Stealth (7 page)

I have never been able to walk past an abandoned kitten or a dog with a thorn in its paw and when this man I had divorced not all that long ago had turned up on my doorstep, limping badly and still very weak in those early days before the pins in his right leg had failed, I had found the situation quite unbearable. He told me that he had been ordered to find a female working partner as, initially, much of the job would involve watching people at social occasions and official thinking was that lone men were conspicuous. With that in mind he admitted he had turned to the only woman with whom he could guarantee to get on well with in public – we always had. Far more importantly, I discovered later, was the need to find someone who would not want to sleep with him, all confidence regarding that having been lost due to his injuries.

Still dizzy with excitement from the set-to in the barn I had hardly hesitated and accepted his offer, telling myself I would probably scoop a lot of material for my next novel – and hey, who the hell wants to write romance when crime and spying now grew on trees?

After my rose-tinted glasses had fallen off it had been very difficult: Patrick frosty, in a lot of pain, even more so after the battering the Marines had given him and wondering if I could be trusted for, after all, this was the person who had thrown his classical guitar down the stairs during that last row, smashing it. I had subsequently felt very guilty about that, apologized the following morning and offered to buy him a new one. Not necessary, he had informed me, he had already done so and the original had only been a cheap one he had bought in a charity shop to learn on. Slowly, the magic that had been in our early relationship returned and, not long afterwards, we threw the sleeping together problem out of the window.

But for some of this trauma, especially causing Patrick extra suffering, I still blamed Daws.

There was some polite conversation about our family – seemingly he had kept abreast of everything about us, even the birth of Mark – and I reciprocated with questions about the castle garden as I know growing roses is practically an all-consuming hobby of his. He then invited us to have lunch with him, which we accepted.

‘Quite soon you'll be working for the National Crime Agency,' Daws went on to say. ‘As you probably know, SOCA's being swept up in its creation. There'll be a lot more power for you.'

‘And as a result of that a lot more aggro from cops in the Forces,' Patrick commented.

‘Shouldn't be. Tact, that's all it takes.'

Using commendable tact, Patrick said, ‘And you, sir? What do you think?'

‘It'll probably work. That's if they don't mess around with it again in another four or five years. Working on anything interesting? Is that what you wanted to see me about?'

‘Hereward Trent,' Patrick said quietly.

When engaged in socializing and working undercover, the latter of which I understand he still does sometimes, Daws utilizes the persona of a genial old duffer and that was what we had mostly seen up until now. Underneath, the real man, that part of him that I distrust, if not dislike, is like polished steel. We got a glimpse of this now.

‘Never heard of him.'

Patrick merely smiled politely.

‘No,' Daws said with an air of finality. ‘What do you have on him?'

‘His neighbour's been murdered. She wrote to us several times to tell us that she'd been watching him and visitors to his house and in her opinion he was a criminal. I don't yet have the full details of what she said as we've only just come back from France and it happened while we were away.'

‘And?'

‘Ingrid spoke to a wanted man in Cannes, Daniel Coates, who said that someone who lives in a big house in Richmond living an outwardly respectable life is heavily involved in serious crime. That's almost certainly Trent.'

‘Evidence?'

‘Information courtesy of Clement Hamlyn, a crime writer.'

‘I think I've heard of him. Yes, suspect kind of fellow, been to prison – a fact he seems to think warrants admiration.'

‘That's him. Hamlyn went to France under cover of attending a literary festival that finished last night. There's very strong evidence to suggest that the real reason for his trip was to get money that he reckoned Coates owed him. Ingrid spoke to Coates, who said Hamlyn shot his mouth off. There was a stealth boat moored next to Coates' catamaran that Hamlyn said was part of the mobster's empire and there to intimidate him into paying up. That may or may not be true but as you must be aware, these craft have been used for drug-running.'

Daws nodded slowly. ‘This is now your case?'

‘As of an hour or so ago but we were already monitoring Hamlyn. The Met's given everything they have on the neighbour's murder to Commander Greenway.'

‘I told Greenway it would take fifteen years off his life, employing you two.'

‘I do believe he mentioned that to us, sir.'

‘I'll see what I can find out about this Trent character.'

We lunched, talking of past cases, the protagonists – some of which Daws was keen to update us on – and more general matters.

As we were parting Daws spoke softly. ‘You sailed a bit close to the wind with that last job.'

‘I know,' was all Patrick said.

‘It was them or you.'

‘Yes.'

‘If you'd left to get help and the police had arrived shortly afterwards, before those other mobsters turned up, there would have been a bloodbath – theirs.'

‘Yes.'

‘If the gang had succeeded in killing you there would have been the same result.'

‘That's right.'

‘I happen to know you're feeling guilty about it.' When he got no response Daws continued: ‘A gurkha has recently been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for taking on thirty Taliban single-handed in Afghanistan and killing or wounding the lot. You're hard-wired to be a soldier, nothing's going to change that, and you took on over thirty mobsters, who in my view were drugs- and drink-soaked vermin, single-handed, most of whom were arrested shortly afterwards and a few killed or wounded. I wanted you for the job for that very reason. Get over it, Patrick!'

When we were outside on the pavement Patrick said pensively, ‘Leopard, non-changing spots, for the use of?'

I gave him a hug. ‘Some leopard.'

Obviously, we could not arrive at home after an absence, unpack work-related impedimenta and just get on with it. For one thing there was a deluge of delighted young people demanding our attention, parents to hear all the latest news and gossip from, a nanny to give one of the presents – perfume – to, baby Mark to cuddle, not to mention checking that George, Patrick's horse and Fudge, Katie's pony, kept at livery, were well. The two kittens: Pirate, called after her predecessor, and Patch, her brother, had put themselves right at the head of the queue by having to be lifted down from the lower branch of a tree growing over the drive where they had been precariously teetering.

Finally, and of course reluctantly, we started work shortly after breakfast the following day. Patrick hates sitting reading files and I knew he would much rather be parked somewhere in the vicinity of Clement Hamlyn's house, watching him, but that was not an option until we had more information.

We started with the letters to SOCA from Miss Smythe. The first dated back almost a year. At first, she related in her neat hand, there had been events that although in her opinion were serious they were not the kind of thing with which she would normally bother a national crime organization. Her neighbours' visitors had been firing an air pistol in their garden, supposedly at a target but also at birds and someone's cat which had been hit and seriously injured.

Everything had taken a more serious turn one summer's evening when she had been reading in her tree house, which she admitted was the only way
anyone
could see into the neighbouring garden as it was otherwise very secluded. She had happened to lift her eyes from her book to glance across to the house next door. Several men were on the patio just outside the French doors and, although her view was partly obscured by foliage, she could see that they were unpacking what looked like rifles and handguns from a wooden case. There were also small boxes that she guessed contained ammunition. One man had paraded across the lawn, playing soldiers with one of the weapons over his shoulder. That was not the only time she had witnessed men handling guns on her neighbour's property, the second occasion being that with which I was already familiar, occurring in Hereward Trent's study.

The rest of the information was slightly repetitive, especially concerning nocturnal comings and goings and more than one visit by Clement Hamlyn, whose girlfriend, Claudia Barton-Jones, had once gestured to Miss Smythe with two fingers when the two women had happened to see one another at the front of the two houses. Barton-Jones had been with Hamlyn, who had roared with laughter. After this, I could not help but feel that the elderly lady had become obsessed about these people and could hardly blame her, especially after she had been hurt when the tree house collapsed. It was after this, when she had recovered, that she had taken to watching them through binoculars, venturing into their back garden.

Highly relevant I felt was Rosemary Smythe being convinced one night – before the tree house collapsed – that someone was in her own garden and being deeply afraid that they were out to silence her. This was in the third letter from the last. The very last was a résumé of all that had happened so far, ending with her regret that nothing seemed to have been done about it and that she hoped to be able to provide more proof.

‘But surely there would have been official replies,' I said. ‘These wouldn't just have been ignored.'

‘Just acknowledgements, I expect,' Patrick said quietly. ‘The usual “Thank you, your comments have been noted”, kind of crap.'

‘Patrick, I really get the impression that, towards the end, after she thought someone was lurking outside just before the tree house collapsed, this woman became terrified. She doesn't actually say so but, somehow, it's there.'

‘OK, I suggest you write a précis, buff up on the police case notes and this pathologist's report when I've finished with it. I'll read the letters and when we've really done all our homework by also going through Clement Hamlyn's and Daniel Coates' criminal records we'll head back to London and take a look at Miss Smythe's house.'

‘And she was still working on it, wasn't she?' I persevered.

Patrick nodded soberly. ‘Looks like it.'

The work – altogether there was a lot of it – and in between necessary family matters, never mind eating and sleeping, took another thirty-six hours. But I was content for I had written not just a précis of the letters but also clarified the Met's report on the murder inquiry so far, it being thorough but the English lumpy in places, the kind of thing that I knew irritated Greenway. I appended my version to the original because of course it could not replace it, having been endorsed by senior officers.

DI Branscombe had noted that although the killer had apparently endeavoured to make it look like a break-in, he, or she, had not found the two hundred and fifty pounds or so concealed in one of a pair of Chinese vases in the living room, which would have been one of the first places a professional burglar would have looked. Drawers under the murder victim's bed had been pulled out, the contents scattered but more money hidden between the pages of an old photograph album had not been discovered. Branscombe thought whoever had killed Miss Smythe had then hurried around the house knocking a few things over, opened most drawers and cupboards, pulled out the clothes and other possessions within on to the floor, ransacked a jewellery box, scattering the contents, and then made their escape through the back door, which had been forced to gain entry and left open. The niece was fairly convinced that a few of the best pieces of jewellery were missing but had pointed out that her aunt may have given them away or put them in a bank. The DI emphasized that one of his priorities had been to try to discover the truth behind this but, so far, he had got nowhere. If SOCA had no objection, and he himself had the time, he would continue working on this aspect of the case as he had a contact who knew the whereabouts of several fences.

As was routine, the murder victim's clothing and various samples taken by scenes of crime personnel in the house had been sent to a forensic laboratory, but it would be a while yet before any findings were known. The murder victim had apparently employed a cleaning lady, who must have been dedicated in her work as early results showed that the only clear fingerprints found, so far, were hers, those of her employer, Miss Smythe's niece and those of a friend, another elderly lady, who had all been eliminated from the investigation. But work was still underway as the house was quite large and there were signs of disturbance in every room but the attics. No doubt delighted to be able to give away the greater part of one of his cases, Branscombe had attached a note to the file assuring Commander Greenway that all outstanding forensic reports would be sent directly to him.

T
he view from Richmond Hill along the River Thames to distant Windsor is preserved by an Act of Parliament and regarded as an icon of beautiful English scenery. This might have been the attraction when she retired for Rosemary Smythe who, we were shortly to discover from her niece, Mrs Jane Grant, had taught English and art. She had been a Londoner by birth having been brought up in nearby Mortlake, an only child who had inherited more than modest wealth on the slightly premature death of her parents. She had not taken early retirement on the strength of this and I could imagine her, having begun to understand her character from reading the letters, feeling that it would be selfish to abandon her young charges for this reason.