Malice in London (14 page)

“What to you mean?”

“I have had to endure personal attacks from her and her group as well as chronic vandalism at the warehouse site.” He hesitated. “I’ve also received a number of anonymous threats.”

Powell gave him a sharp look. “What kind of threats?”

“Telephone calls late at night advising me to pull the plug on Dockside—or else. That sort of thing.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man, I think, although the voice was heavily disguised.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

Atherton shrugged. “I didn’t think it was important until now. I wasn’t particularly worried—abuse goes with the territory. People often react irrationally when they are faced with change, Chief Superintendent.”

“That’s as may be, Mr. Atherton, but uttering a threat is a criminal offense,” Powell said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Now I want you to think about this carefully: When was the first time you received such a threat?”

Atherton frowned thoughtfully. “Two or three months ago, I think.”

“That was before Richard Brighton’s murder.”

Atherton nodded.

“When was the last time?”

Atherton shifted awkwardly in his chair. “A few days before Clive was killed,” he said.

Powell exploded. “How could you be so bloody stupid? This is potentially important evidence, not to mention the fact that your own life may well be at risk.”

The developer looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent. I realize I was wrong not to tell you. My only excuse is I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I—” He stopped himself. “In any case, I assure you it won’t happen again.”

Powell sighed. “All right, Mr. Atherton. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“This is a bit awkward, but this, er, spurious allegation concerning Charles Mansfield—if it got out, it might create the wrong impression. I mean, the support for Dockside is tenuous enough as it is …”

“You can rest assured that the police won’t be saying anything about it. That would just play into the hands of the perpetrator, wouldn’t it?”

Atherton looked relieved. “Thank you, Chief Superintendent.”

“Where is your residence, Mr. Atherton?”

He glanced up at the ceiling. “I have a flat upstairs. I also spend weekends at my partner’s place in Marylebone. She has an apartment in Portland Place.”

“You may wish to start taking precautions,” Powel advised in a flat voice. “I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, if it were me, I’d assume the worst.”

Atherton nodded soberly. “I could move in with Susan, I suppose.”

“That might be wise. I’d appreciate it if you could let me know.”

“Of course.”

Powell rose to his feet. “Don’t hesitate to call me day or night if anything should come up.”

“Thank you, Chief Superintendent.”

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Atherton.”

As Powell left the developer’s office, he had the disconcerting sense of being trapped on a runaway train that was on the verge of careening off the tracks.

“It’s utterly preposterous!” Charles Mansfield sputtered. “I’ll sue the bugger for all he’s worth!”

“That might be an option if we knew who he was, Mr. Mansfield,” Powell pointed out.

Mansfield stared out the floor-to-ceiling window in his office at the broad sweep of the Thames and the gleaming towers of the City beyond him. “Politics is a dirty business, Chief Superintendent, a dirty business indeed.” He did not elaborate.

“To put your mind at ease, Mr. Mansfield, I have already come to the conclusion that the allegation is untrue. I am, however, interested in the motivation of the person who made it. I can only assume at this point that it was intended to undermine support for Dockside. I’m wondering what you think.”

Mansfield turned to look at him. “Your guess is as good as mine, Chief Superintendent.”

Powell persisted. “I understand that the project has enjoyed a resurgence of support since Richard Brighton’s
death. Do you think the call might have something to do with that?”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Mansfield said. “When Dockside is eventually built, Richard will get all the credit for it. They’ll probably erect a bloody commemorative plaque,” he added bitterly. “I’ve supported the project since day one, and unlike some of its fair-weather friends, I’ve never wavered in my commitment. And what bloody thanks do I get? Hints and allegations clearly intended to besmirch my reputation and damage me politically. Well, I won’t stand for it!” His face reddened. “I will not sit back and allow everything I’ve worked for be destroyed. I refuse to be relegated to some political backwater for the rest—” He checked himself. “Forgive me, Chief Superintendent, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, I am justifiably outraged by this lie.”

“Quite. But let’s not beat about the bush, Mr. Mansfield. You must have some idea who is responsible.”

Mansfield’s expression darkened. “Oh, I know who’s behind it all right.”

Powell waited.

“I’m going to handle this in my own way, Chief Superintendent.”

“Be sensible, Mr. Mansfield. Until we know who placed that call, we’re powerless to stop him.”

This caught the councillor’s attention. “Stop him? What do you mean?”

“We have reason to believe that Richard Brighton and Clive Morton, the restaurant critic, were murdered by the same person.”

“What’s it got to do with me?” Mansfield asked edgily.

“The one thing they appear to have in common is Dockside. Brighton was its main political booster, and we’ve recently discovered that Morton had a financial interest in the project.” He paused significantly. “You are also a prominent supporter, Mr. Mansfield, and until we know better, I think it would be prudent to assume that you could also be at risk.”

He looked incredulous. “Surely you’re not suggesting that
my
life is in danger?”

“I don’t know what to think at this point. That’s why I’m asking for your bloody help,” Powell snapped. “The fact remains that Richard Brighton was brutally assaulted then thrown into the Thames to drown and Clive Morton had his throat cut.”

Mansfield smiled. “I appreciate your interest in my welfare, Chief Superintendent, but I can look after myself, don’t you worry.”

Powell could barely contain his frustration. “I can’t force you to tell me, Mr. Mansfield,” he said crisply, getting to his feet. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

It was curious, Powell thought as he walked across London Bridge to Monument Station, that Charles Mansfield seemed more concerned about his political survival than the prospect of being murdered.

When Powell got back to the Yard, feeling peckish, frustrated, and irritable, Detective-Sergeant Black was waiting for him.

“There was another phone call, sir, just a few minutes ago. It may have been the same bloke, but I can’t be sure.” He paused significantly.

Powell sighed. “Get on with it, Black.”

“Yes, sir. He said that we might want to look into Adrian Turner’s relationship with Richard Brighton’s widow.”

“What?”

“Apparently they’ve been seen together recently. Our caller suggested in so many words that, with her husband out of the way, Mrs. Brighton was, er, ripe for the picking, you might say.”

“Were you able to trace the call this time?”

“Yes, sir. It came from a call box in London Bridge Station.”

Powell thought about this for a moment. “There is something not right about this, Black. Or perhaps I’m simply suffering from low blood sugar. I’m going to lunch.”

Celia Cross was presiding over the bar at the Fitzrovia Tavern. She smiled toothily when he walked in. “What’ll it be, Mr. Powell?”

“The usual, I think, Celia. No word from Jill, I take it?” he asked as she filled his glass.

She shook her head forlornly. “It’s been over a week. I’m beginning to give up ’ope.”

“The Missing Persons Bureau has put out a press release across the country. I’m hopeful that something will come of it.” He tried to create an impression of confidence.
“Has our friend the poet shown his face here lately?”

The publican scowled. “ ’E wouldn’t dare!”

“You mentioned before that Clive Morton was here on the night that Snavely tried to follow Jill home. He didn’t come back the next day, by any chance? Or on Monday?”

She shook her head. “No, I would remember that because of the way ’e carried on with Jill.”

“Apart from being generally obnoxious that night, is there anything else that struck you about him—anything he said or did?”

She frowned. “Can’t say as I noticed anything in particular … Just a tick! I do recall something. After ’e first came in, ’e acted as if ’e was waiting for someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, constantly checking ’is watch, looking when people walked in the door, that sort of thing.”

“How long did that go on for?”

“I dunno, fifteen minutes maybe. Then people began drifting over to ’is table.”

“People?”

“There were three or four of ’em. I recognized a couple of newspaper types that come in from time to time.”

“Could one of them have been the person Morton was waiting for?”

She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why really, but I don’t think so. They were more casual encounters, like.”

“How long was Morton here?”

“ ’E came in around ten, I think, so about an hour and a half.”

“What time did Jill leave?”

“It was after eleven. I remember it was just before closing time, so I wasn’t too worried about it.”

“What about Snavely?”

She frowned. “I just can’t remember. I know ’e was ’ere earlier, but it was fairly busy, so I wasn’t paying attention.”

Powell smiled reassuringly. “Tell me again what happened next.”

“The poor girl came running in about ten minutes later, panting and sobbing and scared ’alf to death. She managed to tell me what happened, and I called the police. They got ’ere a few minutes later and cleared everybody out.”

“That would have been going on eleven-thirty, I imagine.”

She nodded.

“Do you recall if Morton was here when the police arrived?”

“I—I think so, but I can’t be sure. I was too busy worrying about Jill to pay any attention to the likes of ’im.”

“Then what happened?”

“The police took a statement from Jill and left. I fixed her a hot drink, we talked for a while, then I called ’er a cab. I tried to get ’er to come ’ome with me, but she wouldn’t ’ere of it.” Celia’s eyes glistened. “If she ’ad, maybe she’d still be ’ere.”

“Don’t torture yourself, Celia,” Powell said gently. “I’m convinced that Jill left of her own accord for her
own reasons. The only thing that has me puzzled is why she didn’t tell anyone where she was going. She doesn’t strike me as the type who would needlessly worry her friends.”

Celia sniffed. “I like to think I’m ’er friend.”

“Of course you are.” Powell drained his pint while his hostess filled another glass for him. “Now I’d like you to tell me exactly what Jill told you about what happened to her that night.”

Celia described Jill’s panicked flight from Windmill Street into Colville Place, how she had stumbled and fallen to the pavement and just barely made it back to the pub with her pursuer hot on her heels. The publican smiled ever so slightly. “She said she nearly bowled over some poor bloke with a gammy leg standing outside the pub. After that, it’s all just a blur, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you, Celia. You’ve been most helpful. Now then—” he rubbed his hands briskly together “—I’ll have the fish and chips and damn the cholesterol.”

That evening found Powell pacing restlessly back and forth in the flat in Lexington Street, chain-smoking and listening to an old Jeff Beck record from Tony Osborne’s blues collection, wondering what to do with himself. In a moment of weakness he even debated whether or not to watch the billiards championships on BBC2. Mercifully, his mindless deliberations were interrupted by the telephone ringing.

The familiar voice at the other end caused a shock to surge through his body. He listened numbly.

“It’s me. Jill.”

Silence.

“I called the Yard and your assistant, Sergeant Black, gave me your number.”

“Where the hell have you been?” he suddenly exploded. “We’ve all been worried half to death!”

“I—I don’t understand—” She sounded confused.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady,” he said sternly. “Where are you now?”

“In Paddington.”

He checked his watch. “Look, I’ll meet you at Starbucks in forty-five minutes. All right?”

“Yes, fine … Powell, I’m sorry for all this. I had no idea … I mean, I’ll try to explain when I see you.”

An awkward pause followed.

“Jill …”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

She hesitated. “I’m okay.”

“Right, I’ll see you in a bit.”

She rang off abruptly.

Powell felt a wave of relief wash over him, diluting the sense of anger at what could only be interpreted as highly irresponsible behavior. Ever since she had disappeared, a bitter draft of morbid possibilities involving Simon Snavely and even Clive Morton had been bubbling away, just barely under the surface, in his mind’s ferment. The main thing was she was back and he had one less thing to distract him. He downed his Scotch and turned off the record player. As he locked the door behind him, he couldn’t help noticing that Tony’s flowers were looking a little limp.

He arrived at the coffeehouse a few minutes before eight. Eschewing the caffé mochas, caramel macchiatos, and double low-fat lattés in favor of a huge cup of something strong and black, he selected a seat near the window where he could watch the comings and goings in Shaftesbury Avenue. The street was alive with
colored lights and honking taxis and last-minute theatergoers rushing to their shows. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a play since Marion had gone away, although he supposed that he got more than his share of comedy and tragedy every day at work. Wasn’t it Sophocles who wrote a play about the irresistible urge to murder one’s superior?