Corpse in Waiting (11 page)

‘A woman.'

‘God, have I made things worse?'

‘Not at all, but you might look up the name Alexandra Nightingale in records for me.'

Shortly afterwards I received a phone call from the estate agency repeating the news that a higher offer, above the original asking price and surely emanating from Alexandra, had been made. I reminded them that my offer had already been accepted but was told that it was not legally binding and the solicitors representing the owner had made no final decision. Other prospective buyers had looked at the property. I immediately put in an offer of twenty thousand pounds over the original price.

We had just checked into an hotel. Patrick, who was unpacking clothes and tossing them on to the bed, glanced up as I finished the call but made no comment.

‘This is about more than just a house,' I observed quietly.

He still said nothing.

‘After I'd taken you to the station I went to see Alexandra at her hotel,' I went on to say. ‘She admitted that she'd obtained my mobile number from your phone, which you'd left on the table in a café when you went to the loo. She's been complaining to any number of friends about my wanting to buy what she regards as her house, including her ex, one Alan Kilmartin. She seemed quite ready to drop him in it.'

‘You should have let me talk to her. I said I would.'

‘I saw her with a man just outside the hotel entrance. She was very angry, upset really. He was of medium height, dark, ugly and wearing a single but quite large, gold earring. He looked distinctly snaky. Alexandra told me that he was an employee and was looking for a commercial property for her. I'm not too sure that was the truth.'

‘And your point in all this?'

‘I asked her what sort of agency she had and she told me it was to do with domestic staff, home helps, nannies and so forth. When—'

Patrick butted in with, ‘It seems it's a perfectly innocent business then.'

‘When you have that kind of agency you build up a huge client base. If she shifts down to Bath she'll have to start all over again, from scratch.'

‘So?'

‘Then she told me that you were a fine man. She likes fine men, she said. But they turn out to be quite ordinary after she's stripped them off, layer by layer, something that she's discovered she's good at. But I was assured I'd get you back – eventually.'

‘Ingrid, she was just winding you up.'

‘That's exactly what took place, what she said, practically word for word, no bias on my part, no bitching. I've edited out the superior smirks and the odd drops of spit. As I said the other day, it seems to me that one of your layers has gone already. I think the stripper she's using is called infatuation.'

Patrick flopped down on the bed. ‘Look, this is a real distraction from the job.'

‘I'm aware of that. Would you rather I went home?'

He looked at me, alarm writ large as though if I did I would head straight off to see a solicitor. ‘No. I didn't mean it like that.'

I opened my travel bag and started to unpack. ‘OK.'

‘We're a great team,' Patrick said.

‘I know. We'd better get on with the job then.'

‘Look, I am
not
having an affair with this woman.'

‘Fine,' I replied, giving him one his own shark's smiles.

As we knew already, Martino Capelli had run his crime empire from his home, a flat in Romford, before being sent to prison and this was, according to criminal records, the last known address of Irma Burnside. A cross reference to information about him listed any number of others known to have worked for, consorted with, or be related to him, one of the names in the latter category being that of his cousin, the late but not remotely lamented Tony. It would be naive of us to assume that the business was defunct while he was inside. Not at all: it would be ticking away quietly under the care of some of these people until such time he was released. Or, as we had now been told, was rumoured to be functioning with orders being issued by him from inside prison.

That was the background and it was not our brief to infiltrate the gang, merely to try to track down the woman, if indeed she still existed and had not come to a horrible end in Bath under a different name. One of Michael Greenway's team had suggested a trawl through dental records in the area as a quick way of establishing the truth as then we would have instant identification material. But for practical purposes Romford can be regarded as part of Greater London and the number of dentists runs into dozens. We had already established that the practice where the woman who had called herself Imelda Burnside had been registered had no previous history of her, this blamed on a one-time inept employee who had somehow caused their computer to crash, destroying all the records.

The address was a flat that turned out to be over a fish and chip shop in a busy road near the High Street. If no one was in we were going to break in, completely off the record and leaving no trace of our entry.

‘Even if Irma had abandoned her home it wouldn't have stayed empty all this time,' I said when we had found somewhere to park the car and were walking back. ‘I should think the place was rented.'

I had driven up from the West Country as the Range Rover has its uses – not being referred to as the ‘battle bus' for nothing – and, most importantly, it has been adapted so Patrick can drive it. Having a right foot with no sensation does not make for good control and he only gets behind the wheel of conventional cars if he has to and then only for short distances.

He said, ‘That's something we shall have to discover because if it wasn't and she owned it that rather strengthens the case for there having been two women. Otherwise she wouldn't have been flat broke in Bath and had to live at the house in Cherry Tree Row.'

‘Unless it didn't sell for ages.'

‘And David Bennett was telling the truth when he said Imelda had written to him saying she was going to live with her sister. Who had just, presumably, bought somewhere else to live. No more conjecture though. Let's get to the truth.'

We were assiduously ‘making a great team' as Patrick had put it. There was no strained atmosphere and we were just being terribly, terribly businesslike. I had made up my mind that I was not going to mention Alexandra's name unless really provoked or she arrived, all poisonous charm, and proceeded to strip a few more veneers off my husband.

A little intelligence gathering was undertaken first. It was now just after four thirty and the fish and chip shop was open and full of noisy children just out of school. We waited on the pavement until the chaos inside had abated and then went in.

‘The flat upstairs?' said the man behind the counter who appeared to be in charge in response to Patrick's query, backed up by his warrant card. ‘Yes, a woman lives there. But I don't know who she is.'

‘Are you the proprietor?' he was asked.

‘I am.'

‘Are these properties rented?'

‘Yes.'

Patrick then went on to ask him for the name and address of the landlord. The man had to go to a room in the back to get the information and when he returned he said, ‘You've missed her. I've just seen her go down the back stairs.'

Patrick shook his head sadly. ‘Thanks. We'll have to come back later.'

We did not make the mistake of immediately making our way around to the rear of the building in case anyone's curiosity in the chippy caused them to watch our activities for a while and we ended up by having to break in. There was a café practically opposite so we headed for it and spent a short time drinking tea.

‘Are you armed?' I asked in casual fashion.

‘Just with my knife.'

‘We
are
still on certain terrorist organizations' hit-lists.'

‘Yes, you're right,' Patrick mused. ‘I'll go back to the car and get it. We're possibly dealing with a spin-off from the Mafia here too.'

Patrick is permitted to carry a firearm, for our personal safety and in the course of his present duties. He periodically attends practice sessions at a police weapons training establishment to maintain his standard and is a very, very good shot. The weapon, a Glock 17 pistol which he carries in a shoulder harness, is otherwise kept in a safe at home or in the secure cubby box in the Range Rover that can only be accessed by those in the know, us, and even then we have to enter code numbers, changed once a month, on a key pad. I too have received instruction but stick to the short-barrelled Smith and Wesson as I am used to it. It was in my bag now and my story, if asked, is always that it is for his use, merely back-up.
I'm
the back-up.

I stayed behind to finish my tea. From where I was sitting I could see the fish and chip shop and also an opening that provided access to the rear of the various premises by delivery vehicles. There appeared to be a private car park in there too. People were walking in and out but I was too far away to be able to identify Irma Burnside from the mugshot, a copy of which we had brought with us.

Very shortly afterwards I spotted Patrick on the other side of the road. He paused, glanced across in my direction and then disappeared into the entry. I paid the bill and went outside. When I caught up with him he was standing at the bottom of what looked like a fire escape, and probably was, that was used to provide access to the first-floor flats. We went up and rang the appropriate bell. There was no reply.

Patrick's ‘burglars'' keys quickly dealt with the somewhat dated door locks and we went in. As we had already ascertained from the exterior of the building there appeared to be no conventional alarm system fitted.

I stayed by the front door while Patrick performed a swift check that the flat was otherwise unoccupied. I had half expected in this somewhat lacklustre area that the interior would be the same but from what I could see from where I was standing this was far from the truth. There was a huge Chinese carpet in the living room off to the left of me, silk probably, and the oriental theme was continued with tasselled lamps and a carved wooden dragon painted green and gold, also a lamp, that must have stood over five feet high.

‘Whoever lives here doesn't struggle for money,' Patrick said, echoing my own conclusions. ‘Plasma screen TV, designer kitchen, ditto bathroom, king-sized bed.'

‘All a bit tacky though.'

‘I've never met a so-called crime lord who had good taste – not that we know he still rents the place.'

We both moved into the living room where my working partner, who had donned gloves, rapidly and carefully went through the drawers of a Chinese lacquer cabinet, leaving everything exactly as he had found it. This kind of searching is not part of my role, unless he requests my help, so I touched nothing, walking around the flat to assimilate detail, looking at photographs and pictures, trying to find something that would help us. Well, she obviously liked dragons, as I had already seen. There were luridly coloured wooden ones, also china ones, silver metallic ones, on shelves, in pictures on the walls and, like the large one I had spotted first, standing on the floor.

I was looking for photos of Irma, as we knew what she looked like, and also anyone who might be Imelda. There were none that could be described as family pictures, just a couple of framed snaps of temples. Then I discovered a professional portrait of a small group of young people taken on their graduation day but it was impossible to identify any of them as the women in whom we were interested.

In the bedroom the bed was as good as a four-poster, only eastern-style, the whole thing swathed, festooned and swagged in heavy gold and crimson brocade that must have necessitated the wearing of dark glasses when the sun was shining on it. I had an idea this would never be allowed as the curtains, also heavy fabric, were almost closed giving the room a kind of phoney exotic feel like the inside of a fortune-teller's tent. I was still looking for photographs and found one on a bedside table.

‘Here's something,' I called, only quietly. And, when Patrick had arrived, ‘I only had a quick look at the mugshot of Martino Capelli but if this man isn't him I'll take up knitting dishcloths for a living.'

And with that, the dragon breathing red- and yellow-painted wooden flames in one corner of the room fired a shot at us.

It missed, the bullet thunking into the padded headboard of the bed. It is unnecessary to report that we had both dived to the floor.

‘I did wonder about the apparent absence of a security system,' Patrick muttered from somewhere on the other side of the king-sized monstrosity. ‘Silenced too. Please stay completely still where you are while I take a look at it.'

Scuffling noises followed as he wriggled across the floor. Then, after a minute or two, there was a click and a soft thud.

‘Come and look at this.'

The firing mechanism lay on the carpet, Patrick examining the inside of the carved figure, a section of the lower part of the neck of which was open like a small door.

‘Very crude but effective,' he said over his shoulder. ‘An illegal booby-trap device armed with a low calibre firearm married to a domestic infrared sensor that's been adapted to have a fixed beam. Thank God neither of us crossed it when we first entered the room. Where's that photo?'

I retrieved it from where it had been knocked off the table.

‘That's him,' Patrick said succinctly. ‘Right, I suggest we wait until this female returns.'

‘SOCA isn't supposed to be here,' I reminded him.

‘SOCA isn't going to be here,' he replied and commenced to dig the bullet out of the headboard with one of the tiny tools on the ring with his set of lock-picking keys. ‘And please don't roam around until I've given the rest of this place a proper once-over.'