Deadly Intent (26 page)

Anna lifted up her coat. "I really have to get going, or I'll be late. As we had the weekend off, I don't think Cunningham would appreciate it. She's sort of got it iii for me anyway."

"You going to give her the update from what we picked up at the farm?"

"Not straightaway."

"Well, if you want that van towed in to be checked over, you'll have-to give details."

"Yes, 1 know, but just let me get sorted and I'll call you later this morning."

Anna made her way to the front door, where the Sunday papers protruded out of the letterbox.

"It's Sunday," she said.

"What?"

"I said, its Sunday!" She felt such relief, she laughed.

"Christ, it's bloody Sunday!" he repeated.

"I don't have to go into work until Monday!"

"Nor do I." He laughed. He then came to her and picked up the papers. Tell you what. Put your stuff down, I'll go out and get some fresh bread, and we'll have bacon and eggs or bagels and smoked salmon."

"No, I think I should get home."

"I can't tempt you? How about we meet for lunch?"

She hesitated. She still had a load of clearing up to finish.

He shrugged. "Up to you. I could come over and help you out?"

"Let me think about it." She opened the front door.

"Well, you know where I am," he said.

Anna took a long shower, trying to get her head around exactly what had happened the night before. She changed into a tracksuit, made herself some tea and toast, and sat on her small balcony. It was after eleven when she began to unpack some more cases and it took her by surprise: she was

humming. Suddenly, she realized that she felt really happy. Was it because of Pete? Because they had made love all night? Or was it because it felt as if she was, at long last, freeing herself from Langton's domination?

At just after one, Anna called Pete. It had to be telepathy, he said, as he had his hand on the phone to call her. They agreed to meet for a late lunch at San Frediano's, just off the King's Road. Anna dressed in jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater that she knew always made her eyes seem bluer. Again, she felt a sort of warm glow: she was eager to see Pete again. She had a new relationship blossoming. For someone like Anna, who had had so few, it gave her confidence in herself—a confidence that had been lacking for so long.

By the time she had driven to Chelsea, it was exactly two-fifteen. Pete was already there waiting; she noticed he had shaved and washed his hair. He had on a denim jacket and check shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. When he saw her, he opened his arms to give her a big hug. "You look fabulous," he said. Arm in arm, they went into the restaurant and were directed to a small corner table for two.

As they were perusing the menu, a lovely tall blond girl came over. "Pete, how are you?"

He lowered the menu and half rose from his seat. "Daniella, good heavens! It's been ages."

"I'm living in Spain," she said. Judging by her golden tan, she was taking in a lot of sun.

"This is my girlfriend, Anna."

"Nice to meet you," Daniella said, then gestured toward her table, where there were several young men with sweaters slung around their necks. "We're all going to a funfair on Wimbledon Common after lunch."

"Sounds fun," Pete said, smiling.

"Well, look me up. I'm here for a month before I go back."

"I will—you look terrific!"

Daniella gave Anna a smile before she sashayed back to her table.

"You chosen what you want to eat?" he said, picking up his menu.

"She was very glamorous."

"Yes, and her sisters are even better-looking. I've known them for years, but I'm not really in their league. They are stinking rich and just want to party. They have a big yacht..."

"Pete, if someone has a boat, do they have to record ownership? You know, like a racehorse?" she asked when they had ordered their food. "How do you mean?"

"Well, no two racehorses can be called the same name—they have to be recorded at Wetherby's. I wondered if it was the same with a boat. Do owners have to register the name for permits and things, or when they come in and out of this country?"

"I don't know. I can ask Daniella, but I doubt she'd know." "Never mind—I just wondered."

Pete sat back as the waiter brought their wine. He picked up his glass and tapped Anna's. "Cheers. To us?"

She smiled and sipped her wine. She had felt so touched when he had introduced her as his girlfriend; in fact, she could not recall anyone ever doing so before. Certainly not Langton—he was even loath to admit he was having an affair with her.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly. She flushed and shrugged her shoulders. "You introduced me as your girlfriend." "I'm sorry." "I liked it."

He cocked his head to one side, then he gave that lovely warm chuckle, reaching over to take her hand. "That's good. You know something? I have never been so grateful for a Sunday before. I think if it hadn't have been for you, I would have gone off to work like a grouch, and I would have had a hard time persuading you to agree to ever see me again."

"I called you, remember," she said.

"So you did. Maybe I underestimated myself. I have in the past. So why do you want to know this stuff about a boat registration?"

As their lunch was served, Anna described the oil painting of the yacht at Honour Nolan's farmhouse and how Gordon had taken a photograph of it. It was not clear if it did have the same name or was in fact the boat that they knew Alexander Fitzpatrick had previously owned.

but there was, she felt, a possibility that it could link him to Honour and Damien Nolan. They had no way of checking as the painting had been taken down when Anna had returned with Pete to the farmhouse. Which in itself was suspicious, as both had denied knowing Anthony Collingwood, the man Anna believed to be Alexander Fitzpatrick.

Throughout, Pete listened and threw in the odd suggestion. Anna loved being able to talk about her work with someone who understood it. Though his own connection to the police was scientific, they nevertheless had so much in common.

Anna and Pete were one of the last couples to leave the restaurant. Hand in hand, they walked to her car and he agreed, without any pressure from her, to let her go home and have an early night, so as to be refreshed for the morning.

She hesitated, unsure how to approach the subject but, yet again, he seemed to intuitively know she wanted to say something. "Go on, what is it?"

"Well, this situation between us. I want to see you and 1 think you feel the same way, but, Pete, I can't if you continue to smoke. It would be unethical for one, never mind illegal, and I am not prepared to take the risk or try it again. So really, it's up to you."

"1 hear you, and I promise no more. I think I want you more than any gear—agreed?"

"Thank you."

He stood on the pavement and waved her off. then returned to his Morgan. He lit up a joint, smoking it in his car, before deciding that a night at the funfair in Wimbledon might be entertaining.

CHAPTER 13

Anna didn't just feel relaxed and rested, she felt like a new woman. She had taken care when dressing, and blow-dried her hair; she was even wearing a little more makeup than usual. Her suit was one of her best, gray Armani, and she wore a crisp white linen shirt, the collar and cuffs pressed and starched. She had arrived at eight-fifteen and made a report about the weekend's activities. She did wonder how she would get around to presenting the findings without a snide put-down from Cunningham about her solo investigations; however, she knew she had made a lot of progress. When she got a call from Cunningham to be in her office immediately, however, she wondered exactly how she would pass on the details.

Cunningham was sitting at her desk, leaning her head on her hands, elbows resting on the desk. She looked up when Anna knocked and opened her door. "Come in, sit down."

Anna sat opposite. Before she could say anything, Cunningham gave a deep sigh. "Travis, I have a personal problem. I need to take the day off. Can you tike my notes and handle the briefing for me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. I will try, if possible, to get back by this afternoon, but it'll more than likely be the morning."

"Is there anything else I can do?" Anna asked, wondering what the "personal problem" could be.

"No, I'm going to take off now, but if you need me, I'll be at the Harley Street clinic. You can contact me on my mobile."

"Okay. I hope there's nothing wrong."

Cunningham stood up and fetched her jacket from the back of her chair. "Not with me—its my partner. She found a lump in her breast

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last week. I want to be with her when she sees her doctor. If it's malignant, she'll have to go in straightaway for treatment." "I'm sorry."

"I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself, which is the reason I've asked for you to stand in for me and not Phil. But keep me informed. As I said, I'll have my mobile turned on." Anna stood up.

"You have a good weekend?" Cunningham said as she picked up her briefcase.

"Yes, thank you." This was not the time to bring up the developments.

"Well. I'm glad you had a restful time; it's been hideous for me. I had bloody Langton giving me a grilling all of Saturday and then, when I got back, Sheila had the news about the tests. Still, the good thing is she has medical insurance ..."

It was the first time Anna's heart hadn't jumped at hearing his name mentioned.

"Still, I think we are making progress, albeit at a snail's pace. I'll keep in touch." She passed Anna a file as she headed for the door.

As Anna followed Cunningham out of her office, she couldn't help wondering just how much of a grilling Langton had given her. She also wondered if her name had cropped up, but she didn't ask. "I'll just look over your notes, then crack on." "Good."

She watched Cunningham walk down the corridor and out of the building, before branching off to enter her own office. She remembered how she had felt when her father had been diagnosed with lung cancer. It had been a terrible moment. He had joked, warning her never to start smoking as he lit up one of his ever-present Silk Cut cigarettes. She couldn't reprimand him. It was a sad show of defiance and all she could do was wrap her arms around him and tell him that she would be there for him. The disease had taken its toll fast, and watching him waste away in hospital had broken her heart. As much as she didn't really like Cunningham, she hoped that she would not have to go through such an ordeal with her partner.

Anna forced herself to get back to her work.

The typed notes were a run-through of the case to date, nothing new. Anna had time to find herself a coffee before she stood by the board and began to write up her notes from the weekends trip to Oxford. The discovery of D'Anton s van was a plus; it had by now been towed to the forensic yard. She arrowed the connections to the antiques shop, then to Honour Nolan's farmhouse. She also arrowed the connection of the Mitsubishi with D'Anton, that he might have returned home while his wife was away. She then underlined the possibility that D'Anton could have been at the farm, and that tests would be made on the mud from his post office van and the Mitsubishi.

Phil joined her. "Somebody didn't have time out this weekend!"

Anna smiled, and finished writing on the board. By this time, the team had gathered and were talking quietly to one another; only Phil was paying close attention to the added details. Anna then asked for everyone's attention. As Cunningham was not available, she said, she was giving the briefing to update them all on the weekend. They listened attentively as she outlined the links, then opened the floor for a discussion. She did not refer to Cunningham's notes, as they related the possibility that D'Anton had been killed because of who, or what, he might have seen at the farmhouse.

"I think we need more pressure on Frank Brandon's widow. I also think we need to find out more about her finances. If, as we know, she does have ten million or more, then this must be checked out. If it was drug money paid into her various accounts over the years, we need the accountant to be requestioned. The fact that she has admitted that her ex-partner was Anthony Collingwood, one of the names used by Alexander Fitzpatrick, makes it possible that he is in the UK."

Phil gestured that he wanted to say something. "But if, as we are led to believe, Fitzpatrick has megamillions stashed in the USA, why is he back here? Also, what is the connection to the drug squat in Chalk Farm?"

Anna looked at the board. "I keep on coming back to the possibility that it was something or someone inside the squat he was after—that is, if we can prove that the man who accompanied Frank Brandon was Fitzpatrick."

To date, Phil interjected, the people identified and murdered were all lowlifes. Why would a man like Fitzpatrick want to be involved with the likes of Donny Petrozzo, let alone Stanley Leymore, and even Julius D'Anton? D'Anton may have been a cut above the others, but not much: he was a junkie, living hand to mouth, buying and selling antiques.

Anna turned back to the board. "Okay, I hear what you are saying, Phil, but D'Anton was at Balliol at the same time as Alexander Fitzpatrick; he dined out on the fact that he used to know him. By coincidence, he went after an antique table at a local fair in Shipston on Stour, then tried to find out where the table came from—a cottage not far from the farm where Honour Nolan lives. D'Anton s van breaks down; it's a really narrow lane with ditches either side, maybe he walks to the farm ..."

"And maybe sees Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes."

"That is, if he is there, or even in the country."

"Let's say that he is," Anna said tetchily.

Phil continued. "D'Anton next gets to borrow a Mitsubishi—from the farm?"

"We don't know, but he is seen driving it.The table wouldn't fit into the back, remember."

"So D'Anton, without his table, returns to London; his wife is off with her builder; he gets dumped in the Thames; then we find Petrozzo's body inside the Mitsubishi!"

Anna chewed her lips. "We'll have more details as soon as the tests have been done on the samples of soil taken at the farm."

"Yeah, but in the meantime, we're still waiting on toxicology reports—how long is that all going to take? Right now we have no confirmation on what killed Donny Petrozzo or our junkie friend from the Thames."

"What about the boat.
Dare Devil,
seen at the Nolans' farmhouse?" This was Gordon asking.

Anna said they would need verification of ownership, as it did not have the same name as the boat they knew to have been previously

owned by Fitzpatrick. She again brought up the fact that the painting of the boat had been taken down from the study in the farmhouse.

"So what is that going to give us?" Phil again.

"That both Honour and Damien lied about how well they knew Fitzpatrick."

"Even so,
what does that give us?
I mean, maybe they knew him a long time ago; he was with Honour's sister for years—if he is the man she calls Anthony Collingwood." Phil was getting rattled.

"How many Anthony Collingwoods are in the phone book?" Anna was starting to get angry herself. "Has anyone tried to trace him?"

Pamela Meadows said that she had been running through the Anthony Collingwoods listed in the telephone directory, but to date they had all checked out as legitimate.

"Keep going. If Julia Brandon admits to living with him or someone using that name, there has to be some kind of record that he existed," Anna said briskly.

Phil gave an open-armed gesture. "Why? Right now Julia Brandon is not a suspect for the murder of her husband. The fact she lived with someone doesn't give us anything, even though you believe that man could possibly be Alexander Fitzpatrick. Let's say he was: we have not a shred of evidence in our case that involves him. What we
do
have are three dead men."

"And we've made a connection between all of them," Anna snapped, her patience at breaking point. "What we do not have is the identity of the man we know entered that drug squat with Frank Brandon, and the reason I am constantly bringing up Alexander Fitzpatrick is because there is a strong possibility it was him."

"In your opinion."

"Yes, in my opinion!"

"Why? Why does an international drug dealer, a man wanted around the world, a man known to have stashed away millions from his drug trafficking, want to be back in the UK? In addition, for me, the big question is still what the fuck is he doing with Frank Brandon in that shithole in Chalk Farm? All we've got are small-time drug dealers. Yes, they do all link together, but none link back to your kingpin.You think he'd bother

with this lowlife? That is, if he is even in the country? Far be it from me, but all you are bringing up is supposition without any firm evidence. I mean, I may eat my words when we eventually get the bloody forensic reports in, but I can't jump the hoop of coincidences with you."

Anna took a deep breath to calm herself. "Okay, if that is the consensus, let's concentrate on how we proceed until we do have the toxicology reports and the geographic tests. We are still hanging loose with a number of registration numbers of cars known to have been parked around the drug squat, so push for tracing those outstanding."

Anna continued to outline the work for the team, tight-lipped. In the meantime, she would attempt to firm up her suppositions, and would start by requestioning Julia Brandon and her accountant. She caught the look Phil gave to two members of the team and her irritation boiled over: she said crossly that, to date, they should all pay notice to exactly what she had personally produced for the case. They broke up and a trolley of coffee was wheeled in. Phil kept well away from her.

Anna returned to her office, furious. She sensed that part of the reason Phil had been deriding virtually everything she said was that he felt that he should have been handling the case in Cunningham's absence.

Her office door opened and the man himself put his head around the door frame. "I'm having meetings with the Drug Squad—checking out what they can give us on the occupants of the squat, see if they have any leads for us. You want to come along?"

"No, I'm going into the West End to meet with Mr. Rushton, Julia Brandon's financial adviser."

Phil gave a noncommittal shrug and walked out, as Gordon entered.

"I should have brought this up at the briefing; you're taking your time checking out that boat from the painting, Gordon."

"I'm sorry. I've already done some digging. I've got a call into the Registry of Shipping and Seamen, they're in Cardiff. Apparently, all ships are registered and given a number which never changes. A registered ship must also have a name different from any other ship and these numbers are carved into the main beam of the ship."

"For Christ's sake, Gordon, get on with it—see if you can trace
Dare Devil.
I'll be on my mobile."

"It'll cost twelve pounds for a current search of ownership and, if we want photocopies of the ledgers, that'll cost twenty-three pounds. These searches will show mortgages of the boats and—"

Anna sighed. "Just do it, Gordon, and get back to me."

"Okay, I just wanted your permission to pay them."

"You've got it. Now go on, get moving." A minute later Anna snatched up her briefcase and was leaving the office, when her desk phone rang. She hesitated and then answered.

It was Gordon again. "Look, this is going to take some time. Any ship used outside UK waters, or over twenty-four meters, has to be registered, but it's quite a haul, as any ship can be owned by up to five people or companies. Those five can be divided up into as many as sixty-four shareholders."

Anna closed her eyes. "Gordon? Are you saying that you've traced the boat?"

"No, not yet, but I am just saying it might take a lot longer if there are, say, sixty-four shareholders and maybe four or five owners."