Pawn (4 page)

A photo taken of criminal taken in the middle of the act, and it was useless. That just wasn’t fair.

Ballistics reports could tell him that the weapon was an AK 47 variant. That didn’t exactly come as a surprise. It was the most popular assault weapon of the twentieth and the twenty first century and looked like retaining its status as such for the foreseeable future. But the gun hadn’t been used in any crimes that they knew of before, and if it was registered, which seemed unlikely, they still didn’t have the actual weapon.

And as for the crashed car, that was a true nightmare. The techs had had a fit with it. They still were. In fact their reports were a full two foot tall pile sitting on the desk in front of him. With good reason.

After pulling the broken drive shaft out of the ground and running it through any number of tests, they’d come to the startling conclusion that its failure was caused by metal fatigue! Metal fatigue on a car less than a year old. A car that was properly serviced and maintained. A model with absolutely no history of such a fault. It was a fluke. It was more than a fluke. The techs had told him again and again and again, it just couldn’t happen. Especially when it was only one tiny piece of the drive shaft that had apparently been fatigued. Every other atom of it was in perfect, unfatigued order. They’d tested that too, and then they’d sent away the parts for more detailed testing. And there was no way to cause it. Even if the shaft had been somehow deliberately weakened, and there was absolutely no sign of such a thing, there would still be no way to work out where and when it would actually snap.

The crash meanwhile, if it had somehow been faked, was miraculous. Or rather it was miraculous that Mr. Hennassy had walked away from it. Only the fact that the car had come down harder on the passenger side roof than his, several times, had turned what should have been a fatal into a crash that he could walk away from, and even if he’d somehow deliberately engineered the crash, there was no way to engineer that. He should have been killed. Twice.

But the real thing that pained him, when he put away all the different flukes that had somehow given them the case in the first place, was that they still didn’t have a crime. They had criminals speeding up country roads and shooting at a car crash survivor. Presumably they were on the run, fleeing from something, maybe making a getaway. But from what? No crimes had been reported. Nothing had been stolen, no one had been kidnapped, and there were no violent deaths anywhere. So what had they done? Were they just out for a drive, spotted a car crash victim in the middle of the road and decided to shoot him? Even criminals weren’t that stupid.

Barns planted his elbows on the edge of the desk, buried his face in his hands and started to seriously wonder if he was getting too old for the job. He had to be missing something. But what? He found no answers as he ran his fingers through his hair and then watched as they came away with a few strands of his hair between them. Barns still had plenty of greying locks on his head, but if this case didn’t start breaking soon, he was probably going to go bald from pulling it all out.

“Sir!” A face appeared at the doorway, perfectly framed between two piles of files on his desk, and Barns instantly knew his sergeant. At least there was one name he could remember. For once though he looked eager instead of hiding behind his desk like the others. That was lucky since he was far too tall to hide successfully and his face was so long that when he looked upset it made him wonder if the end of the world had finally arrived. Barns felt his pulse start to quicken as he saw the excitement in his somewhat gaunt face. The man had something. Finally!

“Hopkins.”

“There’s been a robbery.” For a second Barns almost groaned out loud, no matter how unprofessional it might be. He even thought about yelling at him, maybe throwing something heavy in his general direction. He was working an attempted murder, not a burglary. Other officers could deal with the petty thefts. Until he suddenly realised what he meant. They had the crime!

“Tell me.” Barns scrambled to his feet, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and started weaving his way between piles of files, heading for the door and his sergeant, even as he demanded answers.

“A banker guy, Mr. Venner. He’s just reported the theft of a valuable painting several days ago.”

“Two days ago?” That seemed a long time, especially if it was valuable. But the sergeant had an answer waiting.

“It was locked away in a vault and he was overseas. He didn’t realise it was missing until this morning.”

“A painting?” You didn’t need a truck to steal a painting. Unless of course it was huge. Barns made a mental note to check on that. “How valuable?”

“Millions.”

“Yes!” The inspector knew immediately Hopkins told him that, that it was their boys. It had to be, there weren’t many robberies of that sort of value to begin with, and if anyone was going to need a gang and machine guns, and a truck speeding down a back country lane, it would be a crew planning a major heist.

“Hurry up!” Barns almost pushed Hopkins in the back as they headed down the hallway to the back door and the car park, eager to start work for the first time in days. He even considered taking the wheel himself, but he knew it would only lead to complaints. Apparently he wasn’t the most considerate driver on the roads, especially when he was in a hurry, and Hopkins was trained in pursuit driving. Best to let him drive while he organised his questions.

And he already had a lot of questions.

********************

Chapter Four.

Knob’s hill as it was locally known, was a very affluent area of Upper Plimmerton. The sort of place where millionaires liked to hang out in their country houses, play on their tennis courts and swim in their pools. And all of the houses they’d passed on their drive through the lower reaches of the neighbourhood had to be worth millions. More money than a humble policeman would ever see in a lifetime. But then they left the lower reaches and entered the more exclusive part of the neighbourhood, and Barns had to wonder anew at just how much money some people had. These weren’t houses, they were mansions. And of course Mr. Venner had to live at the very top of the hill, the dearest house in the dearest neighbourhood. He made his millionaire neighbours look like peasants.

But they weren’t alone. Mr. Venner’s house was in a league all of its own as it humbled all the rest.

“What did you say he did again?” The inspector was shocked by the modern stately home he could see appearing in front of them as they drove up the drive. Though it wasn’t really a home of any sort. That was far too small a word for whatever it was. A castle maybe. But even that seemed inadequate to describe the monstrous edifice slowly emerging from behind the rows of tall trees. Hell, just the electronic gate with guards patrolling it had been enough of a statement, not to mention the driveway, which was more like a main road. But now at last they could see what the gates were guarding.

It was a monster. Four, maybe five stories high. Actual turrets crowning some parts of it. Huge overhanging roofs above the front of the house, supported by columns that towered above them. Endless windows and balconies facing them from which surely a hundred or more people could watch them. And all of it crafted out of the most expensive white marble. It wasn’t a house or a castle. It was a Las Vegas casino.

“Ah, merchant banker?” Staring at it Hopkins didn’t seem that sure of the details either. But then merchant banker didn’t ring the same bells as movie star, and this was the sort of house that only one of the Hollywood royalty would own. No one else would be so loud and showy.

“Figures. Someone had to make money out of all the doom and gloom of the crash. I guess now we know who.” But how much money did you have to make to afford to live in a house like that? Or to be so rich that you could actually think of it as a house? Or to have so little taste as to imagine it as anything other then a monument to greed?

They pulled up in front of the house, the somewhat battered Ford looking distinctly out of place next to the array of Mercedes, Rolls Royces and Italian super cars. The poor relation come to visit. But the car wasn’t the only one looking distinctly underprivileged in the company. Barns made sure to straighten his tie and brush down the wrinkles in his suit coat as he got out of the car, though he knew that it probably wouldn’t make any difference. Anyone who could live like this, would spot a cheap suit a mile away. But the clothing allowance of the force didn’t exactly allow for Savile Row.

“Officers.” They didn’t even have to knock. By the time they reached the massive entrance way and saw the huge gold gilded, oak doors in front of them, they were already swinging open, and a butler, a genuine butler complete with bowler hat and dark suit, was greeting them from the landing. A butler, a gold gilded set of huge oak doors, and a damned Las Vegas palace, just who on Earth could be so ostentatious and not actually be royalty? It smacked of someone not only insanely rich, but with a burning desire to show everyone else just how rich he was.

“Detective Chief Inspector Barns and Detective Sergeant Hopkins to see Mr. Venner.”

“Of course, you’re expected sir.” The butler of course already knew who they were. Even if the guards at the gate hadn’t given him their particulars, they had been sent for after all, and if what Hopkins had been told was correct, by rank if not name. Mr. Venner had demanded that the most senior officer attend his crime and the chief had agreed in a heartbeat. The man had connections. Something to remember when they were speaking. The law was supposed to be impartial, but they were still supposed to be doubly respectful to people who could afford expensive barristers.

“This way please.” He led them on a somewhat longer journey than Barns would have imagined possible in anything daring to call itself a house, down a hallway that almost seemed to disappear into the distance. But they stopped half way to find an ornate lift with a Victorian style wrought iron door already waiting for them. The butler didn’t even have to push a button or pull open the door. He just indicated politely and they stepped inside a lift that was large enough to be situated in a commercial building, and it started its descent. That too was unexpected. They were on the ground after all. But it seemed that as massive as the house was, it was even larger underneath.

The actual lift reminded him more than a little of some of the old style lifts that you would see on black and white movies taking people up and down New York apartment buildings. Ornate and decorative and designed for aesthetics rather then use. Maybe that was where it had come from. But if it was an antique, someone had modernised it considerably, and the three of them descended smoothly past levels of living quarters, an underground swimming pool, and then two levels of underground car parks in complete silence. As massive as the house was Barns realised, what lay underneath it was even larger.

Then, smoothly and still in perfect silence, they reached the vault, and the surprises only got bigger. Literally.

An underground vault. Four or five stories below ground. Barns couldn’t believe that. Who had such a thing in what was supposed to be a private home? Yet it was more then that. He realised that when they finally got out of the lift and entered the vault itself. It was then that he truly knew that the man had money. Far too much money.

It wasn’t a vault, it was an art gallery. The steel reinforced, foot thick concrete walls, were covered in some sort of suede and fake wood panelling, and then hung with paintings. Big ones, small ones, all of them carefully placed with spotlights pointed to shine directly on them, and expensive leather couches placed directly in front of them so that visitors could sit in comfort and study them. The carpets were thick shag pile, and despite the fact that he had to be walking on more reinforced concrete, as soft and yielding as a grassy meadow.

The place was as large as a modern art gallery, all of it set out in a huge circle around the central lift shaft so that the moment they stepped out of it the visitor could take in the walls full of art.

The only thing about the whole place that even suggested a vault was the lack of windows. Well that and the huge gaping hole in it where someone had apparently first dug away the ground above and then blown up the walls with something very high tech. Something that from the smell and the piles of burnt masonry, burnt very hot. Then they’d just pushed over the remains of the vault wall and driven in. There was no other reason for a hole to be that large.

But that raised its own questions. Why hadn’t the neighbours heard something and reported it? If he had neighbours. Maybe he was far enough away that no one had heard anything, and certainly living at the top of a hill, no one could look down on him. But still, even with heavy equipment the excavation just to have reached the vault would have taken hours if not days. And why had only one painting been stolen? Granted it was surely the most expensive piece. But why stop at one when there were so many other old and valuable pieces simply sitting on the walls, just waiting to be snatched? And after all that hard work to reach it.

All good questions that Barns knew he would not get a good answer for. Not yet anyway. Especially not if he had to play nice with this man. So he kept his thoughts to himself and followed the butler out of the lift and over to their victim.

“Mr. Venner. Detective Chief Inspector Barns and Detective Sergeant Hopkins.”

Mr. Venner was more than rich. He was filthy rich. And he was also filthy. Barns knew that the moment he locked eyes on him. Instincts honed from decades on the job told him the man was a criminal.

Venner was dressed to the nines, overdressed and more, and he spoke with a refined accent that only the best schools could have drilled into him. He was polite, and urbane, and he smiled a lot. But it was a fake smile, a fake accent, and a fake wardrobe. Everything about him was a lie. The man was a crook, pure and simple, hiding behind the trappings of wealth. Shaking hands with him left Barns feeling as though he needed to shower. But he had a job to do, which it seemed began with being abused.

“About time you got here. What did you do, take the bus?” Barns carefully overlooked the criticism, suppressing his natural desire to kick the man to floor and handcuff him on the spot. Later maybe.

“So you had a robbery Mr. Venner?” And a big one judging from the crime scene. It looked like a snatch and grab, but it just wasn’t. This had taken time and planning, and a lot of heavy equipment, not to mention an explosives expert. But who would risk using a bomb when it could damage the precious paintings inside? Only either an idiot, or an expert with explosives. Or someone who knew the layout of the vault and knew where what he wanted was located within it, and didn’t care if a few other less expensive paintings got torched in the break in.

And then they’d gone and stolen only one painting. The more he looked at it, the more Barns knew it was wrong. With the walls covered in expensive artworks, all of them hanging only by hooks, and once you were in, the work of seconds to steal, the burglars had taken only the one painting in its metal and armoured glass housing from the centre of the vault. They’d spent ages cutting their way through the brackets holding the case, when they could have loaded up the car and been gone in under a minute with surely millions of pounds in paintings and far less risk of being caught.

Inside job! The words were screaming at him from somewhere inside his head. It had to be. Unfortunately Venner had to show his innocence, and that started with him pretending to be upset. He was surprisingly good at it.

Venner stared at him incredulously, as if he thought he was mad. “You think!” His sarcasm was far too thick, just as his upset was poorly faked. Barns knew that, but proving it was going to be difficult. The man had carefully planned this down to the last nut and bolt. And he was also going to be nasty about it, the instant it looked like his story wasn’t going down as he wanted. Barns did his best to look professionally concerned. It was time to be professional because the one thing he was sure of was that Venner would have teams of lawyers waiting and calls to all his bosses ready the instant he tried to suggest that he was in any way involved.

“Sorry sir, routine question. You have surveillance records?”

“Of course I have records.” Venner snapped a little at him, still trying to look distraught. “You –,” he bellowed at a man in a dark suit walking around the crime scene, private security maybe, “- get these officers the video’s.”

Of course he had videos, the man would record everything, and Barns was absolutely certain they’d be completely useless. Either the men had worn masks or the cameras had been deactivated. If there had been the slightest chance of anything useful being recorded on them, the discs would have been destroyed. Venner would have made sure of that.

“We’ll need some more details too Mr. Venner.” If he could fake his distress then the least Barns could do was fake his professional concern. “We’ll need to see your logs of your staff, who was here and why they didn’t notice anything. Also the details of your security system, and who monitors it, and who had access to it. I’ll want out forensics people to go over the crime scene, so if you could kindly get your people to stop trampling the evidence that would be great.” He carried on with his list of requests, and Venner pretended to comply. He even had his dark suited man take down the details of his requests, and emptied out the vault of his people.

The fact that he cooperated though, was something that bothered Barns. Since he was sure Venner was involved in this mess up to his perfectly quaffed hairdo, it could only mean that he already knew what they’d find and it would back his story up completely.

“And if you don’t mind my asking, where were you when this all went down sir?”

“Thailand. I have a factory there.” Of course he’d been overseas. It was the perfect alibi and he would absolutely have the best, and the records to prove it. But still Barns would have it checked out, just as he was sure Venner expected him to. It had to be done.

“And lastly sir, could you tell us about the painting that was stolen.” Finally he got a reaction from the man, something genuine. Just a flash, a glimpse of insecurity that he instantly covered up, but still not quite quickly enough, and Barns knew he had something there. Something the man wasn’t completely confident of.