by Iain Cameron
Every newspaper at the time was convinced Schofield had killed Allan Blake. This was supported by Blake’s repeated statements about his unwillingness to sell his chain of health clubs. The fact that Blake’s widow sold them to Schofield’s company a few months after the trial only succeeded in encouraging them to vent their spleen one more time.
‘Quite a nice area this,’ Walters said from the passenger seat. ‘Lots of green space and some very large houses.’
‘Fancy a move to the country, do you?’
‘I would at some point. Cities are all right when you’re young, but they’re not a place to bring up a family. It’s all concrete, dog mess, and crazies hanging out on street corners.’
‘Plenty do.’
‘I know, I see them in their school blazers and little shorts standing at bus stops, but they have to walk past the said crazies and drug users on their way home.’
‘Liberals would argue that it toughens them up for the hard knocks ahead. If the kids are too soft, they’ll be taken in by smooth-talking fraudsters and online scammers.’
‘Trust you to burst my bubble.’
‘What will really put a pin in your dreams are the house prices. I reckon around here you wouldn’t get much change out of three or four million.’
The house where Raymond Schofield lived was in another category altogether. Once the metal gates had swung open, they could see a huge place with perfectly spaced trees and a flawless bowling green-standard lawn, giving it the air of an up-market conference venue. Judging by the number of upstairs windows, it probably had eight or nine bedrooms, with space downstairs to accommodate all manner of facilities. To one side, he could see a tennis court and a pool, while the border of trees that appeared to mark the boundary of the property looked a long way off in the distance.
Henderson rang the bell and a small, portly woman opened the door.
‘DI Henderson and DS Walters, Sussex Police, to see Mr Schofield.’
‘Ah yes, he is expecting you. I’m Lyn Malone, Mr Schofield’s housekeeper. Do come in.’
Outside, the house was as traditional as any in the neighbourhood, but inside the hallway it was light wood, minimal furnishings, and pieces of modern art on the walls, giving it the feel of a trendy art gallery.
They were shown into something Mrs Malone called a ‘study’ to wait for the big man, but it was the size of a small ballroom in a lesser establishment. In keeping with the minimal theme, two walls were lined with bookcases, while the rest of the room only contained a large desk and chair, with two visitor’s chairs in front. A settee was sited close to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the garden. All in all, a large room with not much in it.
Walters took a seat on the settee while Henderson walked over and stared out of the window.
‘What a view,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking at other than the South Downs in the distance, but the slope of the valley and the trees is nothing short of stunning.’
‘I suppose it’s all included in the price.’
‘Officers,’ Raymond Schofield said, breezing into the room. ‘I’m sorry to keep you.’
Henderson turned. It was a surprise to see Schofield in ‘civvies’: casual trousers, yellow V-neck, check shirt, and loafers without socks. In pictures he’d seen on the web, he was inevitably clad in a smart two- or three-piece suit, often with a handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. At one time, he had been voted Britain’s best-dressed businessman by several men’s fashion magazines.
Following introductions, Schofield took a seat behind the glass and metal desk while the officers settled into the two visitor’s chairs.
‘It’s good of you to see us, Mr Schofield.’
‘If I was still running Raybeck Leisure I wouldn’t have been able to see you so soon, and you would have been forced to go through my old secretary, Sonia, who at times, could be a bit of a battle-axe. Now that I’ve sold everything off, these days my work is done at a more easy-going pace.’
‘Not if the article I saw in The Financial Times is to believed.’
He smiled, but it wasn’t warm. ‘You’re right. In partnership with Raybeck’s former financial director, we’ve set up a vehicle to invest in emerging high-tech companies. We’re focussing mainly on sustainability: technologies to reduce an organisation’s carbon footprint, and in making existing processes work more efficiently. It’s a serious venture and involves targeting suitable companies and providing funding for those we think will succeed. As you can imagine, it’s very different from corporate life.’
Despite the casual attire, Schofield looked and sounded as sharp as a knife. Henderson had watched a YouTube video of him being interviewed by a dogged presenter on the BBC 2 programme, Newsnight, and not once did the presenter get the better of Schofield. He had clearly come on the programme with an agenda and several points to make, and make them he did.
‘I’m in charge of the team investigating the murder of Martin Turner, two weeks ago in the early hours of Wednesday 8th February,’ Henderson said.
‘I’d heard about it. In fact, Robert Haldane called to tell me, just as I was watching the story on the local news. It was a terrible thing to happen to Martin, really terrible.’
‘You knew Mr Turner well?’
‘I liked and respected him, and I never imagined he would die in such dreadful circumstances. Although, it just shows you the mark of the man. So dedicated was he to his work, he didn’t have time to go home; he was sleeping in his office. I know people in your line of work are often forced to do such things, but it never occurred to me lawyers would be so snowed under they would be required to do it as well.’
‘We’re here to find out more about Martin and ask if you knew of anyone who might have had reason to kill him.’
‘You probably know, but I first met Martin when I was accused of the murder of Allan Blake, the owner of Blake’s Health Clubs. I liked the business but not the name. When I bought it, I changed it to what it is today, Premier Fitness.’
Henderson nodded.
‘The case against me, brought by Kent Police not Sussex, or I wouldn’t be giving you guys the time of day, was founded on his reluctance to sell the business. Plus, traces of his blood were found in the cabin and on the deck of my yacht. The prosecution couldn’t provide a body or murder weapon, and couldn’t show malice on my part. I was stitched up.’
‘What happened at sea?’
‘A big bloody storm blowing up from the Bay of Biscay is what happened. We were sailing off the north French coast after visiting Jersey, the place where Allan was born, when we ran smack into a storm. I don’t know if you know anything about yachts, but if you see a storm on the satellite feed it’s not like being in a plane where you can detour around it. A yacht moves too slowly, so if you can’t get out of the way, all you can do is batten down the hatches and hope to ride it out.’
Henderson did know about yachts and storms, as his own yacht, ‘Mingary’, was berthed at Brighton Marina.
‘Was Allan Blake a keen sailor?’ Walters asked.
‘That’s an interesting question, and I don’t think it was raised by anyone at my trial. Perhaps they assumed he was. He was a keen sailor, used to smaller boats than mine, but he knew enough not to be a liability in a crisis.’
‘How did Mr Blake die?’
Henderson wasn’t listening too closely, instead he was looking at Schofield’s face. The former chief executive was an animated speaker, his facial expressions and the movement of his hands being used extensively to emphasise various points. A big wave sweeping someone overboard was a common enough occurrence in sailing. With the conditions as bad as Schofield described, it would be near-impossible to conduct the ‘man overboard’ manoeuvre with the sea pitching and rolling so violently, and he would imagine visibility would also be impaired.
However, ignoring the intensity of the storm for a moment, it was the perfect place to stage a murder. Even if the person was harnessed, as an experienced s
ailor would be if moving around the deck, a sharp knife could take care of it, and with visibility marred by mist or driving rain, who would notice someone disappearing over the side?
‘Did his widow not have any reservations about selling the health club business to you, despite you being accused of her husband’s murder?’
‘No, not at all. She didn’t believe I played any part in Allan’s death. She knew how well we were getting along. In any case, she believed he was involved in an affair with Clare Mitchell and was on the point of divorcing him. She wanted the money from the sale to start a new life.’
‘Clare Mitchell, your former financial director at Raybeck?’
‘Yes. I’d been trying to buy Blake’s Health Clubs for many years, and when I first approached Allan with an offer, she was FD there. It didn’t take me long to realise how good she was, and when my existing FD retired due to ill health, I poached her.’
‘Were Allan Blake and Clare Mitchell having an affair, as Mrs Blake believed?’
‘God, no. He was much older than her, by about fifteen years, and anyway, she didn’t fancy him. She saw him more as a father figure, a substitute for the one she didn’t have. Her father died of cancer, you see, when she was about seventeen. Blake’s widow mistook Clare’s affection for something sexual. It wasn’t.’
‘It was the work done by Martin Turner that got you off, I believe.’
‘He was excellent. He questioned everything the CPS threw at me, and the round-the-world sailor he brought in to explain how the accident could have occurred, was brilliant. His unquestionable knowledge about yachts and the vivid way he described one of his own crew being swept overboard in a storm in the Southern Ocean had some of the jury members weeping.’
‘What do you think happened to Martin?’
Schofield’s hands were still for the first time, now placed in front of him like an American Evangelical preacher engaged in a TV broadcast.
‘I’ve read newspaper reports and seen television broadcasts, but unless you can tell me any different, no one seems to have a clue. I think a druggie broke in, thinking there was money and valuables to be had, and Martin got in the way. He was that sort of person, you see. If he ever saw a homeless person being berated by a couple of youths, he would go over and remonstrate. He wasn’t the type to sit idly by and let someone else deal with it.’
TWENTY-ONE
Yes, there was a touch of spring in the air. Trevor Robinson walked out of the Jonas Baines offices in Trafalgar Street and, for the first time in ages, felt the sun on his face. Even now, around five-thirty in the evening, the air was warmer than it had been the previous week when he had worn a scarf around his chin. It wasn’t temperate enough for him to take off his coat, or more importantly, for the lovely girls of Brighton to remove their shapeless jumpers and jeans and change into summer dresses, but all that would happen in the fullness of time.
If he was feeling a bit more sprightly than usual it was because he had just been paid. It wasn’t his normal salary either, it had been topped up with a discretionary amount, which he would continue to receive for the following six months or so. It was in compensation for the anxiety suffered at the loss of his work partner and for taking over many of his duties and cases.
He knew in the months to come he could be replaced. Once Haldane had recruited a person to take over from Martin, and when they had found their feet, Robinson’s bargaining chips would turn to dust in his fingers. He would therefore play the anxious and indispensable card to his advantage, but not so much that Haldane would get rid of him at the first opportunity.
His improved finances had warmed his heart, as tonight was casino night. It was also the night to pay some debts. He walked in the direction of home in the fading sunlight, Brighton looking resplendent in the yellow glow it created. He decided his developing paunch wasn’t a becoming look for a successful criminal lawyer, and so even if the weather was inclement he resolved to walk home.
Before reaching Waitrose on Western Road, he opened the door to Romario’s Coffee House and walked in. Miranda Moss was seated at a table, staring into her latte glass as if it held the solution to all of the world’s problems.
‘Hello, love,’ he said.
‘Oh god, I was miles away.’
She tilted her head and responded to his kiss.
‘What were you thinking about?’
‘Oh nothing, just about that dick, Fran. I wasted most of the afternoon fixing a problem he created.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked, nodding towards the counter.
‘I just got this,’ she said, tapping her latte glass.
‘A refill, or something to eat?’
‘Maybe later.’
‘No problem.’ He walked to the counter and ordered a latte. As usual, he took a good look at the goodies behind the glass: chocolate cake, brownies, cherry tart, and was about to order a chocolate muffin when he remembered the paunch issue.
The company Miranda worked for was located in the centre of Brighton, so it was easy for the two of them to meet for a coffee on evenings when they weren’t going out together later. She was a computer programmer, a coder in modern parlance, working for an outfit involved in the design of bespoke solutions for telecoms companies.
Why they decided to locate their offices in an area where it was a nightmare to park, and druggies could be hanging about in the evening hassling staff for money, was anyone’s guess. The few IT companies he knew about were based in shiny new estates on the edge of Brighton, or in Crawley, in a suite of purposely designed offices.
He carried his coffee to the table and took a seat opposite Miranda.
‘What, no muffin?’ she said, an astonished look on her face. ‘Stock markets will collapse, the price of pork bellies will fall to the floor, market traders will slash their wrists.’
‘Yes, yes, enjoy mocking me. It’s not as if I don’t get enough of it at work.’
‘Difference is, I’ve got your best interests at heart. Who wouldn’t want to be with a man with a beach-ready body?’
This was good. Miranda didn’t often talk of the future, but here she was, suggesting they’d be together in a few months’ time.
‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t do much of my own work. I spent the morning in a meeting about a new productivity tool, and in the afternoon, after I fixed the problem I mentioned earlier, yet another meeting, this time with our biggest client.’
‘Openreach.’
‘Very novel, a man who listens to me. Are you still okay for Sunday?’
‘Meet the folks? Can’t wait.’
‘You might not be so enthusiastic after you’ve met them.’
It was the end of February, and easy to commit to something at the weekend. In a couple of months’ time it would be the start of the flat horse racing season; if she asked then, he would first need to get out his phone and check to see if he could fit her in. He would then find out if this curbed her enthusiasm for the summer to come.
They talked for another fifteen minutes before leaving the café. He walked Miranda back to her flat in Brunswick Place, before carrying on to his own street. With the time they’d spent talking, he couldn’t dawdle, so he changed his clothes, had something to eat, and then left his apartment. His commitment to improving his physique was undimmed, but he’d done enough walking for one day. He walked to a stop on Western Road and waited for a bus heading in the direction of Brighton Station.
The Regency Casino in Church Street wasn’t his favourite, but he liked to vary his routine by never visiting the same casino twice in a row. He couldn’t say why, as he hadn’t experienced a lot of bad luck there, wasn’t intimidated by some of the strange people who frequented it, and the staff seemed friendly enough. Casinos for him had a vibe. He’d been to others in Nevada and Macau and hated them instantly. There, he could feel the hunger of the gamblers, their love of money subverting any love they had for the game: the noble art of pitting the
ir skills against the dealer and Lady Luck.
He stood for a few minutes watching players on the roulette table. Their behaviour would change depending on the time of day or night. Early on, betting was modest, the chips on single numbers or spread across two numbers. Later on, around ten o’clock when the careless had downed too much booze from the bar and the high rollers had made an appearance, it would become more daring. Piles of chips would be spread across multiple combinations, and chips would be placed at the ‘odd and even’ and the ‘red and black’ stations. He often wondered how the croupiers kept track of the winnings.
One of the gamblers at the table swept up his modest pile of chips and vacated the seat. Robinson sat down in his place. Within twenty minutes, he had several stacks of chips in front of him. He had barely lost any spins, but he knew luck could be a fickle mistress. Therefore, as playing cautiously had reaped dividends, he decided to continue in this vein.
Five minutes later, and still on a winning streak, he was watching the wheel spin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the perfectly formed features of Hassan Khouri.
‘Hello Hassan, it’s good to see you.’
‘You too, Trevor.’
‘Black twenty-two,’ the croupier called, before sweeping a pile of chips towards Robinson.
‘You seem to be doing all right tonight.’
‘I am, but I think I’ll stop there. I know my limitations.’
He scooped his chips into his hand and stood. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Why not? Seeing you’re so flush.’
Hassan walked over to sit at a table while Robinson cashed in most of his chips. He kept some back for the blackjack table later.
When Robinson headed over to join Hassan, his wallet bulging with cash and his expression satisfyingly smug, a waiter was already at the table taking Hassan’s order. Before sitting, Robinson added a whisky and soda to the order. He usually made a point of consuming no alcohol while gambling in a casino, but tonight he would make an exception, as he liked Hassan.
