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

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘Azor, Babcia thinks.’

  ‘Azor?’

  ‘It is a dog’s name.’

  ‘Why would your mother say a dog’s name?’

  ‘There is a dog in our kitchen. A porcelain one. It is Babcia’s. It is named after her old Alsatian back in Poland. Azor.’

  Okeke felt the first tickle of adrenaline in her veins. ‘That’s a possession your mum would know about?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Would she hide something behind it, maybe?’

  ‘In it,’ replied Lena. ‘It is a cookie jar.’

  Okeke leant forward. ‘This is obviously something important to her. It must be.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lena’s face lifted. It was something else to focus on. ‘Perhaps this is true.’

  ‘Look, your grandmother should stay here, you too… but there may be something in that jar that your mother wants. In your grandmother’s house. Do you understand?’

  ‘You want to go into our home?’

  Okeke couldn’t think of any better way. Both Lena and her grandmother needed to stay at the hospital in case Margot took a turn for the worse, and Okeke was now suddenly paranoid that there might be crucial evidence tucked away in the Bajeks’ home that needed to be bagged and tagged – before anyone else got there.

  She nodded. ‘I can go and get this thing. Maybe it’s just something she wants with her?’

  Lena shrugged. ‘Okay.’ She pulled a key ring out from her jeans and passed it to Okeke.

  ‘Is there anything else I can get? For you? Your grandma?’

  Lena looked across at her grandmother. ‘It is cold in this room. She has…’ Lena mimed wrapping something over her shoulders.

  ‘A shawl?’

  ‘Yes. She wears this watching TV. It is in the lounge on her chair. You have our address?’

  Okeke nodded; she had it in her notebook. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  32

  The Bajeks’ home was a flat above a corner shop in Ore. The manager of the shop owned the whole building and had turned what had once been stockrooms into a barely habitable – and probably illegal – rental.

  When Okeke flashed her warrant card at him, his eyes instantly widened into bloodshot ping-pong balls of panic.

  ‘Is it just the old lady and granddaughter who live up there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied somewhat defensively.

  ‘For how long?’

  He seemed reluctant to answer. ‘A little while.’

  ‘How long?’ she asked again, her voice hardening.

  ‘Five years,’ he mumbled.

  She showed Lena’s door key to him. ‘I’m going in to get some things for them. If I don’t find smoke alarms up there, you’re going to get them put in the moment I leave, aren’t you?’

  She knew there wouldn’t be any there. She’d been in enough bottom-of-the-barrel rentals while in uniform to know that every safety regulation in the book would have been flouted. The door to the flat, for example, was only accessible via the shop. Whether he was open twenty-four-seven, or whether there were times they simply weren’t able to enter or leave their home, she wasn’t sure.

  The door was past the till in a corridor stacked with pallets of stock. Okeke unlocked it and flicked on a light switch to find herself beneath a bare bulb dangling from dusty flex, facing a wall with coat pegs on it, with a steep and narrow flight of wooden stairs to her right. How the hell Lena got her grandmother up and down those, she had no idea.

  Okeke looked up. No smoke alarm, she noted.

  She climbed the steps quickly, flicked on another light switch at the top and found herself looking into a space that just about met the bare minimum of standards to call itself a kitchen; there was a tiny sink and tap beneath a narrow sash window. A plug-in hob sat on a twin-kitchen unit carcass that had a length of faux-wood Formica resting on top of it.

  The walls were lined with heavily laden shelves, which she presumed had either been put up by Lena and her mum, or had been there previously to stack boxes of crisps, chocolate bars and cans of no-brand lager. Now, they were laden with the accoutrements of cooking, mix-and-match crockery and jars of homemade preserves and pickles. The room had the faint smell of cabbage, garlic and caramelised onion, and the minty bouquet of caraway seeds.

  The kitchen in Okeke’s childhood home had had a very different palate of odours coming from much stronger spices, but the overall effect was the same – a warm cuddle of nostalgia. A place of home-cooking and steamed-up windows. She smiled.

  Something brushed past her and she looked down to see a tabby cat, tail held aloft like the radio antenna on a remote-controlled car. It began to meow at her insistently. She saw two empty bowls on the floor.

  ‘All right, let’s get you something to eat and drink, sweetie,’ she said as it arched its back and rubbed its side against her leg.

  She filled one of the bowls with tap water, then looked around the busy shelves for some cat food. She found a box of Meow Mix dry food, which looked like the most budget of brands.

  ‘So then, no dogs here, eh?’ she said to the cat as she set down the bowl of Meow Mix in front of it.

  On the shelves at eye level were family photographs that had faded from colour to almost black and white. She glimpsed background fragments that suggested a rural life, a farm, perhaps.

  And, yes, a dog. An Alsatian. Azor – presumably.

  Okeke got the sense that the Bajeks had seen better times and experienced better fortunes. It was difficult to piece together the framework of their family; there were a couple of men in the photos, but no men, it seemed, around any more.

  She decided to grab Lena’s grandmother’s shawl before she forgot. She backed out of the kitchen and along a very short hall – three steps and you were done – and entered a room she deemed most likely to be the front room and flicked the light switch on.

  The front room too was tiny. The limited space allowed for one armchair, a rocking chair and a TV perched on a kitchen stool. The walls were lined with vertical metal shelf struts, the brackets and shelves removed, and one small high-up window allowed the spill of some sickly sodium amber street light in but offered no view.

  Okeke found the shawl on the back of the chair in front of the TV and returned to the kitchen to see if she could find this porcelain dog/cookie jar.

  It took her some time to locate it because the shelves were so deep and cluttered, doing the work that wall units would have done if the landlord could have been arsed to put some in.

  But at the back of one, hiding behind a row of coffee urns, there it was. A clumpy clay jug with lumps that suggested limbs and a head that seemed more like the wedge-shape of a bull terrier than the noble sharp angles of an Alsatian. She wondered if a much younger Lena had made it. Perhaps even Margot, for her mother.

  Carefully, trying not to catch it on anything, Okeke eased it out from the back and set it down on the small picnic table in the kitchen. It was heavy enough that the table’s metal legs creaked.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said softly. The weight was a little disconcerting, but, as she lifted the lid off – the dog’s head – she realised the weight was in the jug itself; it wasn’t the smooth slim shell of a pottery professional.

  She peered inside to see it was empty apart from an envelope.

  She was about to retrieve it, when her brain jolted awake and she mentally kicked herself. At least she’d stopped herself in time, she thought. She reached into her bag and pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of the side pouch. She snapped them on, then carefully reached inside the cookie jar and lifted the envelope out.

  Scrawled in handwriting that looked laboured and scratchy was: To Margot Bajek.

  It wasn’t sealed and she could tell that care had been taken to steam the flap open. Okeke teased the flap open once again to find a single folded sheet of paper inside. Gently, she shook the envelope until the page slid out onto the table.

  It had been printed rather than hand
written. Flattening the page out, she could see why. There was a fair amount to read. At the bottom, though, was the same shaky handwriting again.

  A signature and a date.

  Sir Arthur Sutton’s signature.

  33

  Sutton’s house is pitifully easy to break into. It’s old and quirky, like a Victorian folly designed by one of the Addams family. Its faux watchtower and bay windows, protrusions and nooks make a mockery of the 360-degree cover of his CCTV cameras.

  The stalker enters the house with the ease of a serpent through a torn screen door.

  Inside the house, fortunately, there is noise. Sutton has put on some music. It’s something by Wagner – of course, it is – something swaggering and pompous.

  The house is decorated inside in much the way one would expect. Dark brooding walls and high ceilings. Mahogany furniture and wood panelling. Sir Arthur has one of those drinks cabinets that sit inside an old cartographer’s globe. That says it all.

  He’s a cliché – the gentleman adventurer and writer. A Richard Francis Burton of his time.

  The woman needs to be dealt with first. Neutralised.

  Then Sutton can be dealt with at leisure.

  34

  Day 7

  ‘Right, everyone, settle down and pick a seat,’ said Boyd. He looked around the table, aware that the face count was one short. ‘Who’s missing?’

  ‘Lane,’ said Warren. ‘He just went up to get a coffee.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Boyd said, albeit mildly. ‘I gave a five-minute warning!’

  The door to the room opened and Lane entered sheepishly. ‘Sorry, the queue was longer than I thought it would be.’

  Boyd shook his head and gestured for him to sit down. ‘Okay, top of this morning’s agenda is this.’ He waved a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve. ‘A letter from Sutton from beyond the grave.’

  He placed it on the table and slid it across the surface towards Okeke. ‘Since you’re the one who found it, do you want to read it out?’

  ‘Not really, guv,’ she said, sliding it back.

  ‘Fine.’ He took the piece of paper out of the sleeve. ‘The original’s with CSI right now; we’re hoping to get print and DNA results later today to validate it. We’re assuming for the moment, though, that it’s genuine.’ Boyd cleared his throat and began to read it out loud.

  This is for my children,

  I know I have not been the most dutiful or attentive father, for this I am truly sorry, but it is my work that has kept me busy. You know well enough that I came from a humble background and I have had to fight my way, inch by inch, to provide you both with enough social elevation that doors of opportunity would await, open, for you. It is the best of fathers who take on that struggle and pass on a better start in life to their children than they inherited.

  With that in mind, I write this memorandum of intent to supersede the directions of my will, last made seven years ago. After my death, my total estate including all present assets and future income from literary works will be adjusted from the present arrangement to the following:

  Margot Bajek will receive sixty per cent.

  Henry will receive thirty per cent.

  Hermione will receive ten per cent.

  These allocations have been assigned to reflect a complicated mixture of my gratitude and my affection, a recognition of ambition and achievement, and finally my parental responsibility. Let me address you individually.

  Henry – your greater share than Hermione is to reward you in your efforts to forge your own path and make your own fortune. I know that in you my spirit lives on and I wish you good fortune.

  Hermione – I know there is a great division between us and that you have sided with Kate. The lesser amount is not to punish you, but a recognition that she will undoubtedly favour you over Henry when her time comes.

  Margot – the majority I give to you in gratitude for entering my life when I most needed you. And for all the help and support you have given in my final endeavour. You know by now that I have a morally compromised past, that I have done things of which I’m not proud. Our work these last few months and my gift to you of the majority of my estate is an attempt to balance the scales. You know there will be a reckoning in the wake of my death. Much will be said about me and the others. I ask that you only remember me as the man you met.

  ‘There’s more, but…’ Boyd set the photocopied letter on the table and looked at his team. ‘Any thoughts on that?’

  ‘Well, it’s got to be all about the money, then, boss, hasn’t it?’ said Minter.

  ‘Keep in mind we don’t think either of his children know about this letter,’ said Okeke. ‘As far as they’re concerned, they’re his main beneficiaries.’

  ‘But they must suspect he’s giving some or all of it to the Polish lady,’ O’Neal said.

  ‘Margot Bajek,’ replied Okeke. ‘She does have a name.’

  ‘I’m interested in that “there will be a reckoning” comment,’ said Lane. ‘Presumably that links to this “final endeavour” he mentioned.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘There’s quite a bit to unpack there. “Morally compromised”. “Much will be said”. ’

  ‘And “the others”?’ said Okeke. She looked around the room. ‘Anyone else here thinking that sounds a little fucking creepy?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Lane. ‘Very.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m joining up all the wrong dots,’ said Sully, ‘but with this “final endeavour”, the mention of “others”, this business of balancing the scales, and the very nearly successful murder attempt on both of them, I can’t help but think Sutton and Margot were working on exposing something that somebody didn’t want exposed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Boyd. ‘I’m beginning to think Sutton acquired a fair amount of compromising material over the years. What if his skillset included leverage as well as the gift of the gab?’

  Boyd grabbed his whiteboard marker and wrote Others on the board and drew a loop around it. He drew a linking line and labelled it Secrets.

  ‘You said there was a bit more, boss?’ Minter nodded at the sheet of paper.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Boyd. ‘It’s some pseudo legal stuff about being of right mind and compos mentis, then his name and date.’ He returned to the table. ‘Warren… what’s the latest on the CCTV Easter-egg hunt?’

  ‘We’ve managed to patch together a cam trail on our man all the way back to White Rock Road. We lost him at the junction outside White Rock Theatre. The public-space CCTV camera that looks south towards the pier was out of order that night; it still is. So we don’t know whether he came up from the East Hill end of Hastings or down from Bexhill.’

  ‘We also know he isn’t local, then,’ added Minter.

  ‘How’s that?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘If you’re heading up to London Road from the Hastings side, you can carve off a whole chunk by walking up around Priory Meadow Shopping Centre and then Newgate Road. If he was local, he’d know that, boss,’ Minter explained.

  ‘And if he was coming from Bexhill?’ Boyd prompted.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, see? Parking’s too far away. Your nearest parking is Pelham.’

  ‘All right, so you’re going to need to canvas the pier and the theatre for private CCTV,’ said Boyd. ‘We need to know which way he came from. We don’t want to waste time running through shop CCTV from the wrong side. O’Neal, you go and check the pier, and I’ll drop into the theatre.’

  ‘Yes, chief,’ said O’Neal with a nod.

  ‘Sully?’

  ‘My turn?’

  ‘Yup. Where are we on Sutton’s Facebook access and iCloud storage?’

  ‘The Facebook request has been approved. They’re going to send a ninety-day activity dump for us to trawl through. Apple’s going to be a little tougher on cloud storage. I’ve logged a request and their legal eagles are looking it over.’

  ‘Minter?’

  ‘Sutton’s phone network provider has given us the multilateration data
from their towers going back two months. So we’ve got a pretty decent patchwork of his movements to pick through.’

  ‘Right,’ said Boyd. ‘I want an itinerary of Sutton’s movements going back to… let’s start with his last week.’

  ‘Righto, boss.’

  ‘Also check Margot Bajek’s phone network. If she’s been assisting Sutton in getting around, her movements should match; if she’s got a different network provider, she may ink in any tower blanks for you.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Boyd. ‘One last thing…’ He pulled out his work phone and swiped at the screen to bring up his recent photos – and there it was, the last picture he’d taken. He studied it for a few moments, then drew the graffiti symbol on the whiteboard.

  He turned back to face his team. ‘Anyone know what this is?’

  ‘Anarchy sign?’ suggested Sully.

  Warren shook his head. ‘No… the A’s middle bar is missing. And anyway the A extends outside the circle.’

  ‘Where’s that come from?’ asked Lane.

  ‘It was scrawled on Sutton’s front wall. At the point where the intruder was lingering on the pub’s CCTV footage.’ He showed them his phone screen. ‘It looks like relatively recent graffiti. I think our chap might have been lingering to scrawl that. So, Lane… here’s a task for you, if you want? See if you can work out if this means anything.’

  ‘Semiology?’ Lane smiled. ‘Interesting. I’ll have that.’

  Boyd was about to wrap up the meeting when he noticed Okeke was staring at the symbol on the whiteboard, frowning, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Okeke?’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘It’s nothing, guv.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he queried.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied.

  ‘Right. Final thing, everyone. The gardening-party-slash-barbecue-slash-piss-up at mine on Sunday. Do I have any takers?’