‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ Bridget said. The office was better than Challis Street, more modern, more open. To her, it lacked the charm that Challis Street offered, the homely touches she had brought to it. She took out her laptop, logged on using the police station’s Wi-Fi, the password supplied by Brun.
‘We’ve obtained records from the cameras out at Herzele,’ Brun said. ‘One of the cameras was faulty. Also, the videos from another have been deleted. We do have two others. With your permission, we’ll concentrate on them. For our purposes, I suggest we divide the videos, you taking the time after the murders, and I’ll take before.’
Bridget could see that the man was no-nonsense, straight down to work, and as competent on a computer as she was. They first checked the videos at the ferry port where the vehicle had entered the country. The date and the time were now known. It was not difficult to spot the Toyota coming off the ferry and driving up the ramp and onto the dock. The road markings took the cars from driving on the left to the right, and numerous signs reminded the drivers that this was Belgium, and all vehicles were left-hand drive, and great care was to be exercised.
‘The windows are darkened,’ Brun said. ‘We can’t see the driver or the passenger.’ Bridget could see that he was right. The vehicle that had been recently checked in England had clear windows. Someone had applied a film, probably purchased at an automotive store. Whoever had done it had complicated their work. None of the CCTVs in Brussels were of any use, as the department responsible prided itself on erasing all footage after six months.
Herzele was a different situation. The records were kept in Ghent, a city not far from Brussels, and the deletion of video files was not so rigorous. Bridget sat on one side of Brun’s desk, he sat on the other. In front of them, a large monitor each. Brun slowly scanned back from the closest time to the shooting, Bridget scanned forward. The video from one of the two cameras was clear, the other was blurred and out of focus.
It took two hours before Brun saw the vehicle in the village. He and Bridget then focussed forward from that time. It was another twenty minutes before he had traced it as far as he could, which was still two kilometres from the murder scene. With times established, he used enhanced imaging technology to look for additional detail. ‘The tinting is only on the windscreen and the front windows, the rear tailgate has none,’ he said.
Bridget wondered why they had not picked up the Toyota at the time of the murders. But then, as Brun explained, English tourists driving around were not that uncommon, and the registration number wasn’t easy to read. In fact, it was almost impossible, the first and last letters covered in mud or rust or both, the numbers scratched and unreadable. It was either done on purpose or the result of bashing over muddy tracks or logs with the off-roaders.
After nine hours solid looking at the monitor screens, neither of the two officers was able to focus any more. Bridget phoned Wendy who brought in Isaac on speaker. The time in Brussels had been successful in that the vehicle had been identified. It would need another day, when she and Hendrik Brun would focus in detail on the time that one of the men had entered the shop in Herzele. The almost accident with the farmer had been outside of the village, in an area where there were no cameras. Nothing would be gained by trying to look for further verification from the farmer or any other drivers on the road. It had been a overcast day when the murder occurred and the road had been mainly deserted, the reason that the farmer had pulled his tractor out into the centre of the road without due care and attention.
***
In Belgium, the prosecution case was firming against Ainsley Caxton and Hector O’Grady. In London, there were other developments, in particular, the hospitalisation of Michael Lawrence.
The first Homicide heard of him being there was when the hospital administration had phoned, his name being on a database of concerned persons, a possible drug overdose. The second was when Molly Dempster called to tell Isaac that Ralph was on his way to see his son.
In intensive care at St Mary’s Hospital, where Alexander Fleming had discovered penicillin, and not far from Paddington Station, two doctors stood by Michael’s bed, three nurses hovered close by. The man was Gilbert Lawrence’s grandson, and as Jill Dundas had said, money was not an issue. She wasn’t sure why she had said it when she had arrived at the hospital ten minutes after Ralph, five minutes after Isaac and Wendy. Larry had taken over following up on Caxton and O’Grady, attempting to find more evidence against Gary Frost, anything that could stick.
An intravenous drip was to one side of the bed, the patient lying flat on his back. Only Ralph had been allowed in initially, Isaac after he had shown his warrant card and insisted that it was vital to see the patient.
Michael’s face was covered by a mask supplying oxygen, an ECG machine standing by. ‘It’s not good,’ one of the doctors said. ‘The man had three times the normal amount from what we can see.’
It was known that Giles Helmsley had made the phone call for the ambulance, but he was not at the hospital. Isaac made a phone call to Larry. ‘Pick up Helmsley, make sure he’s at Challis Street within the hour.’
On the bed, Michael moved, not conscious of his actions. Ralph was present, although Isaac had left and was talking to Jill Dundas and Molly Dempster.
‘Waste of time getting him detoxed,’ Jill Dundas said. Isaac could see the hardness in her face. She had professed sadness at Gilbert’s death, at the death of her father, but had it been feigned? Isaac couldn’t be sure.
‘Too long without treatment. We could have helped him earlier, but now? There’s possible brain damage as well,’ one of the doctors said as he came out and spoke to Isaac. ‘Not much of a life, not much of a death either, although he’ll not know much about it.’
Michael Lawrence died at 11.08 a.m. on a Thursday morning. Ralph was heartbroken, so was Molly. Jill Dundas stood nearby in the reception area, mouthing the words the others wanted to hear. She did not shed a tear, neither did Ralph, although Wendy and Molly did.
Larry phoned; Helmsley was at the police station. After another twenty minutes at the hospital, Isaac left, leaving Wendy with Molly. She would look after the woman who had aged in that short time at the hospital. She had gained a son, a grandson, and now one of them was dead, and the other was not the healthiest, and his future looked bleak.
At the station, Helmsley sat quietly. He was holding a cup of tea: Earl Grey, at his request. He looked into vacant space, saying nothing, seeing nothing.
‘I found him at the dosshouse,’ Larry said, ‘lying down on that filthy mattress that Lawrence used. He looks as if he can’t take it all in. Bizarre when you think about it. A brilliant man they said down at LSE, and yet he’s out there leading the good fight, believing that people are waiting for the revolution.’
‘Genius level intelligence comes with its own problems,’ Isaac said. ‘Better to be like us, smart enough to know what’s good for us, smart enough to leave the rest well alone.’
Larry led Helmsley into the interview room. He had committed no crime as far as was known, and legal representation was offered but declined.
‘Mr Helmsley, you phoned Emergency Services,’ Isaac said.
‘One of Michael’s friends woke me up, told me that he was in trouble. I went over there, found him on the floor. That’s when I made the call.’
‘The other man could have,’ Larry said.
‘Coyote, that’s the name he likes to use, was the same as Michael, an addict.’
‘But Michael was with Ralph. What happened?’
‘Michael was weak. I was at his place. He had a woman with him, doped up as well. The two were on heroin, and Michael needed help.’
‘The woman?’
‘I’ve no idea. I kicked her out. Michael could have served the cause, but what does he do? He finds himself a drugged-out female. The two of them, naked in that bed, a syringe to one side. I took Michael, thrust him into the shower, plied him with coffee and brought him back to whe
re the woman couldn’t find him, neither could his father.’
‘Even if we accept what you’ve told us, it doesn’t explain why he had OD’d, does it?’
‘One of the others must have injected him,’ Helmsley said. Larry noticed the twitch in his face when he spoke.
‘You’re lying, aren’t you, Mr Helmsley? A drug addict is not going to waste perfectly good heroin on someone else. You injected him for your own purposes.’
‘I was going to put him in a room at the back of the house, make him go cold turkey. A fancy rehabilitation centre in the country with its five-star accommodation and runs around the lawns couldn’t fix him, no doubt charged thousands as well. But that’s the capitalist system: screw the poor, bleed the rich.’
‘Mr Helmsley, we don’t need a political party broadcast. Did you inject Michael Lawrence on that mattress?’
‘I did it for him. My intentions were honourable.’
‘Your intentions have killed him, and they were not honourable, they were for your own distorted purpose. You’re a hypocrite, you wanted his family’s money. You will be charged with involuntary manslaughter. Further charges may be laid against you. I suggest you find yourself a good lawyer.’
Chapter 29
Bridget had to admit she enjoyed being in Brussels. Hendrik Brun was proving himself to be a man after her own heart, a computer aficionado. He had admitted the previous night that he enjoyed surfing the net, learning from the computer, and his typing was even faster than hers.
Bridget was confident the following morning that the day would wrap up her time in the Belgian capital, so much so that she checked out of the hotel, booked herself on Eurostar for six o’clock that evening, and arranged for Wendy to pick her up on her arrival at St Pancras Station.
In the office at the police station in Brussels, there was no need for Bridget to set up her laptop, having done it the previous day. The two of them, she and Brun, went straight into reviewing the CCTV from outside the shop in Herzele, the one monitor between the two of them. Scrolling back, the vehicle could be seen entering the town square, and then parking.
‘See there,’ Brun said. ‘You can see Caxton getting out of the passenger’s side.’ Bridget looked closer, could see another person in the driver’s seat, a large man, even larger than Caxton. Bridget was sure who it was, but it wasn’t conclusive.
The pair moved to another monitor with higher definition. Zooming in helped but blurred the man. An overlay of O’Grady was imposed on the monitor, an attempt to align features: the nose, the mouth, the chin. The identity was required first, the proof later. Both admitted defeat. Scrolling forward from where the vehicle had parked, it stopped just before driving out of range of the camera. Two men got out of the car. This time their features were unmistakable; it was Ainsley Caxton and Hector O’Grady. O’Grady could be seen picking up the phone: a time, as well as a location.
‘Traceable,’ Brun said. He sent an email, Bridget could not understand what was written as it was in Dutch. ‘A colleague. He’ll give us the number phoned.’
‘You don’t have O’Grady’s number.’
‘We must assume he dialled an English number. My colleague is very thorough. He will not let us down.’
Inside the Land Cruiser, with a brief side view in through the passenger’s door, they could see a weapon, its barrel visible.
‘There’s proof,’ Brun said.
‘Proof that they committed the crime. Wherever the weapon is now, it’s long gone. They could have brought it over from England, tied it to the chassis underneath, or they could have purchased it locally.’
‘Only on the black market. The laws are strict here: residency, proof of address, police check.’
‘The same as in England,’ Bridget said, not sure of her facts.
‘They would have brought it from England. Coming into Belgium, the checks are not that strict. Unfortunately, the trade in illegals, contraband, drugs, is one way, not two. The checks will be more vigorous going back to England. They would have dumped it; the river is the most likely. No chance of finding it now.’
‘The deaths of Samuels and the others are murder,’ Bridget said. ‘It will be difficult for the Belgian authorities to prove a case.’
‘Almost impossible. Circumstantially, yes, but the defence lawyers are smart. It’ll never be proved. I’m afraid it’s up to you in England to bring these two men to justice.’
***
Ralph Lawrence, no longer evicted from his flat, moved back. His mother was holding up, tearful at first, then stoic. For a reason he could not explain, he was sad. It wasn’t as if Michael had amounted to much, but he was his son. He reflected on a cheerful baby, a playful young boy. Even Yolanda had eventually found some affection for him.
He had once caught her singing a lullaby as her son gurgled in his cot, only to pull away and make some excuse about trying to get him to sleep. She had a busy day the next day: socialising, a meeting at the magazine where she submitted the occasional article. He knew that she cared, but the woman was driven to better herself, and wasted emotions were not needed.
Two years later, she was away more than she was at home. He had followed her once, found out that the articles and the magazine were no longer needed. She had found herself a fancy man, a banker in the city. Ralph remembered the confrontation that night, where she defended her position, the child crying in the other room. After that, they never slept together, until she had finally left when Michael was six, old enough to be boarded out for five days a week at school, and then at seven years of age for the full week, long weekends and holidays excepted.
Yolanda had gone, he had an empty house, and he needed money. It was a friend from school who had told him about the rich pickings in the South of France and the Costa Brava. An Englishman, well-educated and speaking with a plum in the mouth, could get anything, be anything, he had told Ralph.
Two weeks later he had been in St Tropez, only visiting, checking if his friend was right, when a woman approached him. ‘You must be a lord,’ she said. Ralph knew that he had dressed well, something he always prided himself on. Instinctively he had replied. ‘Lord Lawrence, the second son of the Earl of …’ somewhere he couldn’t remember now.
‘My husband and I, we love the Royal Family.’
‘Oh, yes. I get to spend time with them, went to school with one of them.’
Ralph unintentionally had struck the mother lode. His friend who had said it was easy pickings stood back in amazement as Ralph was whisked off to dinner, and then invited to stay at the mansion the woman and her husband had rented for the season. Over two weeks, he continued to spin them tale after tale: how the castle was in need of repairs; if only they could come over sometime, but it wasn’t suitable for them; how he could introduce them into society, maybe even be able to get them to meet a prince.
It had been so easy, only interrupted because Michael was coming home for two weeks. As he left the mansion, the wife thrust a cheque for fifty thousand pounds into his hand. He had done nothing, hurt nobody, not even committed a crime. All he had done was entertain them, give them a thrill. The money to them was nothing, to him it was a godsend.
Michael, on his father’s return, had found him to be generous and attentive, but he was still only young. It was the last time that they had spent any time together until the flat in Bayswater, and now he was dead, the victim of drugs, the victim of callous and shallow parents, the victim of Helmsley. The man had annoyed him at school, and now he had taken his only child from him.
Ralph Lawrence took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose, as well as dabbing his eyes. He then picked up his phone and dialled Antigua.
***
Bridget had debriefed Homicide on her return to Challis Street, also giving Wendy the largest box of Belgian chocolates that she could buy.
The team watched the edited video replays from Herzele, crystal clear images of Caxton and O’Grady, the rifle inside the vehicle. ‘It’s th
em,’ Isaac said. ‘The only problem is that it’s not proof, just more evidence if we manage to secure enough evidence against them for a trial.’
‘The weapon?’ Bridget said.
‘Without it, Forensics can’t do bullet analysis. Regardless, we do have a case against the men. We can pull them in, make them sweat. We’ve got Ralph Lawrence’s evidence as well. Anyone else?’
‘Not yet,’ Larry said. ‘Give me twelve hours while I go and talk to the man who put me onto Frost. He knows more, I’m sure of it.’
‘He’s not going to allow himself to be compromised,’ Wendy said.
‘Who knows how these people think. If Frost is out of the way, then there are more suckers for them to bleed. My man’s no saint, even if he pretends he is. I’ll push, see what I can get. Maybe best if you phone up Emily Matson, tell her to keep a close watch on Frost and his henchmen, and to be prepared to pull Caxton and O’Grady in at short notice. Not Frost, though. We need him to sweat some more. Without them around, who knows? Easy to be tough when you’re protected, not so good when you’re on your own.’
Emily Matson intensified the surveillance on Caxton and O’Grady. The DI whose nose was out of joint was once again complaining to the station’s superintendent about being sidelined while his junior was getting all the glory. He had been quick on the phone after leaving the super’s office, Emily overhearing the gist of what was being said, certain he was speaking to Alwyn Davies.
Larry told Emily to stay focussed and to ignore the office politics. She had the full support of Challis Street Homicide and Chief Superintendent Goddard. He only hoped her superintendent was up to the task. If he wasn’t then Isaac and Goddard would make a personal representation at Greenwich, endeavour to bolster the superintendent, a man with just over one year to go for his full pension and retirement, and who did not crave the ignominy of a reduction in his rank and his pension.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 41
