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

by Alex Scarrow

  The room fell silent.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Okeke eventually. ‘And Jay.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Boyd smiled, relieved that at least it wouldn’t be a complete no-show. ‘Anyone else?’

  The collective murmur from the others, as they stood up and shoved their chairs under the table, could, at best, be described as lukewarm.

  ‘Okeke, wait a second,’ said Boyd. She lingered beside the conference table. ‘How’s Margot Bajek doing?’

  ‘I called Lena this morning,’ she replied. ‘Her mother’s stable for now, but still critical. If her lungs become infected it’s… well, it’s all over for her.’ She paused. ‘Guv, that thing you drew on the whiteboard?’

  ‘Yup? The graffiti?’

  ‘Last night – I told you this already – when Margot was trying to communicate with me, she raised her arm – perhaps to draw an A. I thought she was trying to air-spell that dog’s name at the time, but maybe…’

  ‘She was drawing that shape?’ he completed.

  Okeke nodded.

  Boyd took a moment to consider the implications of that. If there was a link – and that was a bit of a leap, to be fair – then it would have to suggest that she knew the same piece of information that the killer did. And what did that mean?

  His eyes settled on the small pile of newspapers spread across the conference table. He looked thoughtfully at the picture of the fire engine, next to the overgrown wall, the faint outline of the symbol sprayed across the flint wall.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maybe there’s something in that.’

  35

  He squinted at the picture on his laptop screen: the Mail Online’s news landing page. His eyesight wasn’t great these days. The online versions of the red tops often didn’t insert images that could be enlarged into their articles. It was the size it was on the screen and no more. Something to do with preventing cut-n-paste journalism. He’d been in the business back when actual journalists did actual digging, rather than just scanning and copy and pasting press handouts.

  The image was of the rear of a fire engine poking out onto a road from an overgrown driveway. A fireman was coiling a hose, or uncoiling it, from a compartment at the back, and over his shoulder was a low wall, dapple-shadowed by leaves and branches. Leaning in closer… it was undeniable. His skin prickled with goosebumps. It was the same symbol. The same message.

  Don’t make the same mistake as Sutton.

  He sat back in his chair and scratched absently at his bare feet. The anxiety was making his psoriasis flare up badly. It was a torturous condition he’d been struggling with since his nervous breakdown and the short spell in prison. Recently he’d managed to wear socks and shoes once again, but, since learning about Sir Arthur Sutton’s death, the condition had returned with a snarling vengeance. He scratched at the red blotchy skin between his toes until the dry skin and the scabs were gone, leaving damp welts.

  They’ll be coming for me next.

  36

  Boyd wandered downhill from the station along Bohemia Road. By the time he was standing beside the entrance to the White Rock Theatre he was sweating. He gazed out at the pier and the beach for a moment, enjoying the view. He took off his jacket, slung it over his arm, took the steps up to the entrance portico and pushed the glass door.

  It was even warmer in the foyer – the building was all glass doors and no breeze. It was like a greenhouse. He approached the box-office counter, currently un-manned, hoping to see Charlotte.

  ‘Hello there.’

  He spun round to see her head poking out of a doorway.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Charlotte, smiling. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you enter on the CCTV.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, smiling back. ‘How’re you doing?’ He winced. He’d made that sound very Joey from Friends. He took a couple of steps towards her.

  ‘Um, I’m very well, thank you,’ she said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Bill?’

  ‘Uh…’ Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get a grip and stop mumbling like a bloody idiot! ‘It’s work related, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought her shoulders sagged slightly.

  ‘It’s to do with a case I’m investigating,’ he explained.

  ‘I should hope so,’ she said, though still smiling. ‘Taxpayer’s money and all that.’

  ‘It’s to do with your CCTV, actually. You’ve got a camera out there under the entrance roof, haven’t you?’

  ‘We’ve got two of them out front,’ she said.

  ‘Are they static or panned?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are they fixed in one direction or –’

  ‘Oh, fixed,’ she said. ‘One’s aimed at the doors. The other points down White Rock Road.’

  ‘Which way does it look?’ he asked.

  ‘Towards Pelham.’

  ‘Right. And for how long do your cameras store data?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Do you want me to find out?’ she said, stepping back into the office and waving at him to follow her in.

  It was even warmer in here. Three tall bay windows made the small space feel like the lantern room of a lighthouse. One of them was open, he noticed with relief, allowing in the lightest puff of breeze.

  There was a desk by the windows, cluttered with paperwork and a monitor. Opposite were another small desk, a floor-standing safe and half a dozen small CCTV monitors showing jerky two-frame-a-second footage. Boyd wandered over to them and pointed at the screen showing the portico and the one showing the road heading east along the front. ‘Cameras three and four are the ones I’m interested in,’ he said. ‘I’m keeping my fingers crossed that you’ve got data stored from a week ago.’

  ‘Let me call our security manager and find out.’ She picked up her mobile phone and gestured at her seat at the bay window. ‘Sit down, enjoy the view. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Boyd watched her go, then crossed the room and sat down in her office chair. He looked at her monitor and saw that Gmail was up, several emails open on a discussion about ticket takings over the last quarter.

  The screen glare was unbearable. He wondered that her face wasn’t permanently crinkled with frown lines.

  ‘So, it’s a fortnight that we keep backed up,’ she said, re-entering the office and making him jump, guiltily.

  Boyd joined her back at the monitors.

  ‘And he said that they each have a USB stick beside the screen and it’s all stored on that. I’m not sure how…’

  Boyd leant forward. ‘You just push it in and they eject. Voila.’ He retrieved the memory sticks from both cameras.

  She smiled. ‘Ahh, I can see you’ve done this before.’

  ‘Many times,’ he said. ‘Look, can I borrow these for a couple of hours? Download the contents and then drop them back after lunch?’

  ‘Sure. You can drop them back for lunch… if you like?’

  He looked down at the memory sticks in his palm, sliding them one over the other with his thumb absently. ‘Okay, sounds nice. But I insist on paying this time.’

  ‘I didn’t pay last time,’ she confessed with a guilty bite on her lip. ‘Staff perk. So let me “buy”, all right?’

  ‘Deal.’ He dropped the memory sticks into an evidence bag. ‘Right then.’

  ‘Right then,’ she echoed.

  ‘See you up in the…’

  ‘Titanic?’ she said with a smile.

  He laughed. She’d remembered his comment about the café looking like the gallery deck of an old cruise ship. ‘See you later. One-ish sound okay?’

  She nodded. ‘See you then.’

  Boyd returned at one o’clock on the dot, with the memory sticks, and found Charlotte sitting at a table beside one of the tall windows in the café.

  ‘I see you’re a big sun fan,’ he said as he pulled out a chair.

  ‘Oh, yes, particularly after such a grey year thus far.’ She got up. ‘I better get us some f
ood. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Cup of coffee, and… I dunno, a sandwich?’

  ‘Let’s see if we can narrow that down, shall we?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s before two, so black, no sugar. And… egg and cress?’

  She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Certainly.’

  He watched her go, wondering why the hell he’d asked for an egg and cress sandwich. Maybe it was the vibe of the place. It had a Betty’s Tea Room feel to it. Or maybe it was Charlotte herself, the way she spoke, her old-fashioned mannerisms. He was going to feel an utter berk if she came back with half a pint of lager and a quarter-pounder for herself.

  I like her.

  The thought came to him unbidden. It was a strange feeling. He glanced out of the window and saw several of his team waiting to cross the road to grab chips-and-whatever from the café on the pier. DI Lane was with them, chatting animatedly with Warren and O’Neal. The two young lads seemed drawn to him and were hanging on to his every word.

  He watched them until they reached the café; cigarettes were ditched and they disappeared inside from view. Then his gaze rested absently on the hovering gulls and the lazy waves rolling up the shingle, the sun making the Channel look invitingly blue for once, lost in his own thoughts until…

  ‘Lunch is served.’

  Charlotte set the tray down and he helped her transfer the contents onto their table.

  She’d ordered herself a fish-finger sandwich. So much for old fashioned, he thought, eyeing it enviously.

  ‘So, what’s the investigation all about?’ she asked, pouring her tea.

  ‘Do you know Eagle House?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘That’s the one that burned down the other day, isn’t it? Some ex-politician, I think, died in the fire?’

  ‘Arthur Sutton,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Oh, that’s right, he writes those… thrillers, doesn’t he?’

  ‘You’re not a fan?’

  She pressed her lips. ‘Not really my cup of tea. I’m more your Truman Capote type of reader.’

  ‘Truman Capote?’ There was a name he’d not heard in a while. He only knew the writer because… ‘My wife used to read his short stories.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Used to?’ Charlotte saved them both from it. ‘You’re separated?’

  ‘Widowed,’ Boyd replied.

  ‘Oh, I’m so very sorry,’ she said. And she really did look sad. That was one of the things he liked about her. She seemed open and genuine.

  Boyd waved his hand as if to banish any awkwardness. ‘It happened a few years ago. My wife and my son died in a car accident.’

  ‘Oh gosh,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It went down as a DIC – drunk in charge…’ he explained, taking in her baffled look. ‘She wasn’t drunk… by the way, barely a unit over. And it wasn’t her fault.’ He didn’t know why he was telling Charlotte this and he really didn’t want to get into how he blamed himself. He didn’t want to talk about the fact that their car had actually been stationary when the distracted – entirely sober – truck driver piled into the back of her.

  ‘It’s how we police write things up,’ he added. ‘Everything reduced to a three-letter acronym.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘That’s truly awful.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. But –’ he picked up his coffee and took a sip – ‘I’m in a better place now.’ He could see she desperately wanted to ask but wasn’t going to. ‘Her name was Julia. My son was Noah. He was four. Just starting to get to know the little rascal, really.’ He could feel the emotions racing up on him from behind like an ambulance. ‘Anyway, enough wallowing. So, what about you? Your other half never seems to bother walking the dog.’

  He took a large bite out of his sandwich.

  ‘Oh, there’s no other half.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh, God, no. Never. I’m far too old and difficult to be married to.’

  He nodded. ‘Get into your forties and you’re unlikely to change for someone else, right?’

  ‘Forties?’ She smiled. ‘That’s awfully kind of you.’

  Boyd, who had actually been talking about himself, realised he’d accidentally complemented her. She looked like she was in her early to mid forties but, judging by the smile on her face, she was hinting she was a little older.

  ‘I’m a little past my mid forties too,’ he said. ‘Getting to be a grumpy old man.’

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘Mid forties? You’ve done jolly well, then.’

  ‘I’m trying to keep desk-based flab from overwhelming me,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘I’m not sure I’m winning, though.’

  ‘It is difficult, isn’t it? Walking Mia twice a day and dancing twice a week seems to be just about enough to allow me a naughty lunch every now and then.’

  ‘Dancing?’ Boyd was intrigued. ‘What kind?’

  ‘Jazz and swing.’

  He had no idea what that even looked like.

  ‘It’s a good way to meet other lonely people,’ she said, before she took a delicate bite out of her sandwich.

  Lonely? That surprised him. He’d thought of her as confident and friendly, the bright-’n’-breezy type at a gathering who collected phone numbers and lunch dates with thoughtless ease.

  He took another large bite from his egg-and-cress sandwich.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve met too many bloody people recently,’ he said, mouth full. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

  She laughed. ‘No, I mean… exercise? Are you a gym man, or a running man?’

  He washed his sandwich down with a swig of coffee. ‘Oh, I’m a spaniel man, these days. Walking Ozzie up and down East Hill every day and chasing after scrotes… sorry, suspects is enough for me.’

  Her eyes rounded comically. ‘Scrotes?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘Police speak – it’s all a bit vulgar and salty in the office.’

  Talk of the devils – he spotted some of his team wandering back across the road with their half-eaten bags of fish and chips. He’d need to head back soon.

  She noticed him watching them. ‘Are they your colleagues? Gosh, they all look so young.’

  He nodded. Standing beside them, he often wondered if he looked like someone’s dad. ‘Doesn’t everyone look young when you’re our age?’ he said, turning to look at her.

  ‘I’m fifty,’ she clarified. ‘Before you ask.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled again. ‘Since a couple of months ago, actually. In fact, the night we bumped into each other in the pub.’ She took another bite, then shook her head. ‘That was me celebrating the big five-oh.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘With a lady from work. But… yes, I suppose I was the last to leave.’ She shrugged it away. ‘It’s only a number really. Not worth a big fuss, I don’t think.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’d like to celebrate it again with a barbeque at mine?’ The words tumbled out of his mouth without warning.

  Her own mouth dropped a little open.

  You’ve gone and done it now, mate. He blundered on: ‘This Sunday. I’m having a bit of a garden-clearing party. A few work friends are coming over to help. It’s nothing much, but you’re welcome to come if you like.’

  She looked away awkwardly, her cheeks flushing slightly. He felt like a lumbering elephant for being so leaden-footed and inappropriately forward. ‘Only if you’re at a loose end, or something.’ He finished off his sandwich and shrugged. ‘I mean, it is basically unpaid labour on a Sunday. Rewarded only with a burnt burger in a bap.’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Whuh?’

  ‘I’ll bring my gardening gloves.’

  ‘Oh, right. Good.’ He felt his own face warming slightly, and thanked God that at least some of it was hidden behind bristles.

  ‘What time?’ she asked, ‘and can I bring anything?’ She spread
her hands. ‘It’ll either be a cake or a rake?’

  He laughed a little too eagerly. ‘The afternoon. One onwards, I guess. No need to bring anything.’ He checked his watch and swilled down the last of his coffee. ‘Look, I’d better get going, otherwise the kids will get unruly. Thanks for lunch, Charlotte.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said.

  ‘Sunday then?’ He bent over the table and offered a hand – a halfway house between a handshake and a polite Edwardian kiss. Charlotte, unsure what exactly it was that he was attempting to do, settled on lightly holding one of his fingers like he was King Kong.

  ‘I’ll be there on one condition,’ she said as he went to leave.

  Boyd turned back to look at her.

  ‘You’ll need to give me your address.’

  Boyd walked up the hill towards the station, eye-rolling at his own lack of judgement. He’d invited a rather lovely lady, who looked as though she’d just stepped out of Downton Abbey, to an afternoon of gruelling manual labour, or, worse-case scenario, if they all turned up armed with six-packs… a loud and leery piss-up.

  ‘Nice one, numbnuts,’ he muttered.

  37

  ‘Hey, boss?’

  Boyd looked up from his monitor at a solid wall of Welsh muscle clad in a figure-hugging waistcoat.

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘I’ve been working on the data sent by Sutton’s phone network provider.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Well…’ Minter pulled up a chair, sat down and wheeled it around the desk to sit beside him. ‘The triangulation data for the last week before his death shows us that he was mostly located in his London home.’

  ‘Shit, which reminds me…’ Boyd scribbled a note down to remind himself to ask Okeke to contact the Met’s CSI people for the SOC report on the Chancery Lane flat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, mostly at his London home – but, four days before Sutton came back down to Hastings, he took a trip out to Little Horshall. And spent an afternoon there before going home.’