Dead Lucky. Matt Brolly
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when I told the team last night about Moira that I remembered something that happened a few months back. It was nothing really, but I thought it might help.’
‘Anything you can tell us could help. However trivial it might seem.’
Levinson fell silent, her face taut in concentration. ‘There was a man. I would have thought nothing of it, if it hadn’t been for what he was wearing.’
Matilda placed a hand on the woman’s arm, surprised by the feel of wiry muscle. ‘Slow down. Where was this man?’
‘He was hanging outside the library, nearly every morning when I came to work. Not directly outside but over the road.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of months ago. March, April maybe. He was there every morning for a week. I should have notified the police but he wasn’t really doing anything except loitering. I would see him as I went into the library, and then I would check on him from my office window. He would sometimes just leave, but on one day he was there for a couple of hours.’
‘And what did you notice about what he was wearing?’
‘That was the thing,’ said Levinson, a sparkle igniting her eyes. ‘I’m a bit of a shoe snob and I’d noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes from Barker and Co. My husband likes their shoes. And he was wearing beautifully tailored trousers. Nothing unusual about that but he was wearing a hoodie over his shirt. This beaten old black thing and he had the hood up. It just didn’t look right to me.’
‘Did you tell any of the staff?’
‘No, I didn’t want to worry them unduly. You get a lot of strange folk coming in and out of here. They probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid anyway.’
‘Could you give me more of a description? Did you get a good look at his face?’
‘Only the once. He might have thought no one was looking but I peeked at him through the blinds in my office. He took his hood down for a moment and I saw him then. He was a lot older than I’d imagined, though he was quite good looking. He had a good head of hair, silvery grey. I’m afraid I must have touched the blinds as he glanced up at the window and put the hoodie back on. He hasn’t appeared since.’
Matilda pulled her phone from her trouser pocket. ‘Just bear with me a second, Sandra,’ she said, searching on Google. She found the image she was looking for and handed the phone to Levinson.
‘Yes, that’s him. How did you know?’
Matilda sighed. ‘It’s a long story but thank you very much, that information could come in handy. She saved the image and texted it to Lambert. Underneath, she typed. ‘We need to interview Charles Robinson again.’
It had taken him fifteen minutes to get through the first gate. Now Lambert stood waiting outside the second. His jacket was damp beneath his suit jacket, the early morning sun already blistering hot.
‘Who did you say you were again?’ said the voice on the intercom.
He knew he was being mocked but played along anyway. There was sure to be more than one exit to the house and if he wasn’t polite, he knew Curtis Blake would suddenly be unavailable. ‘DCI Michael Lambert. I have an appointment with Mr Blake.’
‘Please wait,’ said the intercom voice.
Lambert waited another ten minutes before the front door opened. A slim muscular man dressed in a black suit walked down the stone pathway towards him, flanked on either side by two men almost twice his size wearing cheaper versions of the same suit. The man stopped, took off a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and assessed him with a stern glare. ‘Will Atkinson, Mr Blake’s head of security. May I see some ID, Mr Lambert,’ he said, his voice strong and authoritative.
Lambert handed him his warrant card.
Atkinson looked harder than necessary. He was clearly ex-military. He nodded to one of his colleagues, and the steel gate opened.
‘Quite the security set-up you have,’ said Lambert.
Atkinson nodded. ‘It’s important to be safe,’ he said.
Lambert held his arms out as one of the henchmen checked him for weapons.
‘Thank you, please follow me,’ said Atkinson.
The house, a detached property in Hampstead, would be worth millions. Blake owned a number of legitimate businesses, mainly property related, in the capital. It was feasible that he would make some enemies in such a line of work, but the level of security in the house was disproportionately high. The front door was made of steel. Atkinson had to punch in a six-digit pin to gain entry. Both the guards turned away as he entered the code, and Lambert was instructed to do the same. The door led to another gated area. Atkinson unlocked three locks to enter the main area of the house, leaving one of the guards to monitor the front door.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Lambert, following Atkinson into a vast dining room where a man sat drinking coffee, talking on a mobile phone. The man looked up and pointed to a chair.
‘Take a seat,’ said Atkinson.
Lambert sat and waited for Curtis Blake to finish his call. The man was in his late fifties but looked older, his leathered face crisscrossed with deep grooves. He was wearing a white linen suit, a crisp shirt with the top button pushed into the loose flesh of his neck. He said something into the phone, before placing it on the dining table. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he said, more to himself than directly at Lambert. Leaning back in his chair, he continued. ‘Yes, DCI Lambert. I know all about you. How is Glenn Tillman?’
Lambert had run through Blake’s file on The System last night and knew that Tillman had investigated him a number of times over the years with no success.
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself. I am here on another issue.’
Blake lifted his coffee cup. ‘Where are my manners? Can I get you something? Water, perhaps? You look like you ran here.’
‘I’m fine.’
Lambert told him about Moira Sackville.
Blake drank his coffee, lost in contemplation. ‘Poor Eustace. I never had the pleasure of meeting his wife.’
‘You knew Eustace well.’
‘Of course, of course. Eustace Sackville, reporter extraordinaire. That’s why you wanted to speak to me?’
‘I understand you and Eustace have a history?’
A smirk crossed Blake’s lips but lent no humour to his face. ‘I would hardly call it that.’
‘You know he was investigating you?’
‘You must have spoken to him already. Some preposterous idea he had. He still thinks I’m twenty, thinks I’m some sort of petty criminal. He even had the temerity to call me.’
‘I don’t think he believes you’re a petty criminal,’ said Lambert, looking around at the ostentatious decorations of the dining room.
Blake looked at his mobile. ‘My point exactly. This has been hard won. I work fifteen, sixteen hours a day. I’m never off this bloody thing.’
‘I understand that Eustace was looking at some competing groups?’
The smirk had disappeared from Blake’s face. ‘Some perceived competition. I told Sackville then, and I’m telling you now, that I have nothing to fear from Russians, Albanians, Kosovans, or whoever is the new flavour of the month. I have nothing to do with them, and they have nothing to do with me.’
‘Why all the security?’
Blake shook his head as if he was talking to an imbecile. ‘You don’t become successful in this world without