Dead Man's Footsteps (27 page)

OCTOBER 2007

Ricky followed the taxi along the main drag of Peacehaven. He was tempted to grab the driver by the throat next time he stopped and grill him about Abby.

But what would the man know? The smart little bitch had probably given him a big tip to sit there and sod off after an hour, that’s all he would know, and the last thing Ricky needed right now was every cop in Brighton looking out for his face, to bring him in on an assault charge. He had something much more important to think about at this moment. Several things, in fact.

The first was that Abby knew he had recorded her phone conversation with her mother. But she would not have known how he did it. Probably she would suspect he had somehow bugged her mother’s phone.

Now the penny dropped!

That was why she had gone to a phone shop, to get her mother a new phone!

He had been realizing for some time now just how dangerously thorough Abby was. What about her own phone? He dialled the number.

After two rings it was answered. A tentative young male voice.

‘Yeah?’

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Ricky demanded.

The connection was terminated. He dialled again. The connection was terminated again the moment it began to ring. As he suspected, the bitch had ditched her phone. Which meant she now had a new one.

You are really trying my patience.

And where are you?

A speed camera flashed at him, but he didn’t give a toss. Where had she gone in that hour? What had she used the time for?

A few miles on, the taxi turned off, but he barely noticed. He was driving along Marine Parade now, passing the elegant Regency fac¸ades of Sussex Square. In a minute he would be approaching Abby’s street. He pulled over to the side, stopped the car and killed the engine, needing to think this through carefully.

Where had she hidden the stash? She didn’t need much space. Just enough room to conceal an A4 envelope. The package she’d tried to send via the courier was a decoy. Why? To get him to follow the courier? So she could retrieve it and disappear? He’d made a big error, he realized, sending her that text. His intention had been to flush her out, but he had not reckoned on her being so devious.

But the fact she had tried to send the decoy package told him something, when he added that together with the empty deposit box. Had she been hoping that he would follow the decoy, leaving her free to run with the package and put it in the safe-deposit box at Southern Deposit Security? Why else would it be empty? The only possible reason, surely, was that she hadn’t been able to get the package to the place yet. Or that she had recently withdrawn it.

Unless she had another deposit box somewhere else, it was most likely still somewhere in her flat.

He’d spent the night going through her belongings, including all her clothes that he had removed. He’d also taken her passport, which would at least stop the bitch from getting out of the country in a hurry.

Surely if there was another deposit box somewhere he’d have found the key or a receipt? He’d searched every damn inch of the flat, moved all the furniture, levered up every loose floorboard. He’d even taken the backs off the televisions, ripped open the soft furnishings, unscrewed the ventilation grilles, dismantled the light fittings. From his days of dealing in drugs, he knew just how thoroughly police would take a place apart, and all the kinds of hiding places a smart dealer would use.

Another possible option was that she had left it with a friend. But the name on the package she’d given to the courier was a dummy, he’d checked that one out. He suspected she had been avoiding contacting anyone here. If she hadn’t even told her mother she was back, he doubted she would want word to get out among her friends.

No, he was becoming increasingly convinced that she still had it all in the flat.

Despite all her clever ploys, as Ricky well knew, everyone has an Achilles heel. Any chain is only as strong as its weakest link. An army can only march as fast as its slowest soldier.

Abby’s mother was both her weak link and her slowest soldier.

Now he knew exactly what he had to do.

*

The Renault van outside Abby’s flat, which had not been driven in a while, was reluctant to start. Then, just as the battery started fading and he was beginning to think this was not going to work, it fired and spluttered into oily, smoky life.

He drove it out of the parking space and replaced it with the rental Ford. Now, when Abby came back here, she would spot the car and think he was in there. He smiled. For the immediate future she would not be entering the flat. There was no residents’ parking sticker on the rental car, so it would probably be given a ticket at some point, and maybe get clamped, but what the hell did that matter?

He removed the GSM 3060 Intercept from the Ford and put it in the van. Then he drove off back towards Eastbourne, stopping only to pick up a takeaway burger and a Coke. He felt happier now. Confident that he was close to having the situation back under control.

OCTOBER 2007

At 6.30 p.m. the fourth briefing meeting of  Operation Dingo  commenced. But as Roy Grace began reading his summary to his assembled team, he hesitated, noticing that Glenn Branson was staring at him a bit strangely and twitching his nostrils, as if he was trying to send him a signal.

‘Is there a problem?’ Grace asked him.

Then he noticed several of the others gathered around the work station seemed to be looking at him strangely too.

‘You smell a bit fruity, boss,’ Glenn said. ‘If you don’t mind me being personal. Not your usual brand of cologne, if you get my drift. Have you stood or sat in something?’

Grace realized to his horror what the DS was driving at. ‘Oh, right, I apologize. I – just got back from a dog-training class. The little bugger threw up all over me in the car. I thought I’d managed to wash it off.’

Bella Moy delved into her handbag and handed Grace a perfume spray. ‘This’ll drown it,’ she said.

Grace hesitantly sprayed his trousers, shirt and jacket.

‘Now you smell like a bordello,’ Norman Potting commented.

‘Well, thank you very much,’ Bella said, glaring at him indignantly.

‘Not that I would know, of course,’ Potting mumbled, in a feeble attempt at retrieving the situation. Then he added, ‘I read recently that Koreans eat dogs.’

‘That’s quite enough, Norman,’ Roy Grace said sternly, returning to his typed agenda. ‘OK, Bella, first can you report on your findings so far about Joanna Wilson ever going to America? My guy hasn’t come up with anything.’

‘I contacted the officer in the New York District Attorney’s

Office you suggested, Roy. He sent me an email an hour ago, saying that prior to 9/11 all immigration was handled by the Immigration and Naturalization Agency. It’s different since. They’re merged with US Customs and are now called Immigration Customs Enforcement. He says that unless she had gone in on a visa for an extended stay, there would be no records. He’s checked back through those for the 1990s and she doesn’t show up as having gone in on a visa, but he says there’s no way of finding out whether she ever went there or not.’

‘OK, thanks. E-J, how are you progressing with the family tree. Did you track down any of Joanna Wilson’s relatives?’

‘Well, she doesn’t seem to have had many. I’ve found a gay stepbrother – who’s a piece of work. He goes under the name of Mitzi Dufors, is nudging sixty, wears studded leather hot-pants and is covered in piercings. He does some kind of a drag act in a Brighton gay club. Didn’t have many flattering words to say about his late stepsister.’

‘You can’t trust middle-aged men in leather hot-pants,’ Norman Potting interjected.

‘Norman!’ Grace said, firing a warning shot across his bows.

‘You’re not exactly a fashion guru yourself, Norman,’ Bella retorted.

‘OK, both of you, enough!’ Grace said.

Potting shrugged like a petulant child.

‘Anything else from her stepbrother.’

‘He said Joanna inherited a small house in Brentwood from her mother, about a year before she went to America. He reckoned she took the sale proceeds to fund her acting career there.’

‘We should try to find how much money was involved and what happened to it. Good work, E-J.’

Grace made some notes, then moved on to Branson. ‘Glenn, did you and Bella get hold of the Klingers?’

Branson grinned. ‘I think we got Stephen Klinger at a good time, after lunch – pissed as a fart and well chatty. Told us that no one liked Joanna Wilson much – she sounds like she was a real slapper. She gave Ronnie a right old song and dance, and no one cared too much when she ditched him – or so it seemed – and went off to the States. He confirmed that Ronnie had married again, after dutifully waiting out the legal period for desertion, to Lorraine. When Ronnie died she was inconsolable. What made it worse for her, if that’s possible, is that he left her up shit creek financially.’

Grace made a note.

‘Her car got repossessed, then her house. Sounds like Wilson was a man of straw. Had nothing, no assets at all. His widow ended up getting evicted from her posh house in Hove and moved into a rented flat. Just over a year later, in November 2002, she left a suicide note and jumped off the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry.’ He paused. ‘We went and saw Mrs Klinger as well, but she more or less confirmed what her husband told us.’

‘Any of her relatives able to verify her state of mind?’ Grace asked.

‘Yeah, she’s got a sister who works as a hostess for British Airways. I just spoke to her. She was at work and couldn’t really speak. I’ve got an appointment to see her tomorrow. But she also pretty well confirmed what Klinger said. Oh, yeah, and she said she took Lorraine to New York as soon as flights were running again. They spent a week traipsing around the city with a big photograph of Ronnie. Them and a million others.’

‘So she’s convinced Ronnie died in 9/11.’

‘No question,’ Glenn said. ‘He was at a meeting in the South Tower with a guy called Donald Hatcook. Everyone on the floor Donald Hatcook was on perished – almost certainly instantly.’ Then he looked at his notes. ‘You asked me about this geezer Chad Skeggs?’

‘Yes, what did you find out?’

‘He’s wanted for questioning by Brighton CID regarding an allegation of indecent assault on a young woman back in 1990. The girl’s story is that they left the club and went back together, and then she was badly beaten up by him. It could be linked to an S&M scenario. Possible that she initially went along with it and then he wouldn’t stop. It was a very nasty assault, together with an allegation of rape. But it was decided at the time that it wasn’t in the public interest to go to Australia and bring him back. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him in England again, not unless he’s very stupid.’

Grace turned to DC Nicholl. ‘Nick, what do you have to report?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s actually quite interesting. After I did a nationwide search on Wilson, which didn’t come up with anything we didn’t already know, I decided that a businessman like him, with his smart house in Hove 4, was likely to have some life insurance. I did some digging and discovered Ronnie Wilson had a life insurance policy of just over one and a half million quid with the Norwich Union, taken out in 1999.’

‘Presumably his widow didn’t know this?’ Grace said.

‘I think she did,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘They paid out to her in full in March 2002.’

‘When she was in a rented flat, in distress?’ Grace asked.

‘There’s more,’ the DC said. ‘In July 2002, ten months after her husband died, Lorraine Wilson received a payment of two and a half million dollars from the 9/11 compensation fund.’

‘Three months before she jumped off the ferry,’ Lizzie Mantle said.

‘Allegedly  jumped off the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘She is still officially recorded as a Sussex Police missing person. I’ve checked the file and the investigators at that time were not entirely convinced that she had killed herself. But the trail went cold.’ Then he added, ‘The insurance investigator assigned to the claim on Ronnie Wilson’s policy wasn’t happy either. But there was a lot of political pressure to pay out quickly to the survivors of 9/11 victims.’

‘Two million five hundred thousand dollars – with the exchange rate back in those days, that would have been worth close to one and three-quarter million quid,’ Norman Potting said.

‘So she died in abject poverty, with over three million in the bank?’ Bella said.

‘That amount of moolah would buy you a lot of Maltesers,’ Norman Potting said to her.

‘Except the money wasn’t in the bank,’ Nick Nicholl said. He held up two folders. ‘Managed to get these a bit quicker than we should have done, thanks to Steve.’

He waved a hand in acknowledgement to thirty-year-old DC Mackie, seated further down the table, dressed in jeans and an open-neck white shirt.

Mackie spoke with quiet authority and had a tidy, efficient air about him, which Grace liked. ‘My brother works for HSBC. He fast-tracked my request.’

Nick Nicholl then removed a sheaf of documents from one folder. ‘These are all the joint-account statements of Ronnie and Lorraine Wilson going back to 2000. They show an ever-increasing overdraft, with just occasional small amounts coming in.’ He put them back in the folder and raised the second one. ‘This is much more interesting. It’s a bank account opened in Lorraine Wilson’s sole name in December 2001.’

‘For the life insurance money, presumably?’ Lizzie Mantle said.

Nick Nicholl nodded and Grace was impressed. Normally the young man lacked self-confidence, but at this moment he seemed really together.

‘Yes, that was deposited in March 2002.’

‘I don’t understand how it was paid out that fast,’ Lizzie Mantle queried. ‘I thought if there was no body found, there was a seven-year-wait before a missing person could be declared dead.’ As she spoke she deliberately avoided Roy Grace’s eyes, knowing what a sensitive issue this was for him personally.

‘There was an international agreement, thanks to an initiative from Mayor Giuliani,’ Steve Mackie said, ‘to waive this period for the families of victims 9/11 and fast-track payments.’

Nick Nicholl laid out several of the bank statements in front of him, like a dealer in a card game. ‘But this is where it gets interesting. The entire amount of that payment of one and a half million pounds was withdrawn in different-sized chunks, in cash, over the next three months.’

‘What did she do with it?’ Grace queried.

Nick Nicholl raised his hands. ‘Her sister was totally and utterly gobsmacked when I told her. Just didn’t believe it. She said that Lorraine was relying on handouts from her and from friends.’

‘And what about the 9/11 compensation payout?’ Grace asked.

‘That went into her account in July 2002.’ Nicholl held up the relevant statement. ‘Then the same thing happened. The money was withdrawn in different chunks, in cash, between then and a few weeks before she left the suicide note.’

The whole team was frowning. Glenn Branson tapped his teeth with a ballpoint pen. Lizzie Mantle, busy for a moment jotting down a note, looked up.

‘And we have no idea what this money was being used for?’ she asked. ‘Did she tell anyone at the bank what the cash was for? Presumably some questions would have been asked with that amount going to her in cash.’

‘The bank has a policy to check whether clients are under any kind of duress when withdrawing large sums in cash,’ DC Mackie said. ‘When she was asked about it, she said the bank had not supported her when her husband had died and she was damned if she was leaving the money with them.’

‘Sounds a feisty lady,’ Lizzie Mantle said.

‘Do we have a bit of a pattern forming here?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘Wilson’s first wife inherits, tells her friends she is off to America, and ends up in a storm drain. Then his second wife inherits and ends up in the Channel.’

Nodding at him, Grace decided it was time to add his latest information, courtesy of Cassian Pewe. ‘This may shed some light on things,’ he said. ‘Last month police in Geelong, near Melbourne, Australia, found the body of a woman in the boot of a car in a river,’ he said. ‘Forensic reports estimate she has been dead for a maximum of two years. The woman had breast implants, which were traced to a batch delivered to the Nuffield Hospital here in Woodingdean in June 1997. The recipient of the ones matching the serial number was Lorraine Wilson.’

He paused to let this sink in.

‘So – she like swam from the English Channel to Australia and then up a river?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘With three million quid in folding in her bathing costume.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Roy Grace went on. ‘She was four months pregnant. The Australian police were not able to find any DNA match on their records for the mother, or a familial match for the father, and wondered if there might be anything on the National

UK DNA Database. We’re waiting to hear now. Hopefully we’ll know tomorrow if there is any match on either.’

‘Seems like we have a problem, Houston,’ Norman Potting said.

‘Or perhaps a lead,’ Grace corrected him. ‘The post-mortem in Melbourne indicated the probable cause of death was strangulation,’ he continued. ‘They arrived at this conclusion because Lorraine Wilson’s hyoid bone – the U-shaped bone at the base of the neck – was broken.’

‘Which was the same probable cause of death for Joanna Wilson,’ said Nick Nicholl.

‘Well remembered,’ Grace said. ‘You’re on peak form today, Nick. I’m glad your sleepless nights haven’t dulled your wits!’

Nicholl blushed, looking pleased with himself.

‘Ronnie Wilson’s not done badly for a dead man,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Managing to strangle his wife.’

‘We don’t have enough evidence to make that assumption, Norman,’ Grace said, although privately he was wondering. He glanced at his agenda. ‘OK, so this is what’s going to happen. If she spent over three million quid in cash, in the space of a few months, someone will know about it. Glenn and Bella, I want you to prioritize that. Start with the Klingers again. Find out everything you can about the circles the Wilsons moved in. What did they spend money on? Did they gamble? Did they buy a place abroad? Or a boat? Three and a quarter million quid is a lot of money – and it’s value was even more five years ago.’

Branson and Bella nodded.

‘Steve, can you use your banking fast-track to find out what happened to Joanna Wilson’s inheritance? I appreciate we’re talking ten years back and there may not be any records. Just do all you can.’

Grace paused to check his notes, then went on. ‘I’m flying to New York tomorrow to see what I can find. I’m intending to fly back overnight, Thursday night, and be here for Friday morning. I want you, Norman and Nick, to go to Australia.’

Potting looked pleased as punch at the news, but Nicholl seemed worried.

‘Reservations have been made for you on a flight out tomorrow evening. You’ll lose a day and get there for early Friday morning, Melbourne time. You could have a full day’s investigation and, with the time difference, be able to report back to us by our morning briefing here on Friday. You look like you’re fretting about something, Nick. Can you not tear yourself away from your paternal duties?’