Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘This is money,’ Henderson continued, ‘which I believe you moved off-shore to stop your wife’s lawyers including it within your declaration of assets.’

  ‘This is conjecture, Inspector,’ Campbell said.

  ‘It’s not conjecture, Mr Campbell. I’ve seen the recreated divorce files at Jonas Baines. I assure you, none of those accounts and amounts are listed there.’

  ‘Listen, Henderson, this is a shit-load of money that was earned through long hours and bloody hard work. Why wouldn’t I try to hide it? I’ll tell you the reason, I didn’t want that scheming bitch to get her steely claws into it.’

  There it was, the condescending ‘B’ word once again. Was this how Schofield regarded women, even those close to him?

  ‘I know it’s a lot of money, Mr Schofield. It’s an amount most people would do anything to lay their hands on.’

  ‘What are you trying to imply?’

  ‘The schedule you have in front of you was lodged with Alex Vincent at Jonas Baines, but around the night of the break-in resulting in the death of Martin Turner, it went missing. The schedule was supplied by your wife, Rebecca, which she said she found in your office.’

  ‘The conniving cow.’

  ‘Where did your copy come from, Inspector?’ Campbell asked.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, but as it’s covered in Mr Schofield’s fingerprints, it’s safe to say he’s seen it before.’

  Schofield’s demeanour darkened and his face took on the expression of a cornered cat. ‘I know where she bloody well got it,’ he growled.

  Henderson had warned Clare Mitchell to be on her guard once he had questioned Schofield. There would be enough clues bandied about in an interview for him to know exactly who had done the dirty on him.

  ‘If this document has been obtained by illegal means,’ Campbell intoned, ‘you, of all people, should know it cannot be used in a court of law.’

  ‘It hasn’t been obtained illegally,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Schofield said, ‘it’s out of my bloody safe in London.’

  Schofield wasn’t the slow, half-wit he claimed to be earlier. It did indeed come out of the safe in London, but what Henderson wanted to know was how it got there.

  ‘It’s not the divorce itself that concerns me, Mr Schofield. Did you, or did you not, send someone into Jonas Baines to recover this document?’

  ‘Inspector, you’re fishing with no bait. My client doesn’t need to answer.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of doing it personally, Mr Schofield. It’s not your profile that appears on CCTV pictures we have of the perpetrator, nor does your name appear in the visitor log.’

  ‘I’ve haven’t been anywhere near their offices since the trial.’

  Henderson said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘I know they had an intruder there.’

  ‘If you remember, we came to your house in Warninglid to talk to you about it.’

  ‘What are you fucking implying,’ he exploded, his face red and angry. ‘I told you, Martin Turner did a great job for me, why the hell would I kill him?’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Schofield.’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ he said leaning on the desk and pointing a finger at Henderson’s face, ‘if you’re trying to fit me up because you didn’t get me first time round, I’ll have you. That break-in and the murder of Martin Turner had nothing to do with me, or Pete.’

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘What? Did I say Pete? I meant just me.’ Schofield looking confused, returned to his seat.

  ‘I take it you’re referring to Pete Hammond?’

  ‘How do you…? I suppose with your lot raking through my stuff, his name must have appeared somewhere.’

  ‘From the financials, he looks like an employee. If he is, what does he do?’

  ‘He sorts problems out for me.’

  ‘What sorts of problems?’

  ‘In addition to the Antigua and Portugal houses, I own a number of properties in the Sussex area with sitting tenants. It was,’ he said with a dismissive wave of the hand, ‘an abortive move into the retail property market that eventually ran out of steam. If anything goes wrong, the likes of burst pipes or loose roof tiles, Pete goes over and fixes it.’

  ‘So, he’s a handyman?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Did you ask Pete Hammond to go to Jonas Baines and retrieve the schedule of secreted money for you?’

  ‘I must object,’ Campbell intoned. ‘Say nothing Ray, you will only implicate yourself.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Jeffrey,’ Schofield said, 'it’s nothing. Pete had been involved in a fracas at his local pub, and on my recommendation, made an appointment to talk to Trevor Robinson about representing him on the assault charge. Knowing he was going there, I asked him to see if he could find the document in Vincent’s office, nothing more.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a very well-thought-out plan. Alex Vincent might have been in his office, or if he wasn’t, he could have come back at any moment.’

  ‘Pete’s a resourceful guy. He’d got a friend to call Vincent pretending to be housebound. He spun a story about a disabled woman, disappointed with the help she received from her lazy husband, and saying she wanted to divorce him. When Vincent went to see her, and Robinson went to the loo, Pete nipped into his office and picked up the document.’

  ‘Consider this, Mr Schofield. Say Pete Hammond failed to find the document the first time, maybe he was disturbed or somebody else was using Vincent’s office. Using his own initiative, and I’m not suggesting you asked him to, he went back there at night and took another look.’

  The surprised look on Schofield’s face told Henderson everything.

  ‘You’ve never considered that, have you?’

  ‘Well no, and he’s never mentioned anything to me. You see, Inspector, Pete’s a practical guy, ex-army, but I know he wouldn’t kill anybody, I’m sure of it. When I say he does stuff for me, I don’t mean anything strong-arm. He picks up my car from the garage and argues for a reduction if they don’t complete all the work they claim. He negotiates with builders who double their prices when they see the size of the house, or if they know it’s for me. He’s good at doing those sorts of things.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t set the parameters too clearly, and this time he went beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘If he did, and I don’t think he did, as he never said anything about it to me, then it’s fuck all to do with me. You can’t hang another bloody murder on me, Henderson, no way.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Clare Mitchell poured a glass of orange juice and sat down at the kitchen table. She covered her Weetabix and blueberries with chilled oat milk and tucked in. She felt relaxed. No longer did she have to feel the tension in her gut whenever Ray walked into the room, his head throbbing with a hangover, or his face simmering with resentment because of an appointment she had scheduled for him that day.

  Her top-floor apartment in a small, modern block in Hove was all she needed. She didn’t hanker after a smart villa in St Lucia or a larger, grander one in the Algarve. She hadn’t gone out with Ray for the money, fame, or the adornments he showered upon her. At the start, she genuinely liked him, respected him for his achievements, and perhaps there was also an element of flattery that such a prominent businessman would listen to her advice.

  In time, she had seen him for what he was: a serial philanderer, obsessed with his own definition of self-worth. Despite all the gifts and compliments whispered in her ear, when it came down to it, he didn’t give a damn about her. She had wanted to leave him a while back, but that was before she overheard a phone call between him and Tracey Blake many months after Ray’s acquittal.

  Their familiarity struck a chord as it was more than business, it was intimate, coy, sexual; another notch to add to his heavily marked bedpost. If Clare needed it, this was another reason for leaving him, but when she got over the effect of the call and reflected on its su
bstance, doubts began to grow in her mind.

  It encouraged her to delve into Tracey’s relationship with Allan, and the more she looked, the more she realised she wasn’t the stoic cheerleader of her husband’s achievements she latterly purported to be. According to friends and family, she hated him with a passion, resenting the fact he had refused all entreaties to sell the business, denying her the pampered lifestyle she craved. All Clare needed was proof of her complicity in Allan’s disappearance. It had taken many months but she had finally found it in the safe at the Bayswater apartment.

  After breakfast she tidied the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, then took a seat at the table. She hadn’t given any thought to what she would do after Ray and Tracey were arrested. Her eyes had been focussed on the big prize, and like an Olympic athlete, she didn’t have a clue what she should do now that her race had been run.

  Money wasn’t a problem as Ray had given her ten million as a bonus when the business was sold. If he could somehow rescind it, although she didn’t know how as it was now spread across various bank accounts, it wouldn’t leave her in penury. She had been earning a six-figure salary as FD of Raybeck Leisure for a number of years. She also had a substantial sum invested in unit trusts and shares in companies that Ray had encouraged her to take an interest in.

  Back then, they would scour the financial pages looking for companies with good ideas, and she would run the numbers to see if they were worth a punt. It was fun while it lasted, but it was his passion, not hers, and the reason behind their decision to establish a high-tech investment vehicle.

  She knew the details of their partnership contract, and the only thing left to do now to finally sever the business link between her and Ray, was to dissolve it. She had a substantial sum invested, and she would make sure she received it, but not a penny more. She didn’t want Ray or his legal representatives accusing her of stealing from him.

  She needed to get into the Warninglid house to do this, but nothing more. She didn’t know if Ray had noticed, but she had not been in the habit of leaving much of her stuff there, other than a change of clothes and a few items of toiletries. If Ray hadn’t, his housekeeper certainly would have, but Lyn was a circumspect individual and Clare doubted she would ever have brought it to her employer’s attention.

  She had decided to go on holiday with her boyfriend, Jamie, and if he couldn’t get the time off, she would go alone. It had to be somewhere warm. There, she would go for long walks in the morning and spend every afternoon on the beach. She would use the first week to think about nothing but walking, listening to music, and relaxing, in order to clear her head of all that had gone on before. The second week would be used to plan out her future.

  She stood and stretched. Before devoting a few hours to her laptop, deciding where they should go, she needed to buy some food. Her cupboards were almost empty as the last few months had been hectic, spending much of her time travelling, staying in hotels, and eating and sleeping over at Warninglid.

  She put on a jacket and left her building. She walked down Eaton Gardens and turned into Eaton Road heading west. When she reached George Street, the pedestrianised area which she regarded as the centre of Hove, she turned into it. Several cafés were dotted on both sides of the street, and with it being a sunny but cold day, many people were seated on the pavement drinking tea and coffee, wrapped in big jackets and wearing woolly hats, cupping their mugs with their hands.

  While working for Raybeck, she often shopped on the run, between meetings or on the way home after a long day at the office. Today, in the large Tesco supermarket in Church Road, she took her time, and enjoyed the novel experience. She didn’t need much, only enough for the next few days, due to her plans to go on holiday.

  Stepping outside with two bags of shopping, one in each hand, she decided not to hail a taxi. It was a Ray-like response to any mobility difficulty, and they weren’t too heavy. She walked along Church Road, a bustling thoroughfare with loads of interesting shops on either side of the road, but two lanes of busy traffic in between.

  She wasn’t used to walking around Hove at any time, and for sure, not in the middle of a working day, and was surprised to see it a hive of activity. Buses thundered by, young mothers walking or sitting outside cafes drinking coffee while rocking a pram, and casually dressed young men and women, carrying takeaway drinks and pastries, heading back to their offices, or apartments to continue home working.

  She walked past the home of the former Town Council, Hove Town Hall, unused as a council chamber since Brighton and Hove became a unitary council in 1997. The sixties building was constructed of concrete and glass in the Brutalist style so derided by modern architects, but at least the designers had tried to make it interesting by ribbing the exterior slabs, allowing it to age with some grace. She noticed the owners were still looking for a suitable tenant or purpose which could make full use of the large space inside.

  Walking across the small piazza bordering the building, she heard someone call her name.

  She was surprised, as she didn’t know many people in the area. She turned to see someone lounging against a doorway of the Town Hall building, the emergency exit for the building’s inhabitants in the event of a fire. It was Pete Hammond.

  She walked over.

  ‘I knew you lived in Hove,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t know where.’

  ‘You struck lucky.’

  ‘I did that.’

  Hammond had the marked and worn face of a pugilist, and the stern look of a man who had been dealt some of life’s harsher cards. He was Ray’s ‘fixer’, a man who did the dirty jobs Ray didn’t want to soil his hands on or be associated with.

  Hammond had lived in Sussex for about ten years, but still spoke with a strong Newcastle accent. In prosperous Hove, where many well-dressed and stylish people could be seen, Hammond looked out-of-place and scruffy in his worn leather jacket and ill-fitting work jeans.

  ‘I was over at the Warninglid house this morning to see Ray. It’s crawling with cops.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Ray’s been arrested.’

  ‘What for? It wasn’t for the murder of that fucking lawyer in Brighton, was it? They questioned him about it at the time, but they’ve got nothing. Couldn’t hang a fucking cat on his jacket, never mind murder charges.’

  ‘No, it’s not about the lawyer. It’s for the murder of Allan Blake.’

  ‘What? He was cleared of killing him. Hang on, what about double jeopardy laws? You can’t be tried for the same crime twice.’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ she lied, ‘but I think you can be tried again if there’s compelling new evidence.’

  She had researched it. What was the point of her looking for evidence against Ray if he couldn’t be tried for murdering Allan a second time? It would be akin to poking a dampened fire with a newspaper. Once freed, Ray would set his rottweiler, the man in front of her, on his accuser: namely her.

  ‘Is there new evidence? Although, in my book, it would be hard to find. Who could say if someone falling off a boat in the middle of a storm was an accident or not?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I assume there is. Why would they re-arrest him if there isn’t?’

  ‘So,’ he said, narrowing his piggy eyes, ‘where did they get this new information?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You sure? See, I think you had something to do with it.’

  ‘What? Why me?’

  ‘Everybody knows you held a candle for the Allan Blake fella, even I knew about it. I wouldn’t put it past you to stiff Ray to get your own back.’

  ‘Why would I do that? We set up a new business together. I was about to move in with him.’

  ‘So you say, but he told me he thought you were holding something back; like you were going through the motions but your heart wasn’t in it. I spotted it too, the way you looked at him sometimes. It was as if you’d scraped something off your shoes.’


  ‘I’m not standing here to be insulted by you.’

  She made to move, but an iron grip on her arm pulled her back into his shady corner.

  ‘Hey, stop it! You’re hurting my arm.’

  ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’

  ‘Let go of me!’ she said, struggling, not easy as she was still holding two shopping bags.

  ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll give you some of this,’ he said pushing a fist into her face.

  He leaned in, smelling of coffee and tobacco. It was too early for beer. ‘What’s in it for you if Ray’s put away?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. The house is his, the villas are his, same with the money in the bank. It will still be his when he gets out.’

  ‘Don’t fucking lie to me. What about the investment thingy you two are doing together? He told me he’s stuck a couple of million into it. What happens to that?’

  ‘I put money in too. If I wanted my money out, I would only take what belongs to me.’

  ‘Why am I not convinced? I think you set him up so you could bag the lot.’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. She couldn’t see what. He then punched her twice in the stomach. They weren’t hard punches, but when she tried to pull away again, she felt something warm trickle down her belly. She knew. The tension in her hands released and she dropped her shopping bags. When he let go of her arm and backed away, the strength in her legs vanished and she slumped down on the hard paving like a rag doll.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘This is Pete Hammond,’ Henderson said, tapping the picture behind him on the whiteboard. ‘He works for Raymond Schofield as some sort of fixer. Not an odd-job man in the conventional sense, but a man who makes Schofield’s problems disappear. Schofield has admitted instructing him to go to the offices of Jonas Baines to remove a schedule his wife had given to Alex Vincent. This schedule is a list of bank accounts in the Caribbean where he had secreted five hundred million pounds.’