said, "This visitor was pretty quick off the mark, wasn't he?"
Rowntree shrugged. "It could just be he was lucky to find him at home."
"I don't believe chance has anything to do with it. This murder has all the hallmarks of a professional hit and it's reasonable to assume the killer arranged to have the flat kept under surveillance."
"We've questioned all the residents and they don't remember seeing anybody loitering in the neighborhood." The Yorkshire-man glared at Tucker, his jaw set and bristling like a bulldog. "Furthermore, on-street parking is not allowed in Brompton Mews and the surrounding area is regularly patrolled by traffic wardens."
"I was referring to electronic surveillance, Superintendent."
Tucker was cool and disdainful. No two men could have been less alike: Rowntree the epitome of the gruff, hard-nosed detective, the other slim, distinguished-looking and easily mistaken for a Foreign Office diplomat in a well-cut suit that fitted him perfectly. It was obvious to Coghill that there was no love lost between them, and he wondered if they had crossed swords at some time in the past or whether they had simply taken an instant dislike to one another.
"You mean the place was bugged," Rowntree said in a flat voice.
"I think so."
"There was no sign of forcible entry."
"So what? The device was probably outside the flat, attached to the wall under the window ledge."
"We went through the flat with a fine-tooth comb, inside and out. And you know something, Chief Superintendent? We didn't find a bloody thing that bore the slightest resemblance to a bug."
The atmosphere was explosive. Franklin clucked his tongue, then glanced pointedly at the deputy assistant commissioner. Oblivious to what was going on around him, Kingman continued to doodle away in the notebook he was balancing on his knee. Out of the corner of his eye, Coghill watched him draw a large mushroom-shaped cloud.
"I suppose there's no harm in going over the place again," Franklin murmured.
"Provided it's done with a fresh eye."
The deputy assistant commissioner smiled at the girl from the typing pool who was recording the minutes of the meeting, and told her he was of course referring to the Regional Crime Squad. Having settled that point, he then asked who was going to bring them up to date on the Whitfield case.
"I think Tom should," Kingman said. "You'd only get it secondhand from me."
"Where would you like me to begin?" Coghill asked.
"With the safety-deposit box," Tucker said curtly.
"We found it contained nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-five pounds in cash." Coghill reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the address book. "In here are the code names of thirty-seven clients from whom Karen Whitfield was planning to collect close to two hundred thousand. Eleven of these can be eliminated, because they paid her off and presumably recovered the incriminating material she was holding on them. Moneywise, at least twelve among the remaining twenty-six are considerably better off now that she's dead, but this could be misleading. It's possible the man we're looking for had an entirely different motive."
"Like what?"
"Well, he could be a VIP who would be thrown out of office or compelled to resign if the seamy side of his life-style got into the newspapers."
"It's an interesting theory, Inspector, but can you prove it?"
"I think so. There are various symbols below each entry which suggest Karen Whitfield used a form of shorthand to describe her clients. It's not the easiest of ciphers to crack, but the hall porter at Abercorn House gave me a name and it checked out."
"Oh yes? What was the name?"
"Ashforth," Coghill said, "Jeremy Ashforth. He's represented by a quill and a box which I took to be a TV screen."
Tucker raised a sceptical eyebrow, asked to see the address book and spent some minutes browsing through it.
"We could waste a lot of time trying to unravel this code." He looked up, a bleak smile creasing his mouth.
Rowntree shrugged. "It could just be he was lucky to find him at home."
"I don't believe chance has anything to do with it. This murder has all the hallmarks of a professional hit and it's reasonable to assume the killer arranged to have the flat kept under surveillance."
"We've questioned all the residents and they don't remember seeing anybody loitering in the neighborhood." The Yorkshire-man glared at Tucker, his jaw set and bristling like a bulldog. "Furthermore, on-street parking is not allowed in Brompton Mews and the surrounding area is regularly patrolled by traffic wardens."
"I was referring to electronic surveillance, Superintendent."
Tucker was cool and disdainful. No two men could have been less alike: Rowntree the epitome of the gruff, hard-nosed detective, the other slim, distinguished-looking and easily mistaken for a Foreign Office diplomat in a well-cut suit that fitted him perfectly. It was obvious to Coghill that there was no love lost between them, and he wondered if they had crossed swords at some time in the past or whether they had simply taken an instant dislike to one another.
"You mean the place was bugged," Rowntree said in a flat voice.
"I think so."
"There was no sign of forcible entry."
"So what? The device was probably outside the flat, attached to the wall under the window ledge."
"We went through the flat with a fine-tooth comb, inside and out. And you know something, Chief Superintendent? We didn't find a bloody thing that bore the slightest resemblance to a bug."
The atmosphere was explosive. Franklin clucked his tongue, then glanced pointedly at the deputy assistant commissioner. Oblivious to what was going on around him, Kingman continued to doodle away in the notebook he was balancing on his knee. Out of the corner of his eye, Coghill watched him draw a large mushroom-shaped cloud.
"I suppose there's no harm in going over the place again," Franklin murmured.
"Provided it's done with a fresh eye."
The deputy assistant commissioner smiled at the girl from the typing pool who was recording the minutes of the meeting, and told her he was of course referring to the Regional Crime Squad. Having settled that point, he then asked who was going to bring them up to date on the Whitfield case.
"I think Tom should," Kingman said. "You'd only get it secondhand from me."
"Where would you like me to begin?" Coghill asked.
"With the safety-deposit box," Tucker said curtly.
"We found it contained nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-five pounds in cash." Coghill reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the address book. "In here are the code names of thirty-seven clients from whom Karen Whitfield was planning to collect close to two hundred thousand. Eleven of these can be eliminated, because they paid her off and presumably recovered the incriminating material she was holding on them. Moneywise, at least twelve among the remaining twenty-six are considerably better off now that she's dead, but this could be misleading. It's possible the man we're looking for had an entirely different motive."
"Like what?"
"Well, he could be a VIP who would be thrown out of office or compelled to resign if the seamy side of his life-style got into the newspapers."
"It's an interesting theory, Inspector, but can you prove it?"
"I think so. There are various symbols below each entry which suggest Karen Whitfield used a form of shorthand to describe her clients. It's not the easiest of ciphers to crack, but the hall porter at Abercorn House gave me a name and it checked out."
"Oh yes? What was the name?"
"Ashforth," Coghill said, "Jeremy Ashforth. He's represented by a quill and a box which I took to be a TV screen."
Tucker raised a sceptical eyebrow, asked to see the address book and spent some minutes browsing through it.
"We could waste a lot of time trying to unravel this code." He looked up, a bleak smile creasing his mouth.
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