Anna drove out of the garage. There was Burk, waving her through, almost saluting her. She smiled and waved as she passed. Having sorted her domestic problems, she was now determined that she would turn over a new leaf at work. Cunningham reckoned she had a dozy team, specifically describing Anna as being in a daze. Well, she would make her boss eat her words.
She hadn't felt this energized for a long, long time—not since Langton had left her. In some way she was back to being Anna Travis, the daughter her father had been so proud of, the officer with whom Langton had been more than impressed. DI Anna Travis was not going to be anyone's doormat ever again. Anna was at her desk before eight-thirty that morning. She checked over her report from the day before, and called Gordon to her office. "You got your report of last night ready?"
"Not quite."
"I'd like it before the morning briefing."
Gordon hesitated." It's just I've not had breakfast yet."
"That's your problem. Go on, hop it. Oh, and by the way—it was a good question regarding the man's shoes at Eddie Court's flat."
Gordon flushed and smiled. "Thank you. I'll get that report done straightaway."
Next, Anna called in the duty manager for an update. She was buzzing with adrenaline and he was taken aback. She asked him to arrange for the team to gather just before the briefing so she could really get to know them.
Anna had forty-five minutes before the briefing started, so she Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick again. She had a feeling about him, but she was not quite ready to share it.
Born 1948 in Surrey, into an affluent middle-class family, Fitzpatrick was educated at Eton, then Oxford, where he gained a First in PPE— Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Skimming through the mass of data, Anna tried to picture what he would look like, all these years later. The photos were at least thirty years old. Now he would be in his early sixties, and she doubted he would still look like a hippy.
Fitzpatrick had joined the local newspaper as a fledgling reporter and subsequently worked for The Times and Guardian as a travel reporter. He used this as a cover to smuggle tons of hashish into the UK from Pakistan and Thailand, broadening his sales into America and Canada. Later, he had switched his drug importation from hashish to
CHAPTER 6
heroin and cocaine, and built a worldwide operation, laundering money through offshore banks and fake business dealings. Making millions, he lived a luxurious life, with an extraordinary ability to maintain his profile as a journalist at the same rime. At the peak of his drug dealing, he had his twenty aliases, with passports for most, and an astonishing array of phone lines: sixty that had been traced.In the late eighties, Fitzpatrick formed a company making documentary films, which turned out to be yet another means of shipping his drugs worldwide under the cover of respectability. He had homes in Spain, Florida and the Bahamas, a fleet of cars, a jet, and a powerful ocean-equipped yacht called White Trash. It was not until 1991 that he became the focus of the Drug Enforcement Agency; the fact that they had been monitoring Fitzpatrick for many years without success gave him the confidence of being outside the law.It was one of his close friends who had betrayed him and eventually caused his downfall. A heroin addict, Michael Drencock had been arrested for abusive behavior outside a nightclub. In possession of heroin and with even more discovered at his flat, Drencock had given police details of offshore banks and money-laundering businesses. But, before Fitzpatrick was to stand trial. Drencock withdrew all his statements and, 011 bail pending his own charges, he committed suicide. Fitzpatrick made another outrageous move by hiring some of his men to arrange a helicopter to lift him as he was entering the courthouse. He had been on the run ever since, remaining on America's Most Wanted list. Like a modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel, the hundreds of sightings of him in various countries gave him a mystic persona; underlined was the fact that Fitzpatrick, or whatever alias he now used, remained a very dangerous man.Anna closed her laptop and sat deep in thought. Unlike the infamous Howard Marks, who spent time in a federal United States penitentiary for his drug dealing, Fitzpatrick had never been to prison. Marks, now a best-selling author, depicted in his books his life of drug trafficking and his career as a respected journalist, his work featuring in national newspapers. He also campaigned vigorously for the legalization of recreational drugs.
Fitzpatrick appeared to Anna to be a very different creature. When he couldn't make enough money from soft drugs, he turned to heroin and cocaine. This meant he had to mix with more lethal partners, including the Mafia. Could Anna be right? Could Julia Brandon's partner have been Fitzpatrick? Could he have been audacious enough to return to England using the name Anthony Collingwood? She opened her notebook: it was imperative they discover just what monies Julia Brandon had access to. She made a note that they would need to bring in David Rushton again, Julia's so-called business adviser, as well as questioning Julia herself again.
Anna checked the time and went into the incident room. The team was already gathered, ready for the morning briefing. She was relaxed and confident as DS Phil Markhain shook her hand, then DCs Pamela Meadows and Mario Paluzzo. The mug of coffee that Gordon brought her was tepid, but it was a show of respect nonetheless. At last, Anna felt part of the team rather than an outsider.
One of the kids Phil Markham had brought in for questioning, whose vehicle had been listed by Jeremy Webster, had no license and no insurance, and the steering wheel went off at a right angle. It was a death trap on wheels, but the boy maintained that it had been in perfect working order, as he was taking his driving test in it the following day. Anna was laughing as Markham mimicked the boy's accent, and did not see Cunningham walk out of her office.
"Right, if we can just cut out the comedy and get serious."
Anna sat back and looked attentive. Markham gave her a sidelong glance and a wink. He was attractive, with an iron-gray crew cut and bright china-blue eyes. She liked him.
"Okay, let's see what we've got from each of you and then decide how we progress today. "One by one, the officers stood up and gave Cunningham details of their interviews. It appeared that, despite the many boys brought in for questioning, they were dealing with punk kids scoring a few grams of coke for themselves or trying to earn money as runners. They had only sketchy details on the dealers. They rarely, if ever, came out of the squat and most of the deals were done on the doorstep, as Eddie Court had described. It was clear that the squat had been active for many months: it was also suspected it might be protected. This was an uneasy suggestion, as it would involve the local police. In all likelihood the dealers had changed over, there had been some heavy punch-ups and many of the boys said they had been warned not to get involved, as the new dealers were tougher and had their own lookouts and runners.
It also transpired that, unlike a few months back when the squat had been smalltime, it was now trading with more upmarket clients. Crack cocaine was being sold, plus the addictive ice and heroin wraps as the more affluent punters had replaced the street kids.
The owners of the vehicles traced all said virtually the same thing: they'd heard about the squat via someone at a party. They might be scoring cocaine and crack, but it didn't seem that many of them were out-and-out addicts. This is what marked the squat as not typical. Any bust of a similar base would bring in addicts, desperate for a fix. They would often be found crashed out in the street or in a pitiful state of begging from anyone scoring. Cunningham continued to mark up the board as they gave their reports.
Eventually, it was Anna's turn. She flicked through her notebook.
"We have to bring in a driver working for a City bank that employs a user we interviewed called Paul Wrexler. We have only a Christian name for the driver: Donny. The same name came up when we interviewed a Mark Taylor. It seems they used to score from him, then tried to cut out the middleman and go direct. The same scenario applies: no one ever went into the squat, but scored on the doorstep, paid the money, and got what they came for. I don't think either of the men questi
oned were addicts—more weekend users—and cocaine was the drug of choice. This links back to the kids saying the dealers have changed over, that they're now dealing in the more expensive narcotics."
Cunningham folded her arms. "Is that it?"
"No. We got a good lead from Eddie Court. He went to the squat to score, but got frightened off". He described a jeep, a Mitsubishi with blacked-out windows; he was able to identify Frank Brandon as the driver. "He wasn't able to give us a license plate, and we don't have one from Jeremy Webster, but he thinks he saw the Mitsubishi at two forty-five A.M. This meant he saw Frank Brandon just before he was shot. "There was a murmur among the assembled officers. "We asked about the passenger in the car. Eddie did not see his face, but reckoned he had to be tall, by the way he bent low to get out of the jeep.
He was wearing smart polished shoes. These fit the description we got in from forensics about the bloody footprints around Frank Brandon's body. Whoever this man was, we know he was tall—over six feet—and that he stood behind Frank Brandon when he got the fatal shots to his head and face.
"Cunningham folded her arms and perched on one of the tables, frowning. Anna continued. "We need to trace that Mitsubishi jeep. We need to have it verified that this was the vehicle Frank Brandon was driving." She wondered if she should bring up what she had been working on, or was it too early?
"I would like to reinterview Julia Brandon, and I think we also need to have another session with her financial adviser. "Cunningham stared at her. "The reason is, she must know about the Mitsubishi. She must have documents for the insurance, and if not, her business adviser will. As he arranged the life insurance for Frank Brandon, he more than likely knows a lot more than he was willing to divulge.
I think we need to know what Julia Brandon's financial situation is. "Cunningham nodded her head. She gestured to Anna and asked her to join her in her office.
Once there, she rounded on Anna and demanded, "What are you holding back?"
"Why do you say that?" "Because I'm older than you, and a lot more experienced, and I know you've not come clean. So: what is it?"
"It's just supposition. Until I am more certain, I would like some time."
"You don't want to tell me?"
"If you insist, but I may be putting two and two together and coming
Cunningham was not amused. "Share it." Anna took a deep breath. "Okay. Mrs. Brandon—Julia—has an ex-partner. We know, because her accountant told us, that his name is Collingwood. He provided for her and the two children, who, we have been told, are not his biological kids."Cunningham leaned back in her chair."Anthony Collingwood is one of the aliases used by a big-time drug dealer called Alexander Fitzpatrick." Anna filled in all the details she had acquired off the Internet. Cunningham didn't say a word. As Anna concluded, there was an ominous silence."Shit," Cunningham said softly when Anna had finished."It could be coincidence.""No flicking way.""What 1 can't piece together is why he would risk going to that dive in Chalk Farm.""Well, we are going to have to find out. First, let's you and me get over to forensics; ballistics have some details for us. Then we visit the widow again.""If I am correct, then she should be monitored. We don't want her doing a runner.""I agree.""With two young kids, it's not that easy to just pack up and run, but if she has access to a lot of money, then ..."Cunningham stood up. "I hear you. I'll get that organized. Give me fifteen minutes and we're out of here." Cunningham gave Anna a hooded look and then leaned forward. "Word of warning. You were not about to spread this information until you, DI Travis, were ready. Well, don't you ever do anything like this with me again, you understand? You have any information, you pool it. I don't want you running around like a headless chicken, because I've heard that you have done so in the past."Anna stepped back. "I was just not certain, that was all. I wanted to be sure.""That may be so, but you come to me and let me decide; do not take it upon yourself to make decisions. Is that understood. Travis?""Yes, ma'am.""Okay. Now get back to your office and write up whatever you've got on Fitzpatrick." "It's all on the Internet, apart from a recent photograph." "Go on, get to it. I'm impressed—up to a point!"Anna closed the door quietly; she was so uptight she could hardly speak.Pete Jenkins looked up from a microscope as they entered the forensic lab. He smiled a welcome and indicated for them to come to his bench and see what he was working on."Did you know a person's left thumbprint does not match his right thumbprint? So it's possible we can get a right thumbprint at a crime scene, and it won't match any we have on the database, but we could have a left thumbprint that may produce a result. What I have here is a partial left thumb.""Good. What else have you got for me?""Well, it's off a set of prints from the window ledge. Again, we have no match, but the prints were made from a person who has, on the right hand, an index finger minus the top section."Jenkins displayed the enlarged prints on a computer. "Looks like he had some injury to his hand, apart from the missing fingertip, because there's also a big indentation on the fleshy side of his palm. Another interesting point about these prints is the width between the thumb and first finger; they used to say it meant a person was very artistic!"Cunningham sighed and looked at her watch. "So from all the prints taken at the murder site we have no match?""Correct, but if you find a suspect minus his fingertip ...""Yes, yes, I'm with you," she snapped."We have eighteen different prints from the various paper cups and takeaway food cartons, but as yet no luck with a match." Jenkins moved across the lab, to where they were examining the footprints in the victim's blood. They had marked out how the footprints faced the door of the inner room in the squat and then turned and moved out. "Large feet—wearing, I'd say, a size eleven or twelve, a loafer with hand-stitched soles. "Anna remarked that this would fit with the description taken from Eddie Court of the passenger in the Mitsubishi. Ignoring her, Cunningham moved over to where they had been looking at the blood spattering. As they already knew from Jenkins's visit, when Frank Brandon was shot, someone was standing directly behind him. That someone had to be at least six feet three and would have been covered in bloodstains.Lastly, they went to stand by the vast trestle table covered in items removed from the squat. Sleeping bags and blankets were pinned out as the scientists removed hairs and possible fibers that would assist their inquiry. The items smelled of mildew and sweat and could have been left there by any of the previous dealers, Anna thought.Jenkins stood close to Anna as they looked over the items. She didn't meet his eyes, not wanting to get over-familiar with him in front of Cunningham."As you can see"—he gestured to the table—"we have our work cut out for us; judging from the stink, these could have been left in situ for some time.""Right," said Cunningham, "we're going up to ballistics. Thank you for your time.""We are doing our best," Jenkins said, and glanced at Anna. She looked away and followed Cunningham out of the lab."Bullets fired from a Glock Meister, very nice weapon: 22LR barrel recoil, spring assembly, speed loader. We have no cartridges and we think at least six of the ten-round magazines were emptied. Mostly, I hear, into the poor chap that died. "Vernon Lee, a small solid man with crinkly gray hair, turned to a cardboard box on his desk. "This was found at the site, which surprised me; they must have left in one hell of a hurry to leave this kind of equipment behind. This, ladies, is a very expensive item. It's a Glock Meister optic and mount, with lights and lasers. I've got onto Saber Ballistic over at Caterham Barracks to see what they can give me but, as I said, it's a very upmarket weapon and not usual here in the UK. Stateside, yes, but it's costly. Yardies might be flash enough to own one, but this was a squat, wasn't it?"Cunningham sighed. "Let me tell you, Vernon, you'd be surprised what weapons these kids get their hands on. From Kalashnikovs to bazookas ...""I know, I know," he said, looking down at his notes. "Did the pathologist discuss the trajectory of the shots, because they make it interesting? I'd say your shooter was short, or knelt down, like so." He cupped both hands as if holding a gun and bent his knees. "The bullets to the chest area, fired from behind the door, went in at an upward angle; the head shots were literally fired at
a downward angle, no more than a foot and a half away from the body. There were not, as first surmised, two different weapons. All the bullets are from the same gun."Anna chewed her lip. "I think whoever was the shooter knew ex-acdy what he was doing. He looked through the spyhole, saw who it was, and fired from behind the door. Then, satisfied he'd hit his target, he opened the door to finish him off."Vernon shrugged. "Possible. We've set up a laser line to help. It all looks very clever but, reality is, poor bastard took three bullets to the head and two to his upper torso.""Five?""Yes, five bullets."Anna frowned and recalled Mrs. Webster telling her how many shots she had heard. She asked if the Glock could have a silencer. Vernon nodded.Back in the patrol car, Cunningham yawned as Anna flicked over her notes until she found the conversation with Mrs. Webster."I've asked for some Drug Squad officers to give us a direction on what they think we're dealing with," Cunningham said. "I've not brought them in before, because they could cause a lot of aggro. We pulled in a bunch of hoodies; God knows how many people scored that night. Right now this is a murder inquiry. What I don't want is those guys stepping on our toes." She leaned back and closed her eyes.Anna nodded, and checked her notes. Mrs. Webster had said she heard six bullets fired. She was adamant about how many, even describing the sound the last three shots made—pop, pop, pop—and a gap between them and the first lot—which she said were louder than the last. If there were only five bullets found in the victim, they were one short. Anna closed her notebook to discuss it with Cunningham, when she realized that her boss was fast asleep.Julia Brandon opened the front door herself. She gave a half sigh, as if to express her irritation that the police were back, then turned toward the lounge, expecting them to follow.Today she was wearing a chic black dress, high-heeled slingback shoes, and her hair was freshly blow-dried. Her body was toned and her long slender legs were worked out, as was the rest of her. Perfect makeup, elegant jewelry; she looked today like pure class. In no way did she look as if she was in mourning. Frank Brandon just didn't, to Anna, mix and match with her on any level."What do you want?" she asked."We just need some answers," Cunningham said softly."I would like some too. 1 have to arrange my husband's funeral; when will his body be released?""I am sure it will be in the very near future.""Will somebody let me know?""Yes, of course."There was a palpable pause. Anna was unsure how Cunningham was going to open up the interview. Julia was examining the toe of her shoe as it dug into the thick-pile carpet."Tell me about your previous partner."Julia didn't show any sign that this question fazed her. She simply replied coolly: "I have no reason to discuss my private life with you or anyone else. If that is the reason you are here, then you have had a wasted journey.""We are investigating the murder of your husband. Mrs. Brandon.""I have told you all that I know. I last saw him early in the morning on the day you said he died. I didn't speak to him the entire day and went to bed early. He was often out until late, sometimes not returning until three or four in the morning. On those occasions, he used aspare bedroom so as not to disturb me. I wasn't worried when he wasn't at home the following morning. I made breakfast for the children and took them to nursery."Anna leaned forward. "Did Frank drive a black Mitsubishi jeep?"Julia sighed. "I'm not sure ... He used to drive my Range Rover but, for work, it's possible.""But wasn't it parked outside your house?""No, he used a lockup garage a few streets away. I have only room for two cars: the Range Rover and my Mercedes SL convertible, so he rented the garage."Cunningham gritted her teeth as she asked for the address. Julia walked to her desk and opened a drawer. She rifled through some papers, then picked up a Post-it and jotted down the address, which was close to their home in Wimbledon."Thank you. Do you have a set of keys for the garage?""No, I don't.""Could I please see your spare room? The one you say your husband used when he returned home late?"Julia shrugged. "It's the bedroom at the end of the landing. Help yourself."Cunningham glanced at Anna as she left the room.Julia went back to digging the toe of her shoe into the carpet pile. "I don't like that woman," she said quietly to Anna."Why don't you want to discuss your previous partner?""I don't think it has anything to do with you or anyone else.""What if it did?""It doesn't. It was over a long time ago.""Do you keep in touch?""No.""Not even for the children?""They are not his, and he was never that interested, so no. He doesn't keep in touch with either me or them.""But he has made substantial provision for them?""Yes," she hissed. "And for you?" "Yes—but again, I really can't see that this is any of your business. As I said, my relationship was over when I met Frank.""You know, Julia, we can, without your permission, gain information regarding your ex-partner. Wouldn't it be simpler if you just—"Julia looked up and glared at Anna. "Are you married?""No.""Have you ever loved someone?""Yes. Yes, 1 have.""If that someone lied and betrayed you and hurt you, would you want to rake it all up? I don't want to discuss this at all, I really don't.""I'm sorry. It must be very distressing. I do understand, but you must also understand we arc investigating the murder of your husband." Anna did not add that Julia appeared to be more emotionally connected to her ex-partner than to poor Frank Brandon. "Your financial adviser, Mr. David Rushton gave us his name: Anthony Collingwood."Julia gave a deep sigh."Do you have a recent photograph of him?""No, I do not. David should not have even mentioned his name. I don't think he ever met him. So much for client confidentiality.""Is that the name you knew him by?"Julia looked away."When was the last time you saw him?""Yean ago; as I said, we separated a long time ago.""How long ago?""For Christ's sake, about three yean ago, I have not seen him since.""Do you have a contact address for him?""No! What on earth has this got to do with anything?""Perhaps a lot. Do you know if he uses any other names?""No, I don't.""What business was he in?""He was an investment banker.""Which bank?""1 have no idea. We did not discuss his business. You have to understand that when I first met him, I was only sixteen years old.""Where did you meet him?"Again, Julia sighed with irritation. "I was in Florida, staying with friends in Palm Beach. They knew him well; he came aboard their yacht and—"Cunningham walked back into the room and gestured to Anna. "Would you excuse us, Mrs. Brandon? I'd like Detective Travis to join me.""Do whatever you like," Julia snapped.The box bedroom was very neat and tidy. There was a television and DVD unit, a single bed and fitted wardrobe. Cunningham opened the wardrobe to display a row of shirts and suits, plus shoes. "This looks to me as if he was living or at least mostly staying in this room. I've searched all the pockets and come up with nothing; I'd say someone had a good clear-out before me. There are banks of videos and DVDs, a dressing gown and pajamas in the bathroom ensuite. Now, you tell me, does this look like someone who just spends the odd night in here when he's home late?" Cunningham held up a leather-bound desk diary and opened it to reveal the torn pages. "Like I said, someone's cleaned this room out."Anna looked around; from the open wardrobe came a waft of the cologne that Frank used. "Maybe we should get over to his lockup, see if the car's there.""I doubt it, but we might as well. Did you get anything?""She agreed that her ex-partner's name was Anthony Collingwood but I didn't push it—you know, bring up the Fitzpatrick connection.""Yeah, we'll hold off on that, but I want to come back with a warrant. Something isn't kosher.""I agree." Anna bent down and looked under the bed. A pair of slippers were side by side, but there were no dustballs, nothing. She felt alongside the mattress."Don't waste time—I already did that. Let's go."Anna hesitated. "In the kitchen, there are wedding photographs. Maybe we could take a look at them before we leave."Mai Ling was polishing the floor, using an electric buffer. There were no photographs on the dresser or the side table where Anna had last seen them. Anna asked where they were while Cunningham said goodbye to Mrs. Brandon."Put away. Emily and Kathy very sad and asking for him, so madam took them away. She upset too.""Do you know where they are?""No, I not know.""Thank you." Anna walked out.Back in the car, Cunningham's foot twitched with irritation."She really pisses me off. She's not going to like me when we go back for the third time, because I want that place stripped. She's lying through her teeth." Her mobile rang.Cunningham finish
ed up the call. "They traced the Donny guy, the driver. We've got an address for him, so I want him brought in for questioning. His full name is Donny Petrozzo; sheet for handling stolen goods and six months for acting as a fence. He's been clean for five years. Be interesting to hear what he's got to say for himself."Frank Brandon's lockup garage was part of a substantial property divided into six flats. There was a horseshoe drive that branched off to the rear, where the garage was located.The door was unlocked. Cunningham took out a handkerchief to turn the handle and looked inside. "Well, well, well—look what we've got here."The black Mitsubishi looked like a dark brooding monster with all its tinted windows. It was filthy: mud covered the wheels and sides of the doors.Anna found the light switch; then Cunningham tried the driver's door. It was unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. "Get this baby towed in as quickly as possible and don't touch it."Anna suggested they look into the glove compartment, just in case.Again, Cunningham used her handkerchief to open it, but it was locked. "We might have prints on the keys. I'm loath to tamper with opening it up. We leave as is.""Up to you.""If it was you?" "I have some surgical gloves in my briefcase."Cunningham glanced at her. "My, my. Old Langton taught you well, didn't he?"Anna didn't wish to get into whether or not Cunningham knew her father, Jack Travis, but he had been the one to remind her always to keep a spare set with her. She shrugged and gestured to their patrol car. "Should I get them?"Cunningham nodded as she called in to the station to arrange for the jeep to be towed. Anna snapped on the gloves, secretly pleased with herself. She removed the keys from the ignition, selected the smallest, and opened the glove compartment. It contained a torn envelope with the insurance documents for the jeep in Frank Brandon's name, a parking ticket, and a creased, folded map. Inside the map was a page torn from a small notebook. Written on it were five scrawled numbers and letters but no obvious words. Then Anna looked in the backseat.It was empty, but there was a smell, one she had grown used to since joining the murder team. She got out of the car, handing the map to Cunningham, and walked to the rear of the jeep. Due to the blacked-out windows, she could see nothing in the storage section at the back. "I think we should take a look inside."Cunningham was eager to leave."Can't you smell it?" Anna persisted."Okay, let's open it up." Cunningham grimaced as she stood beside Anna.Covered in black bin liners wrapped around with thick masking tape-was, they both knew, a body. "Don't touch it. If we open it up, we might lose evidence." Cunningham moved well away; she obviously found the stench difficult to deal with. It surprised Anna; as much as she was revolted by it, she had been on enough murders not to be that repelled.It wasn't long before police cars were drawing up with the tow truck. The jeep was to be driven to the station yard, the body removed and taken to the lab for forensics to start work.When the Mitsubishi had been taken away and the garage secured, the two women began checking out the residents of the house. Out of the six flats, they were able to gain access to only two. First they interviewed a smart, elderly, rather deaf gentleman called Alfred Hall who lived in the basement and ground floor. The flat smelled of mothballs, urine, and stale food. He complained bitterly that the original owners had not included the garage facility but, to his knowledge, rented it out for an exorbitant price. Numerous vehicles had used it over the years he had been living there, but he had not met any of their owners. He did know about the Mitsubishi, because it was often driven in late at night, and he was woken up by the lights and noise. He couldn't really recall the last time he had been woken, but he thought it was within the last couple of days.The second tenant was a woman who was reluctant to let them in. Arlene Thorpe was in her midforties, thin, and with a yapping Jack Russell dog, which she had to shut into a bedroom. She was able to describe Frank Brandon and the Mitsubishi, as she had met him once when she was heading out to Wimbledon Common with her dog for his morning walk. He had been washing the jeep down and seemed quite pleasant. As far as she could recall, he had only been using the garage for the past six months; before that, it had been used by the local estate agents who handled the rental.Cunningham and Anna interviewed the estate agents, a local firm who were able to confirm that Mr. Brandon had seen the rental advert in the local paper and contacted them. He had paid six months in advance, at five hundred pounds per month. He had given his address as the house owned by Julia and said that he would probably require the garage for year-round rental but, until he had more details, it would be for six months only.By the time they returned to the station, the body had been removed. After grabbing something to eat, Anna yet again accompanied Cunningham to the mortuary.There were no identification papers or wallet: the dead man's pockets had been emptied. He was wearing a cheap gray suit and a white Marks & Spencer shirt with a black tie. He had black lace-up shoes with navy-blue socks. His age was put at around late forties, early fifties. Cunningham asked for his prints to be rushed through to see if he had any form. Anna, however, was certain she knew who he was. The gray suit and black tie was almost like the uniform of a chauffeur.By four o'clock, she was proved correct. The prints from the dead man matched those of a Donald Petrozzo, his record for burglary and fencing on file. The forensic team reported back that someone had done a very thorough cleaning job of the interior of the jeep. They were coming up empty-handed so far, but had only just begun stripping down the seats.Cunningham held a briefing to discuss the new developments. The case was opening up, its loose ends dangling like stalks. Whoever accompanied Frank Brandon on the night of his death drove his jeep away from the drug squat. The connection to Donny Petrozzo had to be drugs. Anna would have to requestion Wrexler and Taylor. She returned to her office and sat brooding, making a jigsaw of her notes. She constantly came back to the possibility that Anthony Collingwood, the man Julia Brandon admitted was her ex-partner, could be the kingpin dealer Alexander Fitzpatrick. Langton had always said there were no coincidences; Anna was beginning to think he was right. The key, to be certain, had to be Julia Brandon.She checked that the surveillance was still in operation. If Julia was the vital link to Fitzpatrick, her life could be in danger. It was still not clear why he would not only be with Frank Brandon, but accompanying him to the drug squat. It didn't add up. She was certain they were overlooking something: the question was—what?DS Phil Markham had been monitoring the surveillance on Julia Brandon. She had not left the house other than to collect her children from their little private school and then, with Mai Ling, to do some grocery shopping. There had been no visitors."What about phone calls?" Anna asked."We haven't had the go-ahead to tap into her landline.""We should. What about her mobile phone?""I've no idea. Right now they are just keeping watch over the house. Her accountant has called us a couple of times asking for the release of Brandon's body so they can arrange the funeral. So far they are keeping him on ice, so to speak. "It felt as if everything was on hold as they waited for the autopsy results on Donny Petrozzo, and for forensics to report on any findings from the jeep. Anna went in to see Cunningham, asking if she could take off home. "Sure, we'll have more developments to crack on with tomorrow.""Good night, then," Anna said, relieved that she could get back to do some unpacking.She had intended going straight home, but instead decided to call in at the murder site. The crime-scene tapes were mostly still intact, but a couple of them were loose and flapping. The teams taking evidence from the squat had long gone, but there were still two uniformed officers on duty. It was dark; the corridors of the boarded-up areas of the estate had no lights left intact. Forensics had removed their arc lamps. Anna walked over broken glass and debris to show her ID to the bored uniformed officer. She asked if they had booked any of the kids trying to score and he shook his head, pointing to the crime-scene tapes across the front door of the squat. "They see those and they get their skates on fast!""You mind if 1 just take a look around? Do you have a torch I could borrow?"He handed over a high-powered torch and she ducked under the tape. With only the beam of the torch, she made her way into the dank, dirty corridor, now cleared of food cartons and beer cans.The heavy bolted door to
the dealers' room had been removed and taken into ballistics to examine the bullet holes. On the floor, she could see the forensic chalk marks, the white tape showing where Frank had fallen. The blood spattering on the walls was marked with chalk numbers, from one to fifty.She could see more numbers, where the officers had taken prints from the window and window ledge. Standing in the wretched, stinking room, she still couldn't put the pieces of the jigsaw together. Why, if she were correct, would a man like Alexander Fitzpatrick come to such a smalltime den? She shined the torch around, and stood in the position where the door would have been. She knew there was a spyhole in the door, so whoever used the gun had looked through it, seen Frank, and opened fire. No cartridges had been found—the gunman must have picked them up. Would a street dealer have picked up the shells? Would he care?Anna aimed the torch slowly around the room. Way above the outline of Frank Brandon's body was an old square air vent. Anna shined her torch up, holding the beam on the vent. She wondered if it had been checked out, but could see no chalk marks to indicate that it had been examined.The only piece of so-called furniture left in the squat was a wooden crate. She carried it to the air vent, climbed up, and examined it more closely, standing on tiptoe. Each square of the vent was large enough for her to insert her index finger; she poked and prodded, then felt in her pockets for a pen. She wiggled it around, and was about to give up when she felt something blocking the vent.When she shined the torch directly at the hole, she could see something glinting. The pen was no use; she got down to open her briefcase and took out a manicure set. She didn't like doing it, because they were very good tweezers, but she stretched them wide and then climbed back up again. It took some time, standing on tiptoe, and she had to balance the torch in her left hand—but, at last, she was able to tease out the sixth bullet.Cupping it in her hand, she was afraid to clutch it too tightly, as she could see the dried blood on it. She almost lost her balance as she stepped down, and gently wrapped it in a tissue. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. If the blood was not Frank Brandon's, it had to be from the man standing behind him. Was that man Alexander Fitzpatrick?
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