Make Them Pay (9 page)

‘Might be as well, while we’re in the area, Dave, but it’s Tuesday and she’s possibly found someone else to take her to her club.’

‘It’s Wednesday, sir,’ said Dave.

‘Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector.’ Lady Fairfax smiled and opened the door wide. ‘Do come in.’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news, Lady Fairfax,’ I began, and went on to tell her what had occurred in Brighton, but without describing the gory details. I merely said that William Rivers had committed suicide and she didn’t ask how.

‘I suppose it must’ve been the realization that he was unlikely to get his money back, Chief Inspector.’

‘Quite possibly, Lady Fairfax,’ I said, without telling her about the murders of Eberhardt and Schmidt, or that we suspected that Rivers might’ve been their killer.

‘I wondered why he didn’t turn up yesterday.’ Catherine Fairfax sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find someone else to take me to the club,’ she said. ‘Oh dear!’

And that seemed to be her only concern about the demise of William Rivers, her one-time volunteer chauffeur.

‘One other thing, Lady Fairfax,’ I said. ‘Did you ever write to the Anthony Cook who signed the letter you received?’

‘No, Chief Inspector, there didn’t seem any point once I found out that I couldn’t get through to the telephone number on his letter.’

That answered my question about why she’d not had any such letter returned. Not that it made a scrap of difference.

Back at the factory, as we detectives call our place of work, Dave and I started going through William Rivers’s address book.

‘There’s a phone number for a Stella Rivers here, guv, but no address,’ said Dave. ‘Must be a relative.’

‘We’d better let her know,’ I said. ‘We might learn something.’

‘Won’t the Brighton police tell her, guv?’

‘They probably don’t know of her existence, Dave. Anyway they haven’t got the address book.’

Colin Wilberforce did a subscriber check on the telephone number and gave us the address.

‘Stella Rivers?’ I asked of the woman who opened the door of the neat semi-detached bungalow in Hounslow. She must’ve been in her fifties, and was dressed in jeans and a colourful blouse. She was quite a big woman and had shoulder-length grey hair that didn’t really suit someone of her age.

‘Not for the past twenty-five years,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Kumar. What’s this about, anyway?’

I introduced myself and Dave, and Mrs Kumar invited us into a garishly furnished sitting room that she called her lounge.

‘Are you by any chance related to a William Rivers who lived in Pinner, Mrs Kumar?’ I asked.

‘He’s my father. Why, has something happened?’

Now came the bit that policeman hate the most. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mrs Kumar.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Stella Kumar remained calm and apparently unaffected by this news. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know. Was it a heart attack?’

‘He committed suicide . . . in Brighton.’

‘Why on earth did the silly old fool do that? And what was he doing in Brighton anyway?’

There was no sign of grief and I suspected that a rift had existed between Rivers and his daughter for some time.

‘According to a neighbour he went there on holiday,’ I said.

‘And he’d lost ten thousand pounds buying worthless shares, Mrs Kumar,’ said Dave. ‘That might’ve been the reason for his committing suicide.’

Mrs Kumar’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Ten thousand! Where in the name of God did he get that much money from?’

‘We don’t know, Mrs Kumar,’ said Dave. ‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us.’

‘I’ve not the faintest idea,’ said Stella Kumar, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘We certainly didn’t see any of it when we were struggling to buy a house.’

‘As a matter of interest, when did you last see him?’

‘Not for a very long time. In fact I haven’t seen him since my mother died, and that was about twenty years ago. We didn’t get on, dad and me,’ said Mrs Kumar, confirming my suspicions of a family feud. ‘You see, Mr Brock, I married an Indian, Ram Kumar, and my father wouldn’t accept him as a member of the family, even though he’s now a successful restaurateur. My late mother was quite happy about it, but the old man wouldn’t even use my married name. Whenever he wrote to me, or sent me a birthday card – which wasn’t often – he always addressed it to me as Stella Rivers. The hurtful part was that he wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of his grandchildren. No birthday cards, no presents then or at Christmas, nothing. And to think he had all that money tucked away.’ She shook her head sadly at the injustice of it all. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, my father was a racist.’

‘And that presumably soured the relationship,’ I suggested. I realized now why Mrs Kumar’s telephone number was listed under her maiden name in William Rivers’s address book.

‘I determined to have nothing more to do with him, Mr Brock. I didn’t mind him having a go at me, but to take it out on the kids was unforgivable, and I told him so. There was one huge row and that was that. But he could be very bloody-minded when the mood took him.’

‘I understand he was in the SAS,’ said Dave.

‘Yes, that and the Parachute Regiment. He was obsessed with the army. He was always going on about it, muttering about how National Service would straighten out today’s youngsters and give them a proper start in life. I got sick of it, I can tell you. And what was worse it indirectly resulted in the death of my brother Leonard.’

‘How so?’

‘The old man bullied him into joining the army and he was killed thirty years ago on some stupid exercise somewhere in Germany. He was a dispatch rider and got run over by a tank transporter,’ said Stella and paused in thought. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do something about dad’s funeral,’ she added, returning to the demands of the present day. ‘There’s no one else . . . apart from my Aunt Gladys, that is, and I have no idea where she is.’

‘I suggest you get in touch with the police in Brighton, Mrs Kumar,’ said Dave. ‘They’ll tell you when your father’s body can be released.’ He gave her the telephone number and the name of the DI there. ‘Perhaps you’d let us know when the funeral is to take place,’ he added, and gave her the telephone number of the incident room at Curtis Green.

We’d learned a little more about the late William Rivers, but nothing that was going to get us any further in determining whether he had murdered Hans Eberhardt and Trudi Schmidt.

Back at the office, I got hold of Tom Challis.

‘Tom, find out what you can about William Rivers’s family. His daughter’s name is Stella Kumar married to a Ram Kumar, and she had a brother named Leonard who was killed thirty years ago in Germany with the army. Mrs Kumar also mentioned an aunt called Gladys. But she didn’t know where she’s living now. From what I understand of the Riverses’ somewhat dysfunctional family, she might even be dead.’

On Thursday morning, we discovered that our search of Rivers’s house and our visit to his daughter had been largely a waste of time. The report from the ballistics examiner stated categorically that the firearm with which Rivers had committed suicide was not the weapon that had killed Eberhardt and Schmidt.

That was a setback. I’d thought that everything so far had pointed to Rivers being our killer; but one of the realities that detectives learn early in their career is that forensic scientists don’t always come up with the answers that detectives want.

That Rivers’s weapon was most likely illegally held was not our problem. The Brighton police could pursue that if they felt so inclined. In their shoes I wouldn’t have bothered.

‘And we didn’t find any other weapon among his belongings when we searched his house in Pinner, Dave,’ I said.

‘He could’ve had another one that he threw in the river, guv,’ said Dave, injecting his usual pessimistic realism into the discussion. ‘After all, the toppings took place within yards of the Thames.’

‘But the car seen by Guy Wilson wasn’t the car that Rivers drove.’ I know I’d vaguely suggested to Charlie Flynn that Rivers might’ve hired one, but I doubted it. That would’ve left a trail that dogged detective work would quickly have discovered. And I’d already concluded that our murderer was a careful individual.

‘So, where do we go from here, guv?’

‘There had to be a reason for Rivers committing suicide in his Brighton doss house, Dave,’ I said, ‘and as we now know, it’s unlikely that he’d committed the murders.’

‘Despite what I just said about having a second weapon that was thrown in the river,’ said Dave, ‘I think that Rivers was much too old to have done a job like that, but he might’ve known a man who wasn’t.’

‘That’s a strong possibility, I suppose. On the other hand it could’ve been depression that made him top himself. Perhaps, being a bit of a macho man, he regretted having admitted to Charlie Flynn that he’d been swindled out of what was probably his life’s savings.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t depress me enough to top myself, guv, but as I’ve only got life savings of about twenty quid it wouldn’t really matter. Mind you, my bloody great mortgage is enough to depress anyone, and I wouldn’t want to leave Madeleine a millstone like that in my will.’

‘Colin,’ I said, crossing to Wilberforce’s desk. ‘Did
any
of the nine losers that were interviewed have a car that tallied with the description of the one seen by Guy Wilson in the vicinity of the camper van?’ He’d already told me that none had, but more information might’ve come in since then.

In view of the complexities of the enquiry, HOLMES – the Home Office large major enquiry system – had been installed in the incident room.

Wilberforce turned to it and scrolled up the relevant entry. ‘No, sir,’ he said, swinging round to face me. ‘You already know that Lady Fairfax doesn’t own a car and that Rivers’s was a red Renault Twingo. None of the other losers had a car that matched the one seen by Wilson, as far as we know. If Wilson’s sighting is to be relied on, that is.’

‘On the other hand,’ I surmised, ‘the car Wilson saw might’ve had nothing whatever to do with the murders. It could’ve been a coincidence. Perhaps it was some law-abiding citizen who’d pulled up to answer his mobile phone, rather than use it while he was driving.’

‘Blimey, that’d be a first,’ muttered Dave.

The more I thought about Dave’s comment that Rivers might’ve known the man who’d committed the murders, the more I thought it a strong possibility. The SAS is a close-knit family and I was sure that their renowned esprit de corps continued into retirement. If any one of their number had been the victim of the sort of fraud perpetrated on Rivers, his former colleagues were more likely to deal with it themselves rather than leave it to the police. And their sanctions would’ve been far more severe than any penalty the courts might have imposed.

‘We’ll need to go through Rivers’s address book, Dave,’ I said, ‘and see if he’d listed any old comrades.’

‘I don’t know why it’s called an address book,’ said Dave, ‘because it only contains phone numbers. What’s more I expect the crafty old bugger wrote them all in code.’

‘Well, he didn’t write his daughter’s in code, so we’ll have to hope that the rest are in clear.’ I got hold of DS Tom Challis and gave him the job of finding out the addresses of everyone listed in Rivers’s address book. Not that there were too many. I returned to my office and was just about to deal with some necessary paperwork when the call came in.

‘Sir, the DI at Paddington has just been on.’ Colin Wilberforce appeared at the door with an email printout. ‘He was called to the murder of a Samson Adekunle on his patch and his lads have found a bunch of dodgy share certificates in his house. They think Adekunle’s topping might be connected to our job.’

‘There’s no doubt about it,’ I said. ‘That’s the name that Horst Fischer found on Eberhardt’s computer. There was an exchange of emails in which Adekunle told Eberhardt where to park.’

‘And that was where Eberhardt got topped,’ commented Dave.

‘Did they say what sort of share certificates?’ I asked, certain that I knew.

‘Yes, sir. I asked for the details and they’re on this email. Some are the same as the ones that were obtained from Lady Fairfax and William Rivers, but the others refer to a cargo of oil leaving Nigeria. Probably just as bogus as the Buenos Aires share certificates.’

‘Just my bloody luck,’ I said as I scanned the information. ‘Has the commander had a copy of this?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

I took the printout and made my way to the commander’s office, well knowing what the outcome of the interview would be.

‘Ah, Mr Brock, I was just about to send for you.’

‘I presume it wasn’t about the murder of Samson Adekunle, sir. It’s only just come in.’ I handed him the printout containing the details.

The commander almost snatched it from me. ‘This is most irregular,’ he said, when he’d finished reading it. ‘Why wasn’t I shown this before?’

‘It’s called chain of command, sir. It was quite proper for it to come to me first, and my job to bring it to you.’

For a moment or two the commander stared at me before placing the printout in the centre of his desk. He leaned back, steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. ‘Yes, quite so.’ For one brief second I was foolish enough to think he was going to apologize. ‘In the circumstances, you’d better undertake this enquiry,’ he said, making another, and for him uncharacteristic, command decision. ‘It seems to be connected to the deaths of Eberhardt and Schmidt.’

‘You’re absolutely right, sir.’ A comment that seemed to please the commander. I turned to go and then paused. ‘You said you were about to send for me.’

‘Yes indeed. I haven’t seen the seating plan for the forthcoming senior officers’ luncheon, Mr Brock, but I can see that you’ll be much too busy. I’ll speak to Mr Cleaver about it.’

‘Very good, sir.’ I always knew that the commander had a different set of priorities from the rest of us. Whatever was vexing him about the seating plan, he was unlikely to get much change out of Alan Cleaver, the HSCC detective chief superintendent. Cleaver had never been too interested in this quarterly bean feast and often made pressure of work an excuse for not going. One of the drawbacks to what would otherwise be an enjoyable function was that the commander took full advantage of his lofty position to lord it over the assembled diners. And to round it off, he could always be relied upon to make a lengthy and pompous speech in the strangulated prose that is a keystone of the teachings at his beloved Bramshill Police College.