Jack Morgan 02 - Private London (20 page)

‘Annabelle,’ I said.

‘Annabelle?’

‘How did she know?’

‘I guess Hannah called her.’

‘You let her use the phone?’

‘Didn’t say not to,’ Sam joined in.

They were right. I hadn’t. ‘Could make things complicated, word gets out,’ I said.

Suzy smiled, but her eyes were deadpan. ‘Maybe you could have a word with Annabelle? Buy us some time.’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

I knocked on the door and, after a pause, walked in. Hannah was dressed in a bathrobe. Her hair was wet.

She was being hugged by Professor Weston who smiled gratefully at me as I entered. Hannah didn’t move for a while, her head nestled against the older woman’s shoulder.

Annabelle gave her back a reassuring pat. Like a surrogate mother, which I guess she was in some ways. Apart from her age. A surrogate older sister, maybe.

‘Thanks for bringing her back to us,’ Annabelle said.

‘De nada,’ I replied. And I was right, it was nothing. All I’d achieved was to swap one hostage for another and pay the kidnappers five million pounds for the privilege.

Hannah straightened herself and moved away from the professor. ‘Thank you, Mister Carter,’ she said.

‘I told you, it’s Dan. And you can thank me when I get your dad back home.’

Hannah nodded and, although her face had been scrubbed clean and glowed once more with the innocence of youth, there was still a deep sadness in her eyes.

‘So, what brings you here, Mister Carter?’ asked the professor.

‘I think we have a lead.’

‘Really?’

‘A witness.’

Chapter 80

‘A WITNESS?’

The professor looked surprised. ‘I thought there was no one there. Why hasn’t he come forward before?’

‘Who is it?’ asked Hannah.

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the professor.

‘We found something on one of the crime scene photos, Annabelle.’

‘What was it?’

‘A scrap of material. Well, not a scrap really, just the part of it that was visible in the photograph.’

‘What kind of material?’

‘A blanket. Belonging, we think, to someone who was sleeping rough.’

‘You think he was there when I was attacked?’

‘It’s possible. He may have seen something. May have a number plate.’ I shrugged.

The professor rubbed Hannah’s back and smiled hopefully.

‘Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It’s a long shot. But if someone was there when the girls were attacked, when Hannah was taken, it’s something at least.’

‘I just want my dad back,’ said Hannah. Tears starting again in her eyes.

‘And we’re going to get him back. Get dressed, Hannah. We’ve got somewhere safe to take you.’

‘Where?’ asked the professor.

‘Not far.’

‘Give me two minutes,’ said Hannah.

The professor held out her arms and gave her another hug, then stroked her cheek. ‘I’ll only be at the end of the phone if you need me. And if you want, I’ll come straight back.’

‘Are you going somewhere … Annabelle?’ Hannah was clearly not happy.

‘A symposium. Up in Harrogate. Maybe I should just cancel …’

Hannah shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘We’ll take good care of her, I promise,’ I added.

Seems I had made that promise before but the professor fixed me with a considering look and then nodded. ‘I guess you will,’ she said. She took a step towards me and held out her hand.

It was as firm a grasp as I remembered, and as warm. I realised I was holding on a tad long. Annabelle looked at me appraisingly. I held her gaze. Not easy with a psychiatrist. You always think they can see right through you. What am I saying? She’s a woman. Most women can see right through me. I’m like the guy from Chicago. And I don’t mean Walt Disney.

‘You’ll keep me posted, Mister Carter?’

‘Of course.’

Chapter 81

DI JAMES JIGGLED some keys in her hands.

They were the spare keys to the optician’s, a scant hundred yards from where the shop’s owner had been blown into pieces.

‘I’m not sure I should be doing this,’ she said.

Kirsty Webb bit on her lower lip. It was a big ask and she knew that. Going outside the official channels in an investigation was not looked on kindly. The police force was like the army. You had to work together as a team. That was drummed into you every bit as hard at Hendon as it was in any army boot camp.

‘Far as anyone knows, there is no connection between the body in Stoke Mandeville morgue and the recently deceased optician,’ Kirsty said finally.

‘Except we know there is.’

‘You phone it in … and it’s out of our hands.’

‘I know that, too.’

‘There could be some serious kudos going round with this collar if we make it.’

‘And some serious shit either way.’

Kirsty nodded. ‘Risk and reward.’

The Buckinghamshire-based detective tossed the keys in the air and clutched them in her fist.

‘The sisterhood doing it for themselves?’ she said.

Kirsty shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

DI James stepped over to the shop’s door. ‘Come on, then, Alice,’ she said. ‘Let’s go down the rabbit hole.’

She slotted the Chubb key in the lock and turned it. She depressed the door handle and opened the door.

‘Just the one lock?’ Kirsty asked, surprised.

‘This is Chesham,’ said DI James. ‘We don’t have crime in Chesham.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Kirsty Webb.

It didn’t take long to process the shop. A couple of desks, a couple of cupboards, a big filing cabinet with patients’ records, duplicated no doubt in electronic form on the computer.

They had split up. DI James took the front office and reception area and Kirsty Webb checked the back office and examination room.

Half an hour later Kirsty came out to the front, still wearing latex gloves, and looked at her new colleague who was sitting behind the reception desk reading an office diary. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

DI James looked up from the A4-sized book. ‘Chappel kept an office diary. He used it for personal stuff too.’

‘Don’t tell me. He’s made a confession. Death by gas barbecue. It was an elaborate suicide.’

DI James flashed a brief smile and shook her head. ‘If only. It would make our jobs a lot easier if people did the decent thing like that.’

‘People did the decent thing, we’d be out of a job, Natalie.’

‘And that’s the truth. But what we have got here is a list of his guests for the barbecuing he was planning.’

‘And?’

‘Among others we have one of the doctors who signed off on the brain-death certification for Colin Harris, a Dr Sarah Wilde, and the surgeon who performed the subsequent heart transplant, Mister Alistair Lloyd.’

‘One of the people on that list knew that Chappel was planning a barbecue, could have tampered with the gas regulator. Set a leak so that when he switched it on it would explode? Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Could be. Forensics are working on what’s left of the barbecue. It may show that the regulator was tampered with.’ She shrugged. ‘It may not.’

‘I guess those two from the hospital are worth checking out. See where they were prior to the arranged meeting time. See if they had opportunity.’

‘It’s not the opportunity that I am puzzled by,’ said Natalie James.

Kirsty waited for her to finish the thought.

‘It’s the motive.’

Chapter 82

POLICE CONSTABLE MARK Smith was a tall man.

Somewhat over six foot. He wasn’t sure by how much any more. At one time he was six three but the years on the beat and the ageing process generally meant he rode a little lower in the saddle nowadays. And he didn’t have the heart to measure by how much.

He was in his early fifties and looking forward to retiring sometime in the near future. He had it all planned. Out of the city, off to the coast. He’d leave his uniform behind happily, and swap his baton for a fly-fishing rod. His wife was a history teacher in a state school in Ealing, and she was looking forward to retiring too.

Between them they had a nice pension organised and enough money to buy a small B&B on the South Coast. Community meant something there, and if a man was found lying on the street he wasn’t just stepped over. Mark Smith was happy to be a plain old-fashioned beat copper, and, truth to tell, he was proud of it too. Just because he was looking forward to retirement didn’t mean he thought any less of his job.

‘It’s like that old guy from Greek legend, you know?’ he asked me as we sat by the window in a Middle Eastern café on Old Compton Street, drinking cups of coffee you could have stood up a spoon in and watching half the world throng past.

I nodded. I knew exactly who he meant – we had had this conversation many times before. He continued anyway.

‘Sisyphus, the old geezer punished by the gods for killing travellers and visitors. He had to roll this huge rock up a big hill and, before he could reach the top, it would roll all the way back down and he had to start all over again.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘And you know what the ironic thing is?’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s not the travellers or the visitors who die out there on those cold streets …’

I looked out of the window at the heat shimmering off the pavement. Today might have been a preternaturally hot day. But the streets of London could certainly get cold.

Cold enough to kill.

Mark Smith knew that better than most. He was part of the Westminster Police’s Safer Streets’ Homeless Unit, the SSHU. They dealt with about sixteen thousand or so homeless people who slept rough on the streets each year. No matter what the weather. Up to two hundred a night sometimes.

I passed the photo across the small ridged aluminium-topped table and he picked it up and looked at it. Mark fumbled in his pocket and produced a slim spectacle case, sliding out a pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of his nose.

He nodded almost immediately. ‘That’ll be the Major,’ he said.

‘Major?’

‘He’s certainly been in the service sometime. That’s how he got the name, plus the fact that he’s from an educated background.’

‘Which is rare on the streets.’

‘More common than you might think.’

Mark was right, of course.

People ended up on the streets for all kinds of reasons. Mental-health issues. Children running away from abusive homes, adults fleeing from the demons they could no longer confront. Many of the homeless people on the streets of London were like the Major – ex-servicemen and women battling with alcohol and depression. A vicious circle of self-medication that spiralled out of control.

I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘You know where he is?’

Constable Smith looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

I tossed a five-pound note on the table which just about covered the tip and two coffees, and headed out into the bustle of the metropolis.

I slipped on my pair of Ray-Bans and slung my jacket over my shoulder, following the tall policeman as he led me along Charing Cross Road towards Tottenham Court Road.

Chapter 83

THERE ARE A number of soup kitchens, plus day and night drop-in centres, for the homeless in London. If you know where to go.

Part of PC Mark Smith’s job was to let people know. Some people were made homeless through a change of circumstances – the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job, for example. Their homelessness could often be a temporary state, but for others it was a way of life. For these people there was a pattern to their lives on the street and Mark Smith got to know them pretty well.

Not all the centres were open on a Sunday, but St Joseph’s off Tottenham Court Road ran a soup kitchen on Sunday afternoons, between services.

Sure enough, the Major was where PC Smith expected him to be. A number of people, young and old, were gathered around the van which was parked outside the church.

The man was instantly recognisable. Had a dark brown tartan picnic blanket from Aquascutum draped over his shoulders, despite the heat. He was sitting on the church step, sipping on a large styrofoam cup of soup.

He looked up at us as we approached. His eyes seemed sharp, focused – he could have been forty or he could have been sixty. He had long grey curly hair and an unruly beard and, although he was ill-kempt, he looked clean. He took care of himself as best he could, that much was evident.

He nodded to PC Smith, gave me an appraising look and then saluted me. I smiled. It was a good sign. I saluted him back.

He nodded, pleased. ‘I thought you were military.’

‘Ex.’

‘RMP?’

‘You’re pretty good at this.’

‘You’re with him.’ He nodded at PC Smith. ‘You walk like military. Hold yourself like military. Reckon you could handle yourself if push came to shove.’

‘It has been known.’

‘So what do you want with me?’

‘We’ve got a couple of questions for you, major.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ he said. Then his body convulsed in a hacking cough, soup spilling onto the step. He shuffled sideways, away from it.

‘We’ll get you some more,’ I said.

‘I still wasn’t there,’ he mumbled, looking at the floor. His eyes were slightly out of focus now.

‘Weren’t where?’

He looked up at me, his eyes brightening again.

‘See, it’s courts. Wallahs in wigs …’ he said. ‘I see nothing, I don’t have to report, see?’

I did see. ‘It’s okay, major, you talk to us and you don’t have to talk to anybody else. No courts, no police.’

‘Your word? Officer and gentleman?’

‘My word.’

‘The van was there. The two girls walked up to it. They heard that other girl calling them. Then it all went mad.’

‘They didn’t see you?’

‘No one sees the major. Not if he doesn’t want to be seen.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Special training, you know.’

‘So what did you see?’

‘The first two, they were chatting with the men in hoods, then they pretended to be attacked. Screaming as the other girl came round the corner and started fighting.’