Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘I’ll go and find a waiter.’

  Haldane left the room. If Henderson had been interviewing a suspect or a witness, he would have stopped him leaving, not giving him time to concoct a better story or disappear entirely. In Haldane’s case, his hands were shaking and he looked fraught. Henderson didn’t think it had anything to do with how well, or otherwise, his speech had been received.

  Haldane returned a few minutes later and sat down. ‘When you asked if it was a good dinner, I forgot to mention Charles Smart, the PM’s former foreign secretary. He was good value and told us some stories which he assured us weren’t in the recently published memoir of his old boss.’

  ‘I’ve never been to a dinner with a political speaker, but I’ve heard a few football managers and they have some stories to tell.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  There was a soft knock on the door, and a white-jacketed waiter entered bearing two drinks on a tray held expertly in the palm of one hand. He placed them in front of the two men and disappeared as silently as he’d come in.

  ‘Cheers,’ Haldane said, lifting his glass; whisky, Henderson guessed.

  ‘Cheers,’ Henderson said, and took a drink. It wasn’t his usual brand, but a good one nevertheless.

  ‘Mr Haldane, it pains me to say it, but I think it’s unlikely Alex would have slipped. It’s possible to think he might have been accidentally bumped as there were groups of kids either side, but the one thing the CCTV pictures do confirm is they didn’t make contact with him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘By a process of elimination, and although we have no clear evidence yet to support this, we think Alex may have been pushed.’

  ‘This is what I feared. Do you know this person who was standing behind Alex? Have you got his picture?’

  ‘Yes and no. We have a picture, but the quality is not good enough for a positive identification. I have tasked my staff with following this individual via town centre cameras to see if we can get a better view.’

  ‘It sounds a sensible approach.’

  ‘With two solicitors dead, I think we must entertain the notion that someone is targeting your firm.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘If Alex was killed by an assailant, and let’s assume he also killed Martin, it provides two possibilities. Either Alex knew Martin’s killer, and his death was to silence him, or it’s a systematic attack on your firm. From the work we’ve done so far, we can see little connection between Martin Turner and Alex Vincent, other than in their professional lives, but now this is something I feel we cannot ignore.’

  ‘I see where you are coming from, but why would someone be targeting us?’

  ‘You tell me. It should be easier to think about after tonight of all nights. Mentally go round the tables at dinner and think about the men and women occupying each of the seats. Have any of them ever expressed envy or contempt at the success of your firm, or offered to buy it, or merge with it? You say, after all, on your website you are Sussex’s premier legal practice.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘A statement of this type could, I imagine, get someone’s back up.’

  ‘Let me think about this for a second,’ Haldane said. He cradled his whisky and looked into the distance. ‘For the dinner tonight, we only allow one partner from each firm, so in the room we had representatives from twelve of the largest legal outfits in Sussex. Edward Oswald from Chichester has always pestered me to poach Martin; Jeffrey Campbell too; and Stephen Baldry from Horsham, was jealous of the success of our Medical Negligence division.’

  ‘It’s a successful business?’

  ‘Seeking compensation from health boards and doctors for botched operations? Yes, and growing. People now realise the chronic back pain they suffered after childbirth may not be natural, but perhaps the result of negligence, for example. And in cases of children with disabilities, where financial help can be invaluable, people are starting to realise they have options.’

  Henderson nodded but said nothing. He knew many doctors and the pressure they were under. It wasn’t just the time constraint of making a snap diagnosis and following through with treatment, but they often complained about faulty equipment, the lack of appropriate drugs, and the absence of adequate support staff, with some, including themselves, too tired to think straight.

  If doctors could be sued for malpractice, how long would it be before the same thing happened to police officers? Already they appeared in court in a variety of circumstances: cases of wrongful arrest; the suspicious death of a suspect while in custody; perjury at a previous trial. Would they soon be prosecuted or sued for not catching a killer sooner, or for the anguish suffered by a woman raped by a serial rapist after being questioned about something else and set free?

  To try and calm himself, and not say something he shouldn’t, Henderson lifted his glass and took a long, slow sip.

  When he put it down, he said, ‘Going back to my original question, Mr Haldane, can you think of anyone in particular who might have a specific grudge against Jonas Baines?’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. Law isn’t like a normal business with corporate raiders and aggressive cost cutters. We swim in much gentler waters, with the whiff of an old gentleman’s club.’

  Henderson stood. ‘I wasn’t expecting an answer tonight. I just wanted to raise the topic and give you something to think about. Let me know if anything comes up. Good night, Mr Haldane, and thanks again for the drink.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He paced up and down the living room. He could hear his mother’s voice in his head saying he would wear a hole in the carpet, which he tried to dismiss, but nevertheless, his tracks were clearly visible. Trevor Robinson had been shaken by the death of Martin Turner, and now with the death of Alex Vincent, his old teenage anxiety, which he had managed to control these last few years, had risen to the surface with the force of a humpbacked whale. There was only one conclusion to draw: he would be next.

  He didn’t believe in witches, voodoo, or karma, but in the laws of chance. What were the odds of him making it to the end of the month when his office companion was dead and so was the guy next door? It was as if he was wearing a target on his back – Me Next!

  Yes, they were a big firm, and employed heads of Medical Malpractice, Property, International Law, and all the rest, but they were upstairs or in other parts of the building; some were even in offices in other parts of Sussex. He, for his sins, was stuck in the same part of the building where two of his closest colleagues had been killed.

  He continued pacing. Luckily the guy living below was partially deaf and refused to wear a hearing aid; he might mistake the rumble above his head for thunder or an aeroplane. Talking to other colleagues at the practice, they were also upset by Alex’s death, but he could see the pity in their eyes. They all expected him to be next.

  A strange trilling noise sounded, disturbing his thought processes. He was so startled it took him a few seconds to realise it wasn’t his alarm clock or the building entry system, but his phone ringing. He picked it up.

  ‘Trevor, it’s me. I’m downstairs in the car. Are you ready?’

  ‘Eh? Yeah, I’ll be down...’

  ‘Are you okay? Don’t tell me you’ve just woken up?’

  ‘Woken up? I’ve hardly slept.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll find a place to park and wait. Try not to be too long.’

  He trudged into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, but he didn’t feel any more refreshed or less anxious. In the bedroom, he picked up his jacket and put it on. He slipped his wallet and phone into a pocket, and after taking one last look around his apartment, closed the door and headed downstairs.

  Before opening the front door and stepping outside, he stopped, feeling as though he had forgotten something. On work days he carried a leather case containing paper and pens, anything he needed for a meeting, but rarely client stuff. He hated working from home and giving the firm free hours not on the clock. Today, he wa
s visiting Miranda’s parents. This being Sunday, and with both of them working the following day, it was only lunch. He opened the door and headed down the steps.

  Climbing into Miranda’s Mini Cooper, he leaned over to kiss her. Seconds later, the car shot off. He was forced back in the sports seat, trying to put on his seatbelt as Miranda made short work of Brighton’s busy and narrow streets. He had forgotten how fast she drove, and it always came as a shock whenever he climbed into her car.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, looking over. The speed limit in the streets around Brighton and Hove was twenty miles per hour, but she either didn’t notice, or care. She drove as fast as the conditions allowed. He just wished she would keep her eyes on the road and stop looking over at him.

  ‘Not good, as you can imagine.’

  ‘You don’t look so hot. I wonder how people in our office would react if two of them were killed?’

  ‘Maybe no one would notice. You’ve said to me they’re a bunch of unfeeling slobs, more interested in their code than people.’

  ‘They can be. I mean, it’s mainly guys and most people would regard them as geeks.’

  ‘I feel as if there’s a but in there.’

  ‘They’re sensitive geeks. If one of them was murdered and another fell under a train, it would devastate everyone. No work would be done for weeks; in fact, few of them would come into the office and we’d all need months of counselling.’

  ‘It’s not a bloody therapist I need, it’s a bodyguard. Some big bastard who thinks nothing of taking a bullet for me.’

  ‘Where would we put him in this little car, and how would we stop my mother having a paw at his pecs?’

  He looked at her and saw she was smiling. He had to admit, Miranda was good to look at. She had shoulder-length naturally blond hair, sparkling green eyes, and even, white teeth. If this sounded too much like a description of a horse, she was also intelligent, well-read and terrific company. So much so he often wondered why none of the guys in her office had ever asked her out. Maybe she was right, they were so entranced by their code they couldn’t relate to the beautiful woman sitting beside them.

  They were on the A23 heading north, the dangers to pedestrians, parked cars, and cyclists of Miranda’s nip and tuck driving left far behind. However, he still couldn’t relax. Miranda jetted down the outside lane doing ninety, making irritated gestures at lane hoggers, undertaking those who refused to move over, and braking sharply when some idiot misjudged the Mini’s speed and pulled out in front of them.

  They turned off the A23 at the Crawley junction.

  ‘What sort of lunch can I expect?’ he asked. ‘Is your mum or dad a good cook?’

  ‘They’re traditionalists. Around midday, my dad will take the dog and they’ll go down to the local pub for a pint while my mum cooks. When he comes back, they sit down to a roast with all the trimmings.’

  ‘Just the two of them?’

  She nodded. ‘Sometimes, when they can’t be bothered, they eat at the pub, but on Sunday, it’s a roast without fail.’

  ‘Good job we’re not vegans.’

  ‘Not any more, you might say, but I’ll save that story for another time.’

  Away from the roundabouts and traffic lights of Crawley, the country roads around the West Sussex/Surrey border put Miranda firmly in her element. It was like sitting beside a rally driver, the scenery passing by in a blur, like fast-forwarding through a movie. When they did slow down and he could see the view without it blurring, there were picturesque villages, wood-enclosed fields full of cows, sheep, and occasionally horses, and large country houses to lust after.

  Miranda’s parents lived in the village of Betchworth, in a quaint ivy-fronted cottage, with a large pub at the end of the road.

  ‘This is lovely. Is it the house you grew up in?’

  ‘No, we lived nearer Croydon back then. They bought this when I left home for good.’

  They got out of the car and walked towards the front door. The door opened and an older version of Miranda stood there. She was no less beautiful, with a few more inches around the waist, several more wrinkles, and a few more grey hairs streaking her equally straw-coloured hair.

  ‘Hello Mummy.’

  ‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’

  Miranda and Julia hugged. Not the air-hug of the Oscar red carpet, but with genuine warmth and affection. They parted.

  ‘So,’ Julia said, ‘who is this you’ve brought with you?’

  ‘Mum, this is Trevor.’

  Julia sized him up first, and, expecting a handshake, he was surprised when she leaned over and hugged him. For a moment his mind flipped. It was the hug his mother never gave him, the feeling of being enveloped, not for sexual pleasure, but for security and a sense of belonging. He wanted to stay there for ever and let the fear and concern he felt melt away into the distance, but observing social niceties, he stepped back. The sensation of longing persisted, and perhaps Julia had noticed it too as she gave him a look which lingered a second too long.

  They walked inside the house and, unencumbered by bags, headed straight into the lounge. Miranda was in front of him and threw her arms around her father, who had risen from the settee where an open Sunday Observer was spread out behind him. Robinson knew, without being told, she was a daddy’s girl.

  Miranda did the introductions, but this time, thank goodness, he and her father, Michael, settled on a handshake.

  ‘Something to drink, Trevor?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘A beer?’

  ‘No problem. I don’t need to ask what you want, Daddy.’

  Miranda wandered off to the kitchen, leaving him with her father. He’d been told he was a school science teacher and, to Robinson, he looked like one. In fact, he looked as though he was about to deliver a lecture on the rudiments of particle physics. He was around fifty-five with a pleasant, clean-shaven face, a mop of salt-and-pepper-hair, and a bit of a beer belly, a problem Robinson would have too if he lived in a house with a decent pub at the end of the road.

  ‘Miranda says you’re a lawyer, Trevor.’

  ‘Yes, I am. With Jonas Baines in Brighton.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them. What sort are you?’

  ‘Criminal.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You must meet some scumbags. Come to think about it, some of them are probably former pupils of mine.’

  ‘We meet our fair share of rough characters I grant you, but everyone is entitled to a fair trial.’

  There followed a discussion he had heard a hundred times, mainly from middle-class Little Englanders, about how street-wise punks played the system to their advantage, all to the detriment of the hard-pressed British taxpayer. Difference was, neither Michael nor Julia would have described themselves as such. He worked in a so-so comprehensive in South London, and she in the Probation Service.

  ‘Jonas Baines is the place where I’ve been reading one lawyer was murdered and another fell under a train. Were they colleagues of yours?’

  ‘Yes they were. The guy murdered worked in the same office as me, and the guy who fell under the train from the one next door.’

  ‘Good Lord. You must have known them both well?’

  He nodded, fighting back emotion.

  ‘It’s a terrible business. It must be very hard for you.’

  ‘It was, and still is.’

  ‘I’ve read quite a bit on the topic, knowing you were coming today. It’s difficult to see what someone would gain by breaking into a lawyer’s office. Lawyers are known for robbing people blind, but most money is moved across wires nowadays.’

  ‘We can’t fathom a reason for it either.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer was searching for some incriminating documents, or doing the opposite, planting them.’

  This sparked a thought. The last time he’d met Hassan Khouri in the casino, he’d been taken aback by the man’s insatiable interest in Martin’s murder, and his hostility towards Raymond Schofield. Despite Schofield being on the perip
hery of the murder investigation, Khouri had instantly managed to turn the conversation back to him. This had encouraged Robinson to see if there was a connection between the two men on the web.

  About five years back, he’d read, when Ray and Rebecca were still a happy couple, she had gone to Khouri’s surgery for a nose job and some lip enhancing. When the bruising and redness abated, Schofield claimed her features were worse than they were before. Khouri claimed he had followed Mrs Schofield’s instructions to the letter, even suggesting she might have had the operation to spite her husband.

  Schofield went bananas and took to social media with a vengeance. The story was taken up by the tabloids, some publishing pictures of Rebecca and Khouri out on the town, suggesting an affair was behind the enmity. What if Khouri, or someone in his pay, had gone to Jonas Baines to plant some incriminating evidence in Mrs Schofield’s divorce file, and Martin had disturbed him?

  It was one thing to plant or steal documents, the actions of a petty thief or burglar, but another to stab a stranger, the actions of a killer. However, there was something dark and mysterious about Khouri he couldn’t quite grasp. He had always put it down to cultural differences, believing Brits were more open and revealing about their private lives than those from the Middle East. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he needed to keep a closer eye on Brighton’s famous celebrity cosmetic surgeon.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  She turned and put her glass down on the small, cluttered table surrounding the pillar. Clare and Ray were standing in the bar of the Criterion Theatre during the interval of a dreary play which Ray wanted to see.

  It was clear to her the heads of big companies were such driven men they had no time to appreciate culture. Yes, many of their businesses supported the arts. They sponsored exhibitions, plays, and pumped money into ballet and opera, but she would bet when they were sitting in their expensive box seat they were only thinking if sales would meet their targets, and if managers would come under their cost budgets. This wasn’t because they were vacuous or thick, although some undoubtably were, just time poor.