Deadly Intent (3 page)

Due to the low temperature in the operating theater, Manuel's body was not too decomposed. The still-handsome man sat in his chair, his dead eyes staring, as if at the open box of Fentanyl resting on his lap. He had used only one vial but that had been more than enough to stop his heart.

Mr. Smith made arrangements to return to England. He doubted that he would have problems entering the UK and he was looking forward to "going home" once more. He was also confident that, using one or other of his many passports, he would not be recognized, even by his own mother. Detective Inspector Anna Travis's relationship with James Langton was long over. Since she had last seen him, she had been assigned two other investigations. She had read about his promotion to Chief Superintendent and so knew that he was overseeing all the Murder Squad teams. She also knew that her most recent cases would have come her way on Langton's recommendation. Anna had been nervous about confronting him again, but neither investigation had created much media attention and Langton had not even made an appearance.

The small flat, however, which had been hers before he moved in, retained his strong presence. To get him out of her system completely, she knew she should find another place to live. She put the flat up for sale and, in a matter of weeks, had received a cash offer—which meant she had to hurry to find herself a new home.

It was a depressing experience. One apartment after the other was nowhere near as pleasant, or as well maintained, as the one she was selling. Finally, she found what she wanted: a top-floor maisonette, part of a new development close to Tower Bridge, overlooking the Thames, it had one spacious bedroom with bathroom ensuite, an open-plan living room with kitchen and dining space, and views of the river from wraparound windows. A balcony ran the width of the main room, with space enough for a small table and two chairs. There were only seven other apartments below hers, then underground garage parking, with a lift to all floors. The security of the building was a major plus.

Anna spent several sleepless nights wondering whether she should take on the apartment, knowing it would be a stretch, with her salary, to manage the high mortgage payments. It was during one of these nights, sipping a glass of warm whiskey, that she realized how few friends she had. She could think of no one whom she could take to see the

CHAPTER 2

apartment. She was feeling lonely; the ghost of Langton kept resurfacing. He lived not too far away from her, in Kilburn. This move would be a clean break: no chance of running into him or his ex-wife. Anna took leave for two weeks to accommodate the sale and the move.

In the heat of the moment, Anna opened an account at John Lewis on Oxford Street and ordered new bed linen as well as new blinds and rugs, as the floors were all stripped pine. She even went crazy and bought a massive plasma-screen TV. She coordinated all the removal crates, tagging and bagging everything as if it was a massive forensic exercise. On the day of the move, she was up at eight, what small items she could ferry in her Mini stacked up and ready to go.

Later, standing in front of her new windows, overlooking the river, surrounded by her unpacked belongings, Anna broke down. She didn't understand why she couldn't stop crying; all the upheaval of the past few weeks was over. Was it exhaustion or the fact that, if she wasn't careful, she could run into serious debt? Or was it because she felt just as lonely as before?

With a huge effort, she pushed herself into unloading her china and glass and finding homes for it in the sparkling new cupboards. She worked hour upon hour, determined to get everything unpacked and in position before she went back to work. Late that evening, she flopped down in a state of exhaustion on the new bed. The bubble wrap was still on the mattress, but she was too tired to take it off. She just wrapped her duvet around herself and crashed out.

A couple of hours later, she was woken by a loud foghorn and shot up in a panic. No one had mentioned that the riverboats were similar to street traffic. Anna stood in her pajamas, staring down at the dark river below, watching the lit-up boats passing back and forth. Mist hung like a gray cloud just above the water. She took a deep breath: it was a view worth taking in. Suddenly she knew she had done the right thing. This was going to be a very special place to live.

At eight the next morning, Anna got back into her jeans and an old sweater, intending to have another bout of unpacking and settling in. She went down to the garage and was impressed by the array of expensive cars there: a Porsche, a Ferrari, two Range Rovers, and a Lexus.

t

Each tenant had their own allocated parking space and security key to enter and exit the garage. She decided that, when she was settled, she would call in on her neighbors below and introduce herself. In the meantime, she needed groceries. Unlike Maida Vale, where she had lived before, there were no small shops nearby, so Anna drove around, looking for the nearest shopping parade. She didn't find one, but saw a Starbucks open, so pulled up and parked.

Standing in line, Anna was irritated with herself: she should have asked the estate agent about shopping amenities. She would just have to find a supermarket later that day, and stock up. Armed with cappuccino and muffins, she returned to her car, only to find a traffic warden putting a ticket on the windscreen. She couldn't believe it; thank God the flat had its own car park. She swore. As she put the key into the ignition, her mobile rang. .

"Travis," she snapped, switching it onto speaker.

She listened as she drove home. They hadn't spared her a day over her two weeks' allocated leave before putting her onto a new case.

Back in the apartment, everywhere she looked were unpacked boxes; she would have to contact security to let in the various deliveries. By the time she had made these arrangements, and given her keys to Mr. Burk, the belligerent security manager, she knew she was going to be at least an hour late for work.

Then she had problems with the garage gates. No matter how many times she pressed "open," they remained firmly closed. She was about to ring the emergency buzzer when a handsome young man in a pinstriped suit appeared.

"Jesus Christ, don't tell me they're stuck again," he said. He passed Anna and pressed the emergency buzzer. "This is every other bloody morning."

Anna gave a small smile. "I'm Anna Travis; I've just moved into the top-floor flat."

He glanced toward her. "James Fullford. I'm in 2B." He turned back to the garage doors, hands on hips, and pressed the buzzer again.

A side door opened and Mr. Burk appeared.

"They're stuck!" Fullford said angrily.

Burk—ex-navy, with a barrel chest and short legs—gave a curt nod and crossed to the gates. He used a set of keys to open the gate manually, then reprogrammed the electric codes.

"How many times a week do you have to do that?" Fullford was still livid.

"They're new," was all Burk said.

Fullford revved up his Porsche and drove out. Anna followed, realizing this was something else that she should have checked out. She gave a small nod of thanks as she passed.

Anna arrived at the location in Chalk Farm almost an hour and a half after she had said she would be there. She knew little about the new case, bar the fact it was a shooting; a Murder Squad team were gathering at the site. She had also neglected to ask who was heading up the inquiry. It was extraordinary. After only a small amount of time out, her brain had stopped functioning. But she could see by the array of patrol cars, ambulances, and uniformed officers cordoning off the area that she had the right place.

She parked as close as possible and showed her ID to a uniformed officer who directed her toward a block of graffiti-covered council flats, a section of which had been boarded up. Outside one of the flats, on the second floor, were numerous forensic officers in their white suits and masks, none of whom she recognized. She made her way up the stinking stone steps. Keeping her ID held up, she continued toward number 19.

The front door and the window beside it had been fortified, with heavy wooded slats nailed across them. Anna presumed, by the look of the place, that drug dealers had taken it over. At the open front door, she looked into a squalid hallway: it was filthy, littered with broken bottles and discarded junk-food boxes. The big room off the hall, where all the action was taking place, was lit by arc lamps, Cables were being dragged along the corridor by forensic officers.

Just as Anna reached the front door, DCI Carol Cunningham stepped out, pulling off rubber gloves. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark trouser suit with a white shirt. Her hair was almost a crew cut.

and she had dark brown eyes, set in a square face, with a strong jawline. She wore no makeup. "You DI Anna Travis?"

Anna was surprised by her voice; it was cultured and quite soft. "Yes."

"I'm DCI Cunningham, heading up this inquiry."

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to get here, ma'am."

"So am I."

"It's just that I have recently moved house, and—"

"Don't want to hear it. I'd like you in there to oversee the crime scene. Then get over to the incident room. We're set up in Chalk Farm Station."

Anna removed a pair of rubber gloves from the box outside the front door and put them on. She didn't see any white paper suits, so just picked her way down the hallway and over cables into the big main room.

The large bare space had the desolate appearance of a waiting room in hell. Despite police attempts to render it uninhabitable, the place had once more been taken over by dealers. A separate room leading off this main one was the secure headquarters where the dealers hung out and kept their merchandise, protected by a strongly reinforced interior door with a crude grille hacked into it, giving a view of anyone in the outer room. This door was splintered by bullet holes. An officer was dusting and checking for cartridges while others were bagging and tagging various items. She still had not seen anyone whom she recognized.

The body of a man of about forty years of age lay on the bare boards a little way from her. His face and chest area, from what Anna could see, had taken the impact of the bullets. He was lying facedown, his arms spread out in front of him. He was not some junkie; he was, in fact, exceptionally well dressed in a smart suit. His white shirt, now covered in bloodstains, looked as if it had been pristine, and he wore gold cuff links. Even his shoes were classy loafers.

Anna stepped over the dead man and past forensic, who were checking out the blood spattering. Filthy blankets and sleeping bags were arranged against the walls. A fire had been built in the center of the room; there was a disposable barbecue with burned-out coals. Used takeaway cartons, bottles, and cans were also strewn around.

She gingerly sidestepped the junk to reach an officer who was testing for prints around a grimy window. Anna peered out and saw a balcony below—so someone could escape that way, if they had a head for heights and were stoned enough to play at Spider-Man.

"What went down here?" she asked.

He stopped dusting and looked at her over his mask. "Maybe a drug deal that went wrong. Victim appeared to have been behind the door, waiting to get served. He took hits to the face and upper chest. We think our shooter maybe got out via the window."

"He doesn't look like the usual druggie."

"No, I know. I think we got an ID. I know the boss took stuff away. They'll be taking him any minute."

"Thank you."

"You're Anna Travis, right?"

"Yes?"

"Thought so. You were late. Mind if I give you a tip? DCI Cunningham is a real mean bitch. She can make life very unpleasant."

"Thank you, I'll take that on board. And you are?"

"Pete Jenkins, with forensics."

Anna gave him a brittle smile. She had never worked alongside a female boss before and already it did not bode well. She spent as much time as she felt she should at the site, before heading to the incident room at Chalk Farm Police Station. She made copious notes as always and tried, while doing so, not to get in anyone's way. The station was old-fashioned and rundown. The murder team had taken over the second floor, which had plenty of empty space: it was due to be shut down and a new building had already been earmarked. Until the move, they would entrench themselves in the allocated area. There were several small offices for the detectives; the largest corner office had already been taken by DCI Cunningham. Computers were being set up alongside an incident board, and the clerical staff were organizing desks and phone lines. When Anna asked where she should unpack, she was given the closet next to DCI Cunningham's office.

The room was only spacious enough for a small desk and a swivel chair that had seen better days. No sooner had Anna taken off her coat, and wiped over the dusty desk with a tissue, than her phone was brought in and connected by a young uniformed officer.

As she took out her laptop, notebooks, and pens, a red-haired detective tapped on the open door. "Hi! I'm Gordon Loach. The boss wants us ready for a briefing in five minutes. There's coffee and doughnuts in the incident room."

Anna smiled and stretched out her hand. "DI Anna Travis. Nice to meet you."

Gordon seemed very young, whether because of his almost orange hair and full complement of freckles, or his rather nervous clammy handshake. "See you in there," he replied, and he was gone.

Anna peered through the blinds of her small window, which looked out onto the incident room. She watched the room filling up as numerous officers drew out chairs and sat around chatting. She still hadn't seen anyone she knew—not that she minded. It was just nice to see a friendly or familiar face when starting a new case.

She picked up her notebook and went next door, and sat down with two empty chairs either side of her. No one else sat close. She held her pencil at the ready, coffee and a doughnut beside her. She had just taken a bite when Cunningham's door banged open and the DCI strode across to stand at the incident board. With her back to the room, she made notes. Then she turned to face everyone.

"Okay, let's get cracking. First up is the call from a neighbor who lives on the estate. All we know is she heard gunfire, but I want her interviewed again, just to see if she can tell us anything about who might have been dossing down in the dump where the body was discovered." Cunningham twisted the marker pen in her hand. "We have an ID on the victim, but we need it to be verified and I want this kept quiet until we know the facts. 1 do not—repeat
do not
—want any press releases until we have that verification. According to ID in his wallet, the dead man is DI Frank Brandon."

Anna sat bolt upright. She knew Frank Brandon: he had been on the last case she had worked on with Langton.

"Anyone know the victim?" Cunningham asked.

Anna raised her hand. She kept on swallowing to control how shocked she was. Frank of the heavy cologne and weight lifters shoulders; Frank who reckoned he was every woman's dream; Frank who had at one time made a pass at her ...
Frank?
What in God's name was
he
doing in a drug dive?

Cunningham continued. "We will obviously, as soon as a formal identification has taken place, look into what case he was working on." She looked at Anna coldly. "Did you recognize him?"

"No, ma'am, but he was facedown. It looked like he'd taken the bullets to his head and shoulders."

"Correct. The top of his head was blown off. We have, I believe, five bullet wounds—two shot through the door, the others we think may have been at point-blank range—but we will wait for ballistic, forensic, and pathology reports for all that."

Cunningham turned to the board, then back to the waiting officers. "It looks, and I am only saying what I think—we won't know until we have made more inquiries—as if our victim went to the block of flats to score, was let in the front door and taken into the main room to wait, then for some reason was killed. The killer shot
through
the reinforced door, then opened it, came out, and shot the victim at point-blank range, to make sure he was dead. Then he must have run back in and escaped out of the window. Right now, though, we have no idea how many people were in that squat. We wait to see if they get anything from the prints."

Anna listened, as did everyone else. Cunningham's soft, upper-class tone was at odds with her cold attitude; she did not meet anyone's eyes, and talked
at,
rather than to them. She continued to twist the pen in her hands before writing on the board the ID of their victim and a list of the contents of his rather expensive wallet: two photographs, one of a pretty blond woman and another of two small children; along with numerous receipts for dry cleaning, repairs to a BMW, and grocery bills—nothing else.

Anna bit her lip, trying to calculate how long it had been since she had last seen Frank. He had most definitely not, to her knowledge, been married or had children. Could he, in the time she had worked on two

other cases, have met someone, married them, and produced two kids? She doubted it. She put up her hand and mentioned her thought to Cunningham, who nodded.

"Well, we'll know sooner or later. Anything else?"

Again Anna put up her hand. Cunningham stared at her, her dark brown eyes expressionless.