by Alex Scarrow
‘God,’ Hermione whispered, her head dipped.
‘I’m sorry, we thought you would have known,’ said Warren.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Okeke.
‘What? No, I’m not grieving. God, I despise the man, but… He would have hated going that way. He’s completely vain. Do you understand? He thought he was Nigel Havers, James Mason…. He’d have hated shrivelling up into a wheelchair and wasting away.’ Hermione glanced at Okeke, then at Warren. ‘Was it suicide, do you think? Because that would be like him. A screw-you-all, melodramatic way to make an exit. Oh, that sounds exactly like, Daddy.’
Okeke shook her head. ‘We’re keeping our investigation open-ended, but we’re confident it wasn’t suicide.’ She spread her hands. ‘Which is why we’re very keen to get hold of Henry and your mother to have a chat with them.’
‘Oh, Mummy’s been in Spain all summer and has a new number. Let me get you that…’ said Hermione, getting up and making her way back inside.
Warren looked at Okeke. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if Mummy’s in Spain, then that’s one down.’
24
‘Ma’am?’
The door to Hatcher’s office was open. She looked up from her laptop and smiled. ‘In you come, Boyd.’
He entered, closed the door, and she gestured for him to take a seat. He was expecting to see Sutherland in there too, for the afternoon progress meeting.
‘Where’s –’
‘Broken ankle.’
‘What?’
Hatcher sighed. ‘Iain, the silly idiot, fell off his bicycle and broke his ankle last night. He told me yesterday he’d ordered a racing bike, helmet, Lycra suit… the works.’
Boyd smiled. ‘All the gear, no idea?’
She nodded. ‘Exactly. The first time he gets on it, the wally goes and fractures his ankle.’
‘Ma'am, I just want to let you know I’ve got a team update meeting in about twenty minutes,’ said Boyd, glancing at his watch. He’d arranged it for four to allow Okeke and Warren time to get back from Brighton.
‘That’s okay. I only wanted you to bring me up to speed on the Sutton case.’ She closed her laptop. ‘Well?’
‘It’s looking like a deliberate murder rather than arson-slash-manslaughter.’
‘Deliberate, as in…’
‘Pre-meditated. Our killer came looking for Sutton, tied him down and may have tortured him before killing him and setting the building on fire.’
‘I see.’
‘We may have a witness, if she lives, that is. His housekeeper and carer.’
‘He had a carer?’
Boyd explained about Sutton’s condition and then how his body was found. Hatcher’s grimaced. ‘Poor bugger,’ she said.
‘The thing is, the body’s so badly burned that the pathologist in Putney said there’s little chance of determining what exactly was done to Sutton on that snooker table. But I think that it’s important to find out as much as we can.’
Her Madge looked interested.
Boyd cleared his throat. ‘I mean, if he was… tortured, then that could imply the killer was after something.’ He shrugged. ‘A password, a code… I don’t know… the whereabouts of something. That would tie in with the London break-in.’
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Sir Arthur Sutton was a bit of a maverick… I think some Guardian journalist called him a Walter Mitty character. I mean, I personally don’t know much about him, apart from what I’ve caught on TV… but I do know he made some powerful and influential friends.’
She reached for a tube of hand cream on her desk, dabbed a little into her palm and began to rub her hands together. ‘Would it be possible that he maybe…’
‘Had some compromising material on someone?’
She nodded. Her brows raised for a microsecond. ‘He used to be a journalist, didn’t he?’
‘He was a sub-editor. I don’t think he was ever out on the streets with a notebook and pen.’
Her Madge frowned and changed the subject. ‘Do you think his illness might have a bearing on this?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s a degenerative condition, isn’t it? Well, if he knew he only had a limited time left… maybe he decided to unburden himself of something before the condition rendered him incapable of doing so?’ She finished rubbing the cream into her hands. ‘A mea culpa? An attempt at redemption?’
‘Or revenge,’ said Boyd. ‘Maybe somebody had something on him, or he’d been threatened to keep quiet about something?’ He paused. ‘Knowing you’re going to die tends to make a person a little less worried about repercussions.’
‘Quite.’ Then she spoke with an unusual sense of urgency: ‘Boyd, a word of caution. Sutton has – had – powerful friends. Be careful where you step.’
Those last words gave him an unpleasant chill, as if some ghostly spectre had gently teased a fingernail up the nape of his neck.
‘Be careful… ma’am?’
There was something unsettling about her sudden directness. If Sutherland had been present, he suspected she wouldn’t have been this straight with him.
‘With Sir Arthur and… his associates, you’re wading into some very deep water.’
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
‘Very treacherous water,’ she added.
‘I’m not really that clear on what you’re telling me, ma’am,’ Boyd said, wondering if he was being unbelievably thick – or if Hatcher had finally lost the plot.
She leant forward. ‘What I’m saying, Boyd, is that you’re stepping into a private members’ lounge area, an Old-School world of connections and favours. What they do for each other, or even to each other… in their quiet clubs over gin and tonic, well, it’s expected to stay there. Behind closed doors. It’s their business and woe betide anyone who thinks otherwise. If Sutton had some old scores to settle, just remember this: you and I are little people to them and a quiet word in an empty Westminster corridor is all it takes to decide the fate of little people.’
The conversation was beginning to make Boyd feel decidedly uncomfortable. The last time he’d had one of these eye-to-eye, carefully nuanced conversations with her, it had been about the Nix case.
This was definitely less nuanced, but just as disturbing. Is she telling me to do my job, but be careful – or to look the other way? Fuck it…
‘Is that what happened during the Nix case?’ he asked. ’Favours for favours?’
She stiffened slightly. ‘You’re not here to discuss the Nix case.’ She held his gaze for a moment, daring him to say another word about it. Then she shook her head. ‘You’re a good detective, Boyd. One of the better ones. If you go digging into Sir Arthur’s past, I have no doubt whatsoever you’re going to find dirt on someone.’
He still couldn’t work out how whether that was a threat or concern.
‘I’m trying to tell you to watch your back,’ she said. ‘Just be careful, Boyd.’
25
Boyd decided to hold the meeting standing up and take charge of the whiteboard. He figured he was far less likely to dip his fingers into the Celebrations tin if he had a pen in his hand and was a step back from the table.
‘Okay, it’s a late-in-the-day meeting, I know, folks, but there’s some stuff to share before we all clock off.’
‘Where’s Sutherland?’ asked Minter. ‘He’s not been in all day.’
‘Ah, I think he had aspirations to join you on the Iron Man challenge,’ said Boyd. ‘He bought himself a racing bicycle, fell off and fractured his ankle.’
Minter groaned and face-palmed. O’Neal and Warren chuckled, while Okeke tutted and said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
The room was hardly awash with sympathy.
‘Anyway,’ said Boyd, ‘back to the briefing. First off, my chat with –’ he checked his notes – ‘Lena Bajek yesterday. She’s the daughter of Sutton’s carer and keeper, Margot Bajek.’
Boyd wrote Sir Arthur Sutton in the middle of the white
board and drew a circle around the words. He added a short line and drew another circle with Margot Bajek inside it.
‘Margot had been, until recently, Sutton’s housekeeper. But, according to her daughter, Sutton confided his illness to her nine months ago and basically her role has been that of carer as his condition has steadily worsened. Lena suggested a bond had been growing between the two, so –’ he thickened the line on the board with an extra couple of strokes – ‘do we have a relationship there? A motive?’
‘She’s the only one earning money for her family,’ Okeke offered. ‘She has a mother who needs expensive meds and therapy. So money is a possible motive. Perhaps Sutton had written her into a will?’
O’Neal sniggered. ‘Well, that’s got to be the world’s crappiest murder plan if she ended up nearly burning to death with him.’
‘Things can go wrong,’ said Boyd, ‘especially if you’re arsing about with petrol. She might have backed herself into a corner somehow. Anyway, it’s something we have to look into.’
‘Warren, Okeke? How did it go with Sutton’s daughter?’
‘Yeah, we had a revealing chat with her.’ Okeke flipped open her pad. ‘There are several bullet points for you, guv. One – she hated him; I mean, really hated him. She called him a bully; he abused her mother, a complete shit. Two – she had no idea about Sutton’s MND. No idea at all.’
‘Seriously?’ said Boyd. ‘I thought she’d been in recent contact with him?’
She shrugged. ‘By telephone, yes. But she definitely had no idea. I suspect the son doesn’t know either. She was shocked, but then she also seemed to think that was in character. He didn’t have time for weakness or pity. She wasn’t surprised he’d kept it quiet. She thought that sounded very much like him: too vain, or proud, to admit being terminally ill. Which leads me to my next point. Three – she floated the idea he might even have done this to himself.’
‘Suicide?’ Boyd tried not to sound too dismissive.
‘That he didn’t want anyone to know he had this condition. Didn’t want anyone to inherit his house; he was the kind of person who’d choose to go out in a blaze of glory –’
‘Literally,’ said Sully, snorting with laughter.
‘Clearly he didn’t do it to himself,’ said Lane. ‘He was tied.’
‘And come on,’ said Minter, ‘that’s a horrible, grotesque way to die. No one would choose that.’
‘Warren,’ Boyd said, looking over at him, ‘you’re quiet. Do you have anything to add?’
‘Just letting the boss lady speak first,’ he said, smiling sweetly at Okeke. ‘Well, what if he was dead already? Took an overdose? Then paid someone to make his death look like a murder?’
Okeke rolled her eyes.
‘Why?’ asked Boyd. ‘Give me a workable motive for that.’
Warren paused for a moment. ‘He’s dying. He doesn’t want to be remembered as weak, taking the coward’s ways out with some pills. And he wants to frame someone… take someone down with him.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘I don’t buy that. What about the break-in to his apartment?’
‘Well, if he staged the rest, he could have staged that. He was there last week,’ Warren pointed out.
It still felt too far-fetched to Boyd. ‘Okeke says Hermione hated him. That’s a more plausible motive.’
Okeke cut in. ‘He was abusive to her mother,’ she said. ‘Mentally. And Hermione did mention that he screwed her over with their divorce. He helped himself to half her family’s wealth.’
Boyd nodded. ‘Now that sounds more credible.’
Boyd wrote Hermione’s name on the whiteboard with a thin line linking her to Sutton. Abuse/revenge/inheritance he wrote beside it. ‘What about his son, Henry?’
‘I’m still trying to contact him,’ said Okeke. ‘I’ve got a mobile number that keeps going to a recorded message. Which means it’s probably switched off.’
Boyd wrote Henry on the board. ‘So, he’s not looking particularly innocent right now is he? Is there a similar motive there?’
‘Inheritance?’ said Warren. ‘Knock off the old man for his big stash?’
‘And then what about the ex-wife, Kate Munton-Jones?’ said Boyd.
Okeke replied. ‘Hermione said she’s been in Spain for the summer; I’ve spoken to her. Her flights and travel records confirm that, so she didn’t do it herself, but could still have been involved in a plan to do it.’
Boyd nodded. He drew a linking line and the word inheritance beneath it. He turned round and picked out Sully. ‘Anything on the digital forensics?’
‘My resident digital expert informs me that the hard-drive discs have warped massively from the heat. We won’t be getting anything from them.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Worry ye not. All is not lost,’ said Sully. ‘There’s obviously iCloud storage.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve submitted a data-access request to Apple, which I’m still waiting on. Also a request to Facebook. Again, waiting to hear back.’
‘What about phone tracking from his network provider?’ asked Boyd. ‘Can we build a map and timeline of his movements leading up to the fire?’
Sully nodded and smiled. ‘Yes… you can.’
Boyd nodded at Okeke. ‘Yours.’
‘On it,’ she said.
‘Someone entered his London flat,’ Boyd continued, ‘before or after the fire. If it was before, maybe that someone was looking for him; if it was after… then presumably they were looking for something he had.’ Boyd drew another squiggled loop on the whiteboard and a question mark in the middle. He drew a connecting line and scribbled information? beside it.
‘If Sutton had something, perhaps compromising material on someone, that would be a very powerful motive. Particularly,’ Boyd added, ‘if that person was a public figure.’ He turned to look at the whiteboard. ‘So, we have several lines of enquiry to consider. Minter…’
‘Boss?’
‘Do a deep dig back into Sutton’s past. He used to be a sub-editor. Did he write a poison-pen piece on someone? Did he damage someone’s reputation? Their career?’
‘On it, boss.’
‘Warren and O’Neal. Door to door along London Road, please. I recall there are some shops opposite Eagle House. Were any open in the evening? A takeaway or something? Find out what you can.’ He tossed the pen onto the table. ‘Right. It’s been a long day. Prep what you can and be ready to go first thing in the morning.’
The room filled with the sound of scraping chair legs as everyone got up to leave. Boyd’s gaze settled on the middle of the conference table where someone had plonked a number of today’s papers. Three of them had put Sutton’s death on their second page, one of them as a secondary item on the front page. The picture they’d all gone with was one of the two stone eagles, the rear-end of a fire engine and the overgrown front wall. He’d flipped through the articles over lunch in the canteen.
Boyd picked up the Mirror and studied the photograph on the front for a few moments, his attention drawn to the low flint wall and the out-of-place graffiti sprayed on it.
‘O’Neal?’
O’Neal was halfway back to his desk, chatting with Warren. He stopped. ‘Sir?’
‘Warren, you too… Get a tally of the CCTV cameras going up along London Road.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied the flint wall. ‘That wall at the front of the property is really low. If I recall correctly, it’s only chest high – very easy to scale. Is it that height all the way around?’ He lowered the paper. ‘Does anyone know?’
There was a chorus of murmured ‘no’s.
‘Okay, you two,’ he said to Warren and O’Neal. ‘If Sutton’s property is as easily accessible from another side, can you see if there’s any CCTV footage from any of the other roads bordering it? Check all sides of the property.’
Warren and O’Neal chorused a ‘yessir’.
‘Once you’ve rounded that up, we can get in some popcorn and all have a CCTV-wat
ching party.’
There was a collective groan across the Incident Room.
26
‘Can I buy you a beer?’ said Lane as they emerged from the station’s clinical lighting into an invitingly warm and sunny evening. Boyd took in a deep breath and weighed up the offer.
Quite honestly, he was done in. He fancied hastening back home, taking Ozzie down onto the beach at the Rock-n-ore end and stopping for a pint and a packet of crisps at the Pump House, where Emma would be working, before heading back up the hill. But Ozzie was grounded for the foreseeable – or at least until his wound healed. Boyd would more than likely end up slobbed out on the sofa with a large glass of red and teatime TV for company.
‘Go on, then,’ he said to Lane, ‘if you’re buying. But I can’t stay long – I’m on poorly dog duty tonight.’
Fifteen minutes later, he had a pint of Caffrey’s in his hand and was leaning against the safety rail of the pier, looking out across the Pelham portion of Hastings beach. It was six o’clock and still warm, and, even though the sea must have been brass-monkeys cold, there were still plenty of kids splashing around in it.
‘I could quite happily up sticks from London and move down here,’ said Lane.
‘What’s stopping you?’
He opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated. ‘I was going to say family reasons, but… I suppose they’re all solvable.’
Boyd nodded. ‘It’s thinking about the hassles involved that stops you doing anything.’
Lane blew out a cloud of smoke that spun and swirled in the breeze. ‘Responsibility’s like superglue,’ he said.
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Boyd said, raising his glass.
‘Anyway, close protection work tends to be London based.’
Boyd looked at him. ‘You’re not too old to change department.’
Lane waved that idea away. ‘I’ve got my hands full with my mum and my lad. I don’t want to be worrying about a career change as well.’
‘Fair enough.’ Boyd sipped his Caffrey’s and wiped the suds from his top lip. His mind kept circling back to Her Madge’s supposedly friendly words of warning.
