Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  Ten minutes later the door swung open. He didn’t look up from his computer. It would be Pedro wanting to cadge a fag or to tell him his tired old joke: Hey boss, come and see, there’s a body in one of the cars. Nolan was sure he would see the funny side too, if he hadn’t spent three years inside one of HM shitholes.

  ‘Howdo, Bruce.’

  He looked up. It wasn’t Pedro, but the rough-hewn features of Tod Hardcastle, his friend and handyman. The scrap business was a tough place to make a living. Most of the time he, Pedro, and his two Alsatians could handle the majority of chancers, those who thought nothing of breaking in to steal nickel and copper, dump their old crap, or try to twist his arm into doing something illegal. If they didn’t take a telling: a kicking from Pedro and him, or a mauling from Crash and Bang, there was Tod.

  Tod was a former steelworker, built like the side of a ship, and frightened of nothing. He was capable of charming himself inside most people’s houses, before grabbing the offender and thrusting their hand into a blazing fire, or sticking their head down the toilet. He never failed to get results.

  Tod reached into his bulky Parka jacket, needed today as it was bloody cold, and extracted a small sheaf of papers. He handed them to Nolan, who flicked through them, checking the detail on each.

  ‘It’s all there, Tod, good job. Did you have any trouble?’

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’

  This was Tod’s stock answer. Nolan didn’t need to question him. What he would do if he was interested was buy The Argus for the next few days and see what heat his actions had generated. It was a difficult path to tread for a former convicted murderer, overturned on appeal, but in the eyes of the cops a guilty man running free. They were waiting in the wings for him to make a wrong move, and when he did every cop from here to Worthing would descend on the scrapyard, and start to pull his life apart.

  Nolan reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. Inside, a bundle of twenty-pound notes. He handed it to Hardcastle, who flicked through it before it disappeared into the folds of his Parka.

  ‘Anythin’ else for me, Bruce?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Tod. I’ll call if anything comes up.’

  ‘Fair dos. Be seeing ye, pal.’

  ‘See you, mate. Thanks for doing this.’

  The door closed. He wanted to take a closer look at the information supplied by Tod, when he noticed a car drive into the yard. This was an unusual occurrence, as scrapyards were not on the list of the Ten Best Places to Visit in Sussex.

  There were two people in the car, a man and a woman. They parked in front of the office and stepped out. He knew at once they were cops, and they had obviously been to a scrapyard before, or they were just plain lucky. Parking close to the office meant neither of the lads would be tempted to use the industrial magnet attached to the crane to lift their car, by accident or on purpose, and drop it into the jaws of Big Daddy.

  The guy was tall and slim with a mop of light-brown hair, worn in a side-parting. He was dressed in a suit with no tie, and wearing a black overcoat to counter the cold. His companion was smaller, up to her colleague’s shoulder, and for a moment, mesmerised by the activities of the large magnet. She was good-looking, although with a serious resting face that suggested she frowned a lot.

  The door opened and in they walked.

  ‘Bruce Nolan?’ the man asked.

  ‘Might be. Who might you be, barging in without an appointment?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. This is Detective Sergeant Walters. Are you Bruce Nolan?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can we sit down?’

  He indicated a couple of chairs lying in the corner. ‘Help yourself.’

  Henderson lifted the plastic chairs and placed them a metre or so away from Nolan’s desk. The detectives sat down.

  ‘What do you lot want wi’ me?’

  ‘Early on Wednesday morning, Martin Turner, a solicitor at Jonas Baines in Brighton was found murdered.’

  Nolan gave a slow clap. ‘Thank fuck for that. A result, and I didn’t have to lift a finger.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Why the fuck do you think? He’s a drunken bum and a shit lawyer. His inept handling of my case put me in jail for three years. The three worst years of my life, in case you’re interested. It was only when I changed to a guy recommended by a lag I met inside that an appeal was lodged and I got out.’

  ‘Where were you on Tuesday night?’

  ‘You think I did it?’ he said, pointing at his chest. ‘Do you think I’m that stupid? I’ve criticised the fucker in public every chance I got. Now I’m on social media I can do it from the comfort of my home. If you look at his phone and computer and see any abusive emails or texts, I admit it, they’re mine. Save you the trouble of having your IT people tracking me down. Why would I be so stupid as to go and top the bastard when I had so much fun rubbishing him on social media?’

  ‘Why do you blame him and not your barrister?’ Henderson asked. ‘It was the barrister who presented the case to court.’

  ‘My barrister was a top man. He did all he could, but he was like a poker player dealt a crap hand. I’m telling you, Turner didn’t do his job. He should have talked to all the people who saw me that night, and taken a look at my home computer and spotted that I’d sent an email around the time of the murder. If he did, I would never have been convicted; maybe the case would never have made it to trial. If so, you lot would have forgotten about me. As it is, here’s a murder, let’s go talk to Bruce.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr Nolan, we need to know where you were on Tuesday night.’

  ‘Let me think,’ he said, pausing for a few seconds. ‘I worked here until seven. Went to a pub called The Pilot, along the docks, with Jake and Pedro, the two guys who work here. I stayed for about an hour, then went home.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Used to. Fucking bitch of a wife left me when I got convicted, didn’t she? When I came out, I started dating the barmaid at The Pilot, a woman who visited me a few times in prison. We’ve been living together ever since I came out. She was at home when I came back from the pub. She’ll tell you. I was at home all night.’

  The coppers left ten minutes later. He was unperturbed; they didn’t have a clue. He would put a call through to his girlfriend in a minute or two and tell her to back up his story, which she would. Despite the grimy job and the scum he often had to deal with, she still thought the sun shone out of his arse.

  He couldn’t tell the coppers where he really was that night. He didn’t like prison, and no way was he going back.

  SEVEN

  ‘Oh, hi Angus. Come in; take a seat. I’ll be finished in a minute.’

  Henderson walked into Chief Inspector Sean Houghton’s office and sat down facing his desk. The CI was busy reading reports and appending his signature to a number of letters and memoranda. Looking at the size of the pile, Henderson reckoned he would be at it for the rest of the afternoon. This was further evidence, if any was needed, that he would be too tied-up to join in with any of Henderson’s investigations.

  He got on well with Houghton, but he was the boss, and Henderson didn’t want him looking over his shoulder. In any case, the senior investigating officer on any murder investigation came under enough scrutiny from the press, public and the families of victims. If they screwed up, there was a long list of people and organisations they would have to answer to: the IOPC – Independent Office for Police Conduct, PCC – Police and Crime Commissioner, and if any illegality was involved, the criminal courts.

  With a flourish, Houghton appended his signature to another large report, before it was placed on the ‘read’ pile, a tad smaller than the ‘to be read’ pile.

  ‘Right, finished for now. Can you hang on for a few minutes more Angus? I’d like to organise some coffee. I haven’t had one since about nine this morning. You want one?’

  ‘Yeah, why not
?’

  ‘Good man. I’ll be back in a jiff.’

  True to his word, the CI was back soon; but as he had a secretary working for him and not a shared Administrative Assistant as Henderson did, he didn’t have to make his own coffees.

  ‘So, what did you want to see me about, Angus?’

  ‘I wanted to bring you up to date on the Martin Turner case.’

  Houghton gave him a blank look.

  ‘The lawyer murdered in his offices in the early hours of Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, at Jonas Baines in Linden House, Trafalgar Arches.’

  ‘Ah yes. The criminal lawyer who defended Raymond Schofield.’

  Henderson wondered why he’d mentioned Schofield specifically, but he said, ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘I didn’t realise what a big noise Schofield was in Sussex until I had lunch with the Assistant Chief Constable yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, he supports a number of victim support charities, and he’s on the board of several organisations who put on five-a-side football tournaments, run races, and manage food kitchens for disadvantaged kids.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘As a result, he’s friendly with the Chief Constable, the heads of east and west Sussex County Councils, and a number of local MPs.’

  The door opened and Houghton’s secretary walked in bearing a tray. While the coffee and cups were being unloaded, he considered Houghton’s comments.

  It was perhaps a brain-dump, passing on information he’d heard at a meeting which related, albeit indirectly, to the Martin Turner case. On the other hand, it might be a veiled warning not to go near Schofield as it would ruffle too many feathers.

  When Houghton’s secretary departed, Henderson took a sip of coffee before continuing what he came here to do.

  ‘We’ve gone through Martin Turner’s life and family and, despite an ex-wife who seemed calmer than usual to hear of her former husband’s murder, no one has stood out so far.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve found.’

  ‘According to his ex-wife, his two closest friends are Stephen Bradshaw and Will Slater. Bradshaw was with him during the early part of Tuesday evening, the night he was killed.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s an accountant working in his father’s practice. They have offices near the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘He and Turner met for a drink after work. A drink with Turner often turned into six, he said, but at around ten o’clock, Bradshaw decided he’d had enough. He offered to walk with Turner to Brighton Station to put him on a homeward-bound train, but Turner refused, saying he wanted to continue drinking. Bradshaw departed.’

  ‘The last time he saw him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he take Turner’s death?’

  ‘Devastated, as Slater was when he found out.’

  ‘What about Turner’s family?’

  ‘We’re still going through the list, but they appear rich, comfortable, and middle-class, with no black sheep. Not one of them has a bad word to say about our victim.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’

  ‘Bradshaw told us they had been drinking in The Tap House in Brighton town centre. From the pub’s CCTV cameras, we see the victim and Bradshaw drinking together. They were having a good time with no animosity present.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Bradshaw knew Turner was heading to the Palm Club on the seafront, and we see him walking there. Around two in the morning, he comes out and walks towards Brighton railway station. It’s clear he’s the worse for wear, staggering and not walking in a straight line.’

  ‘No one following him?’

  Henderson shook his head. ‘Queen’s Road was more or less deserted. He entered the Jonas Baines building alone, then we have CCTV of the perp entering the premises about an hour later.’

  ‘Okay. Go on.’

  ‘There is nothing distinctive about the perp, with the exception of a branded woolly hat. The majority of our focus now will be on the criminals Turner defended.’

  ‘Let me think about this for a moment.’ Houghton paused, drumming his fingers on the desk. He stopped drumming and looked at the DI intently. ‘If he was defending criminals, why would any of them want to kill him? A prosecuting lawyer from the CPS, absolutely, but not one trying his best not to send them to jail.’

  ‘In the majority of cases, I would have to agree with you. Several of his clients were given reduced sentences, others had various charges against them dropped. In a few cases, such as Raymond Schofield’s, they got off with no jail time. However, Turner was wrestling with a few personal demons.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He was always very fond of the booze, according to his ex, but ever since their divorce two years ago, he’d stepped it up a couple of notches.’

  ‘Hence the reason for sleeping in the offices of Jonas Baines the night he died?’

  ‘For sure. Logic dictates he couldn’t keep all the balls in the air, what with drinking, hangovers, dealing with clients. Something had to give, and now and again, a client would surely be given a sub-standard service.’

  ‘Which would result in a number of unhappy clients?’

  ‘We’ve found a few.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Angus. It’s perhaps natural to be pissed off with your legal team when you receive a life sentence for killing a rival drug dealer when you were under the impression you might get off. However, it would take a lot more to think of murdering your lawyer just because once or twice he had an off-day, or came to a meeting smelling of stale beer and yesterday’s aftershave.’

  ‘I realise that. What we did was also review newspaper reports at the time of their trials. Then, with feelings raw, it became clear from statements made by friends and family, those who had a genuine grievance and those who were just having a moan at the severity of their loved-one’s sentence.’

  ‘I suppose it adds another layer of intelligence, but it sounds to me a bit rough and ready.’

  ‘It’s all we can do with the information we have and the time available.’

  ‘How confident are you that the murderer will be included in that pile?’

  ‘I have to say completely, otherwise I wouldn’t see much point in doing it.’

  ‘What if the perp isn’t among them? What will you do then?’

  Henderson shrugged. ‘I suppose we would have to move from thinking the perp broke into Jonas Baines to kill Martin Turner, to believing he was there for some other purpose. What that was, at the moment, we don’t have a clue. If it doesn’t become obvious, it will mean grilling all the partners at Jonas Baines until we find it.’

  Houghton screwed up his face. ‘Bloody hell. I don’t like the sound of that at all. They’re one of the region’s top legal practices. They could make life difficult and sue us for harassment.’

  Henderson was tempted to laugh, but didn’t. ‘Let them. If this is how they would treat one of their own, by suing those who are trying to find his killer, the public will judge them harshly. In any case, what choice do we have? A perp enters the offices of Jonas Baines and commits murder. It can only be for one of two reasons. He went there with the express aim of killing Martin Turner, or he had some other motive, and our victim became collateral damage.’

  EIGHT

  Vicky Neal, accompanied by DC Sally Graham, parked the pool car in a visitor’s space at Linden House. They didn’t dawdle but walked briskly towards the building. It was a bitterly cold morning with a chilly, swirling wind, and it didn’t pay to hang about.

  Only last month, Neal moved into a new flat in Brighton. It didn’t take long for her to discover the ‘recently renovated and updated, converted flat’ in Portland Place was smart in every respect, with the exception of the gas boiler. Brighton was experiencing a Siberian cold snap and last night, despite having the boiler on full blast, the flat was still chilly. This morning, her shower had run cold.

  She had made frien
ds with the elderly lady who lived downstairs and she had agreed to let the boiler engineer into her flat today. Neal was annoyed that she couldn’t be there in person when he called. She knew enough about human nature to realise when someone was talking bullshit or trying to fob her off with a substandard or expensive solution.

  It was the third time they had been to the offices, and the security guy on the door was starting to recognise them. After checks, they took the stairs and made their way up to the second floor. They passed through the new security measures installed at Jonas Baines, now with their own makeshift reception, overhead CCTV camera, and a new, reinforced entry door, and were shown into a conference room.

  Unlike the skanky meeting rooms they were often ushered into at industrial sites and dilapidated office blocks, this one emanated luxury. It was equipped with soft padded seats, a freshly vacuumed carpet, and a tray containing a coffee pot and a plate of pastries. They had been instructed to help themselves and they didn’t need to be told twice.

  A few minutes later, Trevor Robinson walked in and closed the door. When interviewing some of the other lawyers at Jonas Baines, such as Alex Vincent, they almost burst into the room, giving the impression every minute they spent in here was time wasted. Robinson, by way of contrast, exuded a casual air.

  After introductions, he moved to the coffee pot and filled a cup. He placed his cup on the table and more or less slumped into a seat. Now, was this relaxed manner his usual modus operandi, or was it affected behaviour, designed to deflect them from suspecting him?

  ‘Mr Robinson, we are members of the team investigating the death of your colleague, Mr Martin Turner, on these premises in the early hours of Wednesday morning, 8th February.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I see you’re still wearing a temporary badge,’ Graham said.

  He sighed. ‘If you lose your entry card, they give you one of these. It’s only supposed to be for a week, by which time you’ve either found the missing card, or if not, they’ll replace it. I’ve had this one longer, but then everything is a bit strange at the moment.’