Deadly Intent (7 page)

"What are these, Jay?"

"Visitors," he said.

"I don't understand. Visitors to you, or ..."

"They do not have residents' parking tickets. It is against the law to park in the forecourt without a residents' parking permit."

Anna glanced at Gordon and back to Jeremy, who had now turned to face them. His cheeks seemed even pinker, as if he was using rouge.

"You have been monitoring illegal cars parked, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And how do you know about these cars?"

"Window, of course."

"Your window?"

"Yes."

"May I see out from your window, Jay?"

"Yes."

Anna passed him and went to the window. She lifted the slats of the pristine white blind. The window looked out onto the lockup garages at the rear of the estate. She let the slats slip back into place.

"I also monitor the vehicles illegally parked at the front on the days I work at Waitrose. I collect the trolleys and stack them and replace them in a long line outside the main entrance. People leave their trolleys by the side of their cars when they unload groceries, and they are not supposed to do that. They are supposed to replace them outside the entrance, but they don't. I have to collect each one and I make a line of them to wheel them back. Sometimes, I have found our trolleys outside on the road; that's when people have not parked in the Waitrose car park but on the street. I collect them and take them back to the entrance."

He spoke in short, sharp sentences with a low, controlled anger.

"Jay, just let me understand: are these dates of people parking illegally at Waitrose or here on your estate?"

"This is a residents' parking area. You have to have a permit."

"Yes, I understand that, but these times and dates are from your estate and not Waitrose, is that correct?"

"Yes."

Anna could hardly believe it. "l don't suppose you listed any license-plate numbers, did you, Jay?"

"I have them."

"You have the license-plate numbers of these cars?"

"Yes. You don't listen to what I am saying. I am a resident and these people have no right to park illegally and so I am monitoring them."

"For how long?"

"A long rime."

Anna took a deep breath and smiled. "Do you think Jay, that you could pass these license-plate numbers to me? As a police officer, I can do something about them being illegally parked in the residents' bays."

He chewed his lip.

"I could make sure they don't block any residents' bays for you."

"That would be good, because sometimes when my care worker comes here to see me, she can't find a space; one rime she got a ticket because she had to park across the street on a yellow line."

"Well, let's get this all written down then, shall we? Do you have the numbers?"

"Yes.
Please do nor silt on my bed."

Anna straightened and waited as Jeremy replaced the two chairs.

Again, she and Gordon sat side by side, but this time Jeremy drew out his desk chair and sat down too. He swiveled to face them. Anna took out her notebook again and gave an encouraging look, expecting him to open one of the drawers, but he remained facing them.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Jay, we are ready. Do you need your lists from there?"

"No, they are not the license plates; they are the dates and times they blocked the residents' parking area. I started doing this when they boarded up the flats along the corridor."

"Right, could you pass me the relevant license plates and, if they match the dates ..."

"Are you ready?" he repeated.

"Yes. Yes, Jay, we are very eager to—"

It was as if a key had been turned at the side of his head. Without hesitation, he began to list the car-registration numbers from memory. Over and over again, Anna had to ask him to pause, as she couldn't keep up. He was able to describe the make and color of the cars as well. Gordon was writing in his notepad too, but Jeremy spoke so quickly, as if on automatic pilot; sometimes, when they asked him to pause, it took a while for him to pick up where he had left off", but he continued reeling out registration after registration.

Anna said nothing to Gordon until they were on their way back to the station. Then: "Do you believe that?"

Gordon shrugged. "Did you ever see the film
Rain
Man, with Dustin Hoffman?"

Anna nodded.

"What makes a mind able to recall all those numbers, and yet he can only work pushing grocery trolleys around?" Gordon shook his head. "Look at the way he keeps his room."

"Obsessive-compulsive syndrome. Heartbreaking really; he's such a handsome young man."

"Yeah, his mother keeps him well turned out, doesn't she? I mean, he was immaculate: hair cut, trousers creased, even his shoes were polished. You don't think all those car numbers were just his nuttiness, do you?"

"1 hope not." Anna sighed. "We've got pages of figures and dates. Let's hope something comes of them."

Jeremy was still cleaning his room. He used Febreze on the canvas chairs, wiping the wooden arms down. He then wiped the window blind, especially where Anna had lifted it. He took out his own small Hoover to check over the carpet. Then he stripped naked and folded his clothes into his personal laundry basket. He showered and scrubbed his body, washed his hair, and made sure his nails were clean. He then carefully got dressed. No one but his care worker was ever allowed into his room; his mother only stepped inside to pass him his meals, and to clear away his tray.

Mrs. Webster tapped on his door. "You ready for lunch, Jeremy?"

"Yes."

"Everything go all right? They were with you for a long rime."

"Yes."

"Were you able to help them at all?"

"I'm hungry."

"Won't be two ricks."

He ate grilled chicken, broccoli, mashed potatoes and gravy every day followed by fresh fruit. By the time she brought his tray, he was waiting just inside the door. He took it without a word and ate at his desk, keeping all the food as separate as possible, chewing each mouthful carefully. When she came to collect the tray, he was still sitting there, his plate empty, his cutlery placed neatly together.

"That was very nice," he said.

"Good." As she bent forward for the tray, she could smell Pears soap, the only soap he would ever use. His shampoo was a brand for children, so it would not burn his eyes when he washed his hair. His freshness never ceased to move her. When she leaned forward to pick up his tray, she was close enough to touch the soft peach cheeks that she had longed for years to kiss, but was never allowed to.

Mrs. Webster returned to her kitchen and washed his dishes. It wasn't exactly a prison; he loved his room. In many ways, she was the prisoner, and had been from the time Jeremy had been diagnosed. She wondered what he had been talking about for so long with the policewoman, totally unaware that her son might have given the murder inquiry a mind-blowing breakthrough.

CHAPTER 4

Cunningham looked at the lists with an open mouth. "You're not serious?"

"Yes, we are. These are all the pages of license-plate numbers we have to check out."

"Work backward. Don't for Christ's sake go from the top of the list. Use whoever we need to get onto the D andV Licensing Agency. Give this over to Gordon; you can come with me to the path lab. Then we have to pay another visit to Frank Brandon's widow."

Anna was relieved not to spend any more time with the scrambled-egg-and-tomato gourmet Gordon, who had said not one single word during her entire interview with Jeremy. She was not sure, though, which was worse—having to partner up with him or travel with Cunningham, who unnerved her. Anna was constantly expecting her to ask about Langton.

She didn't. "This kid is what?"

"Autistic," Anna replied.

"Well, it could be a big break or we could be the butt of a lot of flak, taking this nutcase's word."

"He is not a nutcase, ma'am."

"He isn't? Holed up in his bedroom or pushing trolleys around doesn't bode well for a witness, Travis."

"He might not be able to stand up in court, but I believe him. You have to meet him to understand the way his mind works."

"Yeah, well, 1 beljeve you. Thousands wouldn't."

Dr. Ewan Fielding was a thin man with bony hands and a rather high-pitched voice. As he drew back the green sheet from Frank Brandon's body, Anna had to turn away. Brandon s face was hard to recognize.the bullets having torn most of the right side of his skull apart. His mouth gaped; part of his jaw was broken and the teeth splintered. Anna couldn't help but think of James Langton. The two of them were linked in her mind as they had all worked together on the same case. She even recalled Brandon asking her out. She'd refused. Now she wondered if Langton knew what had happened to Brandon. She shook her head, trying to concentrate.

"Three gunshot wounds to the head and face," said Fielding, "and lower down, we have two more: one in his upper chest and, moving upward into his larynx, another just above his heart. He died instantly from the bullet that went into the right lobe of his brain. The bullets have been sent to ballistics. The deceased was healthy: very fit with strong organs and heart." Fielding had found no trace of any drugs or track marks.

Returning to the patrol car, Cunningham seemed irritated. "That didn't give us much. At least we know he wasn't using, so what the hell was he doing in that shithole?"

"Maybe he was working on something that took him there."

"Yeah, maybe, but we still don't know what he was actually doing. Let's see if we can get more from the widow."

As they headed out of London toward Wimbledon, Cunningham rested back in her seat and closed her eyes, her arms folded. Anna kept as far away from her as possible. Even sleeping, she looked tense and angry.

Julia Brandon was wan and red-eyed. She was wearing a quilted robe and slippers, sitting on one of the plush sofas with a tissue in her hand.

"The children don't know," she said in a heavy voice.

"They're not his, though, are they?" Cunningham asked. This was somewhat unnecessary, Anna thought; they already knew that.

"No, but he was wonderful with them. It's strange, really. I was always a bit worried how he would cope. He even said at one time that he didn't want any, but then he just took to them, and they had started to call him Daddy." Julia broke down in tears. She wiped her eyes, apologizing repeatedly.

"Mrs. Brandon, we need to ask you some questions and then, if

you are willing, perhaps later today we will have you taken to identify your husband."

Anna again wondered if this was necessary. They had verification that it was Brandon from his fingerprints; to subject the poor woman to seeing the terrible damage to her husband's face would be a hideous experience.

"Yesterday you said you were unsure exactly what work your husband was doing, but we really need to know anything you can tell us. Have you had any further thoughts?"

Julia Brandon looked stunned at Cunningham's question.

"We need to know what vehicle he was driving."

"It was a Volkswagen, but he also drove my car." Julia rose shakily to her feet and crossed to a large glass-topped cabinet. Opening a drawer, she took out a folder and flicked through it. "These are his car insurance details." She passed the folder to Cunningham.

"Did your husband have a life insurance policy?"

"I think so, but I don't know the details. My accountant arranged it—he does everything."

"Your accountant?"

"Yes, he looks after me, us—things like the house insurance. He's also my business adviser."

"Business adviser?" Cunningham echoed again. She kept her eyes down as she looked through the file.

"Yes."

"But you don't work?"

"No. I have money from my ex-partner for the children."

Anna remained silent. She didn't like the harsh way Cunningham was questioning Julia.

"Can you give me his name and address?" Cunningham persisted.

"Isn't it on the file you have?" Julia replied. Anna detected a little bit of anger rising.

"Ah, yes, good. I'll just copy this down."

At that moment, a tray of coffee was brought in by Mai Ling and placed on the table. She passed the coffee around, then left the room. Cunningham opened a notebook and made some notes.

"Were you able to get any sleep last night?" Anna asked Julia, gently.

"No."

"This must be very distressing for you. I'm sorry we have to be here under these circumstances, but we are trying to ascertain exactly what happened to your husband. Any help you can give us will be really appreciated, and obviously the sooner we have more details, the better."

Julia gave Anna a wan smile, as if thanking her for her quiet comforting voice. "How did it happen?" she asked nervously.

Anna glanced toward Cunningham, who didn't look up from the file, so she continued. "He was found dead."

"I know he's dead, but how did it happen? I don't know what is going on! If you told me last night, I was too shocked to remember anything that you said!" Julia's voice rose; she was losing control.

Anna was unsure whether or not Cunningham wanted to take over, but she was paying no attention, still busy reading letters in the folder. "Your husband died in a flat in Chalk Farm."

"A flat? Whose flat?"

Cunningham looked up. "It was a drug dealers' squat, Mrs. Brandon. There is no easy way to give you details without it being very distressing."

"Tell me what happened to my husband!"

"He died from gunshot wounds to his head, face, and heart."

"Oh my God." Julia leaned forward, almost resting her head on her knees.

"So you see why we need to know who he was working for. Your husband was not using drugs?"

Julia looked up, her eyes like saucers. "I've no idea."

"Didn't he ever mention what work he was doing, or for whom?"

"No! All I know is, about two or three months ago, he got a job that he was very pleased about, as the pay was so good. He said it was driving and security, and that his past career had made a good impression at the interviews."

"Do you have any idea where he went?"

"No, it was all happening with the house and moving in. I didn'teven ask him. All he said was that it might involve long hours and late nights."

Cunningham sighed. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. Now, I really would appreciate it if you got dressed and accompanied us."

"No. I am not leaving the house."

"Mrs. Brandon, we do need you to make a formal identification, unless there is someone else that you could ask to do this?"

Julia bent her head low again.

"What about his parents? Other relatives?"

"There's no one." She suddenly tossed her head back and took a deep breath." I'll do it."

Cunningham finished her coffee while they waited for Julia to dress. She picked up the file and, when she went to the drawer to replace it, Anna saw her checking through the drawer's contents.

"She's worth a lot of money," the woman commented. "Frank landed on his feet with her."

Anna tensed. Considering what had happened to him, this remark sounded crass in the extreme.

"I'm surprised you are getting so uptight, Travis. 1 would have thought after working with Jimmy Langton, you'd be used—"

Anna interrupted her. "I'm sorry. It's just, considering she has only just been told her husband is dead, it feels as if we are being very unsympathetic."

"Really .. .Well, how about Mrs. Brandon coming into a half-million-pound life insurance policy?"

Anna was taken aback.

"You think that she wouldn't know what he was doing? Come on, what do you think? She's a poor little rich girl about to be quite a bit richer. She knows a lot more than she's admitting."

Anna shrugged. "Well, maybe you'll get more out of her when she sees his body."

"Maybe we will, Travis, maybe we will, because right now all we have is a list of vehicles from a kid with autism that might or might not give us a lead. We need one, because we have fuck all, in case you're not aware of it!"

Anna reckoned it was best to keep her mouth shut. Cunningham was not someone she wanted to tangle with at this stage of the investigation.

It was half an hour before Julia Brandon rejoined them. She was dressed in a Chanel suit and high heels, her hair swept back into a pleat with a comb. Anna noticed she also wore a very large square-cut diamond on her ring finger and diamond-stud earrings. She had a pink-and-gold designer handbag that must have cost around four or five hundred pounds. Her makeup was immaculate and she seemed very much in control of her emotions. She insisted on calling her financial adviser, which took another ten minutes as she quietly gave him the details of why she needed him to meet her at the mortuary. She also spoke to Mai Ling about the children.

It was almost an hour before they departed. Anna helped Julia into the back of the patrol car. Cunningham sat in the front seat with their driver. Throughout the wait, she had been on her BlackBerry. Anna could barely get a handle on her. She seemed to behave as if there was no one else around and paid little attention to the well-dressed widow.

When they reached the mortuary, a smartly attired, rather polished man was waiting. He had a deeply tanned face and his balding head was almost as shiny as his flamboyant tie. As soon as Julia saw him, she gave a light cry and ran toward him. He held her in his arms, comforting her. Then Julia broke away from him, but still held tightly to his arm. She introduced him.

"This is David Rushton."

Rushton held out his hand to shake Cunningham's. She then wafted her hand to Anna, and he looked at her with a woeful expression.

"This is a terrible thing. I'm hardly able to believe it," he said. He asked if he could accompany Julia to see her husband's body. Cunningham agreed and, taking Anna to one side, told her to deal with the viewing as she had calls to make.

Anna hoped that the terrible injuries to Frank's face had somehow been fixed. The three of them entered the cold, bare room where a mortuary assistant was waiting. Rushton guided Julia toward the body.

Anna stood to one side and quietly asked Julia to look at the body, and say if it was Frank Brandon.

Julia clung onto Rushton as the cloth was eased away from her husband's face. She stared down; her face was drained of color, her breath coming in short sharp hisses.

"It is Frank, isn't it?" she whispered.

Rushton held her gently and nodded.

Anna guided them out of the room, still feeling that it was unnecessary to have put the widow through the process. Rushton drove Julia away in his new Mercedes, having agreed that he would return to the station later that afternoon to talk with Cunningham.

Cunningham was standing, arms folded, in front of the incident board as everyone gathered. By now Anna had met three of the team: DS Phil Markham, who was a big, square-chested man with iron-gray hair, an old pro; DC Pamela Meadows, who was pleasant enough, with bad acne; and DC Mario Paluzzo, a part-Italian, swarthy-faced officer who had hardly given Anna the time of day.

"Right, everyone, listen up. We're doing quite well tracking down the owners of these vehicles. So far we don't have any with a police record, but we'll be running them by the Drug Squad in case they have any information that's not on the database. As you can see, we still have around twenty more to track down, so maybe one of those will give us a lead that'll tell us what he was driving—or who.

"We don't know what work our victim was doing, or who for. We think it was some kind of security chauffeur-type job, but we're hoping to get more on this when the family accountant comes in later. We are waiting, as usual, on the forensic department to bring in their results, though I know they took a lot of prints. As yet, we haven't got the full ballistic report, but we do know he wasn't using drugs, so he wasn't at the squat to score for himself."