Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries) Read online

  “It is, but let’s just continue with you for now. You called the police?”

  “I never set foot out of the front door at night; it’s too risky. I’ve complained that the squatters have moved in and it’s been going on, over and over again. In fact, when I rang 999, I didn’t think they would take me seriously, because of how many times I’ve called them. There’s needles and filth left on the walkways, and there are still children living here. It’s every night, and most of the day now; they come and they go, these junkies. It’s worse at night, because of the cars and motorbikes, the lights, shining into my windows, and the noise, shouting and screaming. I know two residents called the police because they found a girl doped up and being sick; another time, a boy was found overdosed. It’s like living in a nightmare that never stops.”

  Anna let the woman talk on until she seemed to deflate, sighing.

  “The people using the flat…did you know any names? Can you describe anyone? Maybe someone you have seen on a regular basis?”

  “No, they all look alike—hoods up, gray anoraks. They don’t look at me; they just ignore the existence of anyone else living here. The council have done nothing to help us get rehoused.”

  “How many would you say were living in the squat?”

  “I couldn’t tell you; they came and they went. Sometimes there were girls but, most times, they were just lads. Late at night the cars would pull up. I think these were bringing the drugs because then it would start, the noise, the banging, the bikes and cars, coming to get whatever they needed.”

  “Last night—the night of the shooting—did you notice anything different?”

  “No. Like I said, at seven, I shut my front door and I bolt it and I don’t go out. I turn the TV up loud and that’s it.”

  “What about your son?”

  “He never goes out much.”

  “I’m sorry—your son doesn’t go out?”

  “Not a lot, unless they come for him.”

  “Who comes, Mrs. Webster?”

  “The social services. They come and take him for his swimming and then, on Wednesdays, he goes to a special unit at Camden.”

  “Is your son ill? I mean, is he disabled?”

  “No.”

  “I would like to talk to him.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He might.”

  “I just don’t want him upset. This has all been very stressful for him, you know. I try and keep him as calm as I can, but when these things happen, it gets very upsetting. He’s afraid they might come after me because I called the police.”

  “Mrs. Webster, I assure you, since the shooting, I doubt very much there will be any activity there again.”

  “Well, I have to say, since it happened it’s been quiet, apart from all the police, and the neighbors trying to find out what is going on.”

  “It must be a very difficult time for you.” Anna closed her notebook and stood up. “May I meet your son now?”

  Mrs. Webster glanced at the clock on the mantel and licked her lips. “Jeremy has autism. Sometimes he can be a bit difficult. Other times he’s fine. Can you give me a few minutes?”

  Anna nodded and smiled as Mrs. Webster left the room.

  “It’s not right, is it?” Gordon said quietly.

  Anna looked at him, as if to say, “What isn’t?”

  “Forced to live in this place, son dependent on you, having junkies day and night just up the corridor. It’s disgusting.”

  “It looks as if the council is making moves to rehouse everyone.”

  “In the meantime, they have to put up with junkies and dealers.”

  Anna listened: she heard raised voices. Mrs. Webster was trying to persuade her son to dress; he was refusing, as he was watching something on television. They could hear a low, almost growling voice muttering, and Mrs. Webster trying to cajole him.

  Anna stood up and looked over to Gordon. “Maybe we should come back.”

  Jeremy was refusing to come out of his room. Mrs. Webster was apologetic. “You see, he does the trolleys in our big Waitrose—you know, collecting them from the car park. It’s just a couple of mornings, but he wants to finish watching his DVD.”

  Anna and Gordon made visits to the neighbors, but without much success. Everyone said virtually the same thing: they locked their front doors at night and stayed inside. A number had complained about the drug dealing and a few had called the police out many times.

  They returned to the station and added to the incident board the times that Mrs. Webster believed the gunshots had been fired. Anna was keen to know more about their victim, but they were still waiting on the forensic and pathology reports. For lunch she had a sandwich in her office as she typed up her report. She was surprised when her door was tapped and opened before she could say anything.

  Cunningham closed the door behind her. “Tell me what you know about Frank Brandon.”

  Anna licked her lips. This would obviously mean discussing the case the two of them had been on together, which meant the possibility of mentioning DCI Langton’s name. She hated the fact that, after all this time—almost eighteen months—the sound of his name still made her heart and head ache.

  “We were on a really horrific case. The bodies were found in the pigpens.”

  “Ah yes, I remember that. So Frank was with you on it, was he?”

  “Yes. I didn’t really know him on a personal level.”

  “He took early retirement…something about a knee injury.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Before that, he had been with the Drug Squad.”

  “I didn’t know that either.”

  Cunningham had an unnerving way of standing with her arms folded, looking around the room rather than making eye contact. “So you wouldn’t know if he was using?”

  “Drugs? No. I only worked with him once, but I truthfully didn’t see any sign of him using drugs. But then I had no idea he was married, or that the children in the photograph were his.”

  “We’re checking that out. We still don’t have a formal ID.” Cunningham pursed her lips. “Doesn’t make sense, does it? What would he be doing in that shithole? If he needed to score, then he would have had a lot of easier contacts.”

  “I would think so,” Anna said.

  “You got nothing from the neighbor who did the call-out for the police?”

  “No, ma’am, we didn’t. We weren’t able to question her son. He was also in the flat at the time, but he suffers from autism and didn’t want to speak to us.”

  “Anything from any of the other neighbors?”

  “No. All said the same thing—that the dealers had been working there for several months. I can’t believe the local cops didn’t do more to bust the place. Apparently they dealt in the day as well as at night, with a lot of vehicles coming and going.”

  “Wasn’t Jimmy Langton on that piggery case?”

  Anna felt her cheeks flush. “Yes. He led the inquiry.”

  “Right. I know him—great guy. You’ve heard he’s been made Chief Superintendent? Virtually running the Murder Squad?”

  Anna nodded.

  “You liked working with him?”

  “Very much.”

  Cunningham now looked directly at Anna. “We must be very different.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Is it different working on my team than Langton’s?”

  “Well, I can’t really say. This is my first day.”

  “I worked with him.”

  “Did you?” Anna gave a look of surprise. They didn’t, to her, seem a good match.

  “Long time ago, around about the time his first wife died. He fell apart, but picked himself up again. Married again, I think.”

  “Yes, I believe so.” Anna wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. Talking about him physically hurt; she felt as if she was about to have a panic attack.

  Cunningham was now really unnerving her as she sat perched on the end of t
he small desk, her arms still folded. “Always good to have someone like him at the top. Most of the top line are wankers, but Langton—he’s the business. I admire him; got great energy, and he’s fearless—doesn’t take any prisoners.”

  Anna felt right now that she was his prisoner—knowing what she did, knowing how dangerous a man he was, how he had covered up his part in a murder, albeit of the most despicable killer. It had happened on the hideous murder investigation when the bodies of a mother and child had been fed to pigs, and Langton had, at the same time and against all odds, recovered from a near-fatal attack to head up the inquiry. The killer had died after being interrogated by Langton, and Anna was certain that Langton had engineered his death. He had made her a part of it, because she knew what he had done and yet kept her silence.

  “He could be a mean bastard, though.” Cunningham picked up one of Anna’s sharpened pencils. “So how did Frank get along with him?”

  “I think they were on good terms.”

  “Very cagey, aren’t we?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s just you are asking me about things I haven’t the information to give you answers on.”

  “He screw you?”

  “I’m sorry?” Anna had to catch her breath.

  “I said, did he screw you? All right, don’t answer. I can see by your hot flush he didn’t. My, my, you are a straitlaced little madam, aren’t you?” With that, Cunningham slid off Anna’s desk and took the mere two paces needed to get to the door. “Okay. See you out there; briefing in half an hour.” She closed the door behind her.

  Anna shut her eyes. She should have been angry at the personal cross-questioning, but it had taken her so off guard, she hadn’t been able to think straight. Cunningham obviously didn’t know how close Anna had been with Langton, but that didn’t calm her. She felt sure that, at some point, Cunningham would find out and know that she had lied.

  3

  Anna went to the washroom and splashed cold water over her face. By the time she returned to the incident room, the team had gathered and were waiting for Cunningham to join them. After a few minutes, she strode into the room and took up position in front of the board. She seemed on edge.

  “Okay, let’s have quiet, please,” she said loudly. Everyone became attentive. Cunningham folded her arms: a noticeable gesture, though one she did almost unconsciously. “Right, we have a really explosive situation on our hands, as well as a tragic one.”

  Cunningham, in her low, cultured voice, seemed angry at the wait for the forensic and pathology reports. They had no details on any of the suspected dealers, so the hope was they would get results from the fingerprints taken from the flat. They still had no formal identification of their victim but, as the wallet had contained his ID card, they were presuming it to be ex–Detective Inspector Frank Brandon. His fingerprints, which would have been held on file, were being checked against the body. Whether he was on drugs would only be known when the labs were through testing.

  Cunningham took out a packet of Polo mints, unwrapped the roll, and took her time, carefully selecting one and sucking it, before she spoke again. “Why was our victim there? To score—or was he working for someone else? He was ex–Drug Squad, so would have many contacts, though, so far, we have not got any details of them, nor do we know if he contacted any of his old buddies. He was there for a reason and we need to find out exactly what that was.”

  Anna said nothing, doodling on her notepad. It seemed to her to be obvious that the reason had to be drugs.

  Cunningham continued. “I want you all back to the estate. I want everyone reinterviewed, as we need something, anything, to give us a clue to the identity of these thugs. All we know is that at around three o’clock in the morning, an argument broke out, shots were fired, Mrs. Webster called the police, and, after the call, she heard a further three or four shots. This brings us to the ballistic report; they hasten to add it is a very rushed job, but I put them under pressure. Two guns were used.”

  Cunningham opened her notebook and detailed how many gunshot wounds the victim had sustained. The first shots were fired through the door; this was then opened, to fire more shots into his head and neck.

  Anna leaned forward; she was confused. Two weapons? If gunshots had been fired into Frank’s chest, they would have brought him to his knees; yet she was certain she had seen fine blood spattering on the wall behind the victim, high up, as if he had been shot in the face and head area first, before the chest. She made a note to question the forensic officer she had seen at the scene of crime.

  Ballistics were confirming the make of weapon, but had already suggested they were automatics; in other words, handheld weapons. If two guns were fired, that possibly meant two shooters, but they still had no confirmation how many drug dealers were in the squat; there could have been three or four.

  “Right now,” Cunningham went on, “we don’t have the faintest idea who we are looking for. The men seen by the tenants all fit the same description: gray anoraks with hoods drawn up over their heads, so we can’t even ascertain their age, never mind their ethnic origin. These shooters, or drug dealers, also had various vehicles—BMWs, motorbikes—but, as yet, we have no details. The tenants stated they saw numerous cars parked outside, as well as cars turning up all night to score. The dealers had been living in this squat for almost three months. That’s three months of complaints by residents and yet nothing seems to have been done to clear the animals away. We have various statements from the local plods saying they made plenty of visits to the squat but carried out no arrests! I want every report checked over and all the officers on these call-outs questioned.”

  Cunningham folded her arms again. “Right, I said at the opening of this briefing that we have an explosive situation. We do. We have an ex-officer down and we have a drug dealers’ squat that appears to have been left to get on with its business without harassment. Do you understand what I am saying? Let’s take away the scenario of tough street kids dealing and, instead, make it a much bigger operation that might have been paying backhanders to officers to keep afloat.”

  She glared around the room. “The weapons used were not the type handled by street kids. Our call-out lady, Mrs. Webster, describes the sounds as loud pops; that means they were using silencers. Ballistics have said that a Glock with a silencer could have been used. Street kids? No way.”

  Anna sighed, her notepad full of doodles and drawings of guns. To her mind, street kids could easily get access to this type of weapon; if they were dealing, they would have bags of cash. It was at this point that her mobile rang.

  She patted her pockets hastily as everyone turned to face her. “Sorry, excuse me.”

  “I hope that isn’t personal.”

  “Do you mind if I go to my office?” She hurriedly made her way outside and into her own small room.

  It was DS Harry Blunt. “Travis?”

  “Yes, Harry. Listen, thanks for calling me back.”

  “That’s okay. What can I do for you?”

  “I just needed to ask you—”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on a case in Chalk Farm.”

  “That’s not bad. That schlep we had to go out to, that murder in Epping Forest, was a bastard. I’m in Dulwich—woman’s knifed her old man with an electric meat cutter. You tell me how she can claim it’s a fucking accident—she had to plug it in! I’ve got one for the Sunday joint, and there is no way—”

  “Harry,” she interrupted him. She had almost forgotten the way he had rambled on when they had worked together. Blunt by name and blunt by nature, he was hardly ever known to draw breath. “I don’t have much time.”

  “Have you heard about Jimmy? Superintendent now—very high up. Is he on your case?”

  “No, it’s a DCI Cunningham.”

  “Oh, her. The bull dyke. You watch she doesn’t come on to you.”

  “Thank you for that advice, Harry, but I didn’t call about her; it’s about the victim in our case.”
/>   “Right, but word of warning: you watch out for her. In my opinion, she’s full of hot air. Working with her after Langton should be a breeze.” He laughed.

  “Harry, listen to me. What do you know about Frank Brandon?”

  “Frank? I know he retired early. Was on some case, running after some bastard, and fell. Got a rusty screw through his kneecap—fucked him over and so he got out.” There was a pause. She could almost feel the wheels turning in Harry’s square head. “Why you asking about Frank?”

  “Well, it’s not been formally…I mean, we have no formal ID, but we think our victim is Frank Brandon.”

  “What?”

  “They are running tests on his prints. I couldn’t be sure as he had taken some shots to his face and…Harry?”

  “You think it was Frank?”

  “We can’t be sure, but he had a wallet with Frank’s ID in it.”

  “Shit! The poor fucker! Gets out for an easy life and…You really think it’s him?”

  “I hope it isn’t, but was he married?”

  “I dunno; he used to play around with a lot of women.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “More than a year ago; we had drinks before he left.”

  “Was he on any kind of drugs?”

  “I dunno. Maybe painkillers—his knee was smashed.”

  “He used to be Drug Squad, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I think so—long time back, though. What happened?”

  “He was found shot in a drug squat in Chalk Farm.”

  “Fuck me. That’s terrible.”

  “Do you know what work he was doing after he left the force?”

  “No, never saw him again. Wait a minute—I did see him once, for a few minutes on Tottenham Court Road. I dunno what work he was actually doing, but he was driving a very flash Merc. Maybe he got work as a driver or bodyguard?”

  “Thank you, Harry. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Okay. I hope it’s not him; he was a good bloke.”

  “Yes, I hope so too. Bye now.” Anna closed her mobile. By the time she got back to the incident room, the briefing had broken up.

  Gordon approached her. “I’m off home now. We are to go back to the estate first thing in the morning.”