To Make a Killing Read online

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, 17th September, morning

  Was it the new jar of tangerine marmalade he had opened at breakfast? Was it the green wave (that really ought to have been named the ‘blue moon wave’, but) which today rolled out the ‘green’ carpet for him all the way into the office? Or was it just plain, old-fashioned ‘something in the air’? Well, yes, there was plenty in the London rush hour air and most of it he wished wasn’t there at all.

  It didn’t matter what it was. This day, he knew, was going to bring him a breakthrough. Maybe he would even break the case. A completely inexplicable and unwarranted wave of optim . . . no, it wasn’t even optimism; it was a certainty of a positive development that surged over him, through him and all around him. It was just inevitable.

  Why it was so, he could not say, and he had no wish to speculate over it. That it was so, was so definite, that all he could think of was in which part of the case, he most needed a breakthrough.

  Striding into the office, he saw Hayes, about to pounce on him. Hayes might as well have had a slipper in his mouth, and be wagging his bottom from side to side, it was so obvious that he wanted to please the master, and he knew he had just what the master wanted.

  “We know what Russell was doing in London. Nothing to do with cricket. He’s a sales rep, working for an Aus . . . “

  “. . . Australian wine company.” blurted out Keane spontaneously, oblivious to the fact that he was stealing Hayes’ thunder. Instead he became mesmerised by the parade of potential conclusions that this new factor introduced. That was it! Blinky’s link had fallen into focus: Chile + Australia = wine.

  He looked up at the dumb-founded Hayes, who was clearly struggling to decide whether he should first express his indignation, his amazement or his question. “You could have . . . ! Did you . . . ? When . . . ? God damn it, man!”

  If Hayes expression hadn’t clearly conveyed a deep admiration, (which his inappropriate and incoherent bumbling had failed to express), Keane would have had to reprimand him. However, Keane felt more obliged to praise Hayes for his good work, and get more details from him, in order to confirm officially what was, after all, still only a conclusion he had jumped to.

  “It was just a guess. I’m sorry if I, you know . . . Alright, this is great! Tell me about it.”

  Hayes gathered himself and went on, “When Russell had to retire from cricket through injury Penrith Wineries saw him as an obvious choice for a front figure, an ambassador or whatever you want to call it, for driving their export efforts. He’d been working for them for about 2-3 years. It seems that both parties were happy with the arrangement. Just one thing, though.” Hayes paused to see if he was about to be pre-empted again. The coast was clear. “He was not here in England on business; at least not according to Penrith. He was here on holiday!”

  “That’s good work, Hayes.” smiled Keane. “What about family?”

  “Sheila was right. Briefly married and divorced soon after, five years ago. No children. No brothers or sisters. His parents are still alive and living in Perth.”

  “Well, I may be jumping to a conclusion, but I don’t think the parents are suspects. So, ask the embassy to arrange for the body to be flown back, and ask them to contact the local police to notify the parents and get their statements. Make sure they understand why we want no press in on this yet; if it gets out, it may lead directly to another person’s death. Get in touch with all the major credit card companies and find out when and where he used any card he may have had. He may have had a mobile phone, so check that out with Penrith, and after that with the leading Australasian telecom providers.

  Alright. What we need to know now, as a minimum is: Was he here on his own? When did he enter the country? Who did he meet? And above all, what did he do in the time he was here?”

  “According to Penrith, he had taken four weeks off, starting on the 28th of August”

  “And today’s the 17th of September, so assuming he flew straight here . . .”

  “Been there, done that” said Hayes both cockily and laconically. “He flew with Qantas from Adelaide to Heathrow via Singapore on the 29th. His passport was registered at 21:23, and we may be able to get airport video of him arriving – still have to check on that. And by the way, the hotels turned up blank; no Brett Russell registered anywhere.”

  “So either he used an alias or he stayed in a rented flat, or with a friend. Well, let’s leave that as a dead end for now. Alright. Get a list of everyone who was on that flight, in particular who was seated next to him. Interview the stewards and stewardesses on that flight, to see if they remember anything about him; bits of conversation, his behaviour, etc.. Did he have anything to declare? How much luggage was he carrying? Then there are the taxi services. Get his description off to them immediately, and cross your fingers that he wasn’t picked up by a friend or took the tube. Do you think we could get video of him leaving the Airport?”

  “I’ll check.”

  As Keane paused for thought, Hayes saw his chance and asked the inevitable question that Keane had brushed off unconvincingly minutes before:

  “How did you know he was in the wine business? It surely wasn’t a guess.”

  “I saw an old friend yesterday, and he gave me a few tips.” Keane could see from Hayes’ look that he needed to be more specific. “The MO and the poison point towards someone who may have had, or still has, connections with the Chilean Secret Service. There are two countries in the world that are currently enjoying great success in the wine industry: Chile and Australia.”

  “I see. An ‘educated’ guess, then.” said Hayes bringing the matter to an end in his own mind.

  Hayes held out his hand and offered Keane a stick of chewing gum, having taken one for himself. Keane declined quietly with a shake of the head, as in fact he had done without exception, every time Hayes had done this, since they first met six months ago. It seemed to Keane to be more a subconscious ritual on Hayes’ behalf, than a social grace. Keane was just glad it was chewing gum and not chewing tobacco, snuff or - heaven forbid - a cigarette!

  Hayes continued hopefully, “Erm, about the theory that it was the wrong victim. Do you still think we need to spend all that time . . .”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. How is it going?”

  “We’ve only just scratched the surface.”

  “IF . . . if the intended victim was not killed, we probably only have a few days, perhaps even hours, in which to find out who it is. I need your group to have made a list of your best prospects within 24 hours. In the meantime we need to get something out of our airport leads. Tell you what. I got nothing out of our files yesterday – let’s switch. You takes the files and look for earlier similar cases, and I‘ll take the airport.”

  Hayes gave him the sick parrot look to insinuate – quite accurately, in fact – that Keane was using his rank to grab the “juicier” titbit.

  “Right, that’s settled then. Let’s put our heads together around, er, . . .” Keane looked at his pocket watch, but then had second thoughts about specifying a time, “. . . shall we say the late afternoon?”

  “Ok. Shall I wait with the taxis until you’ve seen the airport videos?” asked Hayes.

  “No. Get on to them right away, and I’ll call you if we are lucky enough that to have something recorded at the airport.” Hayes left the office.

  Well there it was, thought Keane to himself. A breakthrough before there was even time to take his jacket off. He made the calls to airport security at Heathrow and to Qantas to pave the way for his trip out there, briefing them on every relevant detail, including the date and times for the flight. He couldn’t help but feel that this investigation was going well. At the same time he knew from experience, that time worked against him more often than not, and trails could go very cold, very quickly. He wondered whether he ought to mull over the facts one more time, before heading off. Instinctively he got up from his chair, grabbed the brolly and made for his car.

&nb
sp; Airport security were no chumps. Of course, everyone would – if they could - choose a world without terrorism, but there was no denying that increased airport security had also benefited some police investigations. Collaboration was now taken for granted and any petty rivalry or mutual condescension there may once have been, was now a thing of the past.

  Keane made his way through the throngs of people who seemed to have only one thing in common: they were all not in the place which their mind was on. Eventually he did find someone who could give him a little friendly direction, and a short while later he knocked on a door bearing a sign with the words: “Airport Security – access strictly for security personnel only”.

  “Come in, door’s open!” shouted a firm, but friendly and pleasant voice on the other side of the door.

  He entered and was somewhat surprised by the smallness of the room. He had imagined a sort of command control akin to NASA’s, but he could see no more than a dozen or so people there. True, the walls were filled with TV screens, the tabletops could not be seen for computers, folders, papers, pens, mobile phones, lunch boxes, etc., and the activity was intense. But where were the heavies to frisk him? He knew that the firearms and safes could not be far away, but . . . before he could speculate any further, a tall, fit, self-confident man in his early thirties approached him with the words, “Good morning, Superintendent Keane. My name is Andrew Heaton, I’m Head of Security. Please take a seat.”

  Keane looked at him questioningly for a split second, before realizing that, of course they had confirmed the veracity of his inquiry and his identity before he arrived; of course they had been tracking his clumsy meandering through the terminal towards their office; of course they had known that it was him knocking on the door. He quickly tried to get up to their pace.

  “Good morning. Are we in luck?”

  Heaton pressed a button and turned towards the screen in front of Keane’s seat. “This recording starts with Russell arriving. We’ve looked at it a few times, but we cannot see anything out of the ordinary. It seems like he’s been through a thousand passport controls before . . . seems calm, even bored. He doesn’t appear to be in the company of anyone.” Keane watched the recording and had to agree with Heaton’s evaluation of the man’s demeanour.

  “Do you have anything where he is collecting his luggage?”

  “Yes, that’s coming up – we’ve made a little compilation for you.” said Heaton, not exactly smiling, but certainly exercising the odd muscle at the corner of one side of his mouth. “That’s him there, but you have to be quick to see him appearing from behind that group there. See him?”

  “Yes.”

  It struck Keane that this man Heaton could slip into any James Bond film and play the role of either the hero or the villain. He had the good looks, the charm, the coolness, the overview. He was oozing self-satisfaction and self-sufficiency, and yet he was neither over-bearing nor stifling. Could it really be genuine?

  Keane reigned in his rambling thoughts and focussed on the recording again, “That looks like two standard suitcases and a holdall. Is that what you see?”

  “Yes. One of the cases seems to be heavy – do you see him struggling a bit there?”

  “Mmm. And is this where he is leaving the airport? Which one is he?”

  “This is the disappointing part, I’m afraid. We think that’s him there, but there is a slip from the luggage collection to this piece. The time lapse fits . . .”

  “Can you still that picture?”

  Heaton paused the recording, “. . . and the general appearance seems right; the height, the build, the gait and the luggage on the trolley all seem to fit. Shall I restart the recording?”

  “Yes”

  “You can see that luggage again as the taxi driver takes it from him. I’m sorry the image isn’t clearer.”

  “Can you do anything to bring that registration number into focus? There.” he pointed

  “Just a moment.” Heaton made some adjustments and the image sharpened slightly.

  “I make that out to be . . . R 6 4 1 E G N. What do you see?” asked Keane.

  “We have a vacancy here if you’re interested”, replied a clearly impressed Head of Security. Removing his tongue from his cheek, he answered Keane’s question, “You could well be right, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”

  “Well.” concluded Keane, as he jotted down the number, “That has been very informative, and very impressive. That’s the last time I pick my nose in an airport terminal! Joking aside, I am grateful for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome, Superintendent.”

  Keane paused on the way out, and then asked, “I need to get in touch with the Qantas office to ask the flight personnel some questions. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  Heaton obliged, and ten minutes later Keane arrived at the Qantas ticket desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I called earlier this morning.“ Keane flashed his identification.

  The Qantas desk clerk was an attractive and shapely blonde woman in her late twenties. She stood proudly in her uniform which consisted of some kind of blue floral dress under a dark blue jacket, the jacket having 3 silver buttons on either side tapering downwards and inwards. There couldn’t have been a square millimetre on her face that didn’t have makeup on it. Her sparkling white teeth all slotted perfectly together like a Lego set, and she had a smile so set that it would have been a struggle to remove it with sandpaper. What women were expected to go through these days – in the name of customer service – was beyond Keane. She deserved every penny she earned, he thought.

  “I’m investigating a murder and . . .” he began

  “I’m sorry, sir, I think you must have called our head office. We only sell tickets here, and . . .” the attendant lowered her voice and leaned over to him, “we find we sell more, when we don’t use the word ‘murder’.”

  “Yes, of course, er, I’m sorry.” Keane flushed. “Er, where is your head office?”

  “On The Strand, sir. Here’s their direct number, if you have any trouble finding them.” She passed him the card with the number and smiled him an unruffled, sweet goodbye, as if dealing with wayward policemen mumbling murder was a part of their standard training. It probably was.

  He turned away and decided to take stock of the current situation. He decided it would be best to get the taxi’s registration number off to Hayes first, so he would be able to follow up on that. He called Hayes, who glumly reported he had no news for him in return; he did, however, seem to cheer up at the prospect of escaping the files.

  As The Strand was within walking distance of his office, Keane decided to drive back and park there, and then grab a Shawarma on the way over to Qantas.

  About one and a half hours later, he was striding along, drying off his fingers and enjoying the last mouthful, as the Qantas office came into view. He stepped in and made his way over to what appeared to be the most senior person in an official uniform.

  “Excuse me. I’m Detective Superintendent Keane. I called earlier about a Qantas flight from Adelaide to Heathrow on the 29th of August.”

  “Just a moment, sir.” The lady walked off and returned almost immediately with a girl who could easily have passed for her granddaughter. The young girl presented herself, “I’m the General Manager, Helen McSheffrey. I’m pleased to meet you.” she said, offering her hand. “I’ve been making enquiries since your phone call this morning. Would you like to step into my office?”

  Keane followed the business-like woman whose powerful, coarse voice stood in stark contrast to her girlish pretty face, her short, light hair and her petite stature. He took the seat which she gestured towards, and lent his brolly up against the table.

  McSheffrey looked very deliberately through the window at the people walking by in t-shirts and shorts, wearing sunglasses and then down at his umbrella, “So that’s how you pommies end up with skin that’s a ‘whiter shade of pale’!”


  “Oh, no, that’s just a silly habit of mine” admitted Keane with a slight blush

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Superintendent?” Keane hesitated. “. . . or coffee?”

  “A coffee would be nice thank you.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Milk, if you have any.”

  “No sweat. There you go. Well, I’ve located the stewards and stewardesses who were on that flight. I’ve managed to get in touch with all but one of them and tell them the score. Naturally we were all disappointed to hear about Mr. Russell. None of them remembered anything out of the ordinary about him. It’s not uncommon to get, let’s say, your half-way celebrities on our flights. Sometimes they play on it, you know, expect special treatment and so on. Sometimes you get stickybeaks giving them a hard time. But Mr. Russell was no bother; he got on alright with the other passengers.”