by Iain Cameron
She left him in the bathroom while she walked to the bedroom to dress, racking her brains, trying to remember what he did. He was a web designer. No, she was thinking of Rob, the bloke she had been with the previous week. An interior designer? No, she was confusing him with someone else. She settled on something in IT. She vaguely remembered a story about a system developing a fault, resulting in twenty-pound notes being spurted out of ATM machines, although she couldn’t remember if his company had caused the problem, or if they were involved in fixing it.
She walked into the kitchen, switched on the coffee machine and popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. She was sitting beside the kitchen table munching a piece of toast and drinking a mug of milky coffee when Nick breezed in. He had availed himself of her shampoo as his hair was clean and damp, but it was obvious he didn’t fancy using her pink-handled razor as his face was still a mass of stubble.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked.
‘No, nothing for me, thanks. I’ve just remembered, I need to go and collect my car. Last night I left it outside a mate’s house and I forgot, I’ve got a conference call with a company in Dubai at nine, so unfortunately I’ve got to run.’
He leaned over and kissed her. Not the goodbye kiss of two acquaintances, but the deep, sensual one of two illicit lovers.
‘I’ll call you, okay?’ he said, walking away.
‘I’ll look forward to it. Bye.’
‘See ya.’
The door snapped shut.
This was how it often ended: the door closing, and silence. After a few days with no call or text, she would start again. In many respects, going out with the girls, enjoying a few drinks, meeting a guy, was a preferable way to go about things than online dating. Chancers in the past had lied about being single, and if they closely resembled their online picture, it was the exception.
Apart from that, online dating couldn’t reveal much about a person’s true character. She’d been out with guys who criticised what she had been wearing or how she looked, got annoyed when she took an opposing point of view, or became aggressive when someone else took an interest in her. Even when a guy was a close match for his photograph, and appeared to be a reasonably balanced character, there still remained the issue of compatibility.
She liked to party, but now pushing forty and looking ahead, at some point she wanted to settle down. Not the pipe and slippers beside a roaring fire type of settling down, but one with the occasional restaurant meal, concert, theatre outing, and trips to London to visit an exhibition or see a show.
She left the breakfast dishes on the worktop to be sorted later, and walked into the hall. She picked up a warm jacket and put it on. Scooping her car and house keys from the hall stand, she headed outside.
Walking to her car, she wondered if the warm jacket might be overkill. It was a mild morning, a sign of spring to come. No matter, she could leave it in the office. That said, by the time she left for home, often around seven, it would be starting to get dark and the outside temperature would plummet; she would need it then.
She reached the Malling House car park before the eight o’clock news on the radio, and with so many administrative staff working at the campus who hadn’t yet arrived, there was a choice of parking places. She parked her Golf behind a Nissan Primera and as she got out, the driver of the Nissan also got out.
‘Jan!’
It was Jan Allan, one of the women she had been out with the previous night.
‘Oh, it’s you, Carol. I didn’t expect to see you this early. It’s Sunday, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Why not? I didn’t drink as much as you or Lena.’
‘I thought you’d be up all night shagging that bloke Nick, and be well knackered this morning. He was hot. If you’re not up to it, girl, pass him over to me.’
‘It didn’t work out with his mate, what was his name, Charlie, wasn’t it?’
‘Harley, as in bike, and about as interesting as one with a flat tyre. He was a crap kisser, and you know me, if they can’t get that right, the rest will be bloody awful. So, it was an early night for me. Anyway, my love, I’ve got to go. The boss has got a conference call with his counterpart at the Home Office and he’s shitting bricks thinking he’s in for a bollocking. I’d better go and lend him some morale support. Catch you later.’
‘Bye Jan.’
Carol walked towards her building and Jan to hers. Like Walters, Jan was divorced. In the DS’s case, mainly due to her former partner, Rory, being such a useless prat: at finding a job, doing DIY, looking after her. In Jan’s case, it was because he had been abusive. Not the hard-to-spot, drip-drip of the psychological abuser, steadily exerting his control over his partner, but the blindingly obvious punch-in-the-face type. They were easier for the police to prosecute, as photographs produced irrefutable evidence that could be put in front of a jury. Jan’s ex was proof of this, as he was still inside, but the reasons and responses behind the abuse were often harder to comprehend.
After greeting her fellow detectives and other staff present, she took a seat at her desk. She woke up her computer and checked the serials, a list of all the crimes committed in the Sussex region overnight.
At ten, she and Sally Graham headed outside to the car park. DI Henderson wanted Joanna Turner, now Woodford, interviewed again, and for the subject of her affair with her ex-husband’s colleague, Alex Vincent, to be raised. For this, he thought, and she agreed, the interview would be better conducted by two female officers.
Walters drove out of the car park and headed towards the A27.
‘Did you see on the serials this morning, Sally? Harvey Templeton’s been arrested.’
‘The news report I read described him as a multi-millionaire property developer. I wish someone would call me that.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Never heard of him before.’
‘I have. A friend of mine bought a seafront property in Shoreham, one of his developments. She’s had nothing but trouble with leaks, heating not working, wind blowing in the windows, you name it.’
‘That’s terrible. You can understand it happening in an old house, but not in a new development.’
At the A27 - A23 junction, she headed right at the roundabout and joined the A23 northbound.
‘It sounds as though he won’t be doing much property development for the time being,’ Graham said.
‘You think?’
‘Don’t you? He’s been charged with serious assault and kidnap. Either one will give him plenty of jail time.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s rich and as slippery as an eel. He’ll get his lawyer to argue it was all his accomplice’s handiwork or something.’
Joanna Woodford’s house was warm when they arrived. They were directed into the kitchen where a large Aga stove dominated the room, and where Joanna was baking.
‘It’s for the school, you know. You’d think we pay enough in fees not to need bake sales, but who I am to question it? Are you any closer to finding who killed Martin?’
‘Our investigation is ongoing,’ Walters said.
‘That’s cop speak for either we don’t have a clue, or we’re about to arrest someone. Which is it?’
‘It’s somewhere in between, if I’m being honest.’
‘At least it sounds like progress. What would you like to talk to me about today?’
‘We’ve interviewed Alex Vincent. He told us you and him are having an affair.’
She stopped what she was doing, the spoon used to mix the ingredients in the bowl hung in mid-air. ‘Has he? Oh shit!’
‘What went on between you and Alex in private is not our concern,’ Walters continued, ‘but the fact of the affair itself is. You see, if Martin had found out about it and confronted Alex, it could provide a motive for his death.’
‘Oh yes, I do see, as it would put Alex in the frame. I can put your mind at rest. Our affair is no more than
a dalliance between a lonely woman and a man who, somewhat prematurely, finds himself in the midst of a mid-life crisis. We don’t love each other and I have never asked or wanted him to leave his wife for me.’
‘Would Mr Vincent concur with your view?’
‘You’ll need to ask him, but I would be surprised if he said anything different. He’s never made any demands on me other than those of a physical nature, and as for Martin becoming jealous and confronting Alex?’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t see it. The affair started around the time Martin left. If Martin did have any feelings for me and discovered our affair, he would be forced to admit he had no one to blame but himself.’
SEVENTEEN
Henderson poured muesli into a bowl and added some cold milk. He was feeling tired, not because he had been out the previous night and he had come home late, but he was unaccustomed to talking and concentrating for so long.
The previous night, he had gone to the cinema with a lady and afterwards, went to a pizza restaurant. It wasn’t Sharon from upstairs this time, but for the last four weeks he had been dating Kelly Jackson, a Sociology and Criminology professor at the University of Sussex.
Kelly was one of the UK’s foremost experts in offender profiling, and had spent time at the FBI’s training base at Quantico, learning how they profiled serial killers. He had known her for several years, having attended a couple of her lectures and consulted her on more than one occasion. He hadn’t considered asking her out, despite her being an attractive woman, as he had no idea about her personal circumstances and, in his experience, most of the good ones were already spoken for. While they were chatting, he mentioned he was moving house following the split between him and Rachel, and it had prompted Kelly to ask him out.
He drove to the office, his mind switching from the enjoyable time the previous night, to the hunt for the murderer of Martin Turner. He had spoken to Carol Walters after she had re-interviewed Joanna Woodford. While Joanna’s assertion that the affair with Alex Vincent was inconsequential, not dissimilar to her nonchalant reaction when hearing of her husband’s murder, it wasn’t sufficient reason to put a line through Vincent’s name just yet. Henderson would leave him on the ‘persons of interest’ list for the time being.
The team had now completed most of the strands initially identified at the start of the investigation: Turner’s family and friends and his work colleagues, leaving only a couple of convict clients unaccounted for. If none of them were responsible, the only conclusion to be drawn was that Turner had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the intruder had been attracted by something in the place where he had found himself, Alex Vincent’s office.
He had mulled this point over in his mind several times and still felt unable to cite divorce as a viable murder motive. If a couple hated one another so much that they were in danger of killing one another, wouldn’t a separation and divorce solve the problem? Even if the sums of money involved were large and disputed, UK divorce law was robust enough to ensure the non-earning partner would be equitably compensated.
Henderson sighed as he drove into the Malling House car park. The thought of trawling through Alex Vincent’s files: harrowing tales of humiliation, violence, misery and boredom, did nothing to fill him with glee. A filter could be added to the mix by cross-referencing it with the list of criminal clients developed by Harry Wallop, but even doing that wouldn’t necessarily shorten the odds.
Walking into his office, he dumped his document case on the desk and headed straight to the coffee machine in the Detectives’ Room. It was early and only a few of the team were about. He was heading back to his office with his mug when Carol Walters burst through the double doors.
‘Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I need to show you something.’
‘Good day to you, Carol. How are you this fine Monday morning?’
‘I’m okay, gov, thanks for asking. How’s yourself?’
‘I’m good. Now, why were you looking for me?’
‘Did you see this last night?’ she said, holding up a printout.
‘No, I was out.’
‘Oh, how was it?’
The doors opened again and this time Phil Bentley walked in.
‘Morning Phil.’
‘Morning gov, morning Carol.’
‘As I was saying,’ Walters said.
‘Hold that thought for a moment,’ Henderson said. ‘I think it’s better we move, or everyone will think this is the start of a new Chief Constable initiative: greet the team as they arrive for work.’
They walked to Walters’ desk. She sat behind the desk while he pulled over a spare chair.
‘Now, where were we?’ he asked.
‘If we spin back to yesterday,’ she said. ‘In the serials, Harvey Templeton and Jason Tames were arrested for kidnapping and beating up a Spanish bloke.’
‘I saw the story. The name Templeton rang a bell.’
‘He’s a big property developer, based in Shoreham. Has a reputation for playing fast and loose, mainly with other people’s money.’
‘I remember. He’s a bit cavalier in the way he deals with objectors and protestors who are against his developments, but his investors all seem to get paid in the end. So, he was arrested for kidnap and assault, but I take it there’s more?’
‘As much as I’d enjoy a slimeball like Templeton spending a night in one of our cells–’
‘You mean he didn’t?’
She shook her head and pointed to the printout, still in her hand. It was from a news website, probably the Mail on Sunday. ‘He was released last night, but his bully-boy Tames wasn’t. Templeton claimed that when he turned up at this farm, a place he was allowing Tames to use, Tames was beating up the suspect. He was trying to stop the assault when police arrived.’
‘Believe that and you’ll believe in the tooth fairy. It’s a likely story to save his skin and blame the other guy. What’s the relationship between the two of them?’
‘It says Tames is an employee of Templeton’s company.’
‘There you go, then. The employee is taking the rap while his boss goes free. I wonder how much he’s paying him. What does the victim say?’
‘He’s unconscious.’
‘Oh, is he? Nevertheless, what’s it got to do with us? I know many property developers sail close to the wind, but Templeton isn’t on our radar.’
‘No, but Bruce Nolan is. The victim works for Nolan. The victim’s name is Santiago Rodrigo González.’
‘He works for Nolan? Now that puts a different slant on things.’
‘What do you think we should do about it?’
‘Do scrapyards open early?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Ach, by the time we negotiate the morning traffic and get to Newhaven, it’ll be after nine. Grab a jacket and we’ll go and talk to the irascible Mr Nolan once again. Maybe he’s a morning person.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
Henderson had been right about the traffic. They’d hit Lewes as everyone was dropping their kids off at school. They crawled around the periphery of the town and things only speeded up when they had cleared the Southerham Roundabout, and even then, the car didn’t travel faster than forty miles an hour.
‘There’s something I meant to say earlier,’ Henderson said, ‘and it’s just come back into my head.’
‘What about?’
‘The Templeton assault,’ he said.
‘What about it?’
‘If I’ve understood the story right, Tames was beating up one of Bruce Nolan’s employees in a barn, on a farm, many miles from anywhere.’
‘Yep.’
‘Assuming they’re not overlooked, who made the emergency call?’
‘You’re right, they aren’t overlooked, I looked the place up on Google Maps. It’s an interesting question. When I get back, I’ll check with the 999 Operations Room and see if someone left a number.’
‘The plot thickens.’
; When they arrived at Nolan Base Metals in Newhaven, Nolan was driving a forklift truck. This wasn’t surprising as he was one assistant down. He pointed towards the office as he continued driving the truck.
They walked in and, as expected, it was empty. Henderson pulled over the two chairs they’d used in their previous visit and both detectives sat.
‘There’s a laptop lying there,’ Walters said, nodding. ‘Is it worth giving it a go?’
He shook his head. ‘While a large proportion of laptop users never change their passwords and still use 123456 or admin, it will be protected by something. Most operating systems keep pestering you until you create one. That said, it wouldn’t take the Digital Forensics team more than five minutes to find out what’s on there, but as we don’t live in a police state, we’d need a warrant first.’
It was just as well they didn’t, as through the window they saw Bruce Nolan stop the forklift and jump from the cab. He shouted something to his companion before striding towards the office.
The door burst open and Nolan stomped in. He slammed the door behind him, which did little to dampen the loud noise of some other machine operating outside.
‘What the fuck is it this time? I’ve told you all I know, and now I’m a man down and that big truck over there with a load of pipes won’t unload itself.’
‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Nolan. We know how busy you are. How is Mr González?’
The question threw him. It was if he wanted to vent more anger on the next thing the DI said, but couldn’t.
‘He’s as well as you would expect after being given a good kicking by that bastard Tames.’
‘Still unconscious?’
‘He is, yeah. Thanks for asking.’
He took off his hard hat and jacket and hung them on a peg before taking a seat behind his desk. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘It was Mr González we wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Everyone calls him Pedro, it’s easier.’
‘Fine. What was he doing at the farm?’
