He played the short piece of film again and again. Each time telling himself it would be for the last time. Then he played it again.
And suddenly, suddenly, he remembered what had been bugging him.
‘Oh my God, Saslow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got it.’
‘Got what, boss.’
‘I think I know who Bella Fairbrother’s mystery caller was. I may just have identified her killer. And, I have to tell you, Saslow, it defies belief.’
He paused. ‘I could still be wrong. I’ve finally realised what was bothering me. But it could be coincidence, or my memory might be playing tricks on me. Either way, Saslow, we have people to see and questions to ask. Nobby and her lot are all over Freddie Fairbrother. I think we can safely leave that end to them now. You and I need to get ourselves back to West Somerset, smartish.’
‘C’mon boss, put me out of my misery,’ said Saslow. ‘Where exactly are we going and why?’
‘We’re going to the home of the man we saw in that CCTV footage,’ said Vogel. ‘At least, I hope we are.’
‘But he was unidentifiable, boss. You couldn’t see anything really except a shape in a bloody great hooded raincoat. You couldn’t even see his hands because he was wearing gloves. Even the Met’s tech boys have already said there’s little or nothing they can do to make him identifiable.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. Thing is, though, from the start there was something that was bugging me about his body language, something that made me feel he was familiar to me. Did you notice what he was doing with his hands in that CCTV footage?’
‘Not really, boss. They were just loose in front of him, most of the time, from what I recall.’
‘Absolutely spot on, Saslow. But when he was speaking into the entry phone he began to repeatedly rub his hands together, palm to palm. It looked like a kind of nervous mannerism. You know, some people, when they’re under stress rub their chin, or bite their lip, or tap their fingers on something. Whatever. This character, even with gloves on, rubs his hands together. And I reckon he probably always does it. I was sure from the start that I had seen someone do that recently, exactly the same way. But I couldn’t remember who, or under what circumstances. And now, finally, it’s come to me.’
Vogel treated Saslow to a big, somewhat self-satisfied, grin.
‘Oh come on, for God’s sake, boss,’ said Saslow.
‘I think it’s Jack Kivel,’ said Vogel. ‘Kivel rubbed his hands together that way when we first went to his house and quizzed him about the fire and Sir John. Exactly that way. I’m sure of it. I think Jack Kivel killed Bella Fairbrother.’
Saslow whistled long and low. ‘Wow, boss, that’s a heck of a big assumption to make based on someone rubbing their hands together.’
‘Yes. Which is why we’re heading to the Kivel home before alerting anyone else. If Jack’s there, and can prove beyond any reasonable doubt that he’s not been out of the area all day, then he’s in the clear and I’m wrong. But, well, I can just see him in my mind’s eye, at his cottage, rubbing his hands together, perhaps a tad nervously, uncomfortable anyway. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, because clearly the loss of Blackdown Manor and Sir John’s death had been a big shock to the Kivels, even after the way they’d apparently been treated. But our Joe in the CCTV footage does exactly the same thing. And you know how pedantic I am about those sort of details, Saslow.’
Saslow knew. ‘I’d call it anal, boss,’ she said.
Twenty-Four
Freddie destroyed his phone straight away, as instructed. He took out the SIM card and put it in his pocket. Then he drowned the phone in the washbasin in his hotel bathroom and wrapped its remains in an old newspaper which he dropped into a bin in the hotel lobby.
He checked out and took the walkway to the Heathrow Express terminal five station, where he boarded the next train to Paddington.
All the time he was fighting to remain calm and in control, and not entirely succeeding. He was certainly in no state to notice the two MCIT officers, DCs Jarvis Jones and Pamela Bright, who took photographs of him in the hotel lobby and then followed him onto the train, even if they had not been highly trained architects of surveillance.
Jones and Bright boarded the same carriage as Freddie. They were both in their twenties, each dressed in their personal choice of the anonymous uniform of modern youth: hoody, tracksuit bottoms and trainers for Jones; leather jacket, torn skinny jeans and boots for Bright.
They sat holding hands and appeared to have eyes only for each other. They were the epitome of a young couple in love. If it had occurred to Freddie that he might be followed, he would have been highly unlikely to have them as his most probable tail from amongst the diverse group of passengers on the Express.
At Paddington Freddie went straight to the Vodafone shop where, as instructed, he acquired a new pay-as-you-go phone. Jones and Bright disappeared into the entrance of the Tube station. Not that Freddie had noticed. Their part of the surveillance operation was over.
A second team was waiting on the station, also male and female DCs, Ali Patel and Marsha McKay, this time dressed and behaving like city business colleagues. As soon as Freddie exited the Vodafone shop, Ali Patel made his way in. Patel showed his warrant card and was able to obtain details of Freddie’s transaction, including the number of the new phone he had acquired, thus allowing his future movements to be tracked should he at any stage give those following him the slip, which, as yet, he displayed no signs of attempting. It was abundantly clear that Freddie Fairbrother remained blissfully unaware of the surveillance operation focused on him.
Meanwhile DC McKay, pretending all the while to be speaking into her mobile, followed Freddie into the Paddington Hilton, through its entrance on the station concourse. In the lobby she sat down at once on a conveniently situated couch, and whilst continuing to appear to be talking into her phone, watched Freddie check in. Freddie was then directed across the lobby to the concierge’s desk, where he was handed a brown leather briefcase, which he carried with him to the elevator leading to the rooms.
As soon as the elevator doors closed behind him, McKay approached reception, showed her warrant card, confirmed that Freddie had indeed checked in for the night, and obtained the number of his room. She sat down again on one of the lobby couches and prepared to wait.
A few minutes later a black cab pulled up outside. It was actually a police surveillance vehicle, with another MIT officer, DC Joe Parker, at the wheel. Almost immediately Ali Patel appeared and climbed into the back. The cab did not move.
A few minutes after that Freddie Fairbrother stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. He was carrying the same brown leather briefcase, but other than that he was a man transformed. Indeed, McKay wondered if she might almost have missed him, were it not for the briefcase.
His unruly bleached blond hair had been slicked straight back. He was wearing a slightly stiff looking, but well-tailored, charcoal grey suit, a bright white shirt and a carefully knotted black tie.
He dropped off his room key at reception and left through the revolving doors onto Praed Street. McKay made no attempt to follow him. Her job was also done, for the time being, although she might be asked to wait at the Hilton for Fairbrother’s return; or take part in a room search, should her superiors request this and succeed in obtaining a warrant.