Anna didn’t feel like breaking for the night, even though it was after eleven. It was hard to come down from the excitement of the day. Pete was still at the lab, so she went over to see him.
Like Langton, Pete was organizing his team, listing in order of priority the items he wanted checked out. He gave Anna a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, then led her to a table with some of the forensic evidence examined that morning. “Right, the lady found strangled in
the storage warehouse: we’ve got some hairs and the root is attached, so we can get strong DNA.”
Anna leaned close to him as he placed a slide under the microscope.
“I think she snatched at her killer’s hair, because we’ve quite a few samples. It’s very, very dark—and some kind of hair oil had been used. Not African—maybe Portuguese or South American.” He moved aside for Anna to look. “We’ve also got fibers—wool, a distinctive color and not from the victim’s clothes.”
Anna noticed that the pockets of his white coat were covered in blue pen stains; he looked tired. “We maybe can get a clear print off her neck: right thumb. It was pressed so hard on her larynx it left a dark bruise. We’ll be lifting off using the Super Glue technique.”
“Are you hungry—I can order a pizza?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“Nope. I am going to carry on here for about another half hour, then I will need to crash out.”
Anna looked at her watch and said that she should probably do the same. She was more miffed at his rejection of a late-night pizza than she realized; even more so when he smiled at her and said, “Shoe on the other foot for a change!”
She laughed it off and said she would talk to him in the morning. He muttered a reply, but she didn’t hear it. She turned to look back at him as she reached the door, and he was already peering at something else under the microscope, his body arched. She was impressed. He seemed totally consumed by his work. She hadn’t really realized before how much his work meant to him.
It was after one in the morning when she finally turned in. She didn’t fix anything to eat, but had a large glass of wine from a bottle left open in the fridge. Sleep didn’t come easily, and she lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling.
Now certain that Fitzpatrick had met up with Donny Petrozzo, she wondered if he had also met up with D’Anton. What she did know from the time frame was that the deaths of both men came almost together. Turning on her bedside lamp, Anna got up and fetched her
briefcase. She climbed back into bed and took another look at the copies of the postmortem report on Julius D’Anton. The quantity of Fentanyl in D’Anton’s body was very high. He was a heroin user; she wondered if he had tried out the Fentanyl, unaware of its potency— eighty times stronger than morphine.
Donny Petrozzo had died from an overdose but, from the way his body had been found wrapped up, it was obvious that he had been murdered. The Mitsubishi was parked, with his body inside it, at the garage used by Frank Brandon. Anna was certain that Petrozzo s death occurred after Frank had been shot. She was so restless, trying to figure out what might have occurred. She thumped at her pillow, trying to get more comfortable, but she still couldn’t sleep—this time returning to the date she and Gordon had visited the farmhouse, and had seen Adrian Summers there by the gates.
Adrian had to have lied about only going to the farmhouse to deposit and then move the crates of drugs, as the time frame didn’t add up. Did he also drive the injured Fitzpatrick back to the cottage? The blood trace on the bullet she had found, they had always believed came from the man standing behind Frank Brandon—and it matched the swipe taken from the jeep.
She was certain Adrian knew a lot more than he had admitted to, and she was glad that Langton had not released him. Tomorrow, they would have the interrogation of Damien and Honour, but first, she wanted to have another session with Adrian Summers.
CHAPTER 24
Before any interviews took place, the team were given an update by Cunningham. The boat anchored at Chelsea harbor had been dusted for prints; they were confident that, this time, they would find concrete evidence of Fitzpatrick. They had also recovered two hundred thousand pounds in cash, plus—and this was very important—a charter map of the boat’s journeys and prearranged moorings. This would help their time frame. They had also found documentation of ownership: Fitzpatrick had used an alias to make a substantial deposit on the boat, and payments were still outstanding.
Even more importantly, they had found two passports in different names, but with Fitzpatrick’s photograph and two more passports in the names of the children. Added to this was a jewel case containing diamonds and emeralds worth a substantial amount belonging to Julia Brandon. It was a massive haul of fresh evidence. They had virtually stripped Fitzpatrick of every means to survive on the run. The question was: where could he be?
The distressed au pair had been questioned through an interpreter the previous evening and allowed to remain with the children. Eventually, she had admitted that the man she knew as Anthony Collingwood was the man in the photograph of Alexander Fitzpatrick. She also gave another insight into the way Fitzpatrick had organized his time in London.
Fitzpatrick had instigated her approach to Julia, as au pair. She was instructed to care for the children and report back using her mobile phone, details of what was happening in the house in Wimbledon. He had paid her for this on top of her wages; he had also arranged for her to take the children to the boat in Chelsea harbor. She was adamant that she knew nothing about who he really was, or his drug trafficking.
He was a good man, she insisted; a man who cared for his children, contrary to what Julia had implied. She also maintained that she did not know the final destination of the boat; her job was simply to care for the children. She said that Julia was a difficult woman to deal with, and could be very unpleasant; she was certain she had used Frank Brandon to cheat on Fitzpatrick.
Mai Ling could not elaborate on what she meant by cheat; she was just aware that something was obviously very wrong, even when the marriage was taking place. They now had confirmation that Fitzpatrick had turned up and there had been a confrontation between him and Julia on the Isle of Man. When asked if Fitzpatrick met Frank Brandon, Mai Ling said that he had; the three of them had been talking for many hours. She was not aware what the outcome was, just that Julia was in a terrible state and, on the supposed wedding night, had not slept with Frank Brandon but Anthony Collingwood. She described the two “heavies” that had been hired by Julia as being very unpleasant men; one did not speak English very well.
Asked if it was possible that Fitzpatrick had been the one to arrange for these two so-called bodyguards, she had shaken her head. She said that they wanted payment, but for what, she couldn’t say. She described overhearing them talking on a mobile phone; they were threatening Mr. Collingwood. At the end of her interview, she said that, no matter what Julia had said, she was still in love with Collingwood. Anna had taken notes throughout; some of it made total sense, some not. But the facts were that Julia, via David Rushton, had attempted to block all the money she had from Fitzpatrick. The four million she had withdrawn must have been passed to Fitzpatrick, perhaps to pay for the boat. Anna also wondered if the two heavies could be connected to the drugs. She put in a call to Fagan, who reconfirmed that Mai Ling had called him about her concerns for Julia, as had David Rushton, who had passed on the contact information for the men. He had, as he had already explained, then instigated their meeting with Julia. He was able to confirm that one man did not speak English well; the other, he said, was American.
Adrian Summers looked very crumpled that morning and in need of a shave. Langton put him at ease, assuring him that they would probably be releasing him shortly, but needed to clarify a few things. He looked to Anna to begin.
She opened her notebook. “You stated that you only ever visited the farm in Oxfordshire to deposit and then move the drugs.”
“Yes.”
“We have two w
itnesses who saw you on the eighteenth of March at the farmhouse. This would have been one month after you stated that you drove there and met Julius D’Anton. You’ve been lying, Mr. Summers. Now’s the time to start telling the truth.”
Adrian swallowed, and asked for some water. Anna passed him a small bottle; his hands were shaking as he unscrewed the cap.
“You stated that you did not know this man.” Langton put Donny Petrozzo’s photograph in front of him Adrian’s chest heaved, as if he was short of breath.
“You see, Adrian, since last night, we’ve been able to really look at the charges leveled against you. You are in very serious trouble.” “I didn’t do anything!” “Then you should be in the clear—but right now I am about to up the ante, and charge you with murder.” “No, that’s not right!”
“Isn’t it? Then try explaining to us why you lied. Is it connected to this man?”
Adrian took a deep breath; then, after a moment, he touched the photograph of Donny Petrozzo.
“Take a look at how we found his body, Adrian.” Langton slapped down the pictures of the body in the back of the Mitsubishi.
“Oh shit. This isn’t right. I swear before God, I didn’t have anything to do with that man.” “But you did meet him?”
Again, Adrian hesitated and sipped more water.” I was on the boat and I got a call. He said he was injured and needed me to help him out.”
Langton started to write, then looked up. “Who called you?”
“Him—the man you keep saying is Alexander Fitzpatrick. He says to rne, he needs me to come to this garage in Wimbledon, as he needs my help—and to bring some tape and bandages and disinfectant.”
Adrian went on to describe how it had taken him some time to get there, as he didn’t have a car; he’d hailed a taxi from Chelsea Wharf. When he arrived at the garage, the doors were shut, but he could hear a big argument going on. He had waited for a while and then knocked. He pointed to Donny Petrozzo’s photograph. “He opened up and let me in. Mr. Collingwood was sitting in the front seat of the Mitsubishi with a wad of torn shirt held against his shoulder. He told me to pass him something clean to put on it, so I folded him a piece of lint. All the time, this Donny was going on and on, saying that he wanted to get cut in on the deal, that Julius D’Anton had told him all about it and that, if Mr. Collingwood didn’t like it, he would tip off the cops as to who he really was.”
Adrian closed his eyes. “I saw Collingwood break open one of the ampoules. He poured it over the lint; next minute he’s got hold of him.” He pushed forward the photograph of Donny Petrozzo. “He covered his mouth. They struggled for a bit, then the Petrozzo guy just went limp; he slumped down on the garage floor.”
Langton put up his hand and asked Adrian to repeat what he had said about the ampoule. Adrian said he didn’t know what it was. It was dark, and he was scared; it had happened so fast.
Anna passed Langton a note. Donny Petrozzo had been injected beneath his tongue; the pathologist had found a hypodermic-needle point.
Langton nodded, and folded the scrap of paper, running his fingernail along the crease. “You say Fitzpatrick simply covered Donny Petrozzo’s mouth with a pad onto which he had broken an ampoule of Fentanyl?”
“Yes, I saw him do it.” “What else did you see, Adrian? Because we don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth, I swear—-I saw him do it; the guy just fell to the floor.”
“Did you leave Fitzpatrick alone for any time with the body?”
Adrian frowned. “Yeah, but only for a few minutes. I went to get some cleaning fluid from off a shelf in the garage. When I came back he was leaning over the man, saying he was dead.”
“Did you see him administer anything else?”
Adrian looked confused, but said that Fitzpatrick had been holding the man’s face in his hands. He demonstrated by gripping his own cheeks. Langton looked to Anna: this could have been Fitzpatrick making 100 percent sure that Donny Petrozzo was dead, by giving him an injection beneath his tongue.
Adrian continued to describe how he had cleaned up the wound to Fitzpatrick’s shoulder. He was ordered to wrap Petrozzo’s body in the black plastic bin liners stored in the garage. They wrapped the tape around the body and stuffed it into the back of the jeep. Together, they cleaned up the car, wiping the steering wheel down and the door handles. Adrian was told he had to get rid of the body by taking the jeep to a crusher.
“You just went along with it?”
Adrian hung his head and said that he didn’t know what else to do. He took Petrozzo’s car keys and drove Fitzpatrick to the cottage. “I returned the car, his Mercedes; I left it near his home. I then went to drive the Mitsubishi out, to get it into a crusher, but I saw all the cops around, so I did nothing. I just went back to the boat.”
“Were you offered money to do all this?”
“Yes, ten thousand.”
“Did Fitzpatrick contact you again?”
“Yeah, I told him what had happened and that I wasn’t able to move the jeep. He said to lie low on the boat, and contact no one. He’d be in touch; there was more money for me.”
The interview with Adrian was concluded by ten-fifteen. He was taken to the magistrates’ court to face charges of drug trafficking, accessory to murder, and perverting the course of justice. Langton asked that bail not be granted, concerned that Alexander Fitzpatrick might try to contact him and pressing home the lethal potency of the drug.
Mrs. Eatwell was a feisty old lady. Even though she was in her late eighties, she hovered around the officers, demanding to be shown each item that was removed. The forensic teams working at the cottage had found more prints, and a pillowcase with bloodstains, which were being matched with the blood from the bullet taken from the squat.
They matched. However, there had still been no sign of Fitzpatrick. Although there had been numerous calls from the public after all the press releases, having sifted through the time wasters, it was clear that there had been no real sighting of their man. Pete Jenkins was still working on the print taken from the neck of Mrs. D’Anton but had, as yet, had no confirmation it was Fitzpatrick’s.
As the teams broke for lunch, and took a breather before the big interrogations, there came further information from the crates retrieved from Mrs. Eatwell’s garage. The amount of Fentanyl was staggering. Separate, small supply boxes were numbered and packed inside larger ones; these had been stored in protective wooden crates. There were thousands of ampoules that they believed were originally destined for hospitals in the United States. The Drug Squad began to contact the U.S. drug units.
Chicago had reported not only a massive theft from a pharmaceutical company, but an alarming rise in the Fentanyl problem; increases in opiate overdoses had prompted tests, which had revealed its presence. Reported overdoses were also coming in from a variety of other cities, including Detroit, St. Louis, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh. The potency of illegally manufactured forms of Fentanyl was underlined as deadly: combined with heroin, the street names for it were “Drop Dead,” “Flatlines,” and “Suicide,” as well as “Polo. The amount removed from Mrs. Eatwell’s garage was a terrifying sign that the UK was about to be flooded with this lethal drug.
Langton was deeply angry on hearing just how potentially dangerous this consignment was, had Fitzpatrick distributed it as planned. He Was now certain that Julius D’Anton, having been tipped off about the drugs, but not really aware of what they were exactly, had used Donny Petrozzo to test the waters with his dealers. They knew the junkie D Anton had not drowned, although his body was fished out of the
Thames; they were pretty certain that D’Anton had administered the fatal Fentanyl to himself.
D’Anton’s death meant that the whereabouts of the box he had stolen out of the Mitsubishi would have been unknown to Fitzpatrick. Petrozzo had been in touch with his dealers in the Chalk Farm drug squat about the Fentanyl; it must have been at some point thereafter that he contacted Fitzpatrick. Did Petrozzo
know where the box was stashed? Was that why Fitzpatrick paid that disastrous visit to the squat? Anna agreed it was possible, but still found it strange that Frank Brandon would have become involved. Langton was more sanguine.
“I don’t, sadly. You could say that about Adrian Summers. It all boils down to money. Frank, we know, had said to his girlfriend that he was coming into a big wedge of cash. What I am pretty sure about is none of them really knew just what a massive shipment Fitzpatrick had unloaded into his old lady’s garage.”
“You think those two henchmen—-Julia’s bodyguards—are in his pay?”
“Unsure. More likely, they are in for the deal, and were putting the pressure on Fitzpatrick for payment.” As Langton finished talking, the investigation took another turn. Pete Jenkins had lifted off the print from the neck of Mrs. D’Anton. It did not match Fitzpatrick’s.
Pete had sent the print to the FBI lab in the United States. It had come back with an ID of a known felon, Horatio Gonzalez, a man who had ties with the Colombian cartels, and who had already served two prison sentences for drug dealing. They now had the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency putting pressure on them for more details. Langton became tetchy, insisting his team hold on to the reins and ordering that any evidence Pete was uncovering should be run by them first. He then asked that Damien Nolan be brought up from the cells for questioning.
As Anna and Langton were preparing for the interview, files and photographs stacked in front of them, Langton gave a strange half laugh. “You know, if Frank Brandon hadn’t been recognized at that drug squat, and those punks hadn’t put two and two together to come up with a hell of a lot more and shot him, all this would never have gone down.”
“And we’d have a potentially lethal street drug killing hundreds, as it has already in the States,” Anna replied.
“It’ll still come in someday, in the not-too-distant future. There’s always a Fitzpatrick who doesn’t give a shit and just wants to make millions.”
Deadly Intent Page 44
