by Iain Cameron
‘Sure, go ahead.’
Walker was portly with a wild mop of white hair, looking every inch the eccentric architect, but he didn’t make it after failing the exams and became a project manager instead. Guy once entertained dreams of becoming an architect, but football held more interest than university and, as a result, didn’t do well in his ‘A’ levels. He had trialled for Chelsea and didn’t make the grade, but he still played the ‘beautiful game’ every Sunday for a non-league club in Brighton.
‘You can see we’ve finished the roof,’ Walker said, ‘and with it in place we’re getting on with plastering and the electrics. Tomorrow we’ve got plumbers and fitters coming in to finish the bathrooms and kitchen. And over here–’
‘Rod!’ a voice behind him called. ‘Come here, now!’
‘Fuck. I do more hand-holding here than I ever did with my kids at home. Back in a minute Guy.’
He had seen enough of the house to know the layout and started work on the task he wanted to complete this morning: measuring up. Guy measured the dimensions of the bedrooms, the lounge and kitchen, before heading downstairs and doing the same in the cinema room, sauna and gym.
By the time Dale Pritchard’s white Bentley convertible rolled up and parked beside Guy’s old VW Polo, he had finished, but the measurements didn’t agree with the plans in his hands.
‘There you are Guy,’ Pritchard said walking towards him. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No problem. Rod’s been showing me the progress you’ve made so far which is impressive, and I’ve just been measuring up.’
‘Great. I take it everything’s ok?’
Guy shook his head. ‘Not everything.’
‘No worries. Let’s get ourselves a coffee and talk about it.’
They walked into the kitchen. It was a huge room, dominated by a large centre unit topped with a thick slab of glittering black granite which to Guy, looked like the runway for a fleet of drones. They still had plenty to do as the places where the fridge, freezer and cooker would go were marked by a succession of protruding grey wires, and the newly-plastered walls awaited tiling.
‘Sorry, it’s instant,’ Pritchard said handing him a mug. ‘It’ll be another couple of weeks before they install the fancy Gaggia machine lying over there, and another two before I work out how to use the bloody thing.’
They sat on stools on either side of the drone runway, the glittering effect so effective it looked to be lit by LED lights underneath the surface.
‘No bother, I’m not a coffee expert at the best of times and certainly not today. The house is really beginning to take shape.’
‘If it wasn’t for Rod we’d be months behind, especially with all the rain we had in July. I tell you, he’s a great task-master.’
‘I know, I’ve heard him shout. If we can talk about the measurements of some of the rooms,’ Guy said, placing a folder on the worktop and opening it.
‘I know what you’re about to say.’
‘What?’
‘That we’ve been a bit cheeky with the dimensions of the cinema room. I’d always had it in my mind it would seat eight, but after seeing what a friend of mine did with his, I had to make it bigger.’
‘I understand, but under current planning rules you are not allowed to materially alter the scale and size of this building.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I could raise an order and force you to reinstate the room back to its planned measurements. If you refuse to implement, it could mean a large fine and possibly a prison sentence.’
‘To implement such an alteration will cost me anything between about thirty and fifty grand.’
‘At least.’
‘You said you ‘could’ raise an order. What would it take for you not to?’
SIX
The goalkeeper booted the ball out of his area. To the credit of the team’s coaching staff, the boys didn’t all chase after it like lemmings to a cliff. Instead, they allowed the lad on the left wing to collect and lead another attack for Falcon United, the under-14 side of Standen School.
DI Henderson was enjoying the game more than he had anticipated, perhaps something to do with the fine weather. It was a crisp, October morning, a bright blue sky with a weak sun moving leisurely towards its zenith and gradually burning off the cold mist that had hung over the grass in Preston Park when they first arrived.
Rachel had promised a colleague at The Argus, Sarah Pendleton, that she would come and watch her son captain the school football team for the first time. Not knowing much about football, Rachel asked him to come along and explain the rules and the nuances of the game, but in that role Henderson was superfluous as Rachel and Sarah had been gassing non-stop since they arrived.
He didn’t mind as he could concentrate on the match, but he couldn’t think what they found to talk about: the two of them were situated only a few desks apart in the offices where they both worked. Alas, despite standing beside two of The Argus’s finest, neither could do anything about the problem he and his bosses were having over the reporting of the violent robberies. Sarah worked as a feature writer and the closest she ever got to crime was when faced by a woman wronged by an erring husband, and Rachel’s focus was on the environment and rural affairs.
After talking to CI Edwards the previous afternoon, Henderson had called Gerry Hobbs into his office for an update. Hobbs was a seasoned Detective Sergeant and Henderson had every confidence he could manage such a high profile case, but he didn’t look happy.
‘Every robbery so far has happened between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty in the morning,’ Hobbs said. ‘Typically, a woman comes back to the house after dropping her kids off at school, her mind on what somebody said at the school gate, or making a list of all the things she had to do that day, so she doesn’t see the guy coming up behind her. Or they allow her to get inside the house and ring the bell before she’s had a chance to settle.’
‘What’s so different about this one?’ Henderson asked.
‘A couple of days a week the woman, Mrs Loxley, who lives in Carden Hill, near Ditchling Road, stays on at school to have a coffee with the other people in the parents’ friendship group.’
‘So she doesn’t come home at a regular time every day?’
‘Nope,’ Hobbs said.
‘Ah, they’re not depending on luck. They must be watching the house.’
‘Could be, or it’s someone they wouldn’t notice tracking their behaviour, like a postman.’
‘Yes, or a delivery driver or a street sweeper.’
‘In which case, there’s no point in asking householders to report people sitting in cars or strange people hanging around in the street.’
‘Don’t go there, we’ve been flooded with calls already.’
‘I know it’s not much,’ Hobbs said, ‘but it’s a new bit of intel to add to the file.’
‘Gerry, try and have a think if there’s another way we can approach this. If you need more resources, I’m sure the CC will give them to you. He’s under a lot of pressure over this.’
‘I know. How about we comb the records and contact other forces and find out if robbers like this have been operating somewhere else? It’s been going on here now for a couple of months, we’ve got a pretty clear MO.’
‘It’s worth a try. What do you need? People to man the phones?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll talk to Edwards but I don’t see it being a problem.’
The Falcon’s number eight, a small, wiry lad with glue on his boots, danced his way through a posse of defenders, and as they all converged on him, he slipped the ball to the unmarked number nine. The big centre-forward couldn’t miss and had the simplest of tap-ins. The whistle blew ten minutes later, the Falcons trooping off the field 3-0 victors.
Henderson had earlier noticed the concentration on the face of a bald man in a blue quilted jacket, not a dad as he didn’t shout and scream invectives at the referee for every overlooked foul; most
likely a scout. A typical football vignette followed when the scout approached the number eight, not the big lad at number nine and the scorer of two goals, much to the chagrin of the centre-forward’s father who strode up to the scout to remonstrate.
‘Did you enjoy the game?’ Rachel asked as they walked back to the car.
‘I did. That little lad at number eight is a star in the making. Sarah’s boy, Simon, played well too. Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes I did.’
‘What was the score?’
‘It was...2-1.’
‘You didn’t see half of it.’
‘I’ve been rumbled, guilty as charged, but then Sarah can talk.’
‘Whenever I looked over, it was you doing the talking. What do you find to talk about that you couldn’t say in the office?’
‘She’s been telling me about her family, what a right bunch they are.’
Henderson received a potted version of Sarah’s family history as they drove back home. When she accused him of not listening, he claimed with some justification that he was concentrating, the traffic much heavier now than it had been three hours earlier. In Brighton, cars poured into town in the morning and exited at night, not much different from many other towns in the UK. However, in summer, the influx of tourists could double the population, and at night the traffic jam would stretch for miles.
He drove Rachel’s car into their one designated parking place in College Place, his own car several streets away, and got out. He picked up the post behind the door, and before the chirping got faster and faster and finally released the ear-splitting decibels of the big bell outside, silenced the alarm. He had grown up in a rural community in Fort William where alarms were fitted mainly to shops and cars, and if one went off, it didn’t disturb the local residents half as much as it did in a tightly packed place like Brighton. Two false alarms would have the Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator at the door, and after three his colleagues in uniform would withdraw their support.
He made some coffee and sat at the kitchen table to read the Saturday papers. During the football season he would look at the sports section first, but at this time of year it was too early and the teams he followed had yet to create a decent run of winning results to break clear of the pack.
‘What time are you going into the office?’ Rachel asked.
‘After lunch, but I’m not going into the office. I’ve got a team searching a house in Lewes. I’ll go over there instead.’
‘Is it connected to your burn victim?’
‘It’s his house.’
‘Oh, is it? How creepy.’
‘Not really. He didn’t die there.’
‘All the same, it must be weird looking through a dead man’s things.’
‘I suppose it is. I try not to think of it that way. I see it as trying to find out why he died.’
‘Did you manage to arrange a meeting with Rob Tremain?’
‘Why, did he talk to you about it?’
She nodded. ‘He’s wondering why the police are calling him and not the other way round.’
‘He’ll find out soon enough. I’m seeing him Tuesday night.’
**
At lunch Henderson devoured a large plate of tagliatelle. He didn’t think himself capable of eating such a quantity of food, but the hours he’d spent that morning in the fresh air of Preston Park must have given him an appetite. Afterwards, he drove to Lewes. Not having had his fill of football news earlier, he tuned the radio to Five Live. As luck would have it, they were discussing Brighton’s big clash with Portsmouth that afternoon and this kept him occupied until he reached his destination.
Marc Emerson lived in what looked like a recently built house in Spences Lane, his mother a few streets away in Hereward Way. Outside, a Vauxhall Vectra pool car, one Henderson had used before, and the white Transit van of the SOCO team, since cleaned after its outing to the Cliffe Industrial Estate on Tuesday. A couple of neighbours were out and doing what they could in their gardens in late October, but all the while keeping their eye on the strange goings-on in the trim semi-detached house nearby.
Henderson had called DS Harry Wallop while driving and he came out to meet Henderson as he approached. The DI was being cautious, just in case he blundered into the house and messed up a key piece of evidence.
‘Afternoon Harry.’
‘Afternoon, Angus.’
‘How’s it going?’
He led him inside and closed the door behind him.
‘We’ve found a few items which could prove interesting. A laptop, a phone–’
‘A phone? Grafton said at the P-M the victim had one in his pocket, but it was destroyed by the fire.’
‘Maybe he had one for personal calls and another for business. I know some people do.’
‘The only people I know with two phones are drug dealers. What else?’
‘A mindfulness journal.’
‘A mindfulness journal? What the hell is that?’
‘I’m told it’s a method for finding inner peace and calm.’
‘I use a bottle of whisky for that.’
He laughed. ‘What you do apparently is write down the things that make you happy, how you feel after certain events, ways to improve your life, that sort of thing.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it. Are you into it?’
‘No way. When I first spotted it, I phoned my missus; a friend of hers is.’
‘Good work. Did you look through it?’
His face reddened. ‘Just a little, to find out what it was about. Some of the things in there made me cringe.’
‘It’s that personal?’
He nodded. ‘The bit I read, described how he felt about this woman; it’s pretty detailed stuff.’
‘In which case, I need to give some thought as to who I’ll give the job to, but it sounds like it might tell us a lot about Marc. Anything else of interest?’
He shrugged. ‘Not really, the usual collection of bank statements, photo albums, books and folders. Everything has been bagged and is ready to take away.’
‘Good. Is there much left to do?’
‘Maybe an hour or so. We’ve still got to finish a few things in the house and then it’s out to the garden shed. The team are upstairs.’
‘So I gather from all the stomping,’ Henderson said glancing at the ceiling. ‘Just be careful in the shed. Remember, Marc’s speciality was fireworks and explosives. Who knows what he’s rigged up.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Thanks Harry. I won’t keep you. I’ll take a look around.’
‘See you later, boss.’
Henderson walked into the lounge. He expected not much in the way of furniture as a prior check on house prices in the area revealed this to be an expensive place for a single guy, but to his surprise the room looked fully furnished. In fact, the polished wood flooring, large-screen television, leather settee with sumptuous armchair, and tasteful art on the walls made him think Marc had lived here for several years and not six months.
In the kitchen, the same story. The walls were lined with good quality units that might have been installed in the house before he bought it, but complemented by a dishwasher, fridge-freezer, coffee machine and juicer. Henderson tried but couldn’t think of anything he could add to either room to make them more habitable. He moved into the hall and stood to one side as the SOCOs made their way downstairs, DC Deepak Sunderam at the rear.
‘Afternoon sir,’ they chorused.
‘Afternoon guys. How have you found it?’
They stopped walking. If unused to it, the sight of three burly guys dressed in blue nylon oversuits and looking like extras from a Smurf movie could be disconcerting. ‘It’s the cleanest, tidiest gaff we’ve done in years,’ Dave Severs, the team leader said.
‘Yeah, clean as,’ one of the other Smurfs said.
‘You’re off to do the shed now?’ Henderson asked.
‘Yep, and then I think we’re finished.’
‘Allow Harry to brief you before you go in there, as the owner knew all about fireworks and explosives and he may have left one or two surprises. Ok?’
‘Sure thing.’
Henderson waited for them to file past before climbing the stairs. He counted three bedrooms and a bathroom, plus a hatch lying open to the loft. Bedroom one, a storage room for boxes and suitcases, and bedroom two, kitted out for guests with a crisp white duvet and more art on the walls.
Bedroom three, Marc’s sleeping area. As such, it received the greatest focus of the team. It contained a bed, desk, wardrobe and tall drawer unit. He didn’t see any point in rifling through drawers as the team had done this, and after taking a quick look at the contents, he bent down to examine the items bagged and boxed on the floor.
He donned plastic gloves and flicked through the mindfulness journal and instantly could see what Harry meant; comments about how he felt after a meal and about a recent meeting with his boss. He put it back and picked up a small black folder marked ‘bank statements’.
Nothing caught his eye until he looked at the most recent statements. In June, the sum of ten thousand pounds had been credited to his account and a day or so later, out it went. The process was repeated over the next few months although with larger amounts. There was no way of knowing if Marc had moved this money from this account to another or used it to pay a large bill. It could also mean someone had paid Marc ten grand and he’d used the money to pay someone else.
The discovery raised more questions than it answered, but whatever the reason, it felt like their first real lead.
SEVEN
Lying half-in and half-out of the cupboard, Jeff Pickering reached under the kitchen sink with the long box spanner and tightened the nut under the tap. He normally employed a lad to do the donkey work, in this case to stand over the sink and make sure the tap was seated correctly, but the bugger had cried off this morning, migraine or something. If he did it again, son of a friend or not, the little toe-rag would get the heave-ho.
He didn’t mind doing jobs like this, finishing off a new kitchen. It was much better than scrabbling around in mouse-infested lofts, trying his best not to fall through the ceiling. With the radio playing loud, his hand working on something he’d done a hundred times before and the numbing effects of alcohol still coursing through his brain from the previous night, his mind started to drift.
