by Alex Scarrow
‘Right. Do we know what or who’s out there?’
‘Well, see, I took a look at the place where he was lingering for the afternoon and it’s an address.’ Minter checked his notepad. ‘Bumble House, Number Fifteen, The Green, Little Horshall. The person who lives there is an M. Webster.’
‘And who is he to Sutton?’ Boyd asked.
‘I don’t know, boss. A friend maybe? The address is all I could get off LEDS.’
‘And a phone number, I hope?’
‘It’s right here, boss,’ Minter said, tapping his waistcoat pocket. ‘Want me to give him a call?’
Boyd fancied a gear change; he was fed up staring at the screen in front of him. ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Were there any other interesting detours?’
‘Just his trip back home to Hastings, boss. And then… well… that’s it.’
‘Right, nice one, Minty. Cheers.’
Minter rolled the chair back around the desk and got up. ‘I’m going to check on the lads to see how the CCTV breadcrumb trail is going,’ he said, as he handed Boyd a folded piece of paper.
Boyd unfolded it and looked at the number. It was a landline number. He toyed with a quick request to see whether it was a business number or a private one, but decided the quicker thing was to go old school and just bloody dial it and see.
After several rings, a woman with a deep smoker’s voice answered. ‘Maria Webster.’
‘Ah, hello, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Boyd from Sussex Police CID. Have you got a moment or two?’
She was silent. ‘Yes?’ she replied eventually. ‘I have a moment.’
‘I don’t know if you’re aware that a man called Arthur Sutton died in a fire last week…’ Boyd began.
‘Sir… Arthur, yes, I know,’ she interrupted tersely. Her crusty voice reminded him of Dot Cotton.
‘Did you know him, then, Ms Webster?’
‘Not particularly well, but he’s a client of mine. Or he was. I’m his literary agent.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Boyd replied. ‘I’m not particularly up to speed on the world of book publishing, I presume that’s what… a sort of advocacy role? Contracts? Management?’
‘I read his first drafts, for my sins. I provide early feedback, I negotiate contracts. I listen to my clients moan about their publishers. I provide tea biscuits and sympathy… and only charge fifteen per cent commission for it all,’ she informed him.
‘So it’s what… a remote working relationship? Emails? Phone calls?’
‘Emails in the main.’
‘May I ask when was the last time the two of you met face to face?’
Maria Webster’s reply was slow in coming. Now… is she going to tell me a porkie?
‘A while ago,’ she replied. ‘I’d need to check my diary.’
‘Roughly?’
‘Months, I think.’
Tsk. Tsk.
‘Ah, about that…’ Boyd cut in. ‘His mobile-phone data indicates he was actually at your house last week for several hours. Does that help?’
There was another pause. He could hear her nose breathing into the handset.
‘Yes,’ she replied finally. ‘He did drop by, as I recall now.’
Oh, now you remember. Hmmm?
Boyd realised he was quite enjoying himself. It was always satisfying, catching people in an outright lie.
‘May I ask what that was about Ms Webster?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘It’s client confidentiality. I take that part of my job very seriously.’
‘Right. But we are in fact investigating the fire as a murder case. Which means I’m afraid that you will have to tell me.’
‘It was more of a social call than a meeting. Tea and cakes. You know.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know him particularly well?’ Boyd shook his head. Some people were born to be liars, but others? Well… ‘I wonder if I could pop over and have a chat with you about Sir Arthur?’
‘Let’s see... That’s… difficult. I’m rather busy today,’ she said, sounding flustered.
‘How does tomorrow sound?’ Boyd asked calmly. ‘In the afternoon? I’m sure we won’t be long. It’ll just be a few routine questions, nothing to worry about.’
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Tomorrow. Two. Don’t be late. I have a three o’clock.’ With that, she hung up.
‘Charming,’ he said as he noted down the details. Then Boyd realised that Lane was standing behind him.
‘Minter asked me to give you a heads-up on the CCTV work.’
‘Ah, how’s that going?’
‘It looks like we’ve tracked our man. We think we’ve got him parking in that seafront car park.’
‘Pelham?’
‘Yes. And then heading into the old part of town.’
‘What time?’
‘Late afternoon. About five.’
‘So, he was lingering around Hastings for a number of hours, then?’
‘Seems that way,’ said Lane. ‘Probably doing a bit of sightseeing first.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘Who was so charming, by the way?’
‘Sutton’s literary agent. I’m going over to speak with her tomorrow. Know anything about literary agents?’
‘Didn’t Frank Sinatra once say that hell hath no fury like a hustler with a literary agent?’
‘Did he?’ Boyd smiled. ‘Well, your knowledge of them clearly outweighs mine. Fancy a trip out in the sun?’
Lane nodded. ‘Pub lunch on the way?’
Boyd grimaced. ‘You can be the one who tells my Emma about that. She’ll blame you as the bad influence, you know?’
Lane laughed. ‘Maybe not, then. Where does this agent live?’
‘Little Horshall, not far from Guildford.’
‘Perfect. It’s Friday tomorrow. You could drop me at the station to head back into London after. If that’s okay?’
Boyd nodded. ‘Ah, yes… So it’s a no for my barbeque, then?”
‘Sorry, Boyd… My boy?’
Boyd shook his head. ‘No problem, mate. You should get back to him. If I can get you home an hour or two earlier, then that’s a win, right?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Lane nodded. ‘Thanks.’
38
The woman who cares for Sir Arthur Sutton is surprisingly strong for her diminutive size. She puts up a heroic fight until she suddenly feels the point of the knife against her throbbing carotid artery, then she is very still… and very happy to follow instructions. Which involve going into the pantry, lying face down and not making a sound as her hands are tied behind her back and her ankles roped in and cinched tight, so that she’s hogtied and resting on her belly.
The rag in her mouth is enough to reduce her whimpering to something almost unheard, and with Sutton’s Wagner playing so loudly it’s not really a great concern.
When diesel is poured over her back and head, she screams into the rag… Then she is warned that if there is one single noise coming from the pantry there’ll be a return visit – with a match.
Compliance… That’s always their downfall, isn’t it? Assure them that if they simply follow instructions everything will work out fine. ‘No one needs to get hurt.’ If they only knew that their chances of survival would increase from nothing to… something had they tried to fight back the first time they heard those words.
The woman is dealt with.
Now it’s Sutton’s turn.
39
DAY 8
Maria Webster lived in a Tudor-era, or at least Tudor-styled, house in the centre of a cosy little village with a green, one pub and one post office. The front garden looked out onto the modest village green with a single willow tree lapping water in a duck pond.
‘See? This is what you get moving out of London,’ said Boyd.
‘I would if I could,’ said Lane. ‘Trust me.’
Boyd parked the car outside her garden gate, bang on two o’clock as requested. He could see a woman had opened the front door and was waiting on the doorstep for them.
‘Ms Webster?’ he called out as he opened the gate and walked down the short path.
‘Detective Boyd?’
Close enough.
‘Yes. And this chap is DI Lane.’
Lane nodded politely.
Maria Webster wasn’t at all as Boyd had imagined her. He’d expected a brittle-faced twig of a woman with a severe greying bob and don’t-screw-with-me trouser suit. She was the opposite in every way – she had a sort of Edina from Ab Fab look going on.
‘You’re punctual, very good,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’
She led them inside where they were greeted by a blond Lab that barked so loudly and repeatedly that any further conversation was pointless.
Lane squatted to pet it.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Maria. ‘Molly’s a bit reactive…’
He ignored the warning and ruffled her head, shutting the Lab up immediately. ‘I’m good with dogs,’ said Lane. ‘The sooner you rule yourself out as a threat, the happier they are.’
Maria nodded, impressed. ‘Let’s go and talk in my study,’ she said, leading them into a room off the hallway. The study was exactly what Boyd was expecting. Books lined the walls and in the few spaces on the shelves that weren’t spines stood glass awards and photographs of Maria in evening wear. He spotted her standing beside a few famous faces. Sir Arthur Sutton was one of them.
So much for not really knowing him, he thought.
‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ she said, gesturing to a pair of winged-back leather chairs that faced her desk.
They sat down. Boyd noticed her window looked out onto the village green. It really was very pretty here.
‘So, you would like to talk about Sir Arthur,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Boyd replied. ‘As I said on the phone, we know he came here recently and spent a few hours with you.’
‘Good grief, the Orwellian surveillance state has finally arrived,’ she said.
‘It’s just the connection data on his phone,’ said Boyd. ‘If you want to go off grid, you only need to switch your phone off.’
Maria looked sceptical. ‘Or so you say.’
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘we know he was with you for a few hours. Can you tell us what that was about?’
‘As I explained to you yesterday, agent–writer conversations tend to be private affairs, because often we’re discussing matters like contracts and book proposals… or bitching about other writers and agents.’ She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
‘I understand. But, as I explained to you yesterday, this is a murder inquiry. So… can you tell us what Sutton came to talk to you about?’
Maria still seemed reluctant to answer.
‘Look,’ Boyd said. ‘At this stage it’s just an informal chat, but, if necessary, we can make it more formal and take it to the station.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ Maria leant forward and rested her forearms on the desk. ‘He came to see me about a book proposal.’
‘Another one of his thrillers?’ asked Lane.
She shook her head. ‘Something quite different. It was another novel, but –’ she took in a deep breath – ‘he was really pushing his luck with it.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Boyd, glancing at Lane.
‘His book proposal was a political thriller, but very much grounded in reality. Identities disguised, of course, but not really that much. You could guess who the characters were meant to be.’
Boyd tried a disarming smile. ‘Anyone we’d know?’
Maria shook her head. ‘I’m not saying any names, but they’re certainly very recognisable faces in Westminster.’
‘I’m guessing you advised against it?’ said Lane.
‘Damned right, I did. Changing a few letters in the spelling of a character’s name does not protect you from a libel claim.’
‘And what was Sir Arthur’s response to that?’ asked Boyd.
‘He was angry with me!’ She sat back in her chair. ‘Did you know he was dying?’
Boyd nodded. ‘MND.’
‘Yes, well, he wanted to write a Fuck-You book to go out on. He had a number of – shall we say – ‘big scalps’ that he wanted to take down. Big names. Powerful people,’ she added. ‘And, no, I’m not saying who.’
‘But you know.’ Lane said.
She looked at him. ‘Yes.’
‘Had he started work on it?’ he asked.
‘He was nearly done on it, actually. A first draft at least.’
‘Did you read it? Did he leave it with you?’ Boyd asked hopefully.
‘No and no. He pitched it… and I said no way. Not in a million bloody years would I touch it!’
‘Because of legal action?’ asked Boyd.
She hesitated. ‘My answer to him was a flat no. I wasn’t going to take it on and, if he pushed any further with it, I wasn’t going represent him either. And that’s pretty much how our conversation ended.’
‘Was anyone else with him?’ asked Lane.
‘A Polish lady. His assistant or something.’
‘Margot Bajek?’ said Boyd.
She nodded. ‘I think that was the name, yes.’
‘And that was it?’
She nodded again. ‘Apart from him telling me I was a spineless old bitch on his way out of the front door, yes. That was it.’
‘Okay,’ said Boyd. ‘Did this book have a title?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose I can tell you that… It doesn’t give much away. It was called A Burning Truth.’
‘Well, what did you make of that?’ asked Boyd. He indicated right and waited for a gap in both directions to line up so that he could turn onto the A3 heading to Guildford.
‘I think the theory that Sutton wanted to go down, guns blazing, is sounding more and more convincing.’
A gap appeared in the traffic and Boyd lurched forward to the far side of the road with the engine screaming.
‘Very smoothly done,’ said Lane dryly.
‘Sorry about that,’ Boyd said a few moments later, after he’d found the right gear and dialled the revs down. ‘I’m a bit heavy on the clutch sometimes.’
‘Didn’t do the advance driving course when you were in uniform, then?’
Boyd looked at him. ‘I did, actually.’ They picked up speed and ended up falling into line behind a truck. ‘Didn’t pass it, though.’
Lane laughed. ‘So it seems Sutton did have some dirt,’ he said.
Boyd cast his mind back to what he knew about Sutton’s career. He’d been an MP for a while and a cabinet member for an even shorter time. Undoubtedly he had a few salacious titbits on some powerful people, but would they be bad enough that they’d have him ‘dealt with’? He found that hard to believe. This wasn’t some emirate with princes jockeying for power, having each other whacked. Assassinations in the UK tended to be of the character variety. The British equivalent of a hitman was usually a tabloid editor or a talk-show host.
‘Not very British, is it?’ said Lane.
It was Boyd’s turn to laugh. ‘I was thinking the exact same thing.’
They drove in silence into Guildford, and Boyd eventually managed to nudge his way through the mid-afternoon traffic to the station. He dropped Lane off at the taxi rank.
‘Thanks for that, Boyd. Sorry I won’t be there to help on Sunday.’
‘No problem. Kids come first, right? You give that little rascal of yours some quality father time.’
‘I certainly will. See you Monday.’ Lane swung the door shut and tapped the roof as the car pulled away.
DI Douglas Lane, Boyd realised, was someone who’d clearly managed to figure out his priorities early on.
Something which Boyd had left too long and too late to do for his own boy.
40
Sutton is sitting in the drawing room, his back to the double doors, his eyes on the muted TV screen while Wagner blares out from a teak cabinet where presumably his hi-fi is kept.
He is watching the nine o’c
lock news with subtitles on while he sips his tea.
‘Margot!’ he calls out. He presumes she’s in the kitchen putting supper together for him. ‘Margot!’ he calls again irritably.
Perhaps the music is too loud for her to hear him. He twists painfully in his seat for the remote control – damned this disease – and in his peripheral vision he sees the dark-clad figure looming over him.
‘Who the hell are you–’ is all he manages to say.
41
Day 10
Sunday morning, Boyd was deeply relieved when Okeke and Jay turned up outside the house in Jay’s van. So not a complete no-show from his team then, thank God. Mind you, this whole thing had been Okeke’s suggestion. Jay had brought a keg of beer and some tools, including a traditional garden sickle, its large crescent-shaped blade freshly sharpened.
‘Good God,’ said Boyd. ‘That’ll take someone’s head off!’
‘It works way better than any of those crappy B&Q power tools, boss,’ Jay said.
‘I’m not your boss, Jay,’ Boyd reminded him for the umpteenth time. Ever since Jay had saved Boyd’s life during an off-the-books op to find the killer of Gerald Nix, he’d insisted on referring to him that way.
Okeke grinned at Boyd behind her boyfriend’s back as Jay took the tools out of the van.
Minter was next to arrive, a quarter of an hour later, and looking like an advert for Australian lager with a crate of beer under one arm and a bottle of cheap sparkly ‘for the ladies’ in the other.
It took all of five minutes in the sun for both Jay and Minter to shed their shirts and bare their tattooed chests. Emma’s eyes popped at the sight of so much muscle in one place, while Daniel seemed to visibly shrink to the size of a drinking straw.
It was sunny this afternoon, but not exactly Ibiza hot.
Boyd shook his head. Any bloody excuse to bare their pecs.
O’Neal turned up in a battered Saab with his girlfriend, Lorna, and Warren tucked into the back seat like their toddler. They’d brought more beer and a quiche.
