Stealth (27 page)

She sighed.

‘Let me guess. This was Trent's side of things. Vehicles supplied for official use on a leased basis? The mayor's limo? Staff permitted to buys cars at reduced rates?'

‘It involved a van for the dog warden and cars for social services and wasn't iffy,' Burton-Jones said defiantly. ‘It was actually a good deal. And I'm sure Hereward isn't – sorry, wasn't – a crook.'

‘Did you tell the police who interviewed you about this?'

‘Er – no.'

‘So what did you get out of the deal?'

‘Nothing. But—'

‘Hamlyn got a backhander from Trent for introducing you and you then made sure Trent got the contract.'

‘Yes.'

‘In exchange for what?'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘What did Hamlyn give you? The trip to France?'

‘Yes.' This very quietly.

‘Jewellery?'

There was a long silence which Patrick broke by saying. ‘It has blood on it.'

‘Blood!' Claudia almost shrieked.

‘Ingrid mentioned it just now. A diamond ring, two gold chains, one with a locket on it, disappeared from Miss Smythe's bedroom when she was murdered. Hamlyn tried to sell the chains to a fence but failed.'

This time she fled right out of the room. We sat tight. I glanced at Patrick but he was doing his inscrutable thing. The seconds ticked by.

Claudia Barton-Jones then came back into the room almost as quickly as she had left it and thrust a small box into Patrick's hands. Then she threw herself back into her seat and burst into tears.

The solitaire diamond surrounded by smaller ones glittered in the sun streaming through the huge windows.

‘Rosemary Smythe's mother's engagement ring?' I wondered.

Claudia Barton-Jones scrubbed at her eyes with a screwed-up tissue and said huskily, ‘That does make me an accessory to murder, doesn't it?'

‘Only if you knew where it had come from.'

‘He told me that he'd
bought
it for me in the West End.' Her voice choked.

‘Just this? No gold chains?'

‘No. God, I couldn't keep anything like that now, knowing . . .'

‘What else did he want you to do? Hand over some of your fraudulently claimed expenses?'

‘Once or twice he did. What you must understand that Clement was perfectly all right when he was sober, quite a gentleman. It was when he'd been drinking that he'd . . .'

‘Just once or twice? Are you sure?'

‘I feel so stupid, weak and awful.' Claudia said in a low voice after another long pause.

‘Did he grab all the money off you that he could, especially when he was drunk?'

She nodded.

‘And he was getting drunk more and more often and you've been feeling completely trapped – surrounded as you yourself said just now – which is one of the reasons this apartment is up for sale as you need to get right away from him, escape.'

Another nod.

‘Good,' Patrick said briskly.

‘Good!' she stared at him, horrified.

‘You have the perfect defence. It's the answer. I didn't mention this before but as well as being as mad as a box of frogs Hamlyn's actually responsible, directly and indirectly, for several murders. You've tried to help this man for years and ended up by being completely dominated by him. You're probably lucky to be alive. Be as frank with the investigating officers as you have with me – I suggest you go and see them today – and get yourself a very good brief.'

We were going out of the front door, Claudia Burton-Jones appearing to be totally bemused, when she suddenly said, ‘I've just thought of someone who Sonya might have gone to. She swore me to secrecy and told me that one of the men who came to the meetings now and again was an old flame. So
he
can't be a crook. I only know his first name's Danny. That's not much help though, is it?'

‘Daniel Coates?' Patrick asked, turning to face her.

‘Sorry, I've no idea. Apparently Clement hated him.'

‘He does.'

‘Oh, you know of him. Sonya said he'd bought a semi-derelict farm, in Sussex, a sort of estate, as an investment with some business associates and was going to turn it into a country house spa hotel and conference centre. It sounded lovely.' She smiled brightly. ‘I expect she's safe and well there.'

‘Any idea where this place is?' I enquired, Patrick momentarily lost for words.

‘She just said somewhere near the South Downs.'

‘I
t's not inconceivable,' I observed when we were sitting in the car. ‘Daniel Coates, east end of London mobster, could have been one of those involved in buying the Keys Estate near Steyning with Brad Northwood, nicknamed Uncle, another east end of London mobster. They could easily have been in it together. As we ourselves know all too well, Northwood, together with his sidekick cum minder Joy Murphy were arrested several months ago and—'

‘Five months, three weeks and five days ago actually,' Patrick broke in with.

‘Thank you,' I said, deliberately ignoring the deeper implications. ‘If they really were, or are, going to turn the place into a country house hotel and whatever else they will have to get planning permission and, before that, form a proper business, a company. The whole project will all cost a great deal of money, millions, more probably than these crooks would have possessed individually.'

‘Money laundering in a big way,' Patrick said under his breath and reached for his mobile. The signal was poor so he got out of the car and walked a short distance away towards the river. Our vehicle was attracting the attention of a traffic warden so I lowered my window and showed him our official parking pass. He shook his head sadly and went on his way.

Patrick returned, looking thoughtful. ‘I've just contacted Sussex Police, who still appear to be digging into what happened at the Keys Estate that night. According to a local solicitor who handled the sale for the Woodley family's heirs, who as you know owned the property, it was bought by a London consortium calling itself Jones Enterprises. This outfit still seems to be in possession of it.'

‘Which is listed as owning Coates' catamaran!' I exclaimed. ‘But surely, Coates wouldn't have the brass neck to hide out there. He's a wanted man.'

Patrick shrugged. ‘I agree that it's unlikely. But a stolen identity or two, a change of appearance . . . Not only that . . .'

‘What?'

‘Some DI wants me to be interviewed again. Soon. Quote, “to tie up a few loose ends”.'

‘It was always a possibility.'

‘I know. It will look very bad if I refuse.'

‘You were completely cleared of blame.'

‘I know that too.'

‘Did you mention Coates?'

‘No, he's SOCA business.'

‘I'm well within my rights to forbid you to attend,' Michael Greenway said, frowning. He hates what he regards as outside interference. ‘That affair is over and done with.'

‘Perhaps I need to lay a few ghosts to rest,' Patrick said. ‘Revisit the place.'

‘I respect that. OK, see what you can sniff out about anything else that might be of interest us while you're there.'

‘We may as well find out if Coates is indeed lurking there disguised by three wigs and a beard. Grab him right under the Sussex force's noses.'

I was not taken in by this outward joviality and nor, possibly, was Greenway. Neither had I ever seen a spark of fear in Patrick's eyes before.

We drove to Sussex the following morning slightly cheered by the news that Claudia Barton-Jones had presented herself to the relevant police station prepared to make a full statement. In due course she would be sent to prison for twelve months in connection with the expenses fraud and the local authority contract offences, the sentence a light one due to the mitigating circumstances.

Jane Grant had been permitted to return home. Sonya Trent's description had been circulated to airports and bus and railway stations but so far there had been no sightings of her. The latest information on Clement Hamlyn was that he was unwell, it was thought as a result of alcohol withdrawal, and might have to see a doctor. Otherwise the various and exhaustive investigations were progressing, mostly, one got the impression, at a snail's pace.

I guessed Detective Inspector Jessica Sturrock to be in her early fifties. She had short grey hair quite stylishly cut, small blue eyes that were gazing at us steadily through gold-framed glasses and was clearly nobody's fool. She had apologized for keeping us waiting for a few minutes, a courtesy as we ourselves had been a little late for our appointment because of having been held up by an accident in the Horsham area. I would have preferred to have had a quick look at the old farm first, hoping that if Patrick were to see it now, in bright sunshine, after several months had elapsed it would slay some of his gremlins. But there had not been time.

‘I regret that I'm new to the job and was not here when all this took place,' the DI was saying. ‘And I've found myself in the position of now being expected to write the report which my predecessor did not because, sadly, he died. I've read all the CID case notes here, your own report, the findings of the inquiry and the conclusions of Complaints. I have to say that it took me rather a long time but I think I've built up an accurate picture. I've also tried to find out as much about you personally as I can, not easy as having worked for MI5 you appear to be an Official Secret. By the way, do you regard yourself as some kind of James Bond?'

Patrick smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I regard myself as an army officer who, having resigned his commission, works as an adviser for SOCA as that is
exactly
what I am. Previous training I've undergone has had the effect of sometimes saving my life in dangerous situations, and without wishing to brag, those of other people.'

‘Would you prefer me to call you Lieutenant Colonel?'

‘No, Patrick's absolutely fine.'

‘There's a deafening silence from the hierarchy at SOCA as well.'

‘His name's Richard Daws – that used to be an Official Secret but is no longer.'

Now he had completely retired from MI5, that is.

‘And according to your boss Michael Greenway your wife acts as some kind of adviser to
you
. Isn't that a bit unconventional?'

Patrick looked at me, reminding the woman that I, too, had a tongue in my head. ‘Is it?'

‘I worked with Patrick in his MI5 days,' I said. ‘SOCA seemed to think we came as a package.'

‘I see.'

She didn't but carried on talking. ‘Despite all the various findings I'm going to find it very difficult to explain why this police force didn't arrest you for the murders of the three men who supposedly had been sent out, one at a time, to watch you in the event of your escaping from that barn where they had you trapped.'

‘I wasn't trapped. I chose to stay there. I said that in my report.'

She appeared to ignore his reply. ‘I've read your report three times and have to say that it's very clear and concise, exactly what one might expect from a one-time soldier but you simply don't touch on the reasons why you weren't charged with murder.'

‘Perhaps I didn't think police reasons for doing or not doing something were my business.'

‘But it
was
murder. Unlike the two indoors who had been ordered to kill you, these men weren't actually attacking you at the time you killed them, were they?'

‘No, although I think two of them had tried to assail the barn previously – it was very hard to tell in the dark.'

‘How dark was it?'

‘There was a faint intermittent quarter moon. But mostly, very dark.'

‘And you killed them – in the dark.'

Patrick stirred restlessly in his chair. ‘Yes.'

‘Did that worry you at all?'

‘Yes, afterwards. But at the time I felt it was them or me.'

‘Does it still?'

‘Yes.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really,' I said.

She ignored me too. ‘But this wasn't war, was it?'

‘Congratulations, you've succeeded in getting right at the heart of my problem,' Patrick whispered.

‘A man like you then,' Sturrock went on quietly, ‘would be capable of – what shall I say? – perhaps persuading a mere DI who had the job of sorting out that God-awful mess into not sending him straight off to the custody suite. Or did you threaten him with more of the same?'

Patrick turned a wide-eyed stare to me for a moment, his incredulity boundless. Then he said, ‘You've read all the conclusions but not built up anything like an accurate picture of what happened. I'll remind you. When, as it says in the report, Mick the Kick's gang turned up with revenge in mind there was a shoot-out that Ingrid and I were not involved in. They were all terrible shots, hardly anyone suffered further injuries and the original lot threw down their weapons and were then locked up in a garage. Ingrid, using our emergency number on her mobile – mine had been taken from me – was responsible for your lot being alerted when this started to happen. If the police had arrived before the other gang there would have been a bloodbath as there were sufficient weapons in the farmhouse to have started a small war.'

‘I understand it was the original gang who had also been involved in gang warfare in Bath.'

‘That's right, a gun battle when several members of the public were killed or injured. That was why I had stayed, to wear them down and try to reduce the odds; that was why we had fired no shots so the neighbours had not dialled 999, all the while hoping that they would either drink themselves into a stupor or start killing each other. Your predecessor, whose name I distinctly remember was Bob, and I'm really sorry he's dead, wrung my hand for saving his lads from being slaughtered. Perhaps I should have put that in my report. I was completely open with him about everything at the time – I told him I'd killed them – but if he subsequently came to the conclusion that the three bodies in a ditch had been despatched under less than a hundred per cent self-defence circumstances then he kept quiet about it.'