Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘Do take a seat, please.’ The man spoke in a perfunctory manner. The words kept to the script, but the tone of voice was as cold and as hard as the room. Vicary, Brunnie and the householder sat down; Vicary and Brunnie side by side, the man opposite them, with the coffee table separating him and the officers. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘You are?’

‘William Pilcher.’

‘You own WLM Rents?’

‘Yes, WLM of course being derived from my given name.’

‘I see.’

‘And yes, WLM Rents is my little portfolio.’ He smiled. ‘The stock market was. . useful to me once.’

‘So we understand from Mr Dunwoodie.’

‘J.J. Yes, he’s a good little beaver to have working for me. So, how can I help you?’

‘We are particularly interested in one of your properties in Kilburn.’

‘They are all in Kilburn. I began buying up Kilburn when I realized the properties were undervalued and the area was set for gentrification. Close enough to fall into the spill of the beam from Hampstead and Golders Green.’

‘The property on Claremont Road, 123 Claremont Road; Mr Dunwoodie described it as an ancillary property.’

‘Yes, awaiting development.’

‘Mr Dunwoodie described it as a “grace and favour” house.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘He does tend to be. . don’t know the word. . but yes, I let people live there and they work for me, low-grade gofers really. They pay no rent, but if I need a favour, they oblige.’

‘So Mr Dunwoodie explained.’

‘Did he?’ A menacing growl entered Pilcher’s voice to the extent that Vicary felt a sudden chill of fear for the welfare of J.J. Dunwoodie. Working for Pilcher evidently did not mean you enjoyed the man’s protection.

‘We are making enquiries into a man called Michael Dalkeith.’

‘Irish Mickey? What about him?’

‘He is deceased.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I knew he had gone, seemed that he did a moonlight, but he didn’t owe me any money so I wasn’t too upset.’

‘So how did you know him? In what capacity did you know him?’

Pilcher shrugged in an uninterested way. Vicary thought that he did not seem at all concerned about the death of Michael ‘Irish Mickey’ Dalkeith. ‘He was an odd-job man. He did a little work now and then. He was no craftsman, just the old donkey jobs.’

‘Donkey jobs?’

‘Fetching and carrying, tidying up, making the tea for the working crew. . that number.’

‘You paid him in cash?’

‘Yes, he preferred it that way.’

‘So he could claim dole money?’

‘Yes, the old, black economy number.’ Pilcher paused. ‘Mind you, it was peanuts, his pay really was his rent-free accommodation, and that was worth a few hundred pounds a week.’

‘How long did he live at Claremont Road?’

‘On and off for a good few months, possibly about a year. He took up with a woman in North London somewhere and then returned — kept a girl in the room so I believe. Really it was J.J. that handled it; I had more important issues to work on.’

‘Alright, we’ll go back and have another chat with Dunwoodie, because you see there is a little more to it. .’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, the girl you mentioned. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, she is also deceased.’

‘Oh, my, what has been going on at that house?’

‘That’s what we want to know; also the other tenants are in custody and won’t be going anywhere soon. So, what do you know of the girl?’

‘Nothing about her. I heard that she was living with him but I have no interest in employees’ private lives. The purpose of the people in the ancillary properties is to keep the squatters out and do some occasional unskilled work. Like I said, I am a businessman and I am focused on other issues. If that is all. .’

Vicary and Brunnie stood. ‘Yes, that is all. . for now.’

‘For now?’ Pilcher also stood.

‘We never know what might develop, so yes, “for now”.’ Vicary smiled and walked to the door. He then turned and said, ‘Oh, just one thing. .’

‘Yes?’

‘When “Irish Mickey” Dalkeith died, face down in the snow on Hampstead Heath, he had no food in his stomach, yet the pathologist said he was well-nourished.’

‘So?’

‘So, a well-nourished man with no food in his stomach is a puzzle.’

‘It is?’

‘It suggests that he had been starved of food for a day or two before he died.’

‘Dare say it might suggest that.’

‘Well, it might mean something, it might not. Very early days yet and we’re in no hurry, but we are very dogged, eh, DC Brunnie?’

‘We are that, sir.’ Brunnie smiled at Pilcher. ‘Just as dogged as dogged can be. We don’t give up easily.’

‘But you know, he did us a favour,’ Vicary continued.

‘Oh?’ Pilcher seemed attentive, more so than hitherto, thought Vicary.

‘Yes, you know, he fell down right on top of a shallow grave. Might just be a coincidence, but as one of our constables said, it might also be that he was leading us there, right to the grave. . a young adult female, quite short, about five feet tall, been there a few years. . ten to fifteen years buried, something like that.’

Pilcher paled. His brow furrowed.

‘You don’t know anything about that?’

‘No!’ His reply was aggressive, defensive.

‘We’ll find out who she was soon enough, and all roads will lead to Rome. If there is a connection between the late “Irish Mickey” Dalkeith and the deceased woman who lay concealed under his dead body, we’ll find out. Well, we’ll say good day, Mr Pilcher. Thank you for your time.’

Driving back to central London, Vicary asked Brunnie what he thought of Pilcher.

‘A nasty.’ Brunnie glanced to his left as the car slid by the wealth of north-west Surrey, ‘too hard to be a stockbroker, like Durham E-wing hard; too ready to get rid of us and too frightened when you mentioned the fact that Dalkeith had died as if leading us to the shallow grave. Frankly, it would not surprise me one little bit if Pilcher was an alias and that he is well known to us under a different handle.’

‘Yes.’ Vicary smiled but kept looking straight ahead. ‘My feelings exactly. We need to find out just who he is — pick that up, will you?’

‘Yes, boss, I’ll get right on it. My curiosity is well aroused, very well up.’

For the second time that day John Shaftoe considered a corpse which lay upon the stainless steel dissecting table in the pathology laboratory of the London Hospital, although, on the second occasion, he had no need to adjust the height of the microphone which was attached to the anglepoise arm above the table. ‘Did you have a good lunch, Billy?’ He grinned at his nervous assistant, who he thought was looking more than usually pale and unwell.

‘It was OK, sir. Usual hospital canteen food but it filled the gap.’

‘Good. So, two in one day, not bad. . once did four in one day. I needed my sleep at the end of that day, I can tell you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Button whimpered.

‘Well. . let’s press on.’ Shaftoe spoke clearly for the benefit of the microphone. ‘The deceased is a frail-looking, undernourished person of the female sex. She is of Northern European or Caucasian racial extraction. Her age is as yet to be determined, but she is young and post-pubescent, and probably in her early teenage years.’ He paused. ‘Immediately obvious is the extensive bruising to the neck, which is indicative of strangulation. I also note ligature marks to her wrists.’ He pulled up the eyelids, one at a time. ‘Petechial haemorrhaging is noted, which further indicates that she was strangled. Care to look?’ Shaftoe turned to Ainsclough who was observing the post-mortem for the police.