Mali was pleased to see him again, but looked down at his luggage with concern. ‘Very well, thank you — but Mr Gold, you shouldn’t carry all that! Please, let me help.’
‘Nonsense! I wouldn’t dream of it. We’re off the plane, so you no longer have to wait on me. In fact,’ his bright smile returned at full intensity, ‘perhaps you’d like to join me for a drink?’
The following morning, Brownlow was at his desk in the Murder Investigation Team’s New Scotland Yard offices. He shook his head disconsolately as he flipped back through the coroner’s report, hoping that some clue he had missed would jump out at him. ‘I just don’t get it. None of this makes any sense. We’ve got a more accurate time of death, but the CCTV shows that nobody left the first class cabin.’ He glanced at his computer. A window showed the footage from the camera covering the exterior doors. The image was distorted, taken with a fisheye lens to cover the whole of the passage traversing the fuselage, and most of the galley was out of sight behind a partition wall, but it had still provided him with a clear enough view to see that the only people moving around the cabin at the approximate time of Perch’s murder had been the stewardesses — and none had gone beyond the service section, ruling out any possibility of their passing the murder weapon to someone in another section of the plane. ‘So the gun has to be in there — but there’s no sign of it.’
Meadows was already on her second coffee of the shift. ‘The preliminary ballistics report doesn’t make things any clearer, either,’ she said, holding up several pages of printouts.
‘I know. Perch died from a .22 hollowpoint bullet fired into his heart at close range, but… well, you read it. I’m starting to think the question we should be asking isn’t “where’s the gun?” but “was there a gun?” Nothing fits a normal gunshot wound. And then there’s this.’ He indicated a plastic evidence bag on the desk, a small object found in the editor’s suite inside it. ‘I’m pretty sure the tests’ll confirm the blood traces on it are Perch’s, and the hole in the top looks the right width to fit a .22 bullet… but what is the thing?’
‘Maybe it’s how the killer got the bullet through security,’ suggested Meadows, though with little conviction. ‘A way to hide it from x-rays?’
He shook his head. ‘The lab says it’s some sort of plastic. It’s strong, but the airport scanners would still be able to see if there was anything metal inside it.’ He picked up the bag, staring at the item within. It was a cylinder of a hard, pale grey material around two inches long, the bloodied end somewhat bulbous. ‘And look at it. It’s exactly the kind of thing any half-awake security guard should instantly spot on the scan and say “Excuse me, sir or madam, can you explain what this is?”’
‘Well, it was a late-night flight. Maybe the airport staff weren’t awake.’
‘Maybe.’ Brownlow regarded the mysterious object for a long moment before returning the bag to the desk. ‘But I think we’ll be burning the midnight oil on this. The press is all over it, of course — especially Perch’s paper.’
‘Yeah, I saw the headlines on the way in this morning. And they’re loving the fact that Leviticus Gold was on the plane too.’
‘I just hope nobody starts implying that he was the killer. If we do end up nicking him for it, he’s halfway to winning a mistrial on the grounds that the press has biased every potential juror in the country against him…’ He broke off as his mobile phone rang. ‘Brownlow.’
‘Ah, good morning, Detective Inspector,’ said a chirpy voice. ‘Leviticus Gold here.’
‘Speak of the devil,’ Brownlow muttered, getting a quizzical look from his subordinate.
‘Were you just talking about me?’ said Gold. ‘Oh, good. I’m sure you know the Oscar Wilde quote on that subject.’
‘What can I do for you, Mr Gold?’ said Brownlow, becoming impatient. ‘Have you remembered something that might help us with the case?’
‘Oh, much more than that. I’ve solved it for you.’ As Brownlow sat in momentary dumbfounded silence, he went on: ‘If you’d care to pop round to my flat, I’ll tell you how Desmond Perch was killed — and by whom.’
‘I can’t believe we’re actually going to talk to him,’ said Meadows with irritation as she got out of the car. ‘How do we know this isn’t some publicity stunt?’
‘He’s already in the papers often enough. I’m not sure how he could get any more publicity short of actually confessing to the murder,’ Brownlow pointed out. He looked up at the elegant Edwardian building outside which they had parked. ‘It’s a lot nicer round here than Ilford, I’ll give you that. Wonder how much it costs to live in a place like this?’
‘Mayfair? Way too much. I mean, it costs nearly five quid just to park in the street for an hour.’
‘Speaking of which, Meadows, it’s your turn to pay.’
‘Aw, sir!’
Brownlow smirked, then went to the building’s entrance as Meadows reluctantly took out her phone to pay the parking fee. He pushed one of the buttons on the entryphone. A short wait, then a woman’s strongly accented voice hesitantly said, ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Gold’s flat?’
‘Ah… yes?’
‘We’re from the Metropolitan Police. Mr Gold asked us to come. Is he there?’
A pause, then: ‘Yes, he says come up.’
‘Thank you.’
Meadows joined him as the door buzzer rasped to admit them. ‘Sounds like he’s got company.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Like I said, he’s always in the papers.’
They entered and took a lift up to the fifth floor. Brownlow knocked at the door of flat 10. A young woman opened it. Mutual recognition; he with surprise, she with a mixture of discomfort and embarrassment. Gold’s guest was one of the Air Thailand cabin crew. ‘Oh! Inspector Brownlow,’ she said. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Miss… Kanthachai, isn’t it?’ he replied.
‘Yes, yes. Please come in.’
Mali showed the two detectives into the flat, leading them down a long hall into a large lounge. Tall windows overlooked a tree-lined mews, other expensive apartment buildings across it. A grand piano occupied one corner; a bar stocked with a large and varied selection of drinks another. The furniture was minimalist in style, maximalist in price.
Brownlow’s gaze immediately went to the walls, which were covered with framed pictures of their host. It took him only a moment to realise that they were arranged chronologically. By one door was a picture of a teenaged Leviticus Gold against a mountainous backdrop, supporting a pair of skis with one arm while holding up a trophy in his other hand. Beside it was a slightly older Gold in a seat of an eight-man rowing boat, looking extremely pleased with himself; then a costumed and crowned Gold on stage holding up a skull as Hamlet; a blown-up newspaper cutting which Brownlow assumed was a glowing review of the same performance.
He turned, skipping forward through the man’s life. Graduating with a backdrop of Oxbridge spires; standing with a group of then-young actors and comedians, Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie amongst them; wearing helmet and goggles, about to parachute from a plane; two gold records flanking a blow-up of an album cover with vivid, and very dated, typography. Brownlow remembered that his daughter had owned it — and played it to death — about twenty years earlier. He imagined she would be impressed that he had met Leviticus Gold, even now.
A small gap followed, as if a picture had been removed, then came another blow-up, this of a novel’s jacket with Gold’s name far larger than the title; a weary but triumphant Gold on a hilltop overlooking an endless swathe of jungle; shaking hands with three different prime ministers; on the set of a chat show, beaming at the camera alongside Jonathan Ross and Tom Cruise…