"I want to get out, take the kids, and just leave."
Rushton sighed, and then there was the tapping sound of a pen against the desk.
"Julia, stay put. This will all be ironed out in a few weeks, but if you run off to God knows where, it's going to look suspicious."
"You don't know what he's like."
"No, I don't, but I can't see what he can do. We worked this entire scenario out so he can't get his hands on your money. You already paid out four million."
Julia was crying.
"I'm just so scared,"
she repeated.
The tap-tap of the pen on the desk started again.
"Yes, but Fagan got you bodyguards, what can he do? Plus you've had police all over you like a rash; you think he doesn't know that?"
"I'm scared he'll take the children."
"So pack them off somewhere."
There was then a long conversation about where she could send the girls for their safety. She said she did not have any family, apart from her sister. At this point, Langton and Anna leaned forward, as Julia said she couldn't leave her children with Honour; she would be the
last person Julia could trust. Rushton suggested she send them with Mai Ling to Disney World for a week or so. Whatever he suggested put Julia in an even more panicky mode. She wouldn't be parted from them, and when Rushton said he was sure "he" wouldn't hurt his own children, this made Julia really angry.
"They are not his, for Christ's sake! You don't understand; he just wanted kids to open fucking bank accounts in their names. He used them like he has used me."
Rushton sighed. They were going around in circles. He then asked if he had threatened her at the house.
"He's not likely to show himself there, is he? He just calls me."
"Where is he?"
Again, Langton and Anna leaned forward.
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, of course I fucking don't!"
she screamed at him.
Rushton tried to calm her, and said he would call a taxi to take her home. She became abusive, saying she was with her bodyguards, who were waiting downstairs. They then exchanged a few remarks and Rushton was heard walking her to the door. There was the sound of it opening and closing; next, they heard Rushton give a long sigh and swear under his breath.
Drawers were banged open and shut; then he used his intercom to call a secretary, but there was no reply. He swore again. They heard the door opening, as he called out for Serina. There was silence, then he slammed the door shut.
"Fucking bitch. I said I was working late,"
he muttered.
A pause and there was the sound of the door being opened again.
"I was wondering where you
—" Rushton stopped midsentence.The door closed.
"Who are you? How did you get in?"
The voice was deep, upper-class, with a heavy smoker's gravel tone.
"You mind if I sit down?"
Langton glanced at Anna: this was more than they could have bargained for.
"Yes, I do mind. I want to know how you got into my office."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Put the phone down. Now, Mr. Rushton,
you have some explaining to do. You have been playing games with my business. You know who I am, Mr. Rushton, and I want my money."
"Jesus Christ, listen to me—I had no knowledge that your wife's finances were not—"
"She's not my wife."
"I acted in good faith at all times. I can explain everything, every single transaction; in fact, I've got the files in front of me, and you are—"
The tape whirred and then ground to a halt. Langton closed his eyes with frustration. "I don't fucking believe this."
As if on cue, George, the night watchman, returned with the video recordings off the security cameras. He said they might not be good quality as they reused the tapes. "These are real old tapes; been used for about six months."
"Never mind," Langton said, eager to get George out of the office.
"There's a doctor and police officers in reception."
"Show them into Mr. Rushton's office, please, George. Anna, go and talk to them."
Anna wanted to see what was on the videotape, but Langton waved his hand impatiently. As she left she saw him crouch down in front of the TV set to insert the tape.
She introduced herself to the team of SOCOs and the doctor called to check over Rushton. They had to have him pronounced dead at the site before his body could be taken to the mortuary. By the time Anna had led them into Rushton's office, Langton was waiting.
"There's no sound, but the guy walked in about two seconds after Julia Brandon left the building. He slid in after her before the main door closed. We lose him for a few minutes, then he appears on the stairs outside Rushton's office, chatting to a blond woman."
"The receptionist."
"He then goes out of shot, heading down the corridor to Rushton's office."
"Let me see him." Anna could feel her heart racing as she sat beside Langton.
He was as tall as they knew Fitzpatrick to be, at least six feet four— and slender, with quite broad shoulders, but there was no ponytail.
What they could see of his hair was dark brown, but he wore a cap pulled quite low over his face. He was wearing a long Harris tweed coat, jeans, and cowboy boots. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he headed for the lift.
The next sighting was on the stairwell outside Rushton's office. Again, they had no clear shot of his face; he was looking toward the receptionist and appeared very relaxed, shaking her hand, as she turned to direct him through the reception doors into Rushton's office complex.
The next footage was of the same man entering Rushton's office. Though they had only his back, they could see him talking and gesturing. They could also see the fear in Rushton's face. Both Anna and Langton knew what was being said because they had listened to the tape; watching it in mute was fascinating. He was so tall, he almost blocked out the whole picture; then he started to unbutton his coat. Still talking, he casually eased the tweed coat off; beneath it was a black polo-neck sweater. He held the coat in his right hand and then half turned; he walked away from the desk to toss the coat aside, but even full face to camera, with the baseball cap pulled down so low they couldn't see all of it.
"Is it him?" Langton asked softly.
"I don't know, his nose doesn't look the same, nor his mouth." His cheekbones were sculptured, and he had a dimple in the crevice of his chin.
"Shit, it has to be him," Langton said.They still had no clear picture of their suspect.
Anna nodded, watching the man as he caught sight of the security camera. He was so tall, he could reach up to it; he didn't wrench it from the wall, but turned it away from being focused on Rushton's desk. The screen went blank.
"That's it," Langton said.
Anna rewound the tape to look again at the head shot. "We could get photo analysis to check this against the ones on the Web site and the one from Mai Ling. It would prove it definitely is him."
"It's him, Anna. Now you see what I mean about this guy being
fucking dangerous. He just walked in there, off the bloody streets, dressed like some old Harrovian gent, mixed with old groover. That is a man wanted right across the States, and wanted in this country for thirty-odd years."
"Do you think he got what he came for?"
"Who knows?" Langton yawned suddenly, and looked at his watch. "It's three o'clock. I'm going home."
They left the building together. Langton pulled up his collar as he turned to look back at Anna. "You did it again, didn't you? It's hard for me to reprimand you, but you have got to stop this. You cannot skive off to do your own fucking investigation, Anna. You'll get into deep water, not just with me; one of these days, if you don't straighten out, you'll get more than you bargained for, and you won't have anyone to help you. This man is very dangerous. How many times do I have to underline that, eh?"
"I sometimes find it hard to take your lectures, knowing what I know about you."
He swung around. "Don't go there. Not now, not ever."
"So it's all right for you, but not—"
His face was taut with anger. "You're not me, sweetheart. You don't have my experience or my ability to take care of myself."
"Oh, I know that. It wasn't me who almost died, but it was me who had to pick up the pieces." She was so close to him. The anger in his eyes would at one time have made her weak at the knees, but she wouldn't look away.
He seemed taken aback by her refusal to retreat, and stepped away. "I'd better watch my back, hadn't I?"
"I would never disclose to anyone what I know about you, but sometimes you make me angry. I don't think you give me credit where it is due. I've grown up, James. I'm aware that I should protect myself. It won't happen again. I apologize for acting without taking precaution."
He turned away from her and hitched the collar of his coat higher, almost hiding his face. "I loved you as much as I could, Anna."
"Good night, sir."
She turned and walked away from him, even though she was heading
295
in the wrong direction. She needed to put as much distance between them as possible.
She had loved him too, but, at last, she really felt that it was history on her part too. In the past, she would never have been able to stand up to him as she had just done. She also knew that she had to buckle down and not act impulsively; it was going to be hard but if she put a foot out of line again, Langton would make sure it went on record, and he could really damage her career.
CHAPTER 18
The murder of David Rushton gave Cunningham more headaches. As the information filtered into the incident room, the fact that their prime suspect was without doubt in the UK made the pressure go up a few notches. The shot of Fitzpatrick's face from the CCTV footage was now pinned at the center of the board. Anna had pored over the blurred photo and tried to match it with the ones off the Web site. The man appeared to look much younger than she had thought. Perhaps he had undergone extensive plastic surgery around the lips and mouth, and it would have helped if they had got a clear picture of his eyes and nose. Until she could get the lab to confirm by matching old and latest pictures, she couldn't be 100 percent certain.
It was imperative they get a detailed account of each murder. She had the case files lined up on her desk: Donny Petrozzo, Stanley Leymore, Julius D'Anton, and Frank Brandon. She would need to spend time with the pathologist who had done the postmortem on each man. At the same time, now armed with the latest photograph of Fitzpatrick, she would need to reinterview Silas Roach and his friend Delroy Planter. Their statement that Donny Petrozzo was Frank Brandon's killer could be a lie.
Anna chewed the end of her pencil so hard, she had fine wood splinters in her mouth and spat them out. If they were to arrest Fitzpatrick, the evidence was still sketchy; they suspected he was involved in the murder of Frank Brandon, Julius D'Anton, and, obviously, David Rushton, but whether or not he killed Donny Petrozzo and Stanley Leymore was questionable. As Anna chewed another pencil, she began to tap her foot against the side of her desk. What they did know was that Donny Petrozzo, Julius D'Anton, and now possibly Rushton had all been killed with an overdose of Fentanyl.
Anna wrote down the word
Fentanyl
and underlined it. They still had no firm evidence that Fitzpatrick was shipping it into England; even if Delroy and Silas identified him, they would be dependent on the statements of two drug dealers. They had found no trace of it in the farmhouse, nor in the property at Wimbledon.
She sat back in her chair. Having only had a few hours' sleep the previous night, she felt worn out. She rubbed at her head and tossed her chewed pencil into the waste bin. They had been running around like scalded rabbits, as one victim turned up after another. Unless they got something out of the two drug dealers, they could lose the case into one of the warrens they had created. She returned to the murder of Frank Brandon, and this time underlined the Mitsubishi. They had to establish the date Brandon came into possession of it. They knew it had been parked in the rented garage at Wimbledon; they also knew it had been stolen, and then passed on by Stanley Leymore.
Anna went to speak to Cunningham, but Phil was just coming out of her office. "She's not in until twelve; personal problems."
"Shit!"
"Yeah, well, we just plow on. We are bringing in Julia Brandon, as she requested."
"What about Honour and Darnien Nolan? Are they being brought in?"
Phil shrugged. "It'd be more convenient if we went and questioned them at their nearest station, as there's still an ongoing search."
"I'll do it."
Phil looked at her. "I'm waiting on the forensic team to give me a result on the bed linen we took from the farm. If it's Fitzpatrick's, we can arrest them. If it isn't, we just question them."
"Phil, I really think you need to question the two drug dealers again—this time, with the photograph of Fitzpatrick."
"I'm off there now. Sam Power kicked up about the expense of taking them out of the cells—transport to here, security, and then wheeling them back again."
Anna nodded. "One thing we need to know is if Stanley Leymore was shot before Frank Brandon. It's the gun—same weapon used."
"Yeah, I know, the Glock," he said tetchily.
"Maybe they just put Donny Petrozzo in the squat and lied about him being the shooter? We've still only got their word for it—and his prints."
"Right." Phil looked at her. "Anything else?"
"Nope. I am trying to get a through line on the dates and times of the deaths. We're all over the place."
"Good—because that's exactly what we are.You know, this case expands every bloody day. Shipping in more officers hasn't helped much." He indicated Cunningham's office with his head. "And
she's
fucking useless."
Anna wouldn't be drawn. "Well, let's get this show on the road. We work it between us, Phil."
He gave a half smile; she knew he didn't like it that she used
we,
but he stomached it. "We should do just that,Travis."Anna went into the incident room to talk to DC Pamela Meadows, who was running the investigation on the Stanley Leymore murder. The incident room was becoming cramped. With filing cabinets and trolleys overflowing with mounds of files, and the extra officers allocated to the case, space was short. Desks buttressed onto each other; it was a headache for the duty manager to control.Pamela pointed over to a desk in the far corner of the room, where two detectives were sitting beside a stack of grubby, dog-eared files. They had traced the original owner of the Mitsubishi; the files were Stanley Leymore s sales ledgers, dating back years."What I want from you," Anna instructed, "is the exact date that Mitsubishi left Leymore's garage. I want all the details on when Leymore was last seen alive, plus the time of death."She joined the duty manager and gave him a list: Julius D'Anton's wife was to be reinterviewed, to clarify the exact dates of his last sighting, and reconfirm the dates of the antiques fair he was known to visit, plus his visit to the antiques shop, and the date his van was towed into the repair garage in Shipston on Stour. Some of the dates she was able to provide, but she wanted all the dates up on the board. She also wantedDonny Petrozzo's time of death and last sighting printed up, and the last sighting of Frank Brandon next to the date of the shooting in the Chalk Farm squat. As yet, no postmortem had been done on David Rushton, but she also wanted his name alongside the other four victims.Anna then instructed Gordon to make up a timetable of the yacht
Dare Devil:
when it had been chartered, and when it had been sold. As she went back to her office, she saw two plain whiteboards being set up, with
Timetable
in large letters. She felt that she had started to make progress, albeit as if she was using the incident room as a classroom; instead of the blackboard, they had the incident board, and felt-tipped pens instead of chalk.
The body of David Rushton was at the morgue. Ewan Fielding would begin the autopsy sometime that morning. DC Pamela Meadows had been given the unpleasant task of informing his wife that her husband had been murdered. She was accompanied by another officer from the team. They would also have a warrant to remove any items from his home that they felt could be connected to the investigation.
Langton had made sure that, to date, there had been little press coverage; they were hoping to keep the case under wraps. What Langton did not want was a leak that they were hunting Alexander Fitzpatrick. This could create pressure from the U.S., and Langton didn't want their interference. None of the team were aware that DCI Langton was now going to be present full-time. As the case had mushroomed out of control, he had taken the decision that Cunningham needed help.
Phil Markham was the first to have his collar felt, as Langton put a rocket under him. He would accompany Phil to interview the two drug dealers. As they now had the photograph of the man he was certain was Alexander Fitzpatrick, one or both of the dealers had to recognize him. It was crucial they work closely with the Drug Squad: Langton didn't want their noses put out of joint. If there was a possible deal to be made, then they should, with Sam Power's assistance, put the pressure on for the dealers to talk. They were being charged with possession and dealing in narcotics. If the charges were upped to murder, they would be looking at a very long stretch in prison.
Phil had never worked alongside Langton before, and he found him
unnerving. He sat beside him in the patrol car; at first Langton used his BlackBerry, firing offmessages, his fingers moving over the tiny keys like lightning. He then opened a window and lit a cigarette. Phil watched as he drew three or four heavy drags, then tossed it out. He opened his briefcase and took out the copies of the two dealers' statements. Then he replaced them, muttering to himself. "We go for Silas Roach first," he said quietly.
Phil nodded; he noticed that Langton kept rubbing his right knee as if it pained him badly.
"So how do we work it?" Phil asked.
Langton shook his head with a sarcastic smile as he repeated what Phil had just said, then turned to face him. "You watch, listen, and learn, son. You've had these two pieces of shit in and let them walk away."
Phil sat back, smarting. "You know, many of our problems have come from the long wait for the toxicology reports. I mean, in Donny Petrozzo's case, we didn't know what had killed him, then the same with D'Anton. This Fentanyl stuff—I'd never even heard of it."
Langton leaned back against the headrest. "Fentanyl is used mostly in hospitals for fast-acting pain relief. It's an opiate, like morphine but nearly a hundred times more potent, faster-acting, and out of the system more quickly—a high of five or ten minutes. Mix it with OxyContin, or Acopolamine painkillers and maybe a dash of heroin, and you have a God Almighty high better than cocaine, and some poor suckers want this as a way of life." "Oh."
"Yeah—
oh.
In case you don't know, we've already got a few problems in our NHS hospitals. Instead of chucking out the residue not needed in operations, it's being nicked, and there's been a few doctors shooting themselves up with it."
"Wow."
Langton just shook his head, before returning to check his messages.
"Where do you think Fitzpatrick is hiding out?" Phil asked.
"No idea, but the murder of David Rushton last night makes it pretty obvious our man is still close at hand. Whatever happened between
them would be about money. Whether or not our kingpin actually got it we'll hopefully find out. He must need a lot—it's expensive staying on the run, and it costs to build a network of shippers and dealers you can trust." Langton gave a rueful laugh.'Td say that's where it went pear-shaped; he chose the wrong ones, so he had to get rid of them!"
"You think that he hid out at the farm?"
"Maybe. We'll know soon enough. What concerns me is that the Nolans didn't seem too worried about the loft discovery."
"So we charge Honour and her husband with harboring a wanted felon?"
"I think there's a lot more to get out of that couple. They can just say they were forced to hide him out and were too scared not to."
"But if Damien Nolan wrote the directions for Fitzpatrick to the farm, then it's not looking as if he was forced into doing it."
"Correct."
"So are we bringing them in?"
Langton sighed. Phil's constant questions were starting to annoy him. "Not yet. They may be the only people that Fitzpatrick trusts; if they are, he may contact them."
"Not when it's swarming with us."
"The search should be over sometime today, and we can get everyone cleared out. Most important is the go-ahead to put a tap on their phones and retain covert surveillance. If they make a move, we will know about it."
Phil leaned back. He stared out of the window as they hit a nose-to-tail traffic jam. Langton tapped the driver to put the siren on and get them moving; he was impatient to interview the two dealers. As he turned back to say something to Phil, he suddenly winced in pain. He gritted his teeth, then hunched over to grip his knee; it felt as if it was on fire. No matter how much pressure he applied, it continued to be excruciating.
By the time they drove into the Drug Squad's car park, Langton was ashen, with a film of sweat that made his face look even more pallid. He needed Phil to help him out of the patrol car, and he closed his eyes
with the pain as he slowly straightened up. It took a few moments before he was able to walk into the building, stopping at a water fountain to take some painkillers.
Phil felt helpless, not knowing what to do, but eventually the color came back into Langton's face, just as Sam Power approached. "You're late," he said. "We got the pair of them ready for you."
"Good. Sorry—we got into a god-awful traffic pile-up," Langton said, shaking Sam's hand.
Phil was amazed at his recovery; it was as if nothing had happened. However, it had. Langton could still feel nightmare pain at every step. Thankfully, this time, his leg had not seized up. They had said he would suffer from housemaid's knee when he had been in rehabilitation. He hadn't really taken it seriously but, over the past months, he had upped his painkillers, as it had begun to hurt more frequently; the pain was very debilitating.
The aftermath of the nightmare attack, two years previously, the horror of almost being sliced in two, had taken its toll. He continued to have spasmodic pains in his chest, sometimes feeling very short of breath, and he suffered violent headaches and depression. The notion that he should take it easy was anathema to him. Langton's obsession about never allowing it to be known just how much he was physically affected by the attack was his way of dealing with it. The thought of retiring, and possibly ending up in a wheelchair, was unbearable. Without the pressure of work, keeping his adrenaline pumping, he knew he would not survive the black depression.