Make You Sorry

by Christine Rae-Jones

  Other team members arrived in ones and twos, unaccustomed to a mid-afternoon briefing and hoping for the announcement of a breakthrough. The arrival of Brian Bingley, the Crime Scene Manager for many of the recent deaths, added to their speculation.

  Jenny Smart sat beside Lynn Greenfield and nodded towards the door. ‘Who’s the newby?’

  ‘Don’t know. He’s not lifted his head from his phone.’

  ‘He’s doing a lot of swiping on that phone. What do you think? Tinder or Grindr?’

  Both women looked out into the corridor and watched as Gillingham looked up, his attention caught by Morgan’s approaching voice. As the men shook hands and spoke for a moment, Greenfield leant over and whispered in her friend’s ear, ‘Tinder, I think. Definitely Tinder.’

  The room quietened as Morgan spoke. ‘Listen up everyone. Before we start, let me introduce Dr Andrew Gillingham who is here in his capacity as forensic psychologist. I’m hoping he can shed some light on what’s going on.’ He extended his arm towards the row of white boards at the front of the room. ‘Some of you will recognise him from his TV appearances or you may have read his books. Please provide any information he needs while he’s with us.’ Gillingham responded with a very brief smile. He sat at a table at the back of the room, turned his mobile to silent and removed an iPad from his backpack.

  Morgan started the briefing by confirming that the engagement ring found in the park home had been identified by Abi’s fiancé as the one he’d given her. ‘He also said he’d never been to the park homes estate, so if Abi was there with a man, he says it wasn’t him. Now... Brian.’

  Brian Bingley nodded and unfurled a roll of paper he was holding. Morgan thought he looked like an Ancient Roman about to speak to the Senate.

  ‘We’ve checked the thumb and two fingerprints from the Transit van against IDENT1 and there’s no match so this person has never been in a UK prison, but the good news is that we think we have enough points of comparison from the samples to confirm an assailant when we get him.’

  There was a murmur of approval around the room.

  ‘Okay everyone, unless anyone has any new lines of enquiry they want to mention, I’ll close the briefing.’ Morgan looked around like an auctioneer searching for a higher bid. No takers. One by one they got to their feet and made for the door, some nodding to Gillingham on their way past.

  Morgan’s work mobile alerted him to the arrival of a text.

  ‘It’s a call to Johnson’s office,’ he said to Gillingham. I expect he’s written a cheque for you.’ Gillingham snorted and turned his attention back to the information on the boards.

  Morgan’s meeting with Johnson had been difficult. As expected, the “budget” word featured frequently in the lecture, as well as “Police and Crime Commissioner and the Chief Constable.” The latter had apparently expressed his disappointment at the lack of progress in finding Councillor Wyatt’s murderer. Returning to his office Morgan wondered why Abigail Slater’s murder had stopped attracting the scrutiny of the senior staff. He assumed it must be the salacious newspaper and social media stories about her sexual exploits. He felt sorry for her parents and realised he should have rung them with an update. Something else to add to his task list.

  When he got to his office, Maggy Patel was sitting in his chair writing on a message pad. She looked up and Morgan thought she looked tired and dejected; very different from the bright, confident officer who had interviewed him two weeks before.

  ‘Hi Maggy. Everything okay?’

  ‘I was leaving you a note,’ she replied waving the small sheet of paper at him.

  ‘You could have sent an email,’ he said reaching out for the paper. ‘I was upstairs sitting on the naughty step again.’

  ‘Any special reason this time?’

  ‘“Spending too much money; overtime budget unacceptable; PCC and Chief Constable disappointed with progress;” the usual.’

  ‘You forgot “eye watering amount spent on forensic analysis which could have been covered by old fashioned policing.”’

  ‘Mmm. I expect the bill hasn’t come in yet. Anyway, what does the note say?’ She crumpled it and aimed it successfully into his bin.

  ‘I’ve had word from the street,’ she said, ‘About Raynor.’ Morgan nodded. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Okay, but I need to speed this up, I’m afraid. I’ve got someone waiting in the briefing room.’

  ‘I heard there was a celebrity in the building. Can you get me an autograph?’

  Morgan took a step towards his bin.

  ‘Okay DI Impatient,’ said Patel, ‘word is that Carl Raynor was involved in a bit of bottom of the barrel drug dealing. The real lowest of the low. He was dealing at school gates. It seems that Raynor stepped up to work with one of our notorious dynastic crime families... or stepped down, depending on your opinion.’

  ‘Are you saying that some pissed off parent stalked Raynor to my mother-in-law’s house to kill him? In Gullhaven?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But bad people are losing their lives so perhaps we’ve got a vigilante on the loose.’ She made a gun shape with her right hand, ‘Bang.’

  ‘Raynor wasn’t shot, he was stabbed, and smothered,’ said Morgan.

  ‘If I’d known we were playing charades... Anyway, “bang” is more dramatic.’

  ‘How reliable is the source?’ asked Morgan.

  ‘Very reliable, I’d say. They’ve given me decent stuff in the past.’

  ‘And what about Abi Slater? Are we saying that promiscuity can get you killed too? If that’s the case, then as retribution, it’s almost biblical.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d brought the picture on the lid,’ said Patel, ‘just another couple of pieces of the jigsaw.’

  ‘Christ! Let’s hope these pieces fell out of the wrong box.’

  Chapter 65

  Thursday 27th February

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to spend more time with you today.’ Morgan held the boot of the Volvo open to let Gillingham throw his backpack in. ‘Still travelling light I see.’

  ‘My overnight bag is at the B&B and anyway, I don’t expect to be here more than a couple of days.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have to be back in London for Monday. I’m giving evidence at The Bailey.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant have you solved it yet?’

  ‘Them. It’s not an it. I’m sure it’s a them. At least two and maybe even three separate clusters. But I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. I’ve seen the HOLMES printouts.’

  Morgan slammed the boot shut and opened the passenger door for his friend. He sat and folded his long legs into the foot well. ‘Can I move the seat back?’

  ‘Of course. It’s only so far forward because I had plasterboard in the back at the weekend.’

  ‘How are the renovations going?’

  ‘I haven’t really started yet.’ They sat in companiable silence as Morgan negotiated his way out of the car park and into the queuing traffic on the main road.

  ‘It’s kind of Samantha to invite me for dinner,’ said Gillingham reaching into his pocket and retrieving his phone. There had been four alerts to incoming messages in the short walk to the car and Morgan was starting to realise how much in demand his friend was.

  ‘I can’t imagine the hard time she would give me if she knew you’d been here all day and I hadn’t brought you home to eat.’

  ‘Can we stop off so I can buy some wine?’

  ‘It’s all taken care of.’

  The conversation for the rest of the drive returned to the cases until Morgan swung across the coastal road and backed the Volvo on to the driveway at Cliffside. The house was in darkness this evening and he wished Sam had made the place look more welcoming for their guest.

  ‘I bet it looks great in daylight,’ said Gillingham, but Morgan could tell he didn’t mean it. This was an ugly property and no amount of compliments would
change that.

  When Dorothy gifted the house, she provided only one key for the front door which she’d ceremoniously presented to her daughter. It was an obvious and deliberate slight to Morgan but he had got his own key cut as soon as the shop opened the next day and had raised two metaphorical fingers to his mother-in-law. He was reaching into his pocket for it when the door opened and Sam was there to greet them. She switched on the hall light and squealed with excitement when she saw Gillingham. ‘Andy! It’s been such a long time. How are you?’

  Andy Gillingham bent down and tolerated her hug without returning it. ‘You’re looking well, Samantha. The sea air agrees with you.’ He looked around, ‘Where are the twins?’

  ‘They’ve gone to the cinema with a classmate and his family. I know I’m substituting one screen for another but at least they will have to look up to see the film instead of poring over their phones and tablets. It’ll be good for their posture. Are you staying with us tonight? It’s easy for me to make a bed up.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m booked in at the B&B along the bay.’

  She looked disappointed but Morgan knew she would be relieved. Their guest bedroom was currently a dumping ground and in no state to offer a comfortable night to visitors.

  ‘Why don’t you take Andy to the pub for an hour, Nick? By the time you get back, the kids’ll be here, and I’ll have had a chance to throw something edible on the table.’

  ‘D’you fancy a pint?’ asked Gillingham.

  ‘You can get all the shop talk out of the way before dinner,’ said Sam taking Gillingham by the arm and guiding him to the door.

  ‘Steady on, Samantha,’ he said. ‘We’re going. Anyone would think you had a man upstairs.’ Only Gillingham laughed.

  Chapter 66

  Thursday 27th February

  The pub was a ten minute walk across the cliff top but the recent rain had made the ground boggy so they chose the longer route along the pavement. The strong west wind made conversation between them difficult to maintain.

  When they arrived, the landlord at The Smuggler’s View welcomed Nick Morgan with a broad smile. ‘We thought you must have gone back to London,’ he said. ‘Two pints of best, is it?’

  Nick looked towards Andy, remembering that he had never seen him with a beer in his hand.

  ‘I’ll have a diet tonic with ice and lemon, please.’

  ‘Got that,’ said the landlord making a mock salute, ‘and a pint for you, Nick?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll bring them over.’

  They sat at a table by the window although there was nothing to see apart from street lights and the darkness of the bay beyond. These seats were furthest from the music speakers and slot machines; ideal for a quiet chat.

  ‘Not many people in,’ said Gillingham.

  Morgan looked at his watch. ‘It’s early yet, and out of season too.’

  The landlord brought the drinks and placed the tonic in front of Gillingham with exaggerated care. When he had gone, Morgan noticed that there was a cocktail cherry on a stick in the glass, as well as the slice of lemon. Gillingham’s thin lips formed a small, lop-sided smile as he placed it on a beer mat to drain. ‘Does he do a comedy turn on alternate Fridays?’ he asked raising one eyebrow.

  Morgan shook his head and shrugged. When he looked back from the window, Gillingham was appraising him, poker faced; brown eyes penetrating. Under this scrutiny Morgan felt uncomfortable and looked back to the window.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean “going on?” You’ve seen the crime boards and read what we’ve got so far. There’s not a great deal more I can tell you.’ He looked around, aware that his voice was too loud and his tone, defensive.

  Andy Gillingham had been about to take another sip of his drink but replaced it on the mat and leant in. ‘We’ve known each other too long, Nick. Don’t give me the bullshit. All is not well on Planet Morgan. And I don’t think it’s the caseload, either.’ He sat back in his chair again and waited.

  Morgan stayed silent, still avoiding his eyes.

  ‘If you haven’t brought me here to share the burden, we can walk back and I’ll help Samantha prepare the meal.’

  Morgan sighed. ‘We should never have come to Gullhaven. I knew it was a bad idea. I don’t know what possessed me.’ Gillingham was completely still, his attention focused on his friend.

  ‘I’ve been with Sam over twenty years and we have two lovely kids together. I thought that living closer to her mother would lift some of the pressure off her. She was up and down that motorway two and three times a week.’ He gulped more of the beer and lifted the glass. ‘Can I get you another?’

  ‘No, because we’ve barely touched these and you would be using a trip to the bar as an avoidance tactic. You’ve started now so you may as well tell me everything.’

  ‘I don’t come out of the story well.’

  ‘We know a lot about each other where we don’t come out of the story well. It hasn’t affected our friendship, has it?’

  Morgan picked at a spot on his beer mat before continuing. ‘I accused Sam of shagging her old boyfriend. It’s a longer story than that, but that’s the punch line.’

  ‘And had she?’

  Morgan returned Gillingham’s unflinching stare for a long time. ‘Only you would ask that. No one else would think that Saint Samantha could do such a thing.’ He spat the words out.

  ‘But you think she did.’

  ‘I did at the time, then I didn’t... don’t. God’s sake. I don’t know what to think. She was so pissed when she got home, anything might have happened.’

  ‘Have you had a conversation about it since she sobered up?’

  ‘No, I feel too guilty.’ Gillingham looked puzzled and Morgan shook his head, eyes closed. ‘I took revenge. I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. So I didn’t.’

  ‘So, you had a one night stand that started off as Sam’s fault, and now you’re blaming your mystery woman. None of it is anything to do with you. Is that what you want me to believe?’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. I know I’m in the wrong. I don’t need you to tell me.’

  ‘If you want my advice...’ said Gillingham.

  ‘Can I afford it?’

  ‘...keep your trousers and your mouth zipped. No good will come from telling Samantha. Stay out of temptation’s way and don’t go near your mystery woman. Get on with solving the cases and if you’ve got any spare time, fix something at the house, then take a cold shower. That should cover it. Christ, Nick. How old are you anyway?’

  Morgan took another gulp of beer and smiled for the first time since they had sat down but Gillingham was looking concerned as he continued. ‘Is it possible that the embers of that night with the mystery woman are still glowing? She’s trouble, and you know it.’

  ‘I know,’ Morgan was nodding as he got up to go to the bar. ‘But it may not be that easy. Same again?’ he asked, holding up his glass.

  Gillingham nodded, ‘But put a gin in it this time. Now that I know about all this I don’t think I can face Samantha sober.’

  Chapter 67

  Friday 28th February

  ‘Settle down quickly, please. There’s quite a bit to get through.’ Morgan had to shout to be heard over the noise of two teams squeezing into the briefing room. He saw Maggy Patel in close conversation with Andy Gillingham at the back. She was talking quickly, arms and hands gesturing something Morgan could not interpret. As ever, Gillingham was standing completely still, his concentration on her, absorbing every detail of what she was saying as if she was the only person in the room.

  Morgan thought that Gillingham had no right to look as unscathed as he appeared. After Sam and the twins had gone to bed last night, they’d sat up till three o’clock, using sticky notes and coloured sheets of paper to represent the cases and the commonalities between them. Gillingham’s new eyes on the evidence helped Morgan drill down to the basics of
each investigation and he felt he was seeing things more clearly. Well, he would be seeing things more clearly if he didn’t have this headache. At midnight, Gillingham had gone to the kitchen and returned with a two litre bottle of sparkling water. Morgan remembered screwing up his face and opening another bottle of red. He wondered if it was this restraint that helped his friend look at least ten years younger than his age.

  The room quietened and faces turned towards him. ‘For those of you who weren’t at yesterday afternoon’s briefing, let me introduce Dr Andy Gillingham who’s a forensic psychologist I’ve worked with him on a number of cases.’ Morgan didn’t mention the Met in case inter-force rivalries and misconceptions clouded the issue at hand. ‘He’s here to help us get some insight into what we’ve got here. But before that, I want to share some intel that has come to light.’

  The door opened and Johnson came in, nodding his permission for Morgan to continue. He remained at the back of the room like a dark cloud threatening rain on the family barbeque.

  Morgan referred to his notes then started the briefing by relaying Patel’s information. When Johnson did not react to him knowing details of Operation Heartwood, he pressed on.

  Nobody in the room seemed surprised that Carl Raynor was involved in dealing drugs – one or two nodded as if long held suspicions were now confirmed. Their reaction turned to anger when they heard he’d been dealing to school children as many of the officers were parents or had younger siblings. But comments were regulated by the presence of DCI Johnson. Morgan avoided eye contact with Patel who had specified that he must not identify her as the source of the information.

  When they moved on from Operation Heartwood to Operation Siren it was obvious that information about Abi Slater’s engagement ring and the prints from the Transit van were widely known. One of the advantages of open plan offices, Morgan thought.

  Andy Gillingham was sitting at the side of the room. He had picked a good place from where he could observe the teams as well as have a clear view of the white boards. Morgan could see that when he wasn’t typing notes on his iPad his brown eyes were scanning the room, monitoring and appraising. To make notes, he put on a pair of black framed glasses which Morgan hadn’t seen before. Each time he needed them, Morgan saw the fleeting expression of irritation of a man who no longer has twenty-twenty vision. Welcome to the club, he thought before standing to address the teams again.