Tim Heath Thriller Boxset Page 4

  By two, Zoe was gathering her papers, ready to start the formal interview. A lawyer had been called, and the suspect processed and booked into the station. It was highly unusual for such a suspect to be brought into Scotland Yard.

  “Ma’am, we have found the link. They used to be neighbours,” the young assistant said, passing her the relevant information on yet another piece of paper.

  “Thank you,” she said, already making her way to interview the suspect. “Are you coming?” she asked.

  Charlie automatically stood up and followed.

  5

  News of the arrest started surfacing in the local press around two. No family members were in the large house, though that didn’t stop the journalists from having a look around there anyway, to see what they could get. The police were still inside, bringing items from the house and placing them in their van.

  The suspect was a well-known local personality, and his charitable record was exemplary. No one was in any doubt that they’d got the wrong man, that this whole situation couldn’t have been happening to a less likely person. The letter from Buckingham Palace, which hung proudly on the wall, was spotted quickly by the search team. The Palace was contacted soon after. A bag of clothes, with a fake passport and the bloodied shirt, was the last thing to be put into the back of the van, as the officers left the home. Blue incident-tape was placed on the property, and an officer would stand guard, just to ward off any would-be looter or photographer. When it was clear the remaining officer wasn’t going to say anything, the journalists started to take their leave, the photographers getting their final shots of the empty house, one officer standing guard at the massive front door, before they left, too. Soon, everything was tranquil again.

  At Buckingham Palace, a small meeting was taking place following the call from the police. It was confirmed that they had indeed listed William Hackett on a provisional New Year's honours list for his life of service to many charities. This was by no means on the public record, and the task at hand was to rubbish any such suggestion and to distance the Palace from such matters. Internally, and with the help of the police, they were now looking at any possible terrorist connection with the suspect in custody, and any link to the Palace. A press release was put together, but they didn’t know yet if they should even comment on the rumours. If word got out that they were about to knight a man capable of such a crime, it would call into question the whole Honours system and maybe even the position of the Royal Family, at a time when public opinion was good. They were not comfortable with the situation they were now facing. They wondered if they should even issue a dismissal of the rumours, the very fact that they were commenting on something in the first place, certainly with the tabloids, would no doubt be confirming guilt in their eyes. It was going to be challenging to navigate through this one smoothly.

  At the police station, the interview had been delayed. A doctor had been called, on advice by the lawyer, to examine his client. Zoe had seen this as a little diversionary tactic, but it allowed time for the van to arrive following the search of the property. The bag was the first thing examined, and the shirt took immediately for testing, the blood still evident on the white sleeve. The passport and other travel documents, including a hotel booking in St Petersburg for the night before the murder, was also found. She gathered it up and asked that everything be logged, copied and placed into evidence bags. The case against him was looking more and more watertight.

  At three, as Charlie was leaving for the airport to meet the Russian contingent, the doctor had finished with his examination of the patient, Zoe’s primary suspect in the murder of Anthony.

  “It’s the early stages of dementia, for certain,” he said. “He’s perplexed about everything now happening to him.”

  “Is he fit for questioning?” Zoe said.

  “Yes, but be patient with him. His health is otherwise good, blood pressure a little high, but that would be the stress he’s under. His most challenging thing will be his memory, processing what is happening. So go easy on him. He is such a softly spoken gentleman. Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”

  “Leave the police work to me. Thank you, doctor,” Zoe said, dismissing him and walking back towards the interview room where the medical check had just been carried out. She opened the door and walked in.

  “Mr Hackett, I am DCI Zoe Elliot, and I’m here to ask you some questions.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Yes, sir, you are. Tell me, have you heard the name Anthony Fernandes before?”

  “Yes,” he said. He was looking straight at Zoe, calm and unassuming, though a lack of understanding of the situation was evident on his face.

  “How did you know Mr Fernandes?”

  “He used to live next door to me but moved away several years ago. I can’t remember how many years it is now. My wife was still alive.”

  “So you used to be neighbours. And since then, have you seen him?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Have you heard from him in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to Russia, sir?”

  “No, never,” he said, his mind processing every detail of what he was being asked, straining to give a definite answer.

  “Besides yesterday, you mean?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You flew back from St Petersburg yesterday.”

  “No...I mean, I’m not sure.” That distant nightmare came back, that vague thought of something not making sense. None of this was making any sense.

  “How did you get hold of a fake passport, Mr Hackett?”

  “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “So, you don’t deny having it then?”

  “No, I guess not.” He was starting to sound more confused, his speech slow, laboured at times.

  “And the Russian visa in the passport. Where did that come from?”

  “I don’t know that, either. I’m sorry. I'm not much help to you. Can I go home now?” For the first time, he seemed frightened.

  “Not just yet, sir. We have some more questions for you to answer first and then we can talk about what happens next.”

  “Okay. Do my children know that I am here? They’ll be worried about me.”

  “It’s okay, sir, we’ll inform them shortly.” She picked up the evidence bag that held the white shirt. “Is this your shirt, sir?”

  “Well, it looks like one of mine. I can’t be sure...”

  “It was found in your house, with your other things, so we’ll assume that it is. Can you tell me, how did this blood get onto the sleeve?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked terrified now, more shaken than she’d seen him.

  “Is it your blood?” she said, lowering her tone and intensity.

  “I don’t know.” They were yet to have the results from the lab. She wasn’t going to let that hold her back.

  “If this is the blood of Mr Fernandes, sir, could you tell me how his blood could have got onto your shirt sleeve?”

  “Look, I’m telling you, I don’t understand anything of this. Where’s Betty?”

  “Who’s Betty, sir?”

  “Betty will sort this all out? Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know who Betty is. Is she your daughter?” She already had the names of his two daughters and one son.

  “She’s my wife. Betty will straighten this out for me.”

  Zoe turned to the other officer in the room, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “Interview suspended at three-twelve,” she said, as the other officer stopped the recording.

  “Is it time to go?” Bill said.

  “No, sir. My colleague here will take you back to your cell. You can have a rest, some food and some time to think. Then we’ll meet back here and talk some more.” The officer helped Bill up from his chair and led him out of the interview room. Zoe returned to her office and waited for the results from forensics.

  Charlie was battl
ing the traffic as he approached the airport, ready to meet the Russian delegation arriving that afternoon. He was on a call with MI6 HQ who was updating him on the Home Office situation.

  “Look, Charlie, you need to know who’s on the plane.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We’ve just found out now. The details were dropped on my desk five minutes ago.”

  “Go on. Am I going to like this?” He knew he wasn’t.

  “It’s Anya, Charlie. She’s their player in this one.”

  “Terrific,” he said, swearing under his breath, which wasn’t picked up on the call.

  “Is this going to be a problem for you?”

  “For me? Why would it? For her on the other hand...”

  “Charlie, you understand that this is a delicate situation. You need to stay professional at all times and must keep your personal history out of this.”

  “That’s easier said than done with Anya, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, I’m not the one saying. This comes from the top.”

  “Well, thanks for the heads up. Better late than never I guess. I’ll figure out what to do. Speak later,” and he ended the call.

  It’d been a couple of years since he’d last seen Anya and their parting words had been far from amicable. It made perfect sense to him now that the Russians would involve her in all this. She was the perfect antagonist, though the FSB had no idea who would have been posted from the UK side. That, for them, was probably just good luck. It certainly added something new to this otherwise routine pick-up. Anya also had a talent for being able to see right through his lies, which was one of the reasons they had broken up in the first place. That and another million reasons for all he knew.

  He was at the arrivals lounge of Terminal Five just after the scheduled landing of their flight from St Petersburg. There was no sign of them yet, so Charlie took a seat and waited. Not much later, they were cleared through the diplomatic channel and met by a smiling Charlie.

  “Anya, it’s good to see you again,” he said.

  “I might have known.” She was far from impressed.

  “You know this man?” her companion said to her in Russian.

  “Yes, we go way back,” Charlie replied in Russian, not giving Anya a moment to answer.

  “Very well,” came the reply in clear English.

  “Shall we?”

  Charlie led them out, Anya not saying a word as she was led through the terminal to the place where Charlie had left the car.

  “I'll tell you what, why don’t we get a bite to eat? You both must be starving. Traffic is murder at the moment. There’s no point heading in just yet.”

  “We’d rather get to meet everyone now if that’s okay.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid. Would all be shut up even if we could get going through this traffic. We’re scheduled first thing in the morning to meet together. So it’s either food now, here with me, or back to the hotel and you can sort things out from there.” Anya glanced briefly at Charlie and then to her companion.

  “Just take us to the hotel, would you,” she said, a little too sharply. “Please,” she added, for good measure.

  They drove in silence. Charlie had offered her a front seat, but they’d both opted for the back. The game had started. Charlie Boon, the chauffeur. He watched her in his mirror as traffic allowed. She didn’t once glance up. She was either very cold or doing an excellent job of ignoring him. He was finding it much harder.

  “We’re now going to go live to our reporter in London. Tell us, what do we know so far?” said the principal news anchor for the BBC breakfast time news bulletin the following morning.

  “Yes, thank you,” started the young female correspondent. “I’m standing outside the police station where it is believed fifty-nine-year old William Hackett was brought at some point yesterday afternoon following his arrest at his home earlier that day.”

  “Is it clear what he is charged with?” the studio said.

  “There is no official statement yet, but it is believed that a team from Russia are due to arrive at this very building at some point this morning, here to investigate the murder of British businessman Anthony Fernandes, who was shot dead in a park in St Petersburg earlier this week.”

  “And what have we learnt about Mr Hackett’s role in the investigation?”

  “It is not certain, but police remain at his home, having arrived yesterday. They took the accused away shortly after before a thorough search was made. Some items were removed from Mr Hackett’s property, including a small travel bag.”

  “And what of these conflicting reports surrounding Mr Hackett?”

  “Yes, there have been many people come forward and talk about the character of the man in question. His family have yet to comment, but clearly, the word from friends and employees is that he’s a very peaceful, contented man. As we said yesterday, he runs a large business as well as working with charities.”

  “And what has come of these rumours about the New-Year’s honours list?”

  “Buckingham Palace has seen the need to come out and publicly deny that this was even a possibility, dismissing the suggestion as pure fantasy, but the word in his home neighbourhood was that he’d talked about recently receiving an invitation to the Palace where it is understood that a knighthood was to be bestowed.”

  “And if that were the case, where do they stand now?”

  “Well, clearly, they are now looking to keep some distance from themselves and this situation. If they were indeed considering him, and they’ve been quick to deny this, they certainly have reconsidered their position in the light of recent developments. Remember, these lists have not gone public, and are not expected for some time, so at best, we just have speculation.”

  “Thank you, Jenny, and we’ll be back with you when the statement is made.” The television footage went back to the studio.

  Anya turned off the television in her room. She’d eaten a small breakfast after her morning swim. Now she was waiting for her colleague to join her before they were due to be collected and taken to meet the British. Five minutes later there was a knock at the door, and she went over and let her companion in.

  “Did you just see the news,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve had him for a day, and yet we’ve been left in the dark,” Anya said.

  “So it would seem. At least we know where they are holding him and who he is.”

  “Get me everything there is on this suspect. I’m sure the Brits won't give us much,” Anya said. There was a call to the telephone in the room. It was the reception notifying them that their pickup had arrived. They both proceeded to leave the room, heading for the ground floor.

  “You are sure that your history with this Englishman isn’t going to be an issue, Anya?”

  “Look, I told you last night; there is nothing to concern you. We dated, he cheated; end of story. I have no feelings for him.”

  “And is the same true for him?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you on the journey here last night as if you didn’t know.”

  “It’s nothing. He is the least of our problems today.”

  They got to the ground floor, the lift doors opening onto the vast reception area. Charlie himself was waiting for them.

  “Good morning,” he said brightly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Just get us there, will you,” Anya said.

  Charlie led the way.

  6

  The arrival of lunch helped to defuse the tense atmosphere in the room at Scotland Yard. Anya had wasted no time laying out the Russian position when they’d started a few hours before.

  “This was a killing, in Russia, of a man with huge Kremlin connections by a suspect who fled to Britain. International law states that this is our jurisdiction. We have the right to have the offender extradited so that he can stand trial in a Russian courtroom, to be tried under Russia
n law.”

  Zoe had had none of it, throwing around argument after argument. The situation in Ukraine came up more than once.

  The food was passed around the table. Anya selected some fruit and a drink. The others had a sandwich and something from the selection of pastries.

  “You remind me of my sister,” Zoe said, across the table before moving to refill her glass.

  “I guess that is a good thing,” Anya said. Charlie leaned over to her ear and whispered:

  “I don’t think so.”

  She moved away from him. Charlie went over to join Zoe.

  “You two seem close,” she said, looking over the room to Anya before back into the pale face and brown eyes of Charlie.

  “She hates me,” he said.

  “I can’t think why.” Neither commented for a moment.

  “What did you mean by you remind me of my sister?”

  “Forget it; it was a stupid comment.”

  “No, I’m interested.”

  “I just know her type, that’s all. Good looks, well-connected parents. She’s a cliché.”

  “You think she got where she has because of her looks?” Charlie didn’t know why it bothered him, but he was a little offended by her remark.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No, actually, it’s not. Anya's an extremely bright girl. Hardest working Russian I’ve ever met. Could have walked into any university in the world, but her mother made her choose Moscow’s finest.”

  “You are a fan too then, Charlie? Come on.”