Make You Sorry

by Christine Rae-Jones

  ‘I’ll ask them tonight,’ he said. He left without saying any more.

  During the drive back to work, Morgan replayed the conversation again and again. At some point, he started to believe his wife’s version of events and that put a new perspective on his night with Maisie. If he had ever held the moral high ground in this mess, he wasn’t perched up there now.

  Chapter 47

  Wednesday 19th February

  Dave Spence was talking to DC Jenny Smart when Patel approached his desk. ‘I expect you already know, but Steven Cooper is downstairs and I’d like you two to interview him,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve heard we’ll need respirators,’ said Spence. ‘Not had a bath since Christmas, and the guys in the car weren’t sure which Christmas. In fact, one of them said he once drove the body of a dog that had been dead for three days to the veterinary department for a PM, and Cooper smells worse.’ Patel’s smile was rueful and she apologised.

  ‘I’ve heard he’s lawyered up,’ said Smart.

  ‘Yes, I’m told that Brian Gault is on his way.’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ said Smart.

  ‘Partner and Solicitor Advocate at Fletcher, Armstrong and Gault. Dorothy Cooper must have got her cheque book out,’ said Spence.

  ‘The very same. Don’t underestimate him. He’s a tiger,’ said Patel.

  ‘Or a snake,’ Spence replied.

  Brian Gault started by demanding time to consult with his client alone. When Gault was ready, Spence led Smart to Interview Room 3 and they took their places. The room was hot and cramped with a pervasive smell of unwashed clothing, nervous sweat and, strangely, cooked onions. Cooper and Gault were both flushed, their faces coated with a thin, oily veneer.

  Spence nodded to Smart who started the digital recording system and cautioned Cooper for the record. She opened her book and Spence was about to ask his first question when Gault interrupted. ‘I have a prepared statement to read to you and I should advise you that my client has nothing further to say.’

  The statement was short. Cooper denied knowing either Carl Raynor or Wesley Crook. He admitted meeting Abigail Slater at a club last year and that they had been in a short relationship which ended before Christmas, after which he had not seen or heard from her. He did not know that she was about to marry or that she had been killed. He was not involved in her murder.

  ‘Why did you run away?’ asked Spence as Gault was laying the statement on the desk.

  ‘As I said, my client...’ Gault intervened.

  ‘Give him the chance to answer please, Mr Gault,’ said Spence. ‘The statement makes no mention of Mr Cooper’s unexpected trip. We know he’s intelligent enough to see how suspicious that trip looks in light of Ms Slater’s disappearance. Why did you run away?’

  ‘I’m advised to answer with “no comment.”’

  ‘You don’t have to take that advice. This is your opportunity to tell us why you took off at around the same time as Abigail Slater vanished. It looks suspicious, right?’

  Cooper was picking at his dirty fingernails. He glanced to where Gault had his pen poised over his legal pad. ‘I want to answer,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve given you my advice and I suggest you take it.’

  ‘Mr Cooper,’ said Spence, ‘if you want to answer, you should. Courts tend to be suspicious of “no comment” interviews. If there was a legitimate reason why you decided to visit Southwold and it has nothing to do with the cases we are working on, it would be better to tell us now.’ He sat back in his chair anticipating a long story.

  Cooper exchanged a look with his solicitor. ‘No comment,’ he said.

  Chapter 48

  Thursday 20th February

  DI Nick Morgan dropped into his chair when he got back to his office after the morning briefing. He knew he should be at Cliffside to help with the move, but he wasn’t ready to spend the day alone with Sam. Over the last couple of days he’d begun to accept that maybe she hadn’t slept with Graham Fletcher, and that left him with a guilt that nagged him like a painful tooth. His desk phone rang. ‘DI Morgan.’

  ‘Morning, sir, it’s PC Eastman here, on the desk. You’ve got a visitor. A journalist who has information about the “Sorry Slayer” murders.’

  Morgan winced at the name given to the case by the tabloids. Recently, their headlines had comprised of fewer words, in larger font. “A Sorry Excuse of an Investigation.” “Find the Sorry Slayer.” “Who’ll be Sorry Next?”

  The media had a voracious appetite for information and journalists would try anything to get exclusive access to lead investigators. He wasn’t going to fall for their tricks. ‘Tell him to email it to me. You can give him the address.’

  It’s a “her,” sir. ‘Natalia Kowalowski is a columnist for the local Gazette.’

  ‘Then please tell her to email me,’ he repeated but, as he went to replace the phone, he heard the woman’s raised voice.

  ‘I’ll email now. Tell Morgan he has five minutes before I take it to Johnson.’ Eastman started to repeat her words but Morgan told him he’d got the message. The last thing he needed was Johnson hauling him into his office to ask why he was overlooking another lead. He replaced the receiver, opened his email account, and waited, wishing he had his own coffee machine in this impersonal and uninspiring office.

  When the message arrived, it was a link to a web page. With some trepidation, Morgan clicked on it hoping that he wasn’t about to infect the whole team, or worse, the county, with a catastrophic virus. It was a video and at first, he couldn’t make out what he was seeing as both pictures and sound were blurred. He could hear chinking of glasses and cutlery on crockery. He checked the video length which was ten minutes. So much for “five minutes before I take it to Johnson,” he thought. His email pinged again and then again. He received a total of seven links before he gave in and rang Eastman. ‘Tell Ms Kowalowski I’m coming down.’

  When he got to the front desk PC Eastman pointed to a tall woman with dark hair swept up into a style reminiscent of the nineteen fifties. She was typing on her phone with a speed and expertise that Morgan associated more with teenagers than women in their thirties. Eastman called her name.

  Natalia Kowalowski approached him and they shook hands. Up close, she was younger than he’d first thought. The thick layers of makeup, particularly the black mascara and eye liner, aged and hardened her features. He wondered if that’s what it took to be taken seriously in the world of local journalism.

  As they walked to his office she asked ‘How much have you watched?’

  He liked this woman. No time-wasting, straight down to it. ‘A couple of minutes,’ he replied. ‘I thought it would save time if you took me to the specific part of the footage you think is relevant.

  At his office, he turned his monitor so they could share. When he clicked on his inbox she said ‘It’s in link three.’

  ‘Why not just send me link three, then?’

  ‘You’ll want to see it in context.’

  He asked where she got the material and she told him it had been sent to her by someone who attended the event featured in the recordings, but who wished to remain anonymous. She added that she didn’t know where or when the event had happened but she was sure it would be easy to find out.

  The third link had the same background noise, but now there were voices in the foreground. They were discussing the recent local deaths and he heard two male voices and one woman’s. Carl Raynor’s demise was dismissed as another bloody junkie that the world would be better off without. When the woman spoke, she was of the opinion that Abigail Slater’s death was very sad. She said she felt sorry for the fiancé. The man whose voice was louder and more confident than the other two had scoffed at that and told her that he thought the fiancé had a lucky escape. ‘Liked the bad boys, I heard. Not that I wouldn’t have given her one myself,’ he said, ‘but I don’t like queuing.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Morgan pausing the recording. Kowalowski was typing on her phone
and shook her head without looking up. He pressed play and listened again. The picture was still out of focus.

  The confident man was getting louder and another male voice had joined in. The discussion moved on to the body outside the Bradley’s bungalow and they were empathising with the couple. Confident voice said ‘The only good burglar is a dead burglar. If I had it my way, we’d string ‘em up. I’d do it myself.’

  Morgan stopped the recording again and looked at Kowalowski. ‘He’s an idiot who’s drunk too much at a function and has let his gob run on because people are listening. He probably doesn’t even remember saying it, and they won’t remember hearing it. Let’s hope he got a taxi home.’ He stood up to indicate that it was time for her to leave. ‘Out of interest, do we know who they are?’

  ‘The loudmouth is Councillor Kenneth Wyatt and I was sent the footage because later on it shows him groping some serving staff. It must be a recent event because the murders were only in the last couple of weeks, so it shouldn’t be too hard to trace who all the voices belong to.’

  ‘He was pissed and out of order. We all speak out of turn when we’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘He’s up for re-election to the council in May so I’ve rung him for a comment but he’s not picking up. He doesn’t know I’ve got this so there’s no reason for him to be ducking my calls. Over the last couple of days, I’ve tried his work, his home and his mobile. I’ve also sent emails to his council and work accounts.’ She threw her hands out. ‘And... Nothing. No response. We all know he’s a self publicity addict. He’s aiming to be mayor and never misses an opportunity. Maybe he’s too busy out there stringing up burglars?’

  Morgan exhaled loudly through barely open lips. Every major investigation had its share of complications which could end up being the breakthrough, or a time-wasting irrelevance. The trick was to get it right. Senior investigators still shuddered at the thought of falling victim to a hoaxer like “Wearside Jack” who had dragged the Yorkshire Ripper enquiry off track.

  ‘Why would you believe that a local councillor who has his eyes on the mayoral prize would risk everything to see off burglars? It makes no sense.’

  Kowalowski put her phone face down on his desk. ‘I’m not saying he’s doing it himself. I don’t think he would be able. I mean he’s big enough, but it’s all fat. Anyone who broke into a slight trot could get away from him without any difficulty, and I should know. But he has money enough to buy whatever he needs. If he needs to see off a few criminals to clean the streets up and win the election, he could get his wallet out.’

  I can’t see it being a motive for him to be arranging for burglars to die. It’s just not realistic... is it?’

  ‘But you can’t risk not having a quick look at him, just to make sure.’ She rose and dropped a business card on his desk before picking up her phone and making for the door. ‘You know where to find me. And it’s my exclusive, okay?’

  Morgan escorted her back to reception before returning to play the remaining clips. The last one had been filmed from a different angle and he saw the rotund Councillor Wyatt holding court. But his attention was fixed on the neighbouring table. It was out of focus, but he would recognise his wife anywhere. And, sitting next to her, his arm across the back of her chair, was Graham Fletcher.

  Chapter 49

  Thursday 20th February

  DCI Johnson winced when Morgan told him why he needed to talk to Councillor Kenneth Wyatt. ‘He’s always been a bit larger than life. I don’t think he means anything by it.’

  Morgan persevered. ‘I believe if you saw the clips, sir, you may feel differently. There are two which show him with his hands on waitresses’ thighs and there’s a very clear shot where he’s got his hand up a skirt. You can see by the look on the young lady’s face that she neither encouraged nor welcomed it.’

  ‘Has there been a formal complaint by anyone? Without that, I don’t think there’s much we can do. How about me having a quiet word next time I see him?’ Johnson’s look of hope stiffened Morgan’s resolve.

  ‘The footage is on the internet and it’ll get a lot more attention when the paper is printed. There’s already a link to it from the Gazette website. How’s it going to look if we don’t at least have him in? Anyway, the groping is one thing but it’s the “string them up” comment that I want him to clarify.’

  Johnson gasped. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Councillor Wyatt is our burglar killer?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that I want to talk to him about his opinions and where he voices them. Then I’d like to ask him who knows about his opinions and who might share them with enough fervour to do something about it.’

  ‘He’s going to be Mayor one day, you do know that? I can’t imagine how much harder he could make our lives if we don’t have a good relationship with him. For God’s sake, Morgan, our wives play bridge together twice a week. This is beyond embarrassing.’

  ‘Not for me, sir. I have no pre-existing relationship with him. DS Spence and I can bring him in for a quiet word. He doesn’t even have to know that this conversation’s taken place so Mrs Wyatt and Mrs Johnson can continue, oblivious of your involvement. If he’s contrite, that may be the end of it. We can leave him to deal with the fallout from The Gazette however he pleases.’

  Sensing Morgan’s determination, Johnson raised his hands in resignation. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but keep it to just you and Spence until we know more. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, sir. I’ll find Spence and we’ll get it sorted straight away.’

  Spence parked a short walk from the house shared by Councillor Wyatt and his wife. These were 1970s houses thought Morgan as he got out of the car and he was prepared to bet that they were initially marketed as “executive living.” The properties were all sited off curved roads with branching cul-de-sacs. Some were fake Georgian whilst the design of others was more modern. Most had been extended in some way; rooms on top of garages; conservatories; and one with an ornate porch, better suited to a steak house restaurant. Wyatt’s was at the very edge of the estate and there was a red convertible on the drive. As they approached the property, Morgan felt neighbourhood eyes track their progress.

  ‘Don’t worry, Spence, they think we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. They will be retreating towards the back of their houses and hiding until they’re sure we’ve gone away.’

  Dave Spence feigned personal offence. ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses! That must be your suit, sir. Mine is designer and cost me a fortune... and the tie is silk.’

  They walked up the drive and Spence rang the bell then reached for the door knocker before recoiling. It comprised a flaccid penis hanging between two oversized testicles.

  ‘Very classy,’ said Morgan. ‘I think that’s what’s called a novelty knocker. I must be sure to get one for Cliffside. It’ll piss my mother-in-law off.’

  Spence rang the bell again, this time leaning on it for longer. The men waited before returning partway down the drive and looking back for open windows or other evidence of habitation.

  ‘Perhaps he’s seen the footage online and he’s keeping a low profile?’ suggested Spence.

  ‘More like Mrs Wyatt has seen the footage and those are his hanging on the door. He’ll be bleeding to death in the utility room,’ said Morgan.

  He noted the number of alarm boxes and CCTV cameras on the surrounding houses and deduced that the locals took their security seriously. Without much hope, he tried to open the garden gate. Locked.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Both men turned to see a small woman approach from the direction of their car. She had white hair held back by a navy Alice band and was wearing a purple sweatshirt with “Head Gardener” and a picture of a flowerpot and trowel on the front. Her baggy trousers were tucked into black rubber boots which looked too big for her.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she repeated pointlessly as they were already giving her their full attention. ‘Who are you, please?’

  Morgan and Spence looked at each ot
her before retrieving ID from their pockets and waiting for her to get closer. ‘It’s Miss Marple,’ said Spence, hand in front of mouth and looking down. Morgan’s smile served to acknowledge the comment and also welcome the woman.

  ‘I’m DI Morgan and this is DS Spence from Central and Southern Major Crimes Unit. Do you know if Mr Wyatt is at home? He’s not answering the door.’

  She took the wallets from both men and peered at each in turn before handing them back.

  ‘Why do you want him?’ she asked.

  ‘And you are, madam?’ Spence had stepped forward and now towered over the woman. She held her ground, her face a picture of indignation.

  ‘I am Gladys Granger. I’m the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator for this part of the estate and I’m asking again, why do you want Councillor Wyatt?’ She emphasised his title.

  Morgan sighed and put on his conciliatory smile. ‘Mrs Granger, we’re not in a position to discuss why we’re here. It would help if you could tell us if you know whether the Wyatts are at home now, or are likely to be back soon. If you can’t, then we’ll let you get back to your gardening.’

  ‘How did you know I was gardening?’ she snapped.

  ‘Lucky guess,’ chipped in Spence. ‘Now, can you help?’

  She looked both men up and down again before speaking. ‘She, the wife that is, hasn’t shown her face for weeks. There’s been a young woman banging on their door for a couple of days. Have you seen that knocker? Completely inappropriate for an executive home. My husband thinks he’s got the woman pregnant.’

  ‘Can you describe the woman?’ Morgan asked and her response was an accurate representation of Natalia Kowalowski, the journalist from The Gazette.

  ‘When did you last see Councillor Wyatt, madam?’ Spence persisted.

  She gave him a disapproving look before turning back to Morgan. ‘I saw him a couple of days ago when he got out of the car. The wife keeps hers in the garage and if he’s at home and she’s coming and going, he has to move it off and back on the drive. The car makes a growling noise. It disturbs everybody.’