Authors: Angela Dracup
‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘We’ve got a death-in-open-ground case which is causing us a bit of head scratching,’ she explained to him. ‘And there’s something about this “Tipper” which has set my antennae quivering.’
He gave a broad smile. ‘Good for you, ma’am. And good luck.’
‘Thanks again.’ She started to turn away.
He called her back. ‘I hope you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn, Inspector Fallon, but I’ve found in this big city that if you want information straight from the horse’s mouth, it sometimes pays not to bother too much with the top brass. Sometimes it’s better to go to the man or woman at the bottom.’ Whilst speaking, he had transformed his cheery face into a professional and neutral mask.
Cat was inclined to take him seriously. ‘Good point,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure to bear it in mind.’
Whilst Cat had been sitting on the National Express train bound for King’s Cross, Swift, not having much confidence in his schoolboy French, was e-mailing the
gendarmerie
in In Salah, requesting any information regarding the unsolved murder of a young man called Hugh Moss in the desert on the date Harriet had given him during their last meeting.
After an hour or so he received an apologetic reply to tell him that the notes on the Hugh Moss case had unfortunately been destroyed – along with a number of other files – by a fire at the local
gendarmerie
some months following the incident.
Swift knew he would simply be banging his head against a brick wall if he followed up on this. When files were said to be lost or destroyed by fire or flood, or some kind of accident, it invariably meant they had been deliberately removed from official records. Which immediately had alarm bells ringing in his head.
He looked again at the notes he had made following his talk with Harriet, then put in a call to the British Embassy in Algiers and was eventually put through to a senior diplomat whom whilst helpful and courteous, was not able to throw any light on the Hugh Moss case. When Swift advised him that his enquiry was prompted by a current murder which could have links to the Moss case, he told Swift he would ask his secretary to access any relevant notes and then phone him back. This he did within twenty minutes.
‘We have a record of being involved in advising four students who were on a geography field trip when one of their party was murdered and another member of the party charged with the murder.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There isn’t much detail,’ he said, and Swift could tell that he was reading the details as he spoke. ‘One of our senior diplomats liaised with a Miss Harriet Hartwell on behalf of the accused man, Mr Charles Brunswick, who was being kept in jail. He then spoke with the police authorities in Algiers.’ There was another pause. ‘And then it seems that Mr Brunswick was suddenly released. The party were given back their confiscated passports and allowed to go home. That’s all there is,’ he said, going on to conclude: ‘I can’t really add anything, I’m afraid. It was twenty years ago. I was still in school then.’
‘Thanks for that, anyway.’ Swift thought rapidly. ‘Do you have the name of the diplomat who helped the student party?’
‘Well, yes, I do. I knew him personally. His name is David Colburn. He eventually went on to be ambassador at the British Embassy in Nairobi. Became quite a famous chap within the service, actually. He’s retired now.’
‘Have you got an address?’
There was a hesitation.
‘This is in connection with a current murder enquiry,’ Swift reminded him.
‘OK, I’ll ring through to my secretary.’
Within moments Swift was in possession of Sir David Colburn’s home address. Which, most fortuitously, was in the village of Danby Friske, only twenty miles from Swift’s station.
Craig tried walking through the fields. He found that making your way through fields of tall, waving wheat and linseed rape was no easy task, and more like wading than walking. He knew that there would be an alert out to find him now. His probation officer would have raised the alarm when he didn’t turn up for his weekly meeting, and maybe the friendly police guy called Swift would have done the same. He tried to think things through, his thoughts careering about like a runaway puppy. He was an ex-con, a murderer, a mugger who was carrying a mobile phone and cash which belonged to an old lady who hadn’t freely given them to him. He could be in the papers, a mug shot on the front page. They’d use his prison ID photo and make him look like a monster.
He walked on, constantly on watch for irate farmers, or helicopters circling above. He was bitten by a host of insects and overheated by the sun which had decided to make a long-awaited appearance. If he tried to walk nearer the edges of the fields he was too close to the road.
Before long he was hungry, despairing and exhausted. What was the point in walking and walking if you had nothing to aim for?
He sat down with his back against a stone wall and once again reviewed his options. They hadn’t improved with time. He lifted his face to the sky and prayed for guidance. No miracles occurred.
He thought of Mrs Hartwell, his one friend. What would she say?
He sat very still, hearing her calm, low voice in his head. And after that he got up, turned around and went back the way he had come.
At a lively, very urban police station close to St Pancras Rail terminal, Cat was ushered into a CID room, where she was advised she would find Inspector Wilton who might be able to give her some information with regard to the Tipper enquiry.
Inspector Wilton was watching out for her, clearly having been issued a warning of her arrival from the front desk. He came forward but did not offer a hand in greeting, until Cat’s own outstretched hand and ready smile forced him into it.
Wilton was thick-set, around forty, with a shaved head and a grim, craggy face. Dressed in a crumpled grey suit with a granite grey shirt and tie, he looked like a character from a black-and-white film. His default expression seemed to be an angry grimace and altogether he had the air of a man who was not particularly enjoying his life. ‘Inspector Fallon,’ he said, ‘who’s been messing with your face?’
‘The hazards of the job,’ she said, wondering what he was so angry about.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ he told her.
‘Likewise,’ she said, keeping her tone pleasant. ‘I’ve got a train to catch back to West Yorkshire before too long – where my boss and I have a murder case to solve. It’s one of those slippery cases where it’s hard to get any hard evidence.’
Wilton looked mildly interested. ‘And when you do it seems to slip through your fingers like butter?’ he suggested.
‘You could say that. Our victim is a man in his thirties who got pushed from a high point on a crag. And then set alight at the spot he landed.’
‘Not a good way to go,’ Wilton suggested. ‘And not a case for beginners.’ He looked hard at Cat. ‘I’m sure you’re experienced enough to have a grip on the case.’
She wasn’t sure whether he was referring to her war wounds or her bad luck in being on the wrong side of forty. Or maybe he simply liked being unpleasant. ‘Your “Tipper” suspect,’ she said. ‘How did he – or she – get their nickname?’
‘Oh, there’s no need for sexual equality issues, here. Our killer is definitely a bloke. For a start, women don’t go round deserted areas of the Regents Canal after dark looking for random victims.’
Cat mentally filed away the information. ‘This latest victim is the third?’
‘Been reading the headlines?’ Wilton suggested. ‘Yep. The latest is number three, and, like the others, an unwashed, homeless alkie in the age range of late fifties to mid sixties.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘Nope.’
‘Forensics, DNA?’
He gave a hollow laugh. ‘What do you think?’
‘If it’s like our case, then it’s a no.’
‘We’ve gone by the book with this investigation. Exhaustive questioning around the area, talking to families. Talking to park patrollers and bedsit landladies. Folks on barges. Oh, and don’t forget the profiler.’
‘What did the profiler say?’
‘What they always say. The bleeding obvious, dressed up in a lot of trick-cyclist jargon.’
‘Such as?’
‘Loveless background. Rejected by the mother. Taken into care. Never formed any bonds. History of bed-wetting, running away from school. Being bullied then becoming a bully. Becoming independent and living in a bed and breakfast. Can’t hold down a job. Psychopathic personality. Or is it sociopathic. I don’t know the bloody difference.’ He was steaming with self-righteous anger now. He glared at Cat. ‘Do you?’
Well, yes, she did but decided to side-step the issue. ‘It does all sound rather familiar. Do you have a theory on the killer’s MO?’
Wilton raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘He pushes the poor buggers into the water. They’re always pissed out of their skulls, so they just slide in and sink like stones. And then some time later they come to the surface and scare the shit out of some innocent dog walker or kid.’
‘So, your killer doesn’t need to use any strength, he simply puts out a hand and gently tips them in.’ She smiled at Wilton, knowing it would annoy him. ‘Which is, presumably, why he’s called the “Tipper”.’
Wilton shook his head in mock wonder at her perceptiveness.
He glanced over his shoulder at a desk piled high with papers.
Cat judged she had got as much from him as she could hope for, and he was prepared to give.
‘Thanks for the information,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have taken up your time. Are you always such a miserable, angry bastard, Inspector Wilton?’ she asked, putting a friendly twinkle in her eye and giving him the opportunity to make his peace with her.
He offered a stony look. ‘Yep,’ he said, turning away and returning to his desk.
Cat headed for the door. As she walked down the corridor, a young CID officer who had been working at a desk near to where she and Wilton had been speaking followed her out and made for the coffee dispensing machine. Cat made her way down the steps, hoping to find the staff exit door without having to go back to the front desk. She heard footsteps following her. ‘Ma’am,’ a voice called softly.
She turned back. The young officer caught her up. ‘I’m DC Quinn. Can we have a word? Maybe in the car park?’
‘Sure.’
Quinn led the way to the corner of the car park. ‘I was listening in to your conversation with Inspector Wilton. I’d like to … give you some more information.’
Cat could see this was difficult for the young detective constable, wanting to aid a colleague from another division and at the same time probably worrying about betraying her boss.
‘Go ahead.’
‘The boss had some bad news this morning. The “Tipper” case has been taken over by a specialist crime investigation team at Scotland Yard. The files were all removed from our nick this morning.’
Cat began to understand why Wilton was in such a foul mood. Is there a question mark over Wilton’s competence, Cat wondered. Or something on a wider scale?
‘He’s pretty cut up about it,’ DC Quinn said. ‘We all are. We’ve really worked hard on the last two cases.’
‘Did you get anywhere?’ Cat asked, bluntly.
‘Not really. But we identified that the victims were all local, were all homeless and alcoholics. That the MOs were all the same. That they were all killed by drowning in the Regents Canal in the vicinity of the London Canal Museum. These weren’t random killings, they had a pattern.’
Cat thought about it. ‘We just have the one victim,’ she said. ‘So far. I’m taking a long shot in wondering if there is some link here, and it’s simply based on the MO.’
‘You should never rule anything out,’ DC Quinn said, looking doubtful.
Cat smiled. ‘Absolutely not. On the other hand, you have to watch out for getting the wrong end of the stick and keeping on chewing.’
Quinn laughed.
Cat gave Quinn her card. ‘If anything interesting turns up on the “Tipper” case would you let me know?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Quinn offered her own personal card in exchange. ‘Good luck!’ She looked at Cat’s bruises. ‘And take care.’
Ex-Ambassador Sir David Colburn was standing in the impressive doorway of his small mansion as Swift parked his car on the gravel drive and got out.
Swift had googled Sir David before he set off and discovered that he was seventy-nine years old, had served as a diplomat in a number of embassies and then as an ambassador in a career spanning forty years. He had married a judge’s daughter, Lavinia de la Tour, in 1963, and had two sons, one a doctor the other a high-ranking officer in the army.
Colburn welcomed Swift with a firm handshake and a warm smile. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, leading the way to an airy drawing room, furnished with Persian rugs and soft sofas sporting worn but spotless chintz covers. There were polished mahogany tables scattered about, bristling with family photographs and views of exotic cities. A huge bowl of casually arranged pink roses stood on the table beneath the long line of windows, nodding to their outdoor relations who were growing in the flower beds which had been dug into the vast front lawn. A huge black dog lay flat out on the rug beside the fireplace, as though it had been recently shot.
Sir David was silver-haired and fit-looking. His manner was both friendly and effortlessly confident and commanding. ‘A drink, Chief Inspector?’ he enquired. ‘Whisky? Gin?’
Swift declined politely. It was only half past two in the afternoon.
‘Hope you don’t mind if I do.’ Sir David moved to one of the mahogany tables, poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and took a cigarette out of a silver case and lit it from a silver table lighter. ‘My doctor says I should give up this filthy habit,’ he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. ‘And I agree with him. But it’s easier said than done. And since my wife died a few weeks ago, I have no one to scold me about it – and not very much else to look forward to either, other than a whisky and a smoke.’ He said all this without a trace of self-pity, yet Swift could sense the man’s desolation.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he went on, ‘I’m only too happy to help you out regarding any of your investigations. It will make a change from playing bridge and doing the
Times
crossword. Now, when you telephoned me earlier you mentioned the Hugh Ross murder in Algeria twenty years back. And since then, I’ve been looking through my diaries, and also rifling through my stock of memories, which are still pretty good, I have to say. So! Do you want to start the batting?’