by Iain Cameron
‘How well did you know Mr Turner?’
Martin Turner was forty-five and, despite his penchant for chasing young women when drunk, in the office when dealing with clients he apparently behaved like a sensible, middle-aged lawyer. Robinson was thirty-three, over ten years between them, and it showed. He had gelled, styled hair, and although he wore a smart shirt like the rest of them, his bore the logo of the tailor, and the tie didn’t quite meet the collar. On closer inspection, the suit looked tired, as if it had been worn many times. She would make allowances in his case, as being a criminal lawyer he would often be called upon to visit clients held in a police cell or in prison.
‘I knew Martin as well as anyone. I shared an office with him for three years, and often we’d socialise together.’
‘What sort of things did you do socially?’
‘Oh, we’d go to the races at Brighton Racecourse, the Goodwood Festival of Speed, the Test at the Oval, barbeques at his house, all sorts of stuff.’
‘We know at times Martin liked to drink to excess, and I assume you were aware of this if you were socialising with him. Did you ever join him?’
He laughed. ‘Sometimes I did, just to be sociable. I didn’t really enjoy it as it would often get out of hand. I know my limits, but Martin didn’t. I think, in truth, he was an alcoholic, although he would never admit it to himself.’
‘Did you ever try to speak to him about it?’
‘He wasn’t an easy guy to talk to,’ he said, giving a remorseful look, as if he regretted not doing more, but it didn’t quite come off.
‘In what way?’
‘I mean, when he was drinking, which was about any time he wasn’t working, if you tried to say, hold on a minute, mate, I think you’ve had enough, he would shrug you off and tell you to mind your own business. If you persisted, he’d tell you to go and fuck yourself. If you went that bit further, I don’t know what he would do. He used to box, about four or five years back. He was a big man, so I wouldn’t want to chance it, if you see what I mean.’
‘One of the lines of enquiry we are pursuing is that he was killed by one of the clients he represented.’
‘A natural course to follow in the circumstances, I would imagine.’
‘Did you work on the same cases?’
‘Hey, hang on a minute, what are you saying? If one of our clients killed him, he might come after me as well. Am I in some kind of danger?’
The air of casualness might have been put on, but the fear in his expression wasn’t.
‘If I gave you that impression, I apologise. As far as we know, you are not in any danger.’
‘How do you know for sure?’
‘As I said before, this is only one of the avenues we are exploring.’
‘What are the others?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, but please take comfort from the fact that at this stage of the enquiry we are only fact-finding. We don’t know for certain why he was killed.’
He didn’t look at all reassured, but he said, ‘Okay.’
‘So, did you and Martin work many of the same cases?’
‘We used to.’
‘Not now?’
‘Not for a while.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have my own clients.’
‘Did something happen between the two of you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Call it intuition.’
In fact, it was body language. It was just as well he was a solicitor and not a barrister performing in front of a jury. She could read his guilty facial expressions like a book. It was also based on feedback DI Henderson had received from Turner’s former wife.
‘I suppose our relationship had sort of cooled off.’
The detectives sat in silence.
‘Okay, we fell out big time.’
‘What about?’
‘It was stupid, really. We were all at a barbeque at his house, when he was still married, that is. I got talking to his daughter who then was about eighteen. I’d had a few drinks and maybe I’d let her come on to me a bit more than I intended, but cutting to the chase, he caused an almighty scene and punched me.’
‘Why?’ Sally Graham asked. ‘Did he catch the two of you in a compromising situation?’
‘God no, it didn’t go that far. She was hanging on my arm, and laughing at all my jokes, that sort of thing, which was nice. I think in Martin’s mind it was only a matter of time before we started searching for an empty bedroom, but that wasn’t my intention. It was only a bit of fun. No way would I do anything with a colleague’s daughter, or their wife or sister for that matter. It’s out of bounds as far as I’m concerned.’
‘What happened in the end?’ Neal asked. ‘Did the police become involved? I’m sure I didn’t see anything on the system.’ She looked at Sally who shook her head.
‘No, the police weren’t involved, Haldane saw to that.’
‘He was at the barbeque?’
‘Yep, him and most of the senior people in the practice.’
‘How did the incident pan out?’
‘Officially, Turner received a severe telling off, but it was agreed that he had been provoked. The fact that he was half-pissed at the time seemed to have been overlooked. When they talked to me about it privately, they said it was all Turner’s fault. If I didn’t go to the police or the newspapers, they would pay me five thousand pounds and move me out of his office. I got the money, but it was decided that because we worked together a lot and seemed to be getting along in a professional capacity, I should remain where I was.’
‘Did that annoy you?’
‘Definitely. Turner was okay with the arrangement, as his memory of the day was fuzzy on account of him being on a bender for the three days prior to the incident. I wasn’t happy about the situation, but being the junior member of the criminal defence team, I had no choice but to suck it up.’
‘Going back to the question I asked earlier,’ Neal said, ‘and now with the caveat of your soured relationship, you used to work together on some cases?’
‘Yeah, on a few of the big ones. He needed someone to cover the groundwork. You know the sort of thing: interview witnesses, talk to you people, review dates and times. All the time I’d be looking for errors and angles, as we call it.’
‘What would you call the big ones?’
‘I’m sure you’ve heard the names before as they’ve been in the papers: Raymond Schofield, Bruce Nolan, Dominic Green, John Pope. All murders, all high profile.’
‘One final question: did you resent the fact that Martin as the senior man, got most of the credit? It’s his name that’s prominent in newspaper articles.’
‘Too bloody right. I worked day and night on the Schofield case. Everybody in the practice knew I was doing it, but to Schofield it was Martin this, and Martin that. All calls were answered by him, all the papers were sent straight to him.’
‘Why did you work so hard on the case?’
‘I’d met Schofield several times, and he was impressed with my knowledge of the Raybeck business and the research I was doing on the facts of the case against him. He said if he ever got off, he would employ me as his personal counsel. You see, it was me who thought of introducing a round-the-world sailor as an expert witness. This guy described why, in the middle of a vicious storm, Allan Blake was standing in the position on the yacht where Mr Schofield said he was, before being swept overboard.’
‘What happened? You’re obviously not working for Mr Schofield at the moment.’
‘Martin Turner happened. That bastard claimed all the credit for work done by me, and in the end I was eased aside. When Schofield got off the murder charge, I was expecting a call, but it never came.’
NINE
Following a private flight to Faro in Portugal, Raymond Schofield and Clare Mitchell climbed into a limousine. Ray didn’t like travelling in cars for any distance, especially as they had been in an airport where many helicopters were availabl
e. However, as their destination was only ten kilometres away, Clare managed to persuade him that such additional expense was an extravagance.
Clare had come from a solid upper-working class background. She had attended a decent state school, had a reasonable wardrobe of clothes, and lived in a nice house, but money, for the most part, was tight. When she went to university, the first in her family to go to Oxbridge, her folks couldn’t afford to subsidise her, so she took a job and borrowed the maximum student loan she could.
Over the years she had worked at a senior level in two international organisations, both of which were profligate with corporate largesse, but she had never got used to wasting money. Ray, on the other hand, wouldn’t think twice about hiring a helicopter to avoid travelling on busy roads, paying for first-class airline travel so he didn’t have to talk to other businessmen, or renting a speedboat so he wouldn’t have to queue with a group of tourists at a ferry port.
‘Drink?’ Ray asked.
‘Something soft. It’s too early for anything stronger.’
Ray opened the minibar and poured himself a whisky, before opening a can of Coke Light and emptying it into a glass.
‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘I dunno. Us.’
‘To us.’
‘In a way,’ he said, ‘I’m just pleased to be away from Sussex for a spell. I swear to God, Rebecca’s hired a private eye. A couple of times in the garden I’ve felt someone watching me and sometimes in the distance I can see a flash or a glint, making me think it’s a telephoto lens or binoculars in the light.’
‘You might be right, Ray, or maybe you’re just paranoid.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of paranoia; look what happened in Scotland.’
‘That was a different situation, but you’re right, Clachan Foods were a rum shower.’
‘They were trying to outbid me when I tried to buy that Glasgow coffee chain. I had to sweep the rented house in Newton Mearns for bugs three times.’
Clare nodded. She remembered the incident fine as she was the one who had organised the sweeps. She hoped Ray wasn’t losing the plot. She knew it was a comedown from running a large international company with over three thousand employees, to starting a new investment vehicle with only her as a partner.
She liked to think he saw it as a new challenge and would throw all his considerable energies and business acumen behind it. The alternative, a dotty and forgetful Ray, keen to sink a couple of G&T’s before eleven, his afternoons spent on the golf course and evenings in a restaurant downing several bottles of expensive wine, would be no use to anyone, least of all her.
‘Why would Rebecca engage a private eye? It’s not as if she needs more evidence of our relationship than she already has.’
‘No, it’s not that. She’s got all the reasons she needs all sewn up; she’s determined to get her claws into all my assets.’
Clare looked at him, a questioning expression on her face. ‘She’s got that. You’ve given her a statement of assets already, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, all three hundred and fifty million quid of it. You’d think half of that would satisfy ninety-nine percent of the people on the planet, but the greedy bitch wants more. She thinks there’s more and she’s determined to find it.’
‘She employed a private eye to do what? Follow you and hope it would lead him to a pot of gold buried at the bottom of the garden which you didn’t tell her about? Could this person have followed us here?’
He laughed. ‘I’d like to see anyone try. As you know, Quinta do Lorenzo is a gated community; they don’t let just anyone in.’
It was true. They were heading towards an exclusive resort where villa prices started at two million euros and didn’t stop until they reached twenty. Neighbouring properties to Ray’s had been snapped up by Premiership footballers, pop stars, movie legends, and successful businessmen. They came to enjoy the sunshine, play golf and tennis, enjoy the well-appointed gym and spa, and not be bothered by the paparazzi, or stalkers.
If Ray wanted to play a round of golf, he was welcome. She could find plenty to do on her own, but it would be for one day only. She had explained to him that no way was she coming to Portugal to sit in the villa for four days alone while he enjoyed himself with his golfing buddies. He knew she was serious, and if he broke their agreement she would be in the back of a taxi on the way to Faro Airport before he had reached the second tee.
‘What’s happening to the Portugal house in the settlement?’
‘She never liked it here and says she doesn’t want it. All she wants, it seems, is money. Not the apartment in London, the house in Warninglid, the villa here, or the one in St Lucia. She wants a couple of paintings, but I don’t mind, she can take them all if she wants. You know my opinion on art.’
She did indeed. Ray was a non-practicing Catholic but he had ecclesiastical tastes in art. If he had his way, the house wouldn’t be adorned by watercolours by local artists, paintings and drawings by Ronnie Wood and Bob Dylan, and sculptures by Antony Gormley. He would happily trade them for large, garish oils by Hieronymus Bosch and Bruegel the Elder, and, knowing Ray, he would somehow lay his hands on the originals.
At last, the gates of Quinta do Lorenzo appeared. She had been twice before and recognised the amiable security guard with the sidearm who relaxed at the sight of the limo, presumably thankful it wasn’t a couple of street punks instead, high on crack. He waved them through.
Ray’s villa was at the upper end of the property scale and looked like something James Bond would buy, or more likely wreck in an attempt to rescue a kidnapped girl. It was modern, with large sheets of smoked glass and everywhere sharp, straight lines. The glass offered spectacular views of the coast, less than a kilometre away. However, in order to block the relentless sun from superheating the villa and blanching the furniture all through the summer months, heavy blinds had been fitted, and Ray had an app on his phone to activate them.
The villa was equipped with an eight-seat cinema, a small gym with a treadmill and exercise bike, and a pool table. Outside, there was a large pool, a jacuzzi, a barbeque area, a tennis court, and loads of seating areas where they would often enjoy a glass of wine while watching the sunset.
The limo driver removed their bags from the boot of the car and not only took them into the house but, as he had been there before, carried them up to their respective bedrooms. If he was surprised at the sleeping arrangements, he didn’t show it. On her first visit, Ray had been CEO of Raybeck and married to Rebecca. The three of them were at the villa, Clare accompanying Ray as his Financial Director, there to discuss a takeover in private, away from the prying eyes of competitors and FT journalists. Then, Clare had been given the use of a suite of rooms at the top of the house.
When Ray divested himself of the business and separated from Rebecca, Clare decided to leave the room arrangements as they were. Ray was a fitful sleeper, up at three to look at his phone or laptop, and often again at four to make a cup of coffee. She was a sound sleeper and needed a good seven hours, or she could be a grouchy bugger. If he wanted sex – and Ray, despite his copious wine consumption and advancing years, could be a randy sod – he had to show willing by first climbing the stairs.
After the limo driver departed, and with the door closed, she lay down on the king-sized bed. When she was a student, she had travelled to Portugal with three friends. They had battled through crowds at a busy airport, been squashed like sardines on a packed, package holiday flight, and endured a stifling, un-air-conditioned bus ride to a ropey two-star hotel.
Then, she’d slumped down on the lumpy single bed, exhausted from the journey, and could have gone to sleep but for the screeching of her roommate, Ella, ogling at all the gorgeous guys around the pool. A private jet followed by a cool limo drive didn’t compare. She had arrived refreshed, and was tempted to head over to the resort’s main gym and see if there was a HIT or
spin class she could join.
Instead, she pulled out her phone and texted the real man in her life, Jamie Davidson.
Arrived safe, villa splendid. I’ll call you later. Love you always, Clare. xxx. She added a few sun and beach emojis, just to make him feel jealous.
She unpacked, and after a quick shower, changed into a summer dress before heading downstairs. Ray was sitting outside, talking to someone on the phone. He had a fresh drink in his hand, and they hadn’t eaten lunch yet. It was going to be one of those holidays.
She walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the fridge, and was taken aback by all the food and drink on the shelves. The villa was managed by a local woman, Maria, who organised cleaners and gardeners and acted as housekeeper whenever Ray was in occupation. She imagined the same thing happened to several of their neighbours, a clutch of Premiership footballers. From a very young age until they retired at around thirty-five-years-old, every whim was taken care of by the club. Wherever they went, fresh clothes, food, and clean rooms appeared as if by magic. She imagined it would come as a severe shock when it all was taken away.
She poured some lime cordial into a glass, topped it up with fizzy water and added some ice. She picked up the glass and walked outside.
‘Hi babe,’ Ray said, looking up from his phone. ‘You look lovely. New dress?’
‘Yes, do you like it?’
‘Yes I do. Come here.’
She walked over to where he was sitting. He scooped her up into his large arms and sat her on his knee. Ray was a good kisser, passionate and engaging. It was the rest of it he needed to work on.
‘Don’t get any ideas, girl,’ he said pulling away. ‘I’ve just been on the phone to Marco’s; they’ve found us a table.’
‘Good. What time?’
‘In twenty minutes.’
‘We’d better get a move on. It will take us that long to walk over.’
Marco’s had two Michelin stars, and in her book the restaurant deserved both just for how good the food looked. Dishes were presented, not merely served, and laid out in such a way that if any Instagrammers were about, and this lunchtime she could see a few, it would have them reaching for their phones in a bid to make their followers jealous.
