Revenge of the Deadly Dozen, page 20
‘She loved chemistry too,’ said Thomas. ‘Although she was a headteacher, she took a keen interest in all sorts of subjects, especially after her volunteering work during the war. I imagine that’s why The Twelve took an interest in her.’
Their phones pinged with a group WhatsApp message from Martin accompanied by a photograph of the rolling hills of Worcestershire with Veronica and Catherine waving in the foreground. ‘Time for a shower,’ said Monica, stretching. ‘And then maybe a half hour playing the cello.’
‘Need any help? With the shower part.’
‘Always.’
47
That evening, after Martin had returned the Range Rover, albeit with considerable reluctance, to Ted Black, The Twelve met at their Clarges Mews meeting space, a state-of-the-art multimedia room hidden in a grimily nondescript alcove near Piccadilly which boasted a screen on which Graham could project his photographs. Suzanne had been invited but had politely declined as she had a long-standing dinner appointment with the Shadow Home Secretary, a prospect about which she was genuinely excited. In addition, the commissioner had explained to Monica that although she was aware of what was going to happen, equally she didn’t necessarily need to know all the details. ‘Just try not to leave too much evidence,’ the commissioner had warned. ‘I know the chief constable at West Mercia well enough to put the brakes on any potential investigation but it would be far easier for all concerned if there wasn’t an investigation in the first place.’ Monica had said she would bear that in mind.
As it was an evening meeting, all those who weren’t driving – everyone apart from Martin – were invited to dip into the drinks cabinet. Catherine, Belinda and Veronica decided to share a bottle of pink champagne as it was just about still summer while the others went for whiskies, gins and, in Terry’s case, absinthe because he simply wanted to try it. After one sip, he decided it reminded him of cough mixture from his childhood and reverted to an aged Irish whiskey.
The cabbie explained their route in and out of the Malverns and pointed out that there were only two places where their vehicle could feasibly show up on number plate recognition cameras, both times as it crossed a main road at box junctions. ‘I’ve been anticipating this,’ said Owen, ‘so I’ve acquired a jamming device which you can use to remotely switch off the cameras for a few seconds as you pass through. It’s illegal, of course, but then the best things always are. Essentially it’s like an invisibility cloak for the car when you need it. Don’t be tempted to use it on the motorway, though, as you’ll be using it permanently and the minute you go past a traffic police vehicle, they’ll detect it and pull you over.’
‘And that would be embarrassing for Suzanne and for all of us,’ said Monica.
Graham’s photographs showed the McMullan house from three different angles; the front of the building taken from the hilltop along with images of the side and the back of the house which were less sharp as they were taken from a greater distance. There were close-ups of the locks on McMullan’s front door as well as the lock on what was in theory a cellar door. ‘All straightforward,’ claimed Terry. ‘And seemingly no alarms which seems foolhardy in such a secluded spot but maybe the local crime rate is low.’
‘Either that or the local criminals know not to go there for their own safety,’ suggested Chris ominously.
‘He’s in his mid-sixties,’ said Veronica. ‘How dangerous could he be?’ There was a brief silence while she glanced around the room at the assembled assassins and everyone else listened for the gentle tinkling of pennies dropping. David whistled, an embarrassed descending note. ‘Okay, fair enough.’ She sighed and sought refuge in her glass of fizz.
For the next hour, the group debated various options until it was agreed that they needed to get McMullan out of the house so that they could do a proper study of the interior. After that, they would probably need to act quickly to finalise a plan to murder the retired detective. Finally they settled on an idea suggested by Veronica who felt that it was important that she played a significant role in the conclusion to the case.
She would email McMullan saying that she was researching a new television programme, presented by her, in which people with interesting lives who perhaps weren’t as well known as they should be, were interviewed. In the email, she would say how much she personally valued the work of the police and felt that he, McMullan, was a perfect example of an unsung hero. ‘According to Suzanne,’ said Monica, ‘he’s quite a narcissist so it’s something he just might respond to.’
The group that had already visited the Malverns would return along with Terry, and while Veronica and Martin, posing as the series director, talked to McMullan at the tea shop in the local village, the locksmith would gain access to the house and he, Graham and Catherine would do a full survey. Meanwhile, Monica, Thomas and Belinda would stay in London and work on possible ways to complete the job. Martin asked, or rather begged, to please borrow the Range Rover again and Monica said that she felt certain that would be allowed. ‘It’s a seven seater so there’s plenty of room,’ the cabbie reassured everyone.
The following day, Owen created a glossy and expensive-looking website for Three Times Four Productions with a contact email address from which Veronica could approach McMullan. The site included a reasonably accurate biography of Veronica which listed all of her television series plus a couple of minor awards as well as a completely fictitious biography for Martin which claimed co-directing roles for various internationally acclaimed but unknown movies and bio-pics. Martin’s suggestion that his fake CV included work as a second assistant on the 1976 film Taxi Driver was dismissed as a fun idea but potentially damaging to the legitimacy of the operation.
Veronica’s email to Brian McMullan was sent around four in the afternoon and then it was simply a question of waiting. That evening, Thomas cooked Monica an approximation of a paella and plied her with white wine in an attempt to take her mind off the case but this didn’t stop her texting Veronica every half hour to see whether a reply had arrived. The windows to Monica’s apartment were open and the two of them could hear the sound of the last remaining swifts preparing for their long journey south.
‘He’s probably just thinking about it,’ reassured Thomas. ‘Either that or he’s one of those people who only checks his emails once a day. I don’t suppose he gets very many.’
Monica knew he was right but her mind was elsewhere. What if they didn’t get a response or, worse, what if Brian replied with a flat “no”? They would need to adopt a plan B. What if someone close to Slaven had somehow tipped McMullan off? Nobody had any idea whether the two men were still in close contact after all these years. And even if he did say yes, getting rid of someone outside of The Twelve’s city comfort zone would not be easy.
‘Chris says that Paul is doing well,’ said Thomas in a further attempt to deflect Monica’s thoughts away from McMullan. ‘He’s visiting regularly with Anna and apparently he’s making surprisingly good progress.’
‘Huh?’ said Monica, distractedly. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Paul. Good.’ She drifted back to the whirling tornado of thought, this time focused on the cellar door and how they could potentially use that to bring the case to its satisfactory conclusion.
Thomas cleared away the plates but left the wine glasses on the table and opened another bottle which had been chilling in the fridge. He sat next to Monica at the table and clasped her hand. Monica’s head toppled calmly onto his shoulder, her dark hair with grey strands tickling his ear. She closed her eyes in brief contentment. ‘It’s a tough one,’ he said, kissing her forehead and thinking back to their excursion to Baker Street the day before.
‘What would Beryl do?’ he whispered to himself more than anyone.
Monica’s eyes opened with a start. She raised her head from Thomas’s shoulder, grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him with an urgency that took him quite by surprise. ‘Brilliant!’ she said.
48
The following day began at just after eight with a flurry of texts starting with an exclamation-mark-heavy one from Veronica. McMullan had replied overnight. He liked the sound of the television programme and would be delighted to meet with Veronica and Martin at a time and place of their choosing. His email also stated that he remembered Veronica fondly from her Antique Time Travellers series in the 1990s and mentioned that he had particularly vivid memories of an episode filmed at Warwick Castle where Veronica wore a low-cut summer dress. Everyone in the group chat found this comment both creepy and unnecessary although all five of The Twelve women agreed that the fact they were dealing with a dirty old man made the case potentially easier. He’s clearly forgotten you’re gay, texted Belinda, which might work to our advantage.
From her bed and with a slight headache, Monica texted that she had a new plan. It would presume that the cellar door did in fact lead to a space under the building and could be accessed by Terry and it would involve propane gas. It’s colourless and odourless and we shouldn’t need much to blow the whole place to bits, she texted. Chris asked how easy it would be to get hold of enough and Monica replied that if a retired chemistry professor couldn’t surreptitiously acquire a canister or three then there really was no hope for the world. Thomas had, by this point, made the short journey into Monica’s en suite to procure some ibuprofen which Monica swallowed gratefully.
The plan would involve two further visits back to the Malverns. During the first trip, Martin and Veronica would meet and distract McMullan at the tearoom while Terry, Monica, Owen and David examined the house and, crucially, the cellar. Assuming everything was as expected, the second visit would entail Martin and Veronica either pretending to film McMullan for the series, the location to be somewhere away from his house, or simply to meet him for final research purposes. At the same time, the other three would place the propane canisters, with the valves open, in the cellar. We may need to drill holes through the floor, texted Monica, but once I’ve seen the layout of the place, I’ll know how much gas we need. It only needs to constitute around five per cent of the total volume of air in the house and up it goes.
‘Won’t it require something to ignite it?’ asked Thomas, initially in person but then deciding to add his question to the text onslaught.
‘Already got a plan for that too.’ Monica grinned wickedly to her lover as she tapped away at her phone. ‘There are some Montecristo No.4 cigars on the way here as I speak. He’s going to think it’s his lucky day.’ Thomas admitted later that he’d never smoked a cigar and wondered what all the fuss was about. ‘Well, these are some of the best in the world and there are ten of them coming so we’ll try them if you like.’
‘Have you ever smoked a cigar?’ he asked, hesitantly.
Monica’s sinister grin returned. ‘Of course, darling. In my early thirties, I tried just about everything. Experimentation of every kind is what your twenties and thirties are for!’
Later in the day, to give the impression that the imaginary production company was very busy, Veronica emailed Brian McMullan to suggest a meeting at the tearoom in the village the following Monday at 3pm. This would be an initial and informal chat with her and the series director, just to get an idea of what content the retired detective might be able to provide; Martin may, if McMullan was agreeable, record some of the chat on his mobile phone just to show the other members of the crew in advance of any actual filming. At 8pm that evening, Veronica circulated McMullan’s reply to The Twelve in which he said that the time, date and location suited him perfectly and reiterated how much he was looking forward to meeting Veronica in the flesh x.
Should I be worried? texted Veronica to the group. Martin replied that if McMullan tried anything, he’d end up with a cake fork in his neck and they wouldn’t need to bother about the propane. Owen added that they would wire her up with a microphone in case anything happened that required intervention. He would personally teach Terry how to fit the technology. Veronica responded with a pink heart emoji.
Early on Friday morning, two packages arrived at the St John’s Wood apartment, one large and one small. The large package contained four ten-kilogram propane cylinders which Martin collected at 10am for storage in his garage until they were required. Monica accompanied the cabbie on the journey to ensure the gas was stored safely and then took the opportunity to pop into Marylebone to pick up some fresh bread and cheese for lunch. The second package, which arrived while Monica was out, contained a box of ten luxury cigars which Thomas studied with interest, carefully extracting one, sniffing it and then rolling it gently in his hands as he’d seen done in movies. It appeared harmless. On her return, Monica suggested they try one and reassured her lover that despite the urgent warning on the box that Smoking Can Cause Impotence, the likelihood of any problems in that area after one solitary cigar were minimal.
‘Just to clarify,’ said Monica with mild amazement, ‘you’ve never smoked a cigar before in sixty-nine years, or even a cigarette, right?’ Thomas confirmed that he had led a relatively sheltered life before meeting Monica but was prepared to let her introduce him to yet another new experience. Monica raised an eyebrow and went to the kitchen to get some long matches and a sharp knife with which she diligently cut the end of the Montecristo.
She settled on the sofa next to Thomas and lit a match then waited for the phosphorus to burn away before putting the cigar to her mouth and gently sucking the flame towards it, rotating steadily. After a few seconds, Monica turned the cigar to blow at the embers before taking a first, slow inhalation. She closed her eyes in concentration as the taste and smell of tobacco enveloped her senses.
‘Your turn.’ She smiled mischievously, passing the cigar to Thomas.
‘Do I just suck?’ he asked, staring at it as if it were some sort of ancient artefact.
‘You do. But slowly like at the end of yoga class. Not as if you’re trying to get a marble through a straw.’
Thomas placed the cigar between his lips and inhaled.
Around five minutes later, after he had partially recovered with a glass of water and a lie down, Thomas looked up through watering eyes and saw Monica, leaning back at the opposite end of the sofa, puffing away happily with the demeanour of a mafia don, albeit a south-Asian, female variation. ‘Cigars are clearly not for you, my darling,’ she drawled, casually blowing a smoke ring.
49
After ordering coffees and a couple of scones with cream and a local damson jam which could also be purchased by the jar, Veronica and Martin settled themselves into a corner table at the tearoom and waited for McMullan. ‘We should pretend to talk about television stuff,’ said Martin, attempting to think of something both intelligent and relevant. ‘What about that camera work in EastEnders last night? That high angle shot over the Queen Vic,’ he proffered. ‘And I bet they used a dolly for that tracking shot by the launderette.’ Veronica suggested, kindly, that he should probably leave the talking to her. Martin nodded and chomped on half a scone, loaded generously with jam and cream. ‘Are you okay with this?’ he asked, mid-mouthful. ‘It’s quite a lot to take on for a first timer.’
Veronica beamed. ‘I am more than okay,’ she said, eyes gleaming. ‘I’m really enjoying being bait, as it were. Having you here makes me feel safe and I remember when Lexington used to tell me about the cases before I joined and it all sounded so professional and invigorating. I never dreamed it would be quite like this. It’s better than a dream.’
Just after two, the small bell signalling an arrival or departure tinkled and McMullan stumbled into the café. Veronica recognised him from the photograph taken over ten years earlier although he had aged considerably during the intervening years; his hair was now completely grey and he had put on a fair amount of weight.
Veronica waved in what she thought was the least seductive way possible and the former detective zigzagged uneasily past a couple of tables, almost pushing an elderly lady into a slice of Black Forest gateaux, to introduce himself with the uncertain handshake of a man unaccustomed to regular company. ‘Brian McMullan,’ he said with an awkward formality. ‘Pleased to meet you. Those scones look good.’ His accent, despite having lived in the countryside for a decade, had retained a south London twang.
‘Please have a seat, Brian,’ said Veronica, warmly. ‘I’m sure Martin can get some scones and we have plenty of cream and jam for the table. Can we get you some coffee too?’
McMullan looked shiftily around the café. ‘Are they expensive?’ he asked, wiping a few strands of sweaty hair from his forehead. ‘I don’t have my cards with me, you see.’ Martin assured him that the production company would be able to pay for all refreshments and added that there would also be a fee for his time if they decided on a full interview. McMullan brightened at this news and settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘You haven’t aged, Veronica,’ he said lasciviously while Martin was queuing to order. ‘In fact, I’d say you were more delectable than ever.’ He reached out a moist hand and caressed the former presenter’s finger.
Veronica squirmed internally but, knowing she needed to win McMullan’s trust, managed to conceal her discomfort. ‘Thank you, Brian,’ she said politely, removing her hand slowly from his range. ‘That’s very kind. It’s probably the good genes.’ The faintly uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by Martin’s welcome return.
‘Did I miss anything?’ asked the cabbie. ‘Coffee and scones on the way.’
‘An interesting discussion about Veronica’s genes,’ said McMullan, leering at the ex-TV presenter. ‘I’m sure they’re worthy of investigation at some point when we know each other a bit better.’ Martin looked at Veronica whose smile skilfully managed to simultaneously reflect both demureness and revulsion.
