Chapter 22
Wendy and Larry, armed with the information they had received at Eton College, headed back to Challis Street Police Station. It was clear that Allerton had maintained contact with his childhood friends Jacob Griffiths and Miles Fortescue, but so far they had not been able to pinpoint Keith Codrington.
The team were pulled in together on Wendy and Larry’s return. DCS Goddard was present.
‘We need to interview Griffiths and Fortescue,’ Isaac said.
‘Are they the people running the show?’ Goddard asked.
‘We’re not certain. Our suspicions lie with another man.’
‘Then call him in.’
‘Not so easy. He’s the mystery man.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Keith Codrington, the second cousin of Lord Allerton, was educated at Eton. He’s the same age as Allerton. We’ve been checking his background. Bridget, what do you have?’
‘Keith Humphrey Codrington, age forty-two. His father was a doctor, his mother a housewife. He attended Eton College until his eighteenth birthday and then went to Oxford University. He graduated from there with a degree in applied mathematics. After that, he spent many years in the Middle East as a shipping agent. He returned to this country eighteen months ago.’
‘What type of shipping?’ Isaac asked.
‘Oil, one way. Livestock, the other,’ Bridget said.
‘As well as drugs?’ Larry speculated.
‘There are no criminal cases against Keith Codrington. Also, he’s a member of Mensa.’
‘Smart then,’ Goddard said.
‘Smart enough to fool us, if he’s our man,’ Isaac said.
‘That’s as may be, but we need him and the other two you mentioned in here today. You know the alternatives.’
‘That bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Larry, an update on Walters.’
‘Just one thing,’ Bridget interjected. ‘They found the Land Rover less than fifty miles from here. The number plate had been changed but the engine number tallies, and there is significant damage to the front of the vehicle.’
‘Commensurate with pushing a Bentley off the road?’ Goddard asked.
‘They’re checking now, but the advice I’ve received is that it’s possible.’
‘Who’s there?’ Isaac asked.
‘Gordon Windsor is heading out there.’
‘Tell the locals to leave the vehicle alone until he gets there. There could still be prints.’
‘Do you have an address for Codrington?’ Goddard asked.
‘The only address is bogus. We believe he was using aliases.’
‘But if he was involved with the other three, they must have been visible.’
‘We’re following up on that now,’ Larry said.
‘What do we have on Miles Fortescue?’
‘We know he’s an MP, and that he’s financially secure.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He owns a house in Belgravia.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Not yet. We’re going there, or to the Houses of Parliament, after this meeting.’
‘Very well. You’d better caution him and bring him to the station.’
‘He’ll claim some sort of immunity,’ Wendy said.
‘He has no immunity,’ DCS Goddard said. ‘He’s only an MP and not a very effective one at that.’
‘The DCS is right. He’s either interviewed in front of his political colleagues or here. It’s up to him.’
‘What about Griffiths?’ Isaac asked.
‘Turn on the television every night. He’s always there,’ Wendy said.
‘Apart from his supermarkets, what else do we know about him? Bridget, any updates?’
‘Jacob Aloysius Griffiths, age forty-three and the son of a farmer. He left Eton at the age of eighteen and went to agricultural college. He made his first million by the age of twenty, lost it all within one year. After that a succession of businesses, some good, some bad, until he hit the jackpot with supermarkets.’
‘Where did you get all that information?’ Isaac asked.
‘Wikipedia.’
‘You’ve only one more day to wrap this up. Are you certain these are the key people?’ Goddard asked.
‘It all points to them.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right. Any stuff-ups on this one and you know what happens.’
‘I’ve already been there once, sir,’ Isaac replied.’
***
Steve Walters was feeling good. The money he had received for his latest killing had given him enough to plan his future. It had been a few grim weeks hiding out from the police, scurrying around in Manchester, remaining unshaven and not going to the gym. He could feel the flabbiness in his body; he intended to rectify the situation as soon as possible.
It had not been difficult to travel from where he had been staying, a nondescript hotel in a nondescript suburb in Manchester, over to Derbyshire, only forty minutes to drive if he had been driving a decent car. The man on the end of the phone introduced himself as Zachary. Walters knew it was not his correct name, but what did a name matter; it was what he had to say that was important. ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’
‘What for?’ Walters had asked.
‘For what you’re good at.’
‘Who?’ There was no need for further explanation. Steve Walters knew only one trade: how to kill a man. A trade that Her Majesty’s Government had taught him well when he had served with the British Army behind
