To Make a Killing (5 page)

At last the assistant got the point. “Yeah, tap-dancing. Right, guv. Well, they didn’t say anything to each other. He was all chummy like, you know, your typical Oz. Paid in cash. Went straight to this one, he did. Didn’t bother asking ‘bout the price. She just looked like she wanted to scarper, you know what I mean? Looked real uncomfortable.”

“Give me her description again”

“’Bout 5’4”, slim I’d say, can’t tell for sure, cos she had a plain-coloured raincoat on, which was funny, cos it was a warm day. Brown straight hair down to about here. No make-up. No perfume. Black sunglasses.”

“Any handbag? What kind of shoes?”

“No she wasn’t carrying anything. She had trainers on, I think.”

It wasn’t exactly a case-cracker, but Hayes knew it was important. He couldn’t wait to tell Keane. Hayes was almost certainly unaware of it, but he felt a persistent need to prove his value to Keane, and this was undoubtedly a major driving force in his tireless efforts. He left the shop and made a bee-line for the station. When he got there, he was disappointed to find that Keane was still not back. As it was late, Hayes decided to keep his news until the following morning.

Three hours earlier, shortly after Hayes had left Keane’s office, Keane had to decide how best to follow up on the passenger list. He decided to call the police stations in Nottingham, Belfast, Sunderland, Cardiff and St. Ives and ask the local police to interview those passengers who had sat next to or close to Russell on the plane; he could only justify sending himself or someone else off, if a passenger were to provide the local Bobbies with a worthwhile and creditable lead. He would, of course, have preferred to interview them in person. But nothing so far pointed to Russell having travelled with a partner, a friend or even an ‘accomplice’ (looking at it from Hayes’ imaginative point of view).

In the meantime, he still had the taxi driver. And this was definitely a case where questions would have to be asked face to face. Keane jested to himself that not many policemen could claim they had grilled Danish Butt. He reprimanded himself for his levity, grabbed his jacket and made his way to his car.

Just under an hour later, and after having questioned a landlord and several neighbours, Keane entered a betting shop just a few streets away from
Compton Road. Although it had been almost a custom in his family to have ‘a flutter’ on the Grand National, he had never been tempted to bet on a regular basis. Entering the ‘shop’ re-affirmed his conviction that it was a place for winners and losers – each strictly on their own side of the counter.

There were only a handful of people there, and only one who was likely to have ancestors from anywhere east of Harwich. Danish Butt was only about 5’8”. He looked quite skinny in his worn out royal blue training suit and new trainers. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his pale, taunted face had a harrowed look, so although he was probably in his late thirties, he did in fact look much older.

Keane approached him slowly, trying to assess the man’s current mood. Desperation shone out of the restless eyes that were fixed firmly on the television screen. His fingers were galloping on the counter. Two gaudy, gold-coloured rings with a yellow plastic inset, one on each little finger were making a curious dance. Every time his horse approached a fence, his fingers would come to rest with his index fingers touching the counter, and his little fingers straining upwards into the air.

Keane did not want to witness the next inevitable, crushing blow to a man who quite probably had only turned to gambling, after one final attempt to befriend another human being had failed. Perhaps Keane was wrong, and his melodramatic assumptions were not applicable here. Perhaps. But this certainly did look like a man, for whom tragedy was a more familiar companion than victory.

The fingers finally came to rest. Danish Butt turned away and stared at the floor. He began to make his way very slowly out of the ‘shop’, almost as if the loss would only become a reality, once the dirty London air hit his face.

Keane approached him, “Mr. Butt, may I have a word with you.” Keane discretely revealed his official identity. They stepped out on to the street. “This has nothing to do with you personally, Mr. Butt. I just have a few questions about one of your passengers. Let’s walk back to where you live.”

It took a while for Keane to bring the poor man out of his stupor and refresh his memory, but when he finally did recall that passenger and that evening, Keane was thankful he had chosen a patient approach.

Yes, he did recall the Australian faintly. That was mainly because most airport passengers that have just arrived in London want to go directly to their hotel, but not this Australian. He had asked to be dropped off at Lexington Gardens, Kensington.

Chapter 5

Friday, 18th September, morning

Lexington Gardens was a residential area offering neither hotels, nor any other type of overnight accommodation. The street did however have another claim to fame, or rather infamy. It had recently been the location of a mysterious and unpublicized murder.

The location was also foremost in Keane’s mind as he met Hayes, Jenkins, Connolly, Parker and Hassan in the Incident Room the following morning. Even so, he chose to let his younger colleagues start the ball rolling. “Well, I’ve got news for you, and by the looks on your faces you’ve got news for me. So let’s get it all out on the table, and then let’s see where we stand. Jenkins you first.” Hayes bit his lip.

“We’ve come up with 6 men who resemble Russell’s mask facially and age-wise. As we’ve not contacted them yet, we cannot know for sure if they otherwise fit the bill physically.”

“Who’ve you got?”

Jenkins began. “First up, Richard Llewellyn, Conservative MP for Newport, Shadow Minister for sport, known for his hard line on the use of performance enhancers.”

“Drugs.” interpreted Hayes for his own benefit, as Jenkins placed Llewellyn’s picture on the board to the left of the photo of Russell’s mask.

Connolly stepped up “Second up, Melvin Castle, roving TV reporter . . . “

“I knew that face was familiar!” blurted out Hayes, realizing a split second later, that he perhaps ought to curb his enthusiasm.

“. . . currently presenting a series of programmes on illegal immigrants.” Connolly placed Castle’s photo opposite to Llewellyn’s – they had been rehearsing this, thought Keane.

Hassan stepped up, “John Symonds, owner of three high-end restaurants here in London.” His picture was duly placed in the north, north-west angle of the hexagon being built around the photo of Russell’s mask.

“Number 4: Jeremy Swindlehurst, London stockbroker; not a high-flyer. His only claim to fame is the occasional article he writes for ‘Which?’. He could be a bit too old to fit the description.” Parker gave Jeremy the north, north-east berth.

“Andreas Lustrinelli. Swiss diplomat based in London. In the news briefly about 5 months ago for not very diplomatic comments about Switzerland staying outside the EU, which he naturally retracted immediately afterwards. A big cheese with a big cheesy smile” added Connolly as he placed Lustrinelli’s mug-shot south, south-east of the mask.

“And finally we have Dermot Dougherty, an Irish racehorse owner. Fairly mediocre horses on the whole, although “Honeycup” did cause an upset earlier this year at the Irish Grand National.”, concluded Jenkins as she slotted in the final photo.

They all gathered round the board for a few moments to see who bore the greatest resemblance. No-one spoke. Keane broke the silence, “Right. Well, they are all sufficiently similar to Russell in his mask that he could have been mistaken for one of them. Good work. I’m sure it drove you potty at times . . .” Keane paused just long enough for someone to contradict him. No-one did, so he continued, “. . . but this work may well save someone’s life. The next step is to contact these six men and let them know exactly what has happened. Let them know that we have insufficient grounds to consider them to be in danger, but that we are obliged to inform them about what has happened. If any of them seem unsurprised or reject out of hand any possible connection with them, then dig deeper. I want to know what their immediate response is.

Naturally, if any of them have been threatened, I want to know that, too, right away. Offer each of them police protection. If they accept, get in touch with me and we’ll sort out the details. In fact, let me know anyway, as soon as you’ve spoken to them. There are 6 of us and 6 of them, so we’ll take one each, as soon as we’ve finished here. Jenkins, which look-alike is located closest to us?”

“That would be Symonds or Swindlehurst. Possibly Llewellyn or Lustrinelli”

“I’ll take Symonds. Hayes, you take Swindlehurst, Jenkins – Lustrinelli, Connolly – Llewellyn, Parker – Dougherty, and Hassan – Castle.” Keane paused to pick up the thread. “Any questions?”

“What about the press? Do we still need to keep the lid on this, once we have been in touch with these six?” asked Hassan

“No. I’ll make a statement once they’ve all been notified; ask the public to come forward if they know anything, etc., etc.” replied Keane. “How’s that?” There were no more questions, so Keane decide to unleash Hayes. “Hayes. Did the attaché case lead to anything?”

“You bet it did”, broad smile. “Russell did buy this case in
London, and . . .” The phone rang.

“Just a minute, Hayes. Jenkins, take that, will you?”

Jenkins picked up the phone and seconds later said, “Bloodsucker at the front desk asking to see you” (the press did not rank highly in Jenkins’ hierarchy of professions).

Keane’s head dropped for just a second and a stifled sigh slipped out. “Is it Slam?” Jenkins nodded. “Tell them to keep him there no matter what. Tell them, I’ll see him in . . . 10 minutes”. Jenkins did so and put down the phone. “Well, I suppose we did well to keep it under wraps this long. Alright. I’ll try and tie him down while you lot get in touch with our Russell marks II to VI. Now then. Hayes, you were saying?”

“There was a woman with Russell, when he bought the attaché case! Here’s the written description” said Hayes handing out pieces of paper.

“Ian, we have to get a photo fit description of this woman right away.” said a brusque Keane doing his best, but failing to suppress his frustration over Hayes’ patent lack of routine. “Apart from her appearance what do we know about her?”

“That she was uneasy and was trying to protect her identity. She said nothing so we’ve no clues as to dialect and . . . and that’s it.” This wasn’t the triumph Hayes had foreseen.

“Anything else? Anything about Russell’s demeanour?”

“He was chirpy and relaxed. He paid in cash.”

“How was he dressed?”

Hayes gave Keane and the others a sheepish look.

“Ian, I’d like you to bring your contact in right away, and get all the details. Hassan, you can take Hayes’ Russell look-alike as well. Who was that? . . . Swindlehurst?”

“Yes”

“Good.” Keane drew a deep breath. “Final item of news: the taxi driver that picked up Russell from Heathrow dropped him off at . . .” Keane gave them a moment to finish his sentence.

“Lexington Gardens?” offered Hayes, redeeming himself partially in Keane’s harsh world of perfectionism.

“Spot on. That means that the scene of the crime is crucial. And it means we have missed something. Hayes and Jenkins, I want you to find your witness statements from Tuesday. The three of us will meet out there, at. . . .” Keane fished his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket, “. . . 1 o’clock precisely. All 6 look-alikes have to be informed in person by 1 o’clock, whether that means renting a helicopter, a hovercraft or the space shuttle, I don’t care. Is that all clear?”

“Yes sir” was the instant and unanimous point of view.

“Alright, off you . . . wait a minute, wait a minute.” It annoyed Keane that he had let the irritation over the journalist’s sudden intrusion diminish his overview and mental dexterity. “A female companion! That means we have to reconsider the passengers on Russell’s flight. Were any of those passengers who sat close to Russell female?”

“Yes, sir” answered Hayes.

“Shit!” It slipped out before Keane could stop himself. The others looked at each other, not because they were offended by his choice language, but because this was indeed a rare lack of self-control. “Hayes, very first job: get in touch with the local station/stations that have interviewed the female passengers. Get them to detain them immediately and send us a photo of them right away. Then get your witness in to check if any of the women in these photos could be the woman who accompanied Russell.”

“Got it.”

“Now is there anything else that we may have overlooked?” The phone rang again. “Tell them, I’m coming to pick him up right now” rasped Keane as he left the room.

Keane knew Syd ‘Slam’ Lambeth well enough to know that there was not much point in trying to deceive him. It was a matter of revealing as little as possible, and finding out what he knew, and how he intended to use his knowledge.

“Good morning, Syd” said Keane as he approached, “Good of you to drop by.” Sarcasm was water off a duck’s back to Lambeth.

‘Slam’ was just slightly older than Keane. He was dressed as usual in a dark-red windbreaker and a pale blue tee-shirt with beige corduroy drilled trousers and a pair of old, brown, laced shoes. He had a slight stoop, and to add insult to injury a small beer belly protruded below his weak chest. His flat, unwashed and lifeless greying hair fell either side of his round, unshaven face, and his receding chin melted imperceptibly into a thick neck.

“Superintendent. I think you have forgotten your obligation to inform the public of matters that affect their safety” rasped Lambeth in his thin, dry voice.

“Let’s discuss this in my office.” Keane led the way, Lambeth following him with his characteristic shuffle. More or less everything about ‘Slam’ made Keane suspicious of him, but one trait in particular raised Keane’s hackles: unless he was taking notes, Lambeth always had one hand in his trouser pocket, and it was constantly moving, as if there was a hamster in there that couldn’t find its way out.

Once in the office, he offered Lambeth a seat. Without responding, Lambeth sat down and brought out his pad, his nicotine-stained fingers holding his pen at the ready. “I need to inform our readers about what happened on Tuesday night at
Lexington Gardens, and I need to give them a good reason why the police chose to withhold details of this murder from the general public. Your fine reputation is at stake on this one, Superintendent Keane.”

It was a thinly veiled threat. He knew Lambeth had been looking for an opportunity to discredit him for some time now. That was the nature of scum like ‘Slam’, thought Keane. He had some power and he chose to abuse it. For some reason, he would try to weaken those who were trying to do good, to the benefit of those who were destructive. To make matters worse, he would usually justify his lies and twisted half-truths by claiming that the press had a right to “freedom of speech”, or that what he was doing was in everyone’s best interest. ‘Slam’ felt it was his responsibility to present the “truth”.

Thankfully, there were many reporters with a genuine and laudable sense of ethics - Syd Lambeth was simply not one of them. It would be interesting to see, how responsible he would feel towards the 6 men the police were trying to protect through their reticence. But ‘Slam’ was not about to be given the opportunity to put their life at risk.

“There’s no point in me telling you what you already know, so tell me what you’ve got and I’ll fill in the gaps as well as I can” feigned Keane.

“Brett Russell, Australian, retired professional cricketer found dead in Kensington. No blood at the scene of the crime. Police silent as the grave.”

Keane knew it was futile to ask for his source. Furthermore, he suspected Slam was not revealing all he knew. “That’s it?” provoked Keane.

“Until you tell me more.”

“The circumstances surrounding Russell’s death were suspicious. We suspect foul play. To reveal any other details at this point, could possibly put other people’s lives at risk. We are therefore obliged to proceed with our enquiries, until we can be sure that it is safe to publicize more details.”

It was the standard answer that Lambeth was expecting; he changed his tack, “Superintendent, you know that the general public can provide invaluable assistance in cases like this . . . but only if they are informed!”

“We do intend to make a full statement as soon as possible.”

“Today?”

“If that is possible.”

Lambeth took a pack of cigarettes out, tapped the end of one cigarette on the desktop in front of him, and placed it between his thin lips. He was fully aware of Keane’s aversion to cigarette smoke and the fact that there was no ash-tray. He lit his cigarette.