A bell on the front door tinkled as he stepped inside, and a mature, rather intimidating-looking woman straightened up from a computer behind the counter and gave him the once-over.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning. I wonder if you have a room?’
‘I’m afraid not. We’re full.’
‘Oh.’
‘Four-oh-two’s free.’ The voice came from behind the woman, and a man, previously hidden, appeared around her shoulder and peered at the stranger through darkened round glasses. ‘Canadian?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, I can usually tell the difference.’
‘But four-oh-two . . .’ the woman began to object, then shrugged. ‘Fourth floor. We don’t have a lift, I’m afraid, but you’re young and fit. How long for?’
‘I’m not sure. A week? Maybe more. What’s the rate?’
The two behind the desk had a brief whispered conversation before the woman offered him a price. It seemed very reasonable.
‘Fine.’
The man with the dark glasses suddenly leaned across the desk and thrust out his hand. ‘Toby Beaumont, proprietor, and this is Deb.’
‘John, John Greenslade.’
‘How old are you, John?’ Toby asked.
‘Twenty-eight,’ the man replied, a little puzzled.
‘Ah yes.’ Toby nodded, as if something significant had been confirmed. ‘Bags?’
‘I’ve been staying somewhere else, but this is the area I wanted. I’ll bring them over later.’
He returned in a cab towards noon. As he made his way to the front steps he stopped for a moment to examine a large black limousine parked at the kerb. It was a Maybach 62 Zeppelin, very new by the look of it. He’d never seen one before.
Deb introduced the concierge, Garry, saying he would be delighted to help with restaurant bookings, theatre tickets and anything else John might need during his visit, although Garry, who avoided his eyes and said nothing, didn’t give an immediate impression of delight. She also called Jacko, the porter, to carry John’s suitcase up to his room, but when he saw how Jacko dragged his left leg John said he’d manage just fine himself.
He liked the room, a bit stuffy under the roof and probably unbearable on a hot day, but with a great view out over the square. He opened the window and the door to let in some air and began to unpack. The wardrobe door creaked as he hung his suit and a couple of shirts on mismatched wooden hangers, then stuffed his other things in the chest of drawers before sitting by the window and powering up his laptop. He checked his emails, then got into Google and looked up Maybach. The list price for a new 62 Zeppelin was 473,200 euros. He gave a little whistle.
Someone coughed. He looked around and saw an elderly man with his arm in a sling standing at the door.
‘Oh, sorry,’ the man said. ‘I heard someone in here and I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.’ He had an American accent—New England, John judged, and watched as the man turned and went off down the stairs. But when John looked out of the window he didn’t see him leave the building by the front steps below.
After ten minutes he locked the door of his room and went down. He spied the American in the guests’ sitting room, reading a morning paper, and went in.
‘Hi,’ he said.
The American looked up as if he’d never seen John before.
‘We met upstairs just now,’ John explained, and they shook hands and introduced themselves.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emerson said, ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I was a little confused. I knew the last person who had that room, you see.’
John sat down beside him. ‘Was that the lady I read about?’ He nodded at the paper Emerson was reading, folded to the report of Nancy’s death: bizarre murder of american tourist.
Emerson nodded with a sigh.
‘I’m really sorry about your friend,’ John said. ‘It must be terrible for you.’
‘Yeah. I still can’t get my head around it. I woke up and thought, oh, it’s a nice day, and then bang, it hit me.’
He suddenly looked over John’s shoulder and bit his lip. ‘Uh-oh.’
John turned and saw the blonde police inspector outside in the lobby talking to Deb. She wasn’t wearing the dark suit she’d had on TV, but a light shirt and pants, and she looked faintly flushed, as if she’d been running. Her features were rather lean, tending almost to severe, he thought, and he guessed that she didn’t eat enough. Deb said something and the cop turned and came into the sitting room, smiling at Emerson, who gave a cautious smile in return and began to struggle out of his chair.
‘Don’t get up,’ she said. ‘I’ll sit here.’
John got to his feet. ‘I guess you two need to talk. I’ll see you later, Emerson.’ He turned to the cop. ‘Hi, I’m John.’
She nodded, making a mental note, he guessed.
Kathy sat down beside Emerson, seeing the newspaper report by his side. ‘How are you today?’
‘The shoulder’s aching a bit, but the doc said that would happen. I’ve got painkillers.’
‘Have Victim Support been in touch?’
‘Oh yes, a nice lady called in this morning. We had a chat.’
‘Good.’
‘And two people from the US Embassy.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And Nancy’s son in California phoned to say he’s flying out here right away to help me. I told him not to, but he insisted.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And about twenty reporters and photographers stopped by. The colonel wanted to chase them away, but they just needed a picture and a few words about Nancy, so I gave them that and they left.’
‘The colonel?’
‘The hotel owner, Toby Beaumont. Ex-army, as if you couldn’t guess. We heard one of the other staff call him “Colonel”, so Nancy . . .’
He stopped and swallowed, then took a sip of water from the glass at his elbow and continued. ‘Toby wants to organise a memorial service for Nancy in the little church on the other side of the square. I’ve told him it isn’t necessary, but he’s determined. He says people want to do something to show how they feel.’
‘Do you want me to dissuade him?’
Emerson thought about it, then shook his head. ‘No, I guess it’s okay. It’s kind of him. He’s talking about Sunday, after the morning service. I don’t think there will be many people there.’
‘Right.’ Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘You know Nancy’s family pretty well then?’
‘Sure, I’ve known them for, oh, thirty years or more. I used to play golf with her husband, she and my wife were best friends, and I’ve watched their children grow up and leave home.’
‘I have to ask this. Is there any possibility, do you think, that there could be a domestic reason of some kind for Nancy to be killed? Something to do with her life back home?’
‘Oh, you mean the mafia cousins in Las Vegas, and the huge life insurance the boys just took out on their mother?’ He gave Kathy a weak smile. ‘You know, I did have that thought too, for a very brief moment. I guess we all watch too much TV. But it’s just too ridiculous. Nancy is the last person on earth I could imagine this kind of thing happening to.’
‘Fine. I had to ask.’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you happen to know who will be the beneficiaries of her estate?’
He sighed, as if reluctant to go into it. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. A couple of years ago she asked me to act as one of her executors, and she asked my opinion about leaving specific small sums to her grandchildren and sister. Her two sons would be the principal beneficiaries, sharing her main asset, the house.’
‘How much is that worth?’
‘Probably five million plus.’
Kathy made a note of the name and address of Nancy’s solicitor, thanked Emerson and got up to go.
In the hallway she saw the man who’d been talking to him earlier. He looked up from the leaflet for the London Eye that he was reading and sa
id, ‘Hi again. I saw you on TV. Terrible business.’
‘You’re staying here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re American too?’
‘Canadian. Look, I guess everybody says this, but I’d really like to help, if I can.’
She nodded and showed him a copy of the photo from Emerson’s camera. ‘You haven’t seen anyone like this hanging around, have you?’
‘Sorry, I’ve only just arrived. But I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.’
‘Just so long as you don’t try to tackle him if you do see him.’
‘No, I’d give you a call, I guess. If I had your contact details.’
Kathy gave him her card. He seemed pleasant, but there was something odd about his manner, the rather intense way he looked at her. ‘What was your name again?’
‘John, John Greenslade, from Montreal.’
FOUR
When Kathy got back to Queen Anne’s Gate she again found Brock with Zack and another analyst in the new computer suite, heads down, checking maps.
‘We’ve been tracking the motorbike on CCTV cameras. They headed north, Park Lane, Edgeware Road, then east to Camden Town, where we lost them.’ Brock took Kathy over to a screen with an enlarged map and pointed out the route.
‘So far, none of the camera sightings we’ve got give us a clear view of the bike’s number. We were tracking a yellow bike, possibly a Kawasaki Ninja, with two riders, and it took a while to see what happened.’
Zack typed in a command and a film began to play.
‘This is on the A503 heading north out of Camden.’
Kathy said, ‘He’s dropped the pillion passenger.’
‘Yes, we think somewhere near Camden Town tube station. The bike continues north with the single rider through Finsbury Park to Seven Sisters, where we lose him again. We’re pretty sure he’s ended up somewhere near by.’
‘Tottenham Green.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Brock said, ‘They must have been in touch by phone down in Chelsea, so they knew how to meet up after the murder. Then after they reached their destinations, in Camden Town and Tottenham Green, odds are they’d have been on their phones again, don’t you think? So if we could trace two mobile numbers that are used in those areas at the critical times, we’d have them.’
‘Big job,’ Zack said.
‘That’s what computers are for,’ Brock replied. ‘And I’ve got a stack of paperwork on my desk. That’s what humans are for.’
It was late afternoon when Zack found it. A mobile phone had made a call from Chelsea soon after the time that Nancy and Emerson had left the flower show and begun walking up Sloane Street, and then fifty-two minutes later, shortly after the last sighting of the single rider, from Tottenham Green in North London. The number was registered to Captain Marvel.
‘A comedian,’ Brock said.
‘Yeah,’ Zack agreed, ‘but we know where he lives. The Quarry Estate. That’s where the call came from.’
Brock put a call through to CID at Haringey Borough Operational Command, covering Tottenham Green. It didn’t take long to get an answer.
‘Sounds like Danny Yilmaz,’ the inspector at the other end said. ‘He’s used the name before. Drug courier, get-away driver. Murder’s a bit out of his league though. Want us to pick him up?’
‘Wait till we get there,’ Brock said. He grabbed his coat and turned to Kathy. ‘Come on.’
As well as Kathy, Brock took Mickey Schaeffer, a detective sergeant who had recently joined the team at Queen Anne’s Gate. He had an excellent record and seemed tough and intelligent, but Brock hadn’t yet watched him in action and wanted to see how he’d perform. He left Kathy at the Tottenham police station to liaise with their inspector and went on with Mickey and two cars of local men to the Quarry Estate, a collection of three-storey walk-up housing blocks spread out around the base of a pair of towers. Danny Yilmaz lived on the top floor of one of the walk-ups. There was no sign of a yellow motorbike in the parking areas outside, and they went up the stairs to Yilmaz’s front door. Before ringing the bell, Mickey crouched at the letter flap and peered in. They heard the faint sound of a cough, the flush of a toilet, and Brock nodded to the copper beside him, who rang the bell. There was silence.
‘Come on, Danny,’ Mickey called loudly through the slot. ‘It’s the police. Open the door, please.’
He repeated this, then nodded to a uniformed man who raised the ram he was carrying and swung it against the door, which burst open with a crash.
A cigarette was burning in an ashtray on the floor beside a rumpled sleeping bag. There was the sound of something breaking—crockery clattering to the floor. In the kitchenette at the back they were presented with the spectacle of a man’s rear end struggling to squeeze through the narrow window above the sink, his flailing legs kicking plates off the draining board.
‘Stupid bugger,’ Mickey roared. He grabbed the legs and heaved. For a moment there was no movement, but then the man shot backwards into the room. He gave a shriek as his face connected with the window frame. Blood spurted from his nose as Brock caught him and they lowered him, howling, to the floor. Brock wiped a hand across his face, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.
Mickey said. ‘You all right, Chief?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Brock went over to the sink and ran the tap while one of the local cops behind him said, ‘This isn’t Danny Yilmaz.’
According to the Ugandan driver’s licence they found in the man’s pocket, he was Peter Namono, a resident of Kampala, though he seemed unable or unwilling to confirm this as he sat moaning on the floor, clutching his bloody nose. One of the locals took a call on his radio and turned to Brock. ‘Our lads have picked up Danny Yilmaz. They spotted his bike outside the Haringey Sport and Social Club. They’re taking him to the station.’
Brock dabbed at the bloodstain on his shirt with a grubby cloth. ‘I’m getting too old for this. Next time I’ll leave the exciting bits to you lot.’
They all laughed.
Danny Yilmaz was waiting in an interview room when they arrived at Tottenham police station.
Kathy conducted the interview with one of the local detectives while Brock watched on a screen in an adjoining room. Danny was small, wiry, dark, with curly black hair that covered much of his face, which appeared prematurely aged. He appeared to be mystified by why he was there. Kathy cautioned him and asked him if he had given a lift to a man in Sloane Street the previous day. Sure, Danny said, it was all perfectly straightforward. He had his own courier services company, Shazam Limited.
‘Shazam,’ Kathy repeated.
‘Like in Captain Marvel, yeah?’
‘Go on.’
‘This bloke hired me to give him a lift. Said he’d need me to be available for the whole day Thursday, from Chelsea, to run him around. I spent the day hanging out down by the river, waiting for him to call, dead boring, but he’d paid in advance. Then, about four he gives me a ring, tells me where to wait for him on Sloane Street, and to call him when I get there. Soon after he comes running out of nowhere, hops on the bike and tells me to get going, up to Camden Town tube station, where I drop him off. That was it.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. He had his own helmet in his backpack. I’d brought one for him, but he didn’t need it.’
‘What else?’
‘Um, dark grey shirt, jeans . . . oh, and gloves. He was wearing black gloves.’
‘But you’d seen him before, when he hired you, gave you the money.’
‘No, no, that was somebody else.’
Something changed in Danny’s posture and appearance. His expression of helpfulness became brighter.
‘Who?’
‘No idea. I only spoke to him on the phone. He said he had a friend coming to London, needed someone to drive him around for the day. Offered me twice my going rate, so I wasn’t compla
ining.’
‘What name did he give you?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘How did he know about you?’
Danny looked mildly offended. ‘I have a website, don’t I?’
‘So you made yourself available for a whole day on the strength of a phone call from a man who didn’t even tell you his name?’
‘He paid in advance, didn’t he? What else could I do? The cash came round by courier that afternoon.’
‘When did this happen?’ Kathy asked.
Danny ruffled his hair, pondering. ‘Monday? Tuesday? Tuesday, I think.’
‘Two days before the job.’
‘Yes, that’d be about right.’
‘And you had a contact number for this client?’
‘Yes, sure!’ All eagerness, Danny pulled a phone out of his pocket and handed it over.
‘This is bullshit.’ The CID detective at Kathy’s side glared at Danny. ‘You’d better wipe that smile off your face and start telling us the truth, Danny. Who set this up? Was it your cousin Barbaros?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with Barbaros. What’s this all about anyway? What’s this guy supposed to have done?’
The two police stared at him for a moment, incredulous, then Kathy spread some photographs of Sloane Street out on the table. ‘Whereabouts did you wait for the man yesterday afternoon?’
Danny looked at the pictures, then pointed at one, builder’s scaffolding erected on the footpath. ‘That would be the place, I reckon. I pulled in between the poles.’
‘And how long were you waiting there?’
‘Ten, fifteen minutes?’
Chelsea Mansions Page 3
