Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  Another sound snapped him awake. It was a slow, but loud metallic creak. He hadn’t lived in the house long enough to recognise all the noises, so he couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the gate at the side of the house. It was possible the noise didn’t come from his house, as his neighbours on either side both had the same type of gate. He needed to be sure.

  He sat up and ducked his head under the curtain. Scanning the rear garden, his eye detected movement from the bush at the end of the garden. His blood rose. This time, he was determined to teach the voyeur a lesson he wouldn’t forget, not only to get back at him for pushing him on the ground, but also to make sure he didn’t return to spy on the poor woman next door again.

  He grabbed his baseball bat and bounded down the stairs. He walked through the kitchen and, without making a sound or putting on the light, opened the back door. He pulled it closed behind him and was about to head down the opposite side of the garden as he had before, when a blow knocked him to the ground, the baseball bat clattering on the patio.

  He was about to get up and investigate when a boot to the throat forced him back down, pinning him to the ground and forcing him to gag.

  ‘Now, if it isn’t Rob Saunders. We’ve caught up with our little runaway at last.’

  Shit, oh shit! It wasn’t the garden wanker, but the Shah brothers!

  ‘How, how did you find me?’

  ‘Our friend Ernesto at the mail box place you visited slipped a tracker into your pocket. Thought you could run away for ever?’ He shook his head, visible in the light of a new moon. ‘No way. Nobody gets away from us, eh Tariq?’

  ‘Too true, brother.’

  ‘I’ve got the money,’ Saunders said, realising the hopelessness of his situation, but it didn’t sound like his voice with a boot pressing into his throat. ‘Let me get it for you.’

  ‘The money, if I need to remind you, is what you stole from us. It’s the least we can expect after all the trouble we’ve had finding you, but it’s no bother. We’ll get it ourselves. Where is it?’

  His mind raced. If he told them about the money upstairs, they could be tempted to shoot him now. If he said there was more in a lock-up, it might buy a little time in which he could try and make an escape.

  ‘In a lock-up.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘No, there’s some, upstairs in the house.’

  ‘Where’s the lock-up?’

  ‘Let me take you there.’

  ‘Let’s not. You tell me where it is.’

  ‘I’ll have to take you there. I don’t know the address–’

  A hand moved in the dark, he heard a pop, and his thigh felt like it had been hit by a hammer, then set on fire. He tried to scream, but the pressure from the boot at his throat increased and strangled the sound at birth.

  ‘We can’t do this here,’ Tariq said. ‘People might see.’

  ‘Trust you to spoil the fun. C’mon, let’s move him inside.’

  Something was shoved into his mouth before he was dragged up the steps and into the kitchen. They didn’t put the light on, but closed the door and switched the radio on, turning the volume way up.

  ‘Now, you can make all the noise you want,’ Kazem Shah said taking the gag out of his mouth. ‘I’m gonna ask you again. What’s the address of this lock-up?’

  He said nothing, his mind a jumble of disparate thoughts. The gun fired again, this time into his other leg. The pain was excruciating, and he let out a lung-emptying scream, but nothing came out, the bastards must have damaged his vocal cords.

  ‘Bermondsey,’ he gasped, minutes later as he fought for breath. He spluttered out the address.

  ‘It’s all there is it, minus the amount you’ve spent living in crappy places like this?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Kazem raised his gun, pointed it at the head of the man lying on the floor. With the smile of a snake on his lips, he pulled the trigger.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  At ten past one, Henderson walked out to his car. Traffic was busy, a common feature of the summer months when the population of Brighton and Hove increased by a factor of two or three. It wasn’t a case of travellers choosing the UK over Spain and Greece, as they once had before the advent of package holidays, but day-trippers and those coming to the south coast for a short break.

  Gerry Hobbs lived in Hove, on a road leading up from the seafront. It was close enough to walk there in a couple of minutes, but far enough away not to be bothered by rowdy holidaymakers or, common in this part of the world, eccentric actors using the promenade as their stage.

  He lived a mile or so from the centre of Brighton that people didn’t use the space outside his house to park, that is, if they chose to ignore the Parking Permits Only sign as Henderson did. He approached the door and knocked. Usually, Hobbs’s young twins would shriek with excitement at having a visitor, even if it was only someone to read the gas meter, but the house was quiet. They had gone to the park with their mother, which was a relief as they treated Henderson like an uncle and demanded he read to them or play with their toys, making it hard for him to speak to their father.

  It took Hobbs a few minutes to reach the door, something Henderson had anticipated from a man not used to travelling on crutches.

  ‘Look at you,’ Henderson said when the door opened, ‘you look almost stable.’

  He closed the door behind them with a slam. ‘Thanks a bunch for that vote of confidence. Go into the living room, I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble on my account.’

  ‘I wasn’t, it just takes me some time to get there.’

  Henderson walked into the lounge, the evidence all around of a man recuperating: magazines and newspapers scattered over the floor, remote control handset on a side table, close to an armchair, a glass of water and a bottle of tablets within easy reach. It would annoy the patient if Henderson sat there, but he suspected Hobbs was in no mood for any shenanigans, and so he parked himself on the settee instead.

  ‘So how have you been?’ Henderson asked when Hobbs finally came into the room.

  ‘Getting better day by day, but with the emphasis being on the gradual. Sometimes I don’t think I’m improving at all, but Catalina can see it better than me, and tells me if I’m doing something that I couldn’t do before.’

  ‘It’ll take time. You had a bad fall.’

  ‘I know, but everyone says the key to getting back to normal is staying mobile. Once I reach the point when I don’t need these,’ he said, nodding at his crutches, ‘it should be plain sailing from then on.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’ll take a bit more recovery time before you can return to the job.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. The boss says he’ll give me some desk work to get me back into the swing of things.’

  ‘Sounds good, and there’s nothing like desk work for encouraging the invalid into making a fast recovery.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re right there, I’ll hate it, but it’ll get me back into the routine of getting dressed in the morning, travelling back and forward to the office, and all the rest.’

  ‘How’s Catalina adjusting to this new set of circumstances?’

  ‘A work in progress, I would say. Last night, she shouted from the kitchen something like, “I’m just starting making the dinner, can you go up and bath the twins?”’

  Henderson laughed.

  ‘I can make it around here,’ he said, ‘but no way can I climb stairs. I sleep on the couch you’re sitting on.’

  ‘Ach, it won’t be so long until you’re back on active duty.’

  ‘It can’t come fast enough, I can tell you. How are things with yourself, Angus? How’s the new woman?’

  ‘She’s still around, so I must be doing something right.’

  ‘You’ve landed on your feet there, a large house in Hove and a salary bigger than yours and mine combined.’

  ‘Consultants get paid that much? Even in the NHS?’

&nbs
p; ‘You better believe it. Ten minutes in the company of a nurse and you find out what everybody earns.’

  ‘I suppose the NHS has got to pay the same as private hospitals, otherwise no one would want to work there.’

  ‘A lot of them wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, as they believe in what the NHS is about, but how they stop the top people leaving is by allowing them to deal with private patients, often in private hospitals.’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll talk to Claire about it and hear her take.’

  They talked for another twenty minutes, Hobbs at times sounding like the NHS’s newest recruit, before Henderson got up to go. ‘Before I leave, Gerry, can I make you a tea or coffee and maybe get you something to eat?’

  ‘No, you’re all right Angus. I had a cup of tea before Catalina took the kids to the park, and I’m expecting them back in the next twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ll miss them. Tell her and the twins I was asking for them.’

  ‘Will do.’ Hobbs tried to lever himself up.

  ‘Stay where you are mate, I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘You sure? I need the practice.’

  ‘No, sit where you are. I’ll see you soon.’

  Henderson walked out to the car. He looked up and down the road for Catalina but couldn’t see her. He climbed into the car and drove back to the office.

  **

  The baguette he’d bought in the morning hadn’t suffered from lying around for six hours in a warm office as it tasted delicious. The deli he’d bought it from was expensive in comparison to other sandwich shops and no match for the subsidised prices in the staff restaurant, so this would only be an occasional treat.

  Halfway through his lunch, a face appeared at the door: Vicky Neal.

  ‘Guv, you need to come and see this. We’ve found something we think you’ll find interesting.’

  ‘Is it important? Can’t you see I’m eating my lunch?’

  ‘Lunch?’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly three o’clock. It’s almost time for afternoon tea.’

  ‘Do they have such niceties in Manchester? Or is this what you call a mid-afternoon bacon bap?’

  ‘Cheeky. Come in and see me when you’re finished. I’m sure it can wait a few minutes longer.’ She disappeared.

  At least it wasn’t Kayleigh Beech, back for a return bout, as Neal had said whatever it was could wait. He munched through what remained of his lunch, a tad faster than he had consumed the first part, marvelling at the power of women’s intuition. Dangling such a morsel in front of him was bound to pique his curiosity. He wiped his hands on the napkin, walked into the open-plan Detectives’ Room, and headed over to Neal’s desk.

  ‘Right, Vicky, what was so interesting you had to interrupt my late lunch?’ he asked.

  She stopped working on a report she was editing and pushed it to one side.

  ‘Phil was looking at a news site and spotted something which, if it’s what I think it is, could be a crucial piece of the puzzle in the Black Quarry Farm case.’

  Henderson watched as Neal woke up her computer. It displayed the BBC News website and a story headed, ‘Man Gunned Down in Surrey.’

  He took control of the cursor and scrolled through the article. Over time he had become inured at reading about such bloodshed. He no longer harboured curiosity about the wife and children that were left behind, the hole it would leave in his circle of friends, or the fear it would imprint into the psyches of all his close neighbours. It was yet another senseless killing, and the job now for the detectives investigating the case was to try and find some clues as to why he was killed and identify who was responsible.

  ‘Why should we be interested in this one? According to the article, the victim’s name is Luca Tardelli. You said it was connected to the farm murders.’

  She pointed at another window open on her computer. ‘Click on this other site.’

  He did as he was told and up popped a similar story to the one he’d just read.

  ‘This article is less detailed,’ Vicky said, ‘but is an update on the earlier one, because it now includes a photo. Scroll down and you’ll see.’

  He did as he was told and looked hard at the photo.

  ‘Recognise him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  She removed a picture from a file on her desk and held it up against the screen.

  ‘That’s the file picture of Robert Saunders,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Yep. Don’t you think he and the dead guy look similar?’

  ‘I can see a bit of a resemblance, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘Me and Sally are sure it’s the same guy.’

  ‘There’s only one way to be sure.’

  ‘What, check the victim’s prints or DNA?’

  ‘Aye, check what Surrey has on the victim and compare to what we have on file.’

  ‘I called them earlier and they’re sending it over.’

  ‘Say you’re right, and this is our man,’ Henderson said, thinking out loud. ‘On the one hand, another suspect on the Black Quarry Farm murder drops away, but on the other, it could perhaps provide an opening. That is, if it was the same killers and they were sloppier here than at the farm.’

  ‘It fits the scenario. Saunders books a week’s holiday at the farm, but cancels at the last minute, believing people are after him. The murder of the Beeches confirms his suspicions, and so he takes refuge at a house in Leatherhead.’

  ‘Then somehow,’ Henderson said, picking up the thread, ‘his pursuers find out where he’s been hiding and finish the job they started.’

  She nodded, her face filled with enthusiasm. ‘In which case, he’s not only the person of interest we first thought he was, he’s the key to all this.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘How are things progressing with buying your flat? Last time I heard, you were waiting for the bank to come up with a mortgage.’

  ‘Got it now. Just waiting for lawyers to finalise the paperwork. I think with a fair wind I should be in there before the end of August, or so my solicitor says.’

  ‘It’s good to hear you’re becoming more settled.’

  DI Henderson and DS Vicky Neal were travelling north in Henderson’s car. Surrey detectives had now received confirmation of the Leatherhead victim’s DNA. The dead man had now been identified as Robert Saunders.

  They were heading there to talk to detectives investigating the murder and visit the crime scene. There was always a risk when doing something like this, they could be accused of interference or worse, of muscling in on another force’s case and trying to take over.

  Mitigating against this was the fact the detective units of Surrey and Sussex were run by the same senior officers. This reduced the number of territorial disputes in larger cases, but in more localised investigations such as Black Quarry Farm and the Leatherhead shooting, they still had to tread carefully. If the Leatherhead shooters were the same people who had killed John and Lara Beech, far from trampling on each other’s toes, they were both seeking the same perpetrators.

  Surrey Police HQ was housed in a complex of buildings called Mount Browne, south of Guildford. In the surrounding area, the highest pinnacles were to be found on the North Downs, but it contained nothing so tall or grand to be called Mount anything. Like Malling House in Lewes, they both had their origins in former stately homes, with plenty of outhouses and acres, but instead of horses and cars, they now housed a training centre, offices, staff restaurant, and all the other trappings of a large, complex organisation.

  Five minutes later they were seated in the office of DI Alex Brady. Henderson had met the man before at some symposium or other, as he recognised the name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember a thing about him. A few minutes into the meeting, he realised why.

  He had mousey-brown hair and the same description could be applied to his personality: mousey. He spoke quietly and his whole demeanour suggested a man who would be frightene
d if someone jumped out in front of him. Henderson didn’t doubt his intellect or instinct, as he enjoyed a good clear-up rate, but a man like him belonged in a classroom, talking to a room full of students, not in a tense interview room, or giving a presentation to his fellow officers.

  ‘We’re conducting door-to-door enquiries around the houses in the vicinity of the Leatherhead house, looking for witnesses, but I’m not hopeful. The shooting took place sometime in the night; the doc reckons somewhere between twelve and three.’

  ‘You said earlier,’ Henderson said, ‘blood was found on the patio, suggesting he’d been beaten or shot there, before being taken inside. Maybe people heard something at this point.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if the killer was using a silencer, maybe not.’

  Henderson waited for him to elaborate, but nothing was forthcoming. He was the sort of guy who wouldn’t tell him anything unless asked a direct question. This caused a memory to pop into his head. About a year before, during a Surrey and Sussex get-together at a hotel in Guildford, Henderson was standing with a group of officers, including Brady, having an animated debate about something he couldn’t quite remember, maybe a film they’d all seen.

  Everybody in the group became animated, as happens when a group of guys sink a few beers and start talking about something interesting. All except Brady, who contributed nothing. This made other officers, those who didn’t work beside him, say they found him standoffish, someone who thought socialising with the lads, or detective banter, was beneath him.

  ‘What did ballistics tell you about the weapons?’

  ‘The bullet in the leg and the one in the head came from the same weapon, making us think there was one shooter, not two as you had at Black Quarry Farm. They were 9 mm and came from a gun used before in the murder of a businessman from Kent.’