Exit Stage Left (16 page)

‘And now, Kate,’ said Gabrielle, producing a selection of local cheeses, ‘as ’Arry knows, in France we always serve the cheese before the dessert.’

‘And with it,’ said Henri, pouring yet another wine, ‘the most delicious Coteau du Layon.’

Finally, Gabrielle served a delightful Paris-Brest. ‘This is a very French dessert,’ she said. ‘It is choux pastry on the bottom and on the top with crème pâtissière in between.’

‘Don’t tell me that you have yet another wine to go with that, Henri,’ said Kate.

‘Of course,’ said Henri, producing a bottle of Loupiac. ‘This is quite definitely the only wine that is to be served with Paris-Brest.’

‘Good on yer!’ said Kate. ‘I’ll remember that just in case I’m ever tempted to have a go preparing it myself.’

‘Oh, I didn’t make the dessert,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I bought it from the local patisserie,’ she added with disarming frankness. ‘French woman can’t be bothered making desserts. It is much easier to go round the corner and buy one.’

We returned to the sitting room, and Henri brought in coffee, cognac and a selection of chocolates.

Over the next hour or so, the drink flowed and the conversation sparkled. Gabrielle reminisced about her days as a dancer at the Folies Bergère, and Kate told Henri and Gabrielle about her childhood in Port Douglas, just north of Cairns in Queensland. She went on to describe the weather and how, when it was hot enough, she would go skinny-dipping in the Coral Sea.

‘You mean you swam naked?’ exclaimed Gabrielle, clapping her hands in glee. ‘How wonderfully liberating.’ And reading her husband’s mind as only a wife of long-standing can do, she laughed and leaned across to slap the back of his hand. ‘Stop looking at Kate like that, Henri.’

It was close to midnight when eventually we took our leave. I wanted to say that Gail and I would be delighted to entertain Henri and Gabrielle when next they came to London, but I now had grave doubts about ever seeing Gail again. She had already left for Los Angeles by now.

One of Henri’s police cars delivered us to our hotel, and it was as we were crossing the pavement that Kate staggered a little and cannoned into me. It was then that I realized she’d had too much to drink. The last thing I needed right now was a detective inspector from the renowned Scotland Yard collapsing in the foyer, and I was sure that Henri would have told the management who we were. I put an arm around her waist and held her tightly against me as, with some difficulty, I steered her through the revolving door and across the foyer towards the lift.

‘You’re very kind, Harry,’ she mumbled as I supported her along the corridor to her room.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Kate?’ I was really quite concerned at her having been overcome by the amount of wine that Henri had served. To say nothing of the cognac.

‘I’ll be apples,’ slurred Kate, her Australian accent becoming even more noticeable. ‘You know what, Harry?’ She turned to face me. ‘You’re a beaut, mate. In fact, you’re the best guv’nor I’ve ever worked for.’ She was almost incoherent now, and she leaned against me, flung her arms round my neck and gave me a kiss. ‘G’night, Harry, darling.’ And with that she disappeared into her room, leaving me to wonder.

T
he next morning I decided to go down to breakfast without disturbing Kate; she probably needed the lie-in to recover from the excesses of the previous evening.

To my surprise, however, she appeared in the dining room within minutes of my arrival, looking as perky as ever and showing no signs of a hangover.

‘G’day, Harry,’ she said, all bright and sparkly.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Bonzer, thanks.’ Kate sat down opposite me and spread her napkin over her lap.

This was one of those civilized hotels that served champagne with breakfast, and a waiter appeared instantly and poured a glass for Kate and me.

Kate seized it in much the way that a drowning woman will reach out for a lifebelt. ‘Ah, a heart-starter,’ she said. ‘Just what I needed.’

‘No ill effects?’ I queried, surprised that she showed no signs of her tipsy behaviour of the previous evening.

‘No way. I went for a swim in the hotel pool.’ Kate took a longish sip of champagne. ‘I didn’t see you there, Harry,’ she said, eyeing me mischievously over her glass.

‘I hope you were wearing a swimsuit,’ I said drily, recalling her comments the night before about nude bathing in her home town.

‘Too right. I brought my cossie with me. Too many wowsers down there for skinny-dipping.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘Prudes,’ said Kate, and signalled the waiter for another glass of champagne.

We touched down at Heathrow at eleven o’clock on the Tuesday morning, and were driven straight to Belgravia police station by Dave, who had been waiting to meet us.

Kate disappeared into her office the moment we arrived and changed into her usual jeans and shirt, emerging once more her normal self. She was calling me ‘guv’ again, and made no mention of her amorous behaviour the previous evening. Neither did I.

‘The commander said that he wanted to see you the moment you came in, sir,’ said Colin Wilberforce, as I entered the incident room.

‘I think I know what that’s about, Colin,’ I said. ‘Have we had a memo from the DAC authorizing the trip Miss Ebdon and I made to Paris?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Wilberforce immediately put his hand on the document and passed it to me.

The commander went on the attack the moment I entered his office. ‘What d’you mean by going to Paris without my authority, Mr Brock?’ he demanded. He peered at me over his half-moon spectacles and gave the impression that he was spoiling for a fight.

Without comment I placed the DAC’s memo in the centre of the commander’s desk.

He seized it hungrily and scrutinized it carefully. For the moment I’d disarmed him, but he soon recovered. ‘Why did you find it necessary to go over my head?’ he enquired, staring at me accusingly.

‘I couldn’t get hold of you, sir, and in view of the urgency of the enquiry, I telephoned the DAC.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s understandable,’ said the commander with obvious reluctance. ‘As a matter of fact I took the lady wife to the opera on Sunday evening.’

‘That would explain it, sir,’ I replied blandly, relieved that he had unwittingly got me out of having to justify not having phoned him in the first place. ‘What did you see? Which opera, I mean.’

‘
Nabucco
. That’s Nebuchadnezzar in English, of course. It was composed by Giuseppe Verdi in 1841,’ said the commander airily, giving the impression of being the fount of all operatic knowledge.

‘Programme notes are extremely helpful when it comes to knowing what the show is all about, aren’t they, sir? You should talk to Doctor Mortlock; he’s very knowledgeable about opera.’

‘Mmm! Yes.’ The commander wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like being caught out, and he didn’t like the opera being called a show. ‘Anyway, what was so urgent that you and Miss Ebdon had to go rushing off to Paris?’ he asked, changing the subject.

I explained about the death of Debra Foley in a Paris hotel room and that the police there were now actively looking for William Anderson, a mercenary. I mentioned in passing that the
Police Judiciaire
had requested that Interpol issue a red-corner circular for Anderson’s arrest. I went on to add one or two facts about the progress of our enquiries in London, but I kept it as simple as possible in the hope that I would frustrate the commander if he was thinking of offering me any advice.

‘But how can you possibly say that this man Anderson is a mercenary? There doesn’t appear to be any evidence that would stand up in court.’

‘I doubt that we’d need to prove it in court, sir, although there are foreign powers who may seek his extradition if he’s taken part in any armed insurrection in their country. But as far as we are concerned it is merely a pointer that will eventually lead us to discovering the killer of these three victims.’

The commander was on it in a moment. ‘But how d’you know that the same man killed all three, Mr Brock?’

‘We don’t even know it’s a man, sir.’ I thought I’d put that in, as the boss, unusually for him, had assumed the killer to be a man. Everything pointed to it; indeed, the murder of Debra Foley in Paris made it a certainty in my view. ‘The modus operandi is similar in each case, sir,’ I added, just for good measure.

‘Yes, I see, quite so. Keep me informed, Mr Brock.’

From the commander’s office I went into the incident room and brought the team up to speed on what Kate and I had learned in Paris. Colin Wilberforce updated the entry about William Anderson on the police national computer and at my direction marked it ‘armed and dangerous’. I was pretty certain that he would be armed, and from what we’d learned about him so far I was happy to assume that he’d be dangerous.

Going back to my office, I made myself a cup of coffee from my illegal coffee machine. The Yard’s electricity police don’t like us using the Commissioner’s power supply.

I sent for Kate and Dave, and then set about discussing what we should do next. It was now two weeks since the murder of Lancelot Foley and the only significant events since then had been the murders of Debra Foley’s brother, Robert Miles, and of Debra herself. But we now had a front runner in terms of a suspect. The method used in all three killings had been similar, as I had told the commander, and the fact that the elusive William Anderson was almost certainly a mercenary pointed to him being the killer. But, in all this, the one thing that was missing was motive. So far I’d been unable to find any evidence that explained
why
the three victims had been murdered.

‘I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t search Anderson’s house at Romford now, guv’nor,’ said Dave. ‘We might even be lucky enough to find him there.’

‘I’d be very surprised if he was there, Dave, but you’re right; I think we should search it. However, it’s possible that some of his henchmen might be there. I can’t see a man like Anderson leaving his property unguarded, whatever sort of security system he’s got in place.’ I glanced at Kate. ‘Is Len Driscoll in this morning, Kate?’

‘Yes, guv, he’s in the office catching up on paperwork.’

There was something new about the way that Kate smiled when she called me ‘guv’ now, almost as if we were conspirators. If Gail didn’t return from Hollywood, I wondered whether Kate would …? No, I put that thought aside; if it came to the notice of the commander he’d go ballistic. He had very strong views about that sort of thing.

‘Ask him to come in, Kate.’

Len Driscoll had the appearance of a successful businessman rather than that of a detective inspector on the Murder Investigation Team. Complex, often irritable and always demanding, it was rumoured that he had been to one of the better known public schools. He was tall and well dressed and possessed the superior attitude of a man who was efficient at his job, which he undoubtedly was, and scathing about the inefficiency of anyone working for him or with him or even above him. I always got the impression that his suave demeanour left even the commander feeling ill at ease.

There was a story circulating about him that when he was a DI on the Flying Squad he and his colleagues had arrested a robber, one of an armed team that the Squad had surprised when they were attempting to rob a betting shop. Although the robbery had been thwarted, one of the robbers had severely injured one of Len’s detective constables with a sash weight he had used as a weapon, but had escaped with two others in the mêlée that followed.

Len did not believe that there was honour among thieves and, producing his pistol, he had given the one remaining robber the option of revealing the identity of his fellow villains or of dying right there. He mildly pointed out, in educated tones, that his death would be put down to having been shot in the course of the attempted robbery. The man revealed the names of the other robbers instantly, and they were all in custody in time for lunch.

‘Len, I propose to search William Anderson’s drum in Romford. But it’s not going to be easy. What do we know about this place?’

‘I ran a check with the local authority, and the council tax is paid by William Anderson, as are the utility bills. It’s all above board, and payments are made by bank direct debit from an account held in Newcastle.’

‘He obviously doesn’t intend getting caught out on a technicality, then. I somehow doubt that Anderson will be there, but I don’t think that the property will be empty, even so.’

‘An armed response team then, guv, and perhaps a unit of the Territorial Support Group.’ Driscoll started to make notes. ‘How many of our own officers will we take with us?’

‘As many as we can muster, Len. But only you, Dave, Kate and I will be tooled up.’ I knew that Kate was a crack shot and would have been offended if I’d excluded her from the vanguard.

‘And when d’you propose to go in?’ asked Driscoll.

I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll get a written order this afternoon, and I reckon we’ll hit the place early tomorrow morning, say six o’clock. While I’m doing that, Len, perhaps you’d get India Nine-Nine to do a sweep over the property so we know what we’ll be up against.’

‘Helicopter to do a surveillance sweep.’ Driscoll spoke aloud as he wrote the instructions in his pocketbook. ‘I’ll go up with them, guv. A few photographs might come in useful.’

That evening, Driscoll came into the incident room with the photographs that had been taken by the helicopter’s observer. I could see that Wisteria Cottage was at the far end of Reeching Lane, a turning off Romford Road.

‘It might be called a cottage, guv,’ said Driscoll, ‘but it looks more like a bloody fortress with open ground all round it.’ Producing another of the aerial photographs, he pointed out the property with a ballpoint pen. ‘As you can see, there are CCTV cameras covering the front and the back, and there’s a proliferation of aerials on the roof. There was no sign of habitation, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty.’

‘From what little we know of Anderson, I’m bloody sure that he’d leave someone there to guard the place. I suppose there’s no way it can be approached from the back, is there?’

‘Not a cat in hell’s chance,’ said Driscoll.

‘I can see that there’s a lot of other property in Reeching Lane. Is that likely to be a problem?’

‘I doubt it. The houses there are all of good quality, and they’re spaced out, each with a fair bit of ground round them. Add to that the upmarket cars on the driveways, and I’d say they’re not short of a bob or two in these parts.’

‘What sort of gate to Wisteria Cottage is it that I can see, Len?’ asked Kate, pointing to the photograph.

‘A five-barred job, and it’s probably alarmed. I couldn’t see very clearly from the air.’

‘Is it substantial?’ I asked.

‘I wouldn’t think so. Looks like a standard gate.’ Len grinned. ‘Thinking of bulldozing it?’

‘Why not? In for a penny in for a pound,’ I said, ‘but from what you say we won’t be able to surprise anyone who happens to be there.’

‘I don’t see why we should mess about,’ said Kate. ‘Anderson’s wanted for murder in France, and there’s an Interpol red circular that says so. It’s a pretty good bet that our own two toppings are down to him as well. If the joker’s there, we don’t want him to shoot through, do we?’

‘So long as he doesn’t shoot through me,’ said Dave drily.

‘I reckon the only way, then, is to ram the gate, rather than tiptoe up the garden path.’

‘I suggest we assemble in Romford Road, guv’nor,’ said Driscoll.

By six o’clock on the Wednesday morning everything was ready. I beckoned to the officers in charge of the ARU and the TSG and explained the plan that Len and I had worked out.

‘There’s a very strong cowcatcher on the front of each of my two vehicles, sir,’ said the inspector in charge of the twenty-one officers comprising the TSG. ‘I reckon they’ll go through that five-barred gate like a knife through butter.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ I said. ‘OK, we’ll move on my signal. I’ll let you lead the way, followed by the ARU. And make it fast. My team will bring up the rear. But once we’re in the grounds of this place, spread out the minute you alight. We’ve no idea what we’re up against.’

I gave the two officers time to brief their respective units, and then gave the signal.

‘Forward ho!’ shouted Dave.

The leading TSG vehicle must have been doing at least fifty miles an hour by the time it hit the gate. There was a resounding crash as pieces of wood flew in all directions, and almost immediately a light went on in an upstairs room of Wisteria Cottage.

‘I hope this
is
Anderson’s drum,’ observed Dave as we followed the small convoy into the area in front of the house. ‘He might’ve moved.’

‘A fine time to think of that, Dave,’ said Kate, who was sharing the back seat with him. ‘But Mr Driscoll said that he pays the council tax.’

As I had instructed, the vehicles in our little convoy fanned out immediately, and the officers, once deployed, spread out. We scrambled out of our car as fast as we could, and I was pleased to see that Tom Challis, Charlie Flynn and Nicola Chance had exited their vehicle just as quickly and had moved up so that they were close to the front of the house. Which was extremely fortunate in view of what happened next.