“As soon as he realized it wasn’t her personal phone, he must have thought using an untraceable phone was a smart idea. Perhaps he started out just wanting to scare her, make her rethink her choices and come back to him. But that last message at 8:40 p.m. the day of the crash was a deliberate threat,” Bex added. She closed her eyes, the better to recall the message. “‘Go to the cops and you’ve drawn your last breath’,” she recited. “Something spooked him and sent him over the edge that night.”
When she finished talking, Quinn jumped in, his surly expression replaced with tough resolve. “I think it was Clara’s threat to call the police on him,” he said. “When his ex, Stacey, said she was going to the cops for a restraining order, he backed right off. She never heard from him again. I thought it might have been because he met Clara, but there was a month in between. The night he turned up unannounced at Clara’s house to confront her, as soon as she said she’d call the cops, again he backed off.”
“It comes down to protecting the rep of their family name,” Idris summed up. “He wouldn’t have wanted the police involved because of the mud-slinging. Ties in with what you found about him keeping squeaky clean at Harrow, Quinn.”
Bex nodded, the items they had mentioned adding up to a conclusion. “So Clara’s threat that night could have been the straw that pushed him over the edge. She had ammunition against him because the ketamine could be traced back to him, and possibly involve his brother as well.
“There was a lot at stake motivating him to take extreme action. More than just losing his girlfriend, he wanted to protect his reputation and that of his family. His Rolls Royce simply became the weapon at hand. There’s no way he could have anticipated the freak accident that sent him skyrocketing into the Thames to his death. No doubt all he had wanted was to hurt or kill Clara Butterworth, but not to commit suicide.” Bex eyed them all, judging their responses. There was a flurry of nodding heads.
“Right, I’ll take what we’ve got to Dresden.” Bex glanced at her watch. It was almost time for most of working day London to knock off, go home to families, hot dinners or meet up with friends at their local pub. But her team still had work to do to provide ironclad evidence of Bon Galliers’ motive for murdering Clara.
“We’ll focus the investigation on tying up the loose ends about Bon and Clara’s drug connection. The next task for you, Quinn and Reuben, is to interview Jemma Winship again. Follow up on her reference to drug parties at Clara’s house and do some door-to-door questioning to see if any of the neighbors have anything to add. Those houses are so close together someone must have heard or seen something if she was distributing ketamine that way.
“Eli and Idris, get Phillip Galliers and his lawyer in for a formal statement about his involvement with supplying Bon with ketamine.”
Eli directed a complicit smile in her direction. “Now that’s going to be a power struggle of a discussion!”
Bex straightened her jacket and smoothed her hair. She hoped Sophie Dresden would be happy with her summation, because it was obvious that the Dunreath family wouldn’t be.
* * *
Bex perched awkwardly on one of the lime green plastic chairs facing Sophie Dresden’s desk. Dresden’s office behind the glass panels was as upscale as the building itself, but totally impersonal. Dresden hadn’t dressed the walls with private photos or her favorite works of art. Her desk was standard issue, a computer and keyboard taking up a chunk of corner, while two full intrays nestled in front of her, a reminder to everyone who sat opposite that Sophie Dresden was a busy woman.
Bex had painstakingly laid out the collected evidence for Dresden, who had accepted it without comment.
“Summarize the post mortem reports for me.” Dresden sat back in her chair, her fingers steepled together, tapping rhythmically against each other as she waited.
Bex regurgitated the facts she had gleaned.
“Clara sustained multiple injuries on her legs, including lacerations and contusions. There were fractures in both her right and left fibula, femur and in her pelvis, plus evidence of hematoma in the thorax region. The fracture pattern of the lower extremities is consistent with an impact that hit her almost directly straight on at an estimated speed in excess of forty miles an hour.”
“Cause of death?”
“The report indicates a severe skull fracture either from hitting the windshield or striking the road surface. That resulted in traumatic brain injury, which was listed as the cause of death. The were no underlying medical conditions.”
“So, we have a healthy, sixteen year old girl and there is no doubt her death was caused by the impact from Galliers’ car. Good. Anything I should know about Galliers’ death?”
“No, ma’am. It’s pretty straight forward. He sustained injuries to his torso, including fractured ribs caused by the seat belt he was wearing and some minor abrasions to his face along with a fractured nose. There was a small amount of water found in his lungs, sufficient to drown him. That’s the official cause of death.” So, all of Evie’s efforts to save him had been wasted.
“In some ways, his death is a shame because your team have assembled sufficient evidence that we could have charged him with murder. Never mind, we’ll provide the evidence to the Coroner’s Court and trust that the finding will be ‘unlawful killing in the matter of the death of Clara Louise Butterworth’. Mrs Butterworth can take the matter to civil court to sue the Dunreath estate for compensation if she chooses.”
For a moment Bex was swept away from Dresden’s barely furnished office down a bitter memory of receiving Zane’s insurance money. Why did legal suits assume that money compensated for death? Her boss’s next words pulled her back to the present.
“The Dunreaths won’t be happy about this possible drug connection.” No surprise there, Bex thought, as Dresden’s pensive words reiterated her own feelings. “Make sure the evidence on that is rock solid.” The way she said it, with her cupid lips compressed into a narrow line, put images of the unknown Vincent Titus tightening the screws on her thumbs into Bex’s mind. It was a reminder that Dresden wouldn’t accept failure on this case because the Youth Crimes Team was her baby.
As Dresden sat forward to spear Bex with her eyes, her cupid’s bow reappeared. “By the way, Wynter, you still look like crap. For God’s sake, go back to your hotel and get a good night’s rest. You can’t afford to let jetlag affect your work. You can catch up with your team in the morning.”
Chapter 22
Thursday 6 July
The team members had already scattered to carry out their follow up interviews when she returned from Dresden’s office. She decided to trust them to do their jobs and oblige Dresden by following her directive, packaged as concerned advice, to return to the hotel.
The classic-styled London cab veered into the flow of traffic traversing Victoria Embankment, wedging them between buses, delivery trucks and small compact cars. She caught glimpses of people strolling along the sidewalk paralleling the Thames. Ferries and pleasure craft streamed along the river. She recognized the London Eye, moving against the blue sky. The late afternoon was still warm so she shrugged out of her jacket, folding it over her shoulder bag so she wouldn’t forget it.
To discourage unwanted conversation from the cab driver, Bex kept her head lowered over her phone. A blizzard of texts from friends in the States waited for her attention. She scrolled through them, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she sent off her replies.
Then she switched to the news, noting the weather still lingered around twenty-eight degrees. She frowned, trying to make the conversion calculations in her head before giving up and seeking an answer online that confirmed London was in the grip of a heat wave.
Her fingers hovered, twitching over the link to the viral video of Evie Butterworth’s dramatic attempt to save Bon Galliers. She was saved from making a decision on whether or not to view it when the driver swung sharply towards the curb. “Here we are, missus. Parkwood Hotel,” he announc
ed.
She flicked off her phone, storing it firmly in her bag before alighting. As she passed through the hotel’s portico, she admired its Georgian façade. The Parkwood was gorgeous, but it was kicking quite a hole in her paycheck. She needed to find herself an apartment, or rather a flat. She’d prefer something close to work, but was coming to realize that real estate in London carried hefty price tags. Tomorrow she’d hit Reuben up for some suitable rental suggestions.
Upstairs, she changed into a sports bra, tank top and a pair of black training shorts and headed down to the hotel gym. She commenced a yoga stretching routine then, ignoring the stair steppers and treadmills, she moved onto the free weights, plating up a barbell to start with squats. Moderation wasn’t a word in her dictionary when it came to her workouts. Her psychiatrist had told her after the accident to exercise hard and regularly if she wanted to climb out of her depression. Bex took the advice to heart.
Pushing herself relentlessly through a series of one-legged squats, box jumps, deadlifts, bench presses, push ups and military presses, she finished off with barbell Russian twists and situps to failure. Her skin was slick and her T-shirt needed wringing out, but she felt calmer and more in control than she had since landing at Heathrow.
Back in her room she ordered grilled fish on a bed of saffron rice with sugar snap peas and honey-drizzled carrots for dinner, taking a quick shower while she waited for delivery. Dressed in thin cotton shorts and Zane’s oversized T-shirt, she settled herself in the room’s single armchair cradling a cup of coffee after her meal. Highlights from Wimbledon flickered mutely on the TV screen.
She picked up the remote and flicked through the channels, surfing over American sitcoms, British reality shows and more sports reports, before her attention was hijacked by a close up of Sophie Dresden being interviewed by the media. She punched up the volume.
“…say there is no terrorist connection to this accident on Richmond Bridge.”
“Did Viscount Dunreath’s son run her over deliberately?”
“Police are working diligently to resolve this incident and I am confident that we will be able to present our full and frank findings very shortly. It will then be up to the Coroner’s Court to decide if there was pre-meditation on behalf of the driver,” Dresden spoke earnestly, no doubt trying to inspire confidence from the public by her terse statement.
The image returned to the studio news desk where a reporter looked solemnly into the camera, trying to impart sincerity. “Member of the House of Lords, Charles Galliers, Viscount Dunreath, had this to say about his son’s death.”
Charles Galliers’ ruddy face appeared on the screen. “Since my son cannot protect his own reputation, I must do it on his behalf. I have reason to believe this police investigation has not been conducted legitimately and that must be brought to light. I can only say that one must stand up if one feels there has been a miscarriage of justice.”
The report then switched to coverage of a fire scare that evacuated Heathrow Airport.
Her heart rate spiking, Bex turned off the screen.
Charles Galliers’ words cast a shadow of doubt on their investigation, the investigation she was heading up. Was that all he wanted to do, or was there some substance behind the allegation?
From everything they had discovered, Bon Galliers’ never risked any actions that might attract police attention or garner negative repercussions. No doubt that was behavior he had learned from his parents. If Charles was simply trying to damp down the rumors and innuendo swirling through the social media sphere, especially as they might reflect on him, it was irresponsible of him to denounce the police.
She let her irritation at the news coverage blister, convincing herself that was all his words amounted to. It was a poor attempt at smoke and mirrors to throw the police off their investigation.
Yawning, Bex knew she should go to bed and get that early night recommended by Dresden. Instead, she picked up her phone, returning to the “Freakin’ Saint” video. Once more her thumb paused over the play button.
She could see it had reached nearly sixty million views so far. Stalling, she let her eyes wander down the latest comments speculating on whether Evie Butterworth deserved to be nominated for a Queen’s Gallantry medal.
She was afraid that watching the video would trigger her own meltdown. She hadn’t told anyone at the Met about the accident that had killed Zane and left her with broken dreams and broken bones. She didn’t want anyone’s pity. That was why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to watch the video at Dresden’s first briefing. If she had broken down at work everyone would want to know why, and she had no intention of digging into the past for them.
Gritting her teeth, she pressed play, keeping her focus on the miniature screen.
The footage of Evie clamboring down the steps into the Thames sprang to life. The viewpoint was high up from the bridge. She watched Evie plunge into the water, wading around the side of Bon’s car. Bex’s eyes strained to see details against the deep shadows cast by the setting sun.
Evie’s back was towards the camera, masking the view of Bon’s exposed right arm, shoulder and drooping head out the driver’s side window. She watched Evie’s arms pop out to the side to cradle Bon’s head, then her back curved as she bent over him, her head twisting to the side, then returning to Bon’s. It looked like she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
The footage wavered, shot to a knot of people gathered around on the embankment, then back to the woman at the car, who was still ministering to the driver, before cutting off.
Bex’s fingers trembled as she pressed stop and exited the program. How had Evie found it in her heart to forgive Bon for her daughter’s death? All Bex had felt was murderous rage at the driver who caused Zane’s accident. If the driver hadn’t escaped into anonymity, if he had still been at the scene of the crash, how would she have acted? Would her professionalism have won over her lethal instincts?
Making a deliberate effort, she unclenched her teeth and took three deep breaths. Her shrink had spoken to her about finding forgiveness in her heart if she wanted to move forward with her life, if she wanted to return to a semblance of normality. How had Evie done it? If only she could know the other woman’s secret so she could apply it to her own life. Perhaps then she would no longer live with the bitter taste of ashes in her mouth.
Chapter 22
Friday 7 July
Bex greeted Reuben the next morning with an espresso in hand. On the trip to work she quizzed him about properties and he agreed he still had contacts who could get her the best deals.
“In the meantime, you could always squat in my mother’s house.”
Bex flashed him an appalled look. He laughed.
“No, not literally squat. She runs a bed and breakfast lodging,” he explained. “The rooms are small but have their own en suite bathrooms and mum cooks up a traditional English breakfast with produce from her hydroponic garden. All genuinely organic. She’s located in Ealing. I realize you don’t know the area, but from there you can easily access the underground to London through the Central or District lines and once you have a car it’s only a few minutes’ drive. And don’t worry, her business is all legit. She’s won awards and has reviews on TripAdvisor and AirBnB so you can check her out online.”
“Thanks, Reuben. I will check it out.”
As Reuben was parking the car, Bex’s phone chirruped. It was a text message from Sophie Dresden requesting that she come directly to her office.
“When the top lady’s gunning you’d better get running,” Reuben advised. “Do not pass Go and do not stop to collect two hundred pounds.”
Gulping the last of her coffee, Bex discarded the paper mug in the trashcan by the open elevator doors and sped along the corridor in the opposite direction to Reuben.
When she knocked on the glazed door, Dresden brusquely called out to enter. Her office was as bare as it had been yesterday and Bex realized she had no idea if the lack of persona
l clutter in her office was an indication that Dresden was only married to her job, rather than a flesh-and-blood husband.
When she returned her attention to Dresden’s face, she was surprised by the grim expression.
“Sit down, Wynter. We’ve had an official complaint from Lord Dunreath about the way police are handling his son’s case.” Dresden came straight to the point. Bex’s mouth went dry. “Specifically his complaint is that you haven’t officially joined the Met and that you haven’t completed your training so your temporary work visa is invalid. As of now, I’m pulling you off the case.”
Bex’s breakfast felt like a stone in her stomach. “But our findings are still valid, aren’t they? Surely, my status with the Met doesn’t affect the evidence? I never conducted any interviews without another officer being present and the rest of the team all have their warrant cards.”
“He claims you introduced yourself as DCI Wynter, so I’ll have to see what we can do. Plus I’m going to have to do some fast pedaling in order to avoid an internal investigation into our methodology. But I have to say there is a chance it could affect the future of the Youth Crimes Team. It’s a serious complaint that could cause the unit to be discredited and disbanded.”
“But how did he know I’m not officially with the Met, yet?” she queried.
“Good question.”
Bex’s brain worked feverishly. Charles Galliers had spoken to Reuben the afternoon they interviewed him and his wife, so he knew Bex was American. Had he put two and two together? Impossible! He couldn’t have known about her temporary work visa. There had to be a leak from someone in the team. Her thoughts flew immediately to Quinn. He’d never hidden his disdain for her, but did he despise her enough to jeopardize the entire unit?
“Don’t worry about it, Wynter. I’m the one who called you in early, so you won’t have to face any repercussions. But, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the building immediately. Your official training starts Monday, so take a long weekend. Play the tourist. Go sightseeing at Madame Tussaud’s or Hyde Park, attend a show at one of the West End Theatres, visit museums or shop on Oxford Street. There’s plenty to keep you occupied. That’s the best I can offer you at the moment.”
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 13
