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The senior internal investigations officer listened to the report. ‘When the officers went to the flats to reassure the woman who’d rung, she knew nothing of the complaint. We checked the number of the caller. It was a mobile phone. The woman they spoke to doesn’t possess a mobile.’
‘I take it you’re assuming DC Andrews has become aware of our activities and taken retaliatory measures?’
‘I think it’s a reasonable assumption.’
‘I wonder how she found out?’
‘According to her file, she was extremely talented at spotting telephone bugging during her training course.’
‘Her response seems to have been highly effective. She’s got rid of the team watching her home. She’s stopped using the phone in her flat and we can’t bug her mobile unless we can get hold of it. I’d say she’s winning hands down.’
‘It seemed sensible to withdraw the surveillance team as soon as their cover was blown. I’ve given instruction for another unit to be deployed as soon as is practicable.’
‘Marvellous.’ There was no doubting the sarcasm in the senior officer’s voice. ‘Be sure to let me know when plan B is in operation. Do you think you can manage to search her flat for evidence without her noticing? If you find Marshall’s
fingerprints
for instance, then I can contact her senior officer.’
Marshall boarded the first available train next morning. He’d waited until it was due to leave, saw there was one
compartment
without passengers and headed for it. Given the early hour and that there were only a couple of stations en route, he hoped it would stay that way. He opened the paper he’d bought at the newsagents in the station concourse. The only reason he’d chosen that one was that it was a broadsheet. Useful for hiding behind. Almost immediately, an item caught his attention. It was a profile of one of the parliamentary candidates standing at a forthcoming by-election. Marshall had little or no interest in politics but remembered the conversation he’d overheard at Sir Maurice Winfield’s shoot. The man they’d talked about was obviously the one interviewed here. After the first sentence Marshall’s interest was well and truly caught. With considerable surprise he realized he knew the subject of the article.
FORMER PILOT NOW A HIGH FLYER
When Julian Corps left the RAF to take over the ailing family business few people guessed he would one day become one of the leading figures in the construction industry. Even fewer would have suggested he might become a powerful force in parliamentary politics. Yet twenty years later, Corps heads Coningsby Developments, one of the two major players in the construction and civil engineering industries. Although not yet elected to Westminster, the by-election looks to be a foregone conclusion, and many political pundits are predicting a rapid rise for Corps through the party ranks. Some have even gone so far as to suggest him as a future Prime Minister.
Corps himself was one of those early doubters. Stressing
that his name is pronounced like an army unit rather than a dead body, the prospective MP explained, ‘My first priority was to get the company on to a sound footing. My father was a great engineer but less talented as a businessman. I was too concerned with the day to day running of the firm to think of much else.’ When asked how he’d gone about performing the rescue act, Corps smiled. ‘It took a lot of bloody hard work for little reward. It meant long hours of solid graft, day in, day out. First priority was to make sure all the bills got paid. Then cross my fingers and hope we had enough left to pay the wages. If there was anything left in the kitty after that, it got split between building up a reserve and paying myself a wage.’
‘What if there wasn’t enough?’
Corps smiled again. ‘Then I had to do without. It’s a good discipline being hungry.’
‘When did you think the company was beginning to turn the corner?’
‘I don’t remember there being a defining moment. It was more a gradual process. After a while I felt confident enough to tender for bigger, more lucrative contracts. I suppose it was when we’d serviced one or two of them successfully, that I began to think we were making real progress.’
‘Nowadays Coningsby has only one serious rival. How do you compete with Broadwood Construction?’
‘They’re a tough bunch, that’s for sure. So we have to be as tough, as competitive, and if we’re lucky we win out. Harry Rourke’s another who’s built a company from nothing. As such, I respect him enormously. That isn’t to say I wouldn’t cut his throat as soon as look at him. Just the same as he’d do to me. In a business sense, that is.’
‘So what of the future? What exactly are your political ambitions?’
‘My approach to politics is modelled on the way I ran Coningsby, or CBC as it was then, in the early days, when survival was my greatest ambition. I know quite a lot’s been said and written about me, but to be honest I try to ignore all that. What concerns me at the moment is winning the by-election.
Anything beyond that will have to wait. Only when it’s over will I start to think of what follows.’
Despite the modesty of his stated ambitions I think it will be only a matter of time before Julian Corps is MP for Central Yorkshire constituency. After that, who knows? Maybe we do have a future Prime Minister in our midst. One thing is for sure. At least he won’t have to worry about getting a wage at the end of the week.
Marshall whistled aloud with surprise, then glanced around nervously. The compartment was still empty. He relaxed and considered the facts he’d just read. It was another face, another name from the past. He didn’t think there was a connection with what had happened to him, but then, after what he’d just read, nothing would surprise him.
The difficulty he had was trying to reconcile the profile in the paper with the man he remembered. Corps hadn’t been much more than a front man with a salesman’s demeanour. Certainly not a business heavyweight. And certainly not capable of slugging it out with the likes of Harry Rourke. So how had he turned himself into the tycoon described in the article?
Nash had travelled to York for a meeting and was waiting in his car for his contact to arrive. He was approached; the newcomer introduced himself. ‘DI Russell, Charlie to my friends. What’s this all about? And why the need for secrecy?’
Nash explained. There was a moment’s silence before Russell responded. ‘If you’re convinced the man’s innocent, why is his face splashed over all the papers, and why the hue and cry after him?’
Nash’s face was grim as he replied, ‘Mainly for his own protection. There are things happening with regard to our
investigation
that I’d rather not go into, certainly not at this stage. But let’s say the successful appeal against Marshall’s original
conviction
was a triumph for justice.’
‘You’re saying this man Marshall was framed?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then I can understand the need for discretion. What you’ve told me about the case tallies with certain information I’ve been able to dig out about the man who lives at the address you gave me.’ The officer paused. ‘Although information’s a bit too strong a word.’
‘You know something about him?’
‘John Brown? That isn’t his real name by the way. But I reckon you’ve probably already guessed that. When I said information was too strong a word, I meant that there’s nothing concrete against him. Nothing worse than a couple of parking tickets. However, there are lots of rumours. Highly unsavoury rumours at that.’
He saw Nash’s quizzical expression. ‘Let’s just say he’s suspected of being “for hire”. No proof, obviously, but the word on the street is that if you want somebody disposing of, and you’ve plenty of money to spare, Brown’s the man to contact. He’s far from cheap, but he’s supposed to be highly efficient. His speciality’s the knife, unless you want the event to look like an accident, which he can also arrange quite easily.’
‘The knife bit tallies with what’s happened to the victims in our case,’ Nash pointed out.
‘Again, I’m going on hearsay, and third-hand hearsay at that. I’ve a colleague in the murder squad who got most of this from an informant. He’d to do a lot of talking and make a few threats before the man could be persuaded to say a word. That’s how much Brown’s feared. Anyway, the man said Brown’s such an artist with the knife, he sets up his own defence. If anybody challenges him, or if he’s ever accused of the crime, he makes it look impossible for him to have done it.’
‘How can he do that?’
‘I have to admit there’s a touch of genius about it. He makes the crimes appear as if they’ve been committed by a left-hander.’
‘How do you mean?’
Russell demonstrated. ‘If a right-handed killer went up to his victim from behind, you’d expect him to cut the throat from the victim’s left side, across to the right. What Brown does is cut from right to left. A sort of backhand action.’
‘A back-slash? That’s interesting.’ Nash remembered Mexican Pete’s words. ‘Our pathologist thought at first the two victims in the hotel had been killed by a left-handed person, but when he examined them closer, he wasn’t as convinced. I’m still waiting for him to come back to me with a final opinion. But, from what you say, Brown could have done it, and made it look like a
left-hander
, simply by using a back-slash.’
‘Maybe. But like I say, everything you’ve just heard is little more than rumour. But now that they know about it, our murder guys are more than keen to see how things develop. They reckon if we can nail Brown, we can clear up quite a few unsolved murders of our own.’
‘Then let’s make a start. Let’s go talk to Mr Brown.’
They walked across the gravel towards the front door. It was one of those dark mid-winter days where it barely seems to get light all day. A PIR light sprang to life, disturbed by their movement. Apart from that, the building appeared to be in total darkness. Nash rang the bell. There was no response, so, after trying a second and third time, he tried the door. It was locked. ‘Let’s have a look round the back,’ Russell suggested.
They found the parking area empty of cars. ‘Looks as if we’ve drawn a blank.’ Nash sighed. ‘I’ve had a long drive for nothing.’ He walked across to the back door and reached for the handle. He didn’t need to turn it, the door opened at his touch. He glanced back at his colleague. ‘Something’s not right.’
‘We’d better have a look inside,’ his companion agreed.
They were about to enter the building when they heard the sound of a siren. It was close and rapidly getting nearer. Neither of them associated the sound with themselves until a squad car, lights blazing, skidded round the gravel sweep and pulled to an abrupt halt alongside them. Fortunately the officers knew the local detective. After some confused explanations, the driver of the patrol car told them, ‘One of the residents in that block’ – he pointed to an adjacent building – ‘saw somebody lurking
suspiciously
near the dustbins a couple of hours back. By the time they rang us and we got here there was no sign of life. We rang
the doorbell, but couldn’t get any reply.’
‘Did you try this door?’ Nash asked.
The uniformed officer nodded. ‘It was all secure then, both this one and the front.’
‘That means, if anything did happen here, it happened after your visit,’ Nash said thoughtfully, as much to himself as to the others. ‘Were there any cars about?’
The officer shook his head. ‘The thing is, there’s been a spate of burglaries around here recently, all committed during the daytime. We reckon it’s the time of year. After Christmas, somebody short of cash, need to pay the bills before the end of January.’
‘I think we should have a look inside, there’s obviously a problem here,’ Nash said. ‘Especially now we’ve got back-up.’
All appeared well as they ventured up the stairs but at the top they could see the door to Brown’s flat had been forced open. Charlie Russell handed out disposable gloves. The first room was a living room. They could tell at a glance that the place had been ransacked. ‘Yes, this place has been done over, but there doesn’t appear to be anything missing. The TV and electrical stuff’s still here.’
‘Maybe he got disturbed, sir,’ one of the officers suggested.
Russell shrugged and indicated the doors to the left. ‘Check those out. I’ll have a look in here.’ He pointed to a third door.
Left to his own devices, Nash wandered over to the far side of the living room, where a small office had been created from a desk and computer workstation. An open filing cabinet stood alongside; a bunch of keys hanging from the lock. He called to Russell, who hurried back into the room with the constables. ‘There are two Yale keys on here,’ Nash pointed to the key-ring. ‘And that fob, it’s the same make of car as Brown’s. I reckon these are Brown’s spare keys. Let’s see what’s so interesting in these.’ He gestured to the dining-table where the files had been spread out. Nash began examining the folders as he spoke. ‘There are bank accounts with virtually every bank and building society you can think of. They’re all in different names, small deposits in each one on similar dates over the years.’
‘That’s a professional’s work, to avoid suspicion of money laundering. Very clever. How long have the accounts been open?’
‘Twenty years at least judging from the statements.’
‘That would explain it. The regulations only came into being piecemeal, so if the account was already open, Brown was safe.’
Nash found an even more revelatory file. At first glance it seemed to contain nothing more than a handful of press cuttings. He lifted it clear for inspection. Each news report concerned a murder or sudden violent death. Some of the cuttings were old, the pages yellowed. The earliest was dated 1983. After flicking over one or two Nash stopped. ‘Look at that!’ Nash pointed to the cutting. ‘I think that confirms who killed Anna Marshall.’
Russell turned to the officers. ‘I think we should make a thorough examination of this flat. You two make a start. In the meantime we’ll have a look at these.’
‘There are cuttings on Moran and Robertson as well,’ Nash continued. ‘I think we should have a closer look, try to spot a link with any other deaths.’ Nash pulled the file towards him.
While they were still reading, the officers came out of the bedrooms. ‘Anything?’ Russell asked.
‘Yes, in one of the wardrobes there’s a boiler suit wrapped in a bin liner. There are a lot of stains on it. I’m willing to bet they’re bloodstains.’
Nash looked up. ‘I’ll be interested to read the forensics on those. We know the killer of the couple in the hotel wore a waiter’s livery when he slashed their throats. If our suspicions about Brown are correct, I reckon I can guess the identity of the owner of the blood on those overalls.’
‘Are you going to share this with us?’ Charlie Russell asked.
‘I’d guess it will match that of Councillor Jeffries, the
councillor
who was murdered in Leeds two nights ago.’
‘We may have answered a few questions, but there are still a couple of big ones remaining,’ Russell said. ‘Number one: who was the suspicious character reported near the back of the building earlier, and second: what’s happened to Brown?’
‘That,’ Nash said, ‘is the million-dollar question.’