Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

‘I disagree with you,’ I said, ‘I think you are good at it.’ I was glad I’d worn the suit I’d been wearing yesterday because it still contained the photograph I’d shown to Martin Leppel. I fished it out now, and handed it to her. ‘It wasn’t the man on the right, was it? The one in the suit?’

She looked at it closely for a few seconds. In the photo, the Slap had a cap with him but was holding it in his hand rather than wearing it. His bald dome seemed to stand out a mile.

Finally, she looked up. ‘You know, I think it is. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure — it’s not a brilliant photo, is it? But, yes, it looks a great deal like him.’

Interesting. ‘You’ve been here for how long, Mrs Deerborne?’

‘My husband and I bought this place ten years ago. I think it cost us about a third of what it would go for now.’

‘That seems to be the case for most of London. And how long has Mr Franks been your next-door neighbour?’

‘A long time.’ She appeared to think about it for a moment. ‘Three or four years at least, probably longer. Why? What is it you think he’s done?’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I’m dying to know.’ I told her politely that I couldn’t divulge that. ‘I hope it’s nothing to do with what happened to that poor paperboy. The one who got killed.’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘No, it’s a separate matter entirely. Did Mr Franks live there alone?’

‘I saw people come and go occasionally, but as far as I know it was just him in there. He wasn’t always there either. He’d be away for a few weeks at a time sometimes.’

‘Did he ever tell you what he did for a living? I mean, it’s an expensive house.’

‘I know he rented it but I don’t know how much for. A lot, I suppose. But no, he never said what his job was. He tended to keep himself to himself. He’d talk if you talked to him, and he always said hello, but I don’t think I had more than half a dozen conversations with him in all the time he was here, and not one of them lasted more than two or three minutes. Usually they were about the weather or something mundane like that.’

‘Do you know who owns the house?’

‘Yes, his name’s Roddy Lee Potter. He’s owned it for years. I know because he’s come round here a couple of times, trying to buy our place. I think he owns a few houses in London. It’s how he makes his money.’

I asked her if she had a phone number or an address for Mr Lee Potter and, after a bit more hunting around, it turned out she had both. She wrote them down on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. ‘I don’t know why we bothered keeping his details,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if we’d ever consider selling. We love it round here.’

‘I can see why,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘It’s a nice area.’ I put out my hand and she shook it vigorously. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Mrs Deerborne. It’s most appreciated. If Mr Franks does for some reason turn up, can you call me on this number straight away?’ I handed her my card.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, leading me back to the front door.

‘I hope your cold improves,’ I told her as I stepped outside.

‘I’m sure it will. They never did catch the man who killed the paperboy, did they?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We didn’t. But one day we will. We always get them in the end.’

When I was back out on the street I phoned Berrin and brought him up to date. ‘I’ve got a couple more visits to make,’ I told him. ‘We’ll meet back at the station. Do me a favour, can you check on a car registration for me?’ I reeled out the number.

‘Do you think you might have something then, Sarge?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Possibly. Do me another favour as well, will you? Speak to Capper and Hunsdon. See how the interview went with Jean Tanner.’

When I’d rung off, having given Berrin plenty of things to do for the morning, I suddenly felt guilty. There I was, supposedly teaching the poor kid the ropes of CID, and instead I was dumping all the routine stuff on him and going my own way. I made a conscious decision to be more inclusive in future. But for now, I needed to move fast.

I’d turned my mobile off for the duration of the meeting with Judy Deerborne, a long-standing habit since interruptions always messed up my thought process, and I now saw that I had a message. It was Malik returning my call, and he’d only phoned ten minutes ago. I pressed 5 for callback and waited while the phone rang. Malik was a sod of an individual to get hold of so I had to make the best of the opportunities I had.

He picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Hello, John, I’ve just tried to phone you.’

‘I know. You got my message, didn’t you, and the emails I sent you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The guy in fatigues in the photo with Jack Merriweather. We’ve identified him as a Tony Franks. He’s been living at 41F Runmayne Avenue in Highbury Fields for the past few years. Do you know anything about him?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘He was suspected of being involved in drug-running for the Holtzes out of eastern Europe, where he’d built up a lot of contacts. He was brought in for questioning and put under surveillance for a while in 1998, mainly because of that article in Der Spiegel , but nothing ever came of it. In the end, apart from that photo and two or three other snippets of information, there was no real hard evidence to speak of. Franks has also been seen with Merriweather at least twice in the past few months, but then so have a hundred other people. We’ve got nothing concrete on him.’

‘The address he’s been living at doesn’t ring a bell, then?’

‘Not off the top of my head. I’ll have a look for you, but I don’t think so.’

I was undeterred. ‘It’s a decent place in a nice area. The rent must be two grand a month, absolute minimum, probably more. As far as I can tell, this guy Franks’s job was as a part-time bodyguard, so someone else must have been paying for it. The question is, why?’

Malik sighed. ‘You’re right. It does seem an odd set-up, even if he is linked to organized crime.’

‘Listen, let me run something by you. It’s strange, it might even be outlandish, but it’s something that’s bugging me.’ I looked up and down the quiet street. A brand-new-looking BMW 7-Series drove slowly past in the direction of the Holloway Road. ‘And, you know, the more I think about it, the more I think there’s something in it.’

‘Go on.’

So I told him, and when I’d finished Malik said that I was right, it was outlandish.

‘But if there is something in it, think of the possibilities. Think of what it could do to help you against the Holtzes.’

‘Talk to the landlord,’ said Malik. ‘Find out how he gets paid every month and where the money comes from.’

Gallan

Roddy Lee Potter lived in a swanky apartment situated on the ground floor of an attractive Georgian townhouse just off Kensington High Street. When I’d finally got him to answer the phone the previous day he’d been in a bar in Soho, sounding extremely drunk. We’d arranged to meet today at midday at Roddy’s place, but I’d phoned ahead to make sure he hadn’t forgotten our conversation, which he had. He’d wanted to postpone, the hangover in his voice obvious, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily and insisted we keep the time as arranged.

I got there ten minutes early and was buzzed in straight away. The door to the apartment was opened by a large, red-faced gentleman with curly, greyish-black hair who looked like he hadn’t been out of bed that long. He was dressed in a crumpled pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.