Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  What was behind Henderson’s interest was that, contrary to Hammond’s statement that he could have killed Clare Mitchell if he’d wanted to, the DI believed Hammond had been instructed to kill her, and had botched the job. He had stabbed her twice and if it wasn’t for the quick-thinking of a woman nearby, who knew basic first-aid and had called an ambulance, she would have bled out. It was true what Clare had said, Schofield was a vindictive sod. If he was going down, he was making sure everyone around him suffered as well.

  Henderson was shown into Robert Haldane’s office and took a seat. By any standards it was impressive; not large, but appointed with tasteful furniture, wall coverings, and paintings, and missing the mounds of paper so common in other offices around the building.

  He was handed a cup of coffee by Haldane’s secretary and by the time he was halfway through drinking it, the man himself appeared. They shook hands.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Detective Inspector. I was in a meeting with staff who, I expect you realise, are beside themselves with worry.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. If we can make a start, I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Trevor’s disappearance.’

  ‘Yesterday, Monday, was a normal working day. With Martin no longer here, Trevor has a large workload. So, no way would he slope off or pull a sickie.’

  ‘I understand. When he didn’t turn up at his usual time, you did what?’

  ‘He was scheduled to attend an important client meeting at eleven, and we felt sure, even if he had a prior engagement like a dental appointment, he would make an appearance for this. When he didn’t, and the said client went into a hissy fit calling us all the names under the sun at the top of his voice I started to worry. I sent someone around to his apartment. They gained access to the building and stood outside Trevor’s door, but there was no movement inside. He’s not answering his phone or responding to emails. They didn’t hear his phone ringing inside his apartment to suggest he was still in there. We are at a loss what to do, and what with the murder of Martin and the death of Alex, I…’

  Haldane’s normal solid edifice was crumbling; not a good sign.

  ‘Is he prone to taking unexpected periods of time off?’

  ‘No, not that I’m aware.’

  ‘He doesn’t have childcare issues, an elderly relative, a drink or drugs issue, something to make him take off without warning?’

  ‘I know he likes to gamble, but I don’t see how…’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s a serious gambler.’

  ‘Is he? Clearly you know more about it than I do. Do you think this had something to do with his disappearance?’

  ‘I don’t think so, although we shouldn’t rule anything out at this stage.’

  Henderson was tempted to hand the search for the missing lawyer over to the uniform branch, who were the experts at finding missing persons, way better than members of his team. They would check all the likely places he might be, such as responding to a family emergency, stuck on a country road beside a crashed car, or lying behind the door of his apartment. On the other hand, it would be remiss of him not to investigate the disappearance of a lawyer from the offices where two other lawyers had died in mysterious circumstances.

  ‘It would help if you can tell me something about Trevor. Where does he live?’

  Haldane opened a folder on his desk. Upside down, Henderson saw a photograph of Trevor Robinson’s face. It looked like the firm’s personnel file.

  Haldane handed a sheet of paper to him, a copy of the front page from Robinson’s file, with his picture, date of birth, address, phone number and so on.

  ‘Excellent,’ Henderson said. ‘Now, does he socialise with anyone in this office?’

  ‘No, not much.’

  ‘Is he dating anyone from here?’

  ‘No, but one of the girls in Medical Litigation is a friend of the girl he’s seeing at the moment. She doesn’t know where she lives, but she can tell you the place where she works.’

  ‘I’m sure that address would prove useful.’

  ‘Good. I’ll just go and get the details.’

  Haldane left his office with a touch more spring in his step than before. What they were doing at the moment, information gathering, clearly made him feel as though they were involved in doing something constructive.

  Henderson was resigned to undertaking some of the duties he’d carried out when first in uniform: dealing with the obvious so he could get on with investigating what wasn’t. The first part he was clear about, but the second was a dark hole. He had no idea why anyone would kidnap, harm, or kill, Trevor Robinson.

  It could be a gambling debt, heavies giving him the once-over in a deserted warehouse, but this tended to happen to those less well paid, up to their necks in debt with a variety of lenders, not smart lawyers earning eye-watering salaries and generous bonuses. He felt it had to be connected to the other two deaths, although he couldn’t see how. If he didn’t find out soon, who was to say something wouldn’t happen to the whole senior legal team at Jonas Baines? Perhaps another five or six lawyers?

  Haldane returned bearing the name of Robinson’s girlfriend, and the phone number and address of her employer. Henderson wished Haldane goodbye and was pleased to say he looked a tad happier than when the DI first arrived. The presence of the police didn’t often have this effect on people, so he enjoyed it while it lasted.

  Henderson drove to Lansdowne Place and parked. He tried ringing the bell to Robinson’s apartment, but as expected, received no reply. He rang the doorbells of the three remaining apartments, and it wasn’t until he reached the one at the bottom, that he heard the electronic crackle of someone answering.

  An officious looking woman aged around mid-fifties opened the door. He showed her his warrant card which appeared to mellow her stern features, perhaps preferring his presence to a council official, complaining about her overflowing bins or an unpaid Council Tax bill.

  ‘I’m here to see the man who lives on the top floor, Trevor Robinson, but he isn’t answering. He also hasn’t appeared at his place of work and his colleagues are worried. Have you seen him lately?’

  ‘Trevor on the top floor, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me think. Yes, he went out for a run early on Sunday morning. I don’t sleep well, you see, never have, and I like to read a book while sitting at the window, for the light, you understand. I therefore see all the comings and goings in this building.’

  ‘Did he often go out running? Was he keen?’

  If so, Henderson could see him handing at least part of the search over to the uniform branch. An injured runner lying in a ditch would be easier for them to find than anything his team could do.

  ‘I would say not. I’m not an expert myself, I’ve had a bad knee for several years, but I’d never seen him do it before. By the way he staggered up the hill, I would say it wasn’t something he did regularly.’

  ‘What time did he get back?’

  ‘Here’s the funny thing, He didn’t. When someone goes outside, you see, it sort of knocks over a flag in my head. It doesn’t pop back up into position until they return.’

  ‘I see, but what if you were in the bathroom or cooking lunch, you wouldn’t know, would you?’

  ‘Oh, but I do. No one closes the front door quietly but me, and everyone thumps upstairs, as if they are wearing Army boots. Trevor was the only one to go out on Sunday morning and I’m quite sure he didn’t come back.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘If I may, I’d like to come in and see if he’s in his flat.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Do come in,’ she said holding the door wide.

  Henderson walked to the stairs, glancing down at the letters on the hall table and spotted one addressed to Robinson with yesterday’s postmark.

  ‘I would come with you, but not with this knee. I might make it up, but I would never make it down.’
/>
  ‘I understand, but thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

  Henderson left his assistant standing at the bottom of the stairs and began ascending. Judging by the décor, the hall carpets and the marks on the wall, this wasn’t a palatial block, but it wasn’t a dump either; it landed somewhere in the middle. It smacked of residents too busy or unconcerned to tack down the edges of the curling carpet or touch-up the scores and scratches on the walls.

  Standing outside Robinson’s apartment on the top floor he was pleased to see it was secured only with a Yale-type night latch. This, in his opinion, was poor security, although the building’s dwellers had the added reassurance, perhaps misplaced, of a locked front door downstairs, not to mention the eyes and ears of a watchful ground-floor neighbour.

  He looked around before pulling out his wallet. His caution was perhaps unnecessary, as he had rung the doorbells of all Robinson’s neighbours and none were at home. He removed something that from a distance looked like a credit card. The card was about the same size as an ordinary credit card, but made of metal and a few millimetres thicker to give it added strength. He pushed the door gently with his shoulder to expose the latch, slid the card against, it and pushed. Slowly, the lock retracted and the door opened.

  He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment taking in the view from the hallway. No one had responded to the noise of the door opening and closing, and he still couldn’t hear anything except the quiet rumble from the fridge in the kitchen.

  He pushed open the door to each room in turn and looked inside. This activity always created an anxious knot in his stomach. It was possible Trevor could be lying with his head caved in with an iron bar, on the living room floor with the pale face of a heart attack victim, or in the bathroom with a heroin needle sticking out of his lifeless arm. Yes, he was a middle-class lawyer, but as Martin Turner had proved, even those sorts of people had demons of their own to deal with.

  A quick search in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers reinforced Robinson’s neighbour’s view: the lawyer wasn’t a regular runner. If he was, Henderson would have expected to see a selection of spare running tops and shorts, and maybe even a change of shoes, one pair for the road and a different pair for forest trails.

  He walked into the lounge and took a seat on the settee trying to think. Robinson was last seen heading out for a run, but as far as was known, he didn’t come back. This was borne out by the contents of the apartment. There were no signs of any recent food intake, no indication of a hastily-packed suitcase, and no obvious gap in the clothes in the wardrobe or the toiletries in the bathroom.

  Henderson knew about running and no way would a novice like Robinson have the confidence or stamina to venture out much beyond the streets of his locality. The main advice given to all novices in books and magazines was to travel no further than the distance you knew you were capable of running back.

  Something untoward had happened to Trevor Robinson, and he knew he had to find out what.

  FORTY-ONE

  He woke, his head groggy. Had he drunk too much the previous night? If so, it was unusual, as he wasn’t a big drinker. Then he remembered, and his spirits sagged. When Trevor Robinson had climbed in Hassan Khouri’s Porsche two days ago, they didn’t go back to Khouri’s house in Hove as expected. Instead, they drove into the country. The last road sign Robinson saw before the car headed down a track between a line of trees was Plumpton.

  At the bottom of the track, he saw a dilapidated cottage. It still had a roof and windows, but the garden was overgrown, render was missing from the walls, and the peeling paint on the door suggested it hadn’t been inhabited for a number of years.

  He was led into the building at gunpoint and shown into the bedroom. For a moment he panicked, thinking he was about be murdered or raped, but instead, he was tied to a bed. It was an old-fashioned cast iron thing with a musty and dusty bedspread on top. His hands were tied together and then to the frame, but there was about two metres of rope between him and the bed, allowing him to lie on the bed and to move around the room a bit. A portable toilet was also within easy reach.

  Khouri had left a pile of books and magazines on a chair, the out-of-date ones from his surgery, no doubt. With nothing better to do all day, Robinson would have spent every minute plotting how best to get out of this place. Instead, he had spent the last two days reading.

  For the first time since he’d known him, Khouri had looked flustered. The normally self-assured and in control cosmetic surgeon was pacing the room after the first time tying him up, muttering, ‘I don’t know what to do with you.’ No bloody wonder. Losing three lawyers from the same legal practice would not only ring alarm bells inside the offices of Sussex Police, soon it would create panic in Scotland Yard, the Law Society, and the Bar Council.

  Robinson wasn’t sure if an indecisive Hassan Khouri was a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, him recognising that his actions would only exacerbate the on-going crisis at Jonas Baines might save him, while on the other, an impulsive act by an irrational man could do the opposite. An overriding consideration had to be he’d seen enough to believe it was Khouri who had broken into the offices of Jonas Baines and murdered poor Martin. If true, he had killed before, so what was stopping him from doing it again?

  When his head cleared from the fug of his fitful sleep, he went over his plan once again. His indolence over the last few days had served a purpose: he now could see a pattern to Khouri’s movements. At around seven o’clock in the evening he would arrive and untie his prisoner, allowing him to use the toilet, a normal one for a change. It was as run-down as the rest of the place with a large and rust-streaked cistern, but at least it worked.

  He would then tie him up again. Before leaving, some food and water would be removed from Khouri’s rucksack. It was mainly dried fruit, nuts, and cereal bars, and while it wasn’t gourmet cooking, or even a heavily discounted value meal past its use-by date, he wouldn’t starve.

  He had been exploring the bed frame as best he could with both hands tied, looking for a sharp or ragged edge. He had found one, and after having something to eat and drink for breakfast, he walked to the bottom of the bed and lifted one corner of the mattress.

  He dipped his shoulder under the mattress and instead of supporting it as he had done the day before, he tried moving it away from him. It was a big heavy thing, and he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to drop it if he didn’t want to be showered in a cloud of dust and grime.

  He managed to move it about a metre, but the effort had left him breathless and sweating. The breathlessness he didn’t mind, but sweating in this cold environment left him feeling clammy, his clothes sticking to his body. He sat on the edge of the bed frame and when he had cooled down and his heart felt normal, started to move his bindings back and forth along the ragged edge of the bed frame.

  He was sawing at the small space between his wrists, not an easy prospect as they were tied close together and, unlike the cottage and its furnishings, the rope looked new. He didn’t know for sure, but thought it was a ship’s rope. Khouri owned a speedboat which was kept at Brighton Marina. He didn’t strike Robinson as a dedicated sailor, more a white-suited show-off, one hand on the tiller and the other around a pretty girl, as he gunned the big engines and pounded over the waves.

  Robinson knew a little about old ropes as he would play with them as a boy and knew how some frayed one strand at a time. With ropes made from nylon and polypropylene he imagined nothing would happen for a while, but when it finally succumbed, it would only be a matter of minutes before the whole thing fell apart.

  He had been sawing for about half an hour and felt weary. When he looked at his progress, he was disappointed to find the rope looked untouched, while the edge of his hand was red and tender. He took a drink and decided there was nothing else for it. A more ragged part of the frame lay further over. He hadn’t selected it at the start, as the edge was wider than the one he’d been using. This time, he would need
to put his hand closer to the bed frame, effectively sawing the edge of his hand as well as the rope.

  He took a deep breath and started sawing. He gritted his teeth as the rusty edge was serrating the soft flesh at the edge of his hand. He kept on sawing, the pain intense, sweat dripping into his eyes, as blood dripped on the floor, while repeating to himself the choice was either a sore hand or a bullet in the brain.

  Five minutes later, he felt a space opening between his hands, signalling a weakening of the rope. He sawed on, trying to ignore the pain in his hand and the sweat on his head dripping into his eyes.

  A minute or two later, although it felt much longer, pieces of the rope started to separate. When they finally parted, he sat back, exhausted, as if he’d run a marathon. He looked down at his hands, a ragged, bloody mess.

  The blood had soaked through the rope changing it from white to red. He walked to the door, intending to head into the bathroom to bathe his hand before wrapping it up in a towel, but when he tried the handle, found it was locked. The only thing he could use to stem the bleeding in the bedroom was his pillowcase. Before going to sleep the first night, he had shaken and punched the bedcovers and pillow, trying to get rid of the dust.

  He pulled the cover off the pillow and it was so old, he easily tore it into strips. He wrapped a long thin piece around his hand several times and knotted it as best he could using one hand. He stuffed a few of the remaining strips into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms, thinking they might come in handy later. He looked at his makeshift dressing; it wasn’t leaking blood. With one problem out of the way, he turned to tackle the door.

  It was a sturdy looking thing equipped with what looked to him like a standard bedroom lock. It wasn’t the latest in high security, but enough to stop kids interrupting their parents enjoying a Sunday morning love-making session. He lifted a foot and stamped on the door, but it made no impression and only succeeded in hurting his foot. No wonder, as he was wearing running shoes not steel toe-capped building boots.