Deadly Intent (11 page)

"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 a

spare 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.