Murder on Page One (12 page)

‘It’s about your boys. I need to talk to you,’ Flick said firmly.

Matilda looked at her husband, as if seeking guidance, but his expression remained sullen and angry.

‘Let me put these away first,’ she said, carrying her bags into the kitchen. She returned, wiping her nose, and went into the sitting room with Flick.

‘We stay here,’ Baggo said to Francis.

The two men stood in the hall, alternately ignoring and glaring at each other. From the sitting room, Flick’s voice could be heard, strong and insistent. After five minutes she came out, her face flushed. Behind her, Matilda sat weeping on the sofa.

‘Did she admit anything, Sarge?’ Baggo asked once they were back in the car.

‘No. I think it’s the usual story. Her helpless little girl act makes me mad. He’s a creepy control freak, but I told her to stand up to him. I hope she got the message,’ Flick said.

‘A strange man,’ Baggo commented. ‘I half expected to find a scold’s bridle hanging behind the bathroom door instead of a bathcap.’

‘A bit of me thinks we should report him to Social Services anyway. We didn’t say we definitely wouldn’t.’

‘He has been warned, Sarge. And he is scared of us. He knows we will be back. And it would do those boys no good to be taken into care. You know, in Mumbai, just along the street from us, there was this family; the father was a soldier, and he disciplined his two sons with great harshness. If they put a foot out of line, they would get a beating. But they were happy boys, excellent sportsmen. The last I heard, one is a doctor, the other an accountant, very nice young men, my uncle tells me.’

‘But what are they like in their own homes?’

‘That I cannot tell you.’ He smiled. ‘You English are quite namby-pamby towards children and animals.’

‘Times have changed, Baggo. A father like that can leave a child with mental scars that last a lifetime, long after the bruises have faded. We’ll definitely do a spot check in a couple of weeks, however the inquiry’s going. By the way, how did you get your knuckles into that state?’

11

Giving way to no one, Linda Swanson meant business as she strode along Knightsbridge, the click of her stilettos drowned by traffic. Ignoring the muttered apology of a well-dressed man who had brushed against her in passing, she contemplated a rather special week. If things worked out as she planned, she would sell The Whole Pravda to a major publisher, making Nikolai Chapayev a household name and herself a wealthy woman. Dirt-dishing memoirs of someone high up in Russian security during Putin’s rule were as rare as hens’ teeth, and this book would tarnish the former KGB head’s reputation for ever. Truthfully, Linda had warmed to Putin as she read the manuscript; he stood no nonsense and did what he had to do. She had gone to sleep the previous night imagining him with her, but, as usual, had woken alone. She was proud of her nickname, Cruella De Ville, and did not acknowledge that to most men she fancied it was a turn-off.

Neither could she admit to herself that she was lonely; it was just that she liked her own company and didn’t suffer fools at all. Callum Richardson was a fool, and she had spent a satisfying weekend in the country applying red ink to his latest crime novel. She was fed up with crime, with its hackneyed plots, preposterous characters and predictable outcomes. Its redeeming feature was that it had helped establish her at the top of her profession. Maybe Richardson would go elsewhere when he received her comments, but she didn’t care; the moron couldn’t tell a split infinitive from a gerund.

At twelve thirty exactly, she sashayed through the glass doors of Harvey Nichols and, cutting through the Monday lunchtime shoppers, took her reserved seat at the Nail Bar. She could not understand women who had their nails done on a Friday; it was during the working week that she wanted her talons to be beautiful, and deadly.

‘Good afternoon, Ms Swanson. What colour do we want today?’ Honey put on a smile. Her week always improved after Monday lunch time, the moment her most awkward client left without tipping.

‘I want red.’ She stressed the I. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’

Honey put a selection of bottles on the bar. ‘We have either St James, Tate, Shoreditch, or Victoria.’

‘Either means a choice between two alternatives. There are four bottles here. You didn’t learn much at school, did you?’

‘Sorry, Ms Swanson.’

Linda noted the blush spreading up the girl’s neck. Cutting her down to size was no challenge. She inspected the bottles and put a finger on Tate, the one most resembling fresh arterial blood.

Honey knew better than to chatter to Ms Swanson, and the manicure passed in silence. Once every long, sharp fingernail had been trimmed and painted, Linda nodded and placed her hands on the bar in front of her. Honey poured a glass of champagne, which Linda sipped as her nails dried. This was one of her favourite moments of the week; she felt powerful, renewed, ready for the battles ahead. She assessed the weaknesses of the people with whom she would negotiate, and how she might exploit them.

She felt a sharp pain at the right side of her lower back, and yelped in surprise. Within seconds, her torso became numb and her skin tingled. She could not focus properly. There was a terrible burning then a tightness in her chest. With a strangled croak, her head fell forward. A spasm sent her crashing to the floor.

As she lay twitching and struggling for breath, passing shoppers, gaping and curious, formed a semi-circle round her. A couple of women screamed, then panic spread round the store. Before an ambulance could arrive, Linda Swanson was dead. She had remained conscious to the end.

* * *

‘Ms Swanson was murdered, poisoned by fatal injection, just like Markov. It is Russian Secret Service, I tell you. They have vowed to silence me, stop my book. But I will not be silenced. I will not.’ His ragged, black beard shook as Nikolai Chapayev ranted at the television reporter.

In his office, Chief Superintendent Jumbo Cumberland turned down the volume and scratched his dome. He was glad that Detective Inspector Simon Marsden was in charge of this investigation. He was a man who got results. He wondered if he should phone him to make sure he would follow up Chapayev’s allegations.

Before he could decide, the phone on his desk rang. It was Sir Alfred Carr, a senior Home Office mandarin. If Jumbo was ever to become Commissioner, Sir Alfred’s support would be vital.

‘Yes, Sir Alfred, I’ve got Marsden on the case. He’s one of my best men,’ Jumbo gabbled.

‘Yes.’ It was a long, slow yes, carrying a lot of meaning, none of it clear. ‘That was what I wanted to speak about.’

At home, Jumbo secretly enjoyed repeats of Yes, Minister. He sensed that Sir Alfred was in Sir Humphrey mode, and hoped he would understand any vaguely-expressed message.

‘Chief Superintendent, this is a delicate matter. I have had a number of approaches from the Foreign Office. Our Russian friends have been very exercised in relation to Mr Chapayev’s book for some time now. They say he is most unreliable, with many unresolved issues. They do not want his book to be published. Now, that’s a long way from saying that they might try to warn off our publishing industry, a very long way, but should official suspicion for the Harvey Nicks murder, as it has already been called, fall on someone from the Russian Embassy, or someone connected to it, relations between our two countries would be damaged.’

‘Damaged. Yes.’

‘Energy is vitally important. You understand?’

‘Of course. Gas, petrol and so on.’

‘We could expel some of their people, but they would just expel the same number of ours. Very messy and unsatisfactory.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And a thorough investigation can take so long. My contacts in the Foreign Office do not like uncertainty.’

‘Uncertainty, quite.’

‘“I’d rather rely on George Smiley than George Dixon”, someone said to me. I don’t agree, of course. But I see his point. And the national interest.’

‘Absolutely.’ Where was this leading?

‘This man Marsden has a reputation for being incorruptible?’ Sir Alfred asked smoothly.

‘Correct.’

‘And effective in getting to the truth?’

‘Very much so.’

‘However long it took, and wherever his inquiries led?’

‘As I say, one of my best men.’

‘That could lead to problems.’

‘Problems?’ Jumbo did not like the way the conversation was going.

‘Yes. The sort of problems I’ve been talking about.’

Jumbo said nothing.

‘I believe that a number of literary agents have been murdered recently.’ Sir Alfred’s tone became matter-of-fact. ‘Perhaps it would be better if the Harvey Nicks murder got lumped in with those cases.’

‘With Marsden in charge …’

‘Good heavens, no. And no is the word, isn’t it? Inspector No, coming up to retirement, wanting a full pension and having a file bursting with reasons for not giving it to him. Someone you can steer away from the Russians, should that become necessary.’

‘I could steer him?’ Jumbo’s voice became a squeak.

‘You have a reputation for having a safe pair of hands, James. That’s what we look for when we’re talking about the top jobs.’

‘Oh yes. I see.’

‘I thought you would. Well, good evening, James. I suspect it may be a busy one.’

As he ended the call, Jumbo cursed under his breath. He did not know how he was going to break the news to Marsden, who had already appeared on television, requesting assistance from anyone who had been near the Nail Bar at the time of the killing.

12

‘Would you Adam and Eve it, four hundred quid for a bleeding handbag!’ Osborne stood open-mouthed at the counter next to the Nail Bar.

‘For a handbag!’ Baggo said, then sniggered.

Flick shot him a glare. Osborne’s slobbishness was bad enough without Baggo being silly. Phoned after leaving work the previous day, and in unusually early, Osborne had brought his team with him to inspect the crime scene. Flick occasionally shopped in Harvey Nicks, and she felt embarrassed to be seen with Osborne. His clothes were stained, the top button of his yellow shirt was missing and his colours clashed. His habitual aromas of curry and nicotine seemed particularly pungent, and his derision at the style Harvey Nicks stood for could not have been more obvious.

As Osborne turned his scorn to the sunglasses counter, Flick applied her mind to the case. The killer had been among the members of the public circulating on the ground floor. People walked to and fro directly behind those sitting on the Nail Bar stools. The killer had done this, using a syringe to inject poison into Linda Swanson as they passed. They had done their homework, taking advantage of the fact that the victim came to the same seat at the same time every Monday, a seat which the CCTV cameras did not cover. Early word from the lab was that the poison was probably aconite. This came from Monkshood, a plant found in herbaceous borders round the country. The killing had been audacious, with all the hallmarks of a professional hit. The dead woman had been a literary agent, but the killer had left no message on the body, and the news was full of quotes from Chapayev, blaming the Russians. Georgi Markov had been murdered in London in a similar way some years earlier, and KGB involvement had been suspected then.

Flick could not understand why Simon Marsden had been taken off the case. She had met him at Police College and he had won her respect. It was almost as if the Harvey Nicks murder had been down-graded.

It was clear from his face that the store manager thought the same when he asked Osborne to remove the police tapes from round the Nail Bar. The previous day, Marsden had ensured that photographs had been taken, all items of interest had been bagged and the area dusted for fingerprints. Riled by the manager’s presumptuous and condescending manner, and scratching his crotch ostentatiously, Osborne insisted that the tape should remain in place until his initial inquiries were complete. The immaculately neat man turned on his well-polished heel with an exasperated sigh.

‘Bloody tailor’s dummy. Keep the tape up till this afternoon,’ Osborne muttered to Baggo, who had been about to supervise its removal.

Danny Peters had been talking to the girls who worked at the Nail Bar. He came up to Flick and quietly suggested that she might be the best person to speak to Honey Jack, who had done the victim’s nails.

In a quiet room, Flick tried to calm a tearful Honey.

‘I didn’t see nothing, I swear. Them Russians won’t come after me, will they?’

‘We don’t know it was the Russians, and no, I’m sure they won’t worry about you.’

‘Well I’m dead worried about them.’

‘Did Ms Swanson say anything that was at all unusual yesterday?’

‘She weren’t a one to natter to the likes of me.’

‘Did you hear anything at all that she said after she’d been attacked?’

‘Well, I went round the bar as fast as I could. She lay there, twitching, her eyes staring. I’ll never forget it, as long as I live. Her mouth moved and she seemed to whisper something.’

‘What?’

‘Dunno. Sounded like “Olpra”. Is that Russian?’

‘I don’t speak Russian. Was she finding it difficult to speak?’