Malice in London (19 page)

“Mansfield must have made the second call, then,
about Turner and Mrs. Brighton,” Black ventured. “As a way to get back at Turner.”

“That’s my guess. But based on my reading of Helen Brighton, I don’t think it’s true.”

“What
about
Turner?” Evans asked. “He’s benefited as much as Mansfield from Brighton’s death, hasn’t he?”

Powell frowned. “I’m not sure what to make of young Adrian. Apart from stirring things up in the borough and working to save the rain forests in British Columbia—”

“What did you say?” Evans interjected.

Powell described the environmental posters in Turner’s office.

“Tess Morgan had an anti-logging poster in her flat,” she said slowly.

Powell shrugged. “It’s not an unpopular cause, unless …”

“Unless what?”

Powell looked at her. “Perhaps Mansfield got it wrong—I mean, right idea, wrong person. What if Adrian Turner is having an affair with Tess Morgan, not Helen Brighton?”

“I don’t understand—”

“Look, if Turner
was
putting the make on Helen Brighton, it might be viewed as Machiavellian—an attempt to unite the party behind him by uniting, as it were, with his late rival’s wife. However, it would be wholly unethical, to say the least, if he were involved with Tess Morgan. Here is a man who has been elected to act objectively, in the best interests of his constituents, voting on a project whose chief opponent is the woman he’s sleeping with. If it ever got out …”

“We don’t know that he
is
sleeping with her,” Evans pointed out.

“You’re right, but you have to admit it’s an intriguing scenario. Let’s say Brighton found out about it and threatened to go public …”

“But how does Morton fit into it?” Black asked.

Powell sighed. “We keep coming back to that, don’t we?” He stared into his empty glass. “It all boils down to motive: Who benefits? I suspect that opportunity won’t be much of a problem.”

“Still, it probably wouldn’t hurt to determine who-was-where-when at the times in question, sir,” Black suggested, always the steady tortoise.

Powell nodded. “We should have done that a long time ago, Bill. While you’re at it, pull Snavely in and wring him dry. There is something about that lad that sets my teeth on edge. And Evans, you’d better get on with Tess Morgan’s tenants committee. I still don’t think we can rule out the possibility that there may be someone lurking in the shadows.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got the list of the names from Tess Morgan. I’ll get started this afternoon.”

Powell was suddenly seized with an overwhelming sense of certainty that he was overlooking something important, or rather looking at it the wrong way round. He frowned. His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Celia Cross, laden with a plate of ham-and-cheese sandwiches and a tray of drinks.

The weather took a turn for the worse that evening as Powell lounged about in Tony Osborne’s flat in
Soho listening to scratchy gems from his host’s record collection and drinking his Scotch. Cream, the Yardbirds, John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers, and a glass of the Macallan. Life could be worse, he thought, listening to the rain rattle against the windowpane. He just wished he could get his mind off the case and relax. He pulled back the curtain and peered out. A yellow streetlamp smeared against a dark, wet sky and a car swishing by. He couldn’t explain it, but he had a sudden urge to call Marion. He checked his watch and did a quick calculation. It would be nearly noon in Vancouver; he might be able to catch her in before she left for lunch. He reached for his wallet and extracted the crumpled piece of paper on which he had written the numbers for her office at the University of British Columbia and her apartment. He picked up his mobile phone from the coffee table. He pressed the numbers and waited several seconds for the overseas connection. He got up from the sofa and turned down the stereo.

A familiar voice at the other end: “Marion Powell.”

“Why aren’t you out stalking totem poles?”

“Erskine?”

“How soon they forget. How are you, love?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been waiting for you to call. I was beginning to wonder if you’d come down with a case of Soho-itis.”

“I’ve been tied up at work. It’s a dog’s life in the Met.”

“How’s the case coming?”

“Things are starting to get interesting. It feels a bit like the lull before the proverbial storm.”

“Erskine, is everything all right?” There was a note of concern in her voice.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You sound … detached.”

“As oppose to engaged?”

“You know what I mean. It’s not like you to call in the middle of the day.”

“I miss you.”

“Me, too.” Over muffled voices in the background, she said, “Erskine, I’ve got to run off to a meeting. Why don’t you ring me later?”

“I’ll ring you tomorrow night. At your apartment, around ten your time?”

“All right.”

“Until then.”

“Erskine?”

“Yes.”

“Have you given any more thought to coming over this summer? It looks like I’ll be finished with my research project by the middle of August. You’d get a chance to see Peter and David, and we could do the tourist thing together for a few weeks …”

“We’ll see. How are the boys?”

“They’re fine. Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

After he rang off, he continued to pace back and forth. He could hear the faint wailing of a police siren. He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. On his way back to the sofa, he cranked up Long John Baldry. Just as he was starting to feel sorry
for himself, his telephone began to warble insistently. He got up once again and turned down the volume. “Powell,” he said irritably.

“It’s Paul Atherton. Sorry to bother you …”

“What’s up?” He was suddenly alert.

“It’s probably nothing, some sort of hoax, I expect, but I’ve received a letter—” a slight hesitation “—I suppose you could call it a threat.”

“When?”

“Earlier this evening at the office. I’m working late tonight,” he explained. “I heard a banging on the door. By the time I got there, whoever it was had gone, but there was an envelope under the door with my name on it. There was a note inside. I have it here.” A crinkling of paper. “ ‘If you don’t pack it in you’ll end up like Brighton,’ ” he read in monotone voice.

“That’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Is it handwritten or typed?”

“Looks like your standard computer printing.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m still at the office.”

“Where do you plan to spend the night?”

“I’ve been staying with my girlfriend in Marylebone as you suggested.”

“How long are you going to be at the office?”

“Another couple of hours, I should think.”

Powell consulted his watch. Eight-thirty. “I’d like to see you for a few minutes. Would you mind if I stopped by in, say, forty minutes?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Chief Superintendent.”

“Right. See you then.”

After he’d rung off, Powell sat staring out the window for a considerable length of time.

The rain had stopped, but a light mist hung in the air, creating a watery halo around the streetlamp. He thought about calling a cab but decided on the tube. He hoped that the short walk to Piccadilly Circus station would help clear his head. As he was heading out the door, umbrella in hand, his mobile phone began to ring once again. He fumbled for it in his jacket pocket. “Yes,” he snapped.

“It’s Jill. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No—no, of course not. I was just heading out, that’s all.”

“Then I did catch you at a bad time.”

“I’ve always got time for you. How’s it going?”

“All right, I guess. I’m catching a flight home tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have to pack tomorrow morning, so I—I was hoping that we might get together tonight for a coffee, for old times’ sake.”

“I’d like that. Where are you now?”

“My hotel in Paddington.”

He thought quickly. By the time he finished with Atherton and got back to the West End, it could be quite late. “Look, I’ve got to meet someone in Southwark,” he said. “Do you know where Shad Thames is?”

“Just east of Tower Bridge, right?”

“That’s it. Do you know how to get there by tube?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“You take the Bakerloo Line from Paddington Station to Elephant and Castle, then switch to the Northern Line for London Bridge. You go along Tooley Street, turn left into Weaver’s Lane, then under Tower Bridge. It’s about a ten-minute walk, or you could take a cab. Have you got that?”

Jill laughed. “Clear as mud.”

“The chap’s name is Paul Atherton. His office is a few doors past the Pizza Express. Why don’t you meet me there in about an hour? If there’s no sign of life, just knock. When I’m finished, we can decide what to do. All right?”

“Sounds good. See you in a bit.”

“Cheers.”

He stepped outside and locked the door behind him.

In Great Windmill Street, a knot of people had gathered outside a bar around a figure sprawled on the pavement. Powell identified himself as a policeman and made his way to the front. The man, who looked to be in his early twenties with matted blond hair, was semiconscious, muttering incoherently. Powell squatted down to have a closer look. He was wearing a tattered T-shirt, soaked with vomit, and a cursory examination of the
needle tracks on his tattooed arms told the story. Powell lifted the man’s wrist. His skin felt clammy, the pulse slow and weak. It was hard to tell in the lurid neon light, but the man’s face appeared to have a slightly bluish cast. Powell guessed he had overdosed and was slipping into a coma. He got to his feet and put in a 999 call on his mobile phone.

A few minutes later, sirens were wailing up Shaftsbury Avenue, then a police car squealed around the corner, followed a few seconds later by an ambulance. Powell chatted with the two constables, one of whom he remembered from a training course at which he had lectured, while the paramedics attended to the victim. It was nearly half an hour before he was able to get away, and as he hurried to the tube station, he rang Paul Atherton to let him know he’d be there shortly.

The twin turrets of Tower Bridge soared above him, massive steel skeletons, clad with stone, strong enough to support the thousand-ton bascules that lifted to allow ships to pass up the Thames. The elevated walkway joining the two towers and the heavy arc of the suspension cables shone in the mist with an unearthly blue light, casting an eerie, slightly sinister pallor on the stonework. It reminded him of the junky’s face. Must be a trick of the atmosphere, he told himself as he entered Shad Thames. The narrow street, which felt claustrophobic with its dripping brick walls and shadowy walkways, was deserted. If it wasn’t for the faint glow of the Pizza Express sign, it might have been fifty years ago.

Paul Atherton opened the door as soon as he knocked.

Powell apologized for being late.

“Not to worry, Chief Superintendent. I’ll be here for a while yet.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Atherton smiled. “You might say that. Let’s go into my office.”

Powell followed him to the back of the building.

They sat as before: Atherton behind his desk and Powell in the chair opposite. There was a green shaded lamp on the desk, otherwise the room was unlit. Something about the room seemed different to Powell but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Where’s the note?” Powell asked.

Atherton reached across the desk and handed him an envelope. He examined it carefully. A standard white business-size envelope with a single word printed on it:
ATHERTON
. He opened it and carefully extracted the paper inside. He unfolded it and read the words aloud. “ ‘If you don’t pack it in you’ll end up like Brighton.’ What do you make of it?”

Atherton shrugged. “I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m not used to receiving death threats, Chief Superintendent.”

“You think it’s a threat, then?”

Atherton looked slightly irritated. “What else could it be?”

“One could interpret it in a more positive light, a warning perhaps from someone concerned about your welfare.”

Atherton frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose our last conversation had me imagining the worst. That
is
what you advised, isn’t it?”

“It’s always better to be safe than sorry, Mr. Atherton.”

“Do you think it can be traced?”

“I doubt it. Computer printers are fairly anonymous. The point is, it does seem to fit the pattern, if one assumes that there is someone out there willing to go any lengths to stop Dockside: Brighton and Morton dead and an anonymous phone call that at first glance appears to be politically damaging to Charles Mansfield. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the call we received about Adrian Turner and Helen Brighton.” Responding to the look of puzzlement on Atherton’s face, Powell explained about the second anonymous call.

“That was probably just Mansfield trying to get back, don’t you think?”

Powell regarded him with interest. “That’s not an unreasonable assumption, assuming, of course, that it was Turner who made the first call.”

“You’re right. It’s not as if Turner is the only one who is against me.”

An interesting way of putting it, Powell thought. “You are referring, I take it, to Tess Morgan,” he said.

“Who else?” Atherton responded bitterly.

“The call was made by a man,” Powell pointed out.

“It could have been one of the other members of her band of antis.”

“Perhaps, but the thing that’s been bothering me—” Powell’s response was cut short by a loud crashing sound upstairs, followed by a series of muffled thumps.
He glanced at the ceiling, then at Atherton, who regarded him stone-faced. His eyes were drawn to the small glass cabinet on the wall behind the developer. He now realized what was different about the room. There was only one dueling pistol in the baize-lined case.

He looked back at Atherton and found himself staring down the barrel of the missing pistol.