Exit Stage Left (17 page)

Suddenly, an upper window was thrown open, and there was a rattle of small-arms fire. I had time to see the windscreen of the leading TSG vehicle hit and star over before we all dived for cover at the front of the house, as the others had done.

‘I hope he doesn’t think of dropping hand grenades out of the window,’ said Dave.

‘Looks like he’s got some sort of automatic rifle, sir,’ said the sergeant in charge of the ARU as he sidled up to me. ‘We’ve got a stun grenade launcher with us. I reckon my lads could get one through the window where he’s standing.’

‘Go for it,’ I said, and turned to the TSG inspector who was lying next to me. ‘Might be a good idea to get some of your chaps to go back to Reeching Lane, in case we’ve woken up any of the locals and they start rubbernecking. There’s going to be enough report writing about this without having civilian casualties to complicate things.’

‘I should think we’ve woken up half Romford,’ said the inspector, and issued rapid instructions on his personal radio.

Looking sideways, I saw one of the ARU officers launching a stun grenade. There was an immediate sound of an explosion when the grenade passed through the open window where the sniper had been standing. The TSG inspector and two of his men rushed the front door with a rammer and made several attempts to batter it down, but they were unsuccessful: the door wouldn’t shift.

Muttering an obscene oath, the inspector seized the rammer from the PC and hurled it through one of the adjacent ground-floor windows. Seconds later, ARU officers were inside the house.

It was silent for at least fifteen minutes, and I began to wonder if there had been a problem, or, worse still, the stun grenade had been ineffective. But then the ARU sergeant appeared at the front door. He and another officer were holding a handcuffed man who had the appearance of an ex-soldier. He was of medium height, clearly fit and muscular, with a crew cut hairstyle, and was dressed in battle fatigues and combat boots.

‘This guy is the only one in the house, sir, and I’ve disarmed him,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ve only had a brief look round, but I reckon there are sufficient weapons in there to equip a small army.’

‘Good work, Skipper,’ I said, and turned to the TSG inspector. ‘Have this guy taken to Romford nick, searched and detained. I’ll finish up here, and then I’ll come and have a chat with him.’

‘Right, sir.’ The TSG inspector turned to one of his officers. ‘Go and fetch the rammer from the sitting room, Jane, otherwise I’ll finish up paying for the bloody thing.’

Jane laughed. ‘We wouldn’t want that, sir,’ she said, ‘because you’d have a whip round, and we’d all finish up paying for it.’

Taking the rest of the team with me, I entered the house and detailed Len Driscoll to conduct a systematic search with Charlie Flynn, Tom Challis, John Appleby and Nicola Chance, while I had a look round the rear of the property. ‘But bear in mind that the place still has to be dusted for fingerprints.’

‘Naturally,’ drawled Driscoll, in such a way that implied that he knew his job and didn’t have to be told.

The search party spent an hour working their way through the house, but the result was disappointing. As the ARU sergeant had said, there was a large steel cabinet on the first floor containing weapons, which was open, presumably as a result of our rifleman having taken a firearm from it in his rush to repel boarders. However, the stun grenade had disorientated him, and a quick blast from a taser pistol had made sure that he was no longer a threat to anyone.

It was indeed a small arsenal that the team had found. Uzi machine-guns, point-44 Remington magnum pistols, hand grenades and a stock of ammunition. The basement contained another cabinet, in which was found a number of rocket launchers. Altogether there was sufficient materiel to equip a small army which, presumably, was what Anderson had in mind. The quantity of weapons seemed to indicate that he was actually the head of a mercenary unit and, from what we had discovered, it was a substantial one.

Sadly, there was no computer to be found, and I could only imagine that if Anderson possessed one it was in the form of a laptop and he’d taken it with him. That was a wise move; by the look of the thug that the ARU sergeant had arrested, it would have been dangerous to leave a computer with him. As Dave suggested, he looked as though he might’ve eaten it.

After a couple of hours, I decided that there was no more to be learned from the house. Certainly, there was nothing to indicate William Anderson’s present whereabouts, or even that he’d been there in the first place. We were clearly dealing with a consummate professional. However, I didn’t think that the mercenary side of the enquiry was anything to do with me. I made a quick call to the Counter Terrorism Command, gave them the SP and told them that the house would be guarded until their officers arrived, after which it would be down to them. However, I did ask to be advised of any fingerprint or scientific evidence they found that might lead us to Anderson.

There was always a chance that the Counter Terrorist Command would say that this was not a terrorist threat and would bounce it back to us as a major crime. But the one thing our beloved commander
was
good at was administrative ping-pong.

I left Len Driscoll to mop up and return all the firearms that we’d drawn that morning.

It was eleven o’clock when Dave and I arrived at Romford police station, a long, low building in Main Road.

‘The TSG brought in a prisoner earlier this morning, Skip. Has he told you his name?’

The custody sergeant smiled. ‘Refused to say a word, sir. If he does eventually open up, you’ll probably only get his number, rank and name.’

‘Like that, is it? Have him brought up to the interview room, then. I’ll see if my sergeant can charm a few words out of him.’

The custody sergeant glanced at Dave’s six-foot well-built stature. ‘Yes, he might just be able to do that, sir.’ He turned to the gaoler. ‘Get Number Three cell open and take its resident up to the interview room, lad. Tell him this nice chief inspector would like to speak to him.’

‘And tell him he’s got a gorilla with him,’ said Dave.

‘How are you spelling gorilla?’ asked the sergeant.

I
decided that I would let Dave kick off with the questioning. He has a way of disorientating recalcitrant prisoners.

‘Hello,’ said Dave affably as he sat down opposite the sniper and smiled at him. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Poole, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Brock. We’re both from the Murder Investigation Team. What’s your name?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ snapped the prisoner aggressively, speaking with a vaguely Irish accent.

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Dave. ‘It won’t stop us from charging you with three murders. In fact, I’ve known quite a few murderers who didn’t tell us who they were until after they’d started their thirty-year sentences.’ Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table so that his arms were vertical, and he cupped his chin in his hands. ‘D’you know, I went down to Dartmoor once to talk to a prisoner; he was Irish too. I remember it well because it was such a lovely sunny day with a cool breeze sweeping across the moor and little Dartmoor ponies frolicking about enjoying the balmy weather. Mind you, that was outside. It was a very different story on the inside … the inside of the prison, I mean. Dank, dirty, overcrowded and full of very nasty people. And the smell was unbelievable.’ He continued to speak conversationally, almost as if he were discussing how he’d spent his holidays.

The prisoner sat up sharply and fidgeted with the front of his battle fatigues, and then sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. This sergeant had unnerved him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was expecting to be given a hard time, even to the extent of having a confession beaten out of him. ‘I don’t know nothing about no murders.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true.’ Dave continued in the same chatty tones as before. ‘I’m not talking about your mercenary activities, of course; what you get up to overseas doesn’t really interest me. No, I’m talking about the two murders in London and the one in Paris.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ In his anguish, the prisoner’s Irish accent had vanished, to be replaced by what subsequently proved to be his native Cockney, and he began to shake, his hands twitching nervously on the tabletop.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that, my dear fellow. Your lawyer will explain it all to you.’ Dave glanced at me. ‘D’you want me to charge him straight away, sir?’ He looked at his watch. ‘There’s just time to put him up in front of the beak and get an eight-day lay down.’ He faced the prisoner again. ‘If all goes according to plan, you’ll be in Brixton nick in time for tea. Won’t that be nice? I do believe they have toasted teacakes on a Wednesday. So I’ve heard, anyway.’

‘My name’s Jim Finch, and I don’t know nothing about no murders, like I said. And that’s the God’s honest truth.’ Perspiration had broken out on Finch’s forehead, and he looked decidedly worried. He tugged at his left ear-lobe.

‘Oh, good. At last we can begin.’ Dave turned on the recording machine and announced the date, time and place and who was present. ‘Well, Jim—’ He paused and leaned towards Finch. ‘It’s all right if I call you Jim, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose so.’

‘Excellent. Well, now, Jim, perhaps you’d start by telling me where your guv’nor’s gone.’

‘I dunno. The colonel never tells me nothing.’

‘This would be Colonel Anderson you’re talking about, would it?’

‘Dunno. He never told any of us what his name was. He was just known as the colonel.’

‘Oh, there are more of you, are there?’

‘Yeah, course there is. There’s about eighteen altogether.’

‘And do they all live at Wisteria Cottage?’

‘Nah, course not. Just me. The colonel made me his sergeant-major, see. He put me in charge and told me to look after the place.’

‘Many congratulations on your promotion, Jim.’ Dave smiled at Finch again. ‘But how does the colonel assemble his team whenever you’re going off on a job?’

‘He gives ’em a bell on his mobile.’

‘Oh, of course he does. Silly me. When’s the colonel coming back? Did he tell you that?’

‘Dunno. Like I said, he never tells me nothing.’

‘How long were you in the army, Jim?’ asked Dave, suddenly switching his line of questioning.

‘How did you know that?’ Finch stared at Dave suspiciously. ‘I never told you that.’

‘Come on, Jim. It’s written all over you. I can see you’re a soldier through and through. You’re fit, and you’ve got that bearing that tells me you know what discipline is all about. I can see that you’re head and shoulders above mere civilians.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Finch grinned and preened himself. ‘I done three years before me bit of trouble.’

‘Oh, what bit of trouble was that?’

‘Well, it was like when some gear went missing when we was in Afghanistan—’ Finch stopped suddenly and screwed his face into a thoughtful mode. ‘Or was it Iraq? Oh, I dunno. Never mind. Anyhow, they reckoned I’d nicked it, but it was ’cos I forgot to sign for it, see? But by then it was too late, and I got the elbow after I done six months down the glasshouse.’ Such was the effect of Dave’s persuasive questioning that Finch evidently felt he owed him an explanation. ‘That’s the army prison down Colchester, see. It don’t do getting banged up in there, I can tell you.’

‘Interview concluded at eleven thirty-two,’ said Dave, and turned off the recording machine. ‘I think the intelligence quotient of our transient friend is such that he’s unlikely to be forthcoming with anything of evidential value, sir,’ he said, turning to me and deliberately using convoluted language in the certain knowledge that the obtuse Finch wouldn’t understand a word of it.

‘You’re right, Dave. Go ahead and charge him with attempted murder.’

That announcement did, however, register with Finch. ‘What attempted murder’s that?’ he asked, clearly shocked by this turn of events. He’d heard all about people getting fitted up by the Old Bill for something they hadn’t done and imagined it was about to happen to him.

‘Strange though it may seem, Jim,’ said Dave, ‘opening fire on police officers with an automatic weapon is a serious matter, and the court will find no difficulty in seeing it as attempted murder.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Finch. ‘How long d’you reckon I’ll get for that, then?’

‘Well,’ said Dave, ‘let me put it this way: if I were you, I wouldn’t book any holidays for at least the next ten years.’

We obtained Finch’s date of birth and found out that he’d been born in Hoxton. Dave took his fingerprints and confirmed that Finch had been convicted of stealing weapons from an armoury while serving with the army in Afghanistan, for which he had received six months’ military corrective training followed by a discharge with ignominy. Dave told me later that six months in a military prison was worse than five years in a civilian nick.

The resident Crown Prosecution Service lawyer at the police station agreed the charge of attempted murder, and Finch appeared before the magistrate at Romford court which was conveniently situated next door. He was remanded in custody to appear at Snaresbrook Crown Court eight days hence.

‘Well, we didn’t get much out of him, Dave,’ I said as we drove back to Belgravia. ‘But what little we did get might be of use to the Counter Terrorist Command.’

‘I’ll give ’em a bell when we get back, guv. I wonder whether Anderson will return to Romford eventually. I was wondering whether it was worth putting an obo on the place.’

‘I don’t think there’d be a good hiding place for an obo, Dave, and I’d like to think that Anderson will be nicked before he gets the chance.’ I was absolutely convinced now that Anderson was the man wanted for all three murders. But he was going to be a difficult man to catch. From Dave’s brief and largely unproductive questioning of Finch, it was apparent that Anderson was an extremely cautious man and played his cards close to his chest. That even his cohorts didn’t know his true identity – whatever that was – probably rendered our entries on the police national computer virtually useless. It also meant that Henri Deshayes’ Interpol circular was unlikely to bear fruit. We were looking for a man that the staff at the Santa Barbara Hotel could describe, albeit sketchily, but who no one could identify.

I telephoned Henri at his office at the quai des Orfèvres and told him about our raid on the house in Romford, but disappointed him by telling him that we’d found nothing that would assist him in finding Anderson.

‘There’s something that you can do for me, ’Arry. The next of kin of Debra Foley must be told of her death, but we couldn’t find anything in her belongings that indicated who that might be.’

‘I’ve no idea either, Henri, but leave it to me and I’ll get back to you.’

It was a problem, but only a minor one. Debra Foley’s husband and her brother were both dead, and I knew of no other relatives.

I sent for Dave and explained the problem.

‘The obvious person to talk to is Lancelot Foley’s solicitor, guv. The one we spoke to about the great actor’s will.’

It was three o’clock in the afternoon of what was proving to be a very long day when we arrived at the Chancery Lane offices of the solicitor.

I explained to Cynthia, the solicitor’s receptionist, that we needed to see the senior partner urgently, and she ushered us into his office without demur.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector, we meet again.’ The solicitor rose from his desk and shook hands. I noticed that his desk was still devoid of paperwork. Turning to his secretary, he said, ‘Cynthia, be so good as to telephone my next appointment and advise her that a sudden emergency has arisen. Arrange for her to make a fresh appointment.’ Realigning his gaze on me, he asked, ‘What can I do for you today, Chief Inspector?’

‘Debra Foley, Lancelot Foley’s widow, has been murdered, sir,’ I said. ‘The day before yesterday.’

‘Oh dear.’ The solicitor swept his handkerchief from his top pocket, held it to his mouth and coughed affectedly. ‘I do act for her, but I’m afraid I don’t hold her will if that’s what you were after. In fact, she may not even have made one. It’s very inconvenient when people die intestate. Creates a lot of difficulty for their legal representative, don’t you know.’

‘I’m not interested in her will,’ I said. ‘But we need to inform her next of kin of her death. D’you happen to know who that might be?’

‘I see. That, of course, presents a problem. Do you have a death certificate for her?’

‘I’m afraid not. You see, she was murdered in Paris.’

‘Oh, how terribly inconvenient. But I need confirmation of her death before I can proceed further.’

I wondered what on earth he was talking about. I didn’t think it was necessary for him to see a death certificate before telling us who Debra Foley’s nearest and dearest were.

‘There’s no doubt that she’s dead, sir,’ said Dave, ‘but if you need confirmation I can give you the telephone number of
Commandant
Henri Deshayes of the
Police Judiciaire
in Paris. He’s dealing with her murder, and he’s actually seen her dead body. In fact, he was there when she was certified dead,’ he added, guessing that that would have been the case.

‘Mmm!’ The solicitor steepled his fingers and put them to his mouth, as though he were praying. Which he may have been. ‘Perhaps, Chief Inspector, you’d be prepared to sign an affidavit that to the best of your knowledge Mrs Foley is actually dead. I am a commissioner for oaths, so it can be done straight away.’ With a flourish, he produced a gold fountain pen from an inside pocket of his grey, discreetly pinstriped suit, as if to brook no argument on the matter.

‘If that’ll make you feel more comfortable, sir,’ I said, still mystified as to why the lawyer thought it necessary to go through all this legal mumbo-jumbo just to tell me the identity of Debra Foley’s relatives.

By way of reply, the solicitor took his spectacles from the little holder on his desk and extracted a form from a drawer in his desk. After he’d spent a few minutes writing, and had read it aloud to me, he produced a New Testament and I swore that the document I was about to sign was to my knowledge true in every particular.

‘Good,’ said the solicitor, putting the signed form back in his desk drawer. ‘I have something for you, Chief Inspector.’ He rose from his desk and crossed the room to a large safe. Selecting a key from his key chain, he opened the safe and took out an envelope. ‘This document, Mr Brock, was lodged with me by Mrs Foley, some considerable time ago. As you can see,’ he continued, handing me the envelope, ‘it is marked: “To be handed to the police in the event of my untimely death.” I therefore do so, but I shall require that you sign a receipt for it.’

‘Do you know what’s in it?’ I asked.

‘Certainly not. By the way, I’ve no idea as to the identity of her next of kin.’

I waited until we were back at the office before opening the envelope and did so in the presence of Dave and Kate Ebdon. It’s always a good idea to have a witness to the opening of strange envelopes of this nature. There are some barristers who seem to think that we make up things like that to bolster a flagging case.

The handwritten document, headed with Debra’s Chorley Street address, but undated, made interesting reading. I scanned it quickly and then read it aloud to Kate and Dave.

You will only be receiving this in the event of my murder.

I am an actress, but I am also a call girl. I am not proud of it, but in my particular case the acting profession pays so poorly that I had to find a way of supplementing my income.

My clients are sent to me by word of mouth, through a friend of mine whose name I prefer to keep secret. You will understand that it came as a terrible shock when one evening my husband, Lancelot Foley, arrived at the flat I used for meeting clients. Using a false name, he had booked me for the night and thought he was coming to have sex with Corinne Black, the name I used as a call girl. When he arrived and found it was me, there was a terrible row, and he threatened to divorce me and to let everyone know what I was doing.

I told him that I was willing to divorce him, but that I wanted half his money to keep quiet or I would tell everyone that he was living on my earnings as a call girl. He said he would tell everyone that I was a whore and that he would ruin me as an actress. I replied by saying I would leak a list of all the well-known names I’d slept with to the press, an MP and a judge among them, but I would sign the covering letter with his name, so it would appear that it was he who had given this infor-mation to the tabloid press. At that point he slapped my face and started to search the flat, looking for the list. But I knew he would never find it.