Stealth (12 page)

Which he did. Big smile too. I could almost hear the motorized camera shutters whirring.

‘Further anarchy?' I suggested.

‘Splendid. What have you in mind?'

‘I'll come with you when you talk to Trent.'

‘It was Mike who thought it a risk.'

‘Don't you?'

‘Yes, but your presence is always a plus.'

Yes, whether I am sober or not, he is a truly gorgeous man.

‘Any significant reasons why you want to be there?' Patrick went on to ask.

‘I've a funny feeling about him, that's all.'

In the past these have paid off and he did not enquire further.

‘Mr Trent?'

The man who had answered the door nodded brusquely without speaking.

Patrick produced his warrant card and introduced us, just referring to me as his assistant. This is routine practice to avoid any possible repercussions or revenge against me personally should he happen to really upset a suspect, for example by threatening to screw their head off.

‘The police have already questioned us.'

‘There have been developments, sir. May we come in?'

‘Well, if you must . . .'

Sumptuous was the word that immediately sprang into my mind as we walked on deep carpeting through the house to a large living room at the rear. Adjacent to it, through a wide archway, was a conservatory that appeared to be of almost equal proportions that contained ferns and palms in pots, a small fountain tinkling against a backdrop of orchids and more ferns in a raised pool in the right-hand corner.

‘You'd better sit down,' said Trent, dropping into a four-seater sofa and frowning at us, one each. He was in his late forties, I guessed, smooth complexioned and had fair, thinning hair. Everything about him was as expensive and well-groomed as his house.

‘My assistant will take notes, if you don't mind,' Patrick murmured.

The assistant had removed all her make-up, assumed a gormless expression and scragged her shoulder-length hair back into an untidy ponytail.

Another curt nod.

‘I can tell you absolutely nothing about the death of my neighbour,' Trent said tautly. ‘I've repeated this until I'm blue in the face.'

‘It would appear,' Patrick said slowly, ‘that her killer might have taken a short cut through your back garden.'

‘Her
killer
?'

‘Yes, this is now a murder inquiry. Miss Smythe was strangled just before or after, most likely after, her fall down the stairs.'

‘That's appalling – but I still can't help you.'

‘There are security cameras out there. Did anything show up on those?'

‘I've already been asked that. They're not working.'

‘Cast your mind back. Had your lawn been mown that day?'

‘We were on a skiing holiday in Klosters. Besides, I can't possibly be expected to know things like that,' the man protested.

A crack appeared in Patrick's urbane and cultured manner – actually his normal manner. ‘There must be a record kept so you know how much to pay whoever does it for you. Think.'

Trent dropped his gaze and shrugged helplessly. Then he said, ‘Oh, that's right, my wife, Sonya, notes down when the gardener's due on the kitchen calendar. I'll go and have a look.'

‘Thank you.'

‘It would appear that it was,' Trent said when he returned very shortly afterwards.

‘It it a petrol or electric machine?'

‘Petrol.'

‘Do you happen to know if any oil leaked from it?'

‘I believe he phoned when we got back a couple of days later and my wife spoke to him about it not being quite right, but didn't take much notice. That's what you employ people for. Why?'

‘I'm not in a position to explain. I assume that your gardener would have mentioned it if oil had leaked from the machine on to your grass and he also would have had to obtain your permission before taking it away for attention.'

‘No, he brings his own tools and machinery. I hate being cluttered up with stuff like that.'

‘Perhaps you'd be good enough to give me his name and phone number.'

This was done, but with ill grace, Trent again having had to leave the room.

‘Is your wife at home?' I asked.

‘No, she's – er – with friends.'

‘And your daughters are with her?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘They'll have to go back to school on Monday, presumably, as it'll be the end of the half-term holiday.'

‘Is it? I'm afraid I leave remembering that kind of thing to Sonya.'

‘Were you living here when the previous owners of Miss Smythe's house were there?'

‘The Cuthbertsons. Yes, but they moved quite shortly afterwards. He was in the diplomatic service and was posted abroad or something like that.'

‘How disappointing for the children when he'd just had the tree house built for them.'

Trent's impatience was growing. ‘Yes, I suppose it must have been,' he responded heavily.

‘Did your children play with them?'

‘I believe they did.'

‘But they weren't allowed to go and see Miss Smythe.'

‘No, of course not. She did initially make it clear that they were welcome to play over there but you simply can't be too careful these days.'

‘But she was a retired
teacher
.'

‘I really don't see what this has to do with anything,' Trent snapped.

‘And it's just as well seeing the tree house collapsed when Miss Smythe was in it,' I persevered. ‘They might have been seriously injured.'

I caught Patrick's eye and he said, ‘May we have a look at the garden?'

‘Carry on. The conservatory door's not locked and you can let yourselves out afterwards. I won't accompany you – I've work to do.'

He left the room and an interior door slammed.

‘Other than indicating that he's on edge and a lousy father what did that achieve?' Patrick said when we out in the garden.

‘Greenway did tell you to tread lightly,' I reminded him. ‘But I think Trent knew the tree house had been tampered with and that's why the girls weren't permitted to go over there. I reckon it was sabotaged shortly after Miss Smythe moved in and was spotted sitting up there reading and, anything dodgy going on then or not, he didn't like being overlooked.'

‘Surely, all he'd had to do was ask her to put up a blind or curtain.'

‘You're right, these are supposed to be intelligent people. It does rather point to him being really nervous about what was going on here. And then when nothing happened to the tree house after a while he, or someone else, might have gone over there one night and done a bit more sawing. Didn't she say in one of her letters that she thought she'd heard someone in the garden one night and was scared Trent was out to silence her?'

‘She did.'

‘He was a bit hesitant as to where his wife was too, wasn't he?'

‘I noticed that. Does any of what was said reinforce your funny feeling about him?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Care to elaborate?'

‘No, not yet, as if I'm wrong I might completely throw the investigation.'

We sauntered around generally, not sure if Trent was watching us. Then, when it might be assumed that he had become bored, Patrick walked the length of the boundary wall on the right-hand side, branches of the oak tree next door leaning over it. The wall was brick built and probably as old as the house. Various kinds of creepers were growing on it together with a couple of rambling roses of large proportions, a thornless one near the house, the second farther down.

‘Oil!' I hissed when we were working our way towards the bottom of the garden.

Patrick was a few yards away examining the wall as well as he could for the vegetation. ‘Where?'

‘Here, on the gravel path.'

‘Enough to take a sample of?'

‘There might be. But surely, mower oil's mower oil.'

‘You never know with forensics these days. Do your best. And grab some blades of grass as well. We can go and get some samples off the machine afterwards to clinch it.'

Thinking that grass was grass too I nevertheless did as requested. We always carry small sample bags and gloves in our pockets when we are working.

‘Eureka,' I heard Patrick say quietly. ‘Someone got caught up on thorns and holed their sweater. Near the top of the wall too, when they were climbing over it. Does your bag have a pair of tweezers in it?'

‘I've used them on my eyebrows – they'll contaminate the sample.'

‘I'll try and use them through the bag.'

A couple of minutes of reaching up and muted swearing later he had what he wanted: several strands of navy-blue wool.

‘A scenes of crime team should have looked at neighbouring gardens,' I remarked as we were finding our way out.

‘Resources, resources, resources,' Patrick said, grimacing. ‘Yes, in an ideal world. And first of all, don't forget, it was thought to be aggravated burglary. Who's to say how long it's been there? It might have happened when the tree house was sabotaged or be nothing to do with anything at all.'

A little later we spoke to the gardener, by phone, who was working elsewhere in Richmond but with no useful results. He had taken the mower he had used on the Trent's lawn to be repaired and they had drained out all the oil and stripped down the engine.

‘I shall just have to go and talk to a few leading mobsters and ask them if they're paying protection money,' Patrick said.

‘Would it be risky to ask Jane Grant first about her tall friend? I'm concerned that she's in danger.'

‘I think I'd prefer to put that on hold at present. But, I agree, it is worrying.'

‘You are far too valuable to me to go off alone raking over the London underworld for info,' Greenway said grimly.

The argument had gone on for some time, Patrick laying out his reasons for the proposal, concisely and politely, just as he would have done in his military days. Rarely then would he had received such a completely negative reaction from a superior. But this was the police, not an army intelligence unit.

‘Look, we can't just sit around waiting for someone else to be firebombed or clubbed to death,' Patrick continued. ‘Sorry, but I don't think you realize how this could escalate. If whoever's behind these murders either kills or gets a real hold over crime barons you're going to end up with a criminal empire to end all criminal empires as he'll control everyone left standing and be anonymous and untouchable.'

‘You're assuming they know who's behind it – the threats might be delivered over the phone.'

‘I can't believe the grapevine doesn't have a few ideas.'

‘Apparently none of the snouts has the first clue.'

‘They're probably looking after their own hides as well.'

‘No, I don't want you going in.'

I cleared my throat and said to Greenway, ‘What we must have is evidence. Can't Clement Hamlyn be pulled in and confronted with what Daniel Coates said to me in Cannes?'

‘He'd deny everything saying it was the word of a convicted criminal against his.'

‘We don't have to mention that Coates is a crook. If Hamlyn knows that, how does he?'

‘I did see him boarding the boat too,' Patrick put in.

Greenway frowned thunderously at his paper clips which he had formed into a complicated pattern on his desk. ‘I think we need more ammo to use against him before we do anything like that,' he said finally. ‘And as we know, he writes crime novels. With an imagination like that he'd be able to cook up all kinds of fantasies. Miss Smythe's letters aren't enough either. Any brief worth his salt would tear those to shreds as the work of a silly old woman spitting mad because she'd been given an ASBO for being a local nuisance.' He looked me right in the eye. ‘D'you reckon he killed her?'

‘There's every chance he did,' I replied. ‘Once a hit man . . .'

Patrick jerked to his feet. ‘I loathe working in a vacuum.'

‘Nevertheless,
don't
go off and talk to crime bosses,' Greenway told him.

True to his orders Patrick went off and shot one instead.

No one but the two of us knows the truth behind this and there was no question of the victim being able to identify his attacker. He did not even see him and nor did his two minders. The shot, at night, neatly taking him in the right leg as he left a nightclub in Stratford, caused a flesh wound that kept him in hospital for just over a week, under arrest and with an armed guard. The Met had been trying to locate him for a while to help with a murder inquiry so, hopefully, there would soon be a short but meaningful queue of people waiting to talk to him when the doctors announced him well enough.

Angelo da Rosta – right on trend insofar as it was not thought to be his real name – was known to be a drug dealer and also rumoured to be running a prostitution business employing various illegal immigrants and attendant heavies. He had recently, according to low-life gossip and having been released from prison only a few months previously, organized the ‘removal' of another dealer who had tried to take over his ‘patch', his body having been discovered in the boot of a stolen and abandoned car. There was some evidence to suggest that da Rosta was involved.

Officially, we were at home for a long weekend and now, at six fifteen on the Sunday morning Patrick had been in the house just long enough to tell me all this having raided my purse to pay off the taxi as he was broke. You do not carry credit cards or chequebooks when working undercover.

‘Was selecting da Rosta just a shot in the dark, if you don't mind the pun?' I asked him.

‘Not really. Someone said he was as jumpy as a cat and had disappeared for a while. Now he was back and on the lookout for a couple more lads as bodyguards. It sort of figured.'