Lynda La Plante - Deadly Intent

Anna drove out of the garage. There was Burk, waving her through, almost saluting her. She smiled and waved as she passed. Having sorted her domestic problems, she was now determined that she would turn over a new leaf at work. Cunningham reckoned she had a dozy team, specifically describing Anna as being in a daze. Well, she would make her boss eat her words.

She hadn't felt this energized for a long, long time—not since Langton had left her. In some way she was back to being Anna Travis, the daughter her father had been so proud of, the officer with whom Langton had been more than impressed. DI Anna Travis was not going to be anyone's doormat ever again. Anna was at her desk before eight-thirty that morning. She checked over her report from the day before, and called Gordon to her office. "You got your report of last night ready?"

"Not quite."

"I'd like it before the morning briefing."

Gordon hesitated." It's just I've not had breakfast yet."

"That's your problem. Go on, hop it. Oh, and by the way—it was a good question regarding the man's shoes at Eddie Court's flat."

Gordon flushed and smiled. "Thank you. I'll get that report done straightaway."

Next, Anna called in the duty manager for an update. She was buzzing with adrenaline and he was taken aback. She asked him to arrange for the team to gather just before the briefing so she could really get to know them.

Anna had forty-five minutes before the briefing started, so she Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick again. She had a feeling about him, but she was not quite ready to share it.

Born 1948 in Surrey, into an affluent middle-class family, Fitzpatrick was educated at Eton, then Oxford, where he gained a First in PPE— Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Skimming through the mass of data, Anna tried to picture what he would look like, all these years later. The photos were at least thirty years old. Now he would be in his early sixties, and she doubted he would still look like a hippy.

Fitzpatrick had joined the local newspaper as a fledgling reporter and subsequently worked for The Times and Guardian as a travel reporter. He used this as a cover to smuggle tons of hashish into the UK from Pakistan and Thailand, broadening his sales into America and Canada. Later, he had switched his drug importation from hashish to

heroin and cocaine, and built a worldwide operation, laundering money through offshore banks and fake business dealings. Making millions, he lived a luxurious life, with an extraordinary ability to maintain his profile as a journalist at the same rime. At the peak of his drug dealing, he had his twenty aliases, with passports for most, and an astonishing array of phone lines: sixty that had been traced.In the late eighties, Fitzpatrick formed a company making documentary films, which turned out to be yet another means of shipping his drugs worldwide under the cover of respectability. He had homes in Spain, Florida and the Bahamas, a fleet of cars, a jet, and a powerful ocean-equipped yacht called White Trash. It was not until 1991 that he became the focus of the Drug Enforcement Agency; the fact that they had been monitoring Fitzpatrick for many years without success gave him the confidence of being outside the law.It was one of his close friends who had betrayed him and eventually caused his downfall. A heroin addict, Michael Drencock had been arrested for abusive behavior outside a nightclub. In possession of heroin and with even more discovered at his flat, Drencock had given police details of offshore banks and money-laundering businesses. But, before Fitzpatrick was to stand trial. Drencock withdrew all his statements and, 011 bail pending his own charges, he committed suicide. Fitzpatrick made another outrageous move by hiring some of his men to arrange a helicopter to lift him as he was entering the courthouse. He had been on the run ever since, remaining on America's Most Wanted list. Like a modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel, the hundreds of sightings of him in various countries gave him a mystic persona; underlined was the fact that Fitzpatrick, or whatever alias he now used, remained a very dangerous man.Anna closed her laptop and sat deep in thought. Unlike the infamous Howard Marks, who spent time in a federal United States penitentiary for his drug dealing, Fitzpatrick had never been to prison. Marks, now a best-selling author, depicted in his books his life of drug trafficking and his career as a respected journalist, his work featuring in national newspapers. He also campaigned vigorously for the legalization of recreational drugs.

Fitzpatrick appeared to Anna to be a very different creature. When he couldn't make enough money from soft drugs, he turned to heroin and cocaine. This meant he had to mix with more lethal partners, including the Mafia. Could Anna be right? Could Julia Brandon's partner have been Fitzpatrick? Could he have been audacious enough to return to England using the name Anthony Collingwood? She opened her notebook: it was imperative they discover just what monies Julia Brandon had access to. She made a note that they would need to bring in David Rushton again, Julia's so-called business adviser, as well as questioning Julia herself again.

Anna checked the time and went into the incident room. The team was already gathered, ready for the morning briefing. She was relaxed and confident as DS Phil Markhain shook her hand, then DCs Pamela Meadows and Mario Paluzzo. The mug of coffee that Gordon brought her was tepid, but it was a show of respect nonetheless. At last, Anna felt part of the team rather than an outsider.

One of the kids Phil Markham had brought in for questioning, whose vehicle had been listed by Jeremy Webster, had no license and no insurance, and the steering wheel went off at a right angle. It was a death trap on wheels, but the boy maintained that it had been in perfect working order, as he was taking his driving test in it the following day. Anna was laughing as Markham mimicked the boy's accent, and did not see Cunningham walk out of her office.

"Right, if we can just cut out the comedy and get serious."

Anna sat back and looked attentive. Markham gave her a sidelong glance and a wink. He was attractive, with an iron-gray crew cut and bright china-blue eyes. She liked him.

"Okay, let's see what we've got from each of you and then decide how we progress today. "One by one, the officers stood up and gave Cunningham details of their interviews. It appeared that, despite the many boys brought in for questioning, they were dealing with punk kids scoring a few grams of coke for themselves or trying to earn money as runners. They had only sketchy details on the dealers. They rarely, if ever, came out of the squat and most of the deals were done on the doorstep, as Eddie Court had described. It was clear that the squat had been active for many months: it was also suspected it might be protected. This was an uneasy suggestion, as it would involve the local police. In all likelihood the dealers had changed over, there had been some heavy punch-ups and many of the boys said they had been warned not to get involved, as the new dealers were tougher and had their own lookouts and runners.

It also transpired that, unlike a few months back when the squat had been smalltime, it was now trading with more upmarket clients. Crack cocaine was being sold, plus the addictive ice and heroin wraps as the more affluent punters had replaced the street kids.

The owners of the vehicles traced all said virtually the same thing: they'd heard about the squat via someone at a party. They might be scoring cocaine and crack, but it didn't seem that many of them were out-and-out addicts. This is what marked the squat as not typical. Any bust of a similar base would bring in addicts, desperate for a fix. They would often be found crashed out in the street or in a pitiful state of begging from anyone scoring. Cunningham continued to mark up the board as they gave their reports.