The Killing Club (23 page)

At this point some passengers began to look anxious. People started talking in low tones to each other across the aisle. What was going on? Was there a terrorist on the train? These anxieties were voiced readily, but Cat could almost read some of the other passenger’s unspoken thoughts. Was there an axe-wielding murderer on board? Or maybe a gunman? Had someone already been killed or injured?

After a second announcement, identical to the first, but even less reassuring given that the train had now been waiting in the station for fifteen minutes, Cat walked down the front of the train to find one of the crew. Tension began to prickle under her arm pits. Having passed the buffet bar which was now closed up, she went into the First Class section. A steward stood barring access to the First Class carriages. Cat took out her warrant card. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘I think it’s all under control, ma’am,’ the steward said, white-faced.

‘What’s happened?’

‘One of the passengers had a gun. He started threatening the crew. He shot one of them in the arm. Then he said he was going to get off at the next stop and start shooting randomly people at the station. We phoned ahead to Doncaster for back-up. A plain clothes detective and a shrink got on.’ The steward began to shake with delayed shock.

‘The shrink got the guy talking and the doc managed to jab him in the butt with a needle and he just fell down like he was dead. They’ve taken him away now on a stretcher. Apparently he’s a known psycho from a local mental institution.’

‘What about the member of crew who was injured? Cat asked.

‘It was just a flesh wound. She’s gone to hospital, but she’s going to be OK.’

‘Are you all right?’ Cat asked.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. We’ve got a uniformed PC on board until we get to Leeds.’

Cat gave him her card. ‘Just let me know if you need anything. Would you like me to reassure the passengers? I think they’re getting rather anxious.’

‘No, ma’am. Our head steward is just about to make an announcement. We’ve got it all in hand.’

Cat knew when she was not wanted. But nevertheless, as she walked back to her seat, she gave reassuring nods and words to the passengers whose eyes met hers.

A few moments later the steward’s voice came over the intercom, apologizing once again for the delay. There was a creak as the driver released the brakes and the train moved hesitantly forward, as though sharing in the anxiety of its passengers. Gradually it gathered speed as it left the jumble of the urban landscape and entered the countryside.

Cat settled in her seat, watching the calm of the fields and the quietly grazing animals slip by. She punched Swift’s number into her mobile and, whilst she waited for his reply, resumed her look out for potential trouble.

Wilton printed out Swift’s e-mail. He scanned it through quickly to get a feel for the case and then read it through three more times, before taking up his blue pen and underlining those points he deemed to be most relevant with regard to his forthcoming interview with Harriet and Charles Brunswick.

Wilton was a careful planner and a thorough interrogator. The frustration and disappointment of having the ‘Tipper’ case wrested from his grasp had been severe and humiliating. And now he was getting a compensatory buzz of anticipation at becoming involved in the case again, coming at it from an entirely unexpected new angle. And with a DCI who seemed quietly determined to get results. Having felt himself rejected and abandoned, and, as he saw it, made to look incompetent in the eyes of his staff, he now felt a new strength of purpose.

He took a bus to Muswell Hill, judging that with the underground still not working, the roads would be totally jammed, and even taxis avoided challenging buses. Which meant that at the moment they got to the destination first.

The Brunswicks lived on the hill itself, their house one of a number of smart residences presided over by Alexandra Palace. It was an end terrace with a candle-snuffer turret. He guessed that even with house prices having taken a tumble it would still be worth upwards of a million. In urban south Yorkshire where he had grown up, you could get a small mansion in good nick for that price. But then, in Wilton’s book, there was nothing to beat living in the capital.

A tall, athletic-looking guy with bright red hair and in full evening dress, answered the door. He had spectacularly blue eyes and the kind of nose Wilton wouldn’t mind acquiring, but for the money and pain involved. Wilton, however, had a warrant card and the authority of a CID inspector, which he considered gave him an entirely satisfactory wicket to bat on. Holding his card for the inspection of the flame-haired man, he introduced himself and enquired if he was speaking with Charles Brunswick.

‘Yes.’ For a fleeting second the blue eyes seemed to flicker.

‘I’d like to talk to you and your wife about recent developments regarding Christian Hartwell’s murder.’

The blue eyes swivelled from side to side, a moving slideshow of anxiety. ‘Well, as you can see, Inspector, we’re just about to go out. Our taxi will be arriving any time.’ Brunswick made a commendable attempt at a confident smile.

‘The more you cooperate with my questions, sir, the less time you will have to keep your taxi waiting,’ Wilton said.

Brunswick got the drift. ‘Right, you’d better come in.’ As Wilton followed him down a long hallway, Brunswick was talking at him over his shoulder. ‘You do realize that I’ve already spoken with Inspector Fallon earlier on?’

‘Yes.’

On reaching a large, airy sitting room, the two men stared at each other for a few moments. ‘Would you ask your wife to join us, sir?’ Wilton asked.

Brunswick hesitated, the nuances of an inner debate stimulating his blue eyes once again, together with the muscles of his firm jaw, and for a moment Wilton thought he was going to offer a challenge.

‘She is a putative relative of the deceased,’ Wilton pointed out. ‘And her mother was the dead man’s named next of kin.’ He lobbed the information at Brunswick with a deadpan face. His eyes were telling Brunswick that he’d done his homework on the case and was not to be underestimated.

‘Right,’ said Brunswick, trying not to sound as though he were capitulating. ‘I’ll go and call her.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Damn! The taxi’s here.’

‘Shall I go and ask them to wait?’ Wilton asked.

‘No, no. I’ll go.’ He strode from the room.

Wilton went to the foot of the stairs and called out: ‘Mrs Brunswick! Harriet! Police!’

There was the sound of footsteps and a rustle of fabric.

A woman’s head and upper body leaned over the banister rails. ‘What is it? Don’t say my car alarm has gone off again.’

Wilton was about to explain, when Brunswick dashed back into the house, sized up the situation and called up the stairs: ‘Harriet – darling – just come down; it’s important.’

Her face clouded at the urgency of his tone. She came slowly down the stairs, graceful and almost majestic.

Wilton watched her with interest. She was wearing a long blue dress which emphasized the slenderness of her frame. Her dark hair had been dragooned into a complex knot of tresses at the nape of her neck and she wore diamond earrings that flashed like fire. She looked like a woman who liked to be in control. Not his type, Wilton thought. He much preferred his women a little more curvaceous and a lot more relaxed. When she joined her husband, he noted that the two of them made a strikingly attractive picture. They reminded him of A-list couples pictured in the celebrity magazines his girlfriend had a sneaking fondness for. But with brains.

Harriet led the way back into the drawing room. She stood beside the fireplace, strained and tense as she faced Wilton.

‘I’m sorry to interfere with your evening, Mrs Brunswick,’ he told her. As he repeated the opening lines he had offered to Brunswick, Harriet’s eyes widened with alarm.

‘Some new evidence has come to light this afternoon as regards Christian Hartwell’s death,’ Wilton said. He moved his gaze from Harriet to Charles. ‘New evidence since Inspector Fallon spoke to you this afternoon, sir.’

Charles looked like a schoolboy caught cheating in an exam.

‘Inspector Fallon. Who’s he?’ Harriet demanded, turning her fierce glances from Wilton to her husband.

‘She’s on DCI Swift’s team,’ Wilton said, noting Charles’s discomfiture, that he was playing true to form as regards lying and lack of openness – and was probably in for trouble later. ‘This new discovery leads us to believe that Mr Hartwell’s death and that of the victims of the local so-called “Tipper” here in London could be linked.’

The silence was like a noiseless explosion.

‘How so?’ Harriet asked.

Wilton saved the answer to that for later. He turned to Charles. ‘It also suggests to us that you have both been withholding information from us.’ He left a pause for one of them to speak, but they both seemed utterly at a loss how to proceed.

‘I’m referring to your trip to Algeria in 1989,’ Wilton prompted.

Harriet groaned. ‘Not that again.’

‘A trip which was made by five people, not four,’ Wilton said.

Whilst Charles shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking as though he would rather be in any situation other than the current one, Harriet dipped her head and took a few long deep breaths. She suddenly swung around to face her husband. ‘For God’s sake, Charles. We can’t keep it to ourselves any longer. It was bound to come out.’

‘What was bound to come out?’ Wilton enquired.

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but Harriet got in first. ‘That Julian Roseborough was one of the party, that he was on the point of going down for killing one of our mates – in the place where we were carrying out our research. And then suddenly he was released and Charles was selected as the killer himself.’ She stopped, breathing hard.

A good summary, Wilton thought. ‘But Charles was also released,’ he said. ‘And no one was ever charged for the murder.’

‘That’s right,’ Harriet said. ‘We all simply walked away from the situation. We were frightened, and I suppose we were despicable cowards.’

‘What were you frightened of?’ Wilton asked.

‘I, for one, was pretty worried about being banged up in an Algerian jail, or worse,’ Charles said with some feeling.

‘And we are all pretty scared of Julian,’ Harriet said. ‘We were pretty certain that he had done the murder. In fact, he boasted about having done it on the way home. He also made it very clear that if any of us ever spoke about it, we’d end up in the same position as our unlucky pal Hugh.’

Wilton looked at Charles. ‘What’s your version?’

‘Very much the same,’ Charles said. ‘Julian’s family has big connections and a great deal of money. They easily got Julian off the hook.’

‘As did your parents, I believe.’

Charles pursed his lips. ‘Yes. But the police didn’t need too much persuading to release me. They knew I wasn’t the killer.’

Harriet had been quiet, working things through. She squared up to Wilton, her eyes ferocious. ‘Are you saying that Julian killed Christian? And that he’s also been pushing drunks into the canal – that he’s the “Tipper”?’

Pretty spot on, Wilton thought. ‘Let’s say we’re hoping to speak to him to further our enquiries.’

Harriet snorted. ‘OK, we get the message. And don’t worry, Inspector Wilton, we won’t be mouthing off about this. I won’t speak for my husband, but I myself am totally terrified of crossing Julian. He’s absolutely mental, utterly ruthless. He wouldn’t hesitate to order our demises, or even kill us with his bare hands if he thought we were going to compromise him in any way.’

‘Those are strong allegations, Mrs Brunswick,’ Wilton observed.

‘Yes, and they are absolutely justified.’

‘How long is it since you saw him, Mrs Brunswick?’ Wilton asked.

‘Several years. We’ve occasionally run into him at social events, but I try to steer clear.’

Wilton turned on Charles. ‘But you, sir, saw him quite recently, didn’t you? You were both at a lap-dancing club near Piccadilly Circus. We’ve got photographs to prove it. Photographs which we believe were taken by Christian Hartwell.’

Harriet stared in horror at her husband, then collapsed on to the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Charles rushed to sit beside her, prising her hands from her face and holding them tightly within his. ‘Harriet, listen – I met him at Rupert’s stag night last month. He got all chummy, wanted me to come to an all-guys night-out he was planning. He made it sound like an order rather than an invitation. He was just playing with me, testing me out to see how much I’d go along with him. Of course I said, yes. What other option did I have?’

Harriet looked at him, her eyes red with unshed tears. ‘None.’

‘Christian and I had already planned to go out that evening, so I took the risk of inviting him along for a bit of moral support. I guessed Julian wouldn’t give a toss. Which he didn’t.’

Harriet looked at him, like a stern mother eyeing a child who needs to do a little explaining. ‘Is this the truth, Charles?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t blame you for not believing me, but that is the truth.’

‘OK,’ she said, wearily, and Wilton guessed this was a well-practised scenario. On the other hand, he had a gut feeling Brunswick was, in fact, telling the truth on this occasion.

‘So you had supper in the West End?’ Wilton suggested.

‘We went to J Sheekey.’

‘Then you went on to a lap-dancing club?’

‘The Miranda,’ Brunswick said. ‘We didn’t get around to watching the action too closely because Julian was holding forth. Talking about a bit of interesting “action” he could set up if we were interested.’

‘Action?’ Wilton broke in.

Charles nodded.

‘As in murder?’

Charles grimaced with disgust. ‘Julian made it sound like a bit of fun, like climbing up on the school roof at the end of term. But basically what he was suggesting seemed to be some kind of killing club for wealthy guys who’d find it fun to get rid of the capital’s down and outs: the drones, the little people. I pretended not to cotton on. He didn’t push it, but I think he was more than half-serious. I left as soon as I could but Christian stayed behind for a bit, because he wanted to take photographs in the club. He’s an ace photographer, gets great shots and never bothers with any restrictions operating. I guess he’d got interested in what Julian was mouthing off about. And most probably tailed him for a day or two, seeing how many more interesting shots he could get of Julian’s law-unto-himself life style. He’s a braver man than I am.’