To Make a Killing (4 page)

“We have a vacancy here if you’re interested”, replied a clearly impressed Head of Security. Removing his tongue from his cheek, he answered Keane’s question, “You could well be right, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”

“Well.” concluded Keane, as he jotted down the number, “That has been very informative, and very impressive. That’s the last time I pick my nose in an airport terminal! Joking aside, I am grateful for all your help.”

“You’re welcome, Superintendent.”

Keane paused on the way out, and then asked, “I need to get in touch with the Qantas office to ask the flight personnel some questions. Can you point me in the right direction?”

Heaton obliged, and ten minutes later Keane arrived at the Qantas ticket desk.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I called earlier this morning.“ Keane flashed his identification.

The Qantas desk clerk was an attractive and shapely blonde woman in her late twenties. She stood proudly in her uniform which consisted of some kind of blue floral dress under a dark blue jacket, the jacket having 3 silver buttons on either side tapering downwards and inwards. There couldn’t have been a square millimetre on her face that didn’t have makeup on it. Her sparkling white teeth all slotted perfectly together like a Lego set, and she had a smile so set that it would have been a struggle to remove it with sandpaper. What women were expected to go through these days – in the name of customer service – was beyond Keane. She deserved every penny she earned, he thought.

“I’m investigating a murder and . . .” he began

“I’m sorry, sir, I think you must have called our head office. We only sell tickets here, and . . .” the attendant lowered her voice and leaned over to him, “we find we sell more, when we don’t use the word ‘murder’.”

“Yes, of course, er, I’m sorry.” Keane flushed. “Er, where is your head office?”

“On The Strand, sir. Here’s their direct number, if you have any trouble finding them.” She passed him the card with the number and smiled him an unruffled, sweet goodbye, as if dealing with wayward policemen mumbling murder was a part of their standard training. It probably was.

He turned away and decided to take stock of the current situation. He decided it would be best to get the taxi’s registration number off to Hayes first, so he would be able to follow up on that. He called Hayes, who glumly reported he had no news for him in return; he did, however, seem to cheer up at the prospect of escaping the files.

As The Strand was within walking distance of his office, Keane decided to drive back and park there, and then grab a Shawarma on the way over to Qantas.

About one and a half hours later, he was striding along, drying off his fingers and enjoying the last mouthful, as the Qantas office came into view. He stepped in and made his way over to what appeared to be the most senior person in an official uniform.

“Excuse me. I’m Detective Superintendent Keane. I called earlier about a Qantas flight from Adelaide to Heathrow on the 29th of August.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The lady walked off and returned almost immediately with a girl who could easily have passed for her granddaughter. The young girl presented herself, “I’m the General Manager, Helen McSheffrey. I’m pleased to meet you.” she said, offering her hand. “I’ve been making enquiries since your phone call this morning. Would you like to step into my office?”

Keane followed the business-like woman whose powerful, coarse voice stood in stark contrast to her girlish pretty face, her short, light hair and her petite stature. He took the seat which she gestured towards, and lent his brolly up against the table.

McSheffrey looked very deliberately through the window at the people walking by in t-shirts and shorts, wearing sunglasses and then down at his umbrella, “So that’s how you pommies end up with skin that’s a ‘whiter shade of pale’!”

“Oh, no, that’s just a silly habit of mine” admitted Keane with a slight blush

“Can I offer you a cup of tea, Superintendent?” Keane hesitated. “. . . or coffee?”

“A coffee would be nice thank you.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Milk, if you have any.”

“No sweat. There you go. Well, I’ve located the stewards and stewardesses who were on that flight. I’ve managed to get in touch with all but one of them and tell them the score. Naturally we were all disappointed to hear about Mr. Russell. None of them remembered anything out of the ordinary about him. It’s not uncommon to get, let’s say, your half-way celebrities on our flights. Sometimes they play on it, you know, expect special treatment and so on. Sometimes you get stickybeaks giving them a hard time. But Mr. Russell was no bother; he got on alright with the other passengers.”

“So he didn’t avoid conversation or seem engrossed in any work or reading materials?”

“No, the stewards remembered him talking with the people seated close to him about some of his exploits. Mainly they were chewing the fat about who’s the best seam bowler these days, and changes in the leg-before-wicket rules, you know?”

“Did he have any hand luggage?”

“Now that I can tell you he didn’t, because one of the stewardesses remembers that at one point someone spilled something and Mr. Russell had to change to a seat on the other side of the plane, and he just moved straight over. No drama. Decent bloke, he was.”

“Can you tell me if he was travelling alone?”

“No. I can’t. But I can tell you that his ticket was bought for a single passenger.”

“Do you have a list of passengers, in particular the names of passengers who were seated next to Mr. Russell?”

“Yes. Here’s the list, and here you can see who sat close to him.”

Keane took the list and paused. He had to remind himself to always remember to ask the obvious questions. “When was he due to fly back?”

“Well, I couldn’t say. His ticket was only one-way.”

Chapter 4

Thursday, 17th September, afternoon

Back at the office, Hayes could not contain himself on hearing Keane’s report.

“A one-way ticket!?” asked Hayes. He might just as well have said, “a rapist?” or “a serial killer?” – Russell was now a condemned man in his eyes. “He was up to no good. Why else would he only buy a single? I bet you his murder was a drug deal gone sour. That’s the South American connection!!”

“Hold your horses, hold on.” Keane tried to calm things down. “Do you have any idea what percentage of single tickets are bought by people who are not dealing in drugs?”

“And what percentage of those people are found dead, killed by an exotic poison and wearing a mask?” countered Hayes.

“Yes, I’ll give you that the circumstances are suspicious, but we can’t jump to conclusions. Now tell me, what other reasons – innocent reasons - could he have for not buying a return ticket?”

“Well, he . . . he might have planned to go on to another country, and then fly back to Australia from there.”

“Good. What else?”

“He might have been offered a job here, and then . . . no, if he was moving here he would have brought more luggage.”

“And he probably would have given his notice to Penrith in that case, and they say they were expecting him back.” Keane paused and finally presented the most obvious conclusion: “Surely he simply didn’t know how long he would be staying here. Need it be more sinister than that?”

Hayes grudgingly conceded, “I suppose not”; though he had far from abandoned his ‘drugs’ theory, which he felt Keane ought to give more credence and explore further.

“Alright. Now, any news on credit cards or a mobile phone?”

“Not yet.”

“They could give us a crucial lead. Make that top priority. Now, let me pick your, brain, Hayes. If you were travelling to London on business,” continued Keane, ”where would you keep your attaché case? Would you have it as hand luggage or packed in your suitcase?”

“Well that depends. I’d have it with me on board if I had some papers to read or work to do, otherwise, I’d probably keep it in the suitcase – especially if the papers were secret or valuable”

“You wouldn’t be afraid of your valuable papers being taken by someone else at the luggage collection, or of them being flown on to the wrong airport?”

“Yeah, that’s a point. I’d keep the case with me.”

“And the airline stated that he didn’t have any hand luggage, so there’s a reasonable chance that he picked up that attaché case after he arrived. I suppose the case is in the Incident Room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you . . . ?”

Hayes went to get the case and was back with it a minute later. Keane unzipped it and looked and felt around inside it, as he had done at the scene of the crime. It was still bare. Keane handed it to Hayes.

“Am I overly sensitive to animal odours, or does this smell new to you?”

“Fresh leather. There are no signs of any wear and tear.” Hayes took a closer look and read aloud the miniature metal label: “Guang . . . dong Ji . . .ang . . . men Hetang Bag Factory”. He looked up to see why Keane was quiet.

With his smile and his raised eyebrows Keane was simply “looking” his request at Hayes.

“But they must sell dozens of these, all over London!”

“You’ve got the case that was sold, probably within a day or two of his arrival. You’ve got his photo and the mask photo. We know his height, build and age. We know he almost certainly had an Australian accent. Contact the importer first to check which outlets they use in London.” Keane paused. “Now. Where are we on the taxi cab?”

“We’ve got confirmation that the cab picked up a ride at Heathrow at 22:08 on the 29th. Cabby’s name is – and I’m not making this up, right?”

“Right.”

“Danish Butt. Of Pakistani origin. Address, 15, Compton Street. Clocked off . . . about an hour ago.”

“Er. Right. Leave me a couple of photos of Russell; I’ll interview Mr. Butt, and that will give you a welcome opportunity to brush up your Mandarin!”

Hayes gave Keane the small, patently forced smile he usually gave him, when he was faced with one of Keane’s not uncommon, obscure comments. It gave him a second or two more to cotton on to, what was almost always Keane’s attempt to be witty. After a few seconds he gave up any attempt to respond in kind, even though he was sure there ought to be some comeback that he could tie up with ‘Danish Butt’.

Hayes took the case and went back to his desk in the open office landscape. He really didn’t feel like asking the others how it was going, because he knew that they were fed up with what they called the “haystack”. But Hayes loyalty to and respect for Keane obliged him to - at the very least - give the impression that their work was vitally important. He asked.

“I’ll be glad when we can get back to some real police work” replied Jenkins. “Everywhere I look, every face I see, it’s this empty lifeless mask; it’s driving me mad.”

Hayes looked at the four dour faces before him:

Although DC Sally Jenkins was the only woman in the group of four constables, she had somehow unofficially attained the status of group leader. At 32, she was older than Connolly and Hassan. Like the slightly older Parker she was married, but unlike him she had no children. So it was probably a combination of seniority, commitment and ambition that singled her out.

At the same time, none of the men were intimidated by her physical appearance. She highlighted her plain features with mascara and eye-liner. She dyed her medium length hair blonde. But somehow it just did not compensate for her strong, somewhat masculine body, and her forthright down-to-earth, cockney approach to life. Fortunately for the balance of the group, she was fully aware of her status and the respect of her colleagues, and consequently was very careful never to upstage them.

DC Bevan Connolly was single, 28 years old, 6’4”, very strong and in good physical condition despite being slightly overweight. His head was usually shaven and his coarse, rugged features (fat nose, ears, fleshy cheekbones) told the tale of years of playing prop forward at rugby.

Although he was an intimidating figure to criminals, within the group he was the court jester, albeit not always intentional. His clothes, for example, always seemed to have shrunk on him after he had put them on. His deep voice and playful Brummy accent were perfect for teasing, and he could take as good as he gave.

Connolly may not have been particularly ambitious, but he still enjoyed his work. DC Steven Parker on the other hand was a career policeman, whose dedication to his wife and three children had thus far prevented him from realizing his full potential. The strength of his religious faith and fact that he was a tee-totaller, (perhaps a result of his austere upbringing in the Yorkshire Dales), lengthened the odds of him ever getting up the career ladder.

He was 38, 5’11”, average build, had dark hair, heavy set eyebrows, a smallish nose and wider than average mouth. His appearance was always neat and he often dressed in a plain two-piece suit with a sober tie. Like the others he had a good sense of humour, but he was usually quieter than Connolly and Hassan.

DC Amir Hassan was in fact usually the one who took the brunt of the jokes, being the youngest at 24, and being of Indian parents. He was born and bred in Ealing and had an innate brashness and self-confidence worthy of the truest cockney. He was genuinely impervious to racist jibes; for him Hayes’ naïveté, Connolly’s cauliflower ears, Parker’s sobriety and Jenkins’ make-up were far more conspicuous and ripe for jokes than his skin colour.

He was six foot tall and of average build. If it weren’t for a squarish face, flared nostrils and noticeably long arms and legs (a trait he had in common with Superintendent Keane) he could not have been singled out in a crowd. Unless of course he were flying his model planes; a passion he could barely keep himself away from, much to his girlfriend’s chagrin.

Hayes forced himself to ask chirpily “How many have we got so far? Enough for a test match?”

“Five that are close, though I wouldn’t say any of them are exactly look-alikes” replied Parker

“Alright, give it your best shot for another couple of hours, then put the results on my desk before you go.”

He felt like asking if they would have preferred his wild Chinese goose chase, but instead he applied himself to his task; the credit cards. After an hour, he had confirmation that Russell owned a VISA and a MasterCard. There had, however, been no transactions whatsoever while Russell was in England. Keane would be disappointed. He decided to wait with that bad news.

The trail of the mobile phone was more fruitful. Penrith could not only confirm that Russell had a mobile phone, they also gave him the number. Optimistic as ever, Hayes got the tape-recorder ready, in case it was the killer who answered his call. He dialled the number.

“The number you are dialling cannot be reached at the moment. Please try again later.”

Trying again later, he was given the same suggestion one more time. So that was apparently a dead end. He did get through to a number of telecom providers, but as it was late in the evening ‘down under’, all he could do for now, was pass on his request for information about Russell.

So all that was left for him now was to exhaust the attaché lead. Once that was done, then he could give Keane all the bad news at once. He started on his paper trail. The Internet brought him contact information for the company’s European office, and they provided details about – thank god – only four outlets that the company used in London. It was time to pound the beat.

Nearly two hours later, Hayes entered the third shop on his list, just before their closing time. “I’m Detective Sergeant Hayes of Scotland Yard. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions in connection with a crime we are investigating.” He flashed his identification.

“I . . . I didn’t know the laptop was stolen, honestly!” blurted out a panic-stricken assistant behind the counter. “He said it had fallen off . . . “

“Yes, I’m sure he did.” interrupted Hayes. This was not what Hayes needed right now. He really didn’t have the energy to start up a petty stolen goods enquiry with his plate as full as it was. Then again, perhaps he could turn it to his advantage?

“Do you see this?” asked Hayes, while he pointed to his left eye. It was an old trick that had served him well in similar situations.

“Yes” replied the confused assistant cautiously.

“I don’t see very well out of this eye. In fact, it may be considered to be blind.” He paused to see if the assistant was catching his drift.

The assistant looked quickly around to see if anyone was within earshot “Are you . . . like, also short of a laptop or two?”

The ploy was not working. Hayes decided to be more specific. “Listen. We can talk about your fencing some other time. What I want to know is this: This man” (he held up Russell’s picture) “or this man” (he held up the picture of the mask) “bought this case” (he slapped it on the counter) about 18 days ago in one of four locations in London. I want you to take a good look at . . . “

“He did. He bought it!” said the assistant pointing to Russell’s picture.

Surely he was only trying to save his own skin, thought Hayes.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Wait a mo; I’ve got a mind like magnetic flypaper. Yeah, it was him alright. ‘Bout 6 foot, beefy feller, late thirties. Ozzie he was. Yeah. Came in with this mousy little woman. Wouldn’t take her sunglasses off. Bit strange, I thought. Yeah I remember thinking that. Was that what you wanted to . . . ?”

Hayes couldn’t believe it. It had to be Russell. There was no way the assistant could have guessed that the man in the picture was Australian.

Hayes got out his notebook, “Alright, look. I want you to tell me everything about what he said, how he acted, exactly what she looked like, what she said, how he was to her, and how she was to him, and how he paid, and anything else worth mentioning. And when you’ve told me all that, there’s no way I’ll be able to remember anything else about things like . . . what was it? Lap-dancing, tap-dancing?”