Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘The part of the platform where he’s standing looks busy compared to further up,’ Walters said. ‘Why are all those kid’s not in school?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a school trip, and maybe their teacher’s not in shot.’

  They had a reasonable view of Vincent, a group of six girls to his left and five older boys to his right. The boys were larking about and the girls were high-spirited, causing Vincent, on occasion, to glance left and right.

  Their view of the victim was now blocked by another man who had moved behind Vincent. He was around the same height as the lawyer, but better built, and didn’t appear distracted by the ebullient youngsters around him. He was well-dressed in a suit with a coat draped over his shoulder and a trilby on his head. A bit old-fashioned for the more dressed-down look adopted by many banks and commercial businesses of today, but Brighton people could buck trends as well as set them.

  The train came into view. Its appearance was sudden as the camera was static and they weren’t viewing down the platform, but across it. There was a subtle movement of feet from the man behind Vincent before the lawyer tipped over the platform. Problem was, the guy had a coat draped over his shoulders and it was difficult to see if an arm or hand had moved.

  ‘Play it again,’ he said to Walters. ‘Focus this time on the guy standing behind Vincent and on his upper body. I was watching his feet and I think he moved moments before the train came into view.’

  They watched the replay three or four times, but the results were inconclusive. The arm might have moved, then again, it might not. People tended to move whenever a train came into a station. They were preparing to board while holding on tighter to their stuff in case it got caught in the train’s air displacement and was sucked under the wheels.

  Walters stood. ‘I guess it’s back to the drawing board.’

  ‘Hang on a second.’

  She sat down again.

  He pressed ‘play’ at the place where they had previously stopped.

  ‘I want to see what the guy standing behind Vincent does.’

  Following the fall on the tracks, and the shocked reaction from all those on the platform, the guy standing behind Vincent strode back towards the ticket barriers and passed under the camera.

  They watched the same segment three or four times, Henderson surprised at the cold, casual way the man made his exit and the blank look of his features. When they found the best view of the guy’s face, he paused it.

  ‘Our man showed us how to fast-forward and pause,’ Henderson said, ‘but he didn’t tell us how to print.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Henderson decided to put the work of examining the divorce clients of Alex Vincent on hold for the time being. Despite Vincent not working on his own, there were about five solicitors, a number of paralegals and various admin staff who were also familiar with the client list, it wasn’t a good time to be stomping around the offices of Jonas Baines and questioning staff.

  Instead, they were focussed on the death of Alex Vincent. Henderson had looked at the CCTV and felt sure the man had jumped, despite not knowing any reason why he would do so. This came with several caveats: Henderson had conducted a trial incident in the office using chairs, and it was hard to differentiate the reaction of a jumper from someone being pushed. With a jumper, there would be less flailing of arms, but the leg action, almost as if trying to reach for a step, was similar.

  The lack of flailing arms in Vincent’s case could also be discounted to a degree. His officers were doing it because they expected to be pushed. Someone who had been pushed with no notice wouldn’t be anticipating it, and they would have no time to react. It was all so inconclusive, but he wouldn’t rest until he was one hundred percent convinced Alex Vincent had committed suicide.

  ‘Vicky, I want you and your team to pull as much CCTV footage as you can from Brighton Station. See if we can get another angle on the incident.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m thinking here about one where we might get a decent view of the victim’s face. A look of shock or surprise should tell us lots.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Harry, I want you to track our man,’ Henderson said, jerking his hand to the screen behind him showing the best view of the man who was standing behind Vincent on platform eight, ‘on town cameras. We might not get an idea where he’s going, but what I want is a better picture of his face.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Carol, you and I will go and see Anita Vincent, and Sally, I want you to pay a visit to Joanna Woodford. I’m not interested to hear if she exhibits more emotion about the death of her lover than her husband, but I’d like to hear her take on his possible suicide.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Henderson fielded a couple of questions before grabbing his jacket, and with Walters beside him, headed out to the car park.

  ‘It’s one of those weird cases,’ Walters said.

  ‘In what way, weird?’

  ‘All the evidence points to suicide, but everything we know about the man suggests otherwise.’

  ‘They say you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, but even then, many women and men don’t have any inkling what’s really going on inside their partners’ heads.’

  ‘It’s scary,’ she said, as they drove out of the car park, ‘but true. I’ve seen documentaries on Netflix about women living with serial killers in America, and they didn’t have a clue what their husband did in his spare time. In one case, a guy worked in an abattoir, so it was common for him to come home with blood splatters on his clothes. Problem was, it didn’t always belong to the animals he killed.’

  ‘I don’t know why you watch that stuff. I would have thought you see enough of it at work.’

  ‘I do, but sometimes I just need it to give me some sort of perspective.’

  ‘Whatever floats your boat.’

  ‘Talking of sailing, have you been out in your boat with your new woman?’

  ‘I haven’t been out on the boat full stop. However, last Sunday she and I went down to the marina and gave it a spring-clean.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you with a duster in your hand, a can of Pledge in the other.’

  ‘When you live on your own, needs must.’

  Fifteen minutes later he guided the car through the pillars at the Vincent house in Henfield. It was an imposing house, nowhere near as large as Schofield’s, he doubted many were, and smaller than Joanna Woodford’s, but substantial nevertheless.

  Anita Vincent opened the door following his knock. She was tall, slim, with shoulder-length hair and a petite nose. It was hard to tell her eye colour or the state of her complexion as she had been crying.

  ‘DI Henderson and DS Walters, Sussex Police. We called earlier.’

  ‘You did. Please come in.’

  They walked into the lounge. The furnishings were a mix of old and new. The sideboard and bookcase were wooden and looked substantial, while the large flat-screen television hung from the wall and a sophisticated-looking hi-fi system with two huge speakers were more modern.

  ‘Can I get you both a drink?’

  ‘No thanks, we won’t keep you.’

  ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Walters asked. ‘It looks as though you could do with one.’

  She looked at the sergeant, an expression of gratitude on her face. ‘Would you? I would really appreciate it.’

  The words were appropriate, but their delivery was monotone, lacking emotion. He was sure it wasn’t her normal way of speaking.

  ‘First of all, Mrs Vincent, please accept my condolences for the death of your husband. I’ve met Alex on several occasions and found him to be honest and forthright. Mr Haldane speaks highly of him.’

  ‘How could you… Oh, yes, Martin’s murder.’

  Henderson had chosen his words with care. There was no point in telling her about Alex coming to Malling House for an interview, or what he had said during their discussion.

  ‘How are you ke
eping?’ Henderson asked, taking a seat. ‘Is anyone looking after you?’

  She slumped into an armchair. ‘My neighbour along the way, Beth Falstaff, has been brilliant, as has a family friend who you probably know, Joanna Woodford. I’ve also had a visit from a Family Liaison Officer with British Transport Police, but she didn’t stay long.’

  ‘What about your children? Is anyone picking them up from school?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I take them there in the morning, and yesterday and for the next few days, Beth has offered to pick them up. She sometimes gives them their tea as well.’

  ‘What did you do before having children?’ he said, with a nod to the framed photographs in the bookcase.

  ‘Oh, that was when my team were involved in a large chemical company divestiture.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I used to be a Mergers and Acquisitions specialist at a large German bank. The particular job in the photograph involved a large conglomerate that wanted to sell parts of their business to shore up an ailing balance sheet. It all seems like another life now, lived by someone else.’

  Walters walked in with the tea and handed the mug to Anita.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took a sip. ‘Oh, I should have told you, I don’t take sugar.’

  ‘Just drink it this way for once,’ Walters said. ‘It should make you feel better.’

  ‘Mrs Vincent,’ Henderson said, ‘the reason we came to see you today, apart from to offer our condolences, is to find out from you what Alex’s state of mind was on the day he died.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Perhaps you can talk me through the day, from, say, the time you were having breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She paused as if gathering herself. ‘He’d got up earlier than me. I’m the one who’s a crap sleeper; it’s a mum thing, having one ear tuned to a sleeping child. I think with Alex, the murder of his colleague was getting to him.’

  Henderson nodded.

  ‘I expect you know more about the subject than anyone else. By the time I came downstairs, he had laid the table and filled the cereal bowls for the boys. He liked to have something different for breakfast every day, some days Weetabix, others a boiled egg. He was standing at the worktop, swishing up some eggs for scrambled eggs. He asked if I wanted any. I said yes.’

  She was on the verge of tears, encouraging Henderson to jump in with a question.

  ‘How would you characterise his state of mind?’

  She wiped a tear away with her hand. ‘Normal, I would say. He ruffled the boys’ hair when they finally made an appearance, and was interested to hear what they would be doing at school that day.’

  ‘He didn’t seem worried or preoccupied?’

  ‘The opposite, I would say. It gave me hope that he was at last putting Martin’s death behind him.’

  ‘Could he have been faking it? Putting on a good show to hide some inner turmoil?’

  ‘No way, I would have been able to see through it, the boys too.’

  ‘How can you be so confident?’

  ‘Inspector, I told you, I was in Acquisitions and Mergers.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was bloody good at my job, and the main reason was that I was good at reading people. When you’re in a room with a group of directors, eager to sell a company because they know there’s a major corporate fraud case looming, or they’re covering up a serious Health and Safety breach, it pays to know if they’re hiding something. That morning, Alex gave me no indication he wanted to take his own life.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. We’ve talked in the past about these things. You know the sort of thing, what would you do if you knew you had only three weeks to live or one of us had a terminal illness?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Poison would have been his preferred method of dispatch. He was a chemistry wiz at school, and the subject he studied at university.’

  ‘I didn’t realise, him being a lawyer.’

  ‘When he finished at Imperial, he decided not to pursue a career in chemistry, and took a law conversion course instead. It was a hard route to choose, as he was competing against people who had studied law for three years at degree level, but being as smart as he was, he soon caught up.’

  ‘If Alex didn’t commit suicide, what do you think happened to him?’

  ‘I can only think he slipped after being jostled by some other passengers nearby, and lost his footing. I’m telling you, Inspector, there’s no way he committed suicide.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Henderson walked down the road from his apartment and turned right onto the seafront. This Saturday evening he wasn’t in running gear, but in the smart-casual clothes he had worn into work earlier in the day. It was already dark, and the working day over for most of the team, but for him there was one last thing he needed to do.

  For once, on reaching the seafront, he didn’t have his hair messed up or his jacket almost ripped from his shoulders. It had been a calm day in Brighton with little wind, and looking out to sea at the sky in the fading light, it looked as though it was going to be a tranquil evening too. The calm day wasn’t the harbinger of good weather to come, merely a lull in proceedings; the months of early spring often brought wild storms and teeming rain to the south coast.

  He crossed Kingsway and walked along the esplanade overlooking the Channel. The view of the grey sea and the twinkling lights of the pier in the distance weren’t as interesting as glancing into the windows of the houses and apartments he would have passed if he had stayed on the other side. Going this way, however, had the advantage of not having to cross the numerous busy side streets that peppered this part of the city.

  There were plenty of people about, but their numbers increased as he approached the entrance to the Palace Pier, a popular meeting spot. The crowds multiplied by yet another factor when he passed the Brighton Centre. An American singer-songwriter was playing there tonight and hundreds of her fans were queuing outside. In adjacent West Street, the pubs, clubs, and restaurants were thronging, including many youngsters fuelling up for the long night ahead.

  He crossed the road and headed into the Grand Hotel. It was an oasis of calm in comparison to the buzz of activity going on all around it, making him feel as though his blood pressure had fallen a few notches. He made his way to The Consort Room and took a seat close by.

  Inside the room, members of the Sussex Legal Society were enjoying their annual dinner with speeches from a former cabinet minister, and then from their president, Robert Haldane. They had been in there since five o’ clock and, by Haldane’s estimation, it would wrap up around eight-thirty, when they would all retire to the bar.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and those inside began to filter out, pour out more like, as several looked the worse for wear. Henderson hoped they had booked a room for the night and weren’t intending to drive home. Haldane was one of the last to leave, and, befitting the president, he was accompanied by several hangers-on.

  He said goodbye to those beside him and approached Henderson. They shook hands.

  ‘Evening, Inspector.’

  ‘Evening, Mr Haldane. Was it a good dinner?’

  ‘No, not for me it wasn’t. Thank you for coming here this evening. I know it’s an imposition, as even officers of the law working on a high-profile murder investigation need a break now and again.’

  ‘It’s not a problem. I do understand why you wouldn’t want to have this sort of discussion in the office.’

  ‘Quite. I’ve found a room we can use. If you follow me.’

  Haldane strode off, Henderson following behind, trying to keep pace. Passing a bank of lifts, the doors opened and four stunning women, decked out in magnificent dresses, bedecked in all manner of jewellery, and with their hair beautifully coiffured, stepped out. Henderson had seen most of the attendees at Haldane’s bash and suspected these ladies weren’t the other halves of those doughty lawyers, they were too young and the law
yers too old. Coming to places like this often made him reflect how this sort of thing went on while he was at work, and if not, while he was recovering after a hard day.

  Haldane opened a door and led him into a small room with a long table, five chairs either side and a whiteboard at one end. During the week, it would probably be in use every day as a meeting room or a break-out room from a bigger gathering, so it was no surprise to find it empty. It would be a strange sort of business that forced their staff to come up with strategy and business improvement ideas on a Saturday night.

  Haldane took a seat at one side of the table and Henderson the other.

  ‘What’s the verdict on Alex?’ Haldane asked.

  ‘So far, we have found no evidence to think he committed suicide. The CCTV doesn’t tell us one way or the other, but everyone who knew him are adamant he wasn’t a suicide risk.’

  ‘I can only agree. He could be a miserable sod at times, if I can speak ill of the dead, but with a wicked sense of humour which made a sporadic appearance. He didn’t give me any indication he was depressed or feeling down, and he hasn’t socialised much with Martin these last few years, so I don’t think he fell to pieces over his death.’

  ‘Therefore, if we discount suicide, it leaves two possible scenarios; he slipped, or he was pushed.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Reviewing the CCTV pictures, Alex is standing on the platform when a man comes up and stands behind him. It’s not an unusual thing to do, as this part of the platform was busy. We now have someone who is in a position to push him, but the man’s body obscures our view of Alex so we can’t ascertain if he did, or Alex slipped.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We are trying to find CCTV pictures from other angles, but it’s not proving easy.’

  ‘Talking about this is harder than I thought. I didn’t drink much during the dinner, but I need one now. Would you like one?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have a whisky with ice.’