Make Them Pay (12 page)

‘I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. Now perhaps you’d do what you can with this, Kate.’ I handed her Adekunle’s Nigerian passport. ‘See if the Border Agency’s got anything on this guy. It looks as though he’s in the country illegally. And the Nigerian High Commission might help, but I doubt it.’

‘Pity he didn’t get deported at some stage,’ said Kate. ‘It would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.’

‘Couldn’t’ve deported him, guv,’ said Dave. ‘It might’ve infringed his human rights.’

Kate scoffed. ‘Give me ten minutes with him in a dark cell and I’d’ve infringed his human rights for him,’ she muttered.

‘Well, somebody did, that’s for sure,’ said Dave. ‘And he was in no position to appeal to an immigration tribunal.’

The matter of Adekunle’s passport being out of the way for the time being, I telephoned
Kriminalhauptkommissar
Fischer to tell him about the bank statements that Linda had found in Adekunle’s safe.

‘What address was there for Trudi Schmidt on the statements, Harry?’ Fischer asked.

‘Glockestrasse 59, Kettwig. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘That’s very useful, Harry, because she no longer lived at the address we had for her in our records. The present occupants of her old apartment hadn’t heard of her, and the letting agent certainly didn’t know where she’d gone. I’ll arrange to have the Glockestrasse address searched and I’ll tell you what we find. That’s if we find anything that might help the investigation.’

I gave the bank statements to Charlie Flynn. ‘See what you can do with those, Charlie. They’re in German, but they’re much the same in layout as those issued by UK banks and shouldn’t be too difficult to read. If you have a problem with the language, come and see me.’

Next up was Tom Challis. It was turning out to be one of those busy mornings when people wanted me to make decisions.

‘I’ve got the details of the subscribers to the telephone numbers in William Rivers’s address book, guv.’

‘How many, Tom?’

‘Twelve, but of those only three were in the Metropolitan Police District.’

‘Any near neighbours of Rivers?’

‘No, guv, none at all, but there were three in the Aldershot area, one in Bordon and one in Odiham.’ Challis gave me a meaningful glance. ‘Living in that area could mean they’re ex-army, I suppose.’

‘Could be,’ I said, ‘although Odiham is a Royal Air Force station, so I think we can rule that one out. Let me have the addresses and Dave and I will take a trip to the home of the British Army. I just hope we won’t be wasting our time.’

‘I’ve also done that search on the Rivers family you asked for, sir.’

‘Turned up anything useful, Tom?’ I asked, glancing at my watch.

‘It’s complicated, guv, but it won’t take a minute to explain. William Rivers’s sister Gladys was married to a guy called Edward Deacon, both now deceased. Their only son is Charles Deacon and he’s married to Mary née Webster. They also have an only son whose name is George Deacon, aged twenty-five.’

‘Do me a chart, Tom, and then track them down. I suppose we’d better have a word. If George Deacon knew about his great uncle being swindled, he might’ve decided to do something about it. Any evidence that he is or was in the army?’

‘No, sir. Not yet.’

Before going to Aldershot, I decided to make time to call on Joe Daly.

One of the great benefits of visiting the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square is the quality of its coffee. And the fact that it always seems to be available. If you’re lucky enough to be invited to lunch, you can look forward to a T-bone steak that overlaps the plate. And in the centre of the round table there is a Lazy Susan holding every condiment you could possibly want. And a few you’ve never heard of.

‘Great to see ya, Harry.’ Joe Daly swept across his huge office and seized my hand with a vice-like grip. He’d once told me that he’d been a useful baseball player in his youth and the strength of his hand confirmed it. ‘Dave, how ya doing?’ Dave Poole was subjected to a similar bone-crushing grasp.

‘So, Harry, what can I do for my favourite Limey cops today?’ Daly waved his hand in an expansive gesture that Dave and I took as an invitation to sit in his deep armchairs. Right on cue Darlene, his secretary, appeared with the coffee. Darlene is pure Hollywood, a svelte American redhead who looked as though she’d stepped straight off the set of an episode of
Sex and the City
. Given that most of the support staff at the embassy was British, I presumed that Joe Daly’s secretary being American had something to do with the need for security. Ever since 9/11 the Americans have been justifiably concerned about security. I just hope that one day we might be too, but we won’t if the Border Agency has anything to do with it.

‘I’m dealing with a triple murder, Joe,’ I began.

‘Would that be the fire out at Richmond that I read about in the paper, Harry?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘But there were only two bodies in that camper, weren’t there? But now you’re treating it as a homicide.’

Clearly Daly kept his finger on the pulse. I explained the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Eberhardt and Schmidt and went on to tell him about the murder of Samson Adekunle. Finally, I produced the letter of reference that Kate Ebdon had seized from the estate agent who’d rented out the house where we’d found the body of the Nigerian fraudster.

‘You want me to check it out?’ asked Daly, once he’d cast his eye over the letter with the New York address.

‘If it’s no trouble, Joe,’ I said. ‘But it’ll probably come to nothing.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Daly. ‘For all we know, it might be connected to an ongoing boiler-room scam in the States.’ Turning in his chair, he shouted at the open door between his office and that of his secretary. ‘Darlene, just hightail your sweet little butt in here one second.’

Daly’s secretary reappeared, a notebook in her hand. ‘Yes, Joe?’ She smiled at the three of us in turn, sat down in the vacant armchair and crossed her shapely legs. I wondered if there was something going on between her and Joe. And who would blame him . . . or her for that matter?

‘Send a coded signal to the SAIC,’ began Daly, pronouncing it ‘say-ik’, ‘at the New York office—’ He broke off to explain. ‘Means special agent in charge, Harry,’ he said, telling me something I knew already. He returned to his dictation. ‘Attach a copy of this letter of Harry’s, Darlene, and ask for enquiries to be made into its bona fides.’ He went on to outline the details of my murders and the share-pushing scam in which the victims had been involved.

‘That it, Joe?’ asked Darlene.

‘That’s it, honey.’

Darlene closed her notebook, took the letter and stood up to return to her office. Crossing the floor with a provocative sway of her hips, she shot Dave a backward smile. I don’t know what it is about Dave that attracts women, but then I’m a man, so I wouldn’t know.

‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve gotten a reply, Harry.’ Daly stood up and shook hands. ‘I’m sure looking forward to this lunch at the Yard next week,’ he said. ‘Alan Cleaver sent me an invite. Will I see you both there?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Depends how my murder enquiry goes. But the food won’t be as good as the embassy’s.’

‘You won’t see me there. I’m not important enough,’ said Dave. ‘Thank God.’

I
t was three o’clock before Dave and I arrived at the first of the Aldershot addresses that Tom Challis had identified from the phone numbers in William Rivers’s book.

‘Mr Milner? Mr James Milner?’

‘That’s me.’ Milner was a tall, grey-haired, slender man, probably in his late sixties or early seventies. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and, despite the warm weather, an old sports jacket in the buttonhole of which was a tiny facsimile badge of the Parachute Regiment. ‘What’s this about?’ He spoke confidently, but looked suspiciously at the pair of us.

‘We’re police officers, Mr Milner. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard and this is DS Poole. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘You’d better come in, then, after you’ve shown me some ID, although I don’t know how I can help you London fellows.’

I produced my warrant card and the old soldier nodded his satisfaction.

‘I understand you’re a friend of William Rivers, Mr Milner,’ I said, as we followed him into his sitting room.

‘Yes, I know old Billy Two Rivers. What’s he been up to?’ Milner sat down opposite us.

I was about to tell him when a woman entered the room, looking surprised at seeing us there. ‘Oh, I didn’t know we’d got guests, Jim,’ she said.

‘This is the missus,’ said Milner, as we stood up. ‘These gents are from the Met Police, Sue.’

‘It’s not about your pension, is it?’ Susan Milner’s face adopted a worried expression.

‘Now why on earth should two CID officers from the Yard come here to talk about my pension, love?’ said Milner. He saw my puzzled expression and explained. ‘I left the army after five years, joined the Hampshire Constabulary and did my thirty, Mr Brock. But Sue here’s got some crazy notion that the pension’s going to be docked, what with all the cutbacks the government’s making.’

‘Your husband’s pension is quite safe, Mrs Milner,’ I assured her, ‘but I’m not too sure about mine.’ Milner laughed and I joined in. Dave did not appear amused.

‘Right, now we’ve got that out of the way, what can I do for you?’ asked Milner. He glanced at his wife. ‘A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, love,’ he said, but then glanced at me. ‘Unless you’d like something stronger.’

‘No, tea will be fine, Mr Milner. Now, about William Rivers; we found your telephone number in his address book.’

‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so. He committed suicide in a Brighton boarding house.’

‘Why the hell did the old boy top himself?’ Milner seemed genuinely surprised. ‘And in Brighton, of all places.’

I felt that I could be more open with Milner as he was an ex-policeman, and explained about the scam to which Rivers had fallen victim. ‘At first,’ I continued, ‘I thought that losing that much money might’ve been too much for him to bear. Or even admit to.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the Billy Rivers I knew,’ said Milner, with a shake of the head.

‘But it turned out that he was suffering from incurable pancreatic cancer. The pathologist’s diagnosis was that he’d only got days to live.’

‘Poor old bugger,’ said Milner. ‘He must’ve been in a hell of a lot of pain. What did he do, hang himself?’

‘No, he shot himself with a two-two pistol.’

‘Where the devil did he get that from? I suppose he must’ve “liberated” it on some operation. Typical of Billy, is that.’

‘How did you come to meet him? As far as we know he was in the SAS, but you were a Para, weren’t you?’ I nodded at his lapel badge.

‘That’s true, although he kicked off his career in the Paras. It was later, well before I met him, that he transferred to the SAS, but then he came back to our battalion as regimental sar’nt major. I’d just made it into the sergeants’ mess and Billy put the fear of Christ into us young sergeants and into the whole battalion. A real tartar was Billy, and the Paras weren’t exactly shrinking violets, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he was only there for about a year before he took his pension.’

‘Any idea how he acquired that much money, Mr Milner?’ queried Dave.

‘Now you’re asking, Skipper,’ said Milner with a crooked grin, ‘but it won’t hurt to tell you now he’s dead. He was in the army of occupation in Germany straight after the war was over. He must’ve been about nineteen then. In those days you could make a killing on the black market. From what I heard most of the squaddies were at it. Flogging all sorts of things to the natives: fags, coffee, soap and Scotch; in fact anything that might bring in a bit of cash. There was bartering going on an’ all. I heard of one corporal who’d bought a Mercedes for twenty cigarettes, and a quartermaster who acquired a house for two bottles of Scotch. That sort of gear was the currency, you see, because after the war the Reichsmark had collapsed and the new Deutschmark wasn’t really up and running. But the Germans never smoked the fags or drank the Scotch; they just used the stuff to trade.’

‘Wasn’t it risky?’ asked Dave.

‘Very. If you got captured by the military police it was a court martial and a stretch in the glasshouse. But Billy got away with it and so did a lot of the others. But I do remember that our cook-sergeant got done for flogging army rations to the Germans. He was busted down to private and did six months in Bielefeld military corrective establishment. And his German wife got done by the German police for receiving. Serve ’em right; flogging the lads’ rations was a definite no-no. It was OK nicking army property off each other, but personal property and rations were definitely taboo.’

‘And you?’

‘I wish! It was all over by the time I got out there. The West Germans had got their sovereignty back and were better off than we were.’ Milner sighed, presumably at regret for having missed that sort of opportunity. ‘But how did this all come about? I mean, Billy falling for a scam of that sort. Doesn’t sound like the Billy I knew. He might’ve run a scam or two, but I never thought he’d’ve got caught by one.’ He broke off as Susan Milner entered with a tray. ‘Ah, the tea.’

Mrs Milner poured the tea and handed it round before returning to the kitchen. Now that she was satisfied that her husband’s pension was secure it appeared that she had no further interest in why we were there.

I decided to level with Milner and told him about the three murders we were dealing with. ‘It crossed my mind, Mr Milner, that Rivers, being ex-SAS, might’ve decided to take the law into his own hands.’

‘Not a chance.’ Milner scoffed at the idea. ‘Billy might’ve sold fags and coffee to the Germans, but that was it. Mind you, he must’ve been well into his eighties by the time he died. What does surprise me though is that he didn’t report this scam to you lot.’

‘We only found out as a result of a report from the German police,’ I said. ‘But d’you think he might’ve mentioned it to one of his SAS mates who decided to take revenge on Rivers’s behalf?’