by Iain Cameron
She was on a kick to try to reduce his burgeoning gut, another issue reinforcing his feelings of impending middle-age. It wasn’t as if he didn’t take any exercise: he played badminton at club level, football with two lively boys in the garden, and at weekends the family often went out for long walks. His affair with Joanna had admittedly curbed the amount of badminton he played. If there wasn’t a league match, he would often leave the session a half-hour before the end, and tell Anita he and a few other players had gone to a pub in Henfield for a few drinks afterwards.
This allowed him an hour or two with Joanna. Her lad, Seb, was at the age when he would rather stay holed up in his sweat-infested room playing FIFA online with his mates than talk to adults, a bunch of boring old farts according to him. In fact, Joanna’s house was so large they could be prancing around naked in one of the bedrooms in the west wing, and if Seb came downstairs for a can of Coke and a biscuit he wouldn’t have a clue what they were up to. In addition, Vincent’s excuse of going for a drink after the game didn’t present a problem, as he was teetotal and had no need to fake alcohol on his breath.
Today, there was no flatbread or a sandwich, but chicken with couscous. He shook his head but realised it was all in a good cause. He didn’t know how Anita did it. He supposed all the experience of working for a demanding German bank had honed her organisational skills to a very sharp point.
His lunch didn’t look the least bit appetising, and he was about to shove it to one side and head down to the coffee shop in Trafalgar Street, when he decided to sample a piece. She had added a herb or two; he thought he could detect coriander and chilli, and it tasted delicious. He was halfway through devouring it when Trevor Robinson walked in.
‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Alex.’
‘No problem, it’s not as if it will get cold if I leave it for a few minutes.’
Robinson took a seat. Vincent’s view of the man had improved in the three weeks since Martin’s death. He had made a good fist of stepping up to the plate, and was starting to sound and behave like the leading man, and not like the bit actor he once was. Everyone knew, Robinson included, that Haldane would be advertising soon to fill the vacant post, but like a football manager looking to buy a new striker, only to find that his current one can’t stop scoring, Haldane had a difficult decision to make.
‘Have I told you about the Fenwick case?’ Robinson asked.
He shook his head and couldn’t resist forking another mouthful.
‘Brian Fenwick, Baz to his mates. He owns a big central heating business in Shoreham and is accused of stabbing a West Ham fan about three weeks ago, following their match with Brighton.’
‘I remember reading about it. I didn’t know the accused’s name.’
‘If you think he sounds like a typical teenage football thug, you’d be wrong. He’s fifty-five, with a wife and three kids, but there the difference stops. He’s a lifelong football hooligan with a list of previous convictions as long as your arm: for affray, assault, and carrying an offensive weapon.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I think it will be a hard sell to a jury.’
‘I agree; he can’t claim youthful petulance or the inability to control a testosterone-based temper,’ Vincent said.
‘I could suggest it’s the result of a midlife crisis or a rocky marriage, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. His wife, Valerie, has now had enough and wants a divorce.’
‘Not a problem. When do you want me to meet her?’ Vincent pushed his meal to one side and activated his pc. He clicked on the diary app.
‘She’s sitting in my office at the moment.’
Vincent shook his head. ‘Sorry, Trevor, no can do, I’m afraid. After I finish this,’ he said, glancing at his half-finished Tupperware box, ‘I’m off to London. I’ll be there all afternoon.’
‘What’s this, a new client?’
‘Not really. You obviously know Ray Schofield from the criminal trial, but I’m representing his wife in their divorce.’
‘At the time of the trial I knew Ray well, and I’ve met Rebecca a few times. She’s a good-looking woman, even now.’
‘You might remember I flagged the issue of missing files at the management meeting?’
He nodded.
Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve noticed Rebecca’s file is missing too, including one very important schedule.’
‘After you flagged it, I hear that Medical Negligence, and Business and Commercial have also reported missing files. Have you lost much?’
‘Information on about eight or nine clients.’
‘You’re assuming Martin’s killer took them?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s no other explanation.’
‘Why would they? Trying to fool the police into believing it was a burglary or something?’
‘Your guess is as good as the next man. The upshot is, an important financial schedule given to me by Rebecca Schofield is missing. It can’t be recreated and she didn’t keep a copy, and the only way I can think of getting the information is by employing a firm of forensic accountants to run a fine-tooth comb over Ray Schofield’s finances. I’m meeting them this afternoon to discuss how we go about it.’
‘Schofield won’t like that one bit. In fact, I’d go as far as to say he will actively resist it. He’s a narcissist with an ego the size of Texas, and goes all secret-squirrel if anyone tries to probe his personal life and finances, but he’ll come out with all guns blazing if you call him a liar. Which in essence, is what you’re doing.’
‘So I’ve heard. We are talking about a large sum of money.’
‘I can imagine, if it’s anything to do with Schofield.’
‘You might also recall, Haldane’s very concerned about the missing files, and now as you say with MN and Business to consider as well, the situation has become more serious. He’s asked me to meet with our auditors and have them make an inventory of what’s missing. He fears we might be exposing ourselves to some expensive lawsuits if any of the parties involved accuse us of negligence. I’m meeting them later today to discuss what I’d like them to do.’
He laughed. ‘Lawyers suing lawyers. The press will have a field day.’
‘Quite,’ Vincent said, standing and slipping on his jacket. ‘So, if you can ask Mrs Fenwick for another date, I would be happy to meet her.’
‘No problem,’ Robinson said. He got up and headed for the door.
‘Oh, Trevor?’
‘Yeah?’ the younger man said, his hand on the door frame.
‘I don’t know if you are still in contact with Mr Schofield, but as this issue is a somewhat sensitive, I’d rather he knew nothing about it.’
‘No need to worry, I don’t speak to him nowadays in any case. Your secret’s safe with me. See you later, Alex.’
Vincent walked out of the office. He left the car in the car park, as Brighton Station was only about one hundred metres up the hill. Usain Bolt could cover the distance in under ten seconds, but Vincent would take longer; he wasn’t as fit as the Jamaican and not in a blinding rush.
He purchased a ticket and scanned the departures board for a soon-to-depart train. There was a train at nine minutes past two, in eight minutes’ time, and no delays were being displayed. He pushed his ticket into the barrier and walked along the platform. It always surprised him to see how many people travelled outside what was regarded as normal commuting times. Mid-morning, students would be heading to colleges in Crawley, Croydon, and London, and shoppers to Oxford Street. Mid-afternoon, it was shift workers off to clean or secure office blocks in London, and students, retail assistants, and office workers returning home after a busy day.
He stood approximately halfway along the platform where he expected the six-carriage train to stop, beside a gaggle of girls on one side and a smaller group of older boys on the other. In the distance, he could see the train heading towards the station. The girls were trying to grab each other’s phones, while the boys were playing some game involving smacking one anoth
er on the arm and jumping back. He was fearful one of them might fall from the platform onto the rails.
The train rolled down the platform. He looked left and right to make sure the kids were behaving themselves. The train was close enough for him to see the driver’s face, and he tensed slightly as the platform vibrated with the weight of the lumbering giant as it trundled closer. Seconds later, he felt a hard shove in the back.
The last words he heard before the huge wheels bore down on him was a voice screaming, ‘A guy’s jumped! A guy’s jumped!’
TWENTY-FOUR
Henderson finished the morning briefing with the Martin Turner murder team, but he didn’t return to his office. Instead, he stood looking at the series of whiteboards being used to flesh out the main issues in the investigation: Family and Friends, Work Colleagues, Criminal Clients. All were coming to a close.
The loose ends, which he hoped would offer them a decent lead, had all been more or less tied up. Jonas Baines security cards were not marked with their name, leading them to believe it had been taken inside the building. They had also examined Trevor Robinson’s movements on the day of the murder, and he had left work at his usual time. It was his card that had been used by the perpetrator, but the CCTV pictures of the intruder did not match the physical characteristics of the young lawyer.
They had gone through the list of visitors to the offices for the days that Robinson’s card had been missing before being reported, but no one stood out. It was nevertheless, on the criminal defence side at least, a roll call of the bad and worst of Sussex society: suspected rapists, arsonists, murderers, and fraudsters. Any one of them could have been working with the perpetrator and stolen Robinson’s security card.
Robinson was a strange character. He was a well-respected criminal lawyer but wasted big money on casinos and racetracks. In some respects, the DI knew he should be offering the guy some sympathy. Most detectives had seen some awful things while doing their job: bodies shoehorned into chest freezers and suitcases, children beaten black and blue, rape victims so traumatised they were unable to speak. Some dealt with it by gambling, drinking heavily, taking drugs, or involving themselves in criminality. If detectives saw the results of heinous crimes at first-hand, lawyers like Robinson saw it second-hand, but it was often in the same level of detail and, in most cases, the impact would be no less disturbing.
It seemed the only option left was to trawl through Alex Vincent’s divorce files. The danger was, they would end up with a large list of names, much like the security card list, with no evidence to hang on them.
‘Gov, you’ve got to see this.’
He looked around. Carol Walters was calling him. He walked over to her desk.
‘You know part of Brighton Station was closed yesterday afternoon, and only opened at ten this morning because of a body on the tracks?’
He screwed his face up. ‘It’s a gruesome way to do it, don’t you think? Plastered over the wheels of a locomotive.’
‘Poison’s much better. Anyway, the reason I called you over is the victim was identified about an hour ago. It’s none other than Alex Vincent.’
‘The same Alex Vincent?’
She nodded.
He sat down. ‘Bloody hell.’ He paused. ‘The first question that comes into my head is, did he jump, slip, or was he pushed?’
‘I’ve read all the news reports and eyewitness accounts; they all say he jumped.’
‘However…’
‘However, we do have another dead lawyer at Jonas Baines. The first might have been a burglary gone wrong, but two? Not a chance.’
‘C’mon, let’s go and take a look at the crime scene.’
Henderson wasn’t in a talkative mood in the car. He hadn’t got clear in his mind the reason for the murder of Martin Turner, and now with his colleague also dead, it added another layer of subterfuge.
‘Do you think he might have done it out of grief?’ Walters asked.
Henderson considered this. ‘Guilt, more like, because he was screwing Turner’s ex-wife, but no, I don’t. It would only work if Vincent and Turner had been close friends, or lovers even, but I don’t see any evidence to support either premise.’
‘No, me neither. Could it be, she says, thinking out loud, part of a vendetta against Jonas Baines?’
‘It’s certainly worth considering. Perhaps a rival wanting to muscle in on their business, or a disgruntled former employee seeking revenge.’
‘The first reason makes them sound like a bunch of drug dealers.’
‘Lawyers sometimes behave like them.’
‘The second one sounds more of a goer.’
‘Let’s see what happened here before we add any more scenarios to our list.’
When they arrived in Brighton, Henderson headed for the big car park at the rear of Brighton Station. It was a long walk to the station, but he didn’t mind. He needed the fresh air to clear his thoughts.
The station was open and functioning, but the platform where the incident had taken place was roped off with police tape. They were allowed through by a uniformed cop.
A railway employee saw them approach and walked over. He offered to talk them through what he believed had happened.
‘The incident occurred about here,’ their guide, Robert Lowe, said. They were standing at the edge of an empty platform, clean steel rails in front of them. By Henderson’s reckoning, they were about sixty to seventy metres from the ticket barriers.
‘The train is no longer here, as you can see,’ Lowe said. ‘Before it returns to service, it will be steam-cleaned, just as the rails down there have been.’
‘The trains don’t move very fast when they come into the station,’ Walters said.
‘I know what you’re thinking. How can a slow moving train kill someone? But these things weigh about two hundred tons, and by the time they pass this point here, they’re decelerating but still doing about twenty miles an hour. If the driver fails to brake, it will crush everything in its path, including the buffers you can see over there, and most of the front section would end up in the concourse of the station.’
‘I see.’
‘There are a couple of cameras up there,’ Henderson said, pointing to one attached to a girder. ‘Is it possible to see the pictures?’
‘I think some of your people are up there now. I can take you if you like.’
‘That would be helpful.’
‘Is there anything else I can tell you while we’re here?’
‘It was the 14:09 train to London Victoria, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is the platform busy at that time?’
‘Yes, and it would surprise you the amount of people moving about when everyone else is usually back at their place of work after lunch.’
Henderson looked at Walters. ‘I don’t think we have any more questions.’
She shook her head.
‘Thanks for taking the time and letting us visit the scene, Mr Lowe,’ Henderson said.
‘No problem. I do what I can to help the police. My son’s a constable in Lowestoft. If you’ve seen all you want, follow me.’
‘How long have you worked here?’ Henderson asked as they walked towards the ticket barriers.
‘Twenty-two years,’ he replied.
‘I suppose you’ve seen your fair share of suicides?’
‘Including yesterday’s, I guess there’s been about ten or twelve in my time.’
‘That many?’
‘Yes, and we’ve had a couple fall off the roof, and perhaps about a half-a-dozen killed trying to dodge over the tracks, or train surfing as the kids call it, lying on the roof of a moving train, the idiots.’
Lowe led them to the offices at the back of the ticket hall and up a set of stairs.
They walked along a short corridor before Lowe opened a door. ‘They’re in there.’
Henderson nodded his thanks and the detectives headed inside. An operator was sitting at a desk working
the CCTV picture feed while a uniformed cop looked on.
‘Afternoon, gents,’ Henderson said.
‘Afternoon. Can I help you?’ the cop asked.
‘DI Henderson and DS Walters, Major Crime Team.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Constable Graham Jennings from John Street. What brings you here?’
‘The victim of this incident was helping us with a murder investigation.’
‘Oh, I see. So, I take it you want to take a look at the CCTV pictures?’
‘If it’s okay with you?’
‘No problem,’ he said, backing off. ‘Can I interest you folks in a tea or coffee?’
‘That would be good. White coffee for me,’ Henderson said.
‘Same for me,’ Walters said.
The constable departed, glad to be out of it, Henderson surmised.
The officers pulled up seats beside the CCTV operator.
‘I’m trying to find the period ten minutes before the incident,’ the operator said, ‘as the constable asked.’
A few minutes later, he said, ‘Done,’ and pushed his chair back. ‘It’s all yours. You can just leave it running and it should be fine. If you want to pause, press here,’ he said, pointing, ‘to play, press here, and fast forward and back, press here and here. Any questions?’
‘No problem.’
‘Great. I’m off for a slash. I’ll be back in ten if you need me.’
‘My, that sounds like a very long pee,’ Walters said as the door closed and she moved her chair closer to the screens.
‘It must be something to do with the coffee they serve here.’
The picture was good, as the camera didn’t suffer from any impediments like weather, dirt on the lens, or a pillar in the way. Also, at this time of day, around two in the afternoon the light was bright, helped by the glass dome of the station. The only issue was it was sited a distance away from the people standing at the platform.
Five minutes later, the tall figure of Alex Vincent stepped into view.
‘There he is,’ Walters said.
Even in a crowd, Vincent would be discernible. He was tall, and walked like a former sergeant major, his back straight and arms at his side, one of them carrying a briefcase.
