Corpse in Waiting (16 page)

‘Did he actually used to live there with her or was the flat just for her use?' Patrick asked.

‘Yes, according to the Met he seemed to be around for most of the time.'

‘I'm surprised he didn't move her out. He must have known the place would be watched by the law.'

‘Pass, but some of these people aren't half as clever as they think they are. By the way, about that slug that just missed the pair of you . . . It was sent off to NaBIS, the National Ballistics Intelligence Service, which in case you don't know, is—'

‘The Met opened the Southern hub fairly recently, I understand,' Patrick smoothly interrupted.

‘Right, you do know. It's from some kind of shitty Italian-made weapon. As I'm sure you're also aware the Italians don't normally make anything shitty in that direction but these are thought to be knocked up somewhere like a village garage, possibly by the Mafia, and are used in booby-trap devices such as those carved dragons. Apparently they've been come across before and it's been known for them to be concealed in more ordinary items of furniture. They quite often malfunction and blow apart, doing far more damage than might be expected.'

‘We're not exactly sure
who
installed that one in the flat either,' Patrick mused.

‘Martino might be in for a few surprises if there are more.'

There was not a lot we could do with this particular case at present – police work always involves a lot of waiting around – so Patrick got on with something else; a few telephone enquiries for Greenway. I am not one to sit around twiddling my thumbs either but the Commander as good as told me to rest in an adjacent room that he uses on rare moments when he can unwind for a few minutes. I decided to find out if there were any developments in the Case of the Body in the House I Dearly Wanted to Buy.

‘You must be telepathic!' James exclaimed. ‘I was just about to give you a wee phone.'

This always makes me laugh and he had said it deliberately, the pair of us gently amused by the west of Scotland expression; the request in a hairdressers or some other place where one might have to wait for a few minutes invariably being, ‘Take a wee seat.'

After asking after my bumps and bruises he went on, ‘We've probably found both the murder weapon and the knife used to remove the head.'

‘Oh, well done! Where?'

‘You may remember that there's a substantial wall at the end of the garden of the property, around seven or eight feet in height. Beyond is the end of another garden belonging to a big house in the next road which until yesterday was very overgrown. This was searched at the time of the discovery of the body and I got permission to clear some of the waist-high weeds over there. We found nothing. Whether this reminded the owner of the place that his patch was in a bit of a mess I don't know but he got some contractors in to do a proper job. After a load of stuff was cleared and they'd exposed the mature trees a plastic bag was spotted hitched in one of the lower branches. In it was a kitchen knife with a twelve-inch serrated blade, the kind I think are used to carve up still-frozen food, that still had visible bloodstains on it, together with an old police truncheon. Really old, I mean, an antique. I've sent the details and a photograph to the Metropolitan Police Historical Collection to see if they can come up with anything about it.'

‘It might even have someone's name on it,' I said.

‘You're right, not that anything like that was obvious as it was green with mould after all this time.'

‘Did you manage to locate the victim's car? You said a set of keys were in her bag.'

‘No, but it could be one of any number of burnt-out wrecks that are dealt with every year.'

Then, rightly or wrongly, I told him what was happening at our end.

‘You might end up with a large Italian-style turf war on your hands,' he remarked.

‘I reckon Mike Greenway thinks that if it prevents the risk of innocent people getting hurt in a jewellery raid and a nick getting shot up then it's worth it.'

‘I quite agree. You always want any incidental damage to happen to the mobsters. Let's just hope they hold it indoors.'

That was a good point, one that I raised when I next saw Patrick.

‘We can only ring the place with undercover armed police,' he said. ‘And I don't think anyone's expecting much to happen for a while. Not only that, Tony Capelli can't have many supporters over here.'

And Martino's followers were unpaid, intimidated, resentful? I was not too sure who they would support when it came to the crunch. Not only that, I had an idea Tony Capelli could charm vultures out of trees and rats out of sewers if he thought he could use them.

‘So what's your role in all this?' I wanted to know.

‘Chief inquisitor of those left standing,' Patrick answered crisply and went away again.

I decided that I was not needed right now and was suffering from a lack of fresh air. Kensington would do nicely.

Boyles Road was not as bad as Alan Kilmartin had said it was although it might have been smartened up since he was last there, presumably when he was still going out with Alexandra. In light rain I walked up and down it, first on one side and then the other. (The painkillers were working amazingly well provided I took them every three and a bit hours instead of four: I'm convinced pharmaceutical companies build in leeway to their dosage instructions specially for people like me.) There was no doubt in my mind as to which building he had referred, a concrete edifice that resembled a dirty cardboard box that had been stood on end and lightly stamped on.

I glanced down the names of the businesses and so forth listed on a sign by the entrance. There was nothing with the name Nightingale included, which was a nuisance. It was not lost on me that she might be working within the building right now, had already spotted me from a window and sent Stefan down to warn me off. It was a risk I would have to take. The problem was that there were hardly any other people about who
might
come to my aid if things turned nasty. Another snag was the notice that said all visitors must register upon entry and be issued with a pass.

Postponing making a decision about going in through the front entrance I went instead through a wide gateway at the side of the building into a car park. The focal point at the rear, which was, if anything, more hideous than the front, was a row of plastic refuse bins in different colours barely discernible through the dirt on them. By a doorway, I saw when I got closer, were several boxes loaded with empty wine and spirit bottles. Perhaps Alexandra had had a bit of a turn out. Another, wider, entrance seemed to be the one that was mainly used. I went in and found myself at the bottom of a concrete staircase with a couple of lifts on one side. The sheer dreariness of the place seemed to settle around me like a weight in the air.

‘Lookin' for someone, luv?' asked a man from a small room, more like a large cupboard really, that appeared to contain cleaning materials.

‘Is Stefan here?' I asked, flattening my vowels to fit the part I intended to play.

‘Not sure but 'e's so busy running errands for 'er ladyship these days 'e 'ardly ever shows up to do 'is real job. 'E's goin' to git 'is marchin' orders soon, you mark my words. Er – you a friend of ‘is?'

I shook my head. ‘No.'

The man, who had several days' growth of stubble, bloodshot eyes, not much in the way of teeth, grinned knowingly. ‘Like that is it?'

‘Like that,' I agreed. ‘He owes me money.'

‘Forget it, luv, ya don't stand a chance. If I was you I'd stay right away from 'im.'

I feigned acute disappointment. ‘Is her ladyship here? He calls her that too.'

‘We all do. Same place as usual, third floor, room fifteen.'

‘Stefan told me she runs a domestic agency.'

‘She does. Dodgy though.'

‘What's dodgy about it?'

Again the furtive looking around. ‘Well, from what people have said, there's . . . add-ons,' he whispered hoarsely.

‘Add-ons?'

‘Just lately. I don't know nuffin', mind.'

‘No, of course not.'

‘Someone said some of the wimmin do . . . other things. Not just cleanin' an' stuff like that.'

‘You mean it's some kind of escort agency?'

‘Yus, only . . . wus.'

‘Worse? So, in other words she runs a brothel?'

He turned and gave his attention to a vacuum cleaner in the cupboard. ‘Her and others. I'm not sayin' no more. An' you didn't hear it from me. I just told ya to make sure you keep right away from Stefan. He's bad news, all right. To wimmin. You might just get . . . drawn in.'

‘Where do these women come from?'

A shrug. ‘All over.'

The outer door banged and we both started.

‘How's life, Fred?' called a well-dressed man before making for the lifts and without waiting for an answer.

‘Fine, thanks, sir,' Fred called in response. And then to me in a whisper, ‘Forget the money, ya won't get it.'

‘Do you know if her ladyship's in the building?'

‘No, she ain't. She said sommink about lookin' for an 'ouse.'

I returned to the front and was in luck: quite a large group of women exited the building, the high heels of more inside clattering on the stairs. Most were carrying briefcases and all had in their possession a large red folder. I waited until there was a gap in the egress and went in. There was a security guard, more like a janitor really, in a small office just inside the door, picking his teeth.

‘Forgot my folder,' I told him breezily.

He just gave me a sour look.

I took one of the lifts to the third floor. I had not been able to see any CCTV screens in the doorman's office but they could have simply been around a corner somewhere. People came and went in the large open-plan area with seating that I emerged into but no one took any notice of me. Following signs I walked down a corridor, found room fifteen and at that point my cat's whiskers completely freaked out. This was something along the lines of Fred having been bribed, threatened, or cajoled to direct all nosy parkers asking for Alexandra, or Stefan, to the third floor, room fifteen. There, if they broke in, they would be gassed, poisoned, sprayed with acid and/or generally incapacitated, the real business operation being on another floor entirely.

Telling myself that it was merely my writer's imagination going berserk I nevertheless decided against using Patrick's burglars' keys to open the door right then and was just moving away when my mobile rang.

‘Where are you?' Patrick said.

‘I did leave you a note,' I replied.

‘Yes, you intimated that you were popping out but didn't say where.'

‘I'm in Kensington.'

‘Oh, shopping. There's been a hitch. The prison service won't release Capelli until tomorrow at the earliest. The usual rubbish; haven't received the right forms authorizing it. Mike's chuntering but he can't do anything about it and has told me to knock off for the day. Did you book anywhere to stay?'

‘Sorry, no, I forgot.'

‘I'll see if I can get us in at the usual place. Shall I meet you there?'

‘You know how much you miss the excitement of working for MI5?'

‘What's that got to do with anything?'

‘And Mike's told you to sort out this business of Alexandra?'

‘Yes, but not right
now.
'

‘I'm standing outside the office that I've been told she operates from. Only I'm not sure that she does.'

‘Where the hell is this?' Patrick asked, in quite a different tone of voice.

‘Boyles Road, Kensington. It's actually called Boyles House.'

‘Get yourself
out
of the place. Is that understood?' he said furiously.

‘OK.' I never argue when he speaks like this.

‘If you don't phone me back in under exactly five minutes I shall get the cops over there. Walk to the end of the road nearest to the main shopping centre and I'll meet you there in a taxi.'

The line went dead.

I looked up and a man was striding down the corridor towards me. He was not Stefan but nevertheless had a big bad snarl on his face.

Once upon a time, a long time ago and after I had promised to love, honour and obey, I received, perhaps in late compensation for the last of these vows and as a thank-you for having him back, a self-preservation package from Patrick to use on such occasions as this. The training, deliberately conducted on an afternoon when an elderly and nervous neighbour was out, left the pair of us totally exhausted and not speaking to one another for several hours. On my part this was because I was aching all over, on Patrick's that I had put my all into it and he had gone head over heels into the dining room table, stunning himself.

In a few words, the main idea is this; look terrified, cringe and whimper and then, when they're closing in, the snarl having changed to a relaxed and superior smirk, you hit them with everything you've got, right where they live. Patrick had shown me – and it had probably made him a traitor to his sex –
exactly
how to do this. It is not pretty.

I phoned Patrick in just under the five minutes, by this time walking along Boyles Road towards the junction with what was the far end of Kensington High Street. No, half running actually, convinced that the man could be not far behind me. But, glancing over my shoulder I could not see him. Again, hardly anyone was around, in vehicles, or on foot.