Malice in London (20 page)

Atherton smiled. “Oh, it’s real, all right. A forty-eight bore percussion dueling pistol and highly effective at short range. It was made by Rigby of London in eighteen-twenty. Unfortunately, its mate has a broken hammer, but this little beauty is quite functional, I can assure you. A tribute to the gunmaker’s art, don’t you think? And, in case you have any ideas, the hammer is fully cocked and I am an excellent shot.”

“What’s this all about?” Powell asked, his gut churning, realizing too late what had been simmering away in his subconscious for some time.

“Please, Chief Superintendent, take some credit. I think you know exactly what it’s all about. Why don’t you—”

There was another loud commotion upstairs. It sounded like stamping feet. Atherton shook his head sadly. “Apparently Ms. Burroughs finds my hospitality lacking.”

Powell had forgotten all about Jill. Without thinking, he started to get to his feet, his heart pounding. Atherton
followed him with the pistol, keeping it pointed at his chest.

“Please sit down, Chief Superintendent. There is absolutely nothing you can do for her.”

Powell sat down slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Atherton’s.

“It’s unfortunate, really,” Atherton continued, “for both of you. If your young lady friend hadn’t nearly run over me outside the Fitzrovia that night—well, who knows how it might have turned out? As it was, I recognized her when she came here tonight to meet you. I put two and two together and, well, here we are.”

Powell’s mind raced. He tried to think. What had Celia Cross said about the night that Simon Snavely had tried to follow Jill home? There was a man outside the pub with something wrong with his leg, and Jill had nearly bowled him over in her haste to reach safety. Realization struck him like a thunderbolt. There was only one more piece of the puzzle—it was worth a shot in the dark. “You had a limp,” Powell said.

Atherton smiled. “Very good, Chief Superintendent! I’m impressed. I had to have an excuse, didn’t I?” He reached under the desk with his left hand, not taking his eyes or the pistol off Powell. “One doesn’t carry one of these around without a good reason. He produced an ornate cane, with a heavy iron head adorned with brass and a polished wood shaft, and placed in on the desk in front of him. Powell stared at the curved metal handle. It was hexagonal in cross section.

“A sword cane is a rather ingenious and practical weapon, when you think of it. This one was made in
India in eighteen-forty and is quite collectible. I could remove the shaft and show you the blade, but that would be a bit awkward under the circumstances. You’ll just have to take my word that it is sharp enough to shave with.” He paused thoughtfully. “Like I said before, I am truly sorry that it had to turn out this way. I was deeply touched by your obvious concern for my welfare, but that’s water under the bridge now.” He glanced at his watch. “Now then, I don’t have all night. Why don’t you explain everything to me so I can be sure you have it right. Don’t worry, I’ll help you through the tricky bits. I wouldn’t want you to shuffle off your mortal coil without becoming fully enlightened, as it were.”

“To put
your
mind at ease, you mean. You want to make sure that you’re justified in committing another murder.”

“
Two
murders, Chief Superintendent. Don’t forget about Ms. Burroughs.” His voice was chillingly devoid of emotion.

Powell knew that his only hope was to play for time—he refused to look beyond this immediate objective, to think about what might lay in store for both him and Jill. He took a deep breath. “For the longest time, I was distracted by the notion that Richard Brighton and Clive Morton were both killed by someone who was committed to stopping Dockside at any cost. I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I? The murders were committed not to stop Dockside, but rather to ensure that it went ahead.”

He paused to gauge Atherton’s reaction and to gain a few precious seconds. The developer said nothing.

“There are three facts that didn’t seem significant when viewed in isolation, but when taken together present a compelling case. First off, you are one of the few people involved who had connections with both Brighton and Morton. Brighton was ostensibly your chief political booster, and Morton was an investor. Secondly, the anonymous call to us about Charles Mansfield’s alleged interest in Dockside didn’t make any sense—it was as if it were intended to have zero political impact. The real objective was to divert attention away from the person who made the call. And, finally, I get the impression that prior to Brighton’s death, the tide had begun to turn against Dockside. Mrs. Brighton tells me that her husband was beginning to have second thoughts—”

“That bastard!” Atherton exploded. “He was only concerned about a handful of rabble-rousers and saving his own political skin—he didn’t give a damn about me.” There was a feverish intensity in his voice. “Brighton came to the office that night, said he was thinking of having Dockside sent back to the planning committee for further study. That would have taken months, time I didn’t have. I suggested we go for a walk to talk it over.” He smiled crookedly. “He said he owed me that much.” He stroked the sword cane’s shaft. “On a whim, I took this along. I told him I’d turned my ankle playing squash. I led him down along the quay. It was foggy that night, and there was no one else around. I pleaded with him, told him I would lose everything if there was any more delay, but he wouldn’t listen, said a project should proceed on its own merit after thorough study. I was desperate. I lost my shirt in the ’ninety property market
crash, and there was no way I was going to let my last chance to get back on my feet slip away. I offered him a share of the profit, ten percent, if he could push Dockside through the council. He got up on his high horse and threatened to expose me, said he wanted nothing more to do with a sleazy operator like me.” Atherton’s face contorted into a mask of pure malice. “He called me pathetic and turned his back on me.” He gripped the head of the stick. “I let the son of a bitch have it.” His face suddenly went slack. “The rest was easy. I pushed him over the railing into the river, and that was that. At first, I was worried about what I’d done, but when support for Dockside surged out of respect for the wishes of the late beloved councillor, I knew it was brilliant.”

“What about Morton?” Powell asked.

“Ah, yes. Poor departed Clive. We were introduced last year by a mutual acquaintance at my club. We got talking; I told him about Dockside, and he mentioned that he always wanted to open his own restaurant. I needed funds at the time to renew my option on the warehouse property. He was willing to put up the money in exchange for the restaurant and ten percent of the ultimate profit.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, Clive insisted on a clause in the contract that obliged me to refund his investment at any time upon request. I was so desperate, I was willing to sign anything. About three weeks ago, Clive came to me and demanded his money back, said he’d run up some drug debts.”

The developed sneered. “He was nothing but a frigging junky, scum of the bloody earth. Anyway, I told him I wasn’t able to come up with the funds, and he
threatened to sue me. I couldn’t afford to fight him in court, and even if I’d won, the adverse publicity would have killed the project. So I had to stop him. I arranged to meet him that Saturday night at the Fitzrovia Tavern, the night your friend upstairs bumped into me outside the pub. I told him I had a proposition to make. We were to meet at the pub at ten o’clock. My intention was to wait outside until closing time. I thought he might head into Soho to indulge in one of his vices. I planned to follow him and wait for an opportunity to corner him in some dark alley. I hadn’t really thought it through. I don’t mind admitting I was nervous. After all, it wasn’t like the first time—with Clive it was, well, premeditated. Anyway, it all turned for naught. There must have been some sort of kerfuffle in the pub, because just before eleven-thirty the police arrived. Needless to say, I got the hell out of there.”

It occurred to Powell, out of the blue, that if it hadn’t been for Simon Snavely, Clive Morton might well have enjoyed two fewer days on this earth. He assessed Atherton’s demeanor, trying to appear casual. The developer’s face was expressionless, the pistol still leveled at Powell’s chest. There was another thump upstairs.

“So, how did you finally pull it off?” Powell prompted.

He spoke mechanically. “I called him on Monday and apologized profusely for standing him up. I told him my girlfriend had taken ill. We arranged to meet that evening. He told me to ring him at a restaurant in Covent Garden around eleven o’clock. We met in Leicester Square at eleven-thirty. I suggested we repair to my club where we could talk. I led him into a little alley that
could be construed as a shortcut to Shaftsbury Avenue and let him go ahead. Then I—what’s that Beatle’s song, ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’?” He frowned thoughtfully. “He was only unconscious, of course, so I had to finish the job. He bled more than I expected, but I don’t suppose he felt much.” He spoke with an air of clinical detachment.

Powell swallowed. “And the apple?”

“That was a rather cunning diversion, don’t you think? How many restaurateurs must there be in London who would love to draw and quarter poor old Clive and serve him up on a platter?”

Powell had to suppress a wave of panic. He was attempting to carry on an extended conversation with a raving bloody psychopath, and he was running out of things to say. He quickly considered his chances, bleak as they were. It was true that Atherton only had one shot, although he could hardly miss at this range. He thought about going out in a blaze of glory with a desperate lunge across the desk, but there was Jill to think about. He decided he had no option except to try to play for more time. “You obviously had it all thought out, Paul,” he said slowly, “but surely it must have occurred to you that I wouldn’t have come here alone tonight.”

Atherton smiled. “Nice try, Chief Superintendent. Oh, I think you had your suspicions, all right, but my guess is you were waiting to see if Ms. Burroughs could identify me before you made up your mind. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that the place is surrounded by cops.”

Powell looked at him placidly. “It is, actually.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Atherton’s face. Before he
could reply, the silence was pierced by the sharp, warbling sound of a telephone. Powell hardly dared to breathe. He looked down at his pocket, then back at Atherton. “You see, Paul? They’re checking up on me.”

Atherton’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Let it ring,” he said.

“If I don’t answer it, they’ll force their way in. It’s the drill in situations like this. Put down the gun, Paul, and we can sort this thing out.”

“Give it to me,” Atherton hissed. “And don’t make any sudden movements.”

Powell reached into his jacket pocket and extracted his mobile phone. It continued to chirp insistently. The sound seemed unnaturally loud amidst the taut silence.

“Now place it on the desk very carefully and push it over. Slowly,” Atherton cautioned.

Powell started to comply. Then, with a bloodcurdling yell, he flicked the phone into the developer’s face as if it were a red-hot coal and hit the floor.

The pistol report was deafening. Powell leapt to his feet and dove across the desk at the developer. Atherton’s chair toppled over backward, sending both men crashing to the floor. Powell pinned Atherton with his right forearm across his throat, while trying to get him to drop the pistol by repeatingly smashing his right hand against the leg of the overturned chair. Eventually, the pistol clattered to the floor. Atherton seemed paralyzed; his body was rigid, but he didn’t seem to be resisting. His face was expressionless, his eyes staring. Powell could see his mobile phone on the floor against the wall a few feet in front of them. He knew the next part would be the tricky bit. “All right, Paul,” he said between ragged breaths. “I’m going to get off you now. I’d like you to stay there on the floor until I tell you to get up. The other policemen will be here in a few seconds,” he lied. If he could get his hands on the sword cane, he could make the call and hold Atherton at bay until reinforcements did arrive.

He began to push himself up slowly. He realized too late, as Atherton swung his left arm up, where the sword cane was. The heavy iron head struck him on the side of the head, causing him to cry out. He was conscious of Atherton lowering his arm to strike again. He jammed his elbow into Atherton’s face, then scrambled to his feet. He staggered backward against the desk. Atherton was clutching his nose with one hand and moaning, blood streaming between his fingers. He was struggling to push himself up with the other arm.

Powell’s head was spinning crazily. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he bent over to pick up the pistol, then lurched toward the door to the right of the desk. It seemed like minutes before he finally got there. He tried the knob, and the door swung open to reveal a dimly lit hall and a flight of ascending stairs. He shut the door behind him and pushed the button to lock it. He leaned back against it for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath, then started up the stairs, supporting himself on the banister, willing himself to move one foot after the other, counting slowly with each step. He tried to imagine that he was nearing the summit of some blizzard-torn Himalayan peak. To stop now was unthinkable—except he was burning up not freezing—one two one two. There was an open archway at the top of the stairs revealing another hallway with closed doors on either side and one at the end.

He tried the door on the left; it was unlocked. It was a bedroom, neatly made up as if it hadn’t been used recently.

There was a sudden scrabbling sound behind him. He
whirled around, nearly fainting in the process as his head refused to stop when the rest of him did. When the door across the hall had returned to a vertical position, he reached for the knob.

In the middle of the floor, a wooden chair lay on its side. In the chair, her hands and feet bound with electrical cord and her mouth covered with duct tape, was Jill Burroughs. Her eyes were wide, and by the muffled sounds she was making in her throat, it was evident that she had much to tell him. He locked the door behind him and quickly scanned the room. It appeared to be Atherton’s study. There was a bookshelf and a small writing table with a telephone on either side of French windows. Ignoring Jill for the moment, he went over to the table and picked up the phone. It was dead. He cursed silently. He followed the cord under the table and saw that the jack had been pulled from the wall receptacle. He reached under and plugged it in. He placed the receiver to his ear and heard the reassuring tone. He knew that it would be hopeless to call the local police station where he would probably have to wait ages to get through, so for the second time that evening, he rang 999.