helplessly, watching Burk as he tried to operate the doors, but they held firm.

  By the time Anna was able to get a taxi to the press conference, it had already disbanded, so she caught a tube up to Chalk Farm. She knew she would be in the firing line; making an excuse about the garage doors would not be acceptable. Thankfully, Langton was not at the station—but Cunningham was, and she was furious. Anna was about to apologize when the photograph of the missing Adrian Summers caught her eye. Anna’s mind started ticking. She could feel it down to the balls °f her feet, jigsaw pieces tumbling, and she had to catch her breath to steady herself. She snatched down the photograph and almost ran to her office. “Gordon, get in here, now!”

  She didn’t even realize she had done a familiar gesture: the Langton hand waft, which had always irritated her. “You recognize him?” She held upthe photograph. Gordon hurried in after her. “No.”

  “Nor did I, until I looked at it from a distance. Take a good look, Gordon.”

  He stared at the photograph as she moved around her desk, holding it at chest height. “Go back to when we went to the farmhouse, Gordon.”

  He still looked nonplussed. She was exasperated, wanting him to get the same recognition. “The boy we saw when we were there, remember? The one who walked into the yard. Is it him?”

  “Christ, yes. Yes, I think it is!” Gordon picked up the photograph as she tossed it onto the desk.

  “I’m bloody sure it is,” she said as she heaved fdes onto her desk from where they were stacked on the floor. “Okay, now we go back to the painting in the farmhouse: the boat.”

  “Yes, it was there and then not—I remember!” Gordon could feel her energy; it made him nervous.

  “Okay, you tell me why would anyone remove it? It was of an old boat belonging to Alexander Fitzpatrick, right?”

  “Yes, Dare Devil, but we had confirmation that it had been sold,” Gordon said.

  “That’s not my point.” She began to give out orders. She wanted the marina in Brighton checked out; she wanted to know of every boat anchored there for the past six months and any boat coming and going; she wanted owners’ names—and fast. “Come on, Gordon, get thinking. Alexander Fitzpatrick’s rented house was in Brighton. What if he had a boat anchored there at the marina as well? We’ve not been able to trace him staying at any hotels, but we know he’s been in London—so get onto it.”

  Anna didn’t even put forward their findings to Cunningham, but instead left the station a little later and, in a patrol car, went over to Scotland Yard. After checking in at the reception, she took the lift up to Langton’s office.

  She could hardly contain herself as she approached him. “I think we’ ve got him cornered,” she said.

  She had never been to his office before and was surprised at the size 0f it; his desk and comfortable sitting area were impressive. There were numerous family photographs of his ex-wife and the two children, Kitty and Tommy. That took her aback, as it was so unexpected: the domesticity of his life of which she now knew so little.

  “Come on, let’s hear it.” Langton sat in a large leather swivel chair behind his desk, but Anna couldn’t sit, she was so eager to give him the update.

  Langton listened as she described the sighting at the farmhouse of Adrian Summers, certain she was correct. She gave details of how, after two hours, Gordon had traced a large boat called Maiden to Brighton Marina. The boat had to give the harbormaster details of ownership: the name was one of Alexander Fitzpatrick’s aliases. The same boat was now anchored in Chelsea harbor. According to the harbormaster, it had been registered there for only one month.

  “I went along with your theory, but now I’ve come up with a slightly different one.” Anna’s chest heaved because she was talking so fast; Langton had to gesture for her to slow down. Anna dragged out papers from her briefcase. One of the things that had bothered her was the scrap of paper with directions to the farm—written, they believed, by Damien Nolan. How had that paper got into the Mitsubishi’s glove compartment? If, as they believed, Fitzpatrick knew the location, why would there be directions? Unless …

  “The white van hired to collect the drugs: what if that van was driven by Adrian Summers to Honey Farm? We’ve so far not found any trace of the drugs: what if they were taken there, straight from Gatwick, and the directions were for him to find it? The van is then emptied and driven back to London by Summers. By this time, the stuff from that glove compartment has been put into the Mitsubishi: this includes the directions, money, and maybe one box of drugs—for sales purposes, you know? Fentanyl is not a common street trader’s drug, right?” Anna fumbled with her array of papers. “This would place Fitzpatrick at the farmhouse when Julius D’Anton is sniffing around the cottage, trying

  to find some antiques. He takes advantage of the jeep sitting there and nicks it. On board he has, as you suggested, the box of drugs.”

  The desk phone rang. Langton picked it up, then switched it to speakerphone. Phil, who had been sent to Chelsea harbor with two other officers from the team, was now able to verify that the boat was occupied by a young blond guy, identified as Adrian Summers. There was no sign of Fitzpatrick, or the children, but the harbormaster said he had seen two small boys on deck two days ago. As the call continued, with Phil obviously somewhere he could moni
tor the boat, he swore. Walking along the harbor was the au pair, carrying two bags of groceries.

  Langton gave out the order to maintain surveillance, and not to approach the boat. He was silent for a few moments before asking Anna to take him through exactly what had happened on her first visit to the farm. She described how they had been lost, so had stopped at the small cottage and spoken to the elderly woman who had directed them to the farm. They had found Honour around the back of the house, tending to the henhouse. Anna went on to explain about the painting of the boat that was subsequently removed.

  She took out a map and indicated the route Julia Brandon had taken on her last journey, from Wimbledon out to the A3 and then a loop, as if going back to the M40. “What if she knew she was being followed and tried to throw off the surveillance vehicle? They kept on saying she was driving at a reckless speed; what if she was trying to head toward Brighton, and the boat?”

  Langton stood up. They had enough supposition, he said; now they had to act on the possibility that they had their man cornered. If he attempted to withdraw any of the money that he had forced Rushton to transfer for him, they could track him. So far there had been no withdrawals, and still no sighting of him, so where was he?

  As they went down in the lift together, he smiled at her, and touched the nape of her neck. “Good work, little one. You are working on the adrenaline rush. I know just what it feels like.“The touch of his fingers to her neck sent shock waves through her, but she said nothing. He was right, she was buzzing.

  She turned to him. “They searched the farm, right? Found nothing. If Honour was tipped off by my visit, enough to remove the painting, then she would also know enough to be wary about the drugs. I think they were stashed in the henhouse.”