Chapter 1

 

The mid-October evening brought with it a cool chill as the wind played mischievously with the leaves that had already fallen onto the pavement and street. It was a grey evening, the cloud cover having progressively become lower as the afternoon passed. The woman, who was in her early thirties, walked briskly down the street her footsteps stirring the leaves on the path. She wore a scarf that almost covered her short blond hair. The grey coat that provided protection from the chill and her calf length boots made it impossible for any onlooker to guess at her ethnic origin. She walked briskly, with the air of someone who was in a hurry but unsure of where she was going.

In a moment she reached the end of the road. For a few seconds she paused as if wondering which way to turn. She looked behind her and observed the number on the nearest house. Fumbling for the tenth time in as many minutes in her coat pocket she retrieved a small white card. On it was inscribed a name, D.W. Palmer, his profession, and the address for which she was looking. She scrutinised it as if it were the first time she had read the inscription, when in reality she knew every detail by heart. This time she held on to the card as she turned left and continued her brisk stroll. She passed five dwellings, each almost identical to the last. At the sixth in the terrace she stopped and turned to look at the door. She paused and looked a final time at the small white card. Looking up she spotted the neat bronze numbers perched just above the doorway. She stepped forward and pressed the doorbell to the right of the dark blue door. Inside the dwelling a double chime sounded. While she waited she shuffled her feet, not because she was trying to keep warm but because she was nervous.

Inside the building every movement of the woman as she had approached the house had been carefully observed. From an upper room the man had a perfect view of what was happening outside. It was not his usual practice to observe a client in such a way, but the phone call a little over an hour ago had left him intrigued. As it was clear that time would be of the very essence he had decided to begin his assessment even before his client had introduced herself.

Damien Palmer had finished business for the day some time before the phone had started ringing. Indeed he had been in the shower and had only just managed to intervene before the answer-phone would have taken the message. Now he was dressed for the evening. Smart casual wear had seemed to him to be the order of the day. As he watched the woman approach the house he detected the anxiety in her stride, and the one moment she glanced upwards he saw the strain in her face. There was perhaps, for a fleeting moment, something else, but Palmer could not be sure what.

The doorbell rang a second time and Palmer was already at the bottom of the stairs. He passed his office where the door was still ajar. The beginnings of the shelves of leather bound books could just be depicted. Had the door been completely open the full grandeur of his collection would have been evident. Not only that but the oak desk that grandly occupied the centre of the room added to the appearance of opulence. On the desk were two objects. The first looked like it belonged there. The ink blotter had been recently refreshed and was neatly lined up, a pristine sheet of blotting paper evident to the observer. The second object looked incongruous, for it belonged to a different era. The small black box lay closed on the right side of the desk. To Palmer this was possibly the most important piece of equipment he possessed. It was his lifeline to so much. Once activated, the lap top computer provided him with a lot of what was needed for him to do his job.

The door was not locked and even before the tones of the second chime had passed into history Palmer was looking out at his new client.

"Mr. Palmer?" she enquired purposefully.

"Damien Palmer at your service, and I take it that you are Miss Helen Cavendish?"

"You take it correctly. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. Mr. Goodland spoke very highly of you. I hope you can help."

"Yes, well he would, wouldn't he? Oh, I am sorry, do come in."

"Thank you." The door closed behind the woman as she entered the hallway. "And why would he think highly of you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well," he paused for a moment, "it's nothing really."

"It may be nothing to you Mr. Palmer, but as my liberty may depend on your skills I think I have a right to know."

"Coffee? Tea perhaps? Please, do go in." Palmer gestured towards his office and even pushed the door open.

"Coffee, thank you."

"Fine. Please do take a seat, I won't be a minute."

"But you still haven't told me why my solicitor thinks so highly of you."

"I will do in the fullness of time. Not that we have much of it. First though, coffee."

He allowed her to enter the room and then made his exit to the kitchen. In fact he always had a percolator running and the coffee was already prepared, but this was one of his idiosyncrasies, allowing his client time to settle down. "After all," he had reasoned not half an hour earlier, "it might be the last decent cup of coffee she gets for a long while." He sat in the kitchen for a couple of minutes waiting. There was no real need to rush at this precise moment. The rush would come later. Mr. David Goodland had been quite sure of that. Palmer already had one advantage over the woman in his study. Goodland had phoned him while she was evidently in his company. His tone of voice had expressed the urgency of the matter and he had been very persuasive in getting Palmer to see his client that same evening. But the real advantage was the fact that with his client already on her way Goodland had taken the trouble to ring a second time to give Palmer more comprehensive details of the situation. In fact the conversation had taken several minutes and Palmer had only just begun to form a plan of action when the woman had arrived. The coffee ruse was simply giving him a few moments to think.

"Coffee. I hope you like ground. I can't stand that awful instant stuff you get so much of these days."

"Ground coffee is just fine, thank you." Cavendish was sitting on the "interview" seat that faced the desk.

"White? Sugar?"

"White, no sugar, thanks you." Though evidently nervous, her voice was clear and polite.

The preliminaries over, Palmer sidled into his well-upholstered leather swivel chair and turned to face his client.

"Miss Cavendish I understand that you are in the gravest of situations and that you need my services to help you out of the gravity. Is that correct?"

"Yes Mr. Palmer, in a nutshell that is correct." She reached down to the bag that she had deposited on the floor. She pulled open the top and rummaged inside for a moment. She withdrew her hand that held in it an A4 sized manila envelope. She handed it across the desk. "Mr. Goodland asked me to give you this," she concluded.

"Oh good, now if you would give me just one moment to look at this," he began as he slit open the top of the sealed envelope, "and then you can tell me all about it from the very beginning."

He observed that the front of the letter had his name neatly typed in the middle, and curiously on the top had been hastily scrawled the two words "By Hand" in black ball-pen. He opened the envelope and carefully extracted the contents. The two pictures he scanned over and put to the back of the pile. He hastily read the introductory letter, though there was nothing in its content that he was not already aware of. He found the cheque that the letter promised. The thousand pounds would probably cover most of his immediate disbursements and in any event he knew that the budget for this case was significantly greater. He then focused on a report. It was not particularly long and having scanned it he looked up at his new client.

"And so Miss Cavendish, your version of events?" His enquiry carried with it a smile that was deliberately disarming but not overly friendly.

She took a couple of sips of coffee and began her story. As she spoke, Palmer made a few notes. He was a quick writer but not particularly neat. Her story continued for some fifteen minutes and as she told it she slowly, but perceptibly, became more agitated.

"And the long and the short of it is this," she said finally. "If you can't help me then I will go down for something I didn't do and the real criminal will get away with it. In short Mr. Palmer, I need an alibi, because it was sixteen months ago and I haven't got a clue where I was or what I was doing at the time of the accident."

"Hmm, and why the urgency tonight?"

"Well," she paused, "after the inquest it looked like the whole thing was a terrible accident. Now, though, in the past few weeks there's been that awful story put out," and she pointed at the report Palmer was once again holding. "It's anonymous of course but it suggests I arranged for them to be killed, and it's not true." By now the woman had started to sob, the faint streaks of tears falling down her cheeks. Anyway Mr. Goodland found out today that a writ has been issued for my arrest. Indeed, Mr. Goodland feels it would be best if I went and surrendered voluntarily, but, oh dear I don't know what to do."

"A tricky one I admit. And you do realise that by giving you this chance to speak to me your solicitor has placed himself in a very awkward position?"

"He has?" The woman looked puzzled.

"Of course." Palmer sounded surprised at the woman's apparent ignorance. "He knows about the writ and has had contact with you. He has a duty to contact the police. In fact, he could well have placed himself in a very difficult situation."

"But my visit to him was strictly off the record. There is no record of it, or of my coming here."

"That's as may be, but there is always a risk. Someone could have been outside his offices."

"But I didn't meet him there."

"No. Really?" The question was made with a mixture of surprise at the revelation and also a degree of incredulity. "Forgive me but this letter of introduction has been typed, and so has the envelope. Also your solicitor phoned me from his offices, I checked just to be sure."

"Oh that was easy. We actually met somewhere completely away from his offices, just because he was sure they are being watched. He had the letter and envelope prepared for me before I met him and all he did was set the Call Forward facility of his office phone to call you, and then he phoned his office from his mobile phone. I'd have thought you'd have known about those kinds of things." Her voice was almost triumphant, but the tinge of anxiety remained and she continued to sob at intervals.

"That is very clever indeed. Perhaps your solicitor has missed his vocation. For your sake, I hope he hasn't. But why all the secrecy?"

"For the simple reason I had to talk to you before I got arrested. The rest of my life depended on it. You've got to find me that alibi."

"I see." Palmer rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the situation. "Now we must consider the idea of turning yourself in. On the one hand your solicitor is right, but on the other it's going to make talking to you a lot trickier. Is there anything you haven't told me that I should know about?"

"I don't think so."

"And you say your flat was searched thoroughly by the police straight after the accident and they found nothing?"

"That's correct."

"That was sixteen months ago, so they are sure to want to search it again. I need three hours. Can you give me that?"

"I suppose so."

"There must be no supposing about it. Those three hours are vital. Can you give me three hours, or not?

"Yes. I'll just go to ground for a bit."

"Excellent. In that case, can I borrow your flat keys for a minute?" Even as he was asking Palmer was opening a drawer on the left side of his desk. "Now, you're not supposed to see what happens next." With that he took the two keys that she proffered and lifted the lid of the first of the two little metal boxes he had extracted. With infinite care he gently pressed the first key into the waxy substance in the box. That done he did the same with the second. When both impressions had been made he took a tissue and some spirit and carefully cleaned both keys before handing them back to the owner.

"Now, Miss Cavendish, do I have your permission to enter your premises?"

"Of course. What should I do next?"

"Well, I would suggest that you find somewhere to rest for a few hours, a pub or cafe, and then go home to bed. In the morning you should go back to Mr. Goodland and ask him to accompany you to the police station. I promise you, when you get home you will not know I've been there."

With that Palmer rose from the desk. The two boxes lay where he had left them. He ushered the woman to the door and bade her farewell. As he shut the door the genial smile on his face faded as he prepared for the task ahead. He knew he had to work fast and that in all probability he was too late anyway. He also knew that he had been less than honest with the woman and that it was very likely she would never know whether he had been to the flat or not, but he had not the heart to tell her what was likely to happen that evening.

Palmer worked quickly. In a few minutes he had poured a small quantity of molten metal into the moulds he had made. The metal spat at him as he poured it in. Then he waited for ten interminable minutes while the metal cooled. While it cooled he busied himself around his residence. Quickly he assembled the equipment he would need. He checked the camera was loaded, and that the flashlight and tape-machine were in working order. For some reason he also always carried a notebook, though he rarely wrote in it. The entire collection was soon stowed in a nondescript, brown, top-opening brief case. Then, and with great care, he lifted the new keys out of the moulds. He looked at them with the scrutiny of an expert. Satisfied, he placed both keys in his pocket and in a moment had left his terraced house.

He walked quickly but none too hurriedly to the nearest tube station. He had a good memory and knew exactly where he was heading. He carried the address in his wallet but was sure he would not need to check its details. As he walked he kept watching; watching in case he was being watched. After all, the writ must have been issued some three or four hours earlier and in any event from the documents he had seen that evening it seemed more than likely that someone other than the police were more than a little bit interested in his new client. Palmer considered that it was quite possible that the woman had been followed to his house. If so, then he could be followed now. By the time he reached the station he was virtually sure that he had walked unobserved.

The tube journey was short, a mere five stops, and Palmer alighted. With him came a few commuters finding their way home. It was a cool evening and no one seemed in the mood for conversation, not that commuters seemed to converse much anyway. As if this was the same journey that he had made every day for a few years, Palmer strode up the stairs out of the station. At the entrance was a concourse that led out into the taxi parking area. Beyond the taxi ranks was the High Street. Palmer walked out of the station and passed the taxis. Once on the road he turned right as if walking up into Wimbledon Village. Crossing a set of traffic lights and then a second set he walked quickly as the red bus came into view. He had just reached the bus stop when the bus pulled up.

"A stroke of luck", he whispered to himself. "Could have waited ages here at this time of night". He entered the bus through the front door and stated his destination before paying the fare. Looking round he eventually took a seat at the rear of the compartment and sat back to observe his fellow passengers. His observations were not totally benign. It was not just that he had a genuine curiosity about other people, but on more than one occasion his life had been saved because he had spotted something in time. Now he looked around, casually but with purpose. The bus began its climb up the hill into the village.

He watched carefully as the bus passed through the village, the narrow street with the mini roundabouts at either end, past the familiar pub and stables on the left, and then on towards the common. The bus stopped briefly at the allotted places but with so few passengers each stop was more of a formality than a necessity. Finally Palmer stood up and pressed the red button signalling the driver he wished to alight at the next stop. He watched purposefully as the bus slowed down. He knew where the flat was located. It was normally a short walk of no more than five minutes from the bus stop but he wanted to be sure he was not being followed. So, instead of taking the short, direct, route, Palmer decided a more circuitous approach would be preferable. The bus had stopped now and the doors hissed open. He stepped down onto the pavement and stood there as the bus continued on its journey. With the road clear he crossed over and began the route to the flat. Although time was short he wanted to be sure he was on his own, though once the bus had started up again it seemed evident that he was. He walked purposefully down the road, taking first a left turn and then a right turn, until he found himself in the road he was searching for. He passed a grey Volvo. As he did so he noticed that the driver was reading a street map.

Somewhere in Palmer's brain an alarm bell started to ring. He was now less than two minutes walk from the flat and he knew the street map gag of old. It was one he had performed countless times, and seeing it performed here in the street as he passed by sent his adrenaline racing to a new level. As a direct consequence his walk became even brisker. He was fully fifty yards past the grey Volvo when he heard an engine start behind him. Not looking round, yet listening with great intent, he continued to walk. He saw the block of flats across the road from where he was walking, but decided to ignore them for now. The engine was still sounding behind him; a low, slow sound. When he was a few yards past the block of flats the car suddenly roared its engine and passed by him. He breathed a little easier as the car disappeared from view.

Turning back on his tracks he made straight for the flats. He passed through the gap in the low hedge at the front and stood at the front door.

"Damn", he cursed softly to himself. "Might have known there'd be one of those, and I didn't even think to ask her for the number." The entry-phone and combination number pad waited silently. He looked at the buttons and then around him. He spotted the bundle of newspapers lying to the side of the door and picked them up. Although the little white name plate next to Cavendish's flat number was not filled in it did not bother him. Most of them were blank, as if the owners were trying to retain some kind of anonymity whilst in their dwellings. He pressed the top buzzer, more out of habit than anything.

"Hello." The female voice crackled slightly over the intercom.

"Paperboy," Palmer introduced himself. "Guardian. Can you let me in to drop them off."

"Don't you normally leave them outside?" The voice sounded annoyed at having been interrupted by a mere paperboy.

"Yeah, have done up 'til now. But the boss says we have to put 'em inside if we can, "cause when it rains they get wet otherwise." Over the intercom his voice sounded just like a teenage boy to the occupant of the penthouse flat.

"Oh well, in that case I suppose I'd better open it for you."

"Thanks." Even as he spoke he heard the buzzer indicate that the magnetic lock had been released for a few seconds. He pushed on the door and entered the block of flats. Once inside he held the door for a few seconds and then let it shut behind him.

The flats were arranged on four floors. There were four flats on each of the first three floors, with a single penthouse suite on the top floor, filling the eaves of the five years old building. Cavendish lived at flat 7, which, Palmer had reckoned, was on the first floor. For a moment as he started to climb the stairs he wondered how well the occupants knew each other. Quite well, he guessed, as he reached the first landing. He pushed open the fire door and entered the common landing for flats five to eight. The flats were arranged two on each side, with a window at the opposite end of the landing to the fire door. He walked towards the window and glanced out. It looked quiet outside, probably because at that precise moment it was.

His gloved hand rummaged in his pockets and sought out the two keys he had fabricated a little over an hour earlier. Holding the keys he glanced at his watch briefly before inserting the "Chubb" type key in the lower lock. Gently he started to turn it. The key moved a fraction and then stuck. He tried turning it in the other direction but was greeted with the same result. He removed the key from the lock and held it up to the landing light for closer inspection.

The key had a small fragment of moulding covering one of the gaps between the key's teeth. Palmer reached into his pocket and extracted the small file that he had learned to carry for such events. He gently filed the fragment of metal and after a minute re-inspected the key under the light. Satisfied with his work he again tried the key in the lock. This time it turned easily and he heard the lock slide open. He withdrew the key and was about to turn his attention to the upper "Yale" type lock when he heard the outer door open below him. Breathing somewhat more quickly he placed the second of his keys in the lock. With a quick and silent prayer that this one would work he started to turn it. He could hear footsteps on the stairway below. The key began to turn but the lock seemed unduly stiff. Whilst Palmer did not want to turn the key too aggressively, as he was aware that his home made varieties were not that strong, the urgency of the situation demanded speed rather than expediency.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered as he exerted more pressure on the key. The steps were now getting closer. The door gave as the latch yielded under the turning key. Palmer passed inside without a pause and gently closed the door. From within he placed the first key into the lower lock and in a moment the door was securely locked. Palmer heard the fire door on the landing opening and then heard one of the other flats being entered. Finally he dared to breathe. Still wearing the light gloves he pulled the small flashlight torch from the right pocket of his coat. Switching it on he quickly picked out the details of the hallway of the flat. It was just as his client had described it.

He felt in his pocket and turned on the tape recorder. He pulled the slim tie-clip microphone out of the pocket and fastened it to his lapel.

In a matter of a few moments Palmer had entered the woman's bedroom. His examination was as swift as it was thorough and all the time he muttered his observations into the microphone. In less than two minutes he had checked the drawers and wardrobe. His gloved hand felt between the bed base and the mattress but found nothing. The carpet was stuck to the concrete floor and so could not be used for hiding things under. In seconds he had entered the bathroom. Again his examination lasted a couple of minutes and again he exited the room having found nothing of interest. There were now two rooms left and a small storage cupboard. The cupboard was neatly arranged. Sheets, blankets and towels were neatly stacked on the upper shelf. Below the shelves was a vacuum cleaner, an ironing board and a couple of large, blue vases. Again Palmer made a quick examination but found nothing. He glanced at his watch by the torchlight but appeared unconcerned. With luck, he thought, he had another hour and a half before he might be disturbed - with luck.

The kitchen was clean and tidy. The cupboards contained exactly what would be expected in a kitchen, and nothing else. Palmer methodically examined each and every drawer and still he continued to talk into the microphone. Finally he had completed his search of the kitchen and still had not found what he was looking for.

He entered the final room of the flat a little more than ten minutes after he had entered the flat. The lounge/diner was again clean and tidy. The furniture comprised a two-seater sofa, a casual chair, a dining table and four chairs, a bookcase, TV and Video ensemble and a midi hi-fi unit. Palmer observed all this and then turned his attentions to the bookcase. There was only one shelf of books, the other shelves containing glassware and other assorted ornaments. Palmer duly began to methodically examine each book in turn. Removing the book he turned it upside down and then shook it. The first half dozen books yielded nothing. The seventh book was a slim paperback and as Palmer performed his ritual act of shaking the book a small piece of paper fell to the floor. Palmer picked it up, smiled slightly and carefully placed it on the table. His small pocket camera was soon retrieved from the brown case and in a moment he had recorded the contents of the piece of paper. This action complete, he returned the piece of paper to the book and returned the book to the shelf. He continued with the search and found three further pieces of paper that interested him. He meticulously photographed each item as he uncovered it. All the time the tape recorder was noting down his audible observations.

Finally Palmer turned his attention to the sofa. He removed the cushions and felt carefully down the side. On the second side he examined he withdrew his hand holding a small dark-blue pocket diary. Looking at it he let out a soft whistle. He thumbed through the pages. It was indeed a diary. A diary for the previous year, and as he looked at it he noted that his client was one of those people who kept notes for virtually every day. He reached the back of the book and found the address pages. On them were neatly scribed the names of more than thirty people. Palmer looked at it as he spoke.

"This diary," he continued to speak into the microphone, "contains far more information than I can copy at this time. It will have to be removed from the scene for more detailed examination and then dealt with at a later date. I simply don't have the time to record all its details at this time."

Palmer then placed the notebook in a clear plastic envelope that he then folded and placed carefully in his inside pocket.

He turned to leave the lounge and as he did so he heard the buzzer on the outer door as its sound broke the silence of the evening. He waited quietly in the dark for two minutes until he could be sure that whoever was entering the building had also entered their flat. He reached the front door of the flat and out of habit peered through the spy-hole. Standing outside the door were two tall gentlemen dressed in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police. Palmer stopped breathing and very quietly retreated back to the lounge.

He waited for perhaps five seconds before he heard the first knock on the door. As it sounded his heart began to beat faster. He could do nothing but wait and hope that they would not try to gain access to the flat. If they did, he reasoned, he could face a few difficult questions about his presence there, and his possession of the diary. He waited quietly, listening for any sound. The lounge door was open and he heard the second knock, a shade harder than the first but still polite.

"Can't see if there's any lights on inside." Palmer could just see the landing light as one of the gentlemen outside pushed open the letterbox to look inside. "Doesn't look like it, I can't see a thing, and it's so dark."

"Hmm. Let me have a look."

The letterbox was closed momentarily as the two gentlemen outside swapped positions.

"Nah, you're right. She can't be in. Better radio it in. Oscar two zero to Charlie Foxtrot Lima, over."

Palmer could almost hear the crackling, muffled noise of a response.

"There's no response from the flat Serge. Appears to be in darkness and there's no sounds within. What now, over?"

Again the muffled crackling response was virtually inaudible from within the flat.

"Oscar two zero, understood."

"Well?"

"We have to wait outside for a bit. They're still trying to locate her brief but he isn't at home either. So we wait. Let's go."

Palmer heard the fire door on the landing being opened and then closed, and a few seconds later he heard the buzzer as the outside door was opened. He stood up and carefully went to look out of the darkened window. He saw the two police officers return to their car that was situated just to the left of the flats.

"Right," he said to himself, "time to go." With that Palmer quickly returned to the front door, peered through the spy-hole and in less than thirty seconds had passed through the door and re-locked it. He pocketed the two keys and began to descend the stairs. His brown case swung loosely at his side, and he looked exactly as if he were an insurance salesman leaving a client.