Wrongful Death (35 page)

Langton was taken to the conference room, which from its size and remaining decorations he surmised had previously been the master cabin. It had an array of LCD screens, satellite maps and PowerPoint projection equipment. The room was filled with agents and an FBI SWAT team dressed in military-style fatigues, Kevlar helmets, bulletproof vests and carrying submachine guns as well as side arms and stun grenades. Compared to what he had been used to, Langton felt as if he was going to bump into To m Cruise and the cameras would roll for a
Mission Impossible
sequel. Despite himself he couldn’t help but be impressed.

The director of the FBI’s Drugs Enforcement Team, Jack Deans, introduced himself and welcomed Langton on board and introduced him to the assembled agents as a detective chief superintendent in the Met who was after Fitzpatrick for multiple murders in the UK. Deans made it clear from the outset that Fitzpatrick was a ruthless killer who would see the death of an FBI agent as another trophy on his mantelpiece. Langton realized that Deans was in effect telling his men that the object of the exercise was safety first and thereby giving them authority to shoot to kill.

Deans went on to say he had received information from a seasoned undercover agent that Fitzpatrick might be using the alias of Roger Layman. ‘Layman,’ he said, was trying to off-load a large shipment of a new designer drug that contained, amongst other ingredients, a high dose of fentanyl. Deans then related how Fitzpatrick had tried, unsuccessfully thanks to Langton, to flood the UK drugs market with fentanyl and although he had lain low for two years, he was still believed to be the most powerful drug lord associated with the distribution of that particular substance or any of its derivatives.

Deans informed the room that the name Roger Layman had recently been used to rent a three-million-dollar, Tuscan-style villa in an opulent waterfront community on Tropic Isle by Delray Beach, fifty-six miles north of their current position. The villa was on a canal inlet, which allowed direct access to an Intracoastal Waterway that provided a 3,000-mile navigable route between the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. Deans said it was believed that Fitzpatrick would be coming into Delray by boat the following day and that once moored at the villa’s private jetty he was in effect a rat in a trap. There would be no way out as Navy gunships were to be called in to block off his escape via the waterways and the SWAT teams would approach from both the front and rear.

Deans brought up the most recent photograph they had of Fitzpatrick and Langton could see that it was one that had been forwarded to the FBI by the Met two years ago. It was a poor-quality CCTV shot taken when Fitzpatrick had entered an accountant’s office in London and murdered a man by injecting him with a lethal overdose of fentanyl. Dean brought up an e-fit picture alongside the first and Langton recognized it as one that he had helped to compile. Langton knew that he had only been able to do so because Fitzpatrick had duped him into believing he was a senior FBI agent and they had sat and talked with each other for nearly half an hour.

Langton was aware of a feverish heat taking hold of him, which happened every time he thought about how foolish he had felt after realizing the man he had hunted for so long had audaciously sat with him in the station. He wondered if Walters had informed Jack Deans about the incident but realized he hadn’t when Deans commented that the image demonstrated remarkable facial recall since Langton had only seen Fitzpatrick when chasing him in a car as the man was taking off in a plane. As was the FBI way, a chorus of clapped approval followed, to which Langton nodded his thanks and smiled, inwardly grateful that the truth had not come out.

Dean continued that Fitzpatrick was a master of disguise and had previously undergone plastic surgery and had his fingertips burnt with lasers to avoid detection. He then asked Langton if there was anything he’d like to add and Langton said only to agree with Director Deans and reiterate how dangerous a man Fitzpatrick was.

Deans pressed a control panel on the table in front of him and all the LCD screens in the room lit up, showing live feeds of the interior and exterior of the waterside villa. Listening devices and pin eye cameras had been secreted in the villa and the resulting pictures were transmitted onto the LCD screens. A real-time aerial satellite picture appeared on the large screen behind Deans, who used a laser pointer to indicate all the FBI surveillance positions. The only people known to be in the villa were a young boy and a Hispanic woman in her fifties, though they were currently out shopping in a black Lexus 4 × 4. The boy was believed to be between thirteen and fifteen years old, with an American accent, and the Hispanic woman was thought to be the housekeeper.

Langton did not interrupt but felt a slight hesitation about the teenager because he knew that Fitzpatrick’s son had been at an English public school and would have an upper-crust accent, if anything, unless the time spent in the US had ironed it out. However it was, he felt, a possible indication that they had the wrong man.

Deans started winding down, informing everyone that the journey to the suspect’s villa in Delray would be made under the cover of darkness. He instructed them all to turn their mobiles off as from that point on all ground-radio transmission would cease and contact would only be made through secure and encrypted satellite links. Deans explained he’d called in the expertise of the SWAT team, not only to take the subject out, but because they were a damn sight younger and better shots than he was. His comment resulted in a roar of laughter and heckles, the most notable of which was from the SWAT Commander, who promised his team would follow the director anywhere, if only out of an idle sense of curiosity. Everyone in the room laughed even harder, including Langton, as although he was not really at ease with their humour, he knew that the banter was a universal police thing, a way of easing the tension before the dangers that lay ahead.

Sitting in the galley with Jack Deans afterwards, discussing the operation over a coffee and sandwich, Langton froze when a dark-skinned man walked in wearing a long white cotton Arab robe and headscarf; he was accompanied by four stunning-looking women dressed in translucent white linen kaftans and skimpy bikinis. Langton wondered what on earth was going on. Deans, noticing the look on his face, grinned and informed him that they were all FBI agents and part of the undercover operation.

Langton laughed. ‘Looks good, but I’m glad I don’t have to wear one of those outfits.’

Anna had a slight moment of panic as she was getting ready to go to dinner with Don Blane. She had showered and washed her hair, only to discover that there was no hairdryer in the room and she had not brought one with her. Thankfully, the lady in the room next door let Anna borrow hers. It transpired that she was a Los Angeles detective lieutenant called Beth Jackson, who said that she was going into town for a drink and asked Anna if she’d like to join her. Anna thanked Beth but said that she had already made a prior arrangement. She couldn’t be certain but she thought from the look on Beth’s face that she took her apology as a veiled excuse to avoid her company.

Appearing well dressed and respectable had always come naturally to Anna and was never something she usually worried about. This time, however, she did feel conscious about what she should wear. She hadn’t brought much with her in the way of smart clothes and decided to wear a purple sleeveless shirt with dark, straight-leg denim jeans, a knee-length white woollen cardigan and flat shoes.

Blane was waiting in the foyer with a small posy of flowers wrapped and tied neatly with a blue ribbon. He looked handsome and smart in brown chinos, a crisp white shirt and light blue sports jacket.

‘You look lovely,’ he said as he handed her the posy.

‘Thank you, Don, they’re gorgeous,’ Anna said with a smile, taking in the sweet scent of the flowers.

‘I thought we’d go to a seafood restaurant by the Occoquan River in Woodbridge,’ Blane suggested as he led her out to his seven-seater Ford Flex car and politely opened the passenger door.

Anna thought it curious that Blane had such a large vehicle for a single man.

‘This is a nice car, similar to the Ford Galaxy that they sell back home. We call them people carriers,’ Anna said.

‘It’s handy for taking the kids camping, fishing or just out for the day,’ Blane said nonchalantly. Anna recalled that he had previously told her he didn’t have children and was about to ask who he meant but he continued before she had time.

‘The RTC has a beaten-up old van but this car gives them a bit more comfort and makes the trip more enjoyable.’

Anna was puzzled: ‘Sorry, but what do you mean by RTC?’

‘Residential Treatment Centers, the modern descendant of orphanages. Many of the kids are victims of severe neglect or abuse, with behavioural and psychological problems. I help as a counsellor in my free time. It’s hard work communicating with some of them as they have become trapped in a world of their own and fear outsiders,’ he explained.

Anna sensed sadness in his voice and wondered if there was something in his own past that gave him a better understanding of the abuse and neglect they had suffered.

She realized that since meeting Don Blane she had seen nothing but good in him. He was a sincere and honest man who had a radiance that made her feel warm and safe. She knew that she had been denying the obvious to herself as she tried to comprehend how much he reminded her of Ken. Yet, she held back, for while she was confident that Don was exactly as he appeared to be, she feared that fate or other unforeseen circumstances, as had so often happened in the past, would never allow her life to be as happy as she wanted it to be. As she looked from the car at the beautiful woodland scenery and the reflection of the trees and clouds on the surface of the Occoquan River, she knew that her fears were unwarranted. A serious relationship with Don was never going to happen as she only had ten weeks at the Academy before returning to the UK.

A waitress showed them to their table on the veranda, which had a lovely view across the marina, river and woodlands beyond. The sun was slowly setting in the distance, the red glow making the woods seem as if they were on fire, yet it was a calm and relaxing sight to behold. Blane was attentive and thoughtful, telling Anna that if it was too cold they could go inside or get one of the patio heaters turned on. Anna assured him she was very comfortable and they sat down.

Don ordered a Californian Sauvignon Blanc and asked the waitress to let Anna taste the wine first. It had a wonderful balance and freshness and Anna nodded her approval. She decided to go straight to a main course of garlic roasted tiger shrimp and bay scallops tossed in linguine and marinara sauce, with a side salad. Blane ordered a starter of clams in beurre blanc sauce, asking for two plates so they could share, and confiding to Anna that he couldn’t let her leave the restaurant without trying the clams. For his main course he chose the Maryland crab cakes with mash potato and coleslaw.

‘Cheers,’ Anna said, raising her glass and he clinked his to hers.

‘Here’s to an enjoyable and successful course.’

‘I’ve started reading over the case file,’ Anna told him.

‘I have to confess, I deliberately gave you the Mandy Anderson case,’ Blane admitted. ‘I read your CV and saw that you successfully investigated the disappearance of a young girl who had been missing for five years.’

‘That doesn’t make me an expert on mispers and anyway, I had a good team behind me . . .’

‘DCS Langton seemed to think differently.’

‘Well, that’s not unusual for him where I’m concerned.’ Anna said, raising her eyebrows in disapproval of Langton’s opinion.

‘No, I didn’t mean in a bad way. He said that your ability to think laterally and see what others can’t is astounding. He doubted that anyone but you would have uncovered the evidence that led to the discovery of the little girl’s body and subsequent conviction of her killer.’

Anna’s look changed to one of curiosity as she began to sense there was more behind Don allocating her the Mandy Anderson file.

‘Were you involved in the investigation?’ she asked.

‘No, they felt I was too close to Mandy’s parents Peter and Sally. Jessie Dewar was given the case.’

‘Can I ask how close?’

‘I met them through the church just after my wife died. Mandy was fourteen then and her parents had just told her that she was adopted. She didn’t take it well and went a bit off the rails, denouncing religion and becoming rather difficult. After she tried to run away, Peter and Sally asked if I would speak with her as they knew that I had been an orphan and they hoped I might be able to connect with her.’

‘And did you?’ Anna asked

‘I like to think so, yes. She came to understand that being adopted didn’t mean your real parents hated you. I brokered an agreement with Peter and Sally that when she was sixteen she could look for her birth mother and I would help her.’

‘The file said she went missing just before her sixteenth birthday,’ Anna remarked and he sighed, nodding his head.

‘I don’t know how I can really help you, Don – I’m a stranger in a foreign land and don’t know anything about the case except what’s in the file.’

He cocked his head to one side and frowned. ‘But you’re a good detective and a pair of fresh eyes on the case. The smallest detail may mean something to you and no one else.’

‘I would need to interview people, start afresh—’

For the first time since she had met him, Don interrupted her: ‘All the main statements are in the file and I can ring Peter and Sally Anderson so you can meet them.’

Anna sat back in her chair and thought about what Don was asking her to do.

‘Okay, but I can’t promise you a successful conclusion.’ She sipped her wine and in some ways wished she hadn’t mentioned the case file as the mood of the evening had changed, but she didn’t want to let him down.

‘Thank you, Anna,’ Blane said.

‘From what I’ve read in the initial report, Mandy was last seen leaving the mall to go to choir practice.’