Dying for Justice (DI Angus Henderson 10)

by Iain Cameron

  He stood looking at it for a few seconds trying to find a weakness. He soon realised it was staring him in the face. The design of the door consisted of a sturdy frame with three rectangular panels running up the centre. He tapped each of the panels in turn with his knuckle, and realised they were constructed from a thinner piece of wood than the frame. He decided to tackle the one at the bottom. If he managed to create a crawling space, it would be easier to do this close to the floor than higher up.

  He sat down on the floor and propped his back against the bed frame. Lifting a leg, he stamped at the panel. To his delight, it started to give way almost at once, but despite repeated stamps it didn’t pop out as a single piece as he expected. His foot had damaged a corner and by bashing it with both feet he managed to make a ragged space big enough for him to squeeze through.

  He got down on all fours and took one look at the freedom beyond before pushing his arms through. Soon it became obvious he hadn’t made the hole big enough as shards of wood stabbed and slashed at his chest and arms. When at last he managed to pull his legs through, he realised it had ripped his running top in a couple of places and torn the flesh underneath. The wounds were stinging and when he looked at his hand, blood was seeping through, but he decided his freedom meant more than any pain he had to endure.

  He was about to walk to the front door, which in this old place he would no doubt have trouble opening, when he heard the sound of a car approaching. He dashed to a window and in the distance and through the grubby glass, he saw the Porsche 911 belonging to Khouri, and being driven quickly. The only reason he could think why he would be coming here at this hour of the morning, and in such a rush, was because he had decided what to do with him: kill him.

  He ran from the window and into the kitchen. He was pleased to find the cottage had a back door, as he didn’t fancy jumping out of a window. The key was on the windowsill. When he inserted it into the lock, it refused to turn.

  The car had come to a halt and moments later, he heard the sound of one of its door’s opening and closing. He turned the key in the lock one way, then the other, repeating the twisting action again and again. Finally, the key engaged and the lock turned. He hauled the door open, stepped out, closed it and started running.

  He hoped the sound of him opening and closing the door would be masked by Khouri’s own noise and the squeaks and creaks as he opened the front door. Robinson reached a stone wall at the end of the garden and ran through a gap where the stones had fallen. Instead of carrying on into a copse and on towards the hill in the distance, he ducked behind the wall, ran for a bit in a crouched position, before stopping and hunkering down.

  He had stopped there not only to give him a chance to rest and stretch previously unused muscles, but to keep him out of sight. If Khouri had spotted a retreating figure running through the woods beyond the wall, he would know exactly which way he had gone. By stopping, and in the time it took Khouri to notice he was no longer tied to the bed, he would be in several minds about which direction he had gone.

  He heard a screech and despite knowing little about birds reckoned it wasn’t caused by anything covered in feathers. He heard the back door being flung open and slamming against a worktop. Khouri came stomping into the garden with all the subtlety of a water buffalo. A flurry of resting crows in the woods in front of him flew into the air in panic.

  ‘Trevor, where are you?’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t mean you any harm. I’m sorry I locked you up, but I was desperate, you see. It’s all sorted out now. I came here early to let you out and take you back to Brighton.’

  Was this true? His hand was throbbing like a big bass drum and his chest and stomach were stinging as if he was sitting on a hornets’ nest. If he wasn’t so frightened, he would move from his position to check. He wanted to stand and say, Here I am. Take me to a doctor, but something stopped him. He remembered the cold look on Khouri’s face when he told him to get into his Porsche, and the determined look when he tied him to the bed at night, pulling the knots so tight it caused him to cry out.

  He pushed his body as close to the wall as he could, hoping this section was sturdier than the piece further up, so it wouldn’t collapse under his pushing. Moments later, he saw the studied, intense face of Khouri standing at the wall scanning the copse and the grassy slopes of the South Downs in the distance, his eyes searching for the movement of a retreating figure through the trees. Robinson’s decision not to stand and reveal his position was vindicated seconds later when he saw what was poking out in front of his seeker. It was a gun.

  FORTY-TWO

  It was the third day of Trevor Robinson’s disappearance. They had published his picture in all the local papers with the caption: Have You Seen This Man? They didn’t mention he was last seen dressed in running kit, a piece of information that would be used to separate real witnesses from time wasters. So far, it had not yielded a result. It was just as well they hadn’t mentioned his attire as some Sunday mornings hundreds of runners could be seen, particularly around the seafront.

  Day three of any missing person enquiry and doubts would start to creep in. Most missing persons, or mispers for short, were located within the first day or two of them going missing, when the anger had abated or when the hungry and cold runaway had decided to approach a police officer. The DI didn’t believe Robinson’s running had got him into trouble, as he didn’t consider him a serious runner. If so, they would be forced to look within a ten- or fifteen-kilometre radius of Brighton, a distance that would encompass streets, parks, and hundreds of rural roads, a huge undertaking.

  The only other explanations he could think of were that he had become involved in an accident, which hospital enquiries had so far failed to corroborate, or more likely, was being held against his will.

  With the deaths of two other people in his office, it didn’t take the logic of a genius, or a mighty leap of faith, to believe the same person who killed Turner and Vincent was also responsible for the kidnapping of Robinson. It was all conjecture, of course, as he had no evidence to back any of it up. It was perfectly feasible for Robinson to be enjoying a week’s holiday in Ibiza, a break he’d forgotten to tell colleagues about because of all the turmoil at Jonas Baines, or having a nervous breakdown at the house of a friend. Henderson picked up his car keys and headed outside.

  It was a typical spring day as he walked through the lines of cars in the Malling House car park. Big fluffy clouds were racing across the sky as if they had somewhere better to go, and now and again a stiff wind would gust, rattling the branches of nearby trees.

  Henderson’s drive into Brighton was challenging. On open stretches of the A27, the wind shook the car as if it wanted to remove it from the road, and in its wake, pieces of debris: branches of trees, bits of newspaper, and noisy beer cans, came careering across his path.

  He decided to park along the seafront, a more open area than in the side streets where he could return to find the car’s roof caved-in by falling masonry, or the back window speared by a rogue scaffolding pole. The offices of the Lightning Software Group were located above a row of shops in Black Lion Street. For staff, it was a brilliant location for shopping at lunchtime or heading out in the evening with colleagues for a drink at the end of the day, but an expensive undertaking for those using town centre car parks.

  He was shown into a meeting room and waited. Unlike many of the US tech giants, the offices here were not equipped with bean bags, snooze rooms, or vending machines filled with computer accessories, although he did see a water dispenser crammed with all manner of fruit pieces. From what he knew about the company’s business, they weren’t at the ‘sexy’ end of software engineering, designing beautiful systems and devices for tech-savvy consumers, but in the arcane world of telecoms, making mobile networks work better and faster, in the words of their founder.

  The door opened and Miranda Moss entered. He knew Trevor Robinson well enough to imagine the sort of woman he would go out with, and it looked as though he
was punching above his weight. She was fair-haired, attractive, with nice teeth and eyes, and an open, pleasant face without blemishes.

  They shook hands and sat down.

  ‘I take it you haven’t found him?’

  ‘No, we haven’t, but we’re still looking.’

  ‘There’s still hope, isn’t there? I mean, with two deaths already in his office…’ She bent over and started sobbing.

  ‘Miranda, there is nothing to suggest Trevor’s disappearance has anything to do with what happened at Jonas Baines.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that for my benefit?’

  ‘No. It’s true.’

  In a strange way, it was turning a negative into a positive. Not being able to link the deaths of Turner and Vincent was hampering the investigation. However, not being able to connect Robinson to the deaths of the other two victims was a relief for Miranda.

  ‘Trevor was last seen going out for a run by his neighbour on Sunday morning.’

  She sniffed and wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

  ‘A run?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘In all the time I’ve known him, about six months, Trevor has never gone out running, talked about running, or taken me into an athletics store to look at the kit. In addition, he’s never raised the topic with friends of mine who are keen runners, and whenever there’s a race going on in Brighton, I have to cajole him to watch it, and even then he would be bored stiff.’

  ‘I get the same impression. So, why do we have him setting out early on a Sunday morning as if he was going for a run?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Has he recently received a health scare, or expressed concern about his weight, for example?’

  She shook her head. ‘When you first mentioned it, I thought it might be connected to the deaths in his office, his way of living life, improving his chances, or just getting it out of his system. The more I think about it, the more I realise he wouldn’t do such a thing. What he would do instead is more drinking, gambling, and partying.’

  Henderson was surprised by her answers and their vehemence. He supposed he had harboured a hope that Robinson might have mentioned something to her about a need to improve his fitness, and then this would turn into a case of looking for a missing runner. He had another thought.

  ‘This might sound a little odd, Miranda, but bear with me. If we assume he left his house on Sunday morning disguised as a runner, why would he be doing that?’

  She paused for a moment. ‘Now you mention it, I imagine a runner is a bit like a road repairer or telecoms engineer; once they put on a yellow jacket you see them, but you don’t really notice them. If you ask someone to describe a guy digging a hole in the road, or a runner that passed a few minutes before, they probably couldn’t.’

  ‘This is what I was thinking; the question is, why? Was it related to one of his clients? Perhaps, someone wanted to meet him to discuss confidential information?’

  ‘If so, do you think this person might have kidnapped him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that at this stage. I’m trying to establish if there is something going on in his private or business life making him go out in a form of disguise.’

  ‘I can think of someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Trevor was sort of investigating the deaths of his two colleagues.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t like it. How do you mean, sort of?’

  ‘He told me about this rich Middle Eastern-looking man he meets in the casino now and again. Did you know he’s a bit of a gambler?’

  Henderson nodded.

  ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him to get help, join Gamblers Anonymous, but it’s a long slog as you can imagine.’

  ‘I can, from personal experience.’

  ‘He thinks this person is involved, but he isn’t sure how.’

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me. It was for my own protection, he said, making it sound like it was some sort of a joke, but events are proving otherwise.’

  ‘So, you think this had something to do with him leaving his flat early on Sunday morning?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I can think of. It’s the only thing I can say with any certainty that was bothering him. Trevor had talked to this man on several occasions and it was his repeated interest in the murder at Jonas Baines, and Raymond Schofield in particular, that made Trevor suspicious.’

  He probed the issue a little longer with Miranda and by the time he left the offices of the Lightning Group he was confident she had told him everything. It wasn’t a lot, in truth: a Middle Eastern-looking man he met in a casino. To his knowledge, many men from the Middle East were keen gamblers, and in the high-rolling casinos in London, the only ones with enough money to be regular visitors.

  He supposed he could send a couple of officers into the casino near Brighton Station, and the one in Hove, places Trevor frequented at least once a week. On reflection, it was worse than a long shot. First, there was a problem with what constituted the definition of someone from the Middle East. Basing this only on facial features and dress, they could look no different from other people around them, despite being born in Saudi Arabia or Dubai. The second issue was the potential number of suspects they would come across per night and what to do with them. Approach them, follow them, or call them in for questioning?

  No, he would file Miranda’s information for the moment, and perhaps when they did have a reasonable suspect, use it for corroboration.

  FORTY-THREE

  The sight of a gun barrel poking over the crumbling boundary wall galvanised Trevor Robinson. Not into taking offensive action, how could he, but into pressing himself further against the wall and making his profile as small as possible. The weapon was in sight for no more than five or six seconds, but it felt like several minutes. All it would take was a glance to the right, and his almost-dayglo orange sports top would be spotted.

  Instead, Khouri was concentrating on the woods in front of him and the fields ahead, leading up the hill to the South Downs in the distance. He was expecting, no doubt, to see the bedraggled figure of Trevor Robinson struggling up there, making it an easy shot for him.

  Robinson stayed where he was until the gun disappeared and he heard the engine of the Porsche start. He didn’t know much about cars but enough to understand it was a low-slung sports car. No way was Khouri getting behind the wheel so he could drive through the back garden and continue his search. He reckoned instead, judging by the current slow movement of the car, Khouri was now searching along the track that led from the cottage to the road. With some trepidation and his heart racing, Robinson pushed away from the wall and ran down the slope, into the small copse.

  A vague plan was forming. On the other side of the trees, he would climb the hill. From an elevated position, he would look for a road and then head towards it. The copse consisted in the main of young silver birch trees looking bare in their post-winter dressing, providing little in the way of cover.

  Away from the trees he was now tramping across an empty field. While walking, he couldn’t help but glance back every ten seconds or so, feeling as though he was being stalked. His hands were shaking and his legs felt wobbly; the thought of Khouri’s voice suddenly whispering in his ear, or a bullet thudding into his back, filled his head with a dark, sombre fog.

  The South Downs were a bit further away than he thought, so he changed tack and veered to the right, the copse now blocking his view of the dilapidated, cold cottage. Through fields, he kept to the borders, not because he feared tramping over crops, as nothing much was growing, but the hedgerows and the occasional line of trees offered additional cover.

  It was early spring and the ground underneath was not solid with the leaves crinkly as they were in summer, bu
t muddy, thawed from an earlier frost, the leaves slimy and treacherous, especially when heading down an incline. He soon realised his running shoes weren’t waterproof as he imagined all running shoes to be, and his feet were soaked through. However, in the scheme of things, any inconvenience or pain he felt from wet feet, a damaged hand, and scarred chest, were a small price to pay for not being roped to a bed in a skanky old cottage and having a bullet pumped into his brain.

  He would have liked to use this trek to analyse Khouri’s motivation for kidnapping him, like the criminal lawyer he was, and what he did in his day job with clients. He wasn’t so interested whether they had done the deed or not, but why they found themselves in such a position, and what decisions they took while they were there. He wanted to know what Khouri was trying to achieve, but he couldn’t think about it. He felt as soon as his mind wandered and focussed on something else, he would be unable to spot some obvious danger signal ahead. Before he knew it, he would be back in the Porsche.

  From a slightly elevated position, he spotted a road and headed towards it. In fact, he couldn’t see the road itself, but the wavy shape of the hedgerow bordering it. His plan was to walk on the field side of the hedgerow, and jump out if a car or van came along. If this wasn’t possible, because he couldn’t push through, he would adopt his least preferred option and walk beside the road itself.

  He made his way across a ploughed field. It was tricky stepping between the raised rows, making him feel he was doing some strange leg exercise from a Joe Wicks video, but preferable to walking down the rows and adopting a gait like a Western-movie cowboy. Before reaching the hedgerow, he stopped to look and listen. It was a small country road with little regular movement. He continued walking. Moments later, his spirits rose when he heard a car approach.

  Something about it tempered his initial enthusiasm. He wasn’t sure if it was the tone, the deep gurgle of a big engine, and not the tinny rattle of a family saloon, or the sound of it being driven much slower than the road conditions allowed. He ducked down on his haunches before throwing himself flat on the ground when he saw a quick swatch of its blue body colour.