Burning Truth: An Edge-0f-The-Seat British Crime Thriller (DCI BOYD CRIME THRILLERS Book3) (DCI BOYD CRIME SERIES)

by Alex Scarrow

  The room filled with muttered affirmatives.

  ‘Good. Right then, I suppose the best way to get you all up to speed is to give you a bio on Sutton.’ He looked at Lane. ‘Care to do the honours?’ He picked out a Bounty from the tub, unwrapped it and tossed the chocolate into his mouth.

  Lane nodded and stood up in front of the whiteboard. ‘Okay.’ He looked around awkwardly for a moment; it was obvious he hadn’t been expecting to deliver a presentation of any kind this morning.

  ‘Sir Arthur Sutton was a writer of trashy political thrillers, a cabinet member under Cameron back in 2015, an occasional TV guest on panel shows, as well as a commentator on some of those it-was-okay-in-the-eighties clip shows. He was significantly wealthy –’

  ‘From the books?’ asked Minter.

  ‘Some of it was,’ Lane replied, ‘but there was also the settlement with his ex-wife. He did very well out of that – and the after-dinner speaking. He dabbled in a bit of lobbying on the side and got a yearly consultancy fee with a number of finance and construction companies. So his wealth was fed by a variety of connections made during his time in public service.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ said Okeke.

  Boyd gave her both eyebrows. ‘Politics at the door, please, Okeke.’

  His comment was met with an eye-roll from her.

  ‘She’s right, though,’ Lane conceded with a shrug. ‘For people like Sutton, a political service is pretty much an audition for the lucrative career that comes afterwards. And he used his few months in cabinet to make some helpful connections.’

  Lane went on to cover Sutton’s path to Westminster, his time at Oxford and his time as a Wapping-based red-top sub-editor. He also mentioned his private life, the kids, the affair and the divorce.

  Boyd stood up and took over once he’d finished. ‘So, then the first go-to is usually money if there’s a stash of it lying around… We have an ex-wife and two grown children to take a close look at.’

  He turned to Okeke. ‘I want you and Warren to have a chat with Sutton’s daughter, Hermione. She said she was back from her holiday after the weekend, right?’

  Okeke nodded.

  ‘Hermione first,’ confirmed Boyd, ‘and keep trying to get hold of the son, Henry.’ Next, his gaze settled on O’Neal. ‘I want you working on CCTV along London Road and Bohemia Road, and ANPR hits for Sutton’s car.’

  Sutton’s Mercedes had been transported to the division’s vehicle compound. Parked right outside the front door of the burning Eagle House, it had suffered surprisingly little damage, only some paint blistering on the side nearest the building.

  ‘I want you to look at Sutton’s movements, call history, whatever digital forensics we can get. Warren, you can help O’Neal with that. Minter, you’re my action log gatekeeper. O’Neal, evidence coordinator. Oh, and we’re working with a Met forensics contractor, not our usual folks at the Ellessey labs.’ He turned to Lane. ‘Do you know who they’re using?’

  Lane shook his head.

  ‘Mace and Mackintosh,’ said Sully from the other end of the table. ‘And, if I recall correctly, they’re based in Putney. They emailed me this morning for a copy of my SOC report.’

  ‘You got a contact name for me?’ Boyd asked.

  Sully consulted his iPad. ‘Dr Raddon. I copied you into my reply. Check your inbox.’

  ‘Thanks, Sully. Will do,’ Boyd said. ‘Which reminds me… DC Okeke and I visited Sutton’s London apartment on Friday. It had been broken into – nothing obvious had been taken, but the safe was open and empty. The Met forensics team have been processing it over the weekend. Sully – can you make sure you’re up to date on their findings? If you need to pop up and take a look yourself, then let me know.’ He looked around the table. ‘Everyone else, this is something to take into consideration as our investigation progresses. I’ll share any forensic findings on this as they come in. Right, any questions so far?’

  ‘Do we have any witnesses to the fire, boss?’ asked Minter.

  ‘One possible… if she survives, that is. Sutton’s live-in housekeeper was the woman pulled out of the fire.’ Boyd flipped through his notebook. ‘Her name’s Margot Bajek. She was pulled from a room on the ground floor, a pantry or larder of some kind.’

  ‘And you said there was evidence that Sutton had been tied up, boss?’ Minter said.

  ‘Tied out, actually,’ Boyd replied. ‘To a snooker table. One limb to each corner pocket.’ Boyd glanced at his team. ‘Any of you lot seen that Da Vinci movie with Tom Hanks?’

  Most of them nodded.

  ‘So like that… like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.’

  ‘Is that, you know, symbolic?’ asked Warren. ‘I mean, is the pose meant to mean something?’

  Boyd shrugged. ‘Could be. Equally it could be that the corner pockets were the easiest way to anchor his wrists and ankles. Let’s not jump down that rabbit hole just yet.’‘Are Sutton’s books linked in anyway?’ asked Okeke. ‘You know, any weird stuff? Occult stuff?’

  Lane answered. ‘He writes routine political thrillers. The usual Ian Fleming tropes: terrorist plots, gadgets and sex-object female characters.’

  ‘So a bunch of cringy misogyny, casual racism and lots of guns, explosions and car chases,’ Okeke clarified.

  Lane nodded. ‘All very Boys’ Own.’

  ‘I might give one a read,’ said Minter.

  Lane grimaced. ‘It’s not really a recommendation, Sergeant.’

  Boyd decided enough was enough. ‘All right. Back on topic, please, boys and girls. We’re investigating a murder, not running a book club… Sutton has people in his life who may benefit financially from his death, and we’ll be taking a look at those first before we cast the net wider.’

  ‘What does “casting the net wider” mean?’ asked Okeke. ‘Are we looking at his political and lobbying links?’

  Lane caught Boyd’s eye. ‘May I, Boyd?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Part of the reason I’m here is to keep an eye out for official secrets leakages. So, yes, I’m afraid if the investigation swerves in that direction, I’ll have to –’

  ‘Cover it all up with one of those big black marker pens?’ offered Sully.

  Lane shrugged apologetically. ‘Confidentiality is the way the business of government works. Ministers need to be able to talk freely… and privately.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ muttered Okeke.

  Boyd stood up. ‘Okay. That’s enough. Lane’s got his job to do, and we’ve got ours. If I had his job, I’d be pulling out that black pen if it was necessary. Right. You’ve all got jobs folks… so let’s get busy.’

  As the room filled with the sound of chairs being pushed back, Boyd remembered one last thing he’d wanted to announce while he had them gathered.

  ‘One sec! Everyone!’

  They paused.

  ‘I’m having… a sort of barbeque-stroke-garden-clearing party this Sunday. In the spirit of many hands make light work, just bulldozing the lot. You’re all welcome, well… I mean, I’d be grateful, if you’d drop by and help.’ He was dimly aware that he wasn’t exactly selling the idea. ‘There’ll be beers and food and… stuff,’ he added.

  There were a few muted half nods, some muttered ‘yessirs’, but not a great deal of direct eye contact from around the room.

  ‘Anyway, Sunday from midday. Let me know if you’re up for it.’

  He suspected next Sunday was going to be a complete no-show.

  17

  ‘All right, I’ll take a few questions,’ said Chief Superintendent Hatcher. Boyd begrudgingly had to admit that Her Madge handled the press better than Sutherland (who droned), Minter (who got stage fright) or himself, now notorious for being bleeped. Once.

  Hatcher seemed to have cajoled the press pack into behaving itself, silently raising their hands and waiting patiently to be picked rather than all shouting out at the same time.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, pointing to a journalist in the front row. �
��You.’

  ‘Amanda Brooks, the Guardian. You said the body pulled out of Sutton’s house has been identified as Sir Arthur Sutton. Has his family been informed?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘How are they? Have they commented?’

  ‘They’re understandably distraught and have made no public comment – they’ve asked for their privacy to be respected at this moment.’

  Hatcher picked another.

  ‘Heather Crombie, the Mail. There’s been a suggestion that the fire was deliberate. Arson. Can you confirm that?’

  ‘No, I cannot. Nor will I. The fire investigation officer has yet to submit his final report and we’re keeping an open mind until then.’

  ‘But we’ve heard rumours that you’ve assembled a murder investigation tea–’

  Hatcher silenced her with a stern look over the top of her glasses. Boyd wondered how the hell a slight gesture like that could have such an impact. Some people were obviously born to be school teachers… or press-pack wranglers.

  ‘Of course we’ve got a team looking at it. If there turns out to be an indication of foul play, I would like us to have that evidence to hand.’ Hatcher smiled wryly. ‘It’s called policing.’

  Calm as anything.

  Boyd caught DI Lane’s eye. Lane smirked. He was obviously thinking the same thing.

  ‘Matthew Donegal, the Canary. If evidence surfaces that this is arson, will you be looking at motives linked to Sutton’s political career?’

  ‘If evidence surfaces, we will look at all possible inquiry leads –’

  ‘It’s worth noting that he was in cabinet during the fundraising for the Brexit campaign and had links to Cambridge Analytica and that –’

  Hatcher interrupted him tersely: ‘We will examine all angles, Matthew, rest assured.’ She pointed to another journalist. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sue Pascal, the Argyle. You mentioned that there is a witness in hospital.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Arthur’s housekeeper. She’s currently in an induced coma because of the severity of her burns. Her condition, unfortunately, is critical at the moment, but, if and when she makes enough of a recovery, we will of course want to talk to her.’

  Boyd watched the journalists rise from their seats and vacate the press-briefing room. It was muggy and hot inside from the number of bodies and the lack of a window to open. Boyd noted there was an AC unit but it was off. He wondered if it was off deliberately to hasten the journos’ departure from police premises or whether it was something else in the building that had fallen victim to budget cuts.

  ‘She’s good.’

  He turned to see Lane at his side. ‘Rather her than me,’ he replied. ‘Half the time I want to groan and eye-roll at the questions they ask.’

  They made their way back to the Incident Room and found Okeke.

  ‘I’m going over to Conquest Hospital to have a chat with Margot Bajek’s mother and daughter,’ he told her. ‘Want to come along?’

  ‘Well, I was just about to take Warren out for a trip to Brighton,’ Okeke replied. ‘Sutton’s daughter, Hermione, lives there,’ she added at the slightly puzzled look on Boyd’s face.

  ‘I thought she could only do tomorrow?’ he said.

  ‘She called to say she’s okay to talk this afternoon, guv.’

  ‘Ah, right. Then let’s get this visit done first. I’d like you to come along. You’re good in these situations. It’s a courtesy call foremost… maybe a little gentle fact-digging. After that, you can take Warren and go to see Hermione.’

  ‘Mind if I tag along to the hospital?’ asked Lane.

  Boyd nodded. ‘Be my guest.’

  18

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘She’s down there in room eleven, but you, Detective …’ The nurse had been entirely unimpressed by Boyd’s warrant card and had already forgotten his name. ‘May I ask you and your colleagues to wait in the family room.’

  She led them to the room, opened the door and gestured for them to step inside. ‘I’ll let her family know you’ve come to visit.’

  The door closed and Boyd took a seat. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was three already. He had no idea how long they’d be here talking to Margot Bajek’s family. ‘Okeke, I’m sorry. Can you bump Hermione Sutton back to tomorrow?’

  Okeke nodded, picked up her phone and started tapping out a text.

  ‘So how long have you been in the force?’ asked Lane.

  ‘About twenty years,’ Boyd replied. ‘Five of them in uniform. What about you?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Before that, the paras?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Okeke looked up from her phone. ‘I thought so.’ She nodded at his shoes. And, for the first time, Boyd noticed that Lane was wearing a pair of Oxfords, polished and buffed immaculately.

  ‘I have tried to kick that habit, but not giving them a once-over feels like not brushing your teeth.’ Lane laughed. ‘I know. Sounds ridiculous. Nobody but ex-forces types understand that one.’

  Boyd looked down at his own scruffy brown loafers. There was a dusting of dried mud on both and, if he wasn’t mistaken, some tooth indentations on the left toes, courtesy of Ozzie.

  ‘The army does that,’ said Lane. ‘It messes with your head. Gives you unhealthy obsessive compulsions like shoe-shining, bed-making…’

  The door opened and the nurse ushered in a young woman. ‘These are the police who wanted to talk with you.’ The nurse looked at her. ‘But if you don’t want to…?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thank you,’ the young woman said.

  The nurse pulled the door shut. Boyd stood up and offered the young woman his hand. ‘I’m DCI Boyd. This is DI Lane and DC Okeke.’

  ‘Lena Bajek. I am her daughter.’

  ‘Can we get you anything?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘No, I am fine.’

  ‘Take a seat, Lena, please.’

  They all sat down. Boyd began. ‘Before we start… how is your mum doing?’

  Lena Bajek had the look of someone battered and worn out by the cross currents of life. She seemed to be about the same age as Emma, give or take a few years, but prematurely aged.

  ‘Mama… she has third-degree burns over eighty per cent of her body,’ Lena said quietly. ‘Babcia, my grandmother, and I are not sure she is going to survive.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lena,’ said Okeke. ‘How are you and your grandma coping?’

  ‘Not good,’ she replied. ‘Babcia is not well. I am her full-time carer. Mama helps.’

  ‘With your grandma?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘With bills mostly,’ Lena replied. ‘She pays for the medicine, the rent, the utilities.’

  ‘The medicine?’ asked Lane.

  Lena nodded. ‘We are not… what is….?’ She flapped her hands as she searched for the right words in English. ‘We cannot have free healthcare. We did not get the settled status. So….’

  ‘So you have to pay for it all?’ asked Boyd.

  She nodded. ‘And now also this too…’

  Christ. Boyd presumed there had to be some emergency fund that covered this kind of situation. He made a note in his pad to get their FLO, Sergeant Gayle Brown, to have a chat with her about that.

  ‘Margot worked for Sir Arthur Sutton?’ Boyd was still unclear about her role. ‘As his housekeeper?’

  Lena shook her head. ‘First. Yes. Now she was his carer.’

  ‘Carer? Was he sick?’

  Lena nodded. ‘Yes. He was dying. He had motor neurone disease. Mama has been looking after him for last year now.’

  That explained why Sutton’s public profile had decreased in recent years, Boyd thought. There’d been fewer appearances on Question Time, not so many guest op-ed pieces in the broadsheets. Maybe Sutton hadn’t wanted the world to witness his gradual decline.

  ‘Lena… when was the last time you spoke with your mother?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘Four days. The afternoon, before the fire.’

  ‘Wa
s there anything she said that concerned you? Did she sound worried?’

  Lena shook her head. ‘Normal.’ She laced and unlaced her fingers absently. ‘She told me about taking him to London. He stayed there sometimes. He has very nice place there.’

  Boyd nodded. He certainly did. ‘And would she stay there with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Lena. ‘More recently, yes. He needed help with stairs.’

  ‘And had they just come back when you spoke to her?’

  She nodded.

  That matched up with the relatively fresh contents in Sutton’s London fridge.

  ‘And was she concerned about anything to do with Sir Arthur?’

  ‘No. Opposite. She was very happy.’

  ‘Happy? What about?’

  ‘Sutton give her a pay rise and also asked her to go abroad with him… soon.’

  ‘Where?’ Boyd glanced at Okeke.

  Lena shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘On holiday?’ asked Okeke.

  ‘I think so,’ said Lena.

  ‘As his carer?’ Okeke prompted.

  Lena nodded. ‘And his good friend too.’

  ‘They were close?’ said Boyd.

  She nodded again. ‘Sutton like her very much. She felt very sorry for him. No family helping him. He lived all alone, you know?’

  ‘Your mum sounds very kind,’ said Okeke.

  ‘But she may die for that,’ Lena said sadly.

  Okeke reached out and clasped Lena’s hand. ‘Your mum’s got a fighting chance, Lena. She’s strong, right? And she’s in the best place.’

  Lena nodded. ‘Stronger than me.’ Her voice was beginning to falter now.

  ‘Then she must be strong,’ Okeke said, smiling gently. ‘We’re going to help you, okay?’ She glanced at Boyd. ‘We’re going to see if there’s some financial assistance that can be organised.’

  Boyd nodded and dug out a card from his jacket. ‘This is my number. If you or your grandma need help, or if either of you can think of anything that might help us find out who did this, then you call me, okay?’