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

by Alex Scarrow

  Lena took the card.

  ‘We’re going to find out what happened,’ said Boyd. ‘And who did this, and then we’re going to put them away for a very long time.’

  Lena nodded absently, her eyes down on the floor, hearing but not really listening.

  Boyd leant forward to meet her eye line. ‘Lena, thank you. We’ll talk again soon, okay?’

  She looked up at him, then at Lane and Okeke. ‘Would you be here if this was just about my mother?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘Mama has been a carer for many years, since we came to this country. She caught the Covid and we caught it too… and we lived. She cared for so many people but there is no help for her…’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Britain just clap, then say, ‘Thank you very much – now go. Maybe you can help. Maybe you cannot.’

  With that, she got up out of her chair and headed out into the corridor, leaving the door creaking closed behind her.

  Lane nodded slowly. ‘She’s quite right.’

  19

  They drove back to the station, and Boyd left Okeke to catch up with Warren about the re-arranged interview with Sutton’s daughter.

  It was getting towards five and Boyd was aware that Lane had placed an overnight bag beside his desk earlier today.

  ‘Right. We need to get you some accommodation sorted.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lane said, nodding. ‘That or I’ll sling my doss bag under your desk.’

  Boyd turned to look for Minter and found him digging in a stationery cupboard for something. ‘Minter!’

  ‘Boss?’

  Boyd waved him over, and Minter joined them holding a printer cartridge. ‘We’re out of ink, boss. Flack and his cockwombles left it completely bloody empty, didn’t they?’

  ‘Minter, we need to get Lane into a B&B. Somewhere that’s walkable to the police station. Could you suggest anywhere?’

  ‘Ah. Right. There’s a whole row of them, just beyond the pier, heading towards Bexhill. They’ve got “vacant” signs up in the front windows if they got any rooms going. You only need to drive along the seafront till you spot one.’

  Boyd offered Lane a lift and they drove slowly up the seafront road, looking for vacancy signs and quickly found one – Linton House B&B. The whitewash paint was flaking slightly on the outside and a lone weed was reaching skyward from the guttering, but apart from that it seemed okay.

  The little reception nook was staffed by a withered old man who spoke like a frustrated thespian, rolling his Rs and projecting his voice further than was necessary. He seemed excited to be providing a roof for a police detective and offered Lane a discount.

  ‘I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, but is it possible to have a rolling weekly booking?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Of course!’

  ‘Well then…’ Boyd said, offering Lane his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, and see you tomorrow.’

  Lane nodded. ‘Aye. Before you go, can you point me in the direction of a good place to eat?’

  Boyd shrugged. ‘I’ve not really dined out in Hastings much yet. Down my end, the old part of town, there are some nice pubs that do decent pub grub. I’m not too sure about this end of town, though.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Lane said. ‘I can have a little mooch around, see what’s what. See you tomorrow, Boyd.

  Lane picked up his bag and Boyd headed to the door.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, he thought. He felt shit leaving the poor bugger stuck here. He turned back round. ‘Lane… how are you with dogs?’

  20

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine, Mr Lane?’ asked Emma.

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t really drink. Or try not to. Water’s fine.’ Lane reached across the table and helped himself to one of the spring rolls.

  ‘Ems, I can’t believe you allowed me to order in a Chinese,’ said Boyd, spooning sweet and sour sauce out of the foil carton.

  ‘Well, since you’ve been such a good boy dodging the chips at work, it doesn’t hurt to have the occasional bad day,’ Emma replied. She turned to Lane, ‘So Dad said you’re down from London until this Sir Arthur case is all sorted?’

  ‘Aye, in a spare-pair-of-hands kind of way,’ Lane said with a shrug, ‘and in an advisory capacity.’

  ‘Sutton was a cabinet minister for a short while,’ explained Boyd.

  ‘Ah, okay.’ Like most people, Emma recognised Sutton’s name, his fiery eyebrows and that he was some stuffy middle-aged man who’d had something to do with politics.

  ‘Which means,’ Lane added, ‘there are potential official secrets to catch and bag.’

  ‘Like a sneeze?’ said Emma.

  He nodded. ‘Not that we’re expecting any. Sutton’s been mostly busy writing cheesy pot-boiler thrillers for the last ten years.’

  ‘You read any?’ asked Emma.

  He pulled a face. ‘Enough of one. I’m not a fan of protagonists who can conveniently speak Northern Vietnamese, or quote Nietzsche, or who suddenly know how to fly a helicopter when it suits the story.’

  Boyd nodded to that. ‘Brilliant at bloody everything.’

  ‘I think it was Stephen Fry who called Sutton’s hero, Max Trent, an obnoxious Bond knock-off with blond hair, blue eyes and back-dated values.’

  Emma laughed… but then, remembering Trent’s creator had recently died, cut it short.

  ‘Do you think it was deliberate, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He gave Lane a look. ‘Anyway, enough work talk, Ems,’ Boyd cut in. ‘We’ve been at it all day.’

  Lane nodded. ‘Aye. It’s probably best we don’t say any more.’ He glanced at Emma. ‘Sorry, this is potentially a sensitive case. Sutton wasn’t well and –’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’ Emma couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Motor neurone disease. It’s that condition a lot of footballers and rugby players have begun to succumb to, some people think, because of the repeated head trauma involved in contact sports.’

  ‘Had Sutton been a sporty type then?’

  Lane shook his head. ‘It can also be hereditary.’

  ‘It’s a horrible disease, Ems,’ said Boyd. ‘Your brain shuts down, bit by bit, gradually disabling functions until something critical finally goes kaput… and then –’

  Ozzie’s coned head and paws suddenly appeared at the table.

  ‘Oh, you crafty bugger,’ said Boyd. Ozzie had jumped up onto the spare chair and was now surveying the buffet of open cartons like a late dinner guest.

  ‘Ozzie! Watch your stitches!’ said Emma, moving the cartons back. ‘He doesn’t normally do this,’ she said to Lane.

  ‘It’s all the incredible smells. It must be torture for the poor sod,’ said Boyd. ‘Let him have a prawn cracker at least, Ems.’

  ‘Do you even know how unhealthy this crap is?’

  ‘You’re letting me and Lane eat it,’ Boyd pointed out as he posted a cracker into the cone of the eagerly awaiting Ozzie.

  Boyd helped Emma to clear the plates after dinner, then went outside to find Lane, who was having a cigarette in the partially cleared back garden. It was pleasantly warm still and Ozzie was snuffling around, in spite of his cone, thwacking it on practically every branch and stem he encountered.

  ‘I can see why you’ve invited everyone over this weekend,’ Lane said, surveying the tangled spread of undergrowth.

  ‘I suppose I could take a bloody flamethrower to it. Or napalm the lot. That’d be easier, but –’ Boyd hunched his shoulders – ‘it’s going to be nice this weekend according to the BBC – a chance for a barbeque and a few beers. You’re welcome to come and help out if you want.’

  Lane smiled. ‘I’d love to, but I’m back home for the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Boyd remembered what Lane had said. ‘You’ve got a little ’un.’

  ‘Uh-huh. A little rascal called Josh.’

  ‘And he’s four?’

  Lane nodded. ‘He’s just at that stage where he keeps
eyeing up my phone. So I’ve had to load some kiddie apps onto it. It amazes me how quickly he picks up all this technology stuff.’

  This was another thing Boyd knew he’d never have to do. ‘Candy Crush?’ he asked.

  ‘Zombie Gardener.’ Lane shrugged. ‘You play a zombie, tapping the screen to look after your plants. I’m not entirely sure what Joshy gets out of it.’

  ‘And Mum approves of this, does she?’

  ‘My mum doesn’t,’ said Lane. He looked at Boyd. ‘We lost Josh’s mum when he was a baby.’

  ‘Oh,’ Boyd said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It is what it is,’ said Lane quietly. ‘I’ve still got some of Sarah in my little boy. The expressions on his face, little tics that remind you of….’ He stopped and took another pull on his cigarette. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Emma’s mum?’ Boyd sniffed the smoke and it triggered a fleeting memory – his old band days, touring in the back of a van. ‘Same boat as you. Julia died a few years back.’

  ‘Shit. My turn to say sorry,’ said Lane, blowing out a cloud.

  ‘As you said… it is what it is. You just bumble forward. Not much else you can do, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  They listened to Emma as she stacked the plates in the kitchen. She was humming along to something by Taylor Swift playing on her phone.

  ‘So you’re teetotal, then?’ said Boyd. ‘Is that because of the seizures?’

  ‘Yes. Alcohol can trigger it. It’s best to play it safe, I find.’ Lane chuckled softly. ‘It also triggers my dormant Scottish accent… which is far worse.’

  ‘When did the seizures kick in for you?’

  ‘A long time ago.’ Lane looked at Boyd. ‘Right after I came out of the army.’

  Boyd nodded. That was a whole other conversation for another day. He reminded himself that some PTSD sufferers were talkers and some weren’t.

  ‘Right,’ said Boyd. ‘I suppose I’d better drive you back to your luxury five-star hotel.’

  Lane laughed and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Where do I…?’

  Boyd looked at the stub. ‘Just chuck it on the floor. It’s fine.’

  Lane let it drop to his feet. ‘So what’s the plan tomorrow, Boyd?’

  ‘Sutton’s wife and son are our top priority. Neither have answered their phones. Okeke’s off to see the daughter. And I’m heading up to Putney for the autopsy. You’re welcome to tag along if you want.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I probably should.’

  Boyd stretched. ‘Okay, let’s get you back to your budget prison cell.’

  21

  And here it is – the home of Sir Arthur Sutton. So close to this busy road, yet tucked away. You’d never know he lived here: the man, the myth, the legend… in his own mind, at least.

  A figure pauses beneath the sickly sodium-orange glow of a street light, beside the first of two old worn stone eagles, and pulls a spray can from a rucksack.

  This is usually a busy junction. The lights are red right now, but it’s late and there’s no one around, impatiently waiting for green. No one to idly watch the lone visitor.

  The figure quickly ducks down and sprays something on the low flint wall.

  It’s a simple design. Several strokes of air-sprayed paint and, there, it’s done.

  It will go mostly unnoticed, totally without meaning to the world at large, but, to a select few, it will serve as a very stark reminder.

  You made a vow of silence. Keep it.

  The figure returns the spray can to the rucksack and, looking around to be sure there are no witnesses, hops up over the low wall and ducks down under the heavy bough of a mature oak tree – now completely invisible to the outside world, just like Eagle House.

  The figure crawls through the undergrowth and peers out at Sutton’s small lawn. There is a decorative fountain in the middle of the grass. A stone cherub urinating into a shallow dish – an indicator of the man’s idea of humour.

  On the other side of the small lawn sits Sutton’s Mercedes parked on the gravel and, beyond that, lights from inside the house cast tall ghostly window projections across the tidily clipped lawn.

  Through a bay window can be seen movement inside the house. A woman brings a cup of something into a grand drawing room. The trespasser can see burgundy walls and a low-hanging chandelier, portraits in gilded frames that are certainly not prints, but – in keeping with Sutton’s social climbing ways – aren’t his distant relations either.

  The figure gets his first glimpse of Sutton – receiving his drink. A mug of something hot. A mouthed ‘thank you’ to the woman, then she’s gone again, leaving Sir Arthur alone, cupping his drink in both hands and staring out of one of his tall windows into the night.

  Are you scared yet, Sir Arthur? You should be.

  Oh, I’m going to have fun with that pompous bastard tonight.

  22

  DAY 5

  Boyd pulled up outside the B&B and found Lane waiting, finishing off a cigarette, his jacket over one arm. He stubbed his cigarette out, placed his jacket neatly on the back seat of Boyd’s car and climbed into the front.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning,’ replied Boyd. ‘How was the room?’

  ‘Small and stuffy.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  Lane did. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. But he was still immaculately turned out. ‘It was a bit noisy,’ he said.

  ‘Pub goers?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘No, next door,’ Lane said, laughing. ‘I learned their names, though: Ron and DeeDee.’

  Boyd signalled and pulled out. ‘Like that was it?’

  ‘Most of the night, noisy buggers.’ Lane reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of mints. ‘Want one?’ he offered.

  Boyd shook his head. ‘No thanks. So, Mace and Mackintosh have Sutton on the slab at eleven,’ he said, glancing at the time on the dash. It was a few minutes after eight; he’d allowed an extra hour since they were driving into London. The last time he’d driven through Putney, he could have crawled on his hands and knees faster.

  Eight wasn’t great for getting out of Hastings either and Boyd found himself crawling slowly past the layby on the A21 where they’d found ‘Nike Boy’ two months ago. They still had no ID for him. The layby looked different. Somebody from the Highways Agency had tidied up the picnic area, mown the grass, fixed the wooden tables and even cleaned up the picnic signpost – presumably shamed into sprucing it up after having seen the state of it on the national news.

  ‘Thanks for dinner last night, by the way,’ said Lane.

  ‘No problem. It was a win for me. I’d have been force-fed rabbit food by Emma if you hadn’t come over.’

  ‘She’s a character, isn’t she? Definitely not the shy type.’

  ‘Nope. She’s just like her mother. She was a people person too. Friendly and extravert… and always asking questions.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me? I’m the polar opposite – arsy and private. Which is why Julia was perfect for me. She maintained our friendships and family links, and I got to dip in and out at will.’

  ‘Ha! Same here,’ said Lane. ‘I’m not brilliant at small talk. What’s the term…? Schmoozing. Sarah was like Julia; she kept all the friendships going. Maybe it’s a male thing?’

  ‘Or a grumpy bastard thing,’ said Boyd.

  They arrived outside Kiln House, just north of Putney Bridge at half ten. It was tucked away on the right-hand side of Fulham Palace Road, a six-storey kidney-bean-shaped building of bright vanilla brick and dark tinted windows. Luckily there was a guest parking space beside the old disused pottery kiln that sat in front of the building.

  Mace and Mackintosh Forensics’ corporate plaque proudly announced in smaller lettering that they were ‘partnered with’ the Met.

  Lane pulled his jacket on, shrugged out the rumples and straightened his tie. Boyd’s only concession was to grab his jacket from the back seat and fling it over on
e arm. It was far too hot to wear the damned thing.

  He led the way inside, flashed his warrant card and gave his name to the receptionist who instructed them to take the lift to the first floor. The lift doors opened to reveal a clinically lit lobby and a slim young man wearing a dark polo neck and a lanyard.

  He reached out a hand to Lane. ‘You’re the SIO, DCI Lane?’

  ‘No, I’m DI Lane,’ he said, then gestured to Boyd. ‘This is the SIO, DCI Boyd.’

  The man looked at the dishevelled detective. ‘Oops, sorry. I got that all wrong.’

  Boyd shook his hand briskly. ‘I believe it’s Dr Dayne handling our session?’

  ‘Correct, you’re in the Johnson theatre this morning.’

  ‘Johnson?’

  ‘They’re named after prime ministers.’

  Boyd and Lane were led into a theatre that contrasted with the muted Gothic ambience of Dr Palmer’s at Ellessey Forensics. It was brightly lit and starkly clinical. Sir Arthur Sutton’s blackened cadaver was stretched out on a brushed steel table that was set beneath several diffused but bright ceiling spotlights.

  Dr Dayne looked up from the notes he was reading as they entered. ‘Ah, you’re the guys up from Sussex police?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘I’m DCI Boyd and this is DI Lane on secondment from the Met.’

  Dayne checked a wall clock. ‘Bang on time, thank you, gentlemen.’ Dayne had an accent that sounded gently East Coast American. His tanned skin looked a sickly grey beneath the bluish tint of the spotlights.

  ‘Because this body has been so badly carbonised, we had it sent across to Hammersmith Hospital yesterday for a scan. That’s why we had to delay this until today. The PMCT slides…’

  Christ, here we go. Boyd realised, belatedly, that he should have dragged Okeke along with him.

  ‘Post-mortem computed tomography,’ Dayne explained, seeing the blank expression on Boyd’s face. ‘Multi-slice density scans. When a body is this badly burned, it’s virtually impossible to carry out a conventional autopsy. You’re looking at a load of charred meat in essence. So I’m looking for parts of the body, usually right in the middle that might still retain fluids, which we can sample for toxicology, and undamaged bone segments that we can take stem cell samples from.’