To Make a Killing (3 page)

Blinky also had a photographic and a seemingly limitless memory. This coupled with his fervent patriotism meant he had been made privy to much of MI5’s data, with MI5 in turn regularly drawing upon him, when all other sources of information were exhausted. Now it was Keane’s turn to pick the memory of his old friend.

He had hundreds of phone numbers in his head, and although he hadn’t spoken with Blinky in donkey’s ages, he dialled the number without pause for thought.

*********

This is the life I want, when I retire, thought Keane to himself.

The sound was that of gravel giving way to tyres as he gradually made his way up the drive towards the mansion. He could have driven faster, but then he would miss some of the fascinating intricacies of Blinky’s unique gardens. He would only have picked up a fraction of the innumerable scents borne to him on one gentle Indian summer breeze after another. He’d miss out on some of the devastatingly beautiful colour cascades that were Blinky’s speciality. He had wanted to leave the car at the entrance, and stroll up through the gardens, but then he would have deprived Blinky of his “favourite” opener.

“Well, well, if it isn’t “My favourite Morgan”! And out of it steps my least favourite!”

Morgan laughed as he closed the door of his 1968 dark green Morgan Roadster. Not at the inevitable joke, but that Blinky could still find it amusing after all this time. He had a real soft spot for the old man. He had always looked upon him as his cosy old favourite-uncle, even though he was only 17 years younger than Blinky.

Anyone seeing Blinky standing there, short and chubby, with his thin, uncombed white hair and wearing one of his many garish home-knitted pullovers, could be forgiven for underestimating him. Only his vital complexion and mercurial, intelligent, grey-blue eyes gave an inkling of his true capacity.

“How are you, Blinky? Is that a new pullover?”

Keane had never been able to explain why Blinky’s exceptional esthetical sense and imagination for combining colours, scents and shapes, did not carry over to his dress sense. It was almost as if his marvellous gift came from a pact with the Devil, and there was a price to pay.

“You don’t want to know that”, smiled Blinky. He paused before sending the conversation off in a different direction, “I’d offer you a drink, but . . .” his voice became dramatically sinister, “I know why you are here, so let’s get on with it.”

Keane had learnt never to take anything for granted with Blinky. Having played chess, backgammon, bridge and even poker with him, he knew that he could expect to be bluffed just as often as he could be stunned by his unexpected insight. Keane was not to be drawn, however. He smiled wryly, “You always could see through me, Blinky” he said, non-commitally.

Blinky fixed his eyes on Keane to spot the slightest reaction to the words he was about to say, “You want to see my rose garden!”

Nothing. The man was inscrutable. Nothing but the controlled, polite yet warm smile Keane always had at hand, to deflect any googly he would throw at him; and the blighter wasn’t even a cricketer! Blinky was not someone who suffered fools easily; conversely he could not help but admire men like Keane. Precious few had the wherewithal, the wit and strength of character to keep up with him, let alone match him. “Come along, you know the way.”

They took the path around the west wing. The scent and beauty of roses were two of only a handful of things in life that could take Keane’s mind off his work. They ambled along, stopping every yard or so for Keane to sample the extravagance and uniqueness of each new rose, as if it were a fine wine. What a privilege to be able to indulge the senses, in fact almost to overwhelm them, in such a harmless way.

“I knew when you called, it was just another lame excuse to avoid paying the entrance fee” teased Blinky.

“I’m sorry, Blinky. You know roses are my Achilles heel.” Keane paused. “We have a murder, and it’s not exactly ‘run-of-the-mill’. A man – an Australian cricketer – has been found dead. He was wearing a mask. Not a Halloween mask, but a convincing life-like piece of make-up, which completely changed his appearance. He was apparently killed by an injection of poison into the lingual vein . . . below the tongue . . . but only after he had been shot through the ear with a pellet from an air gun. The coroner claims the poison is a batrachotoxin . . . “

“. . . from the poisoned dart frog”

“Yes. Obviously we don’t yet know if this was an assassination or a random killing, but the method is very unusual. Have you come across anything like this before?”

“The South Americans are not the only ones to use that poison. It could have been chosen by, say, an Asian, to lead you astray . . . if it weren’t for the ear shot. That is a speciality of the Chilean Secret Service. Again someone could be trying to put you off the scent, but very few outside of
South America even consider that method. It’s very rare that you have an opportunity to apply it, and you have to be very adept to miss hitting a bone in the ear. Furthermore, it does not always disable the victim instantly. Even the Chileans only used it for a brief period in the 80’s.”

“Could it be a fluke? Someone with no training who just had a ‘bright idea’ they wanted to try out?”

Blinky smiled at Keane. “I can speculate if you wish, but speculation is your strong suit, not mine.”

Keane knew the information was inconclusive and ambiguous, but he knew he had to be grateful. He was tapping into a resource that was unavailable to any other detective. He was sure it would be of some use once his own investigation had progressed sufficiently.

“Did we ever finish our last game of chess?” asked Keane, as he dragged himself away from the final rose.

“You know, you only ever say that when you remember the trouncing I gave you!”

With that, they left the rose garden and sauntered over to the pavilion where the chess board and refreshments were waiting for them, and where the conversation turned to lighter matters.

Keane returned to the office in the late afternoon. It could be put off no longer. It was now a matter of scouring files and databases to try and find anything that could be even remotely associated with the circumstances of this case.

Over five hours of searching brought nothing at all, so he decided to call it a day. A new day would bring a fresh approach, and it would probably be a good idea to bring Hayes in again.

He had mixed feelings driving home. Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew Blinky had given him a link. He knew it, and that brought optimism. At the same time, he was frustrated because no matter how he racked his memory, he could not see any link. He resigned himself to the impasse and tried to get the case out of his head. Instantly the joy and impressions of his visit to Blinky flooded in. He would sleep well tonight.

Chapter 3

Thursday, 17th September, morning

Was it the new jar of tangerine marmalade he had opened at breakfast? Was it the green wave (that really ought to have been named the ‘blue moon wave’, but) which today rolled out the ‘green’ carpet for him all the way into the office? Or was it just plain, old-fashioned ‘something in the air’? Well, yes, there was plenty in the
London rush hour air and most of it he wished wasn’t there at all.

It didn’t matter what it was. This day, he knew, was going to bring him a breakthrough. Maybe he would even break the case. A completely inexplicable and unwarranted wave of optim . . . no, it wasn’t even optimism; it was a certainty of a positive development that surged over him, through him and all around him. It was just inevitable.

Why it was so, he could not say, and he had no wish to speculate over it. That it was so, was so definite, that all he could think of was in which part of the case, he most needed a breakthrough.

Striding into the office, he saw Hayes, about to pounce on him. Hayes might as well have had a slipper in his mouth, and be wagging his bottom from side to side, it was so obvious that he wanted to please the master, and he knew he had just what the master wanted.

“We know what Russell was doing in London. Nothing to do with cricket. He’s a sales rep, working for an Aus . . . “

“. . . Australian wine company.” blurted out Keane spontaneously, oblivious to the fact that he was stealing Hayes’ thunder. Instead he became mesmerised by the parade of potential conclusions that this new factor introduced. That was it! Blinky’s link had fallen into focus: Chile + Australia = wine.

He looked up at the dumb-founded Hayes, who was clearly struggling to decide whether he should first express his indignation, his amazement or his question. “You could have . . . ! Did you . . . ? When . . . ? God damn it, man!”

If Hayes expression hadn’t clearly conveyed a deep admiration, (which his inappropriate and incoherent bumbling had failed to express), Keane would have had to reprimand him. However, Keane felt more obliged to praise Hayes for his good work, and get more details from him, in order to confirm officially what was, after all, still only a conclusion he had jumped to.

“It was just a guess. I’m sorry if I, you know . . . Alright, this is great! Tell me about it.”

Hayes gathered himself and went on, “When Russell had to retire from cricket through injury Penrith Wineries saw him as an obvious choice for a front figure, an ambassador or whatever you want to call it, for driving their export efforts. He’d been working for them for about 2-3 years. It seems that both parties were happy with the arrangement. Just one thing, though.” Hayes paused to see if he was about to be pre-empted again. The coast was clear. “He was not here in England on business; at least not according to Penrith. He was here on holiday!”

“That’s good work, Hayes.” smiled Keane. “What about family?”

“Sheila was right. Briefly married and divorced soon after, five years ago. No children. No brothers or sisters. His parents are still alive and living in Perth.”

“Well, I may be jumping to a conclusion, but I don’t think the parents are suspects. So, ask the embassy to arrange for the body to be flown back, and ask them to contact the local police to notify the parents and get their statements. Make sure they understand why we want no press in on this yet; if it gets out, it may lead directly to another person’s death. Get in touch with all the major credit card companies and find out when and where he used any card he may have had. He may have had a mobile phone, so check that out with Penrith, and after that with the leading Australasian telecom providers.

Alright. What we need to know now, as a minimum is: Was he here on his own? When did he enter the country? Who did he meet? And above all, what did he do in the time he was here?”

“According to Penrith, he had taken four weeks off, starting on the 28th of August”

“And today’s the 17th of September, so assuming he flew straight here . . .”

“Been there, done that” said Hayes both cockily and laconically. “He flew with Qantas from
Adelaide to Heathrow via Singapore on the 29th. His passport was registered at 21:23, and we may be able to get airport video of him arriving – still have to check on that. And by the way, the hotels turned up blank; no Brett Russell registered anywhere.”

“So either he used an alias or he stayed in a rented flat, or with a friend. Well, let’s leave that as a dead end for now. Alright. Get a list of everyone who was on that flight, in particular who was seated next to him. Interview the stewards and stewardesses on that flight, to see if they remember anything about him; bits of conversation, his behaviour, etc.. Did he have anything to declare? How much luggage was he carrying? Then there are the taxi services. Get his description off to them immediately, and cross your fingers that he wasn’t picked up by a friend or took the tube. Do you think we could get video of him leaving the Airport?”

“I’ll check.”

As Keane paused for thought, Hayes saw his chance and asked the inevitable question that Keane had brushed off unconvincingly minutes before:

“How did you know he was in the wine business? It surely wasn’t a guess.”

“I saw an old friend yesterday, and he gave me a few tips.” Keane could see from Hayes’ look that he needed to be more specific. “The MO and the poison point towards someone who may have had, or still has, connections with the Chilean Secret Service. There are two countries in the world that are currently enjoying great success in the wine industry:
Chile and Australia.”

“I see. An ‘educated’ guess, then.” said Hayes bringing the matter to an end in his own mind.

Hayes held out his hand and offered Keane a stick of chewing gum, having taken one for himself. Keane declined quietly with a shake of the head, as in fact he had done without exception, every time Hayes had done this, since they first met six months ago. It seemed to Keane to be more a subconscious ritual on Hayes’ behalf, than a social grace. Keane was just glad it was chewing gum and not chewing tobacco, snuff or - heaven forbid - a cigarette!

Hayes continued hopefully, “Erm, about the theory that it was the wrong victim. Do you still think we need to spend all that time . . .”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. How is it going?”

“We’ve only just scratched the surface.”

“IF . . . if the intended victim was not killed, we probably only have a few days, perhaps even hours, in which to find out who it is. I need your group to have made a list of your best prospects within 24 hours. In the meantime we need to get something out of our airport leads. Tell you what. I got nothing out of our files yesterday – let’s switch. You takes the files and look for earlier similar cases, and I‘ll take the airport.”

Hayes gave him the sick parrot look to insinuate – quite accurately, in fact – that Keane was using his rank to grab the “juicier” titbit.

“Right, that’s settled then. Let’s put our heads together around, er, . . .” Keane looked at his pocket watch, but then had second thoughts about specifying a time, “. . . shall we say the late afternoon?”

“Ok. Shall I wait with the taxis until you’ve seen the airport videos?” asked Hayes.

“No. Get on to them right away, and I’ll call you if we are lucky enough that to have something recorded at the airport.” Hayes left the office.

Well there it was, thought Keane to himself. A breakthrough before there was even time to take his jacket off. He made the calls to airport security at Heathrow and to Qantas to pave the way for his trip out there, briefing them on every relevant detail, including the date and times for the flight. He couldn’t help but feel that this investigation was going well. At the same time he knew from experience, that time worked against him more often than not, and trails could go very cold, very quickly. He wondered whether he ought to mull over the facts one more time, before heading off. Instinctively he got up from his chair, grabbed the brolly and made for his car.

Airport security were no chumps. Of course, everyone would – if they could - choose a world without terrorism, but there was no denying that increased airport security had also benefited some police investigations. Collaboration was now taken for granted and any petty rivalry or mutual condescension there may once have been, was now a thing of the past.

Keane made his way through the throngs of people who seemed to have only one thing in common: they were all not in the place which their mind was on. Eventually he did find someone who could give him a little friendly direction, and a short while later he knocked on a door bearing a sign with the words: “Airport Security – access strictly for security personnel only”.

“Come in, door’s open!” shouted a firm, but friendly and pleasant voice on the other side of the door.

He entered and was somewhat surprised by the smallness of the room. He had imagined a sort of command control akin to NASA’s, but he could see no more than a dozen or so people there. True, the walls were filled with TV screens, the tabletops could not be seen for computers, folders, papers, pens, mobile phones, lunch boxes, etc., and the activity was intense. But where were the heavies to frisk him? He knew that the firearms and safes could not be far away, but . . . before he could speculate any further, a tall, fit, self-confident man in his early thirties approached him with the words, “Good morning, Superintendent Keane. My name is Andrew Heaton, I’m Head of Security. Please take a seat.”

Keane looked at him questioningly for a split second, before realizing that, of course they had confirmed the veracity of his inquiry and his identity before he arrived; of course they had been tracking his clumsy meandering through the terminal towards their office; of course they had known that it was him knocking on the door. He quickly tried to get up to their pace.

“Good morning. Are we in luck?”

Heaton pressed a button and turned towards the screen in front of Keane’s seat. “This recording starts with Russell arriving. We’ve looked at it a few times, but we cannot see anything out of the ordinary. It seems like he’s been through a thousand passport controls before . . . seems calm, even bored. He doesn’t appear to be in the company of anyone.” Keane watched the recording and had to agree with Heaton’s evaluation of the man’s demeanour.

“Do you have anything where he is collecting his luggage?”

“Yes, that’s coming up – we’ve made a little compilation for you.” said Heaton, not exactly smiling, but certainly exercising the odd muscle at the corner of one side of his mouth. “That’s him there, but you have to be quick to see him appearing from behind that group there. See him?”

“Yes.”

It struck Keane that this man Heaton could slip into any James Bond film and play the role of either the hero or the villain. He had the good looks, the charm, the coolness, the overview. He was oozing self-satisfaction and self-sufficiency, and yet he was neither over-bearing nor stifling. Could it really be genuine?

Keane reigned in his rambling thoughts and focussed on the recording again, “That looks like two standard suitcases and a holdall. Is that what you see?”

“Yes. One of the cases seems to be heavy – do you see him struggling a bit there?”

“Mmm. And is this where he is leaving the airport? Which one is he?”

“This is the disappointing part, I’m afraid. We think that’s him there, but there is a slip from the luggage collection to this piece. The time lapse fits . . .”

“Can you still that picture?”

Heaton paused the recording, “. . . and the general appearance seems right; the height, the build, the gait and the luggage on the trolley all seem to fit. Shall I restart the recording?”

“Yes”

“You can see that luggage again as the taxi driver takes it from him. I’m sorry the image isn’t clearer.”

“Can you do anything to bring that registration number into focus? There.” he pointed

“Just a moment.” Heaton made some adjustments and the image sharpened slightly.

“I make that out to be . . . R 6 4 1 E G N. What do you see?” asked Keane.