‘We know who the victim is.’ Rachel Pymm was jubilant.
The third day of the investigation started with some good news – at least for the investigative team.
‘NHS England identified him from the serial number on his pacemaker.’ She looked at the screen in front of her. ‘Anish Patel, thirty-nine years old. The pacemaker was fitted eighteen months ago at Addenbrooke’s to help manage a congenital defect leading to an irregular heartbeat.’ She scrolled down. ‘He was also on medication.’
‘Is he on the PNC?’ asked Warren.
‘Nope, no arrests and no criminal convictions, so his DNA isn’t on the system.’ She clicked her mouse. ‘He also isn’t listed as a missing person; Moray will be delighted he spent all those hours trawling the database.’
‘Who do the hospital list as his next-of-kin?’ asked Sutton.
‘His father, Gotam Patel. He lives in Cambridge; same home address as Anish.’
Warren sighed. ‘If he’s not listed as missing, then either his family know what happened to him and are suspects, they know that he is missing but aren’t worried enough to contact the police, or they haven’t even realised he’s gone.’
‘Which means the poor bastards are about to get some devastating news,’ said Sutton quietly.
‘Somebody’s doing all right for themselves,’ said Tony Sutton.
Warren pulled into the drive of the large, converted farmhouse on the outskirts of Cambridge. The two detectives were accompanied by PC Kevin Lederer, a Family Liaison Officer. Warren had been going to ask David Hutchinson to come with him on the visit, but Sutton had been desperate to get out of the office. For most of the past year, since returning after his mini-stroke, he had been on light duties. However, he’d persuaded Warren that breaking the tragic news to the Patels, whilst emotionally draining, would not be physically demanding.
Warren had regretted agreeing to Sutton’s plea the moment he turned the engine on and backed out of his parking spot at the station.
‘Duran Duran!’ Sutton had cackled, as the radio burst into life. Warren had sighed; he’d put up with this for over five years. It never seemed to get old for his friend.
Turning in his seat to face Lederer, Sutton was gleeful. ‘The DCI’s taste in music died and was buried sometime around the late 1980s.’
‘However,’ Warren had interrupted, ‘despite his advancing years, DI Sutton still listens to Radio One. He thinks it keeps him more in touch as a father.’
Lederer had laughed. ‘No need to be ashamed, Sir. I saw them live on the Isle of Wight last year. In fact, me and the missus have seen loads of ’80s bands over the years. Have you seen any recently?’
If Lederer thought that he could curry favour with the DCI by sparing his blushes, he’d miscalculated. Badly.
This time, Sutton’s laughter was more of a guffaw. ‘Go on, Chief, tell him.’
‘I think that’s enough.’
Sutton had ignored him. ‘DCI Warren Jones is probably one of the few people in the world who has never been to a concert or a gig.’
‘That’s not true,’ Warren had protested.
‘An ABBA tribute band playing a student hall of residence, doesn’t count.’
‘I can’t see the point,’ Warren had muttered. ‘It costs a fortune, the songs never sound as good as they do on the stereo, and the queues for the toilets are massive.’
‘Wow,’ Lederer had said eventually. ‘I’m not quite sure what to say.’
‘Try “no comment”, lad,’ Sutton had advised. ‘It’s appraisal time.’
‘I did a bit of research,’ said Sutton now, as Warren pulled up next to a white Range Rover with personalised licence plates bearing the victim’s father’s initials. Parked next to it was a bright red, two-door Mercedes, also with personalised plates. ‘It turns out that our victim comes from an extremely wealthy background. His parents, or rather his father now, owns a string of businesses across this area. Everything from dry cleaning to newsagents and one-stop shops under the brand name Everyday Essentials; they even have a small catering business. Net worth is in the millions.’
‘That explains the cars and the house then,’ said Lederer.
Even with Warren taking up a space, there was still enough room for several more vehicles, plus a detached, two-car garage. To the right of the main house, what looked like an old barn had been converted into a smaller, separate dwelling.
‘According to a recent profile in the Cambridge Evening News business section,’ continued Sutton, ‘our victim is the third of four children; two older brothers and a younger sister. Judging by the initials on the Merc, I’d say the sister is home. The two older brothers and the sister work for their old man; no mention of what Anish did for a living. Their mother died a few years ago.’
Warren filed the tit-bit away for later consideration. If the family was as wealthy as Sutton claimed, it suggested a raft of potential motives for Anish Patel’s murder. The fact that he might be the only child that didn’t work for his father hinted at even more.
The three officers climbed out of the car, but before they even reached the doorstep, the door opened. A tall, thin, Asian man who looked to be in his sixties, greeted them.
Warren and Sutton had done many of these visits over the years, and the FLO was an expert, so if there was one thing that Warren knew, it was that the next few minutes could be critical. The reaction of family to the news of their loved one’s murder often provided essential leads. Did they seem surprised, or were they expecting the news? Everyone reacted differently, but an experienced officer could often distinguish true grief from that put on for show. The details of the victim’s death would be released slowly and carefully – not only as a kindness to help the family process them properly, but also to see if the family knew more than would be expected about the circumstances.
To this end, the FLO was a crucial part of the investigation. Part of the role was as a conduit between the investigating team and the family, keeping them apprised of major developments, and advising them on practical matters, such as when the body would be released. Equally important, the information exchange was two-way. Vital details that a shocked family might forget to tell Warren during interview, or they might have deemed unimportant, were noted, along with the FLO’s observations and impressions.
But that was all in the future. First, they had to break the news.
‘Mr Patel? My name is Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones. May I come in and speak to you?’
Gotam Patel was yet to touch the brandy that his daughter, Reva Vasava, had poured him. Despite his size, he was almost engulfed by the four-person leather sofa that he’d collapsed into when Warren broke the news. His hands shook as he took a long swig. Vasava lived with her husband in the converted barn that they had seen on the way up the drive. She had arrived at the front door moments after Warren had been invited inside.
‘Was it his heart?’ Patel finally asked, his voice shaking.
‘Mum died of a heart attack nearly two years ago,’ said Vasava. Her voice was barely a whisper, as she perched on the edge of a large armchair, her hands wrapped around a tumbler she had yet to take a sip from.
Warren spoke as gently as he could. ‘No. I’m very sorry to tell you, but it appears that Anish was murdered. His body was discovered Sunday morning. We came as soon as we identified him.’
Vasava gave a low moan and raised her hand to her mouth. The tears that she had somehow held back as she poured the drinks and guided her stricken father to his chair, now flowed freely.
‘But who …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Warren. ‘We have a large team working on that as we speak.’
‘How was he killed?’ she managed.
‘We haven’t yet determined the cause of death,’ said Warren; this was not the time to go into details.
‘So how do you know he was murdered?’ asked Patel, his voice trembling.
Warren glanced over at Sutton. ‘The circumstances that he was found in mean it is unlikely that he died of natural causes.’
‘What circumstances? Where was he found?’ demanded Patel.
Warren chose his words carefully. ‘His body was found near a field just outside Middlesbury.’
‘What was he doing there?’ asked Vasava.
‘We don’t know yet, we’re trying to establish his last movements. I’m sorry to have to ask at such a time, but when did you last speak to Anish?’
Vasava gave a sniff. ‘Last week. Tuesday, I think. He phoned me.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Warren could see that Patel had turned his head to look out of the window.
‘Was there anything unusual about the call? Did he mention any worries?’
Vasava looked over at her father, before looking away. ‘No. Nothing.’
Warren turned to the father. ‘What about you, Mr Patel? When did you last have contact with Anish?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him in a long time,’ he said quietly.
‘Anish listed this as his home address on his medical records. I take it he no longer lives here?’
‘No, he moved out last year. I don’t think he’s got around to changing his GP or dentist.’
‘Do you have his current address?’
Patel gave a tiny shake of his head and looked away. After a moment’s pause, Vasava recited the address of a flat in Middlesbury. It wasn’t in the nicer part of town.
Patel stirred. ‘I knew this would happen.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘I said that, did I not?’
‘Dad, not now.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Patel?’ asked Warren quickly, not wanting him to stop talking.
‘His lifestyle, the people he hung around with.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘I told you not to speak to him. That until he changed his behaviour, he brought shame upon us.’
‘Dad, please,’ she said, the tears starting to flow again.
Outside the window, Warren heard a loudly revving engine, followed by the sound of tyres sliding on gravel. A black Range Rover, identical in model to the one bearing Gotam Patel’s personalised license plates, ground to a halt.
Patel stood up.
‘My son is here. I would be grateful if you could leave us alone now to grieve, Chief Inspector.’
Warren held an impromptu meeting on the drive home from the Patels.
‘Thoughts?’
‘I’m not happy with the family,’ said Sutton. ‘There’s something funny going on there.’
‘I agree,’ said Warren. ‘It’s clear that Anish has had some sort of falling out with his father and his brothers.’
Anish’s eldest brother, Manoj, had appeared shocked at the news, but unlike his younger sister, had also seemed angry. The middle brother, Jaidev, had yet to arrive by the time the officers left. Like their father, Manoj had mentioned Anish’s lifestyle, and claimed not to have spoken to him in recent months. Under the scowling countenance of their father, neither Manoj nor his sister had been willing to elaborate on what was so concerning about the way he’d lived his life.
It had taken some persuasion for the family to take Lederer’s business card, but they had eventually agreed to the FLO stopping by the following day. Warren was interested in the officer’s impressions.
‘Grief’s a funny thing,’ said Lederer. ‘It’s not uncommon for the relatives to initially blame the victim. But I agree that there is a lot going on in that family.’
‘What about the dad’s comments about Anish’s lifestyle and the people he hung around with?’ asked Warren.
‘Maybe he had criminal connections?’ said Sutton. ‘The article in the newspaper suggested that Anish wasn’t part of the family business, and his father claimed not to have spoken to him since he moved out. My immediate thought is, what did he live on?’
‘If the family business is as lucrative as we think, then perhaps that made him a target?’ suggested Lederer. ‘Perhaps he was kidnapped and killed for money?’
‘We should see if the Patel business empire is known to us,’ said Sutton. ‘From the article, most of the businesses are cash-based; plenty of scope for money-laundering.’
Warren grimaced. ‘I’ll get onto Organised Crime and see if they have any intelligence they’d like to share.’
‘It was also a bit strange that his father seemed not to know where he lived,’ said Lederer. ‘And there were no photographs of Anish in the living room. Reva had to fetch one for us to borrow.’
‘Reva said that she spoke to him last Tuesday,’ said Warren. ‘And of the three of them, she seemed the most upset at the news.’ He glanced at Lederer in the rear-view mirror. ‘I think Reva is likely to be the most cooperative. Can you try and build a relationship with her?’
‘I’ll do that tomorrow when I swing by to arrange for them to be interviewed,’ promised the constable.
‘In the meantime,’ said Warren, ‘we at least have a recent photograph of him, and Reva gave us his address. Tony, arrange a locksmith and a forensics team, and go and look at where he lives. Maybe that will shed some light on what has upset his family so much.’