Deep Cover (6 page)

By the time he left the bar of the not so jolly Jolly Boatman, dark had fallen and the rush hour, while still on, had also begun to ease. He took the Metropolitan line from Whitechapel tube station to King's Cross, and then took an overground train bound for Welwyn. He left the train at Brookmans Park, exited the station via the footbridge and, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his donkey jacket, looking like a coal miner returning home from a shift at the pit, he walked into the leafy suburbs and up Brookmans Lane, which was softly illuminated by street lamps. Large, fully detached houses were situated on either side of the road, many with U-shaped driveways; thus the homeowners avoided having to reverse their cars into the lane. The houses all had generous back gardens, and those to his left backed on to the golf course and thereby afforded even more open space to survey when standing at the rear windows of said houses. He felt himself thinking, aren't we smug, as he walked. But the smug occupants of these houses were also his neighbours, because although he and his wife liked to drink in working-class pubs ‘to touch base', they were both disinclined to live on a sink estate and had bought what property they could manage to afford on his salary as a learned Home Office pathologist, and so, working class or not, they had eventually fetched up in ‘smug, self-satisfied' Brookmans Park, Hertfordshire.

He turned right into one such large house, which had all the front room lights turned on, with a U-shaped drive – though the car by the door was only a modest Volkswagen – and unlocked the front door. He peeled off his jacket as Linda Shaftoe, tall and slender, and, he always thought, holding back the years with admirable success, greeted him warmly. ‘Good day, pet?' She took his jacket from him as he sat on the bench beside the front door and began to tug at his shoelaces.

‘Busy,' he said, easing his right foot out of a tightly fitting shoe, ‘busy enough to make me glad to be home.'

‘Well . . . good, hot stew in the pot for you.'

‘Champion, pet.' He eased the other shoe off his foot and reached for his slippers. ‘Champion.'

Harry Vicary surveyed the room. It was, he felt, the room of a lowlife murderer; there was a tangible cheapness of life about the four walls and the space within which reached him, deeply so. He sensed that here, in this room, humanity had little value. The contents, too, were cheap, inexpensive; they seemed to have a careworn, overused, second-hand quality about them. The cluttered room also had a sense of age, as though the contents had been allowed to accumulate over time. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves he began gingerly to open the drawers of the dressing table, ensuring that the police constable then present was watching him closely as he did so. He needed a witness for anything he might find, and also a witness that he did not unlawfully remove anything. He found little of apparent interest: some loose change, a rent book in the name of one Jennifer Reeves, which seemed to be there because no one had thrown it out – the last rent collection entered being some ten years previously. Yet, the clutter in the room suggested to him a longer-term tenant than Michael Dalkeith, who had reportedly moved into the room some twelve months previously. The seemingly long-established musty smell also seemed to speak of a long-term tenant. The owner of the property, as given on the dated rent book, was WLM Rents of Kilburn, with an address in Fernhead Road.

‘Fernhead Road?' Vicary turned to the constable.

‘Just round the corner, sir,' the young, serious-minded constable replied. ‘It's the main road round here.'

‘Ah . . . thanks. One to be visited tomorrow.'

‘Sir?'

‘Oh, just muttering to myself. The landlord will be someone to visit; see what he can tell us about his tenants.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Notice anything about the room, constable?'

‘Messy, sir.'

‘Yes . . . too messy for someone who has just moved in . . .'

‘Now you mention it, sir. Confess I hadn't read that.'

‘These things you will learn, these observations you will be taught to make.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And a deceased female also.'

‘So I believe, sir, but I came just now, sir, just as the body was being removed.'

‘Yes, I know . . . but no female clothing. I haven't looked in all the drawers yet, but I'd still expect to see a woman's coat or pair of shoes . . . something like that.'

‘Yes . . . or a handbag, sir.'

‘Yes . . . good observation, no handbag either. Runaways are unlikely to have a handbag but only unlikely . . . so it's a good observation. The door was locked . . . easily forced but still locked; no one had come in and rifled the room. Sorry, just musing again.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘He brings the girl in, brings her from somewhere . . . strangles her, takes all her clothing and her handbag, and heaven only knows what else . . . and then goes for a walk on Hampstead Heath in a blizzard . . . and does so ill-dressed for the weather conditions on that day or night, or whenever, and then lies down in the snow to sleep his final sleep right on top of a corpse that was already there, and had been for a number of years.'

‘You mean like he knew it was there, sir, like he was leading us there, sir? Telling us about the corpse?'

Vicary looked at the constable and did so with widening eyes and a slackening jaw.

TWO

W
LM Rents occupied the ground floor of a house on Fernhead Road, Kilburn. Vicary had never before set foot in Fernhead Road. It was a narrow road, he found, probably wide enough to accommodate vehicular traffic in the late nineteenth century, when the tall, elegant terrace houses which stood on either side of the tree-lined road were built, but now, in twenty-first-century Britain, it would, Vicary thought, be a bottleneck during the rush hour. He walked into the office of WLM Rents and was met by a bright, airy interior, smelling of air freshener, with large colour photographs of London landmarks – Trafalgar Square, the Tower, Westminster Bridge – attached to the walls. A water dispenser, filled with mineral water, stood in the corner by the door. Comfortable looking upholstered chairs lined one wall and in front of them were two coffee tables standing end to end, upon which lay copies of
London Life
,
Time Out
and other magazines about living in London and the Home Counties. Upon Vicary and Brunnie entering the premises, a young man, dressed in a suit and tie, stood smartly, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?'

‘Police.' Vicary showed his ID.

‘Oh.' The man, J.J. Dunwoodie by the nameplate on his desk, paled. ‘No bother, I hope?'

‘Plenty.' Vicary smiled. ‘Always, always, always plenty of bother . . . no shortage of bother at all, keeps us in gainful employment, but we are here only to seek a little information.'

‘Of course.' Dunwoodie indicated two easy chairs with wooden arms that stood in front of his desk. The officers took a seat, and only when they were seated did the young Dunwoodie also sit. He was, thought Vicary, a young man who seemed conscientious and took his job very seriously, although working for a private landlord would, he mused, offer limited potential for advancement and would not have the generous conditions of the service enjoyed by public or civil servants. He said to himself, ‘You can do better than this, young Dunwoodie. Much, much better,' but he said aloud, ‘We understand that WLM Rents owns a property near here, specifically on Claremont Road, by the railway, particularly number 123; can't forget that house number. Very convenient.'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘You seem to know it?' Vicary noticed Brunnie take his notepad from his coat pocket and a pen from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.

‘Yes, I do, I know it well, but it is not typical of WLM Rents.'

‘Oh?'

‘Oh, not at all, WLM is more upmarket than 123. We rent to young, professional people. Number 123 is one of our ancillary properties.'

‘Ancillary properties?'

‘It will be developed soon, when Mr William is ready. It has been an ancillary property for a year or two.'

‘And you have permission from the local authority to use it as business premises?'

‘Yes, all legal and proper. It was derelict and Mr William negotiated the change on the deeds as part of the condition of undertaking its development. It was a real eyesore; in fact an oak tree was growing up from the basement. So the local authority was pleased when someone was prepared to take on the renovation. It gave Mr William a bit of leverage you might say, to negotiate the change to the deeds.'

‘I see.'

‘So . . . 123 is awaiting development, then we'll rent it to the young professionals. Kilburn is very convenient for the City so we have a lot of bankers and stockbrokers on our books. I mean, direct tube to central London, just one change to reach the Square Mile; our tenants are between university and their first mortgage. That's how Mr William made his fortune.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. He's a stockbroker. He made a killing about twenty years ago and he used his money to buy up as much of Kilburn as he could. He saw the potential of the area. He knew it would be gentrified and he was right, money came in from rents and he bought more houses, and he now has over one hundred properties . . . all in Kilburn. He is known as the King of Kilburn.'

‘How interesting.'

‘Yes. He has done well.' Dunwoodie beamed.

‘So tell us about the house on Claremont Road?'

‘Yes . . . well, run down . . . can't rent it as it is, not to the sort of person we want to deal with. So it's used for storing furniture, but we also use it as a grace and favour residence for people who do the occasional odd job for the company.'

‘Grace and favour?'

‘Yes, it's hardly a St James's Palace sort of grace and favour residence but it keeps the squatters out. The people in the ancillary properties don't pay rent but Mr William asks them for favours from time to time.'

‘And if they say “no” they'll be in the street?'

Dunwoodie looked uncomfortable. ‘Well . . .' he stammered.

‘How many such properties does he have?'

‘About ten ancillaries . . . mostly young women are in them, some young men.'

Vicary and Brunnie glanced at each other. Vicary then looked back at Dunwoodie. ‘So where do we find Mr William?'

‘At home . . . sometimes he calls in here to water the plants.'

‘The plants?'

‘Yes, he's quite green-fingered.' Dunwoodie pointed to a line of potted plants which stood on a series of red filing cabinets. ‘He likes to keep the plants watered. It gets hot and dry in here. I could do it, the watering can is there, but he likes to do it. But mostly he works at home.'

‘What is his home address?'

‘His main home is in Virginia Water.'

‘It would be,' Brunnie growled. ‘What's the address?'

‘I can phone him to ask him if I can give you his number.'

‘Address!'

‘I don't know it, just his phone number. But I am not supposed to give it to anyone; he's very clear on that point.'

‘We're not anybody,' Vicary snarled. ‘The number!'

‘Really, I am under strict instructions—'

‘You could be arrested and charged with obstruction. This is a murder enquiry.'

‘Murder!' Dunwoodie gasped.

‘Yes. Murder. With a capital “M”.'

J.J. Dunwoodie reached for the file index on his desk and began to thumb through it. ‘Old fashioned, I know, but so what, it works. Ah . . . here it is, Mr William Pilcher.' He read out Pilcher's phone number and Brunnie wrote it in his notebook. ‘I'll have to phone Mr William and let him know that you called and demanded his phone number.'

‘Do that,' Vicary replied. ‘And tell him to expect us very soon.'

‘Soon?'

‘As in just how long it will take us to drive from here to Virginia Water,' Brunnie explained. ‘That sort of soon. Have a good day.'

John Shaftoe pulled down the microphone until it was level with his mouth and cast a despairing eye at the trembling and twitching Billy Button, who looked at the corpse with undisguised fear.

‘You know, Billy,' Shaftoe leaned on the stainless steel table, resting his fleshy hands on the raised lip, ‘you could do worse than put it all into context for yourself.'

‘Sir? What do you mean, sir?'

‘Well . . . tell me . . . how old are you now?'

‘Me, sir, I'm fifty-seven, sir.'

‘Fifty-seven?'

‘Yes, sir, last July.'

‘Alright.'

‘So just three years short of your three score . . . just thirteen years short of your three score and ten . . .'

‘Suppose so, sir.'

‘And you're still going strong.'

‘Suppose that too, sir.'

‘OK. Well, look at this fella here on the table.' Shaftoe nodded to the corpse of Michael Dalkeith which lay face up on the table with a starched white towel draped over the genitalia. ‘How old do you think he is – or was – when he died?'

Button shrugged. ‘Forty, sir?'

‘Probably younger than that, probably a lot younger. I saw the conditions he lived in: one room in a shared house in Kilburn across the street from the railway line. So do you want to swap places with him? Would you want his living conditions rather than your own?'

‘No, sir.'

‘No, sir . . . right, sir, you've already lived longer than he has lived . . . lucky you. And you've a wife and a home to go back to each evening. He was born when you were already alive and you're still alive now that he is no more. What have you . . . you and me both . . . what have we got to complain of?'