It was left unsaid that, even with the mass of new evidence, the man they had been hunting for what seemed an interminable time was still at large. The good news was they had his shipment of drugs; they had blocked his access to what was left of his fortune; they had his boat, his fake passports, his children. They even had his mother.
Anna observed once more what an attractive and handsome man Damien Nolan was. Even after a night in the cells, he appeared to be freshly shaved. His belt had been removed, as had the shoelaces from his brown suede shoes. On his left pinkie finger, he wore a heavy gold signet ring; his hands were very expressive, with long tapering fingers. Anna also noticed this time that, like Fitzpatrick, Damien had a very good set of teeth. She reckoned they were capped, but they were very white. His tawny brown hair, although thinning slightly, was combed back from his brow; he had a high forehead, and his eyes were dark brown.
Anna wondered about his affair with Julia. She could understand the attraction, not so the fact that his wife, Honour had also had a relationship with Fitzpatrick. She shook her head, wanting to concentrate on the interaction between Langton and Damien. By comparison, Langton appeared rather seedy, not helped as he sniffed and cleared his throat, as he opened file one.
Damien s solicitor was elderly, white-haired, and rather flamboyantly dressed, in a dark navy shirt and pinstriped suit, with a loud pink lining and matching pink satin tie. John Pinter had a leather-bound notebook, larger than most solicitors’; inside was a gold pen, and many scrawled notes. He turned the pages until he found an empty one, and pressed it down with the flat of his hands.
Langton, for the benefit of the tape, went through the charges, from aiding and abetting a drug trafficker to perverting the course of justice.
Not until he was satisfied that all was in order did he begin, by asking Damien to give his name and address.
Damien spoke in a low cultured voice; he then crossed his long legs. He was about six feet tall and looked healthy and fit, in contrast to Langton.
“Would you please describe your profession?”
Damien said that he was a professor of chemistry at Oxford University. These were the only words they got out of him before his solicitor raised his hand. “My client is fully aware of the charges leveled against him, and wishes it to be made clear that he has no connection to any drug offenses. Nor has he, in any way, perverted the course of justice, or maintained any kind of relationship with the said Alexander Fitzpatrick.”
Langton ignored the pompous Pinter, concentrating on Damien. “We know about your relationship with Julia Brandon, and that she admitted—”
Pinter tapped the desk. “Detective Langton, Julia Brandon is now deceased, therefore anything she might have alluded to is hearsay.”
“Is this your handwriting, Mr. Nolan?”
Damien glanced at the plastic-covered note discovered in the Mitsubishi and shrugged. Pinter sighed and said that the note could have been written by his client but as to when, he could not recall.
Langton placed down the pictures of Donny Petrozzo’s body. “This man’s body was found inside a Mitsubishi jeep, along with that note in the glove compartment, which gives directions to your farmhouse.”
Again, Damien did not answer. His solicitor became impatient, claiming that, as he had just stated, the note may have been written by his client but, as he could not recall when, or to whom he had given it, he could not see how Mr. Nolan could be connected to the dead man.
“So you admit that you knew Mr. Petrozzo?”
Damien shook his head. “I do not know the man you say is Mr. Petrozzo.”
Langton then displayed Adrian Summers’s photograph. Again, Damien denied knowing him; he said it was possible he could have been at the farmhouse but, as he spent most days at college, he could not say for sure. It was frustrating, as Pinter jumped in at every opportunity to protect
His client, although, at no point, did Nolan appear to be in any way concerned by the barrage of questions put to him by Langton.
As the questioning got closer to the discovery of the drugs, Damien shook his head, smiling. “As far as I am aware, the drugs were not found at the farmhouse I rent—not own, by the way—but in another property. So how you can assume I had anything to do with them, or have any connection to assisting to store them, is yet again supposition on your part, without any evidence of my culpability or connection.”
“So it was your wife?”
“No comment.”
“Your wife visited the cottage owned by Mrs. Doris Eatwell and arranged for the drugs to be stored there?”
“No comment.”
“Was your wife also having a sexual relationship with Alexander Fitzpatrick?”
“No comment.”
“Were you aware of this relationship?”
“No comment.”
“Do you admit to knowing Alexander Fitzpatrick?”
“No comment.”
It continued for another twenty minutes; at no point did Damien Nolan answer a question with anything but either a “no comment” or a rather droll response.
Even when Langton said that he must be aware of who Fitzpatrick was, Damien just sighed. “I am aware of who he is, mostly due to the amount of publicity he has garnered, but I do not know him.”
“But your wife does?”
“No comment.”
“You also knew Julia Brandon well; we have confirmation that her youngest child was fathered by you.”
At this, Damien shook his head as if bewildered. “No comment.”
“We can very easily verify this by DNA tests.”
They received a nonchalant shrug by way of reply. Pinter asked why they were even questioning his client with regard to whether or not he had fathered a child by his sister-in-law, when the charge was assisting
a known drug trafficker to avoid detection. He had denied ever having anything to do with Fitzpatrick, or his drug connections, so how they could level perverting the course of justice at his client was really beyond his comprehension.
Langton was getting very rattled; he snapped out that perhaps Mr. Nolan only knew Fitzpatrick by his alias, Anthony Collingwood.
“No comment.”
Langton gritted his teeth. “Mr. Nolan, I find it very hard to believe that you were totally unaware, as you claim to be, of the wanted criminal Alexander Fitzpatrick: you live close to his mother.”
Damien laughed. “I know a Mrs. Doris Eatwell but, as to her relationship to this man, I am at a loss; she was simply a neighbor.”
“One your wife spent considerable time with.”
“Quite possibly; my wife is a very caring woman.”
“Caring enough to look after Fitzpatrick, who was injured and staying with his mother?”
“No comment.”
When shown the photograph of Julius D’Anton, they got the same response: Damien had never met him.
“Do you know about a drug called Fentanyl?”
“It is a very potent opiate that creates respiratory depression if over-prescribed; because of its low costs, it is now favored in medical practice. It was first used in the sixties as an intravenous anesthetic called Sub-limaze; subsequently, other short-acting agents were introduced—one called Aifentanil, another Sufentanil—up to ten times more potent than Fentanyl, used in heart surgery. There are now manufactured transdermal patches called Duragensci, for chronic pain management. Another form of Fentanyl is a citrate called Acted; this can be administered in the form of a lollipop to children. It is a major breakthrough for pain relief in cancer patients.” He raised his hand. “Would you like me to continue?”
“You are obviously aware of the dangers of this drug.”
“Obviously. You have to understand that, as a low-cost drug, it is favored by hospital administrations. Its use has been correlated with a certain amount of concern over secondhand inhalation of the vapors.
This can create brain damage, and also makes abuse dependence and behavioral disorders more
likely.” He smiled. “You would be surprised how many anesthetists and surgeons have become addicts due to their exposure to the drug.”
“So, with this awareness, Mr. Nolan—and, I must say, you have been very helpful with regard to explaining the potency of Fentanyl—how did you feel about being involved with the mass of crates containing Fentanyl, stored first at your farmhouse, then at Mrs. Eatwell’s cottage?”
Damien said steadily, “Because of my work, I am obviously aware of any new drug, be it natural or chemically produced. That does not in any way demonstrate that I was aware of, or played any part in, the shipment you appear so determined to prove I knew something about. If you wish to go to my college rooms, you will find untold information with regard to chemically produced opiates; in fact, it goes back to about 2003 when three epidemiological reports were published.”
“Did your wife also have this knowledge, and was therefore aware of the dangers of the drugs that she assisted in storing?”
“No comment.”
Pinter now requested that, if they had any further evidence that involved his client in their accusations against him, he should be made privy to it without delay. If they did not, he felt that his client had exonerated himself and should therefore be released.
Langton ended the interview on a sour note, saying that, until he was satisfied, Mr. Nolan would remain in custody.
“You have had my client here since yesterday evening. Please be mindful of the amount of time you are allowed to detain him without charges.”
“I am aware of that,” Langton snapped as he ended the interview tape.
Damien smiled at Anna as he stood up; she had a strange deja vu feeling about him.
“Are you related to Alexander Fitzpatrick?” she asked suddenly.
It was the first time there had been a glimmer of concern behind the affable mask. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s just you have a very familiar look.”
“Really?”
“Yes. So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Related to the man you may call Anthony Collingwood, whose real name is Alexander Fitzpatrick?”
“How very intuitive of you, Detective Travis.”
The fact that he knew her name was a surprise, but more so was his subsequent reluctance to answer her question. Langton glanced at Anna and back to Damien Nolan. “We can find out easily enough. Let’s not waste any more time. Until we are satisfied with our inquiry, Mr. Nolan will remain here.”
A uniformed officer led out Damien and his solicitor as Langton stacked up his files. “That came out of left field.”
“I know. It’s his looks—don’t you think they are similar?”
“Slightly. I’m not sure what it gives us, even if we prove it.”
“That it is also his mother down the lane, not only Fitzpatrick’s? If the whole clan is so entwined, without doubt he is part of the setup.”
Langton rubbed at his head, and told Anna to see what she could find out. She went into the incident room to ask Gordon to check births, deaths, and marriages.
The place was bubbling, as they were coming up with more information regarding the drug haul, the crates having been filled with different varieties of the drug, from ampoules to vials.
Phil was sweating. “Jesus Christ, this was some haul; the biological effects of this stuff are similar to heroin, except that Fentanyl can be a hundred times stronger. It can be smoked or snorted, but is usually taken intravenously, so if it was to be released onto the streets, it could create havoc, because there is no way of knowing its potency and it can kill within seconds …” Phil was hard to interrupt in full flow but, as Anna already knew pretty much everything he said, she was more eager to find Gordon and see if she was correct about the siblings.
Unable to track him down, she returned to her office to call Mrs. Eatwell. As she searched for the contact number, she couldn’t help but go over parts of the interview with Damien Nolan. Langton, she felt, had been way below par, and had allowed the solicitor far too much say;
it was very unlike him, not to have put on more pressure. She wondered if he was saving firing on all guns until Honour was brought up from the cells.
A female liaison officer answered Mrs. Eatwell’s phone. Anna was told that all calls were being monitored in case her son tried to make contact; so far, he had not.
Anna waited for quite a while before Mrs. Eatwell came onto the phone. “Mrs. Eatwell, this is Detective Inspector Travis.”
“Good afternoon,” came the brusque, upper-class voice.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
“I don’t really have any option. I have a policewoman with me all the time; they even do the grocery shopping. Is Honour coming home?”
“Mrs. Eatwell, I need to ask you about Damien.”
“What about him?”
“Is he related to you?”
There was a pause, then Mrs. Eatwell repeated her question about Honour returning home.
“I am unsure when Honour will be allowed home.” Anna asked again if Damien Nolan was related to Mrs. Eatwell.
“He is a wonderful man. I won’t have a word said against him. Damien has nothing to do with my son, and whether or not he is related to me is none of your business.”
Anna tried again; this time, she said that she could make inquiries to check out Damien’s background, but it would be far simpler if Mrs. Eatwell just answered her query.
“It’s not your business; I refuse to be drawn into implicating Damien in any of this. Leave him alone.”
Anna gave up and ended the call. Even if she did discover that Damien was related to Alexander Fitzpatrick, she was unsure what it would mean, bar the fact it would implicate him more deeply; however, as yet, they had no evidence of his involvement whatsoever. It was the note that still irritated her: the torn scrap of paper with directions to the farmhouse. It would make sense if Damien had been in London, and written them for Adrian Summers to use to drive the drugs to
Honey Farm. But he had denied being in London, and denied having any knowledge of the shipment.
Anna made a note to requestion Adrian Summers regarding Damien. She then returned to the incident room, where Phil collared her again. “We’re getting quite a lot of feedback on known thefts of Fentanyl. One has just come in from York: a guy working as a radiologist has been arrested up there. They found a large quantity of empty vials wrapped up in hospital surgical supplies and hidden in a ceiling tile. Apparently, the guy was stealing them by entering operating rooms after procedures had been performed and taking what was left over from the medical waste containers.”
“Phil, I can’t really spend time on this. I don’t see the connection with our case.”
“I’m only doing what Langton told me to do!” he said, tight-lipped.
“Where is he?”
“I dunno; I thought he was interviewing Damien Nolan.”
“He was, but then he left. We still haven’t questioned Honour Nolan.” Anna looked around the incident room, and then headed toward Cunningham’s office. It was empty. Frustrated, Anna approached her own office but, when she tried to open the door, she found it locked. “Is somebody in here?” She pressed her face to the window, trying to see inside. Then the door was unlocked, and she had to catch her breath.
Langton looked terrible. His face was pale, and it had a sheen of sweat, making it appear almost gray. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he had no shoes on.
“James?” she said, closing the door quickly behind her. She saw his jacket on the ground, his shoes beside it.
“I needed to have a break,” he said, slumping into her chair.
“Have you got a temperature?” She felt his brow; it was cold, and he shivered. Anna picked up his jacket and slipped it around his shoulders. “You want a cup of tea?”
“Just some water,” he said quietly.
Anna opened one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle of water, unscrewing the
cap and passing it to him.
He took a few sips and then closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No, I just need a few minutes.”
“I think you should see a doctor.”
“I’m fine; just couldn’t get my breath. If I sit tight for a while, it all eases up. There’s no need for you to stay with me.”
Anna sat on the edge of her desk. “How often does it happen?”
“It happens,” he whispered, leaning forward.
Langton had suffered from a collapsed lung after his attack; he had almost died and the scars on his chest were proof of his appalling injuries. He seemed very frail and his hand shook as he continued to take sips of water.
“I’ve just been listening to Phil collecting information regarding numerous thefts of Fentanyl.”
“Yeah, the medical profession has got to pull out their fingers and get some kind of tamper-proof mode of Fentanyl administration. What we’ve got coming in is widespread theft from various institutions— could create a fucking epidemic.”
“I think we should concentrate on our case,” Anna said. “We haven’t even questioned Honour Nolan yet.”
Langton pushed back the chair and got unsteadily to his feet. “I am aware of that!” He started to redo his tie. She bent down and placed his shoes in front of him; he slipped them on. “Thing is, Travis, we’ve only just touched on what that bastard intended dealing. In my position, I have to look at the whole perspective. If Fitzpatrick was able to ship this amount of Fentanyl into the UK, it’s only the beginning.”
“It would be good to get him locked away.”
“Quite, but my gut feeling is he’s long gone.”
Anna shrugged, annoyed by the suggestion that they had lost Fitzpatrick. “You fit to question Honour now? Or do you want to wait until after lunch?”
Langton slowly pulled on his jacket and yanked the collar down; she could see that the color was coming back into his face. “Let’s go in ten minutes.” He walked to the door and unlocked it.
“What about Damien Nolan?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“His solicitor’s getting very tetchy.”
Deadly Intent Page 45
