A Conflict of Interests (12 page)

"Is he a reliable witness?" Coghill asked.

"Well, like I said, he's something of a car buff. For instance, he told the constable who interviewed him that the BMW was first registered in York, which, of course, is plumb right. Then too, Mrs. Underwood couldn't remember exactly when this incident with her dog had occurred, but young Christopher is positive it happened on Monday, the twenty-first of June, and there's an entry in his notebook to prove it. He also claims he saw the BMW again two days later, around eleven-thirty in the morning, but I wouldn't rely on that being a hundred percent correct. According to his mother, Christopher is apt to embroider the facts when he's the center of attention. What he doesn't know, he makes up."

"The twenty-first of June, a week ago last Monday." Mace scratched his chin. "You know something, Guv? That was the last time Nolan remembered seeing Karen Whitfield at Abercorn House. Maybe this guy followed her back to Wimbledon?"

"Maybe's the operative word; Harry. Have we requested a trace from the Central Licensing Authority yet?"

Ingleson started to tell him he was expecting a call from Swansea, then one of the two emergency phones on the table rang out and he broke off to answer it. Grabbing a pencil, he made a few notes on a scratch pad, thanked the caller for being so helpful and hung up.

"It seems the vehicle had one previous owner," Ingleson said, interpreting his own original form of shorthand. "He traded it in for a new model with S. V. Motors toward the end of April this year. S. V. Motors is the main BMW agent in the UK and six weeks later, its branch in Hampstead sold the car to a Mr. Oscar Pittis of 192 Southwood Road, Highgate."

"That's where we start, then." Coghill pushed himself off the ledge and stood up. "Grab your coat, Harry, and bring one of the Identikit pictures with you."

"Who's driving?"

"You are," said Coghill. "You've still got the keys to the Volvo."

192 Southwood Road was near the top of Highgate Hill and within easy walking distance of the village green. A large, three-story detached house, it had been converted into six self-contained flats, two on each floor. Beyond a tall privet hedge, a tiled path led to an old-fashioned door with a stained-glass window in the transom which depicted the sun rising into a cloudless blue sky. Glancing at the wooden panel fixed to the wall on the left side of the door, Coghill saw that a Mr. O. Pittis occupied flat number 3 and pressed the appropriate button. The bell produced no response other than a regular tapping noise somewhere behind him and, half turning in that direction, he saw the net curtain in one of the downstairs bay windows had been drawn aside and a white-haired old lady was smiling at him. Quickly eyeing the list of names on the panel again, he returned her smile.

"Mrs. Hayden?" he said in a voice loud enough for her to hear, and got an answering nod. "We're police officers."

The smile became even wider and was followed by several more nods; then the net curtain fell back into place and she moved away from the window. A few moments later, a sharp buzz told him the lock had been tripped and, pushing the door open, he stepped into the hall.

Mrs. Hayden was there to greet them, a plump woman with apple-red cheeks who Coghill thought was altogether far too trusting, especially since she scarcely glanced at their warrant cards before inviting them in for a cup of tea. Nothing he said appeared to register with her, either; still beaming, she showed them into the living room and left them alone while she bustled off to the kitchen to put a kettle on the gas.

The living room was chockablock with heavy Victorian furniture, potted plants and old photographs in silver frames along the mantelpiece and on top of the upright piano abutting the dividing wall. A large black cat was stretched out in the middle of the sofa and an equally fat tabby occupied the seat of one of the two armchairs on either side of the fireplace.

"Jesus," Mace said in an awed voice, "you'd have to go some before you found another room like this."

"It is cozy, isn't it?" Mrs. Hayden said behind him. "Do please sit down and make yourselves comfortable."

With only a limited amount of space available on the sofa, they weren't exactly spoiled for choice. Somewhat apprehensively, Mace sat down on one side of the supine cat, Coghill the other.

"You mustn't be nervous of old Hector," Mrs. Hayden told him. "He's ever so friendly."

"I like cats," Mace said, a touch defiant. To prove it, he put out a hand to stroke the tomcat; just to show his appreciation, good old friendly Hector gave a low yowl and bit his thumb.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hayden said. "I can't think what's come over Hector; usually he's very passive."

"About Mr. Pittis?" Coghill reminded her gently.

"Yes, indeed, the nice gentleman in number three. I was ever so sorry to see him leave, he always had a kind word for me."

"You mean Mr. Pittis is no longer living here?"

"He moved out yesterday morning, packed his suitcase and went — just like that. Apparently, his head office recalled him to Vancouver. Perhaps that's why he didn't bother to leave a forwarding address."

"Do I gather Mr. Pittis is a Canadian?" Mace asked, chipping in.

"Yes. How silly of me, I should have mentioned it before. Mind you, his accent was hardly noticeable, and he was very surprised when I asked him where he came from. Said I was the only person he'd met who'd guessed he wasn't British, but you see I've got a very sharp ear for dialects. I used to give elocution lessons, you know."

"Really?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sergeant, but I believe you were born in Fulham."

"You're absolutely right," said Mace.

"You see, I'm never wrong." She clapped her hands and rocked backward and forward in the chair, thoroughly pleased with herself.

Coghill said he was very impressed, invited her to say where she thought he came from, then, after she'd informed him that he'd been born in Nottingham but had been living in the London area for some years now, steered the conversation back to Pittis.

"We understand he owns a BMW, license number NVY 241R?"

"That explains it."

"What?"

"Why you want to see Mr. Pittis. He was involved in a traffic accident, wasn't he?"

"You must be psychic, too," Coghill said smiling.

"I knew there was something fishy," she said gleefully. "No one in his right mind would sell a beautiful car like that to buy an old white Mini. And the way he parked it down the hill made me even more suspicious. Carrying those heavy suitcases all that distance when he could have left the car right outside the house just didn't make sense."

"If the Mini was down the hill, how could you see it from this room?" Mace asked.

"I waited until he'd gone, then went out to the front gate. That's how, young man."

"I don't suppose you happened to see the license number?" Coghill smiled. "Not that we'd expect you to remember it."

There was a momentary hesitation and he recalled what Ingleson had said of Christopher Youens and wondered if she too would be tempted to embroider the facts, but in the end, she shook her head.

"I'm afraid my eyesight is not as good as it used to be."

"There's nothing wrong with your memory though, is there?" Coghill said gently. "I mean you'd remember a face and describe it more accurately than most people."

Mace reached inside his jacket, unfolded a photocopy of the Identikit likeness and passed it to her. "This is only one of the descriptions we've been given," he said.

"Goodness me." She held the picture at arm's length and studied it thoughtfully. "I suppose there is a slight resemblance, but Mr. Pittis was much better-looking."

"According to various witnesses, his height is between five foot seven and five eleven."

"Ridiculous. He was five foot nine, the same as my late husband."

Pittis also had hazel-colored eyes, brown hair parted on the left, a round, almost cherublike face and an infectious smile. Amiable was a word Mrs. Hayden used time and again to describe his character.

"I wish everyone was like you," Coghill said. "It would make our job so much easier."

"People aren't as observant as they were when I was a young woman. I suppose it has something to do with the pace of life these days." A shrill whistle from the kitchen interrupted her philosophizing. "That's the kettle boiling," she said and glanced at Coghill, a pleading look in her eyes. "You will stay and have some tea, won't you?"

They had better things to do with their time, but she was a lonely old woman with only two overfed cats for company, and they owed her something.

"I could use a cup of tea," Coghill said and smiled.

Six-thirty: Kingman figured it was time he called it a day and went home to Alice. Truth was he could have left the office at four had he been prepared to run the risk of provoking yet another bitter row. Alice was still angry that their fortnight's holiday in Majorca had been ruined, so it was only politic to give her the impression he was snowed under. He stood up, slipped on the jacket he'd draped over the chair, then swore as the phone chose that very moment to start trilling. Answering the call, he found he had Franklin on the line.

"I've not caught you at an inopportune moment, have I, Bert?" he asked.

"Of course you haven't." He had, but it wasn't advisable to say so. Even though they had known one another for years, Franklin was the area commander and a certain amount of diplomacy was called for.

"If there's somebody with you, Bert, I can always call back later."

"I'm on my own," Kingman told him.

"Good. As it happens, I wanted to have a word with you about Tom Coghill and it would have been a little embarrassing for both of us if he'd been there."

"What's on your mind, Charlie?" Kingman said, cutting him short.

"Well, as you know, I'm not one to interfere, but the Whitfield investigation is drawing a lot of flak from various quarters and everybody up here is walking around on eggshells."

"And Tom is not the most tactful of men?"

"Right. There are a number of people in the Home Office who would like to see him taken off the case. I said that might be a little difficult to arrange without arousing his suspicion."

"I don't see any problem, Charlie."

"You don't?"

"Hell no. The crime rate in Wimbledon is one of the highest in London. Every burglar knows there are rich pickings to be had in that area."

"Yes, but can you sell it to Coghill? He's never been on a murder case before and, in his shoes, I'd raise all kinds of hell."

"Don't you worry, Charlie, I'll handle him with kid gloves."

"Splendid. I knew I could rely on you." Franklin sounded vastly relieved. "Believe me, Bert, I shan't forget this favor in a hurry," he added, and then put the phone down.

"You can bet your sweet life you won't," Kingman said aloud. "Not as long as I'm around to remind you."

9.

Coghill left the Volvo in the security compound behind V District headquarters, walked around to the front entrance of the building and took the lift up to Kingman's office on the second floor. It was Kingman's habit on a Saturday morning to go through the unsolved case load with his deputy and review what progress had been made during the week. Usually this took place around nine-thirty, but late the previous evening, he'd phoned Coghill at home to inform him they'd be meeting on the dot of eight because he was hoping to whisk Alice off to Bournemouth for the weekend. Despite the formidable number of files piled on his desk, the gabardine slacks and tan-colored shirt he was wearing were two obvious signs he intended to do just that.

"Doesn't look too good, does it, Tom?" Kingman waved a hand at the crowded filing trays. "We're about top of the league for unsolved crimes and the top brass are making unfavorable comparisons. I've got Charlie Franklin on my back and I want him off. Now, as I see it, robbing Peter to pay Paul is about the only way we'll make any impression on this backlog."

"So?"

"So I've been looking at the number of officers committed to the Whitfield investigation and wondering if we can't shed a few?"

"I'd be reluctant to lose anyone just now," Coghill said.

"Because of this man Oscar Pittis?"

"Well, there are a couple of fairly good reasons for thinking he might have been involved. His BMW was observed in St. Mark's Hill on one, possibly two occasions. Then there's the fact that he sold the car and cleared out of the flat in Southwood Road the day after Leese was murdered."

"He didn't leave a forwarding address either," Kingman mused.

"Not according to Mrs. Hayden. We tried to contact the estate agent yesterday evening to see if he could shed any light on him, but the office was closed. Mace is going there this morning to have a look at the lease Pittis signed and ascertain exactly when he did move into the flat. I've also arranged for an artist to call on Mrs. Hayden; with her help, I think we can produce a better likeness than the present Identikit picture. We'll photocopy the finished effort and show it to the residents of St. Mark's Hill. I thought we'd ask S District to do the same with Brompton Mews."

"You'd better channel it through the Regional Crime Squad," Kingman said. "They're running the show now."

"Does that mean we literally have to refer every worthwhile piece of information to Tucker before we can follow it up?"

Kingman studied him thoughtfully for some moments, then said, "What's behind that question, Tom? Are you on to something?"

"Not yet, but we will be when the new owner of the BMW contacts the Central Licensing Authority."

The abrupt departure suggested that Pittis wouldn't have had time to advertise the car and had therefore probably sold it at a loss to some garage, rather than a private motorist. In either case, the new address would indicate roughly where the transaction had taken place, and from that starting point, there was a chance they would be able to trace his subsequent movements, perhaps even to the dealer from whom he'd bought the secondhand Mini. It would take a lot of time and effort, and from the sour expression on Kingman's face, Coghill knew he'd already calculated what the task would involve in terms of manpower.