by Sarah Flint
And now it was Charlie’s turn to laugh as they watched his smug expression turn from victory to shocked surprise and anger, as his arms were roughly twisted behind his back and handcuffs were firmly clamped around his wrists.
‘You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you guv? Why didn’t you tell me?’ She could barely contain her delight.
‘And miss seeing the look on your face now. Priceless.’
He squeezed her shoulder and winked at Meg. ‘Now, get yourself down to Brixton nick. We may have lost this battle but we certainly haven’t lost the war.’
Chapter 11
Brixton was the thriving centre of the black community in South London, since immigrants from the Caribbean had arrived in the 1950’s. Exotic fruit and vegetable traders, fishmongers, butchers and specialist record shops had set up home there and entertainment establishments such as The Ritzy and the Academy turned Brixton into the iconic cultural centre it now was.
Charlie liked Brixton for its eclectic mix, having worked there for around four years. Her first station at Charing Cross police station had been in the heart of theatre-land and Soho. The buzz of the area, with its hordes of tourists, pushy shoppers and thriving underbelly of thieves, drinkers and pick-pockets, unchanged, in essence, since Dickensian times, had given her an excellent grounding.
Having transferred to the London equivalent of The Bronx, she had equally grown to love the blatancy and variety of the street crime, suburban tensions and gang culture in Brixton.
Brixton police station was situated a short way from the town centre. While Lambeth HQ was the brains of Lambeth Borough, housing many of the squads, Brixton was its heart; housing the busy custody centre.
The building itself had been recently refurbished and now boasted a state-of-the-art custody suite, thirty cells, two detention rooms, two medical rooms, five interview rooms with audio facilities, two with video equipment, and two rooms equipped for taking fingerprints, DNA swabs and photographs. The outside of the building remained the same: a mixture of red brick, most likely from the same batch as all the old police buildings in London, and glass to symbolize the new, modern police service to which they all now belonged. It was a far cry from the old days when prisoners were dragged in off the street to a dirty, cramped charge room, ran, without discussion, by an omnipotent sergeant, and where they would literally be thrown into communal cells, rubbing shoulders with the next prostitute, thief or drug addict.
Charlie pulled into the new multi-storey car park at the rear and swiped her warrant card at the security door. She didn’t like the new building. It was big, bright and had no personality. Her head started throbbing immediately she entered the vivid fluorescence of the entrance hall and she decided to get the lift to the canteen, rather than climb the stairs.
Bill Morley was sat at a table in the far corner, heading a group of ‘old sweats’ lamenting how the job was ‘fucked’. It was a regular topic of conversation and one that she imagined he had been discussing almost every day of his thirty years in the job.
‘Bill,’ she came up behind him, putting an arm around his neck in a gentle lock. ‘Nice to hear you. Put a different record on though!’ She tightened her grip slightly, before releasing it, tousling what was left of his hair and jumping back a couple of steps to avoid the backhand that was sure to follow.
‘Oy!’ He turned round and his rather irritated expression changed into a wide grin when he saw her.
‘Charlie, are you OK? I heard you got yourself GBH’d the other day. Hope whoever did it is looking at a long stretch.’
She leaned over and gave him a hug. Bill had been one of the senior PCs on her team when she had come to Lambeth and had taken her under his wing. She owed him a lot. ‘I’m fine now, thanks Bill. But the bastard just got off.’
‘You’re joking?’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Don’t tell me! The CPS?’
She nodded. They both knew.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
He pulled a chair up next to the group and indicated for her to join them. ‘Well I’m sure there’s a few of us here who would like to bump into the bastard in a dark alley, if you know what I mean. Bit of summary justice like in the old days.’
He paused as if to emphasize the point.
‘There’s no fuckin’ respect these days. If anyone laid a finger on one of you girls then, they knew what to expect. And it weren’t a pat on the back and a few hours fuckin’ community service.’
‘Well he’s just been nicked again.’ She pulled the chair away again. ‘For a GBH on his own son. He’s downstairs now waiting to be booked in; though I’m not sure the custody officer would approve of your methods. ’
‘Maybe I’ll have a quiet word with him another time then,’ Bill promised. And somehow Charlie knew that if Bill Morley ever did get the opportunity, he would make sure she got her justice.
*
Keith Hubbard was pacing around the small metal entrance enclosure in the back yard. He looked like a lion trapped behind a glass partition in the zoo, all menace but no means. Charlie was watching his every movement from the canteen window, when Hunter joined her.
‘So, when did you know?’
‘Yesterday. Forensics found a few remnants of blood in the bathroom that are a match with Richard. Enough to bring Hubbard in, but not enough to charge. To be honest, the kid could have cut himself anytime. You know what boys are like, always getting into scrapes. It’s not much to go on, but it’ll piss Hubbard off and it gives us the chance to get his account of their disappearance properly on record, under caution.’
‘I wonder if he’ll come up with a different explanation this time, or stick to one of his previous ones. That’s if he says anything. That smarmy solicitor of his will just advise him to go “No comment” through the whole thing.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah I know, but it’s worth a try. I think you’re going to like this next bit though.’ He paused before fixing her with a hard stare. ‘I’m going to be conducting the interview and I wondered if you’d like to sit in on it? It’s up to you. It might be difficult, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I’m hoping it will unsettle him if you’re there. You know he’s a liar, and he knows that you know he’s a liar.’
She turned to face him in a shot.
‘You bet I do!’ She felt the adrenalin surge. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. He might even be tempted to get a bit cocky and say something damning now that he’s got off with nearly killing me, you never know?’
Hunter squeezed her shoulder, the small gesture taking her by surprise. ‘Come on then, let’s go. Either way, it’s a win-win situation for us.’
*
Maybe it was the way Keith Hubbard’s mouth fell open with surprise or maybe it was the way Annabel Leigh-Matthews pursed hers in ill-contained anger that tickled Charlie, but whichever it was, the small contingent filing into the interview room now were not amused.
‘Do you think this is appropriate?’ the solicitor was exclaiming, her eyes flicking between Hunter, arms folded across his chest and Charlie sat demurely and firmly in the seat next to the tape machine.
‘I think it’s very appropriate,’ Hunter replied, making it absolutely clear there was no possibility of a change of heart. ‘DC Stafford and I probably have more knowledge of your client than the rest of the station put together and she will be staying here to observe and assist me.’
‘But…’
‘No buts. There is nowhere in our codes of practice that stipulate you have a say in which police officers are present for an interview and, as I’m sure you are well aware, just as Mr Hubbard Keith is no longer a defendant, so too is DC Stafford here no longer a victim and I, no longer a witness. The CPS saw to that!’
‘But my client might not wish…’
‘Your client might well not wish to have DC Stafford or myself present or to answer any questions. He may not wish to have been arrested and be waiting for an interview, but he has, and now he and yo
u will just have to get on with it. He’s had his rights and entitlements and he’s had a full consultation with you, so now…’ Hunter shut the door firmly behind them, turning to indicate in which seats he wanted them. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
Charlie stifled a grin at his words, delivered as they were, with the appropriate amount of authority and malevolent pleasure. Hunter was not one to be messed with, but the gleam in his eyes said it all. He’d engineered the interview just as carefully as he’d arranged the arrest. Having her in the room was a master stroke. Hubbard clearly hated women and she had previous for getting under his skin. Her presence was sure to antagonize him immensely.
‘Well I’d like to register my disapproval of not only you interviewing my client, but also your choice of witnessing officer.’ Annabel Leigh-Matthews sounded whiney.
‘Disapproval registered. Now shall we get on?’ Hunter remarked flippantly.
While Hunter went through the preliminaries, Charlie took the chance to have a good look at Hubbard again. He had been watching the battle between his solicitor and Hunter with amusement. She had seen the smirk widen across his face as Ms Leigh-Matthews had initiated the spat, clearly believing she would get her way, his way, as she always seemed to manage. She was good, Charlie had to admit it, but this time she had met her match and had succeeded in nothing more than registering her disapproval. Hubbard had not been pleased to lose. He was clearly used to getting his way too and his smirk transformed into a menacing glare as it became obvious the interview would not be on their terms.
He was leaning back on his chair now, with the front two legs lifted high, swaying back and forth as he breathed. His demeanour was surly and he was unwilling to speak up for the tape, his voice little more than a deep growl. His hair had been cropped short recently, his beard and moustache were gone and all that remained was a shadow of stubble which seemed to grow thicker and darker by the hour. He’d looked well-groomed in court but in the confines of the small room he now looked pure thug, crooked nose, cauliflower ear, his menace highlighted by the scars which now showed through the stubbly covering of hair on his head. Even the smart suit was wasted as the tie and belt were gone and his shirt had been unbuttoned several buttons too low, allowing dark tufts of chest hair to stick out. His arms were folded in front of his body and his legs splayed wide. He was clearly trying to dominate the space. Charlie would have found it funny if it hadn’t been Hubbard. As it was she eyed him with a mixture of pure hate and amusement at his bravado.
‘You have been arrested today for the suspected GBH of your son Richard Hubbard who is still reported missing. Do you know where he is?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be here.’
Ms Leigh-Matthews put her hand on his arm and shook her head.
‘Sorry, no comment,’ He corrected.
He looked up at Hunter and grinned, his eyes taking on an almost manic quality.
‘No comment, no comment, no comment. There, that’s your next three questions answered.’
Hunter wasn’t perturbed, after all they’d been expecting it. He just continued with the same line of questioning, pausing after each enquiry to wait for the same answer. When had he last seen Richard? Had he heard from them at all? Was he aware of them spending any money, or using a credit card? What clothes had they taken?
The same old, same old. Hubbard made it clear he wasn’t impressed at being asked the same questions as before, but Hunter pressed on irrespective, determined to get any answer, positive, negative or neutral on tape. It didn’t matter that Hubbard wasn’t giving anything away. Despite being instructed otherwise, they both knew that members of a jury would subconsciously infer guilt. Surely if he was innocent he would tell the police everything he knew so that they could find his wife and son?
And then Hunter started getting down to the details. Was he aware of Richard having any illnesses, being hospitalized? Did he play sport, do any dangerous activities that could cause injury? If he had injured himself where, when, how? Was he aware of Richard bleeding recently? Some of his blood had been found. Did he know where that could have come from? Had he seen him with any cuts? If he had cut himself, where in the house could the blood have been? Who had cleared it up and when? Had he cleared it up, scrubbed it clean at the time? Or had he cleared it up when he’d scrubbed the house from top to bottom the weekend his wife and son had gone missing? Had he caused the blood, hit him, cut him, hurt him? Maybe it was an accident? Maybe it wasn’t? Had Richard been winding him up? Maybe Julie had been goading him and he’d taken it out on Richard? Because he had a history of snapping, didn’t he? Hitting Julie? And others?
She was staring at Hubbard intently now, watching for every twitch of his face, every slight flicker of guilt. His practised nonchalance couldn’t hide his true emotions. And Hunter was winding him up. There was no doubt about it. His cheeks were taking on a redness that hadn’t been there at the beginning of the interview. His hands were twitching, balling into fists randomly as he tried to relax, breathe slowly, keep control. Hunter’s craft was stunning. It was like watching the heat gradually being increased under a kettle on a hob, tiny bubbles at first, then larger, still rising in the same place, then increasing in number, size, until the whole surface of the water was alive with frothing, raging water, rising up the sides, ready to explode into the air, a living boiling geyser of hate.
Hadn’t he been the one to snap, lash out at Richard? Well hadn’t he?
He was twisting and turning now, looking from Hunter to her then back to Hunter. Ms Leigh-Matthews wriggled uncomfortably too, but what could she say? Hunter’s voice remained quiet, probing, almost offering him excuses. He could never be accused of bullying him, not when he was so calm and reasoned. She allowed a tiny smile to play on her lips at how good he was. She was learning with every question that came from his lips. He was fucking excellent!
And suddenly the kettle was boiling.
‘No comment,’ Hubbard screamed, leaping up from his seat and slamming the table with his fists. ‘No fucking comment.’
The door to the interview room flew open and two burly policemen stood stock-still taking in the scene. Charlie jumped to her feet as Annabel Leigh-Matthews slid from her chair to the floor in the corner of the room, pressing herself against the wall away from the melee as Hubbard reared up again banging his fists against his temples.
‘Why can’t you lot leave me alone? Going on and on and on and on. Fuckin’ messing with my head, that’s all you do.’
The officers were on him now, pushing him backwards away from the desk. Charlie threw her weight hard against him too, pinning him against the wall and pulling his arms round to the rear, before clapping him quickly in handcuffs. He was sweating profusely from the effort of resisting but getting nowhere. She stepped back, satisfied and watched as all the fight came out of him and he started to cry, great shuddering sobs that he couldn’t control and that made him curse. He swivelled his head round so that he was staring straight at her, his expression venomous.
‘See what you’ve fucking done to me now, you bitch. See what you’ve done. You’ve made me like this. You women, all nice and sweet and friendly at first. Julie did that to me too! Why don’t you ask the man that keeps on phoning my house what he knows? Pussy! Never speaks. As soon as he hears me, he hangs up. He must want her or else he would say something. Who knows? She’s probably screwing him. I loved her you know, but she’s fucked everything up and now I hate her. I hate every bit of her, every memory, every fucking mention of her. She’s done this to me. She deserves to rot in hell. You women all deserve to rot in hell.’
His cheeks were wet with tears as he was bundled out of the interview room, back towards the cells.
Annabel Leigh-Matthews looked towards the door before pulling herself up to her feet.
‘Sorry I wasn’t much help,’ she mumbled apologetically.
‘Don’t worry. You were a great help,’ Hunter replied, with a satisfied grin. ‘Your advice to say no
comment assisted us no end.’
He turned to Charlie and spoke seriously.
‘Thank you for your presence too, DC Stafford. I think it’s fair to say that after our little chat, Mr Hubbard has given us two very strong reasons why Julie and Richard may have disappeared. He doesn’t like women and he has distinct anger management issues.’
Chapter 12
Hunter was chewing on the end of a pen impatiently as Charlie jogged in. He had long since worked his way through every one of his finger-nails and small spots of blood framed each cuticle where he had chewed them too low. He was staring at the phone now.
‘Why are they taking so bleedin’ long?’
‘It is Saturday, guv. We’re lucky that anyone’s in, especially this early.’
He spat out a piece of misshaped plastic from the pen, cursing as the ink cartridge slid out of the flattened end landing in front of him on the desk. Charlie moved to wipe away a small streak of ink, but he brushed her hand away impatiently, throwing the pen towards the bin and cursing again as it hit the rim and bounced off on to the floor. He looked her up and down frowning.
She went to speak but thought better of it, though she did feel more than a little aggrieved that, having come in especially on the weekend to keep up the momentum of the case, Hunter was clearly taking out his bad mood on her. Her mother had also been on her case, warning her not to overdo things too soon. Charlie was literally saved from saying anything by the bell.
As Hunter answered the phone, his expression turned from irritation to astonishment, to glee.
‘You must be joking? Are you sure? Thanks.’
After Hubbard’s claim in his interview, checks on his home phone had thrown up one number which had appeared on several occasions since Julie’s disappearance. They had been waiting to discover the registered owner of that number and Charlie was now totally mesmerized by Hunter’s reaction.
