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

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘I like this song,’ said Charlotte. ‘Fancy a dance?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, getting up off the beanbag. ‘Stop acting ten years older than you are.’ She grabbed his wrist firmly and pulled him up to his feet with all the grace and effort of a ship being launched from dry dock.

  She led him to the trampled flora that had become this afternoon’s improvised dance floor and – with Okeke’s help, whooping and egging him on, and Jay, bare-chested and punching the air like some vast Nordic warrior celebrating a famous raid – Charlotte finally managed to get Boyd to swing his booty.

  Boyd saw off the last of his CID team in yet another Uber cab at about ten. Ashburnham Road was going to have to play host to their various vehicles overnight since no one was anywhere close to being able to drive home.

  Not only was everyone way over the legal alcohol limit, if they’d been pulled over they’d probably have tested positive for drugs. Now that he knew precisely why the party had become so lively – and, admittedly, so much fun – he couldn’t help but detect that herbal, woody smell of weed everywhere.

  Daniel, hero of the evening (or villain, depending on one’s point of view), had spotted a cannabis leaf amid the mound of foliage that had been raked up, ready to go on the bonfire.

  Boyd and his team had unknowingly harvested and lit up a king-sized joint of epic proportions in his back garden. Apparently there’d been a fair number of hardy Cannabis ruderali plants scattered among the brambles and the undergrowth. As a collective patch, Minter would have surely recognised what they were, but dotted around amid the nettles they’d been just been more jungle to hack.

  Boyd went back inside the house and stepped over Ozzie, who was lying sparked out on the cool wooden floor in the hallway, another innocent victim of the collateral narcotics. In the lounge, he found Daniel and Emma tangled sleepily on the sofa, only half-watching Ben Fogle roughing it in some bitterly cold wilderness with yet another frazzled-looking survival nut.

  And… there was Charlotte. Slumped in the armchair and completely out for the count. With her muddy bare feet dangling over one arm of the chair and her long frizzy auburn hair tumbling over the other, she looked like some hippy wild child recently returned from a week-long acid trip.

  43

  He lies defenceless on the snooker table, spreadeagled like a frog pinned out and waiting to be dissected.

  ‘P-Please… please…’

  The intruder raises a finger to his lips. Wagner is still playing loudly in the drawing room, but it seems that Sutton is hopeful his screams will be heard.

  ‘No one can hear you, Arthur. No one’s coming to help.’

  ‘Who… who are y-you?’

  ‘Joe,’ is the reply.

  ‘J-Joe?…. Joe who?’

  ‘Stephen,’ he says. ‘George, Nigel… yes, call me Nigel if you like. My name really isn’t that important, Arthur. Let’s leave the asking of questions to me, eh? I’m in a better position to do so.’

  Sir Arthur Sutton is absolutely terrified, but he’s trying to maintain his pompous swagger. ‘If you l-let me go… I won’t go to… to the police! I –’

  Sutton needs a little more convincing that this is serious. ‘Nigel’ leans over him and slices off the tip of his nose.

  Sutton’s scream is all but lost in the soaring operatic notes of Wagner’s Die Walküre.

  ‘So now, Arthur, here’s my first question. Do you know why I’m here?’

  Sutton shakes his head. ‘If y-you want m-money, I keep s-some upstairs in –’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Nigel pulls up a stool and sits down beside the snooker table. ‘It’s not money. Try again. I’m almost certain you do know.’

  ‘No… I… no… I… r-really –’

  ‘All right, too difficult.’ Nigel playfully slaps his cheek. ‘Maybe I’ll answer for you.’ He winks at the old man. ‘It’s going to be quicker to get going that way, I think. I’m here because of your vanity project. Your book.’

  The old man’s face stretches with fear.

  ‘Are you surprised you were found out? What did you think would happen, Arthur? Wandering around from one old club member to the next, waving it in their faces. People talk, you pompous idiot.’

  Sir Arthur Sutton tries to spit defiantly in his face, but only manages to dribble onto his own cheek. ‘I’m… a d-dead man anyway,’ he rasps. ‘I… I’m not scared of you.’

  ‘This I heard. Motor neurone disease. Very nasty.’

  ‘I’m… I’m not scared of you, you bastard! What have you done to Margot?’

  ‘She’s tied and gagged so we’ve got this precious time to ourselves.’

  ‘If you’ve hurt her…!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Nigel slaps his cheek hard. ‘Now listen – we’ve got all night, and I will use that time to search every room in this house thoroughly. And once I’m satisfied I’ve got what I came for –’ Nigel smiles – ‘we’ll be done.’

  ‘What… what are you after?’

  ‘Every single draft and page of this book of yours. Your notes. Your synopsis. Printed and digital. Notebooks, idea pads. We’re going to make this book completely disappear tonight. Is that perfectly clear?’

  Sutton nods.

  ‘Good. We’re going to start with the digital stuff. Your computer password, please…’

  44

  Day 11

  Charlotte emerged from the guest bedroom and appeared downstairs in the dining room as Boyd was making coffee. She looked ashen-faced.

  ‘What in God’s name happened yesterday?’ she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘We all got a bit accidentally stoned; some of us drunk and accidentally stoned,’ Boyd said, pouring coffee into two mugs.

  Charlotte groaned.

  ‘It’s okay. Everyone’s in the same boat,’ said Boyd. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘I…’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I can’t remember anything!’

  She frowned. Quite beautifully, in fact, Boyd thought.

  ‘Come and sit down before you keel over,’ he said.

  She took a seat at the table, then let her face fall into her hands. ‘Oh, God… was I dancing? Dancing around a bonfire?’

  He smiled. ‘Barefoot.’

  Charlotte looked down at her almost completely blackened feet, dark with soot and ashes. ‘Oh my God!’ She paused, trying to remember what else she’d done. ‘So how did I get like that?’ she asked eventually. ‘Was it the punch? Was something put in my drink?’

  ‘It was the bonfire actually,’ Boyd explained. ‘It seems that there were a bunch of cannabis plants in my garden, which were then burnt, by accident, on the bonfire.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘I’ve never done drugs. Ever.’

  Boyd wished he could claim the same. He pushed her coffee towards her, and she lifted her head at the welcome smell.

  ‘I’ve got to be off in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Work.’

  ‘Work?’ Her eyes bulged. ‘Oh, crap. I thought today was Sunday!’

  Either Boyd had a stronger constitution than the rest of his team – which he very much doubted – or he’d had less to drink. After dropping Charlotte off at the White Rock Theatre and grabbing another black coffee from the CID kitchenette, he felt fine.

  Almost.

  The same couldn’t be said for the rest of them as they washed up into the Incident Room like sorry pieces of cargo spill.

  ‘We’ll postpone the nine o’clock meeting to nine thirty,’ announced Boyd. ‘Go and get what you need from the canteen, everyone. And back here in twenty.’

  He was greeted with a chorus of grateful moans.

  He’d had a text from DI Lane to say that his train was delayed, and that he would get in to Hastings at about twenty past and grab a taxi from the station. So a half-hour delay seemed like the best outcome all round.

  Left alone in the Incident Room, and having finally swapped numbers, he dialled Charlotte. She answered on the first
ring.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘My office is spinning,’ she replied. ‘I can’t even bear to look at my monitor.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation my crew are all pretty much the same way.’

  ‘Bill? You must tell me. Did I do anything embarrassing? I simply can’t remember anything after we started dancing around the fire like wild savages!’

  He couldn’t remember much either. Just fragments. Chances were that no one was likely to recall much, looking at the state of them this morning. ‘No, I think we all just had a jolly good time,’ he said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For my behaviour, the dancing, the… whatever I did or said.’

  Boyd laughed. He had fleeting memories of Charlotte’s hair flying Kate Bush-style as she pirouetted in the dirt like some wild first-year student at freshers’ week. ‘I think you’re okay,’ he said. ‘But look – I should apologise. I had absolutely no idea about the cannabis plants.’

  ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Honestly, I’m completely mortified, but I suspect I had more fun than I’ve had in a long time…’

  Lane turned up just after half past nine, dragging his wheelie suitcase behind him. He took one look at the walking wounded around the conference table and grinned at Boyd. ‘It’s like a triage ward in here. Is this because of your barbeque?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘It’s a long story and, trust me, you’re better off not knowing.’

  Lane appeared intrigued.

  Boyd rapped his knuckles on the conference table. ‘Okay, everyone, grab your notes and coffees and pull yourselves together.’

  The door opened and Sully strode in, looking fresh as a daisy and dressed in his usual dark office trousers and pale-blue collared shirt. ‘Why the delay? I was ready to start at nine.’

  ‘We delayed for Lane,’ said Boyd. ‘His train was late.’

  Sully’s lips pursed into a Cupid’s bow of scepticism as he regarded Warren, forehead flat down on the conference table. ‘Of course you did.’

  While Boyd was impressed with the CSI manager’s recovery, he didn’t think he could manage a duelling session with his chirpy, acerbic banter this morning. ‘Take a seat, Sully,’ he said wearily.

  Sully pulled out a chair next to Lane. ‘Looks like we’re the only two compos mentis this morning,’ he observed.

  ‘Right then,’ Boyd said. ‘Hangovers to one side… please.’

  ‘And the rest,’ grumbled Okeke.

  ‘Let’s get this update started. We’re on day eleven and Her Madge will be wanting a summary of progress on her desk by mid-morning, so let’s get cracking. Minter, you’ve got more info on Sutton’s activity in the days before his death?’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Minter said, making a Herculean effort to pull himself together. ‘He made a couple of calls while he was still at his London place. I’ve traced the numbers. One is a company called Jupiter Books; that’s a publishing company. The other is to a private residence –’ Minter checked his notes – ‘of one Elaine Lewis.’ He looked up. ‘If that name’s familiar, it’s because she’s the wife of that MP who was killed in a hit-and-run four years ago.’

  Boyd remembered it vaguely. There had been talk at the time that it was a hate crime. Chris Lewis was Green Party had been campaigning against the HS2 project.

  Sully looked surprised at that. ‘Sutton was talking to someone on the other side?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Lane. ‘But usually only when they’re up to something.’

  ‘All right, Minter. Follow those up with a tactful call and see what Sutton was –’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lane interrupted. ‘This is where I’ll have to step in.’ He looked at Boyd. ‘If this is parliamentary business.’

  ‘And get your big black redacting pen out, huh?’ said Okeke.

  Lane’s face twitched slightly with irritation, but he was quick to cover it with a patient smile for her. ‘Hopefully not, but… Sutton does seem to have been evidencing erratic behaviour in his last few days. I’ve got to make sure he wasn’t blabbering about material from confidential cabinet meetings.’

  ‘Old meetings,’ Sully replied.

  ‘Yes, but still confidential old meetings.’

  ‘I’ll make the calls,’ said Boyd. ‘How’s that? You can sit in and interrupt if you think we’re stepping onto confidential turf.’

  Lane nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Okeke, anything on the SOC report from London?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ She picked up a printed report from a file, several sections of which were marked with a highlighter. ‘It was forced entry, but we knew that anyway. Fingerprints and DNA samples from the loft apartment match Sutton and Margot Bajek. The intruder obviously wore gloves and made a conscious effort not to lick anything.’

  Sully chortled.

  ‘Any indications on the purpose of the break-in?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘It still looks like an attempt to find something,’ Okeke replied. ‘Sutton’s writing desk and filing cabinet at the flat were forced open. Some of his wall paintings were wonky, suggesting someone had had a look behind them, and, of course, the safe was open.’ She paused. ‘I’d say they were looking for something, rather than looking for Sutton.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Which might fit with what we got from his literary agent on Friday.’ He explained the purpose of Sutton’s visit, to have her land his final book with a willing publisher.

  ‘Is it possible that Sutton’s book was simply too shit for her to want to be involved with it?’ asked Sully.

  ‘She hadn’t read it. He’d only pitched it to her,’ Boyd replied.

  ‘She said she turned it down because it was potentially libellous,’ Lane added. ‘He apparently used barely fictional names, but was recounting allegedly real events. Using near-miss or made-up names would still be breaching the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘So what was the book about?’ asked O’Neal.

  Boyd shrugged. ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Who knows what old skeletons are lying in government cupboards?’ said Sully. ‘Sutton was in the cabinet in 2015 to 2016.’ He glanced to Lane for confirmation. ‘That overlaps the Brexit campaign, Russian money being pumped into various campaign fund accounts.’

  Lane nodded. ‘And much as I’d like to expose all that gerrymandering –’ he shrugged – ‘my job is to keep all conversations and communications made under the blanket protection of the Official Secrets Act redacted, I’m afraid.’

  Boyd sighed. ‘Right.’ He turned to Warren and O’Neal. O’Neal was in better shape to deliver an update. ‘How are we doing with our mystery man?’

  ‘It looks like one of the public CCTV cameras caught him after he’d been into a shop, sir.’

  ‘Which shop?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ O’Neal replied. ‘He’s carrying a shopping bag for about a hundred metres down the street and then he ditches it. The thing is… he got out of his car without one.’

  ‘Do we have a reg’ for the car?’

  ‘No, the car park was old school,’ said O’Neal. ‘Pay and display.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Boyd. He turned to Lane. ‘Pelham parking is pay and display only.’ He turned back to O’Neal. ‘Okay, so this bag?’

  ‘We’re going to try and ID the shop this morning, sir, aren’t we?’ O’Neal nudged Warren, who groaned and nodded.

  ‘Good. ASAP, please. If we get a shop, we may get a decent internal cam image, maybe even a credit card transaction.’

  ‘Want me to help them?’ asked Lane. ‘That seems like our best lead so far.’

  ‘Yeah, do that. I want as many eyeballs on that as we can. Sully? Any luck with social media?’

  ‘The activity log from Facebook came in this morning. It’s a rather dense forty-page PDF that shows every link that Sutton clicked in the last
ninety days, complete with unique follow-on trackers.’

  ‘Meaning?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘Basically where he looked next.’

  ‘How detailed are we talking?’

  ‘It’s just that, essentially the next thing he clicked on. Nothing more. Where he used his iPhone or any other iOS product, is blocked, but his laptop or Mac…’

  ‘What about access to his iCloud storage?’ asked Lane.

  Sully shook his head. ‘Still waiting on their legal people to grant us a password. Apple are extremely tight on this sort of thing.’

  ‘Okay, well, share that Facebook PDF with Okeke. Two pairs of eyes should make shorter work of it.’

  Boyd looked around at his team. They weren’t exactly on top form this morning. There wouldn’t be much in the way of insightful speculation going on, that was for sure. ‘Right, you all have tasks,’ he said. ‘Crack on. Minter?’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Can you give me those two phone numbers and details, please?’

  45

  ‘This is Matthew Berringer. How can I help?’ The man sounded as if he’d just drifted back from a leisurely lunch break at some private member’s club.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Boyd, Sussex Police CID. May I speak to you about your recent conversation with Sir Arthur Sutton?’

  The prolonged pause was more than a giveaway. Boyd had the conversation on speakerphone, and he and Lane were alone in the spare meeting room. Lane nodded at Boyd. He was obviously thinking the same thing.

  ‘You spoke with Sir Arthur Sutton days ago,’ prompted Boyd. ‘What was the conversation about?’

  ‘Can I ask why you want to know?’ Berringer replied finally.

  ‘Are you aware that he’s dead?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Yes. I saw it on the news the other day. Awful news about the house fire.’