‘No signs of movement on this side of the house,’ the Hornet operator intoned. He guided the machine over the roof and down to check the windows at the back. ‘Doesn’t look as if anybody’s at home . . . hang on. Upstairs room, far side. Curtains are closed and it looks as if . . .’ He fiddled with the helicopter controls, moving it closer. ‘Yes, a light is on inside.’
A stir went through the van, people easing in their seats, adjusting their equipment.
The Hornet operator looked at Kathy. ‘Boss?’
Kathy spoke into the radio to Bren in the other van, which was at the entrance to the rear lane. ‘Right,’ she said finally. ‘First crew straight up the stairs to that bedroom, second clear the ground floor. The others are coming in the back. Let’s go.’
The van lurched forward down Ferncroft Close and came to a stop outside number thirteen. Now the rear doors were thrown open and they were racing out, smashing open the front door, charging inside with shouts of ‘Police! Don’t move!’ Kathy pounded up the stairs, following the lead pair with their helmets and guns, and sucked in a deep breath as she watched the first man kick the bedroom door open, then come to an abrupt stop, staring inside.
‘What?’ She ran forward, and the smell hit her before anything else, a gust of hot, fetid air billowing out onto the landing. She pushed past the man and saw a figure stretched out on a narrow bed. A grotesque effigy of a man, bloated, cloudy eyes open and unseeing, skin green and mottled like a rotten marrow.
‘Is that him?’ Bren was by her side. Then he gagged and reached for a handkerchief to cover his nose.
Kathy called back over her shoulder, ‘No signs of life. Everybody out.’ She took in the rest of the room, an electric fire blazing away with both bars, a syringe and strap lying on a fluffy pink rug beside the bed, the headboard of the bed decorated with decals of fluffy teddy bears and rabbits.
She got on the phone to Brock. ‘He’s been dead a while. Several days. Hardly looks like him, but there’s that scar down his left cheek.’
‘I’m on my way.’
FOURTEEN
That evening Kathy arrived back at Queen Anne’s Gate before the others and went to find Pip Gallagher. The young detective constable was at her desk, surrounded by photocopies and file notes.
‘Sounds like I missed out on some excitement,’ Pip said. ‘We really got a result?’
‘Looks promising. The man on the motorbike, dead in his safe house, OD’d by the look of it.’
‘Celebrating after a job well done, was he? Serves the bastard right.’
‘Got anything for me?’
‘Yeah, boss.’ She shuffled papers together. ‘Grab a chair.’
Kathy sat at her side and began to examine the pages Pip handed to her.
‘Mikhail has written to the papers before, once to The Times, several times to the Surrey Advertiser and before that the Esher News and Mail, which has now closed down. There may have been others I haven’t found.’
‘Funny place to write about the threat from the Russian government.’
‘Except that wasn’t what he was writing about.’ Pip consulted her notes. ‘He was writing in support of the activities of various bodies—mainly the BHPS.’
Kathy frowned, trying to think if she’d heard of it. ‘What’s that, neo-Nazis?’
Pip laughed. ‘Not quite. The British Hedgehog Preservation Society.’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘Straight up. Mikhail thought they were doing a wonderful job. Also the CPRE, the Campaign to Protect Rural England, and the PTES, the People’s Trust for Endangered Species. He was a member of all three, apparently, and a generous donor.’
‘Esher is where his daughter lives.’
‘Yes. I spoke to the secretary of the local branch of HogWatch. They plot hedgehog sightings reported in by volunteers. Apparently Mikhail was a keen hedgehog spotter whenever he went down to visit his daughter.’
Kathy was astonished. ‘You think you have an idea of someone, and then you come across something like this and realise you were thinking in stereotypes. The hedgehog oligarch. Nothing political? You’re sure?’
‘I’ve contacted all the national papers and the main London locals. Here are facsimile copies of the letters he sent.’ She handed Kathy a file. ‘I’ve also followed up on forensic linguists, like you said. Central registry has the names of two approved specialists, but one’s in Japan for the next month and the other’s in hospital having quintuple bypass heart surgery. So I gave them your Canadian’s name and asked them to look into him. Was that okay?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘They checked him out and said we can use him if the other two aren’t available. I’ve got the paperwork here that he’d have to sign.’ Another file.
‘You’ve done well, Pip, thanks.’
‘I’d rather have been breaking that bastard’s door down, boss.’
‘Next time.’
Brock returned from Hackney, exhausted but quietly satisfied, and told the team to get themselves cleaned up, grab mugs of tea and assemble for a debriefing. Dot was waiting for him with a message from Commander Sharpe, who wanted to come over as soon as Brock got back.
Ten minutes later he was sitting in Brock’s office.
‘Brilliant,’ he beamed. ‘To be perfectly honest, Brock, I had severe doubts about that Scottish angle you were chasing. I should have known that you always have something up your sleeve. I still don’t quite see what this has to do with Nancy Haynes’ relatives though . . .’
‘It turned out to be a bit more complicated than we first thought,’ Brock improvised. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done to tie Peebles to whoever commissioned the murders.’
‘Yes, but the important thing is that we have a result.’ Sharpe paused, looking at Brock more closely. ‘You look all in, old chap.’
‘I’ve had a bit of a bug, sir.’
‘Well, I think a simple press release. No need for interviews until you have some more answers.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
Sharpe got to his feet. ‘I’d like to congratulate everyone personally.’
‘Of course.’ Brock led the way to the big room where they were all gathered and Sharpe said his piece, shook hands with Brock and left.
There was a buzz of satisfaction in the room, a sense of shared achievement, and Brock had to remind them that this was a good beginning, but only a beginning. Now they had to discover where Harry Peebles would lead them.
‘Bren,’ he said, ‘tell us what we have from the house.’
‘Right.’ Bren got to his feet and stood in front of the board on which Peebles’ picture was posted. Alongside he stuck felt-pen sketch plans of the layout of the two floors of the house in Ferncroft Close, and photographs of the bedroom.
‘The body was found upstairs in this bedroom, fully clothed, with a syringe on the floor beside the bed on which he was lying. Fingerprints confirm that it is Peebles. Time of death is obviously important, but the body was not fresh. The medical examiner was cagey about time of death, because of the high temperature in the room. When pressed he suggested about three days ago, which would put it immediately after Mikhail Moszynski was killed. The light was on in the bedroom, indicating it happened at night. On the chest of drawers in the bedroom we also found a bag containing ten thousand pounds in twenties.
‘The search of the house and garden hasn’t yet found the knife that was used to kill Moszynski. But we did find a mobile phone in the pocket of Peebles’ jeans. This is being given priority.
‘The rest of the house looked as if Peebles had been living there for several days. Judging by the bottles, frozen-food packets and dirty dishes, it looked as if he was doing most of his eating and drinking there and not going out for meals. We’ve started door-knocking the street and surrounding area, including the local off-licence and supermarket, and of course the CCTV cameras in the vicinity.’
Bren paused, and Brock said, ‘Any other drugs in the hous
e?’
‘Not that we’ve found so far. But I did wonder if there could be a drug angle to this. Suppose Moszynski was using his companies to bring drugs into the country and had upset some locals, who decided to bring in an outside contractor to take care of him.’
‘Hm. What do we know about Peebles? Any gangland drug connections there?’
Kathy spoke. ‘We’ve got his record, and yes, plenty of drug connections. He was gaoled twice for dealing and his last spell in Barlinnie was for the killing of a user who owed one of the big Glasgow drug gangs a lot of money. The Crown Office settled for manslaughter. Peebles was also a heroin user. He was on drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs while he was inside. No known connections to London dealers though. He told his parole officer about an offer of work in London, and was given permission to go south for a trial period of one week.’
‘Maybe Moszynski was moving into the Scottish market and upsetting people up there,’ Bren suggested.
‘Anything else, Kathy?’ Brock felt drained, remembering that he was due to take another Tamiflu tablet.
‘We’ve been checking the cameras at Heathrow to see if Peebles was met off his flight on Wednesday, but nothing so far.’
‘Right.’ Brock stood up. ‘Well done, everyone. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got plenty to follow up tomorrow.’
As he made his way out Kathy caught up with him and said, ‘One other thing. I thought I’d have the text of the letter that Moszynski sent to The Times authenticated.’
‘Haven’t we done that already?’
‘The notepaper and signature were passed by forensics, but we should make sure the language was his. We can compare it with other letters he sent to newspapers. But the thing is that the two specialists the Yard normally uses are both unavailable. There is someone else, a Canadian staying in the hotel next to the Moszynskis in Chelsea, where Nancy Haynes was also staying. He’s had experience doing this kind of work for the police in Canada. In fact, it was he who suggested to me we should get it done. I thought I might ask him to have a look.’
Brock gazed at her for a moment and thought he detected a slight awkwardness in her manner. It did sound a bit odd.
‘Have I met him?’
‘I don’t think so, no. His name is John Greenslade, a professor of linguistics at McGill University. I’ve checked him out.’
‘So he’s not a possible suspect?’
Kathy hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose no one in Cunningham Place is completely in the clear until we find whoever was paying Peebles. But it seems unlikely.’
Brock frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘I remember the hotel, but haven’t been inside. When I get on top of things I must go and take a good look. Okay, go ahead.’
It was almost ten o’clock that night when Kathy called in at Cunningham Place on her way back to her flat in Finchley. She might have left it till the following day, but told herself it would be another job done.
Deb was at her usual station at the front desk, the radio playing softly behind her. She looked up at the sound of the front door bell and cried, ‘Aha! Congratulations!’
Kathy hesitated. ‘Sorry?’
‘It was on the news just now. A breakthrough in the Chelsea murder cases. You’ve got somebody.’
‘That was quick. Yes, we had a bit of luck today.’
Toby had heard the noise and appeared, a glass of Scotch in hand. He raised it. ‘Well done. It was definitely him, was it, that murdered Nancy?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘In heaven’s name why? Drugs, I suppose?’
‘We’re looking into that.’
‘You look tired, dear,’ Deb said. ‘Can we get you something?’
‘A drink?’ Toby offered.
Kathy suppressed a yawn. ‘No, thanks. I just came to have a quick word with Mr Greenslade, if he’s in.’
She was aware of them giving her quizzical looks. Toby lowered his glass. ‘He’s surely not involved, is he?’
‘No. There’s just something he might be able to help me with.’
‘Really?’ They eyed the files under her arm, then Deb said, ‘Yes, I believe he is in. Let me give him a ring.’
She picked up the phone and dialled, and after a moment purred, ‘John, dear? You have a visitor,’ in such a suggestive tone that Kathy winced and wished she’d arranged to meet him at the local police station.
‘Would you like to use the guests’ lounge, Inspector?’ Deb said. ‘There’s no one in there.’
‘Fine, thanks.’
When John appeared his hair was dishevelled and he looked as if he’d been asleep.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late,’ Kathy said.
‘No, not at all. I was doing some last-minute editing on the paper I have to deliver at the conference tomorrow, and I fell asleep. It’s one thing to nod off during somebody else’s lecture, but falling asleep during your own is a very bad sign. So what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve had approval to ask you to look at Moszynski’s letter.’
He straightened and his face lit up. ‘Really? That’s great.’
‘I have some papers here you’ll have to sign—the terms of your appointment and a confidentiality agreement.’
‘Sure.’
He pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and Kathy watched him as he quickly scanned the pages. The glasses made him look older and more serious.
‘Not a problem,’ he said at last. ‘Got a pen?’
He scrawled several signatures then said, ‘We’ll need to get hold of some comparable things he’s written in English.’
She handed him the file. ‘We’ve found these other letters he’s written to newspapers.’
‘Excellent.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Do you know how he composes the letters? I mean, does he dictate them into a machine or to a typist, does he write a draft longhand, or does he type them on a computer?’
‘We can ask his secretary.’
‘Yeah, that would be good. I’d like to know if someone else edited them before they were finalised.’
‘Do you need to speak to her yourself?’
‘It might be as well.’
He was giving his conference paper the next morning, and would be free after one p.m. Kathy said she’d arrange something for the afternoon and text him with the details.
‘I do appreciate you asking me to do this. I was afraid you didn’t trust me. Did you have to okay it with your boss, DCI Brock?’
‘Yes, so don’t let me down, John.’
FIFTEEN
Sundeep Mehta had Harry Peebles’ naked body on the stainless-steel table, carefully checking his arms and torso and between his fingers and toes for puncture marks.
‘How long has he been out of prison?’
‘Just over four weeks,’ Kathy said. ‘He’d been inside for six years.’
The pathologist grunted. ‘I count five recent puncture marks, but the only way to be sure is to take his skin off and hold it up to the light. What’s your thinking?’
‘We’d like to establish his recent drug history. Get an idea how an experienced drug taker like him could have OD’d.’
‘Happens all the time, especially after a spell of abstinence in gaol. His hair will give us his drug history, but the analysis will take time.’
‘What about time of death?’ Brock said. Kathy glanced at him. It was the first time he’d spoken, and his voice sounded slurred. The very first time she had met him had been at an autopsy like this, with Sundeep Mehta presiding. There had been many since then. That first time she’d felt queasy, but now it was Brock who was looking grey.
‘Give me a chance, Brock!’ Sundeep protested. ‘I’ve hardly begun. But by the look of him . . .’ he gazed appraisingly at the corpse, ‘six days, seven?’
‘No, no,’ Brock growled. ‘He killed someone on Sunday night, three and a half days ago. The room he was in was very hot.’
‘I know that.’ Sundeep consulted his notes. ‘F
orty-two Centigrade. But still, bacterial action is very extensive. No flies in the room unfortunately. A few maggots would have helped.’ He reached for his scalpel.
Brock cleared his throat, and Sundeep looked up. ‘You feeling all right, Brock? You’re looking . . .’
‘Fine.’ Brock roused himself. ‘Had a touch of flu. Getting over it.’
‘Not swine flu, I hope.’ Sundeep looked at him severely over his face mask.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Mm.’
‘What did he give you?’
‘Tamiflu.’
Sundeep put down the scalpel and peered more closely at Brock. ‘How long have you had that rash?’
Brock touched his throat. ‘Just came up last night. Can we get on with the PM, please?’
But Sundeep wasn’t to be diverted. He peeled off his gloves, put on a fresh pair and advanced on Brock. They looked a slightly comical pair, Kathy thought affectionately, old friends, the pathologist small and nut-brown against the larger, greyer bulk of the detective. Except that the expression on Sundeep’s face wasn’t comical as he unbuttoned the front of Brock’s shirt, despite the other man’s protests, and examined the scarlet blaze across his chest.
‘Macula,’ he muttered. ‘Papular.’
‘What’s that mean in English?’ Brock grunted, brushing him off.
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