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

by Alex Scarrow

  Just be careful, Boyd.

  ‘Lane?’

  ‘Yeah?

  ‘Did you ever do close protection for Sutton?’

  Lane shook his head. ‘I haven’t done anything like that for the last few years – the seizures…’

  ‘But you would have – what – reviewed his security measures?’

  ‘Along with everybody else on our constantly expanding list, yeah.’

  ‘How much do you know about his connections. His associations?’

  Lane took a swig of his Coke. ‘He was like the rest of them – there’s a constantly swinging door between top boarding schools, Oxford, Westminster and Downing Street. Followed by a comfy seat in a corporate board room. It’s handshakes and nods all along the way.’ He looked at Boyd. ‘What the Lefties like to call the “chumocracy”.’

  ‘The old boy network. Alive and well, as always,’ said Boyd.

  ‘The way it always has been… yea, even unto the Middle Ages.’ Lane took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘We’re no more democratic or accountable than the usual villain nations out there; we’re just much better at disguising it with a bit of charm and British eccentricity.’

  ‘If Sir Arthur was tortured then murdered… do you think those kind could have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Those kind?’ Lane smiled. ‘You getting all masonic on me?’

  ‘Just a thought,’ Boyd said with a shrug. ‘Sutton schmoozed with the establishment. And the picture I’m getting is that he was a bit of a chancer. A bit of a loose cannon? Could he have pissed off someone in that world enough to do something like this to him?’

  Lane gave that some thought, then nodded. ‘I could imagine that. But… that’s too brutal for a bunch of old boys. That’s more your Columbian cartel way of dealing with things. In Britain we’re a tad more civilised, I think. We just destroy reputations.’ He smiled. ‘That’s usually all it takes, right?’

  ‘With most people, yes. But Sutton… I’m getting the impression he was a belligerent bastard. And I suppose, if you’re dying, perhaps you wouldn’t give so much of toss about your name being dragged through mud?’ Boyd sipped his beer again. ‘What if he was about to spill something and the threat of being publicly shamed into silence wasn’t enough?’

  ‘So they… whoever they are, paid him a visit in the dark of night?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘I hate sounding like I’m wearing a bloody tinfoil hat, but you have to go where the thinking takes you.’ He watched a gull hovering almost motionless on the breeze a dozen yards out from the pier. ‘Even if it’s unthinkable.’

  ‘Sheesh,’ said Lane. ‘That’s not a thing I’d like to think happens here.’

  ‘Well, somebody tied him down and burned him. And I don’t see Sutton going all Walter White and getting involved with a bunch of Columbian drug barons.’

  Lane chuckled at the thought. ‘No, me neither.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and flung the dimp over the side.

  They finished their drinks watching the last of the ghostly blue-skinned kids being herded out of the freezing water by parents keen to pack up and get going.

  ‘Just be careful,’ said Lane finally. ‘If this investigation starts taking you into creaking Westminster corridors filled with creepy old Sir Humphreys… watch your back.’

  27

  DAY 6

  ‘What’s the crazy rush?’ Boyd looked at his watch. It was eight fifteen. He’d come in early to get a quiet start, with a hot coffee and a bacon butty, ahead of everyone else coming in and had found Okeke waiting for him at the front door, car keys in hand.

  ‘Henry Sutton says he has a plane to catch at Heathrow at midday,’ Okeke explained minutes later, as she signalled right to turn out of the station and headed up towards London Road.

  ‘So what? We’re barrelling up there to suit him?’

  ‘It looks like we are, yeah.’

  They could have interviewed him over the phone, but she was right – in person was better and if he did blurt out anything incriminating they’d be there to stop him boarding his flight.

  ‘Where did he say he was going?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘I didn’t speak to him. It was his PA. She just told me that Mr Sutton was aware the police wished to talk to him and would be in the British Airways Concorde Room, terminal five, at eleven o’clock. She said he might be able to donate half an hour of his time, but then he’d have to fly.’

  ‘Donate?’ Boyd queried, incredulous.

  She looked at him. ‘Her words, guv.’

  ‘He sounds like an entitled bloody bellend. Oh, I’m looking forward to this one.’

  She smiled. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘And you’re here to see?’

  ‘Henry Sutton,’ said Boyd again. The concierge checked her guestbook and finally nodded. The fact that he and Okeke had flashed their warrant cards didn’t seem to have impressed her one bit.

  ‘Ah yes, I do believe he’s checked in,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Right, well, can we see him, please?’ He looked at his watch again. It was five past eleven and their valuable donated time with Henry was ticking away.

  ‘Let me call someone to find him and check whether he’s –’

  ‘Mr Sutton knows we’re coming,’ Okeke said with an edge to her voice.

  The concierge – platinum blonde, fine-featured and with a Russian accent straight out of a Bond movie – recoiled slightly. She directed her reply to Boyd. ‘We will check if he’s ready to see you.’

  She stopped a young man in a gold-trimmed waistcoat. ‘Antoine?’ She spoke a sentence in Russian that ended with the English words ‘cabana three’.

  Boyd nodded. ‘Cabana three, is it? Thanks.’ And he strode off after Antoine.

  Okeke gave the concierge a tight smile, then followed the two men, who were striding side by side in a polite speed-walking race past leather couches and Ibiza-style loungers to see who could reach Sutton first. She let them dash ahead, as she dawdled behind, taking in this rare glimpse of the luxury that the One-Percenters enjoyed when in transit.

  To her right was a breakfast/brunch buffet set out on a row of beautifully dressed tables, staff in waistcoats and BA livery, waiting patiently to assist. To her left was a tall apron of windows with an uncluttered and panoramic view of the runway and planes both landing and taxiing into position to take off.

  She passed a grand piano – sadly there was no one playing it right now – and an oasis of small palm trees in giant clay urns with a trickling fountain in the middle. She noticed that the airport-wide Tannoy announcements didn’t intrude into this quiet area. There were screens with boarding indicators here and there, and she suspected that if a guest was in danger of failing to notice their flight was ready, an Antoine in a gold-trimmed waistcoat would be on hand to gently remind them.

  Boyd came to a halt outside a slate-covered door with a brass 3 on it. He rapped his knuckles loudly on it. ‘Henry Sutton?’

  The door cracked open and a slim man wearing a bathrobe appeared, busy towelling a mop of sandy hair. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Suffolk CID. We have an appointment?’

  The man frowned for a moment, then nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Go grab a seat – I’ll be out in a minute.’

  The door closed and Boyd turned to a mortified-looking Antoine. ‘Thanks, mate. We’ll be sitting over there if there’s a coffee going,’ he said, pointing to some cane garden furniture framed by pots of pampas grass by the broad windows. ‘

  Okeke caught up with them and Boyd led her over to the seats. ‘Lord Muck will grace us with his presence in a minute,’ he muttered under his breath.

  They sat down, side by side, on a chaise longue.

  ‘Well, this beats EasyJet,’ said Okeke.

  ‘They even have a spa in here – look.’ Boyd pointed at a doorway flanked with folded towels and scented candles. ‘Roman-emperor-level indulgence.’

  ‘Did you expect anything different?’ said Okeke.

  Henry Sutton emerged
from his private cabana, wearing a cream shirt and trousers and a dark-blue blazer; his tousled hair had been slicked back with a comb. He looked younger than his twenty-nine years, but his choice of couture made him look like a something out of the sixties – a poor man’s Edward Fox. He spotted them and strode over.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, sitting down in a cane chair opposite them. ‘I’m sorry but I won’t have very long to chat.’

  ‘I’m DCI Boyd and this is DC Okeke, Suffolk CID,’ Boyd said. ‘So I presume you’ve been informed about your father?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Hermione emailed me. Ghastly news. Smoke inhalation, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Forensics are still investigating the cause of death, but it looks as though the fire was started deliberately,’ Boyd said, ‘and whoever did it knew with certainty that your father was inside at the time.’

  Henry let out a low whistle. ‘So murder, is it?’ he said, seeming to Boyd more intrigued than upset. But then Hermione had said neither of them were close to their father.

  ‘Mr Sutton,’ said Boyd, ‘I’m sure you’ll understand our first priority is confirming where you’ve been for the last week and asking why it’s been so difficult to get hold of you.’

  ‘I’ve been with friends,’ was his deadpan response.

  ‘Where? Doing what?’

  ‘I was entertaining some clients,’ Henry said, looking amused. ‘Surely you can’t think that I did it?’

  ‘We’ll need your friends’ names and contact details to verify this,’ said Boyd. ‘Just as a matter of routine.’

  ‘Ah, the old alibi thing?’ Henry nodded. ‘Of course. Of course. Well, to answer your question… I was grouse shooting with an old colleague and some clients, then humping.’

  ‘Humping?’

  ‘Yes, you know, into the wilderness, tent on your back, wind in your face, a bit of the ol’ outdoors and back-to-nature sort of thing.’

  ‘Were you with someone?’ Boyd asked.

  Sutton smiled. ‘Yes. I was with several someones.’

  Boyd pulled out a pen. ‘Who?’

  ‘A viscount and a couple of nice young princes from the Emirates.’

  ‘And when did you get back?’

  ‘Last night.’ He glanced at Okeke. ‘I picked up, I presume, all your messages to get in touch.’

  Okeke nodded. ‘And that, I presume, is when you learned about your father?’

  ‘Yes. I picked up Hermione’s email then too.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying… you don’t seem that greatly affected by the news,’ she said.

  ‘Life goes on,’ replied Sutton. ‘Dad and I weren’t close. But I’m sure you probably know that. He had his life… and we had ours.’

  ‘Hermione said something along those lines,’ said Okeke. ‘She wasn’t particularly broken up about the news either.’

  Sutton nodded. ‘Oh, she utterly despises him. She’s definitely always been on Mum’s side.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I spent my childhood at boarding school. I didn’t really see what he did. She said he was a horrible man. I… only ever really knew an absent man. He was always out networking at dinners or fundraisers. He was very driven. And I don’t blame him for that, given where he came from. Humble beginnings.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘He was a self-made man?’

  ‘Well… yes, I suppose. Although that makes him sound like a greengrocer who turned into a retail magnate,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘A Phillip Green. No… Dad, I think, was always aware that he hobnobbed with the rich and powerful at their discretion and that the doors could close on him at any moment. So he worked hard to keep them open.’

  ‘Worked hard? In what way?’ asked Boyd.

  Henry shrugged. ‘In the usual way. Making friends, alliances. Doing favours for favours.’

  ‘Did he make any enemies doing that? Would anyone have had a grudge against him?’

  ‘A grudge?’ Henry smiled again. ‘What is this… Midsomer Murders? How long have you got?’ said Henry. ‘I imagine every bloody Remoaner in the country had a grudge against him. Do you need me to go on?’

  ‘We’re thinking a bit closer to home,’ said Okeke dryly. ‘Colleagues? Acquaintances, friends… family? Your father did very well out of the divorce, according to Hermione.’

  Henry sighed. ‘He got half.’

  ‘Hermione said that was your mothers’ family’s wealth?’

  ‘It probably mostly was. But look – that’s the way things go, right? Dad worked hard, that’s all I remember… He was always working. Whether the money they had to their names when they separated was even or not, I don’t think it’s unfair that it went fifty–fifty.’

  ‘Hermione does,’ said Okeke.

  ‘Well, like I said, she’s always been very close to Mum.’

  ‘Do you think your mother holds a grudge against your father?’ asked Boyd.

  Henry’s face creased with incredulity. ‘Do I think she had a grudge? Yes. Absolutely! But are you asking me if I think she had him whacked?’

  Boyd shrugged. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No! Obviously. She hates him, I’m sure. But... you know, something like that?’ He laughed. ‘It’s a bit too Eastenders for her, I’d have thought.’

  ‘What about business associates? Partners?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘He was in Westminster long enough to piss a few people off, I’m sure, but I don’t think they’re the kind to firebomb a man’s home.’

  ‘You’ll benefit from his estate, won’t you?’ said Okeke.

  ‘So will Hermione,’ he replied. ‘But most of all I suspect that Polish tart he’s been shagging will.’

  ‘Polish tart?’ Okeke queried. ‘I presume you’re referring to his carer? Margot Bajek?’

  ‘Carer, eh? There’s a novel term for it. She’s been gold-digging around him for a while now, hasn’t she? Parasitic little Slavic…’ He tailed off, looking furious.

  ‘Are you aware your father was suffering from motor neurone disease?’ asked Okeke.

  Henry Sutton took a moment to respond to that. ‘Yes, I knew.’

  Boyd caught Okeke’s eye. Hermione hadn’t known.

  ‘Dad was a proud man; you could even use the term vain if you want. He wouldn’t have wanted people seeing him reduced to a wheelchair, losing control of his body. So, yeah, he kept it quiet.’

  ‘What about your mother? Would she have known?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I doubt Dad would have told her. But if Hermione knew, then… probably she would have shared it with Mum.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look… I’m going to need to finish getting ready. My flight’s going to be called soon.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Okeke. ‘We’ll need the names and contact details of who you were with this last week to –’

  ‘Call my PA,’ Henry interrupted. ‘She’ll give you all the details you need.’

  ‘And where are you off to now?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Monaco. I have some important investment meetings out there.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘A few days. A week maybe? Depends how lucky I get over there. I’m chatting to several sweet old dears who have money to invest.’ He smiled. ‘Should be a like shooting fish in a barrel.’ He got up. ‘I’ll say one thing about Dad. It was all about the image with him, the impression. That’s how he talked himself from a housing estate into the cabinet. He brassed things out. The truth is… he was facing a few declining years in a wheelchair and that wasn’t his style. I don’t think he would have waited for the bitter end. I think he’d have wanted an out.’

  28

  ‘What did you make of that?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Henry?’ Okeke pulled out of the blue ‘K’ parking zone onto the feeder road. ‘I think he sounded credible. I mean, I wasn’t getting liar, liar, pants on fire from him.’

  ‘He was quite blunt about Margot Bajek, wasn’t he? Seeing her as a gold-digger.’

  She nodded. ‘Parasitic lit
tle Slavic, I believe was the phrase he used. Nice.’

  ‘I wonder if he sees her as a threat?’ said Boyd. ‘In terms of Sutton’s estate, I mean.’

  ‘Then you also have to wonder if his ex-wife is thinking the same thing?’ added Okeke. ‘That her family’s long-held wealth – well, half of it anyway – could fall into Margot’s family’s hands.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘These things usually boil down to money… if there’s enough of it at stake.’

  ‘So we still think there’s a motive there for Kate Munton-Jones and Henry Sutton?’ Okeke said.

  ‘Yup. Still in the frame. What about Hermione?’ Boyd asked.

  She pressed her lips. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Or all three of them?’

  She nodded. ‘Shit. A family conspiracy to knock off Dad?’

  Boyd leant forward to look out of her window as she waited for a gap to pull onto the roundabout. ‘Hold on. Not yet… Not –’

  Ignoring him, she lurched forward into the steady stream of traffic with plenty of room to spare. ‘God, you can be an old woman sometimes, guv.’

  He settled back in his seat, mulling things over as she took the exit for M25. ‘Sutton’s kind tend to settle inheritance grievances in court with expensive law firms. Not with scrotes-for-hire swinging cans of petrol around.’

  ‘But if he was desperate?’ she said. ‘In debt, perhaps?’

  Okeke had a point. He looked at her. ‘You want to follow that up? See if he was?’

  She grinned. ‘With great pleasure.’

  Boyd’s work phone buzzed in his lap. It was an unknown number. He tapped the screen and held it to his ear. ‘Hello, DCI Boyd speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘Lena Bajek.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘No. Mama’s condition is worse.’

  ‘How do you mean? Lena?’ He could hear her voice hitching. ‘Lena?’

  ‘I think she might be dying.’

  Boyd found the ICU consultant dealing with Margot Bajek, but as soon as the doctor saw the warrant card and realised Boyd wasn’t family he pointed both him and Okeke in the direction of the ward’s head nurse and left her to bring them up to speed.