by Iain Cameron
‘I slept fine. I’ve got a lot on today.’
‘Have you?’ She laughed. ‘Since when did the world of divorce become so demanding it needs you to go into the office at seven in the morning? I know the warring parties want it over quickly, but this is ridiculous.’
Anita had dedicated herself to the care and upbringing of their two boys, and as such, most people treated her as a housewife. This suited her fine, as she could attend coffee mornings and bring-and-buy sales, without intimidating people, which usually happened when they found out she was once a top mergers and acquisitions specialist. This also made her a difficult woman to lie to.
While working, she earned three to four times his salary, and often was awarded an equally large bonus to boot. He wasn’t a dinosaur who believed a woman’s place was in the home, but he felt emasculated by her huge earning power, and in the high circles she coasted through, dealing with chief executives, government officials, and top civil servants with consummate ease.
It had been her decision to take care of the boys when Thomas was born, and even though Alex had supported her decision, they didn’t half feel the jolt when her salary was removed from the family finances. With him now the principal breadwinner, he felt the weight of responsibility like a rucksack filled with rocks on his shoulders. Be careful what you wish for, his father had said to him at the time, and now he understood what he meant.
‘No, it’s Robert. I mentioned to him about the missing files, and far from taking it lightly as I expected, he fears litigation and has asked me to determine the risk to the firm.’
‘You?’ she said, taking a seat opposite him at the table, a mug of tea cupped in her hand, and looking at him with unflinching, piercing green eyes. ‘You don’t know anything about business risk.’
‘He trusts me.’
He stood and moved his plate and cup to the sink, not keen to meet her steely gaze. He opened the dishwasher and began putting the items inside.
‘Leave it, Alex. I’ll do it. You know I don’t like anyone else loading the dishwasher.’
‘I’ll go up and get ready,’ he said, walking out of the kitchen quickly before Anita decided to probe further.
When his wife had got the bit between her teeth she was more effective than any of the Radio 4 Today programme presenters he listened to on the way to work. She would repeatedly ask the same question until she had received what she regarded as a satisfactory answer. When meeting someone for the first time, she would know more about them in five minutes than he would from spending an afternoon chatting to them.
The journey to Brighton was more pleasant than normal. Less traffic for a start, and fewer holdups at the usual choke points. He was on the road before school traffic, most office workers, and almost all retail employees. It was so easy, he wondered why he didn’t do it all the time; there was certainly enough work on his plate to fill the extra hours he would gain.
When he reached the outskirts of Brighton, the junction between the A23 and A27, instead of driving straight into town he took the bypass and headed east towards Lewes.
Malling House, the Headquarters of Sussex Police, wasn’t the bland sixties office block he was expecting. To his surprise, it looked like a manor house with a variety of different sizes and shapes of office blocks located directly behind it.
He parked and, after entering one of the buildings and informing the uniformed policeman behind the desk of his name, was led into an interview room. He liked coffee, but refused the offer of a cup from the young constable. He couldn’t bear coffee from a machine, and he knew how bad police coffee could be from stories told to him by Martin Turner.
Minutes later, two people walked into the room. It was DI Henderson, and DS Walters, both of whom he’d met at the Jonas Baines offices. Henderson was clean-shaven, an unusual occurrence nowadays if any of the clients he met on a daily basis were anything to go by, and dressed in a suit. It wasn’t an expensive suit. His own were handmade and looked and hung better.
‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Vincent, I am the Senior Investigating Officer in the hunt to find Martin Turner’s killer.’
‘Yes, I was aware.’
‘You have already been interviewed by two of my officers–’
‘So why do you need to see me again? I’ve had to make this appointment early so no one in the office, or even my wife, would know I was coming here. If people knew I’d been seen by you people twice they’d think I was a suspect.’
‘You didn’t tell your wife?’ Walters said. ‘Why not?’
‘If my wife suspects I am hiding something, Sergeant, she is like a rottweiler with a piece of gristle in its mouth. She would gnaw at me for as long as it took to wheedle the truth out.’
‘Why, do you have something to hide?’
He realised he’d said something he shouldn’t. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant. I was using the metaphor to illustrate a point. If she knew I was coming here, I would have been bombarded with questions; that was all I meant.’
‘When you talked to my officers,’ Henderson said, ‘you said you and Martin were friends.’
He sighed. ‘In the past, we were and I would have admitted it without hesitation. We’d often go to each other’s houses for a dinner party, or a barbecue in summer, but in the last couple of years, less so.’
‘Did Martin’s drinking habits annoy you?’
‘Why, because I’m teetotal?’
‘Are you? I didn’t know.’
‘Yes, I am. It’s not for any religious reasons, or because I’m an ex-alcoholic. Suffice to say, I had a bad experience with alcohol as a teenager and I never want to repeat it. Plus, I like driving too much to risk losing my license over something as inconsequential as a drink.’
‘As police officers who have seen our fair share of tragic accidents as a result of drink-driving, we can only commend you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Going back to my question, Mr Vincent. Did Martin’s drinking bother you?’
‘It did. It would turn an intelligent and interesting man into a boorish lout who behaved no better than an overgrown schoolboy.’
‘Did things change following his divorce from Joanna?’
‘That’s a good question, Inspector, and I have to say yes. He drank much more after the divorce, when it wouldn’t just result in high jinks where he would drench everyone with his kid’s super-soaker, or throw bread rolls in a restaurant. He became a more morose individual who, if we were in a pub together, would bore me witless with his troubles, or be eyeing up every woman in the place.’
‘Would you say you were still friends at this point?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t socialise much with him at this time, but we still saw each other at work functions, or when dealing with the same client.’
‘There’s crossover?’
‘Some women can’t wait to get divorced if their husbands are charged with a serious offence. Gone are the days of standing by your man.’
‘Hallelujah to that. It makes our job so much easier.’
‘Even though Martin and I didn’t socialise together, it didn’t stop my wife and his. Their kids are older than ours, although they still have Seb at Hurstpierpoint College, the school where our two go. The two women meet for coffee once a week, and they’re both on several of the same committees at school.’
‘Mr Vincent, my officers have noticed you seem to have a personal interest in Joanna Woodford.’
‘Is this in reference to my visiting her house after her former husband was found murdered?’
‘Yes, although going once in the last week wouldn’t bother me, but I think three times requires some explanation.’
‘I have a right to be concerned; she’s a good friend. I’m appalled at your lack of sensitivity. In fact,’ he said, standing, ‘I will say no more on the matter. This meeting is finished.’
‘Sit down,’ Henderson said sharply.
‘Or what?’
‘I will
arrest you.’
‘On what grounds, pray tell?’
‘On suspicion of murdering Martin Turner.’
‘What?’ he said in a strangled, high-pitched voice. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone. Where is your evidence?’
‘Sit down, Mr Vincent.’
Vincent sat down slowly, but with the speed of an electronic news feed he saw the implications of this accusation as it raced across his brain. At the first whiff of a scandal, the firm would suspend him despite the often-quoted mantra of ‘innocent until proven guilty’. Anita would kick him out and the information would zip around his boys’ school with the alacrity of an Australian bushfire, not blackening the landscape, but his reputation. He needed to be careful here, or all thoughts of a ten o’clock client meeting followed by lunch with Joanna would become a distant and gut-twisting memory.
‘Mr Vincent, and remember, this conversation is being recorded, are you and Joanna Woodford involved in an affair?’
His first instinct was to lie, a little white lie in the scheme of things, but the light on the recording device glowed red. He knew from personal experience and working with divorce clients how lies, even little white ones, often came back to haunt.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but only after Martin left.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It may have started,’ he said waving a hand dismissively, ‘I don’t know, a few months before he was chucked out, but the writing had been on the wall for two, maybe three years before.’
‘So we understand.’
‘Good, so you’ll know how bad the situation was.’
‘On the night of Martin Turner’s murder, you were where?’
‘I told all this to your officers. Don’t you people talk to one another?’
Shit! He didn’t mean to sound so aggressive. If he did it again, the murder charge would surely make another unwelcome appearance.
‘Yes, we do talk to one another. I have their report right in front of me. I want to hear you say it.’
He sighed. ‘If you wish. I arrived home around seven. I changed out of my work clothes into sportswear, had something to drink, then drove to my badminton club. It’s held at the community hall in Henfield, if you want to check. I came home around ten, feeling pretty shattered having played three hard matches. I had something to eat while watching television with my wife, and we both went to bed at eleven. I didn’t get up again until about seven the following morning.’
‘Can you see why this new information interests us?’
‘No, tell me.’
‘I would have thought, with you being a divorce lawyer, it would be obvious. If Martin had found out about your relationship with Joanna he would have had a hold over you. Perhaps he threatened to tell your wife, or tried to intimidate Joanna into discontinuing maintenance support.’
It hit him like a steam hammer. He knew Martin’s movements, how he drank heavily, how he sometimes slept in the office, the whole kit and caboodle. Now they were adding a reason as to why he would want to do it. He felt his grasp of reality slipping away. He wanted to say it but couldn’t face the embarrassment, that often-heard staple of many popular television crime dramas: I need a lawyer.
‘No,’ he said weakly. ‘I didn’t kill Martin. Ask my wife, she’ll tell you.’
Walking out to his car, with instructions not to leave the country still ringing in his ears, Vincent felt like he was stepping on quicksand. Yes, Anita would back up his alibi, but when she found out about his betrayal, and with her best friend, one careless word or a feigned lapse of memory on her part, and the quagmire would become real.
FOURTEEN
Henderson drove along Brighton seafront, a mirror of his earlier morning run. It was a dull winter’s day, with no sign of the sun, and the sea the colour of gun metal. Not surprisingly, there were no leisure craft on the water: no yachts, paddleboards, or windsurfers, only the slow-moving commercial ships on their way to one of the large ports on the Continent.
‘You were saying about Alex Vincent,’ Carol Walters said from the passenger seat.
‘Aye, I was. He ticks all the boxes of a classic love triangle murder, but I’m not entirely convinced.’
‘You mean, he doesn’t look like a murderer? He does to me.’
‘We’ve had this discussion before: what does a murderer look like? We talk about the loner who has a suffocating relationship with his mother, or conversely, one in which she rejects him. Alternatively, the con or ex-soldier with a chip on his shoulder. This before someone mentions genial, old Harold Shipman, everyone’s favourite GP. I accept Vincent knew the victim’s movements, didn’t like him much, and would perhaps gain from his death, but in this instance it doesn’t feel enough.’
‘Well, the team back in the office will keep tearing his background and alibi apart until they find something.’
‘His alibi hangs on his wife, Anita. As you know, husband and wife alibis are notoriously difficult to break down. Plus, who goes to their badminton club on a night they’re planning to kill someone? It’s a tough, exhausting game at club level. Most people, sitting in the dark at Jonas Baines waiting for Martin Turner to show up, would be fast asleep in a corner.’
‘Ach, trust you to spoil it, I think he’s such a good fit.’
‘Let’s see what the team come up with. Make sure he did go to the badminton club as he said, and speak to one or two members and find out if he played the games he said he did, and what frame of mind he was in. Also, check the time he left.’
‘Will do.’
‘Next, talk to Anita again, and see if she agrees with his timing, but don’t mention the affair. There’s no need to blow their relationship out of the water if we don’t have other evidence to stack against him.’
‘No problem.’
At Shoreham Harbour, Henderson turned into an industrial estate before pulling up outside a warehouse. The name Rema Foods was displayed prominently.
‘Not bad for a man who’s spent the last few years inside,’ Walters said.
‘A lot of illegal money was confiscated when he was convicted, but he must have had a lot of it salted away in order to start this, don’t you think? I can’t see him, with his track record, trotting along to his local Barclay’s branch and asking for a loan, can you?’
They got out of the car and approached the door. It was locked, but he noticed the CCTV camera above his head and it didn’t look like a dummy. Henderson pressed the bell and waited.
‘Hello, this is Rema Foods. What can I do for you?’
The person talking was displayed on a small video screen. ‘Detective Inspector Henderson and Detective Sergeant Walters, Sussex Police, to see Dominic Green.’
Henderson heard a click from the door’s mechanism. He pushed it open and they walked inside. It was a typical warehouse operation with rows of racking filling almost the entire building, the shelves full of large sacks. As they walked in the direction of the office at the back, Henderson saw that some of the sacks contained tea, some pasta and others flour.
A man stepped out from behind a desk and headed towards them. He was small with grey hair swept back and a big gut hanging over his belt, as if concealing a car tyre under his shirt.
‘Sussex Police to see Dominic Green,’ Henderson said, holding out his ID.
‘I’m the warehouse supervisor. Is he expecting you?’
‘He is.’
‘He said fuck all about it to me, but what the hell, it’s par for the course in this place. Follow me.’
He led them past other shelves containing smaller packages, half-kilo and kilo-sized, presumably the shop-ready versions of the sacks he had noticed earlier. Through the glass panels of the office at the back, Henderson spotted the familiar bald pate of its sole occupant, Dominic Green.
To all intents and purposes, this looked like a successful and legit operation, but leopards didn’t change their spots any more than serious criminals like Dominic Green decided to go straight. However, Henderson coul
dn’t help but admire the attempt.
The warehouse supervisor stuck his head around the office door and said, ‘Two cops here to see you, boss.’
‘Thanks, Sid. Send them in.’
Henderson and Walters walked inside while Sid waddled back to his desk grumbling about something.
‘Don’t send your children to the same charm school as our Sid, that is, if you don’t want them to come out more ignorant than when they went in. Inspector Henderson and Sergeant Walters, this is a pleasure. Please take a seat.’
No handshakes, no genuine bonhomie and there would be no offer of drinks. Henderson expected as much.
‘It’s an impressive place you have here, Mr Green,’ Henderson said.
‘What, for a former con?’
‘No, I meant in comparison to the other businesses around here. You’ve got plenty of stock and it’s obvious you’re busy.’
‘I started this business about eighteen months ago, importing bulk commodities such as tea and flour from contacts in India and Pakistan, and selling them in smaller quantities to local supermarkets and farm shops. I’m more than happy with the way it’s turned out. Our White Knight brand is flying off the shelves.’
‘I’ve seen it displayed in a supermarket near me,’ Henderson said. ‘I didn’t know it was one of yours.’
‘Now you do. Buy some and help an ex-con trying to make his way in the world.’
‘Aye, maybe I will. I’m in charge of the team investigating the murder of a prominent local lawyer, Martin Turner.’
‘I was distressed to read the story, I can tell you. It was Martin, after all, who prepared the groundwork in my case, and while I would give Giles Rayworth QC the bulk of the credit for his theatrical but magnificent performances in court, he couldn’t have done it without Martin’s help.’
Henderson was listening, but all the time looking round for any evidence to suggest this operation was a front. If so, to hide the trade in what? Green was a career criminal who specialised in importing and selling drugs, and while this could be more of the same, he wouldn’t put it past him to be dabbling in something else: gunrunning, art fraud, laundering or forging money.
