False Impression (46 page)

‘Nothing,’
replied Jack, as he looked across the desk at his boss.

‘Leapman had
only been in the office for long enough to photograph eight documents before
Fenston’s unscheduled appearance.’

‘And what do
those eight documents tell usF Macy demanded.

‘Nothing we
didn’t already know,’ admitted Jack, as he opened a file in front of him.
‘Mainly contracts confirming that Fenston is still fleecing customers in
different parts of the world, who are either naive or greedy. But should any of
them decide it would be in their best interests to sell their assets and clear
the debt with Fenston Finance, I suspect that’s when we’ll end up with another
body on our hands. No, my only hope is that the NYPD has gathered enough
evidence to press charges in the Leapman case, because I still don’t have
enough to slap a parking ticket on him.’

‘It doesn’t
help,’ said Macy, ‘that when I spoke to my opposite number this morning, or to
be more accurate he spoke to me, the first thing he wanted to know was did we
have an FBI agent called Delaney, and if so, was he on the scene of the crime
before his boys arrived.’

What did you
tell him?’ asked Jack, trying not to smile.

‘I’d look into
the matter and call him back.’ Macy paused. ‘But it might placate them a little
if you were willing to trade some information,’ he suggested.

‘But I don’t
think they have anything we aren’t already aware of,’ responded Jack, ‘and they
can’t be that optimistic about pressing charges while Leapman is still out for
the count.’

‘Any news from
the hospital about his chances of recovery?’ asked Macy.

‘Not great,’
admitted Jack. “While he was in Fenston’s office he suffered a stress stroke
caused by high blood pressure. The medical term is aphasia.’

‘Aphasia?’

The part of
Leapman’s brain that affects his speech has been irreparably damaged, so he
can’t speak. Frankly, his doctor is describing him as a vegetable, and warned
me that the only decision the hospital will have to make is whether to pull the
plug and let him die peacefully.’

‘The NYPD tell
me that Fenston is sitting solicitously by the patient’s bedside.’

‘Then they’d
better not leave them alone for more than a few moments,’ said Jack, ‘because
if they do, the doctors won’t need to make the decision as to who should pull
the plug.’

‘The NYPD also
wants to know if you removed a camera from the crime scene.’

‘It was FBI
property.’

‘Not if it was
evidence in a criminal enquiry, as you well know,

Jack. Why don’t
you send them a set of the photos Leapman took and try to be more cooperative
in the future? Remind them that your father served twenty-six years with the
force – that should do the trick.’

‘But what do
they have to offer in exchange?’ asked Jack.

‘A
copy of a photograph with your name on the back.
They want to know
if it meant anything to you, because it sure didn’t to them, or me,’ admitted
Macy.

The supervisor
pushed two prints across his desk and allowed Jack a few moments to consider
them. The first was a picture of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush when
he visited Ground Zero. Jack recalled the blown-up version that was hanging on
the wall behind Fenston’s desk. He held up the picture and asked, ‘How come the
NYPD has a copy of this?’

‘They found it
on Leapman’s desk. He was obviously going to hand it over to you yesterday
evening, along with an explanation of what he’d written on the back.’

Jack looked at
the second print and was considering the words, Delaney, this is all the
evidence you need, when the phone on Macy’s desk buzzed.

He picked it up
and listened. Tut him on,’ said Macy as he replaced the receiver and flicked a
switch that would allow them both to follow the conversation. ‘It’s Tom
Crasanti, calling from London,’ said Macy. ‘Hi, Tom, it’s Dick Macy. Jack’s in
the office with me. We were just discussing the Fenston case, because we’re
still not making much headway.’

‘That’s why I’m
calling,’ said Tom. ‘There’s been a development at this end, and the news is
not good. We think Krantz has slipped into England.’

‘That’s not
possible,’ said Jack. ‘How could she hope to get through passport control?’

‘By posing as an
Aeroflot stewardess, it would seem,’ said Tom.

‘My contact at
the Russian embassy called to warn me that a woman had entered Britain using a
fake passport under the name of Sasha Prestakavich.’

‘But why should
they assume Prestakavich is Krantz?’ asked Jack.

‘They didn’t,’
said Tom. ‘They had no idea who she was. All they could tell me was that the
suspect befriended Aeroflot’s chief stewardess while on their daily flight to
London. She then fooled her into accompanying her through passport control.
That’s how we got to hear of it. It turns out that the co-pilot asked who the
woman was, and when he was told that her name was Sasha Prestakavich, he said
that wasn’t possible because he travelled with her regularly, and it certainly
wasn’t Prestakavich.’

‘That still
doesn’t prove
it’s
Krantz,’ pressed Macy.

‘I’ll get there,
sir, just give me time.’

Jack was glad
his friend couldn’t see the look of impatience on the boss’s face.

‘The co-pilot,’
continued Tom, ‘reported to his captain, who immediately alerted Aeroflot’s
security. It didn’t take them long to discover that Sasha Prestakavich was on a
three-day layover, and her passport had been stolen, along with her uniform.
That set alarm bells ringing.’ Macy began tapping his fingers on the desk.

‘My contact at
the Russian embassy called me in the new entente cordiale spirit of post 9/11,’
said Tom,
‘having
already briefed Interpol.’

We are going to
get there, aren’t we, Tom?’

‘Any
moment, sir.’
He paused. “Where was I?’

‘Taking calls
from your contact in the Russian embassy,’ said Jack.

‘Oh, yes,’ said
Tom. ‘It was after I’d given him a description of Krantz, about five foot,
around a hundred pounds, crew cut, that they asked me to fax over a photograph
of her, which I did. He then forwarded a copy of the photograph to the co-pilot
at his London hotel, who confirmed that it was Krantz.’

‘Good work,
Tom,’ said Macy, ‘thorough as always, but have you come up with any theory as
to why Krantz would chance going to England at this particular time?’

‘To kill
Petrescu would be my bet,’ said Tom.

“What do you
think?’ asked Macy looking across his desk at Jack.

‘I agree with
Tom,’ replied Jack. ‘Anna has to be the obvious target.’ He hesitated. ‘But what
I can’t work out is why Krantz would take such a risk right now.’

‘I agree,’ said
Macy, ‘but I’m not willing to put Petrescu’s life at risk while we try to
second-guess Krantz’s motives.’ Macy leant forward. ‘Now listen carefully, Tom,
because I’m only going to tell you this once.’ He quickly began to turn the
pages of his Fenston file. ‘I need you to get in touch with – just give me a
moment,’ he said as he turned over even more pages. ‘Ah, yes, here it is, Chief
Superintendent Renton of the Surrey CID. After reading Jack’s report, I got a
clear impression that Renton is a man used to making tough decisions, even
taking responsibility when one of his subordinates has screwed up. I know
you’ve already briefed him on Krantz, but warn him that we think she’s about to
strike again, and the target could well be someone else at Wentworth Hall. He
won’t want that to happen twice on his watch, and rub in that the last time
Krantz was captured, she escaped. That will keep him awake at night. And if he
wants to have a word with me at any time, I’m always on the end of a line.’

‘And do pass on
my best wishes,’ added Jack.

That should
settle it,’ said Macy. ‘So, Tom, step it up a notch.’

Tes, sir,’ came
back the reply from London.

Macy flicked off
the speaker phone. ‘And, Jack, I want you to take the next flight to London. If
Krantz is even thinking about harming Petrescu, let’s make sure we’re waiting
for her, because if she were to escape a second time, I’ll be pensioned off and
you can forget any thoughts of promotion.’

Jack frowned but
didn’t respond.

‘You look
apprehensive,’ said Macy.

‘I can’t see why
a photo of Fenston shaking hands with the President is all the evidence you
need ...’ he paused – ‘although I think I’ve worked out why Krantz is willing
to risk returning to Wentworth Hall a second time.’

‘And why’s
that?’ asked Macy.

‘She’s going to
steal the Van Gogh,’ said Jack, ‘then somehow get it to Fenston.’

‘So Petrescu
isn’t the reason Rrantz has returned to England.’

‘No, she isn’t,’
said Jack, ‘but once Krantz discovers she’s there, you can assume that she’ll
consider killing Anna a bonus.’

L
ighting-up time
was 7.41 pm on September 25th. Krantz didn’t appear on the outskirts of
Wentworth until just after eight.

Arabella was at
the time accompanying her guests through to the dining room.

Krantz, dressed
in a black skin-tight tracksuit, circled the estate twice before she decided
where she would enter the grounds. It certainly wasn’t going to be through the
front gates. Although the high stone walls that surrounded the estate had
proved impregnable when originally built to keep invaders out, particularly the
French and Germans, by the beginning of the twenty-first century wear and tear,
and the minimum wage, meant that there were one or two places where entry would
have been simple enough for a local lad planning to steal apples.

Once Krantz had
selected her point of entry, she easily climbed the weakened perimeter in a
matter of seconds, straddled the wall, fell and rolled over, as she had done a
thousand times following a bad dismount from the high bar.

Krantz remained
still for a moment as she waited for the moon to disappear behind a cloud. She
then ran thirty or forty yards to the safety of a little copse of trees down by
the river. She waited for the moon to reappear so that she could study the
terrain more carefully, aware that she would have to be patient. In her line of
work, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes could not be rectified quite as
easily as in some other professions.

Krantz had a
clear view of the front of the house, but it was another forty minutes before
the vast oak door was opened by a man in a black tail coat and white tie,
allowing the two dogs out for their nightly frolic. They sniffed the air,
immediately picking up Krantz’s scent, and began barking loudly as they bounded
towards her. But then she had been waiting for them – patiently.

The English, her
instructor had once told her, were an animal loving nation, and you could tell
a person’s class by the dogs they chose to share their homes with. The working
class liked greyhounds, the middle classes Jack Russells and cocker spaniels,
while the nouveau riche preferred a Rottweiler or German shepherd to protect
their newly made wealth. The upper classes traditionally chose Labradors, dogs
quite unsuited for protection, as they were more likely to lick you than take a
chunk out of you. When Krantz was told about these dogs, it was the first time
she had come across the word ‘soppy’. Only the Queen had Corgis.

Krantz didn’t
move as the two dogs bounded towards her, occasionally stopping to sniff the
air, now aware of another smell that made their tails wag even faster. Krantz
had earlier visited Curnick’s in the Fulham Road and selected the
most tender
pieces of sirloin steak, which would have been
appreciated by those guests now dining at Wentworth Hall. Krantz felt no
expense should be spared. After all, it was to be their last supper.

Krantz laid the
large juicy morsels around her in a circle and remained motionless in the
centre, like a dumb waiter. Once Brunswick and Picton came across the meat,
they quickly tucked into their first course, not showing a great deal of
interest in the human statue in the centre of the circle. Krantz crouched
slowly down on one knee and began to lay out a second helping, wherever she saw
a gap appear in the circle. Occasionally the dogs would pause between
mouthfuls, look up at her with doleful eyes, tails wagging if anything more
enthusiastically, before they returned to the feast.

Once she had
laid
before them the final delicacy, Krantz leant forward
and began to stroke the silky head of Picton, the younger of the two dogs. He
didn’t even look up when she drew the kitchen knife from its sheath.
Sheffield steel, also purchased from the Fulham Road that
afternoon.

Once again, she
gently stroked the head of the chocolate Labrador, and then suddenly, without
warning, grabbed Picton by the ears, jerked his head away from the last
succulent morsels and, with one slash of the blade, sliced into the animal’s
throat. A loud bark was quickly followed by a shrill yelp, and in the darkness
Krantz could not see the large black eyes giving her a pained expression. The
black Labrador, older but not wiser, looked up and growled, which took him a
full second. More than enough time for Krantz to thrust her left forearm under
the dog’s jaw, causing Brunswick to raise his head just long enough for Krantz
to slash out at his throat, though not with her usual skill and precision.