Over the Edge (27 page)

‘Do you think Krabbe was involved in the trade?’

‘I didn’t, but later I learnt that he was buying and selling pashminas. These are shawls made from the wool of another goat that lives high in the Himalayas, but one that can be farmed. They’re still expensive – I couldn’t afford one – but the trade is legal. When I learnt that Tony was importing pashminas I was convinced that he was involved in the shahtoosh trade, too.’

‘But you never saw anything to prove it?’

‘No.’

‘Is that why you fell out with him?’

‘It was the final straw. He wasn’t the person I thought he was. I saw a side of him that wasn’t very nice, and started to believe what Chris had said about the crampons.’

I stood up and carried my coffee mug to the sink. Pedro was standing several yards away, watching the geese. I rinsed the mug and left it standing on the drainer.

‘Thanks for seeing me, Gabi,’ I said. ‘And for being so frank. I’m sorry about the circumstances.’

She walked with me to the gate. As she opened it she asked if I had any suspects for Tony’s murder.

I said: ‘Suspects, but nobody really stands out.’

‘Have you ever seen the film
Spartacus
?’ she asked.

‘Only on TV,’ I replied.

‘You know the scene at the end where the Romans are looking for him amongst all the prisoners and one of his soldiers stands up and says:

‘I am Spartacus’?’

‘I remember it.’

‘Well, if you gathered everyone together who knew Tony Krabbe, and asked which of them had killed him, I hope that I’d be first on my feet to say I did, and one by one all the others would join me.’

‘You feel that strongly about him?’

‘I learnt to hate him, Charlie. I hated him.’

Gabi hadn’t told me anything about shahtoosh that I hadn’t learnt from the internet. The wool, which is six times finer than human hair, is plucked by hand from the pelts in Kashmir, where it’s not against the law, and woven into the shawls by traditional methods. They are the world’s experts at that sort of thing. Shahtoosh became a high-fashion item in the late 80s, after fur coats fell out of favour. For some reason wealthy women feel more pampered when their clothes have a savage origin. There’s a paper there for some psychiatrist, I thought. It probably went right back to when we lived in caves and the boss hunter was the man to be seen with. In the late 90s the Tibetan antelope became endangered, rapidly approaching extinction, and adverse publicity caused the shawls to go out of fashion, but the market still exists.

There’s a parking place in the nick car park, right next to the door. It’s marked
Chief Constable
and stands empty for approximately 99 per cent of the time. Today, though, when I returned from my visit with Gabi Nayior, the Assistant Chief Constable’s (Operations) Jaguar was standing in it. I did a quick circuit, parked in the road outside and dialled my own number.

‘DI Priest’s office,’ I heard Jeff Caton say.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘I’ve a job for you.’

‘Where are you? The boss is looking for you.’

‘I’m miles away. Is Dave in?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK. I want you both to meet me across the road from the nick, and bring the keys for Tony Krabbe’s shop in the mall. Quick as you can.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘I’m already there.’

A figure appeared at the second floor window. ‘Hey, I can see you.’

The figure waved and I flashed my headlights. ‘Quick as you can,’ I urged. A minute later Dave and Jeff came running across the road. ‘Did you bring the keys?’ I asked, and Dave waved them in my face.

On the short drive I gave them a brief history of the shahtoosh. We parked in the pedestrian precinct and marched purposefully towards the mall, Dave leading. I’d hung back, hoping to see a parking
warden and explain what I was doing there, but you can never find one when you want one. I strode out to catch up with the other two.

The Salvation Army brass band was playing a Susa march, soon to be replaced by their Christmas repertoire, and the
Big Issue
seller was in his usual spot. I shook my head slightly as he started to proffer the latest issue, and he nodded an acknowledgement. The beggar and his dog weren’t there. Probably having the BMW serviced, I thought.

The mall was buzzing with shoppers. Unfortunately for the traders it was mainly of the window kind. Wandering around displays of goods we can’t afford or don’t want is the new national obsession. Touchers and feelers, the shopkeepers call them. People with money to spend are like the chiru antelope – an endangered species.

A woman was peering through the window of Art of Asia. As Dave unlocked the door she stood behind us, expecting to be let in. ‘We’re not opening, love,’ I said to her.

‘How much is that Buddha?’ she asked.

I stooped to read the label. ‘Three hundred pounds,’ I told her, and she nodded her thanks and wandered off. ‘Lock us in,’ I said, ‘before we have a rush.’

‘What are we looking for?’

I led them through into the back room and
retrieved the flat cardboard box from the shelf where I’d placed it when we first turned the shop over. ‘These,’ I said.

I cleared the table that stood in the middle of the room and placed the box at one end. As I removed the lid and several sheets of tissue paper Dave said: ‘So are these shah-whatsits?’

‘No,’ I told him. ‘These are pashminas, and perfectly legal. Well, I think they are. Feel the softness.’ They both took hold of a corner and rubbed the material between fingers and thumb.

‘Colours are nice,’ Jeff said.

‘They are, aren’t they.’ They were earth colours, but these were from the more exotic corners of the planet: browns merging into purples; oranges that lay comfortably alongside reds; and greens that tied them all together. No palette I’d ever seen could match them for perfection. I lifted the top shawl out and tried to spread it over the table. Jeff saw what I was doing and started to help. Dave watched.

We’d lifted six out and the cold fingers of doubt were starting to clutch at my nether regions when we found the first shahtoosh. It was simply laid on a pashmina and folded up with it. The extra weight and thickness were negligible and we’d never have found it without fully spreading them out. It was just that bit finer, the colours slightly more muted, that much more expensive feeling.

‘How did we miss these, first time?’ Dave asked, but I’d seen him nudge Jeff.

‘Don’t ask me.’ I replied.

We found three more straight off and then I called a halt to the search. There were another fifteen pashminas in the box that we didn’t unfold. ‘Let’s pack them back up,’ I said, ‘and take them to the station for safe keeping. Tomorrow we’ll hand them over to customs and excise. This is their baby.’

The ACC had gone and I hadn’t eaten all day, so I collected a ham sandwich in the canteen and had it at my desk. I was catching up with the whereabouts of everybody else when Nigel Newley rang.

‘What’s happened to Wallenberg?’ he asked.

‘No idea. Why?’ I replied.

‘We were keeping him under surveillance, nothing heavy, just normal hours, but he seems to have vanished.’

‘On my patch,’ I protested with feigned indignance. ‘You mounted a covert operation on my patch without telling me?’

‘I know. Scandalous, isn’t it? So where is he? You haven’t arrested him, have you?’

‘No. How long has he been missing?’

‘Well, he hasn’t been home for four days, or to the Painted Pony or any of his haunts that we know about.’

I thought about things for a few seconds. ‘OK,’ I
said. ‘You’re invited. Tomorrow morning we’re going to raid his house. It’s a big place so we need all the help we can get. Meet here at seven a.m. for a briefing. We’ll supply the forced entry party, you bring along a couple of searchers.’

It was a murder case, but I still needed a warrant. I sweet-talked my favourite magistrate and sent a DC to collect it. Mrs Wallenberg would be at home, hopefully, and I wanted a substantive interview with her. Also I was confident we’d find at least one shahtoosh on the premises. That would do for starters.

At the briefing I outlined the cases and tried to identify what we were looking for. The sawn-off end of the ice axe was number one target, followed by photographs of his parents posing with the axes. I described the shawls as best I could and suggested that the two women officers in the party might be best qualified to look through Mrs Wallenberg’s wardrobes. Their eyes gleamed at the prospect. Then they could empty all his jacket pockets to see if the napkin with the address that I’d seen him write at the football club was still there.

There were ten of us, plus two customs and excise officers I’d managed to find and the audio visual unit. We drove to Wallenberg’s in five vehicles and parked in the lane at the front of the house. Two officers went round the back and radioed when they were in position.

I dialled the only number I had for the house but nobody answered. Pressing the bell on the imposing gatepost brought a similar result. I nodded to the two most agile officers I’d brought along and within a second or three they were over the gate.

They hammered on the door with their fists and eventually Mrs Wallenberg came and shouted at them through the glass. She let them in after they’d explained who they were and threatened to break the door down. The big gates slid sideways and the rest of us drove up the short driveway.

Selina was my objective. Tough, but I believe in leading from the front. Never ask the troops to do something you’re not prepared to do yourself, with the possible exception of facing armed men and going up ladders. I showed her my ID and said we were investigating the smuggling of the products of endangered species. Nothing heavy. Nothing about murder. She was wearing a long bathrobe and her hair was a mess. I suggested she dress and asked where we could talk.

Half an hour later she joined me in a room on the ground floor lined with books and CD racks. There was a huge TV at one end, with a B&O hi-fi system and all the latest gismos for watching and listening. The material available was depressing: Readers’ Digest editions that looked untouched; CDs of classical and pop compilations, plus plenty of Elvis; and DVDs of all the
Lethal Weapon
and
Rocky
series. Selina was wearing trousers and blouse when she reappeared, but hadn’t had time to apply the normal half-pound of makeup. Her face was pale but her expression defiant.

‘Who’s the Elvis fan?’ I asked, replacing the CD I was holding as she came into the room.

‘I am. How long are your people going to be?’

‘How many staff do you employ?’ I asked, ignoring her question.

‘Three, all part-time. A secretary, a cleaner and a gardener. They just work mornings. I asked how long you would be.’

‘It depends what they find.’

‘They won’t find anything. I hope you’ll pay for any damage they do.’

‘Sit down,’ I told her, and pulled an easy chair round to face the one I’d indicated for her to take. ‘We had an appointment on Monday,’ I said, ‘but you weren’t at home.’

‘I lead a busy life.’

‘So do I. Where were you?’

‘I met a friend for lunch. We over-ran.’

‘You left your friend at one o’clock and went home. Our appointment was at two.’

‘Was it? Well, let’s just say that I decided I didn’t want to see you.

‘What have you to hide?’

‘Nothing. I couldn’t be bothered.’

‘Where is your husband?’

‘I don’t know. Am I under arrest?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Should I have a solicitor present?’

‘If you think you need one. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘So where’s Peter?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you last see him?’

She thought about it for a few seconds, then said: ‘Saturday lunchtime.’

‘Does he often leave home without saying where he’s going?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘For four days?’

‘No. Not usually for this long, but sometimes he’s gone for a day or two.’

‘Did he say anything before he left?’

‘He said he had some business to attend to, that’s all.’

‘Have you any idea where he might be?’

‘No.’

‘What was he wearing when he left?’

‘His normal clothing. Black suit and overcoat.’

‘He likes his black clothes, doesn’t he? How many black overcoats does he own?’

‘Four or five, I think.’

‘He met you in Amsterdam, I believe.’

‘Yes.’

‘When you were working there?’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Your lunch friend? She just said you were working there. I take it she rang you.’

‘Yes. She couldn’t wait. It was in a club. Peter thinks he rescued me. What else did she tell you?’

The door burst open and one of Nigel’s detectives stood there, looking awkward. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘Thought it was empty.’

‘Ten minutes,’ I told him and he closed the door again. ‘She told me that Peter is a violent man. Is he?’

‘No. No, he isn’t. She’s wrong.’

‘Then why are you scared of him?’

‘I’m not.’

‘I think you are. Tell me about the time he beat you up.’

‘Beat me up?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Which time?’

‘The first time.’

‘It was nothing. A misunderstanding.’

‘Did he use his fists?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was nothing.’

‘Tell me about Dale, then,’ I said. ‘You were fond of him, weren’t you?’

‘Dale!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you know about Dale?’

‘A lot. Were you having an affair with him?’

She nodded her head and bit her lip, close to
tears. I waited a minute until she recovered then asked: ‘Did Peter know about it?’

‘No, of course not. He’d have killed me. Dale was everything Peter wasn’t. He was funny, and generous, and…’

‘And what?’

‘And he was good in bed.’

‘So why didn’t you leave Peter?’ As if I didn’t know.

‘We talked about it. We were trying to work out a way of doing it. A way that would hurt Peter financially.’

That was one way of putting it, I thought.

‘And then,’ she continued, ‘Peter found out.’