Part 2 (2/2)

'Right.' Kathy hesitated, then said, 'You know Nancy's family pretty well then?'

'Sure, I've known them for, oh, thirty years or more. I used to play golf with her husband, she and my wife were best friends, and I've watched their children grow up and leave home.'

'I have to ask this. Is there any possibility, do you think, that there could be a domestic reason of some kind for Nancy to be killed? Something to do with her life back home?'

'Oh, you mean the mafia cousins in Las Vegas, and the huge life insurance the boys just took out on their mother?' He gave Kathy a weak smile. 'You know, I did have that thought too, for a very brief moment. I guess we all watch too much TV. But it's just too ridiculous. Nancy is the last person on earth I could imagine this kind of thing happening to.'

'Fine. I had to ask.'

'Sure.'

'Do you happen to know who will be the beneficiaries of her estate?'

He sighed, as if reluctant to go into it. 'I do, as a matter of fact. A couple of years ago she asked me to act as one of her executors, and she asked my opinion about leaving specific small sums to her grandchildren and sister. Her two sons would be the princ.i.p.al beneficiaries, sharing her main a.s.set, the house.'

'How much is that worth?'

'Probably five million plus.'

Kathy made a note of the name and address of Nancy's solicitor, thanked Emerson and got up to go.

In the hallway she saw the man who'd been talking to him earlier. He looked up from the leaflet for the London Eye that he was reading and said, 'Hi again. I saw you on TV. Terrible business.'

'You're staying here?'

'That's right.'

'And you're American too?'

'Canadian. Look, I guess everybody says this, but I'd really like to help, if I can.'

She nodded and showed him a copy of the photo from Emerson's camera. 'You haven't seen anyone like this hanging around, have you?'

'Sorry, I've only just arrived. But I'll certainly keep my eyes open.'

'Just so long as you don't try to tackle him if you do see him.'

'No, I'd give you a call, I guess. If I had your contact details.'

Kathy gave him her card. He seemed pleasant, but there was something odd about his manner, the rather intense way he looked at her. 'What was your name again?'

'John, John Greenslade, from Montreal.'

FOUR.

When Kathy got back to Queen Anne's Gate she again found Brock with Zack and another a.n.a.lyst in the new computer suite, heads down, checking maps.

'We've been tracking the motorbike on CCTV cameras. They headed north, Park Lane, Edgeware Road, then east to Camden Town, where we lost them.' Brock took Kathy over to a screen with an enlarged map and pointed out the route.

'So far, none of the camera sightings we've got give us a clear view of the bike's number. We were tracking a yellow bike, possibly a Kawasaki Ninja, with two riders, and it took a while to see what happened.'

Zack typed in a command and a film began to play.

'This is on the A503 heading north out of Camden.'

Kathy said, 'He's dropped the pillion pa.s.senger.'

'Yes, we think somewhere near Camden Town tube station. The bike continues north with the single rider through Finsbury Park to Seven Sisters, where we lose him again. We're pretty sure he's ended up somewhere near by.'

'Tottenham Green.'

'Looks like it.'

'So what do we do now?'

Brock said, 'They must have been in touch by phone down in Chelsea, so they knew how to meet up after the murder. Then after they reached their destinations, in Camden Town and Tottenham Green, odds are they'd have been on their phones again, don't you think? So if we could trace two mobile numbers that are used in those areas at the critical times, we'd have them.'

'Big job,' Zack said.

'That's what computers are for,' Brock replied. 'And I've got a stack of paperwork on my desk. That's what humans are for.'

It was late afternoon when Zack found it. A mobile phone had made a call from Chelsea soon after the time that Nancy and Emerson had left the flower show and begun walking up Sloane Street, and then fifty-two minutes later, shortly after the last sighting of the single rider, from Tottenham Green in North London. The number was registered to Captain Marvel.

'A comedian,' Brock said.

'Yeah,' Zack agreed, 'but we know where he lives. The Quarry Estate. That's where the call came from.'

Brock put a call through to CID at Haringey Borough Operational Command, covering Tottenham Green. It didn't take long to get an answer.

'Sounds like Danny Yilmaz,' the inspector at the other end said. 'He's used the name before. Drug courier, get-away driver. Murder's a bit out of his league though. Want us to pick him up?'

'Wait till we get there,' Brock said. He grabbed his coat and turned to Kathy. 'Come on.'

As well as Kathy, Brock took Mickey Schaeffer, a detective sergeant who had recently joined the team at Queen Anne's Gate. He had an excellent record and seemed tough and intelligent, but Brock hadn't yet watched him in action and wanted to see how he'd perform. He left Kathy at the Tottenham police station to liaise with their inspector and went on with Mickey and two cars of local men to the Quarry Estate, a collection of three-storey walk-up housing blocks spread out around the base of a pair of towers. Danny Yilmaz lived on the top floor of one of the walk-ups. There was no sign of a yellow motorbike in the parking areas outside, and they went up the stairs to Yilmaz's front door. Before ringing the bell, Mickey crouched at the letter flap and peered in. They heard the faint sound of a cough, the flush of a toilet, and Brock nodded to the copper beside him, who rang the bell. There was silence.

'Come on, Danny,' Mickey called loudly through the slot. 'It's the police. Open the door, please.'

He repeated this, then nodded to a uniformed man who raised the ram he was carrying and swung it against the door, which burst open with a crash.

A cigarette was burning in an ashtray on the floor beside a rumpled sleeping bag. There was the sound of something breaking-crockery clattering to the floor. In the kitchenette at the back they were presented with the spectacle of a man's rear end struggling to squeeze through the narrow window above the sink, his flailing legs kicking plates off the draining board.

'Stupid b.u.g.g.e.r,' Mickey roared. He grabbed the legs and heaved. For a moment there was no movement, but then the man shot backwards into the room. He gave a shriek as his face connected with the window frame. Blood spurted from his nose as Brock caught him and they lowered him, howling, to the floor. Brock wiped a hand across his face, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Mickey said. 'You all right, Chief?'

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