by Iain Cameron
‘It can’t be easy losing your husband in such a cruel fashion.’
‘That’s what I thought, but if I’m being honest, she talks more about Marc than Guy.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, just the odd slip, but it’s my job to notice these things.’
‘Is she planning to return to work soon?’
‘She’s not in a fit state, although getting back to some form of normality often helps people in this situation stay on the rails, if you know what I mean. I think she told her office she would be taking the rest of the week off.’
‘Probably for the best. Thanks for all your help Helen. I know this is not one of your usual assignments but I’m sure you can see how this case is different.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘I’ll call you in a day or so to see how you’re getting on, but feel free to contact me anytime, ok?’
‘Right sir, no problem. Thanks.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘What do you fancy doing this morning, Lily?’ Helen asked.
Lily put the mug in her hand down on the kitchen table. ‘I think I’d like to go out, get away from the house for a while. I feel I’ve been cooped up here too long.’
‘Sounds fine to me. What’s your weakness, a touch of retail therapy or a stroll in the country?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Let’s go into Brighton. We can mooch around the shops for a time and then take a walk along the seafront. That should blow the cobwebs off.’
‘No problem. If I let you have some time to yourself, say in about fifteen minutes? I need to make a few calls first.’
‘Sure.’
Lily re-took her seat at the kitchen table with a refilled mug of tea while Helen busied herself doing what FLOs did: stacked the dishwasher, wiped the surfaces clean and went into the small study beside the loo, where she kept her stuff.
Lily didn’t mind her presence. At first, on hearing about Guy’s death, she wanted to be alone, but she realised she often spent time by herself: when reading book drafts, watching TV when Guy went out and when travelling to and from work on the train. It felt strange at first, having someone else in the house, but she soon got used to it, and brought back memories of her time at university when she shared a house with four other girls.
When DI Henderson first told her about Guy’s death, she thought the detective was mistaken, he must have died in a car accident or something else. Guns and Guy didn’t make sense in the same sentence. Guy’s father had been a wide boy and was forever goading his son to do something adventurous, but she understood such comments to mean that he should start his own business, not get into gun fights with a bunch of criminals.
The newspapers were being cagey about the case and suggesting a drug deal gone wrong, but Henderson reassured her, through Helen, that no drugs were involved. The DI believed it to be connected to the jewellery robbery at Fenton’s in Lewes on Bonfire Night.
Not only could she not get her head around Guy associating with criminals, but breaking into a jewellery shop did not compute. An off-license or a bank maybe, as he understood booze and money, not a jewellery shop as Guy knew nothing. He’d never bought her jewellery as a Christmas or birthday present, nor did she wear much beyond the basics; she didn’t crave or ask him for a bigger engagement ring or a more expensive necklace. She had once seen a gorgeous bracelet in Fenton’s but even though she could afford the ten grand price, when would she ever get the chance to wear it?
She looked up from the table to find Helen standing there, kitted out in a warm jacket, hat and gloves. She stood, a little confused as to where all the time had gone, and walked into the hall to do the same.
While driving into Brighton, Helen chatted about her family, talking mostly about her two children, Alice and Louise, and avoiding saying anything about her husband, Keith, for obvious reasons. If Lily was in work mode, which she wasn’t, she might have inquired more about him to see how the FLO responded, but not today.
She did this frequently when reviewing early drafts of a book. She would stop reading and ask herself, what would the character do now? She would then continue reading and compare the two outcomes. It was the best way to determine if a scene was credible, otherwise it would pull a reader up short and spoil their enjoyment of the story.
They parked in the Churchill Square car park but Lily didn’t last more than fifteen minutes in the shopping centre before the crowds, noise and the glittering shop windows overwhelmed her senses. They headed outside and walked down West Street, towards the seafront. A piercing, cold wind whipped up the street and to add to the winter gloom, the sea looked choppy and gun-metal grey.
They turned the corner into the Esplanade and both women were pushed backwards by the strength of the gust.
‘Well, you wanted to blow the cobwebs away, Lily,’ Helen said as they waited to cross the road at the pedestrian crossing, her hair moving around like a nest of snakes.
‘I thought you meant something more sedate than this,’ she said with a smile. It felt uncomfortable and chilled her to the bone but in a way, she enjoyed it.
On reaching the other side of the road, they walked to the railings overlooking the beach and stopped to look and see if anyone was stupid enough to be near the water on a day like this. To their surprise, an elderly couple were throwing a stick into the sea for their Red Setter to retrieve, and a windsurfer was doing something to his board before venturing out. Lily didn’t know much about dogs, but going anywhere near the water at this time of year would give anyone a heart attack.
A few minutes later they walked in the direction of the Palace Pier.
‘Can I ask you something, Lily?’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Not really. With the death of Guy and Marc, have you ever considered it might be someone targeting you?’
Lily stopped walking and stared at her, her mind confused.
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘We’re the police, Lily, we have to look at every angle.’
‘I suppose you do but I’m nobody. I work for a book company. Words such as ‘enemies’ and ‘revenge’ don’t go with the territory.’
‘I understand, but I’ve read some horror and crime novels in my time and some of these guys have pretty warped imaginations.’
They resumed walking.
‘They do, and some of my authors can be just as bad, but a woman plotting to steal another woman’s man is as vicious as it gets.’
‘So, you never had any trouble with authors when you turned down one of their books or you refused to go to their book launch or something?’
Lily thought for a moment.
‘There was one guy, a big, hairy fellow who wrote historical romance fiction. I’ll call him Alan. He’d been very successful over many years, won all sorts of awards and sold over half a million books. One day, he told us he wanted to write a science fiction book and naturally, we counselled him against it. He insisted and threatened never to write another romance novel if we didn’t agree.’
‘He sounds a nightmare.’
‘He was, but we relented and he wrote the book. To no one’s surprise, it tanked under a volley of critical reviews and sneering blog posts. Suitably chastised, he returned to the fold and began to write historical romance novels again, but the spark had gone. Two duds later, we cancelled his contract.’
‘Not a happy bunny, I suspect.’
‘No, and he came back the day after receiving the termination letter making threats to kill me and some of my staff, and shouting that he would burn the place down. Security threw him out and, last I heard, he’d started his own publishing company.’
‘Did you receive other threats or hate mail?’
She shook her head. ‘No, nothing. I think he’d been drinking all morning to give him the courage to see me and the disappointment of being dropped overwhelmed him.’
‘Did anyone else give you a hard time?’
‘No. If think you’ll
find Marc or Guy’s killer in the book business, in my opinion you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
**
Lily and Helen returned to St John’s Terrace late afternoon. Lily resumed her seat at the kitchen table, this time with a mug of coffee instead of tea, and a copy of today’s Argus in front of her. Helen had disappeared into the study to write her report, or whatever work an FLO needed to do, leaving the house quiet, just the way Lily liked it.
She ignored the news articles on the front and inside pages and went in search of human interest stories. She began reading an article about a woman in Rusper whose car had been hit by a falling tree whilst driving, when the doorbell sounded.
She opened it and was surprised to find Kevin McLaren standing there.
‘Hello Lily.’
‘Hello Kevin. You better come in, it’s freezing outside.’
She closed the door. ‘Go into the kitchen. I’m in there reading the paper.’
She followed him in where he took the seat beside hers, marked out with a dirty mug and the spread-out newspaper.
‘Would you like a coffee? I’m making another for myself.’
‘Yes, I will thanks. If it’s not too much bother.’
‘It’s no trouble. So what brings you here? I don’t think I’ve seen you for a while.’
‘Eh, no I haven’t been around much what with the procession and all the clear-up afterwards. I came by to see how you’re doing.’
She turned to the coffee machine. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘Same as you’re having is fine for me.’
She didn’t know Kevin well, but as a friend of Marc, she accepted him as such. He never seemed to have a girlfriend so they didn’t go out on a foursome, but she often saw him when she went around to Marc’s house. Occasionally, the three of them would go out, usually to something Marc and Kevin were interested in, but she didn’t like him being there as the boys would hog the conversation, leaving her feeling isolated. Lately, she had become wary of him. Nothing serious, but looks from him that lingered too long and questions to Marc about her when she wasn’t around.
‘There you go,’ she said a few minutes later. ‘It might not be as good as Costa, but I won’t charge you a penny, and think of all the calories you save by not having a rocky road or a chocolate muffin.’ She tried to sound light and jolly, but it came out flat as if reading from a script.
‘My arteries are grateful,’ he said, raising the mug in salute. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded at the newspaper. ‘Is there anything in there about Marc or Guy?’
She sighed as she sat down opposite. ‘Nothing about Marc, and an article about Guy says the police are following up leads.’
‘The usual.’
She leaned forward, keeping her voice low so Helen wouldn’t hear. ‘Yes, but I understand the police are now on to something. It sounds to me more than just a lead.’
‘I hope so. It must be awful for you.’
‘It is.’ She couldn’t help it; a wave of grief washed over her, crumbling all vestiges of normality and leaving her sobbing. She cried for Marc, for all the years they wouldn’t share together, and for Guy, for not saying goodbye on more amicable terms.
She felt an arm around her shoulders, and thinking it was Helen, she didn’t stir, wallowing in her own grief. When a face began to nuzzle into her neck, she opened her eyes in alarm and found Kevin there.
‘Kevin!’ she said pushing her chair back. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Don’t be like that, Lily. I love you, I always have.’
She stood, her head in a spin. He took her in his arms but when she tried to pull away she couldn’t, he was too strong.
‘Kevin! Stop this at once.’
He bent down to kiss her but she moved her head to the side. ‘Both Guy and Marc are gone Lily, let me look after you.’
‘Let me go Kevin, at once!’
‘I can’t, Lily, I want you so much. Ever since that day at the races with you and Marc. I can’t get you out of my head.’
‘Let me go!’
He tried to kiss her again. This time with more success as her arms felt tired.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
Lily and Kevin both turned to see Helen Vincent standing in the doorway. She had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that didn’t suggest a sympathetic FLO, more a stern copper.
TWENTY-FOUR
On Tuesday morning, DI Henderson didn’t go straight to the office but instead turned into Hanover Street. The street activity of the previous day had gone; no crowds of rubberneckers, TV cameras, reporters and only one police vehicle. It belonged to the SOCO team and after speaking to Pat Davidson, the Crime Scene manager, even they were pulling out mid-morning.
He got out of his car and looked around. It didn’t look a bad place for a gang of jewellery robbers to hole up as much of the population in areas like this were transient, new entrants on the housing ladder only staying a few years, or houses let to students. The sight of guys carrying holdalls wouldn’t be deemed unusual, nor their comings and goings at odd times of the day or night.
The house the SOCOs were examining belonged to Manish Johar, a cousin of Ajay Singh, but Johar didn’t attract the DI’s interest, he was on holiday in India where he’d been for the last few weeks. Analysing the fingerprints found all over the house, two people had been staying in the house, Ajay Singh and a man called Solomon Fletcher, both with criminal records. Less evident were the fingerprints of Guy Barton, suggesting he didn’t stay there, corroborating what Lily had told them, but nevertheless an occasional visitor.
Henderson walked into the house, nodding at the constable on the door.
‘Morning, sir,’ voices chorused from the kitchen.
‘Morning guys. Last day?’
‘Yep,’ Pat Davidson said. ‘I’ll be glad to get away from this place. What a shit hole. I don’t think the house has ever been dusted or the bathrooms cleaned for months.’
‘Bad as that?’
‘Makes our job a nightmare. We have to dig through all the muck to get to what we need.’
Henderson carefully avoided all the packed cases in the hall, aluminium framed and containing all the team’s detection instruments, chemicals, sprays and vials of collected material. They were solid to prevent the breakage of any materials inside but painful on the shins of the unwary. He climbed the stairs.
Pat could moan about the job like an old fishwife, as his mother used to say, but in only a couple of days since the murder, and with SOCOs help, they’d identified two suspects. Henderson felt confident they were on the right track as Singh’s mother confirmed his friendship with Solomon Fletcher and Fletcher’s mother did likewise. If the same progress could be made in the Marc Emerson case, his killer would now be awaiting trial. They also were convinced Singh, Solomon and Barton had robbed Fenton’s. Jewellery found in the house matched items stolen from the shop and he’d viewed the robbery video again and felt sure he could see Barton’s frame underneath the balaclava and dark clothing. Lily confirmed he had been out all night.
Henderson reached the top of the stairs. Guy’s body had been removed but it didn’t take a detective to understand what had happened here due to the large blood stain on the carpet. The P-M told them the victim didn’t die straight away. The bullet, fired from a sitting position in an upward trajectory, pierced his lung, causing him to fall to the floor, where he slowly drowned in his own blood.
He’d come to the house this morning to try and understand more about the shooting. It would become an important point when Singh and Solomon were apprehended, as with two suspects in the house at the time of the murder, one might accuse the other of being the shooter. He planned to come to a definite conclusion today and when questioning both men, he would ask them to reveal their whereabouts at the fatal moment. From their answer, he would know who had fired the shot.
He remembered exactly where Guy fell, but if a reminder was
needed, he had a photograph of the scene in his pocket. Due to the constraints of a small house, he was standing in a narrow hallway with a wall to his right and a closed bedroom door on the left, facing the bedroom where he believed the jewellery stolen from Fenton’s had been stored. This offered two choices. The gunman had either been sitting inside the bedroom, or kneeling in the place where he was now stood in the hall.
The gun had been fired from a low position and from close range, a distance of no more than a metre and a half. He could see now the staircase was at least three metres from the body and his idea of someone firing as they stood on the second or third top step, leaning around the banister post to do so, didn’t wash.
This left a couple of possibilities. The gunman might have been crouching in the hall, which seemed an odd thing to do, or his favoured option, sitting in the bedroom. He stepped into the bedroom and turned to face the position where Guy might have stood. From a sitting position, it all became clear in his mind. Singh or Solomon and Guy had taken the jewellery holdalls out of the cupboard and were looking through them. After a time, Guy got up to go, an altercation ensued and the person sitting in the position he was now, pulled out a gun and shot him.
All the pieces slotted together. Holding an imaginary gun, he gauged the distance between gun and victim, the trajectory of the shot, the positions of the fallen items of jewellery, Guy’s body; it all matched up. He was convinced.
The question remained: why? What made Singh or Solomon take out a gun and kill their friend and one of their fellow robbers on the Fenton raid? Did he threaten to tell someone, or did he want to get out of the deal as it was becoming too dangerous?
Henderson said goodbye to the SOCO team and walked back to his car. He got in, closed the door and started the engine, trying to generate some heat. His deliberations this morning would help identify the shooter and ensure Guy Barton’s killer went down for murder, a better result than never finding out who was responsible and both men being sentenced for murder under the laws of joint enterprise.
