by Rob Wyllie
'But if he did do it, and I'm not suggesting for a minute he did, I ask again. Why would he leave that message on the hands? Or any message at all?'
But as he said it, he could hear himself answering that question. Because Venables was an arrogant self-regarding little shit and it would be entirely in keeping with his character to leave some sort of calling card. If he'd done it, that was. Which of course he hadn't. No way.
But now could feel himself boiling up inside, and he recognised at least one of the reasons. He was angry at himself for his arrogance in assuming that only he could solve this case, and although he hated to admit this, there was anger and no little hint of envy that his nemesis had somehow outsmarted him.
The problem was, anger was never a good thing when he was within punching distance of DCI Barker. The last time he got so mad, bad things happened. But where was the fat arse? He must be here somewhere, it wasn't as if he was going to be absent for his big moment of glory. Yep, there he was, in the corner office, with a stupid grin on his face as he arse-licked a couple of the top brass. Two Assistant Commissioners, no less. No wonder he wasn't out on the floor sharing a spicy samosa with the hoi polloi. Glancing over, he caught sight of Frank and gave a barely-disguised look of disgust, before returning to his arse-licking.
'Don't do anything stupid Frank,' Jill said, clearly alarmed. She was smiling but the message was serious. 'It doesn't reflect well on the department, or me.'
'No, don't worry boss, I've learned my lesson,' he lied. 'Anyway, the real reason I came here was to talk to you about a case, you know, the one I mentioned on the phone. Operation Shark. The Jamie Grant abduction.'
But now his heart wasn't really in it.
◆◆◆
So that was it then. No case number today, even though he'd told her about the Kitty Lawrence snatch and how it was almost identical to the Jamie Grant incident. Ok, good work, but I need more than just some case that happens to have the same MO. That's what Jill had said, and he couldn't really blame her.
And now against all odds Barker appeared to have solved the Ross/Fox case and the brass were going to make sure that it didn't get unsolved by some backwater has-been from Atlee House. The more he thought about it the more it became apparent that the evidence was shite, flimsier than a house of cards. Leonardo leading to da Vinci, da Vinci leading to Darren Venables? Even bloody Agatha Christie would have thought twice before coming up with that one. It was all wrong, Frank knew that, but there was zero chance of him influencing the course of events now.
So this morning had been a set-back, undoubtedly, but a few pints in the Kings Head and a good night's sleep would soon see off his temporary melancholy. Maybe Darren Venables was guilty, maybe he wasn't, but there was still plenty about the Fox and Ross murders that didn't add up. The mysterious little agreement Fox had with his ex-wife that had ended his relationship with his new girlfriend. Everything is ruined. That's what Allegra had said, so it must have been something bloody serious. And then there was that bust-up with the scriptwriter that Maggie and Jimmy had told him about. They might just be loose ends, but they would need to be followed up. But at least when he got back to Atlee House he would have something to write on that wee blank label stuck to the front of that new folder. And this was a code name, though obvious, he rather liked.
The Leonardo Murders.
Chapter 16
It was about a three and half mile walk from their Fleet Street office up to HMP Pentonville on the Caledonian Road, but Jimmy was glad of the exercise. He'd let himself go a bit since he left the army, there was no doubt of that, but whereas when you were out in Iraq or Afghanistan maintaining peak fitness could be a matter of life or death, it wasn't such a big deal in London EC4. As an interim private investigator, which is how he would describe the current stage of his career, it didn't really matter if you had the odd beer or two or mainlined on stuffed pizza. And he felt he could carry a bit of excess baggage, an advantage of being broadly-built and six foot two into the bargain. Nonetheless he recognised a slippery slope when he was sliding down it, and accordingly put on a bit of pace as he headed northwards up Farringdon Street.
He reflected that today's mission was likely to prove difficult to execute, if not impossible, a pattern in his employment with Miss Maggie Bainbridge he was beginning to recognise. Generally, her mission statements were terse to the point of non-existent. Get a copy of the pre-nup from Benjamin Fox or break into a locked down crime-scene and see what you can find, or this one, ask the disgraced Blake McCartney to sign an affidavit saying he did actually draw up that bloody pre-nup in the way Melody said. God, even in Helmand they sometimes gathered you in a room and gave you an hour's briefing in advance of sending you into action. Though to be fair, that would be the exception not the rule. But there was no arguing with the fact that Maggie Bainbridge would have made Major-General if she'd been in the army. Dish out the orders and let the poor bloody other ranks work out the details, that was the modus operandi. She was a natural.
Still, his mood remained upbeat as he approached the foreboding gates of the Victorian prison. Sure, the chances of success were two-thirds of not very much at all, but it would be fascinating in itself to see the inside of a jail, especially one that had opened as long ago as eighteen forty-eight, and McCartney sounded like an interesting character.
Signage directed visitors to a stark reception room where uniformed staff sat behind a glass panel, ignoring the assembling friends and family whilst they stared morosely at their computer screens. Every few minutes a name would be flashed up on a display screen and a guard would appear to lead the visitor into the search suite, where hi-tech scanning equipment was combined with a low-tech and highly invasive manual search by the assigned prison officer. It took nearly twenty minutes before the name 'Stewart, James' came up. A few seconds later, the automated door clicked and opened, and a hatchet-faced female officer emerged from the back office. At least, she was hatchet-faced until she caught sight of Jimmy.
'Nice day for a visit,' she said breezily, as she led him into a small windowless room, the walls painted a dull grey and harshly illuminated by a bank of fluorescent tubes. 'My name's Amanda Fletcher by the way. Miss Amanda Fletcher. I hope you don't mind being searched by a female officer today, but you see we're a bit short-staffed.' By her expression he gathered that whatever he thought about it, she herself was very much looking forward to it.
She handed him a large transparent plastic bag. 'Everything goes in there. Keys, coins, your wallet, your phone. Oh yes, and your trouser belt of course.' He was just waiting for her to offer to remove it for him.
He estimated her to be in her early forties, quite attractive but hard-looking, her hair bleach-blonde and eyes heavily-lined with black mascara. She looked as if she worked out too, her figure well-defined under the tight-fitting white shirt. A younger version of Melody Montague, that's who she reminded him of, and probably just as dangerous. Especially as it seemed they were to be on first-name terms.
And was it his imagination, but was the body search taking longer than strictly necessary? As she ran her hands methodically over his body - too methodically he thought, reaching places where he would have preferred her not to go - she kept up a running commentary describing conditions past and present in the prison. To Jimmy's amusement, it sounded rather like the chat you got from your tour rep on the airport coach on the way to your summer-sun hotel.
'Drones is the big thing at the moment,' she was saying. 'They can fly in all sorts with them. Drugs, mobiles, knives, razors, you name it. They even got a gun in once, can you believe? Can't seem to stop them, no matter what we does. And violence, there's a lot of trouble in this prison, I can tell you. We're in the top five in the country for that. Stabbings, slashings, we get it all here.' She made it sound like a badge of honour.
'That's why our searches have to be so thorough of course,' she said, in belated apology.
'That's ok Amanda, I understand.'
'C
ourse you probably don't need to worry so much in B Block. That's where your McCartney is. Mainly white collar, pimps, fraudsters and con-men and the like.'
'And bent solicitors,' Jimmy said.
'Yeah, exactly. We don't get no trouble with them because we just threaten them with a move to A Block.'
'A Block?'
'Yeah, that's right. That's where all the hard men are kept. Murderers and gangsters, every one of them. Mental cases. I wouldn't like to work there, although of course they don't allow no female staff.'
But now it seemed that the search was completed to her satisfaction. She smiled at him and said,
'Well, you're clean. So this is your first time, right?'
Jimmy nodded.
'Right, well you keep your hands on the table where the officers can see them and no touching, ok?' She gave him a lascivious wink. 'Although I think Mr McCartney is going to have his work cut out to keep his hands off you. Yeah, I can see you being his night-time fantasy for the next twelve months at least.'
Brilliant, so that was another thing that Maggie had failed to mention in the mission briefing.
◆◆◆
Fletcher had escorted him to a set of double doors with a sign above that read 'Gymnasium.' Observing his puzzled look, she said, 'Yeah, it ain't been a gym for more than twenty years. The prisoners have got a fancy place now over in the new East Wing. State of the art of course, whilst us guards get a load of old shit stuff over in our welfare building.' The bitterness sounded well-rehearsed, a grievance that he expected was shared with anyone who would listen. 'So anyways, I'll just drop you off with Andy at the door and then I'll be back to fetch you when you're done. You only get twenty minutes because you're not family.' She gave him a cheeky smile. 'And remember, no holding hands.'
The room looked just as he imagined, with wooden parquet flooring and narrow windows that were set just below the high ceiling. It reminded him exactly of his old school assembly hall back in Glasgow. Three prison officers were hanging around just inside the doorway, chatting and laughing.
'I'm looking for Blake McCartney please,' Jimmy asked the one Amanda had identified as Andy.
'Sure, no problem mate,' he answered pleasantly, and led him to a table in the middle of the room occupied by a slightly-built man who looked well into his sixties although Jimmy knew he had barely turned fifty.
'Well well McCartney, here's a turn up for the books. Someone actually wants to see you.'
'Thank you Mr Smith,' he replied, without apparent rancour, then nodded at Jimmy. 'Sit down please, make yourself comfortable. I'd shake your hand, but it's not allowed. He's a decent screw that Andy Smith actually. Slips me the odd fag and gets my mobile topped up although he charges the earth for it. We're not supposed to have them of course.' From his lack of discretion, Jimmy assumed that the authorities must turn a blind eye to these activities. Probably preserving the peace was given higher priority and he didn't blame them for that.
He placed his hands in front of him as he had been instructed then said, 'I think you might have had a note from Melody, explaining what I wanted to talk to you about?'
'Oh it's Melody now is it?' he said bitterly. 'So now she's Miss La-De-Dah? But I suppose old Blake's not good enough for Roxy now. She was always Roxy to me, ever since we were kids. She's a Kemp you know. Roxy Kemp. Did you know that?'
'Yes I did,' Jimmy said, 'but I don't know much about the family.'
'Yeah well I do,' he said, reducing his voice to a whisper. 'If you knew what I done for them Kemps over the years. Got them out of all sorts of scrapes I did, and risking my reputation all the time.' Jimmy thought it unlikely that he had much of a reputation to risk, but he didn't say anything. In any case, McCartney was still in full flow.
'But do you think they supported me when I got into my little bit of difficulty? Did they hell. All I had was some cash flow problems which a few grand would have sorted out, but did they put their hands in their pockets, them Kemps? Did they hell. And so here I am, banged up for five years, and me an innocent man as well. It's a travesty of justice, that's all I can say. A travesty.'
Jimmy was conscious of the limited time he had to complete his mission and was already concerned that McCartney's venting of his grievances with the Kemps might easily take up the entire twenty minutes.
'Look Mr McCartney...'
'Blake, please.' He smiled what he no doubt imagined was a seductive smile, which caused Jimmy to mentally grimace, although he managed to hide it.
'Aye, so Blake, what I wanted to talk to you about is the pre-nuptial agreement you drew up for Melody - I mean Roxy - and her husband Benjamin Fox. About four years ago it would have been. I wondered if you remember it.'
He screwed up his face, stroking his chin. 'Let me think. A pre-nuptial did you say? I used to do a lot of them, make no mistake. A lot of my clients were minted you see, and well, you need to protect yourself if you're in that income bracket, don't you? But Roxy and that Fox guy? Yeah, course I remember that one. Sure I do. So what can I help you with in that regard?'
Jimmy gave him a sharp look. 'Well according to Roxy, it's gone missing. You told her you misplaced it during what you call your business difficulties. Is that right?'
He averted his eyes, staring down at the floor. 'Did I? Well you know, that time was all a bit of a blur I'm afraid. We had some stuff I thought we'd better get rid of quick, and, well to tell the truth I think it got mixed up with all that.'
'Brilliant,' Jimmy said wryly. 'So let me ask, do you remember the broad terms of that deal? I assume you do, given you had no trouble remembering drawing the thing up in the first place.'
He nodded. 'Yeah, I remember it no trouble. It was about a three quarters split in favour of Mr Fox. Or something along those lines. Yeah, that was it.'
'Are you sure?' Jimmy said, surprised. 'Because Roxy says otherwise. The exact opposite in fact.'
He shrugged. 'I can't help that, can I? She must have misremembered, that's all.'
'But she's quite clear about it. It was signed in your office, in the presence of two witnesses, and Benjamin himself of course.' He didn't tell him that Charles Grant had corroborated Fox's version of the bloody document, although they were still waiting to see the proof of that.
McCartney gave a short laugh. 'Yeah, but he's dead isn't he? Nasty sod. Good riddance to him, that's what I say.'
'So you knew him did you?'
Blake nodded. 'Yeah, a bit. As I said, me and Roxy go way back. I was at the wedding as it happened.'
'And I'm taking it you didn't like him?'
'Yeah, you could say that,' McCartney answered, his tone sardonic. 'Up himself and always on the piss too. I've no idea why she married him. In fact I thought he might be gay, 'cos you should have seen the way he used to look at me. And we always know, don't we?'
Having some knowledge of the kind of nights Fox had been having with Allegra Ross, Jimmy had to question the accuracy of McCartney's analysis. But irrespective of that, it was pretty clear that the conversation wasn't going anywhere. At least not in a direction that would please their client Miss Montague.
He smiled, adopting a conciliatory tone.
'Whether our boy Benjy preferred men or women is not really any concern of mine Blake. I just came here to try and sort out the pre-nup business and you've helped me do that, so thanks.' Not that he had helped at all, but there was nothing to be gained by saying it.
McCartney relaxed back in his seat, evidently glad that the subject of the conversation was about to change.
'Well, that's ok then. So, if we're done... I'm a busy man you know.' He gave a low cackle at his own joke.
'Just one more thing before I go,' Jimmy said pleasantly. 'Did you know Kylie Ward?'
His eyes narrowed. 'Who?'
'Kylie Ward. She was the young woman who was the other witness to the agreement.'
He gave Jimmy a wary look. 'She's dead too, isn't she? An accident, just a few months ago. I think I read about it.'
'So you remember her then?' Jimmy said quietly.
'Not really. I think we only met that once.'
And then something came to Jimmy, something he and Maggie should have thought of before.
'Blake, has it occurred to you how convenient it was for Fox that Kylie's not around to give her version of events?'
'What're you suggesting?' he blustered, his voice rising to a shout. 'I don't know nothing about that, and that's the truth.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy could see Andy the prison officer approaching them, alerted by McCartney's eruption.
'Right sir,' he said politely but firmly. 'Time to wrap up. Come with me please.'
As Jimmy got up to leave, McCartney, evidently regretting his outburst, said.
'Look I'm sorry you didn't get what you came for. It ain't my fault if the agreement got misplaced. But it was nice Jimmy. I don't get many visitors. You're welcome to come back any time you want.' His eyes were pleading, like a dog begging for walkies.
'Sure, that would be great,' Jimmy lied. 'So take care, see you again mate.'
Prison Officer Amanda Fletcher was waiting for him in the hallway as scheduled.
'This way,' she said, pointing to the large sign marked exit. 'Sad bastard isn't he? All we ever hear from him is how he's innocent and how the Kemps done him down. I expect you got some of that, did you?'
Jimmy laughed. 'Aye, big time. He would have gone on all day if I'd let him I think.'
'Yeah, he would have. But I bet that was a treat for him. The poor guy doesn't get many visitors. His old mum came down from Liverpool a few weeks ago, but that's about it. Although strange to say he did get a visit from that one from Bow Road a couple of months back. You know, the soap on telly? Said they were old mates.'
