To Make a Killing (2 page)

“Yes, I know, but I just have a bad feeling, that she is mixing with the wrong people, that’s all.”

“Whatever gives you that idea? Everywhere she goes in Paris, she goes with Linda. And Robbie may be on this side of the English Channel, but he would never let any Jean-Pierre, Jacques or Henri worm his way into her heart.”

“I don’t know. It’s as I said, it’s a feeling. I don’t know.” Jenny paused to try once more to get her vague uneasiness to step out of the shadows. “I think what triggered it off was that module on forgery.”

“Yes, but if she’s going to become a professional art dealer, she’s going to have to know the tricks of the trade, and that includes spotting forgeries.”

“I just don’t like her rubbing shoulders with criminals, that’s all.”

He gazed at her, openly suppressing a smile, and feigning an indignant look, until she realized what she had just said.

And then she burst out laughing. “Alright, alright, I know. But it’s different for you. You know what you are doing! You’re meant to do it!” She paused. “Alright. I’ve got it off my chest now. I’m not happy about it, but at least I’ve got it out of my system.” She paused again for a moment, looking down at the unfinished sandwich and the pan of milk that never got switched on.

“Er, Morgan, I wonder if . . .”

“Yes, I’ll do it. Pass the apron.”, he smiled.

“It’s just that Jacobean . . .”

“Yes, I know. Go on.”

As she left to get back to her article, his smile moved from his face to his heart. She was herself again.

Chapter 2

Wednesday, 16th September, morning

“I’m feeling particularly chuffed with myself this morning, Morgan, so you’re going to have to bear over with my little cat and mouse game. Good morning, Detective Hayes.”

Keane had barely passed through the doorway, with Hayes a step behind, before Alex had effervescently taken charge. Fine by me, thought Keane to himself. “Alex, the stage is yours.”

“Been following the test match?” queried Alex, as he walked over to the corpse.

“You know, I’m strictly rugby and golf. Cricket is for those whose heart condition dictates that their pulse-rate may never exceed 80. You ought to know that, Alex.”

Hayes listened intently to their banter. What a contrast they were in sound and sight: Keane standing slim and erect, immaculately dressed and speaking in a warm, semi-deep voice, with perfect annunciation and no accent. And facing him the older, shorter, portly, balding Coroner in his threadbare, light brown suit, with the knot of his tie always half hidden under his collar. Alex had a thin voice and the kind of public school accent which slurs every word. Often Hayes could only follow what was going on by listening to Keane.

“Yes, that’s right.” answered Alex. “I knew that would come back at me like a boomerang. Well you won’t recognize this chap then.” Alex drew back the sheet covering the corpse.

Keane looked at the dead man’s face for the first time. He had rugged, coarse features, a thick neck, a high forehead and dark hair with a receding hairline. The bags below his deep blue eyes were quite puffy. Distinctive though his features were, as far as Keane was concerned, the man could have been anyone. Hayes looked over Keane’s shoulder and expressed what Keane was thinking. “Never seen him before. You think he’s a cricketer?”

“Well, I have seen him before. Just don’t ask me where or when.” answered Alex.

“Boomerang” repeated Keane. He was familiar with Alex’s penchant for leaving a trail of primitive crossword clues. “Why do you think he is Australian?”

He answered by removing the sheet from the man’s right forearm to reveal a blatant tattoo, roughly 3 inches in diameter:

It was an image of a coat of arms with a kangaroo to the left, an ostrich (or perhaps an emu) to the right, a rising sun above, all in gold on a green background, and then the clincher: a red scroll beneath bearing the single word, “
Australia”.

“Alright. I’ll grant you the tattoo, the tan, the rugged features and whatever other prejudice we can come up with, but this is not hard evidence.” Morgan glanced at Alex’s persistent smirk. “You’ve got more, haven’t you!”

Alex pushed his thin, silver rimmed glasses back up his nose for the umpteenth time. “I spy with my x-ray eyes, something peculiar with these thumbs. Not being Superman, you wouldn’t notice it of course, but this man’s thumbs are connected by screws.”

“So he got on the wrong side of the Australian mafia, that doesn’t make him a cricketer.” derided Hayes.

Alex’s smirk stiffened. “I suppose the mafia are also responsible for the ‘recurrent collateral ligament damage leading to degeneration of the DIP joints of the index and little finger’. Injuries found almost exclusively in professional cricketers!” stated Alex petulantly, to put Hayes firmly in his place.

“This is excellent, Alex.” praised Keane, and then he turned to Hayes, “Ian . . . (he only ever addressed Hayes by his first name, when he wanted him to do something without resistance) . . . get these photos off to the Australian Embassy right now. If Alex is right, they ought to be able to identify him at the drop of a cork hat. But listen, they must keep a lid on this. Whoever he is, he is not officially dead. I don’t want any next-of-kin contacted until we know if there are any, and we know what their alibi is.”

“But what about the poison, and, and . . . my witness statements?

“Did anybody see or hear anything?”

“No, but . . . “

“Right, I’ll fill you in on the rest of the report, when you’re back, and then we’ll work out our strategy, ok?”

Reluctantly, Hayes agreed and left.

“Right, Alex. You’ve done a tremendous job here, but I’m going to have to ask you to cut to the chase now.”

Alex picked up his report, disgruntled, but not deterred. He still had one more item, which he knew would please Keane. He read aloud, interspersing the text with his own speculations:

“The deceased was approximately 40 years old, 5’10”, 14 st. 6 lbs – or 177 cm and 93 kilos if you prefer; could well have been a professional cricket player (in all likelihood a wicket keeper), etc., etc.. Virtually deaf in his left ear as a result of an infection sustained to the ear drum, and yet did not wear a hearing aid. Wore contact lenses and was quite near-sighted. Death occurred at approximately 20:37 from a lethal injection of batrachotoxin injected into the lingual vein beneath the tongue. Prior to this, the deceased had been paralyzed by a pellet shot into the brain through the left ear, at point blank range.” Alex lowered his notes to conclude with another opinion, “The killer probably used an airgun of some kind – any normal gun would have blasted a hole in the other side of his head at that range”.

“Batrachotoxin?”

“Are you familiar with Phyllobates bicolor or Phyllobates terribilis?” Alex waited for an answer he knew was not forthcoming. He continued, “Better known as poison dart frogs, native to the Colombia region of South America?”

“Go on.”

“Batrachotoxin is a steroidal alkaloid secreted from the frog’s skin glands. It blocks neuromuscular transmission, resulting in muscle and respiratory paralysis and death. The lethal dosage for a 200 pound man (our man) would be, approximately 180 micrograms. This minute amount would be roughly equivalent to two or three grains of ordinary table salt.”

“I know you aren’t paid to have an opinion, Alex, but I’d like to hear if you do have one”, said Keane.

“Well, if I were you, Morgan, I’d be wondering about a number of things, including:

- Who chooses to kill using an airgun, followed by a poisonous injection when a hammer would suffice?

- Who has access to this particular poison?

I assume the killer was a professional. If Hayes noticed the mask, then the killer surely would have noticed it when he opened the mouth to inject the poison.”

“Perhaps he had too little time to notice?”

“You have to stay cool to hit that vein that accurately in those circumstances. I’m sure he would have felt something wrong with the texture and temperature of the skin.”

“Even if he was wearing gloves?”

Alex nodded.

“So you think he disregarded the mask, because he knew his victim?”

“Yes. Or no. Perhaps he didn’t care who he was killing.”

“So why didn’t he just bash him over the head with a hammer?”

“Now you’re trying to get me to do your job, Morgan!” They both smiled.

“Thanks, Alex. If you dig anything else up, let me know.”

“Will do.”

And with that Keane returned to his office to find a very excited young man waiting for him.

“His name is Brett Russell!” burst out Hayes. “The receptionist at the Embassy recognized him right away from the image we faxed to her. And we’ve had it confirmed officially now by the embassy. Professional cricketer, wicket-keeper. 6 caps for
Australia never played against England, though. Divorced about 7 years ago, no idea if he’s re-married, don’t think there are any kids.”

“Wait a minute, where are you getting all this from?”

“The receptionist. You want any Australian gossip, you ask Sheila.”

Keane gave Hayes a look that made it clear, that if he liked, he could also pull “the one with bells on”.

“Straight up, Cobber. Sheila’s her name.” Although Hayes only dabbled with amateur theatre, he was an exceptionally good mimic, and his ‘Oz’ accent was spot on.

“Look. Can you tell me what you definitely have confirmation on? Was he here to play cricket, for example?”

“Well, Sheila said he retired years ago, but I’ve asked the embassy to give us information on his current job situation. They said they would get back to us later today.”

“Alright. Did you make sure that ‘Sheila’ understands, that we have not even contacted the next-of-kin yet, and that she will be obstructing the police with their enquiries, if she let’s anything slip out?”

“Don’t worry, I put the wind up her.”

“Good. Now tell me who did you interview in Kensington?”

“Everyone who has a flat with a view to the scene of the crime. I talked to a couple of the local Bobbies. I’ve called all the local taxi companies to see if they had any drops there between 6 and 8:30 pm yesterday evening. And I got nothing. If you ask me, it’s as if the killer politely asked everyone to vacate the area for half an hour, so he could do his job without being disturbed.” Hayes paused. “So how did he die?”

Keane filled Hayes in on the details he had missed.

“So, let’s get this into some kind of shape”, said Keane, moving over to a large whiteboard, then writing as he spoke: “There can only be three possibilities:

1. The deceased was the actual target

2. The deceased was mistaken for another man whom the mask resembled

3. It was a random killing

We’ll have to park the first line of enquiry, until we get more facts about Russell.

The second line . . . Good God!”

“What?” asked Hayes.

“You know, I’ve not yet really taken this theory seriously, but I think we have to now. I just realized that if this is the case, the killer will at some point realize his mistake, and somebody out there is in grave danger! But in that case, who is the real target?”

“You really think the killer could have made a mistake? Everything points to him being a pro.”

“I know, but we have no choice. We are obliged to follow this line, too. This is going to take some manpower. Get Jenkins, Connolly, Parker and Hassan. Check every visual media for the last 6 months for anyone who looks like Russell’s mask. Check wanted files; get Interpol in on the act. Check missing persons. Check notables from society, the business world, celebrities, clergymen, sports and TV stars. Leave out no-one. Check the morgues – this might not have been the killer’s first attempt. Oh, and check every hotel in a ten-mile radius to see if anyone had a Brett Russell registered there.”

“Alright, but you can’t run the rest of the investigation single-handedly.”

“As soon as they are up and running, put Jenkins in charge and I’ll brief you on my progress. Don’t worry, I’ll drag you in here as soon as I get anything worthwhile.”

“And what about the third possibility? A random victim?”

“I’ll search our files and get Interpol to check theirs, to see if they have anything on record with a similar MO. I really don’t see a serial killer using an airgun and batrachotoxin. Do you?”

“No. Someone was out to get Russell. Someone who’d never forgiven him for getting stumped!”

“Well, I’ve heard of thinner excuses than that. Right, if you don’t hear from me before, I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning.”

Hayes departed and Keane wondered where he should start. If anyone’s heard of this kind of thing before, it’ll be Blinky, he thought.

Gerald “Blinky” Blenkinsop was a renowned, almost an elite garden designer, advising virtually exclusively the aristocracy of Europe throughout his long and now concluded career. Of course many of his original customers had been relatives, as he was indirectly related to a baron.