Murder on Page One (27 page)

Marsha was born nine months later. Everyone says she’s just like me, but to me she’s my sister having a second go at the first twenty years, my daughter and my twin.

Fact or fiction? Flick asked herself as she stood at the window. Fergus came to stand beside her. Below, Johnson stood on the front door step, sucking smoke into his lungs as if his life depended on it. Suddenly, he froze then dropped to the ground. A split-second later there was the sound of a shot. ‘He’s dead,’ Fergus said. ‘He didn’t put his arms out to save himself.’

23

Baggo smelled salt on the cold air whooshing in the driver’s window, keeping him awake. He checked his speed then glanced to his right. A short distance down the Forth, the gigantic metal tubes and girders of the railway bridge were recognisable the world over. Painted a dull red, with some parts bandaged in white sheeting, it was solid, iconic, in a way reassuring. Certainly more reassuring than what Ron Doran at the car pool had told him about the much newer road bridge he was now on: ‘You go over a big suspension bridge, like the one at San Francisco, only if you hear it pinging, start saying your prayers, ’cos the threads of the cables ’olding it up are breaking.’

Up till that point, Scotland had been a disappointment: small, green hills and unremarkable houses, fields and industrial sites. As he crossed safely into Fife, Baggo felt a surge of energy; he was on the last leg of his journey.

The last forty-eight hours, since Chapayev had burst into the CID room shouting in Russian and English and waving his arms to make his point, had been hectic, and it was more than twenty-four hours since he had slept, but he had the final pieces of the jigsaw in his hand ready to fit into place.

Despite the hangover it gave him, Thursday evening with Olly Norman had been the break-through. His tongue loosened by whisky, Olly had told him a lot about Chapayev. ‘He’s a ruthless, amoral criminal,’ he had exclaimed. ‘About the time he defected, a big consignment of Russian weapons, Kalashnikovs and things, went missing. No one could prove anything, but the Russians put two and two together, and we think they were right. Since then, Chapayev has done everything he can to make a nuisance of himself to the Russians, plus money laundering, arms dealing as a middle man, etcetera. He spent a lot of time in the South of France, where the Russian Mafia are strong, and we know he helped the Chechens. This book he’s written is a mix of truth, exaggeration and lies. Of course, some people will take it seriously. Mind you, it’s absurd to suggest the Russians killed that woman. Her death has publicised the book wonderfully. And it hasn’t put off publishers. I heard someone else in Swanson’s office has sold it for a bigger advance than she was hoping for. Chapayev has twisted things to his advantage. It’s no surprise that the Russians wanted to keep an eye on him, and sometimes they do use South Ossetians for under-cover work if they don’t want the embassy involved. Now that’s a funny bunch, very secretive, don’t welcome inquiries.’

With this new perspective, Baggo had waited till Chapayev’s bluster had abated then told him about the retreat. ‘Oh yes, Inspector Osborne has his eye very firmly on one of them, his prime suspect,’ Baggo carried on. ‘You can see he has written on the board that Johnson could have killed L.S., your agent. But Johnson is just a hired thug. When he arrests him, the Inspector will most definitely concentrate on the Russians, and their role in this, and he will get the truth out of Mr Johnson, the whole truth, and everyone will get to know it. You can be sure of that.’

Chapayev looked thoughtful, nodded his thanks and left. A brochure for The Pride O’ Atholl Hotel, which Baggo had left prominently on Osborne’s desk, was no longer there. Baggo went to the window and watched Chapayev reverse his black VW Golf out of its space with a savage twist of the wheel then drive aggressively out of the car park, forcing Palfrey to give way at the entrance. Out of habit, Baggo noted the number. ‘Clean streets demand dirty hands,’ he muttered to himself, gazing at Johnson’s face on the whiteboard and feeling no conscience.

For want of anything better to do, he looked at the photographs relating to the Harvey Nicks murder. He went through them systematically, arranging some on his desk like a jigsaw, trying to work out why each item was where it was. Something resembling a dark, elongated sausage drew his attention. It lay on the surface of the bar, just to the right of where Swanson had sat. He found the item with the other productions that the first investigating team had bagged. A fountain pen. Using gloves, though he was sure any prints would be gone, he pulled off the cap.

At first, he thought there was no ink in it. He shook it, and clear liquid appeared on the nib. Carefully, he tried to write on a piece of paper, and left letters that were almost invisible against the white. He touched the writing with his index finger and put it to his lower lip. He felt an unpleasant, tingling sensation and rushed to the toilet to wash. When he returned, he put the cap on the pen and sent it off to the lab with a note: ‘Test for fingerprints and aconite. Very urgent.’

A poison pen had been left at the scene. Now the Harvey Nicks murder had all the hallmarks of a Crimewriter killing.

The tingling in Baggo’s lip had given way to a dull numbness but his hangover had receded. He thought he might risk a sandwich and some juice. As he got up to go to the canteen the phone rang. Inspector Cummings had moved fast. Armed with a warrant, he had executed a dawn raid on Lionel Parker, recovering several files and accounts from both his office and his home. After tracing and speaking on the phone to the relatives of a number of dead authors, it was clear that Ramsay’s suspicions were well justified, even if the final proof, from the off-shore accounts, would be slow in arriving. Cummings was about to interview Parker, and thought it good tactics to have someone investigating Noble’s murder present and asking questions. When Baggo told him Sergeant Fortune was unavailable he did not conceal his disappointment, but told Baggo to get himself to Guildford ASAP.

Before setting off, Baggo munched an egg and cress sandwich as he looked through the Noble file. He wished he felt sharper. It was a big thing for a DC to interview a murder suspect, let alone a high-profile one, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

Cummings was waiting for him when he arrived at Guildford. A tall, thin man, prematurely bald and with rabbit teeth that caused him to spit as he talked, his manner was cold and precise. Baggo wondered about his relationship with the Sergeant. More old ice-cubes than old flames, he concluded.

Parker was waiting in an interview room, his solicitor, a Mr St Clair, beside him. A prosperous-looking fifty-something, he ostentatiously consulted his watch and noted the time on his legal pad when Cummings and Baggo entered the room. He looked at Baggo and curled his lip as if inspecting a bit of dead bird dragged in by the cat.

At first, the taped interview went badly. ‘It is very difficult to trace the legitimate heirs of dead authors, and I have acted in good faith throughout. Beyond that, I have nothing to say,’ Parker read from his lawyer’s pad. If the words were brave, Baggo was struck by the deflation of the solicitous friend of the deceased and his widow. Now, his face twitched, his eyes darted round the room and his hands were never still. For half an hour, Cummings questioned him about payments he had received and payments not made to heirs but Parker kept a straight bat, either saying nothing or repeating the mantra he had been given. At length, Cummings turned to Baggo.

‘Did the affair you were having with Vanessa Noble extend to sexual intercourse?’ Baggo asked.

The two men on the other side of the table combusted simultaneously: ‘I refuse to discuss …’; ‘This is quite improper’, they barked.

‘It’s a perfectly proper line of inquiry,’ Cummings snapped, ‘But my colleague might have started by asking if Mr Parker was having an affair with Mrs Noble. Were you?’

‘No.’

‘We have evidence you were seen secretly kissing,’ Baggo said. ‘I will ask once more, were you having an affair with her?’

St Clair nudged Parker and whispered something to him. Looking daggers at Baggo, Parker said, ‘No comment.’

‘Are you sure the late Mr Noble did not ask you about the old lady from Manchester, Miss Morris, or her grandfather’s book, Walks Round North Wales? We do know she wrote to him, saying she had received no royalties.’

‘As I said already, that was never discussed.’

‘If he had suspected you of embezzling, that would have been a motive for murder, wouldn’t it?’

‘Please don’t invite my client to speculate,’ the lawyer purred.

‘We all know someone is targeting literary agents, and you can’t catch them,’ Parker spat out.

‘How many of the victims’ clients have gone to your agency?’ Baggo asked quietly.

‘This is nonsense …’ Parker said.

‘That’s an absurd question.’ St Clair sounded genuinely angry.

‘But you had three motives for killing Mr Noble, did you not?’ Baggo leaned across the table, thumping it with his fist as he made each point. ‘One, he might expose your dishonesty; two, you were having an affair with his wife; three, you were trying to stop him putting money into a family trust that you wanted to go towards a New York office?’

‘You’re pathetic,’ Parker hissed.

‘And you were one of the few people who would definitely have known when and where Mr Noble trained for the marathon.’

‘He was always Twittering about that.’

‘But you knew the lie of the land. You knew about the drainage ditch. You knew that, at first, suspicion would fall on Crimewriter. You killed him, did you not? I know you did. And did Mrs Noble help you?’

St Clair slapped the table with his pad before Parker could say anything. ‘This junior officer is both badgering my client and raising new matters which we must discuss. Please suspend the interview.’

‘Interview suspended.’ Cummings’ tone was clipped. He switched off the tape and walked out, nodding to Baggo to follow. ‘You have a lot to learn. Wait here,’ he said when they reached the foyer.

Ten minutes later, the lawyer emerged from the interview corridor and, ignoring Baggo, asked the desk sergeant if he might speak to Cummings. He was duly ushered somewhere.

Fed up with being treated as someone who did not matter, Baggo paced up and down until Cummings and St Clair returned. Cummings raised his eyebrows at Baggo and told him to follow.

Parker was slumped in an attitude of defeat. His face was very red and Baggo wondered if he had been crying. He had a whispered conversation with St Clair, who nodded to the policemen. Cummings switched the tape on and repeated the caution with which he had begun the interview. St Clair pushed a sheet of paper in front of Parker, who read out, in a shaky voice: ‘I, Lionel Parker, freely admit that I have been embezzling substantial sums from the estates of dead authors. The money I have wrongly taken is in an account in the Cayman Islands, and I will use every effort to recover it and enable it to be distributed to those entitled to it. I also admit that I have been carrying on an affair with the wife of my late partner, Richard Noble. Mrs Noble had absolutely nothing to do with my embezzlement, and I am as sure as I can be that she had nothing to do with her husband’s murder. I have taken this opportunity to set the record straight, and I am being completely honest when I say that I had nothing to do with that atrocious crime. Richard Noble was my friend. I betrayed him in two important ways, and I am truly ashamed of that. But I did not kill him, and I have no idea who did. I am now anxious to help the police in any way I can, and if I hear anything that might help their search for his killer, I will let them know.’ He put down the paper and hung his head.

As Baggo watched, Cummings formally charged Parker with embezzlement, to which he made no reply. He then told him that he would be released, but must appear at Guildford Magistrates’ Court on Monday.

With the formalities over, Cummings said to Baggo, ‘Well, your Rottweiler tactics worked this time, I suppose. Lucky for you I suspended the interview before he confessed. St Clair’s a smart cookie and he could see that we’d have plenty on the embezzlement, and by pleading guilty, recovering the money and helping as much as he can with the murder, Parker will reduce his sentence substantially.’

‘I thought he should have been kept in custody.’

Cummings’ mouth formed a goofy smile. ‘A deal’s a deal, Detective Constable. Anyway, I suppose, well done Cha … Cha …’

‘Chandavarkar, sir. Do you believe him on the murder?’

‘Actually, I do. He was uncomfortable when we were asking about the embezzlement, but he disintegrated completely when he saw you were serious about him killing Noble. If a smart man like that had committed the murder, he would have been mentally better prepared for questioning. He didn’t want his lady-friend dragged through the mud, either. Of course, it may have been an act, but if so, it was a good one.’

‘You believe Noble was another Crimewriter victim?’

‘I think so, er, Chandavarkar. Well, goodbye. Oh, and send my, er, best wishes to Sergeant Fortune.’

24

As he drove back from Guildford, Baggo’s concerns about Patrycja Kowalski returned. If ever she was caught, and talked about the night she left her flat, he might be in big trouble. The previous week he had inquired about her brother, Pavel. He was in Wormwood Scrubs, but Baggo’s desire to find out about Patrycja was checked by a voice at the back of his head which told him to let sleeping dogs lie.