Beautiful Death (34 page)

He couldn’t feel sorry for the pathetic body that lay at his feet, but he knew one thing for sure: Sarju
had been murdered, even though this was meant to appear as suicide. The little translator was a teetotaller, so vodka chasers to an overdose of sleeping tablets — conveniently strewn nearby — would not have been his choice. Between them, forensics and pathology would ultimately show signs of a struggle that was not obvious now in Sarju’s neat little flat that smelled of chicken tikka masala, thought Malik. Even so, he realised his killer might never be found.

The killer, a fifty-ish Glaswegian with a history of aggravated violence, who had twice done time at Wormwood Scrubs, was already on his way to Cardiff, his backpack bulging with cash and plenty more already wired to an account in Europe. William (Billy) Campbell had no idea who had ordered the three hits. He didn’t care. He was in the big money now and his killing days were officially over. The little Bangladeshi and the two Hasidic men were the last jobs he would do. They were a curious trio and he had to assume they were all in something dodgy together, but apart from the big redhead, they’d seemed a harmless bunch who wouldn’t have troubled a trio of youths in Tottenham on a Saturday night. He couldn’t imagine what they might have had in common that could so piss off the big wig who’d called for their deaths. Embezzlement perhaps? Or maybe they were minions who simply knew too much. Either way, he had taken the anonymous call from the accented man who said he’d heard about Billy’s ability to carry out a brief expediently without leaving a trace. Billy had warned he was not cheap. That hadn’t seemed to trouble the caller and the money was organised with
good faith and efficiency, Billy thought, well prior to the hit date. He was impressed, and ensured he gave his client slick return for his money. He’d studied each of his targets for several weeks and knew exactly where, when and how to strike. Billy was well prepared and the jobs were fast — over in moments in each instance — plus he was able to get away without being caught on a single security camera.

Now Billy planned to disappear for good — Spain perhaps. Nice and warm. He smiled on the train and looked forward to the good life.

27.

Geoff had organised the local police from Hertford to meet him at Elysium and was pleased to see they had followed instructions to arrive silently but in numbers. He counted at least seven men and women and two officers, one of whom was walking towards him now as he closed the door of the car he’d taken from outside Kate’s house.

‘DCI Benson?’

‘Hello, are you DC Hackett?’ She noddded. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said, inclining his head in the direction of the knot of police.

She pulled off a glove and held out her hand. ‘Ellie.’ Pushing back strands of light blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail, she continued. ‘I don’t know what we’re here for but I’m aware how important Operation Panther is.’ Her brow crinkled in a frown. ‘I thought DCI Hawksworth was spearheading it. I was rather hoping he’d be with you,’ she added, smiling. ‘He’s the golden boy of the Met, I’ve been told, um, no disrespect, sir.’

Geoff shrugged. This was nothing new for him. ‘He
is
heading up Panther,’ he half-lied. ‘He gets to save the girl, but I get to punch the villain in the nose.’

She looked at him quizzically. Geoff urged her onwards. ‘Come on, I’ll explain. There’s no time to lose. Hawksworth’s chasing after DI Carter who’s been kidnapped — we think — tonight. She’s managed to get a line open to us and we’re following her phone signal.’ They’d arrived where the main group of police was standing. ‘Thanks to all of you. I was just starting to tell DC Hackett that we believe the man who’s at the heart of Operation Panther’s case is somewhere in the grounds of the Elysium Clinic. His name is Dr Charles Maartens and our description is of a tall, fair-haired, fit-looking man in his mid-forties. He has a Zimbabwean accent — a lot like the South African one, it seems. He’s a surgeon, but don’t let that fool you. He’s probably dangerous. I needed numbers because this is a big place. I’m going to head up to the main building. Perhaps if you, and you,’ he said, pointing to two young police officers, ‘come with me we’ll look nice and official. Ellie, can you take the rest of your people and spread out across the grounds as best you can. I’m told there are some outbuildings, which might be a likely place for Dr Maartens to be at present, so please proceed with utmost care. I’ve deliberately not informed anyone at the clinic of our presence, surprise being our weapon —’

Ellie interrupted him as the other officer approached them. ‘This is DC Paul Baker, sir.’

Paul shook Geoff‘s hand. ‘Sorry, I was just checking out the area. They’ve got a security guard on duty.’

Geoff nodded. ‘Thanks, Paul — perhaps you can handle that. Keep him occupied, please, long enough
to give us time to get up to the clinic and for Ellie to get her people into place.’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m not suggesting he’s part of this but just in case Maartens has got people under the thumb, I don’t want him being tipped off if I can help it.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Great, thanks. And then, back up DC Hackett. I want her crew making for the outbuildings. Unfortunately, I can’t even tell you where they are. You’ll discover for yourselves once we get into the grounds.’

Ellie nodded. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘Okay, everyone? Let’s go.’ He led the troop of police to the boom gate where a sleepy security guard was sipping from a flask and reading a grimy-looking magazine.

‘Er, wait a minute,’ he said, startled by the arrival of so many people, and realising too late that they were streaming past him. ‘This is —’

Geoff glimpsed the sudden recognition on his face that he was dealing with uniformed police.

He heard Paul Baker start talking to him and then switched his mind back to the job at hand, signalling to his colleagues as he began to trot towards the main clinic. He held up a thumb to the very nice-looking DC Hackett as her party split away, shadows moving silently on the grass verge, avoiding the crunch of gravel on the driveway.

Jack snatched at the radio again. ‘Yes?’

‘The signal has been steady, sir. They’re in the Epping Forest. We’ve pinpointed that it’s an area known as High Beech.’

‘High Beech?’ Jack exclaimed. ‘What’s there?’

‘I actually know that area, sir, and there’s nothing much there. No buildings, cafés, kiosks. It’s favoured by bikies during summer weekends. It’s surrounded by bridle trails but no one else much uses it because there’s just a lot of mud and horseshit. And the clearing is where the bikies lurk. It’s not the ideal family picnic spot despite the ancient beech trees. This time of year I would imagine the whole area is deserted.’

‘Right,’ Jack said. ‘Tony, I need you to organise a police search team and dog unit, as well as an ambulance, just in case.’

‘You’ll need something for the dog to sniff, sir,’ Tony warned.

‘Fuck!’ Jack murmured to himself and then dug in his pocket, desperately hoping he hadn’t imagined it. He pulled out Kate’s scarf. ‘I’ve got her scarf. Get them moving!’ He replaced the radio, feeling yet more adrenaline pouring into his system. ‘Angela, now you prove yourself. Go dark as we get close to High Beech — I don’t want us to be spotted. Head over there,’ he pointed. ‘Just follow that road around.’

Hold on, Kate, just hold on
, he urged silently, staring at his phone, the line still open, his screen brightly exclaiming that she was on the other end.

Geoff Benson was thrusting his warrant over the reception desk at the Elysium Clinic, enjoying the look of panic on the faces of the staff, knowing their high-profile guests would need but a whiff of police presence to send them scuttling back to the far-flung cities they hailed from.

Geoff tried to ease their anxiety. ‘We’re not here to disturb any of your guests; we’re looking for Dr Charles Maartens, please.’

‘Excuse me,’ said a new brisk voice. Geoff turned to see an elegantly dressed forty-something woman in a business suit clicking toward him in heels, her make-up perfect. Why would anyone look like that at this time of the night, he thought irrelevantly. ‘May I help you, er…?’ She stared at the warrant he flashed near her well-tailored chest. ‘DCI Benson?’

‘Forgive my impoliteness but who are you?’ Geoff began.

‘I’m Agatha Mitchell, head concierge. How can we help you?’

Concierge? Sounded like a resort. ‘Well Miss Mitchell —’

‘Mrs,’ she corrected.

He started again. ‘We’re looking for Charles Maartens, Mrs Mitchell.’

‘Dr Maartens left hours ago,’ she said irritably.

‘You’ll have to try him at his home or perhaps more sensibly at the MaxilloFacial Unit at the Royal London Hospital tomorrow morning.’

‘We have reason to believe he’s still on the premises, Mrs Mitchell.’

She looked at Geoff now as if he were dirt on the bottom of her shoe. ‘Inspector Benson, might I —’

‘That’s Detective Chief Inspector,
Mrs
Mitchell,’ he corrected her, a sweet tone to his voice. ‘And let me assure you we have no wish to disturb the clinic or its guests, but we do believe Dr Maartens is still on the premises … possibly in the outbuildings.’

She frowned. ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she said, her tone brittle.

Geoff worked hard to keep his calm. ‘With your permission, Mrs Mitchell, my people will quietly and unobtrusively look around, if that’s possible? We have no desire to disturb your guests.’

‘DCI Benson, your very presence disturbs our guests. Is Dr Maartens in trouble?’

‘We would appreciate his help with our enquiries into a case.’

‘A case?’ she repeated. ‘At nearly 9 p.m.?’

‘A murder case. Several murders in fact. You might know of it. It’s been on the television and the killer has been dubbed the Face Thief.’

Agatha Mitchell recoiled. ‘What on earth could you want to speak with Dr Maartens about in connection with that? Unless, of course, you need his assistance with details of facial surgery. Truly, DCI Benson, I can’t —’

‘Mrs Mitchell. I can get a warrant to search the clinic and that certainly would disturb your famous and high-profile and ever so private clients … in fact I’d make sure of it as my revenge for you wasting my time while someone’s life is in jeopardy. It is believed that the man we are looking for has knowledge of the whereabouts of two missing women. Whether it offends your sensibilities or not, I plan to speak with Dr Maartens.’

‘And is Charles Maartens the man you think responsible?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say, Mrs Mitchell. Just let my people go about their business without causing us any problems.’ Geoff said politely but firmly. In fact, police were already moving around on the grounds. ‘Where are the outbuildings?’

Mitchell looked astonished. All her high-handedness had vanished as she pointed, alarmed, across a grassed area into the shadows of trees about five-hundred metres away. ‘Across there. Four buildings. Unused to my knowledge and —’

Geoff didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘Go!’ he said to
one of his colleagues, turning back to glare at the concierge. ‘Don’t even think of picking up that phone and ringing over there. This is PC …’

‘Rawlins, sir,’ said the young man.

‘PC Rawlins will remain here with you.’ Geoff had no time for any further pleasantries and ran out after his colleague, sprinting across the manicured lawns, but taking care to remain in the shadows.

Despite their best efforts at secrecy, Maartens had seen Geoff‘s team approaching. He was about to leave in his tiny hired hatchback, having sensibly left his late-model navy BMW in London so that none of the staff would know he was on the premises. As far as they were concerned, he’d left the clinic just after 4 p.m. that afternoon. He had parked the rental car in a side street some half a kilometre from the clinic and walked to the outbuildings, heading cross-country to a small opening he had long ago cut in the huge hedge that surrounded Elysium, protecting it from prying eyes. In this way he could access the outbuildings without anyone knowing he was there. And he’d taken the precaution of killing the single low light he’d used as soon as Kate Carter and the dead prostitute had been removed from his operating rooms.

He had told Tom on security that a couple of cars would be arriving around 8 p.m. to pick up some stuff from the outbuildings that he would leave outside. He’d assured the security guard they’d only be on the property for a few minutes to load up, and asked him to let them in and out without hassle. He’d even told Tom the make and model of the cars, so it sounded official. False names for the drivers had also been supplied, but Maartens knew that by 8 p.m.
Tom was usually cold, barely interested and yawning. He would simply wave the drivers in and out, unlikely to even step out of his small cubby and the relative comfort of its bar heater. Fifty pounds as a thank you had helped, but Maartens had made it his policy to tip Tom regularly, so the man would never know the difference between simple thanks for doing a good job or hush money — for doing a good job of an entirely different nature.

Maartens turned off even his tiny torch now, tidying up in the moonlight that spilled through the windows, now that the storm had blown through and the night was still again.

His plan was to return cross-country the way he’d come. The rooms were pristine; he had no qualms that any forensic clues had been left behind. As it was, after each round of surgery they’d taken the precaution of cleaning every inch of the rooms thoroughly, so he knew this final wipe-over didn’t need to be much more than superficial. He was confident no traces of Kate Carter would be found.

His intention was to drive quickly back to Heather’s. She would provide an alibi if he needed it. Heather Preece wanted so badly to become Mrs Charles Maartens that he knew he could get her to say anything to protect his safety, his wealth — and her future. It wouldn’t enter her mind that he might have done something illegal, not even if the police were involved. He’d already warned her to make sure his car was parked directly outside her mansion apartment so that friends, neighbours — anyone, in fact, who knew them — would attest, if asked, that Charles Maartens had spent the night with Heather Preece.

Perhaps tonight he would finally ask her to marry
him. He’d had the stone a long time. It was a fabulously large oval diamond — one he was sure Moshe Gluck would have salivated over — that he’d decided to keep from a cache a friend of his had brought out of Africa. He’d always known he’d need to impress Heather’s family with the ring, but then again, no wife of his was going to sport anything that wasn’t extraordinarily eye-catching. Heather would do it justice. She was equally eye-catching, but she was also cold and vacant. Her mind felt most at home teasing over which of the latest handbags from Prada to buy. She had little interest in his research other than how it might keep her youthful in years to come. But her family name was reputable, she made him look good and she genuinely loved him, silly girl.

All of Heather’s friends were married. Most already had their brood under way. Heather was anxious to secure Maartens — he knew this, and he was a major catch, after all, far better than the merchant banking or stockbroking husbands of her peers. Charles was interesting, handsome, sophisticated and forever gracing the social pages. His Hollywood looks and his bank account meant he could be anywhere on the planet anytime he liked. His career was stellar and his profile perfect. The problem for Heather was that Charles was not nearly as shallow as she was, and although no one, not even his colleagues, could ever understand how he might justify the means to the end, he was genuinely wedded to his work. He
loved
his work. He especially loved knowing he had the power to change lives, improve lives, restore lives. And now he was chasing the ultimate dream — giving life, albeit through a new identity.

He was having one last look around, running through a mental checklist, when he heard a muffled sound. At first he thought it was nothing, a couple of squirrels bounding across the lawn, perhaps, but a sixth sense told him to take a cautious look. To his alarm he saw shadows moving through the trees.

‘Fuck!’ he growled beneath his breath. How could they be so close? What had gone wrong? No time to linger on it. He was already in a dark tracksuit and runners, ready to flee on foot if necessary. He snatched his backpack and with care tiptoed to the side door. With luck they hadn’t surrounded him yet. He’d have to take the long way round, running along the Lea bank and making his way back to the car — or perhaps he’d just leg it to the nearest train station and get to Heather’s place at Battersea as fast as possible.