by Conrad Jones
“Is there a reason that you didn’t open the door to us?”
“I was busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yes, busy.”
“Doing what?”
“None of your business.”
“You see when someone doesn’t open the door when we knock, we get to thinking that they don’t want to talk to us or they’re doing something that they shouldn’t be, don’t we, sergeant?”
“We do,” Ade agreed. “Makes us very suspicious.”
“Very suspicious indeed,” Braddick stared at Paulie. His bottom lip was quivering slightly, worried, guilty.
Paulie looked from one to the other, his embarrassment deepening. “I was just busy.” He coughed and cleared his throat nervously. “What do you want?”
“Is this your Range Rover?” Braddick asked stepping away from the door so that Paulie could squeeze out but he didn’t take the bait. He remained in the house and didn’t even look at the vehicle. He shook his head nervously that it wasn’t his vehicle. “Whose is it then?”
“It belongs to a friend of mine.”
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the vehicle.”
“Anthony something,” Paulie mumbled. Braddick could see the cogs in his brain whirring. He was nervous and lying, beads of sweat formed at his temples.
“Anthony what?”
“I can’t remember his second name.”
“Well I find that hard to believe, don’t you, sergeant?” Braddick turned towards Ade. “We’re running the plates, so we’ll know shortly,” he added, offering Paulie the chance to come clean. He didn’t.
“It’s slipped my mind.”
“Someone parks their Range Rover on my drive, I would know their name.” Ade sniffed loudly. “I can smell bullshit, Guv.”
“Me too.”
“Could it be Farrell?” Ade prompted. “Anthony Farrell?”
“I think so. It might be,” Paulie mumbled. “I can’t remember for certain, alright. I have a bad memory,” Paulie snapped. “Now what exactly do you want? I’m very busy.”
“Did you see your friend getting into an altercation in the park?” Braddick pushed.
“Erm...” Paulie squirmed.
“Before you tell us another lie, we have several witnesses who said that you were there,” Ade added before he could answer. Paulie looked like a rabbit in the headlights. “They have told us that you were in the park... on your scooter.”
“That scooter there.” Braddick pointed to it. “The red scooter,” Braddick added. Each question sapped Paulie of the energy to respond with anything worth saying. Lying seemed to be pointless. “They have told us that you were chasing a teenager across the park on that red scooter. The one that is on your driveway right there.”
“It is yours, isn’tit?” Ade followed up quickly. “The scooter...”
“Erm…” Paulie was tongue tied and frightened.
“Yes... is the word that you’re looking for,” Braddick prodded.
“Yes. The scooter is mine.” Paulie caved in with a sigh.
“That’s better. And you were with Anthony Farrell on your scooter in the park?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” he nodded, thin lipped. “So you saw your friend, Anthony getting into an altercation?” Braddick kept on.
“I wouldn’t say that I saw it,” Paulie stumbled. “I saw something happen but I was quite far away.”
“He died at the scene, Mr Williams,” Braddick said flatly. “But then you know that already, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, now you can stop pissing us around and tell us the truth.”
“Sorry, detective,” Paulie sighed. He was sweating profusely. “I don’t like violence. I saw them fighting, panicked and came home.”
“So you know he’s dead, how?” Braddick asked.
“I saw the police and the ambulance. When they didn’t take him away, I guessed he was dead.”
“You have no idea what the fight was about?” Paulie shook his head and blushed deeper.
“You have a lot of cameras on your house, don’t you?” Ade changed tack with a smile.
“Which is good for us,” Braddick said leaning on the door. Paulie put his foot behind it. “Hopefully your cameras will have recorded you going towards the park with your friend, Anthony, won’t they? They might even show us what happened over there.”
“I don’t think they’re on at the moment,” Paulie blustered.
“The lights are on,” Ade said pointing a finger. “That means they’re on.”
“They’re on alright,” Braddick sighed. “I can’t see why someone with nothing to hide would leave their friend dead in the park and then lie about knowing their second name. Why would anyone do that?”
“Can’t see it myself,” Ade said shaking his head. “Unless that person has something to hide.”
“Can’t imagine what though,” Braddick frowned. Sweat was running in beads down Paulie’s forehead. “Do you know what your friend did for a living?”
“No,” Paulie said in a fluster. “I don’t really know him that well.”
“Really?” Braddick said with a shake of his head. “He is Eddie Farrell’s son. Does that ring any bells?”
Paulie shook his head.
“Do you know Eddie Farrell?” Ade asked innocently.
“He never mentioned any family.”
“You see, Eddie Farrell is a well known drug dealer.”
Another shake of the head. The colour drained from Paulie’s face.
“That might explain why you’re shitting your pants,” Braddick said tilting his head. “If you’re working for the Farrells, I mean?”
“I’m not. I’m on benefits.”
“It would also explain the cameras,” Ade added.
“I’ll bet the rear of the house looks out over the park, don’t you?”
“Without a doubt,” Ade agreed.”
“I think you monitor what’s happening in the park.” Paulie started shaking. “You rushed back here to hide the gear didn’t you?”
“I didn’t!” Paulie’s knees bent a little. His eyes widened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Braddick shrugged and turned to Ade. “We have enough for a warrant?”
“Definitely. I’ll phone and have one arranged.”
“Wait,” Paulie snapped; his voice hoarse with panic. “You can’t come in here!”
“Not without a warrant but we’ll have one within the hour,” Ade said with a sarcastic grin.
“There’s been a murder and you’re up to your eyes in it,” Braddick barked. “This will be very bad for you, Paulie!” Braddick pointed his index finger in Paulie’s face. “You do know that possession with intent carries a very long jail term?” he paused for effect. “The burden of responsibility tends to be placed where the product is found. In this case, your house.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“Not yet.” Braddick frowned.
“In that case, get off my property.” Paulie slammed the door and leaned against it. He wiped sweat from his forehead, his eyes stinging where it had run down his face. His knees buckled and he allowed himself to slide down the door until he landed on the floor with a thump. Tears filled his eyes as he thought about what was going to happen next. He balled his fists and pounded them against his thighs.
“The Farrells will have their people over here rapidly,” Ade said with a shrug.
“There’s a very good chance they will. Get a warrant. He’s a key witness to a murder. That will open the door for us.” Braddick buried his hands deep into his pockets and walked to the window. He could see the fat man sitting on the floor his head in his hands. “That man is at breaking point. He has something to hide and I want to know what it is. If we put pressure on him, he’ll crack.”
“Once he pulls himself together, he’ll be flushing the evidence down the lav,” Ade sa
id, eyebrows raised.
“I reckon he already has,” Braddick shrugged, “but they’re not his drugs to throw away. Make sure that the warrant includes the drains.”
6
Bryn Evans was sitting up in a hospital bed, the sickening smells of antiseptic and urine drifted into his anteroom from the ward. The x-ray results had come back and the doctor was holding them up to the light. He was a skinny Indian man, his black hair deserting him fast, leaving a tiny fringe island at the front of his shiny brown scalp. He tutted and removed his glasses, turning towards his patient.
“They confirm my suspicions that your nose and cheekbone are broken.” Bryn remained silent. Apart from the pain, he was reeling with shock. The entire episode seemed surreal, as if it was happening to someone else, like the men found murdered in the alleyway that morning. He had seen the bodies, charred dead bodies, tendrils of smoke still rising from them yet the horror of it didn’t register. For the women around him, it was nothing but gossip for the bingo. For him, it was a curious thing to see. Gangsters smouldering in the alleyway, deleted from the planet by bigger, more frightening gangsters, who could themselves be eliminated at any time. It was an existence that balanced on a razor’s edge, terrifying, but belonging to strangers, of no consequence to Bryn. Yet he had heard their names before, somewhere in a distant memory, shadows of older kids at school talking about aspirations to be like so and so, drive a Porsche like so and so, have a gun and a Rolex like so and so. Did the women say they were called, Johnson? He couldn’t remember. Their first names eluded him too. It seemed like a year ago.
“I want to take some advice on the cheekbone before we prescribe treatment, okay, you understand all that?” the doctor asked with a toothy grin. “Your brother, Mark and your dad are in the corridor waiting to see you but the police won’t allow them in until they have taken a formal statement from you.”
“Is my mum here?”
“She’s at home, I believe,” he adopted a serious tone, “her doctor was called. The shock was a little much for her.”
“She has heart problems,” Bryn said. “Doesn’t stop her smoking like a chimney though.” He half smiled. “She’ll be worried, really worried. I hate it when she’s stressed; drinks more, smokes more, eats more and it’s all my fault this time.”
“Don’t worry, once the police have spoken to you and straightened things out, she’ll be fine. It is rarely as bad as it seems, believe me.”
“When will they do that?” Bryn asked quietly. “I’ve told them what happened. He attacked me. He was going to stab Alice. I didn’t mean to...”
“Take it easy,” the doctor raised his hand to stop him. “It makes no difference to me what happened. I believe you so save all the explanations for the police. I’m here to fix your face.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he smiled. “Oh, before I forget, your brother, Mark asked me to tell you that he contacted your older brother, Simon is it?”
“Yes.”
“He has told the police that you’re not to say a word until his solicitor has arrived.”
“Oh, I see,” Bryn said. His spirits were lifted a little by the news. Simon would know what to do. He looked after everything for his parents, their bills, their rent, their medical insurance and his school expenses, uniforms, dinners and trips. All their benefits were theirs to spend on the crap that they shovelled into their mouths, food, cigarettes and alcohol. He daren’t think about what a mess life would be if Simon didn’t support them. “He’s good like that. I hope he isn’t pissed off with me.”
“I’m sure he isn’t. I told the detectives what your brother had said and they were a bit miffed that a solicitor was on the way,” he lowered his voice and leaned over, “between me and you, they were double miffed when they were told who he was.” He winked. “He must be a good one, eh?”
Bryn nodded. Smiling was too painful. He had no idea what distinguished a good lawyer from a bad one but if he worked for Simon then he was probably very good. The door opened and a uniformed officer poked his head around the door. “There’s a solicitor here, doctor. Can he come in?”
“Yes, of course!” he winked at Bryn. “The cavalry has arrived. Now, I think that we might need to keep you in for a few days at least. As I said before, I want a second opinion on your cheekbone. It might need an operation but we can talk more about that later on.” He turned to meet the tall man, who had entered while he was talking. “Come in, come in,” he said gesturing with his hand. The solicitor was silver haired and immaculately dressed in a dark three-piece suit and a lambs’ wool crombie overcoat. “Do you need anything,” he asked. The lawyer shook his head with a polite smile. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
“You must be Bryn Evans,” the solicitor said approaching the bed, hand extended. Bryn went to shake it but the handcuffs rattled and bit into his wrist painfully.
“Sorry,” Bryn gestured to the handcuffs.
“Not at all,” his apology was accepted with a narrow smile. “My name is Jacob Graff and your brother, Simon has directed me to act on your behalf. You may call me Jacob.” Bryn nodded silently. His accent was educated, not posh, not localised. Jacob oozed intellect and authority and it both intimidated him slightly and gave him confidence. “Before we say anything to the police, I need to hear from you exactly what happened.” He held up his finger in warning. “Remember that I’m on your side and it is fine to tell me the truth, no matter how distasteful. Once we’re straight on your story, we’ll decide which bits we will tell to the police, understand?”
“Yes,” Bryn nodded. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “Where do I start?”
“Funnily enough, I want you to start at the end,” Jacob smiled thinly. “Did you kill Anthony Farrell?”
“If that was the man’s name, yes.”
“Yes,” Jacob said sternly. “It is very important that you call the victim by his name, Anthony Farrell. Try it for size...”
“Anthony Farrell.” Bryn shifted uncomfortably. Anthony Farrell was a victim, a murder victim, his victim.
“Very good, Bryn. Identifying that your victim was a human being with a name, a family and a life will go a long way to showing remorse.” Jacob sensed Bryn’s discomfort. He spoke slowly, calming him. “You killed a man, Bryn. You took his life, parted him from his loved ones and you will go through a range of emotions, none of them pleasant.” Bryn’s eyes became watery. “What we must do is demonstrate that there was no malice or preplanning to the murder, that it was the result of a series of events over which you had no control.” He paused to allow Bryn to compose himself. “Are you okay to continue?”
“Yes,” Bryn’s voice was no more than a whisper. The severity of what he had done was soaking through his being. He had killed someone’s son. Anxious guilt began seeping through his body making him numb.
“You hit Anthony Farrell across the head with a house brick, I believe.”
“Yes...” it felt like there was a ‘but’. Bryn chose not to say it. There was no but; he had hit the man with a brick, simple.
“That’s a good start,” Jacob said sitting down in the chair opposite Bryn, “because that is the bit that we can’t refute so I know you’re telling me the truth.”
“I see.”
“Why did you hit him with a brick?”
“He attacked me, beat me up, pulled a knife,” Bryn thought back. “Alice bit him and I wriggled free. He was going to stab Alice...”
“Slowly, Bryn, one step at a time.”
“Sorry.”
“You were walking the dog, Alice?” Jacob said in a calm voice. “And then Anthony Farrell started chasing you, yes?”
“Yes. He chased me for ages and I couldn’t get away,” Bryn began, his voice weak, breaking in places. “I stopped to let Alice off the lead and he tackled me to the floor. He was punching me in the face over and over. Alice bit him and he pulled a knife. He was going to stab her. I grabbed the brick and hit him across t
he head but I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Where were you when you hit him?”
“Where?”
“What position was your body?”
“On my back,” his voice cracked slightly. “On the floor.”
“Farrell was where?”
“Sitting on top of me, pinning me down. I couldn’t move my arms and he kept punching me. I could hardly breathe because of his weight squashing my chest and then when my nose started bleeding, I thought I would choke...”
“Then what happened?”
“Alice attacked him, bit his leg,” Bryn half smiled at the memory but pain shot through his face and it faded as quickly as it appeared. “He shifted his weight and I managed to pull my arm free. I reached out into the grass and touched the brick... and hit him across the head.” A tear rolled free.
“In summary, you were attacked by a total stranger, much older and more powerful than you are. He quickly overcame you, injured you and pulled a knife to stab your dog.” He paused for a breath. “You hit him once from beneath him with the first thing that your fingers grasped?” Jacob ignored Bryn’s tears and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Which just happened to be a house brick, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, Bryn,” Jacob said encouragingly. “We have established that you are not a murderer.” Bryn wasn’t as pleased with that fact as he should have been. He didn’t think that he was a murderer in the first place and it frightened him that anybody else might do. “Now I need to know exactly what led up to this unprovoked attack.”
Bryn thought about lying but didn’t see the point. Jacob Graff had the kind of deep brown eyes that could burrow into his soul. He would spot an untruth before it left his lips. “I might have provoked it,” he said meekly.
“Okay, how so?”
“I had an argument with a man... I called him a fat bastard...”
“Oh dear,” Jacob looked slightly amused and mildly disappointed, “and you see this verbal insult as grounds to be attacked, beaten and stabbed with a knife?”
“No,” Bryn shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Good, because it is not,” Jacob thought for a moment. “Is the man you insulted Anthony Farrell?”
