A Conflict of Interests (19 page)

"And?"

"Well, since then I've had a string of letters from her accountants who keep threatening to take me to court unless I pay up. The last one arrived just over a week ago."

"Are they all from Robert Atkinson and Company?" Coghill asked.

"The name doesn't ring a bell." Egremont got to his feet and lurched round the armchair to the writing desk in the nook formed by the chimney breast. Unlocking the drop leaf with a key he took from his waistcoat pocket, he rummaged through the pigeonholes and returned with a wad of letters. "This chap calls himself Lear," he said. "Can't make head nor tail of his first name. The initial letter's an O."

The scrawl above the signature block was indecipherable, but Coghill was reasonably sure Oliver Leese had signed it. People who went in for assumed names invariably chose an alias that began with the same initial letters as their own. The legal terminology was a clear indication that Quainton had drafted the letters, but of course he couldn't prove it.

"I know I shouldn't say this," Egremont rasped, "but in my opinion the man who killed that bloodsucking whore deserves a medal. The world is a better place with her under the sod. And the same applies to that poisonous little creep who was supposed to be her husband."

"Did Karen Whitfield ever subject you to any other kind of pressure?"

"Like what?"

"The Common Market negotiations," said Coghill. "Did she ever question you about them?"

"Jesus Christ, Inspector, you surely don't think she was interested in obtaining classified information, do you?"

The thought had occurred to him. If the security services had impounded the address book, it would explain why Tucker hadn't interviewed any of her former clients.

"Money was the be-all and end-all as far as she was concerned." Egremont took a pace backward and fell into the armchair. His left foot caught the underside of the occasional table and knocked his brandy glass onto the floor, the dregs seeping into the carpet. "Damn," he said, "I do believe I'm a little tipsy."

He was all of that, Coghill thought. Egremont's speech had gradually become more and more slurred and he was finding it difficult to focus his eyes on Coghill. "Did you introduce any of your friends or acquaintances to her?" Coghill asked.

"Good God, I'm not that stupid." Egremont retrieved his glass and poured himself another large measure of brandy. "Anyway, Karen didn't need me to go pimping for her. She used to do her own advertising when she was plying for trade in Duke Street."

"What sort of advertising?"

"Contact magazines, cards in shop windows. You know the kind of thing — 'Young lady gives French lessons under strict supervision.'"

According to Tucker and the Criminal Records Office, Karen Whitfield had had no previous form, yet it was inconceivable that her activities in Duke Street had escaped the notice of the Vice Squad. Coghill figured there was only one inference to be drawn from that: at least one senior officer in the squad must have been on her payroll.

"It's past three o'clock," Egremont said anxiously. "Edith will be back any minute."

"I thought your wife was playing golf?"

"No. Actually, she went to the library. I told her one of my former colleagues was up for a background check and had nominated me as a referee. I said you were an ex-police officer working for the security service. It was the only explanation I could think of."

In a panic-stricken moment, Egremont had told his wife a pack of lies to allay any suspicion. Now he was going to have an even harder time explaining why he was drunk in the middle of the afternoon.

"You'd better make yourself another pot of coffee," Coghill told him. "And while you're at it, pour a little brandy into the spare glass. You don't want your wife to think you're a solitary drinker."

"You're leaving?" There was a pathetic note of eagerness in his voice.

"I don't think I need trouble you any longer."

"Will I see you again?"

"I doubt it," Coghill said.

Egremont struggled to his feet and accompanied him to the front door. He was still standing there, swaying like a sapling in a strong breeze, when Coghill got into the Volvo and pulled away from the curbside.

The simile was not inappropriate. Egremont was a weak man who'd spent his entire life bending with the prevailing wind. Coghill thought it likely he'd always been dominated by women with strong characters, first his mother, then Karen Whitfield and now his wife, though he couldn't be sure of her. He wondered what had prompted Edith to marry him. An attraction of opposites, a desire to mother somebody or a need for companionship? As far as Egremont was concerned, it had probably been an urge to protect himself. Although a homosexual relationship between consenting adults was no longer a criminal offense, people who indulged in that kind of thing were still considered to be a security risk by government departments. Marrying Edith would have been a drastic step for him, and, in Coghill's view, he just wasn't ruthless enough to hire a professional killer to murder Karen Whitfield.

Then, suddenly, it occurred to Coghill there was possibly a much simpler and more direct method of tracing the number-one suspect. Easing his foot on the accelerator, he kept a sharp lookout for a public phone and, spotting one on the outskirts of Guildford, he pulled into the curb and stopped.

A faint hope that his source had meant what he'd said and would get back to him with some worthwhile information was the main reason Mace had stayed on at The Bricklayers' Arms long after closing time. There was also Vera; that she regarded him as some kind of hero figure was very flattering to the ego, especially as his had taken a battering. If he'd had one less drink on the house, if Ingleson hadn't reminded him that his record since joining the CID was nothing to write home about, he would never have accepted her hospitality. As it was, he had a guilty conscience. In all the years Mace had been married, he had never so much as looked at another woman, yet here he was closeted in a small back room with a bird who'd made it very clear that she wasn't averse to a bit of slap-and-tickle. So far, he'd managed to keep his distance but it was a losing battle; every time Vera fetched him a beer from the bar, she moved her chair closer to his until their knees were touching and her left hand was resting possessively on his thigh. At a loss to know how he was going to extricate himself from the situation, Mace was moved to a silent prayer of thanks when the telephone suddenly rang. Leaning forward, he snatched the receiver from the cradle and answered the call.

Coghill said, "Still waiting for your source, Harry?"

The number where he could be reached wasn't the only thing Ingleson had told Coghill. Good old Fred had obviously made a few derisive comments, hinting that Mace's unreliable informer was giving him the runaround.

"I'm expecting him to show up at any moment," Mace said, and tried to sound convincing.

"Really? Well, once you've seen him, I want you to check out all the housing agencies in the London area — Flatland, the City Bureau and so on. Have a word with the manager of each agency and ask them if they were approached by Oscar Pittis or anyone else with a Christian name and surname beginning with those same initial letters. This would be on or shortly before the first of July, the day he cleared out of the flat in Highgate."

"It's a bit of a long shot, isn't it, Guv?"

"Have you got a better idea, Harry?" Coghill asked him.

"No. I'll get cracking on it."

"You do that," Coghill said and hung up on him.

"Trouble?" Vera asked.

"There's a cold wind blowing and I'm on the receiving end." Mace smiled. "I'll have to be on my way — duty calls and all that."

Vera nodded, stood up and helped him to his feet as though he were an old man. "Will I see you again, Harry?"

"Anything's possible," he said.

She walked him through the deserted bar, unlocked one of the doors in the entrance and gave him a farewell peck on the cheek before he stepped out into the street.

His car was parked in a side road behind the pub and as he strolled toward it, Mace was aware that his legs were none too steady. How many beers had he had? Three, or was it four? It must have been a least four Heinekens, and that didn't include the whiskey chasers Vera had been plying him with betweentimes. He took several deep breaths, hoping this would clear his head, but the muzziness persisted. Although in no condition to drive, he nonetheless unlocked the door and got in behind the wheel.

The interior was like an oven and he wound down the window before inserting the ignition key to crank the engine into life. Shifting into first gear, he forgot to release the handbrake, with the inevitable result that the car stalled the instant he took his foot off the clutch. He was still attempting to get himself sorted out when a black police constable appeared by the open window and asked to see his driver's license.

"I'm a detective sergeant in the CID," Mace told him and produced his warrant card to prove it. "And I'm on duty," he added.

"If you say so, Sergeant."

"What's the matter, sunshine? Don't you believe me?"

The constable met his uneasy smile with a blank expression. "I think you've been drinking, Sergeant," he said.

"I've had a couple," Mace admitted.

"I've also reason to believe you're unfit to drive. That's why I must ask you to accompany me to the police station."

Mace closed his eyes and silently let rip with every four-letter word he knew. They would breathalyze him, the blood test would be positive and twenty-nine year's unblemished service would count for nothing. And the bitter part, he thought savagely, was that his informer had proved to be as unreliable as Ingleson had always said he was.

14.

Patterson fitted the last cassette onto the winder, then slowly rotated the crank to examine each frame as it passed through the gate. The task of compiling a montage from the thirteen video tapes in his possession had proved to be a time-consuming and intricate job, one which demanded a marked degree of patience and the utmost concentration. In some cases, the identity of the client had become apparent early in the porno movie; in others, the exposures he wanted had appeared toward the very end. On this particular occasion, he reached the midway point before the VIP looked at his reflection in the two-way mirror and was captured by the hidden camera.

Satisfied with the quality of the pictures, Patterson reversed the crank to obtain a suitable lead-in, then, having severed the film, he wound it forward again and made a second cut some twenty-odd frames after the subject appeared in full view for the first time. That done, he placed the film clip on one side and spliced the two severed halves together.

So far, so good, he thought. One more join and the montage would be complete. As a trailer, it lacked artistic merit and the sound track would be pure gobbledegook, but he wasn't entering the clip for a prize at the Cannes Festival. All he needed was enough footage for Denise Rousell to recognize what was on offer. If she wanted time to study an individual face, he had only to operate the freeze button on the video remote control.

He checked the join to make sure the adhesive had taken, then rewound the foreshortened tape and removed the cassette. About to splice the last piece of footage to complete the montage, he was interrupted by a peremptory ring on the doorbell to his room. Irritated by the unwelcome intrusion, he left the worktable to see who the caller was and found himself face to face with his landlady, Mrs. Drobnowski. Unless his memory was at fault, he was sure she was wearing the same brown silk dress and apron he'd seen her in the day they first met. She had, however, dispensed with the well-worn carpet slippers for a pair of high-heeled, open-toed sandals.

"Oh, Mr. Pearce." Mrs. Drobnowski gave him a fleeting smile and at the same time tucked a stray lock of hair into the bun at the nape of her neck. "I half expected to find you weren't at home. I didn't recognize the car outside the house."

"The Mini's in for repair," Patterson told her. "I hired the car from Hertz."

"Oh, that explains it."

She took a pace forward as though she expected him to invite her inside, but Patterson wasn't having any of that and refused to give way. He didn't want her to see the equipment on the worktable, or catch a glimpse of the bathroom where he'd lifted the linoleum and removed one of the floorboards in front of the pedestal washbasin to get at the cache of video tapes.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Drobnowski?" he inquired politely.

"I just wanted to tell you the electricity would be off from nine A.M. to five P.M. tomorrow. My husband's taking a day off to rewire the flat on the ground floor."

"Well, thanks for telling me," he said.

"If there's anything perishable in your fridge, I'd be happy to keep it in mine until the power is back on." The fleeting smile made another brief appearance and she tried to move forward again.

"That's very kind of you, but right now I've only got half a pint of milk and a small pat of butter, so I think I'll be okay."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Patterson said and slowly closed the door in her face.

People like Mrs. Drobnowski were dangerous; nosy, observant, inquisitive, they didn't miss a trick and were a threat to his security. One thing was crystal-clear; within the next twenty-four hours, the KGB would have to give him a definite yes or no, because the longer he stayed in Linsdale Gardens, the greater the risk would be.

Patterson glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was seventeen minutes after four and realized he would have to get a move on. Denise Rousell had said seven-thirty for eight, but it was essential he arrive at her bungalow a good hour ahead of the stipulated time, conclude their business and get the hell out of there before any interlopers from the Soviet Embassy showed up to relieve him of the sample tape. With this in mind, he worked swiftly to complete the montage, then carted the spare cassettes into the bedroom. Before placing them in the cache near the pedestal washbasin, he first removed the .22 caliber Iver Johnson and examined the revolver to make sure there was a live round in each chamber. The weapon check completed, he stashed the cassettes between the joints, nailed the floorboard back in place and relaid the linoleum.