Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  Walters appeared in the doorway, bearing files and looking business-like. ‘Ready, gov?’

  ‘Aye, as I’ll ever be.’

  He picked up his own papers and they headed out. They walked downstairs, out of their building and across the car park to the CCTV control room.

  ‘How are they getting on with Alex Vincent’s clients?’ he asked.

  ‘The team are concentrating on those who’ve ticked two boxes: they’re a client of Alex Vincent and Martin Turner, or if they’re a client of Vincent or Turner with files missing.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Once we’ve got a few names, we’ll talk to the folks at Jonas Baines and try to determine if the missing documents would have had a material effect on the defendants’ cases. Would it be enough to impact the financial settlement in a divorce case, for example, or to reduce the impact of a criminal defendant’s evidence, forcing their lawyer to present a weaker defence?’

  ‘All this is ongoing?’

  ‘As we speak.’

  They walked into a room with multiple CCTV screens, and operators monitoring a live feed from county-wide cameras. They were led to a bank of four screens where the tapes from Brighton Station, and those from a variety of town centre cameras, had been loaded. With luck, the footage would contain the last known moments of Alex Vincent, and a clear illustration of the movement of the man standing behind him.

  The operator instructed them on how to use the controls and left them to it. On Screen 1, the pictures they had already seen from the camera looking across the platform. On Screen 2, pictures from another camera located close to the buffers and facing down the tracks. On Screens 3 and 4, the movements of passengers as they exited Brighton Station.

  They ran the pictures on the first two screens. The detectives were familiar with the content of Screen 1 and used it as a reference to view Screen 2. This time it wasn’t a platform-centric camera, set up to monitor passengers as they joined and alighted from trains, but a ticket office-based camera looking across all platforms.

  They could zoom in and out, but their view was obscured by the gaggle of girls to Vincent’s left. When the train arrived, they were standing so close to the platform edge, one of them could easily have fallen on the tracks.

  They called the CCTV operator over and asked him to change the video to another based on the platform opposite. Henderson reckoned it would be more useful, as its field of vision might not be obstructed by a stationary train.

  With this camera loaded, they saw Vincent take up his position facing the camera. The girls to his left were messing around, causing him to look over, and he did the same with the boys on his other side who were equally animated, and looked capable of accidentally knocking him onto the tracks. Moments later, the man with the coat draped on his shoulders moved in behind Vincent.

  It was more obvious now how close behind Vincent the mystery man stood. It begged the question, if his presence was innocent, why was he there? He could have moved further up the platform where there were less people. However, even Henderson, not a regular train passenger, knew that some people would only travel in specific train carriages; some had to face the same direction as the train was moving, and others liked to sit in the same seat every day.

  The train arrived and Vincent fell. They turned it back, and this time had the option of slow motion. Focussing on his face, they could see Vincent didn’t have his teeth gritted, or the determined expression of a jumper, but the shocked expression of the unforeseen.

  ‘We still can’t see from this angle if he was pushed,’ Henderson said, ‘as there’s little discernible movement from the guy behind. What I would say is the look on Vincent’s face is unequivocal.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to jump.’

  ‘Question is, did he slip or was he pushed?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t slip.’

  ‘What if he edged too far forward because he thought the guy behind was invading his personal space?’

  ‘Let’s look at his feet.’

  They ran the sequence again, focussing only on Vincent’s feet.

  ‘Nope,’ Walters said, after it finished, ‘he didn’t shuffle forward, and his feet were well back from the edge.’

  ‘If he did slip, his movement would have been different. It would have been one leg in front of the other and with his arms flailing all over the place. Both legs would not slip at the same time.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I’m confident the guy behind pushed him, but with so little body movement it didn’t even register.’

  ‘The key thing is we need to find this guy. He’s the only person who can tell us what really happened.’

  ‘If he pushed him or pressurised him in some way,’ Henderson said, ‘he’s not about to give himself up voluntarily.’

  ‘This is why we need to find a good picture of him.’

  They started up the video on Screen 3, watching the man walk out of Brighton Station towards Queen’s Road. He was keeping his head down, the trilby-style hat he wore set low over his eyes.

  ‘He looks tall, trim and muscled, and judging by the smart clothes, which I would say sit easily on him, this isn’t a bricklayer or a shop assistant dressed up. We’re looking for a dapper gent.’

  ‘If he’s done what we think he’s done, no way can he be called a gentleman.’

  THIRTY

  Henderson woke but he hadn’t slept well. He’d been dreaming about a man in a trilby hat coming into his apartment and attacking him. It had forced him awake two or three times, the last time, leaving him bathed in sweat. He was sleeping alone, as he and Kelly were taking it slowly, mindful of her experience with her ex. In any case, she had a publishing deadline to meet and needed to spend much of her time writing.

  There was nothing else for it; he got up, showered, dressed, drank a cup of tea and then drove into the office. He was so early, many of the night shift were still working.

  On his desk in front of him he placed two sets of photographs. On one side, pictures of the man who had broken into the offices of Jonas Baines taken from their security camera, on the other, the man in the trilby hat walking through town. For the deaths of Turner and Vincent to be connected, as he believed they were, both victims had to be killed by the same man. He knew of killers working in tandem, or paid assassins who carried out one murder while their paymaster performed the other, but in his mind, statistics were against it.

  The key thing he was looking at was body shape. The man in the trilby looked slim, with a strong upper body, but he wasn’t fat, or conversely, with the defined physique of a weightlifter. It was hard to be too sure as the coat he wore had been kept draped over his shoulders and it did a good job of hiding the complete picture.

  The intruder at Jonas Baines was wearing tighter clothes and yes, he did look equally tall and slim with broad shoulders. Henderson found an image of his face, a partial with his head down and woolly hat covering his head, but it was the nose he was looking at. It was noticeable, not because it was prominent, but elegant and styled. He believed it was called a Roman nose, straight down with no bone bump, and thin.

  Next, he did the same with the man in the trilby hat. They had a fairly decent picture of him before he disappeared from view at the bottom of Queens Road, close to the Clocktower. He had looked up towards the camera when he almost collided with another pedestrian. Not a full facial, as much was hidden by the hat. Henderson was no expert, but the noses looked the same. He needed someone else to look at it, in case he was seeing what he wanted to see, so it would be parked for later.

  A rumbling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and he decided to remedy this now. He left his office, descended the stairs and walked across the car park. It was no surprise to see a lot of movement, mainly cars driving in. As well as police officers working shifts, admin staff were employed to ensure the 999 service operated 24/7, and IT staff were doing the same with the computer systems.

  The restaurant w
as quiet; he was in that little window before the next upsurge, those coming in for breakfast at eight. He chose a bacon and egg roll with a large mug of tea, a dish he didn’t have time to make for himself in the morning. It was too early for any of his team, so instead of looking for a familiar face to sit beside, he took a newspaper that he found lying on another table, and his breakfast, to a table near a window.

  The first bite was delicious, even more so as he had been eating less meat since meeting Kelly. She was vegetarian, had been since her early teens, and was forever encouraging him to try meat-free options in restaurants and teasing him about the contents of his fridge and cupboards.

  He flicked through the newspaper, seeing if any article caught his eye. He wasn’t expecting to find anything about Alex Vincent’s death, if his troll of internet news sites the day before was anything to go by. He was about to turn to the sport and see how the Albion were doing, when he decided to flick through the business section.

  He often found, when wrestling with a major investigation, reading articles about business and sport, subjects completely unrelated to police work, put his own issues and problems into some sort of perspective. It wasn’t to belittle what he did, but reading about businesses struggling under mountains of debt, or a football team plagued with injuries, ensured he didn’t forget that other people had many big issues to overcome as well.

  A short article about Raymond Schofield caught his eye. It was a puff piece, written probably following no more than a five-minute phone call between a journalist and their subject. It was enough for any self-respecting journalist to generate a five-hundred-word article, which many achieved by repeating the same points several times over.

  In essence, it was designed to keep Schofield’s name in the public consciousness by informing us what he was up to now, following the process of divesting himself of his former business empire. It sounded a laudable ambition for him to be investing in new businesses aimed at social improvement.

  Henderson had viewed him as an aggressive businessman, of which he’d met hundreds, and no matter how they dressed up their praiseworthy aims, their focus was all too often on the bottom line and the size of their bonuses. Perhaps this time he had misjudged the man, but as his name had checked three boxes on his checklist, he imagined he would be talking to him again soon.

  Henderson left the staff restaurant and while walking across one of the smaller car parks, spotted Steve Houghton heading his way. Often, if they met like this, Henderson would give him a quick update on the current case, and he would do the same from his perspective. This time, he would want to know the result of their CCTV analysis.

  Yet again, it was hard to draw any other conclusion than to believe he was pushed, based on Vincent’s movement and facial expression, but there was no firm evidence to back it up. This would encourage Houghton to tell Henderson to drop the investigation and mark Alex Vincent’s death as suicide. He ducked behind a high-sided 4x4, tying his shoelaces until the CI passed.

  Henderson walked past his office and into the Detectives’ Room. It was beginning to fill now. He headed over to the three whiteboards in the corner, now covered in pictures, notes, and with lines joining connections, all related to the murder of Martin Turner. His phone rang. Expecting it to be Houghton, because he’d surely seen his less-than-subtle swerving routine, he was surprised to find it wasn’t.

  ‘DI Henderson.’

  ‘Hello sir, it’s Sam on Reception. I’ve got a Ms Clare Mitchell to see you.’

  ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

  ‘She said she had some information that you might find useful.’

  ‘Okay Sam, I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  He left the Detectives’ Room and walked downstairs into Reception. It was human nature, in situations like this, for the interviewer to glance across the line of those waiting to guess who their subject might be, but also to suss out those who they hoped it wouldn’t be. It wasn’t the guy with tats around his neck, the young girl with the lank hair who looked like a drug user, or the nervous businessperson in a suit who was clearly wondering how he had ended up here. It had to be the gorgeous lady at the end.

  When Sam on the desk had dealt with his enquirer, he looked over. ‘Ah, DI Henderson.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The lady sitting there,’ he said nodding, ‘the one on the end.’ His eyebrows rose in appreciation. ‘I’m putting you in Interview Room 4.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He turned and walked towards his visitor, who seemed to be unfazed by the flotsam of society around her, the institutional furniture, and the grim posters warning about aids, dirty needles, and stalkers. She looked up when she heard his approach.

  ‘Clare Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson.’

  She stood and they shook hands.

  ‘I understand you’d like to speak to me.’

  ‘I do. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

  ‘Yes, if you will just follow me, we can use an interview room.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She was tall, a few centimetres above his shoulder height, and while walking, he noticed how she carried herself well, like a catwalk model, aware of her posture.

  They took up positions either side of the table. ‘Despite this being an interview room,’ he said, ‘none of the recording equipment is operating.’

  ‘Suits me fine.’

  She spoke with little trace of an accent and if he was guessing, and judging by the smart business clothes, the neat makeup, and the styled hair, he’d imagine her to be the head of a London-based PR agency or television company. He knew her by name, at least, after viewing pictures of Ray Schofield with her on his arm. The photographs didn’t do her justice.

  ‘I’ve come to see you this morning as I have information which implicates Raymond Schofield in several serious crimes, including murder.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Henderson looked at Clare Mitchell, the words she had said filling him with concern and confusion in equal measure. He was beginning to think Ray Schofield was grease-coated, with his name appearing in many parts of this investigation but with no incriminating evidence sticking. Was this about to change? Even if it was, he realised he had to tread carefully, otherwise he would have Houghton to answer to.

  ‘What’s your relationship to Mr Schofield?’

  ‘I’m, to all intents and purposes, his girlfriend. Nowadays, I’m also his business partner, although sometimes I do wonder.’

  ‘Are you referring to the investment vehicle you and Mr Schofield are starting up, the one recently featured in The Financial Times?’

  ‘You saw it?’

  He nodded. ‘It was reprinted in The Times.’

  ‘I’m impressed, not many policemen, I suspect, read the business pages.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘You might not have noticed, but it goes to prove the point I just made, no mention of me is made in there.’

  ‘Why would you want to pass incriminating information to me about your partner and business colleague? Some might suggest you have an ulterior motive. Is this it?’

  ‘I said I’m ostensibly Ray’s girlfriend, but I know he has many others. Several are installed in houses owned by him. Putting them to one side, before I joined Raybeck, Ray’s company which he recently sold, I was Financial Director of Blake’s Health Clubs, an operator of twelve large gyms, based in Kent. It was owned by a man called Allan Blake, a person I highly respected.’

  ‘I know some of this story. He was the man who drowned when Schofield’s yacht was hit by a bad storm.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘Is your interest in this personal or professional?’

  ‘His name has turned up in another investigation.’

  ‘Interesting. I have information to prove Ray Schofield killed Allan Blake.’

  Henderson’s confusion returned. He could see a way forward with Houghton
if this meant new charges, but not with something Schofield had already been acquitted on. Plus, he was sceptical there could be any new evidence about a yacht drowning.

  She removed from her case a sheaf of papers and placed them on the table. She pushed them over to the DI: email printouts, bank statements, and hand-written notes.

  He intended to speed-read them, but soon realised Schofield and his correspondent, Tracey Blake, didn’t believe in wasting words. In fact, in the space of ten minutes he’d read every one, twice.

  He paused for a minute, thinking. ‘If I’m reading these correctly, Mr Schofield was in negotiation to buy Blake’s Health Clubs from Tracey Blake, months before Allan’s death, on the proviso that he didn’t return from his sailing trip.’

  ‘Macabre, isn’t it? Tracey had taken no interest in the business in all the time I’ve known her, but she was planning to divorce him. She had a new boyfriend and wanted the whole fifty-million that Ray was willing to pay for the company all to herself.’

  ‘Why take the risk? Why not wait for the business to be sold, then divorce him? Twenty-five million’s a lot in anybody’s book.’

  ‘She’d signed a prenup. She wouldn’t get a penny from the sale of the business. Why should she, when she had never been interested or involved? Plus, Allan had been rebuffing Ray for years; he didn’t want to sell. Only with him out of the way was Ray able to buy it.’

  ‘Does Mr Schofield still have the laptop those emails were sent from?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘He’s got a new one, but I’m sure the old one is sitting in a cupboard at the house in Warninglid. Why?’

  ‘A smart lawyer could try and discredit these as fakes or forgeries. If we have the laptop they were sent from, it provides a more compelling argument.’

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to take any unnecessary risks. With this information, I could get a court order to search the place.’

  ‘You said ‘could’, does that mean you have some reservations?’