Murder on Page One (29 page)

‘I think so, Horace.’

‘I examined it and quoted her various prices for different levels of work, and she wrote back, ordering calfskin with gold lettering on the front. Well, I had a nasty cold which laid me low in January, but I managed to finish the job a fortnight ago. I wrote to Mrs Dalton, and heard nothing till she telephoned last week and arranged to pick it up on Monday between half past five and six. She was quite fussy about the time. Monday was going to be a busy day for her, and her husband’s birthday was Wednesday. She did collect it when she said she would, and was very nice and grateful. She paid by credit card, but you know that.’

‘Do you think it was the same woman who spoke to you on the phone last week?’

The bookbinder furrowed his brows in thought. ‘I couldn’t say. I assumed it was. She had a London accent, but not too broad, if you know what I mean. I can’t remember what she sounded like when we spoke before Christmas.’

Baggo wrote down what McElhinney had said, read it over to him and asked him to sign the page of his notebook.

Mrs McElhinney promised to search for any relevant paper records. ‘You said something about life or death on the telephone,’ she said. ‘But I assume this is a fraud case of some kind?’

Baggo beamed at her. ‘No, ma’am. Thanks to your husband, we shall put a serial killer behind bars.’

* * *

Baggo knew that, to make the case water-tight, he should track down the woman who had been Candy Dalton’s accomplice. He drove to the Mile End Road hostel, where Maggie was preparing for another busy Saturday night and was reluctant to take time speaking with him. He felt bad about threatening to alert Health and Safety officials about possible breaches of fire regulations by an organisation so obviously dedicated to doing good, but that had the desired effect, and he left with the address of Lena Vannet, a former client of the hostel with whom Candy kept in touch. Lena was aged thirty-five, with black, straight hair, and lived in a block of flats in Archway Road, not far from McElhinney’s shop.

By the time Baggo had located the flat, Lena had gone out for the evening, and the very young baby-sitter said she had no idea where she might be. He wondered if he should head north and catch up with her later, but he knew that it would be safest to get her signed statement in his notebook as soon as possible.

After a quick visit to the nearest McDonald’s, Baggo parked where he could see the door of the flat. Keeping warm by running the engine, and trying to concentrate on radio programmes to pass the time, he waited for Lena to return home.

It was after one that a dark-haired woman with glasses walked unsteadily across the car park and climbed the stairs leading to the flats. Baggo climbed out of the car, his joints stiff, and followed her. Lena stopped at her door, fumbled for her keys and went in. Baggo pushed his way in after her, his warrant card in one hand.

Whatever substance she had taken, Lena could still defend herself. She landed a hard kick in his balls that made him double up. ‘I’m police,’ he gasped.

‘He is, Lena, he is.’ The baby-sitter emerged from the door on the right as a baby’s cry came from the door opposite.

‘Well, he’s got a bloody nerve following me like that.’

‘This is very urgent. I have some questions for you about Candy Dalton,’ Baggo said, trying to ignore the pain between his legs.

‘Can I go?’ the baby-sitter asked.

‘Yeh. Thanks. Sorry, I needed all my cash for the bloody taxi. I’ll see you all right next week, doll. Here, take these.’ She fumbled in her bag and took a handful of cigarettes from a packet.

‘I need your name and address, love,’ Baggo said.

Shaking her head, the girl rattled off her details then left. Baggo took a seat in the living room while Lena picked up her child. She sat opposite him, quietening the baby with a bottle.

At first she was reluctant to tell Baggo anything, but became more cooperative after he threatened to tell Social Services about an obviously under-age baby-sitter and how she was paid.

‘Candy said she’d visit on Monday afternoon. She’s always kept in touch with me, helping me and that. We were sitting right here, having a cuppa, when she said she’d got this text and she had to go into the centre right away. She said she had to pick up some book for her hubby’s birthday, and asked if I would, as it had to be done at a special time, and it was near here. She told me where the shop was and gave me her credit card and the PIN as she didn’t have the cash on her. She told me to talk posh when I had to, pretend to be her and tell the bloke the book was great. I had to do this between half five and six. I was to go in her car – I can drive legally, in case you’re wondering – park it in the car park near Mile End Road Tube Station and lock it, leaving the book, the credit card and the slip under the driver’s seat. She handed me a twenty, to cover expenses, like. She said she’d go on the tube and pick up the car later. I got Arlene to watch Zak, and did as she said.’

‘What about the car keys?’

‘She gave me her spares, said she’d pick them up later.’

‘Do you still have them?’

Lena paused.

‘I mean it about Social Services.’

Still holding the baby, she went to a wooden box on her mantelpiece and took out a set of keys. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing them carelessly towards Baggo. ‘If she asks, I’ll tell her I dropped them in the street. Is she in trouble?’

‘It’s just part of a routine inquiry,’ Baggo lied. ‘Now, I need to write down what you’ve said. After I’ve read it over and you’ve signed it, I’ll leave you in peace.’

Ten minutes later, he pointed the car north. The pain in his balls was easing and he was glad he had waited to see Lena before setting off.

* * *

The final miles of the drive passed quickly. North of Perth, Baggo saw why Scotland had a reputation for splendid scenery. He knew he must reach The Pride O’ Atholl before the final session started at noon, and he would do so with an hour to spare. He took the slip road for Pitlochry, drove deliberately slowly through the town, and turned down the hotel drive.

When he saw a police car, with Osborne, Fortune and a big man he did not recognise standing round a body on the front step of the hotel, he hoped he had not arrived too late.

26

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Osborne asked Baggo.

‘I know who Crimewriter is, gov. Is that Johnson?’

‘Yes.’ Osborne could not keep the relief out of his voice as he looked down on his sworn enemy.

Hotel staff gathered at the front door, and a chambermaid burst into tears. ‘He was a lovely man,’ she wailed.

Jane, Tara and McCrone joined the group, followed by Liz Morrison, the hotel owner, who rounded on Jane.

‘Jane, please tell me what’s going on here. This is no ordinary retreat. I’m not daft, you know.’

As Jane stuttered, Danny Peters ran across the lawn from the direction of the road. He carried a long rifle with a metal frame for a butt. ‘I found this in the bushes near the lay-by,’ he said. ‘Lucky I had plastic gloves with me.’ When he saw Baggo, he did a double-take.

‘I’ve cracked it, Danny.’

‘Well done, mate, but too late for him.’

As Peters held it up, Fergus inspected the weapon. ‘This is a Dragunov SVD, a Russian sniper rifle. It’s semi-automatic but only one shot fired. A pro.’ Seeing Flick’s look of admiration, he added, ‘I went on a course.’

The noise of wheels on gravel made them turn. From the direction of the drive, Wallace struggled to move his wheelchair towards them. He was out of breath. ‘I heard a shot,’ he gasped.

‘What have you been doing?’ Osborne asked him.

‘Gov, I am sure Chapayev did this,’ Baggo raised his voice.

‘Chapayev? What are you talking about?’

‘I can explain, but right now I am sure that Chapayev will be heading south in a black VW Golf. I have the registration here.’

‘Is he one of yours?’ Fergus asked Osborne, who nodded. Fergus reached for his mobile, punched in a number and spoke sharply to the person who answered. ‘Maxwell here. This is urgent, so top priority. I want a south-bound car stopped on the A9. You should be able to intercept just north of Perth. Suspicion of murder. It’s a black VW Golf.’ He read out the number from Baggo’s notebook. ‘He could be dangerous. I’ll hand you over to a man from the Met.’

Baggo took the phone. ‘Hello, the man you are looking for is Nikolai Chapayev.’ He paused while the instructions were forwarded. ‘Chapayev is Russian, in his forties, with an untidy, black beard. Just under six foot. He has connections with the Russian mafia, and is very dangerous. Yes, murder. He shot a man in Pitlochry a short while ago. William Johnson. Yes. Thank you.’ He handed the phone back.

‘Chapayev visited me on Friday,’ he explained. ‘He came into the CID room and saw what the gov had written about Johnson on the whiteboard. I told him about the retreat, but did not say where it was. Unfortunately, he took a brochure of this hotel that had been lying on a desk. I realised this once he had gone, but I managed to glimpse him driving away, and noted his number.’

‘Why should he kill Johnson?’ Flick interjected.

‘So that he would be blamed for Swanson’s murder while acting for the Russians. That is the point. Everyone would assume the Russians had silenced Johnson before he could implicate them. But they have nothing to do with this. A friend in the Foreign Office told me Chapayev is a criminal: arms smuggling, money laundering and so on. Swanson’s murder was one of Crimewriter’s. She left a poison pen by the body. Chapayev used the murder for his own propaganda purposes and to publicise his book, just as I’m sure he plans to use Johnson’s shooting. The very last thing he wanted was Johnson, whom he must have taken to be the prime suspect, to say the Russians had nothing to do with Swanson’s murder.’

‘Johnson was killed because of what he wouldn’t say about the Russians?’ Peters asked.

Baggo nodded.

‘You said “she” there,’ Flick said.

‘Yes, Sarge …’

He was interrupted by a scream for help from the far end of the garden. Candy Dalton half-ran towards them, her clothes and hair askew and her glasses missing.

Flick and Baggo ran to help and led her, panting, to the others.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m glad you’re here,’ Dalton gasped. ‘Cilla Pargiter is Crimewriter and she’s just tried to kill me.’

Ignoring the noises of shock and disbelief, she carried on. ‘We went for a walk to see the Soldier’s Leap, and everything seemed normal. When we got there, onto that rock overlooking the river, she said, “This isn’t a proper retreat. This is a police operation.” I said “Rubbish”, but she asked if I had been interviewed in the Crimewriter inquiry and I said I had. She said we were all suspects, and they were trying to trap one of us. And it came to me in a flash, it was her. It had to be. I must have shown it in my face, because she said, “Yes, it’s me, but you’re going to tell no one”. Then she made a dive for me and tried to push me over the edge, but I was too quick for her. We both fell down and fought on the rock. She was determined to kill me. I’ve had to learn some judo for my work in the hostel, and I threw her, but she went too far and fell over the edge. I went to grab her hand as it scratched the lichen off the rock, but before I could reach her she was away.’ She dissolved into tears and shook uncontrollably. ‘I’ve killed her, I’ve killed her,’ she repeated.

Flick put an arm round her and was about to lead her into the hotel when Baggo reached into a pocket, brought out his handcuffs, and secured both wrists. ‘Candice Dalton, I am arresting you for the murders of Laurence Robertson, Denzil Burke and others. You need not say anything, but anything you do say will be liable to be used in evidence.’

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Flick snapped.

‘It is her, and I can prove it,’ Baggo replied hotly.

‘Nonsense, nonsense, I’m a victim,’ Dalton wailed.

‘He’s right, you know,’ Jane said firmly. ‘That was our unanimous opinion.’

‘A narcissist,’ Tara said. McCrone nodded.

‘What about Cilla?’ Baggo asked.

Liz said, ‘If she fell into the pool at the Soldier’s Leap, she has no chance. It’s very deep, with a lot of currents.’

‘She’s a very strong swimmer,’ Flick said. ‘We must go and see.’

‘Do you have a long rope?’ Fergus asked Liz.

‘There’s an old rope some climbers left behind. I’ll go and get it.’

Baggo said quietly to Osborne, ‘Gov, we’ll have to run to this place. I think it would be best if you were to look after Mrs Dalton back here.’

Osborne put his cigarettes away. ‘That’s what I was thinking, Chandavarkar.’ He took one of Dalton’s arms. ‘We’ll wait inside,’ he said.

Liz brushed past them as she ran out, carrying a coil of faded blue climbing rope. ‘I know the way,’ she said, and ran across the lawn, Flick, Baggo, Peters, Fergus and Tara in her wake. McCrone followed at his own pace.

By the time they reached the National Trust shop, nearly half a mile from the hotel and closed for the winter, Liz was exhausted. ‘You go on,’ she said, handing the rope to Baggo. ‘Stick to the path until you reach a big, flat rock on your left.’

The path zig-zagging downhill through the trees was steep and rough. Baggo nearly went over on his ankle, but reached the rock first. Dalton’s glasses lay on it, the brown frame crushed and the lenses shattered. He climbed through the simple wooden fence, approached the edge, and looked down and across the ravine to the other side. ‘Cilla, Cilla,’ he called, but heard only the roar of rushing water far below.