He smiled and came forward in his chair, leather-patched elbows on the table. “I hope I’m not sounding like some naysayer,” he said, “dragging up for you only the bad news about your friend’s partners in his airline. There’s millions of dollars invested in it from reputable banks here in London and New York.”
“I’m not taking it wrong, George. I’m naturally interested. Please go on.”
He sat back again and rubbed his chin. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Casale—I believe his first name is Salvatore—Mr. Casale is reputed to have very solid connections with the Mafia in the States. Las Vegas casinos.”
“Wayne Silverton told me that he and Mr. Casale were involved in some real estate business in Las Vegas.”
“Not surprising. Of course, we have our own shadowy investor here in the UK, Churlson Vicks.”
“Interesting first name,” I said.
“Family name of some sort, I suppose. At any rate, Vicks has made his millions compliments of our government, and other governments around the world. He seems to have a knack for bidding high and getting the jobs because no one else is invited to bid against him. A bit like your Halliburton. Vicks is also rumored to deal in illegal military arms to third world countries and provide needed medicines to poorer nations at outrageous markups, all alleged but never formally charged. Nothing like having friends in high places.”
“And money,” I said.
“Yes, it’s always the money, isn’t it?”
“Except in murder.”
“You mean money is just one of the motivations for murder,” he said.
“There’s also revenge, jealousy, fear, a whole range of emotions.”
“Of course,” he said. “But we’re not talking about murder here, are we?”
“No, and I hope it stays that way. I’ve had my fill of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when murders take place.”
“Yes, you have had your share of such unfortunate events,” he said. “More sherry?”
“Thank you, no,” I said.
“You’re here in London for only two nights?”
I nodded.
He took my hand. “I hope this drink doesn’t constitute all we’ll see of each other.”
I sighed and shook my head. “It might be, George. I don’t know what plans have been made, although I assume Wayne has come up with something to entertain us. We’re all expected to meet for breakfast here at the Savoy, but I’ll make time for us. Maybe lunch tomorrow or, even better, dinner. What’s your schedule?”
“Relatively free. I’m off the clock unless something unusual pops up.”
I heard a buzz and George grimaced.
“Sorry,” he said, releasing my hand and flipping open his cell phone. “Sutherland here.” He pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket and made notes as he listened. “Yes, I see. You’re certain of the victim’s identity?” He made a few more notes. “Yes, I’ll go there immediately.” He snapped shut the cover on his phone.
“I have a feeling that something unusual has popped up,” I said with a gentle laugh.
“The older I get,” he said, “the more I believe in and respect coincidences.” He took my hand in both of his.
I cocked my head.
“There’s been a murder at Stansted Airport.”
My eyes widened. “Yes,” I said, “that is a coincidence.”
“More than you think, Jessica. I’m terribly sorry to tell you that the victim, according to what I’ve just been told, is your friend Mr. Wayne Silverton.”
Chapter Four
O
ne of the Savoy’s valet attendants held open the door of George’s silver Jaguar for me. George helped me into the left-hand seat and went around to the right where he slipped behind the wheel. This was, after all, the United Kingdom, where people drive on the “wrong” side of the road. Or, as the British prefer, drive on the “other side.”
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you,” George said, looking over to assure that I was belted in before fastening his own seat belt. “Our desk officer said that local bobbies are securing the area. Family hasn’t been notified yet.”
“But he was certain of the name of the victim?”
He nodded sharply as he steered the car out of the Savoy’s drive and into London traffic. It was late, but it could have been midday, judging from the multitude of cars crowding the street and the number of pedestrians strolling the sidewalks. George glanced at his watch. “Theaters are getting out,” he said. “It’ll be slow going escaping town.”
I sat quietly while he concentrated on which roads would allow him to evade the worst of the traffic. My thoughts were riveted on our destination and what awaited us.
How ironic that on the night of his triumph, the debut of his new airline, Wayne Silverton should be murdered. And by whom? Whom had he offended so egregiously that the only solution was murder? He had a quick temper; I was witness to that in his exchange with Captain Caine over the aircraft’s technical problem. George had suggested that Wayne’s business connections were skirting the edge of respectability. The reporters on the plane had hinted of “connections.” Had one of his partners in this venture, or perhaps in his Las Vegas dealings, become dissatisfied with their business arrangement? What could have been the “things he had to do” that his wife said were keeping him at the airport? If he had accompanied her and the rest of his guests to the hotel, would he still be alive? Who else from our group may have lingered at Stansted? Was it possible that Wayne had been killed by someone who’d been on the flight? Maybe it was a worker at the airport. My mind was awhirl with these and other questions without any answers—at least for the moment. All I knew was what George had told me, that Wayne’s death had been reported.
I straightened in my seat.
“Something occur to you, Jessica?” George asked as we reached the entrance to a highway and pulled onto it. The sign said it was the A11.
“I was just thinking that for people like Wayne Silverton, the road to success is often strewn with enemies.”
“The price you pay, I suppose,” he said, accelerating, the Jaguar’s engine a faint, smooth whine as it propelled us along, passing every car on the road.
“I was also thinking how ironic my words were back at the bar, that I was happy not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when murder takes place.”
He glanced at me. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come with me,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I said. “How could I
not
come? Only a few hours ago I was happily winging along at thirty-five thousand feet in a lovely, spacious, modern jet aircraft, feasting on caviar and shrimp and chateaubriand, and reading a good book. And now—”
“And now your host has been murdered. Hang on.”
He made a sudden, sharp move that sent us hurtling between two huge trucks as though we’d been slung from a slingshot. He immediately shifted to the left lane and exited onto another highway, the A118.
“Sorry,” he said, sensing my discomfort.
“You’re a very confident driver, George,” I said, hoping the lump in my throat wasn’t too evident.
We eventually took a third highway—the A406 I think it was—until reaching the entrance to Stansted International Airport.
“Know where your aircraft was parked?” he asked.
“Down that way, I think,” I said, referring to the last terminal in a row of four.
As we approached, SilverAir’s 767 came into view. It was still bathed in spotlights; Wayne had said that he wanted the plane illuminated at night wherever and whenever it was parked. Seeing the tail jutting into the night sky, its emblem gleaming proudly in the intense light, was unsettling, considering what had occurred.
As we pulled up in front of the terminal, it was obvious that something unusual had happened inside. A cadre of uniformed police stood guard at the main doors. An array of marked police vehicles choked the area, lights flashing from their roofs and casting a macabre aura over the scene, as though it was a theatrical production.
We got out of the car, and I followed George as he went up to one of the officers and showed his identification. The bobbie stiffened, hit a military brace, and told George to follow him inside. He saw me fall into line, stopped, and asked who I was.
“She’s with me,” George said.
“Yes, sir.”
We followed the young officer the length of the main corridor off which numbered gates were located, some with lounges filled with passengers awaiting their flights, others void of people. We eventually arrived at the gate, which I recognized as the one into which we’d deplaned earlier in the evening. It was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and a dozen officers, both uniformed and plainclothed, milled about. George again showed his ID, and we were allowed to enter the lounge and go to the Jetway leading to the aircraft. I hung back as George conferred with a man wearing a tan raincoat, obviously someone senior. George turned to me. “He’s inside, in the cockpit,” he said. “Want to wait out here?”
I silently debated for a few seconds before saying, “No, I’d like to come with you.”
We walked down the Jetway to the aircraft’s main door where still another officer stood. George indicated for me to wait. I watched as he moved past the officer and disappeared into the flight deck. My wait for him to emerge seemed endless, although it must have been no more than a few minutes. He poked his head out and motioned for me to join him. Up until that moment, I’d been eager to accompany him into the cockpit, but I was now hesitant. His raised eyebrows said, “Either come or stay, Jessica. Don’t prolong this.”
I joined him at the cockpit door and looked inside. The lighting was dim and diffused. But even in the shadowy illumination I saw the figure of a person in the left-hand seat usually occupied by the aircraft’s captain. Obviously, the body was that of Wayne Silverton, although I couldn’t see his face. George took a few steps into the area, and I followed. Now, the scene was clearer, and tragically real. Silverton’s lifeless form was slumped forward over the pilot’s control yoke, his weight pushing it fully forward. His head was turned to the right, his mouth open as though he was about to say something. His eyes were open, too. Had he seen the person who’d shoved the knife into his upper back? His eyes were clear, indicating he’d died less than eight hours ago. After about eight hours, the deceased’s eyes take on a cloudy, milky appearance. Of course, we also knew from the timeline that he’d been murdered more recently than that.
The knife’s handle was black, as was its quillon, or hilt, the piece separating the handle from the blade, creating what looked like a small cross projecting upward from just below his neck. Blood had seeped from the wound through his white dress shirt; his suit jacket lay crumpled on the right-hand seat. His right hand rested on the thrust levers, which, when pushed forward, provided power to the jet engines, a plane’s equivalent of an automobile’s accelerator.
I leaned forward to get a closer look at the weapon that had been used to kill him. Judging from the length of the handle, it was not a large knife. On even closer examination it appeared to be a switchblade, with a slot in the handle into which the blade could be folded. I also observed that whoever wielded the weapon had used considerable force. The hilt was pressed into the shirt’s fabric and the flesh beneath it.
I stepped back to allow George to get closer. He placed his fingertips on the side of Wayne’s neck, then the palm of his hand. “Still warm,” he muttered. “He hasn’t been dead long.”
A commotion from outside the flight deck caused us to turn. A coroner had arrived, along with two medical technicians in white lab coats.
“Let’s give them room to work,” George said, and led me out into the passenger cabin. There was something surreal about the plane’s interior at that moment, all the empty seats that had so recently been filled with happy men and women having a good time while crossing the Atlantic as invited guests of SilverAir. I saw in my imagination people in those seats and wondered whether one of them had jammed the knife into our host. Hopefully—and it was the wildest of hopes—he’d been murdered not by one of his guests, but by a deranged stranger who’d come upon him sitting in the cockpit.
Why was he sitting in the cockpit?
“Why was he sitting in the cockpit?” I asked George.
“Good question,” he said as we made our way back down the Jetway to the departure and arrival lounge.
“Do you think he might have been moved there?” I asked.
“No,” George said. “There would have been signs of it. I saw none.”
He was right. I, too, had looked for traces of Wayne having been dragged onto the flight deck. There weren’t any, but I thought I’d ask anyway. I’d learned years ago that it was always wise to seek an opinion that might run counter to what you’d decided.
The officer in the tan raincoat approached us. “Got a minute, Inspector?” he asked.
“Excuse me,” George said to me and walked to a relatively secluded corner of the lounge where a middle-aged man wearing the uniform of a private security guard stood with two officers. After they’d been introduced, they took seats on a bench. George took out a notebook and began writing as the security guard spoke animatedly.
I walked from the lounge into the wide hallway that linked the terminal’s gates, and watched people come and go. Many were obviously aware that something untoward had taken place—the number of uniformed officers and the crime scene tape saw to that—and congregated as close as they dared in the hope of learning more. I kept one eye on George and the man he was interviewing while taking in others. Eventually, George and the man stood and shook hands. I started back, but just before I entered the lounge, I spotted a familiar face, Captain Bill Caine, who stood at the fringe of the crowd. I raised my hand and made a move toward him, but he turned and was lost in the crowd. I tried to go after him, but the people closed ranks and I couldn’t see him over the heads of the others.