by Sarah Flint
‘Bloody hell, this is going to be interesting.’ He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘It’s only come back as registered to His highness, the great Justin Latchmere.’
‘What! The Justin Latchmere?’
He scribbled down an address.
‘Well, there can’t be too many Justin Latchmeres living in the most exclusive part of Clapham, can there?’
Justin Latchmere was known to everyone in the CID at Lambeth. He worked as a barrister at their local Crown Court and had done so for years. There were few detectives, solicitors or counsel who had failed to come under his spell. Justin was one of those men whose reputation and presence went before them. He was fifty-five years of age with brilliant white hair, swept back off his face into a tiny ponytail at the back of his head, which caused his wig to bulge slightly. Tall, athletic and charismatic, with a finely honed bone structure that made him appear youthful and boyish, while at the same time endowing him with a look of wisdom and knowledge. Justin had worked for both prosecution and defence in the past before settling into the less morally beneficial but more lucrative role of counsel for the defence. Nobody who had ever come across him at court forgot him.
He oozed charm and agreeability, flirting outrageously with any female he needed to get onside, while being every man’s best mate, their right-hand man in times of crisis, until they fell into his trap and made a mistake. That done, his killer instinct kicked in, like a spider approaching its silky target, mercilessly reducing his quarry to a stuttering, stammering wreck in the witness box, and all with a persuasive smile plastered across his charming features. Anybody returning to the office after a particularly sound mauling in court would receive the sympathy of all their compatriots if admitting to having been ‘Latchmered’.
Given his reputation for incisive and cut-throat questioning, it was hard to understand how everyone still buzzed round him like bees to a honeypot, but they did. Women fell at his feet and he wasn’t adverse, so rumour had it, to the odd dalliance here and there, but none lasted long and none were ever allowed to intrude on the longevity of his marriage to his wife, Dana. She was his rock, as he was happy to admit, and even though his roving eye sometimes got the better of him, he would always return after each conquest to her forgiving arms, cowed and chastened slightly but ready to turn on the charm offensive and win her over. Theirs was a solid marriage, not harmed, it seemed, by a spot of outside activity, so long as it didn’t affect the relationship by becoming serious. Charlie suspected that as long as the money was still pouring in, Dana Latchmere would allow her errant husband an awful lot of freedom. Having met Dana several times though, she had to say that she’d found her to be a particularly friendly, unassuming woman who quietly but firmly held the purse strings without giving the impression of doing so.
‘I wonder why Justin Latchmere has been phoning Hubbard’s address then? Seems very strange.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Hubbard had spoken to him about his case and Latchmere was going to be his barrister, should it go to Crown Court.’
‘But to call him from his own home address? Why on earth would an experienced barrister do that from his personal phone? He must be off his head to allow someone like Hubbard easy access to his private number.’
Hunter was animated and back to his usual self.
‘Right. You have ten minutes to smarten yourself up or I’m going without you. Let’s hope our honourable friend can come up with some good answers then. It’ll make a change for it to be us asking the questions, rather than the other way round.’
*
The house didn’t disappoint.
It was set back from the road with a driveway that ran around the front in a generous gravel horseshoe. Ornate black metal gates which opened on the press of a remote control gave access to cars. Matching gates on either side of the vehicular ones allowed foot visitors to come and go. A variety of trees and shrubs framed the garden and large flower beds bordered the immaculately flat, bright green lawn that surrounded the driveway.
The house was large but not imposing, with a country-cottage look belying the fact that it was set in the sprawling capital of England. A slatted, whitewashed front door with a large round door knocker was the focal point with an open, stone porch giving shelter to visitors. Ivy climbed around the frontage on trellises; controlled, it seemed, by the same hard-working gardener whose attention to detail had created the stunning entrance. Double-glazed sash windows receded into the stone window surrounds and a grey tiled roof sloped downwards to join the stonework at a slightly jaunty angle.
All in all, the house looked expensively rural, like a quintessentially English Cotswold home that had been lifted in its entirety and transported to the leafy suburbs of Clapham, South London.
‘Wow, nice gaff,’ Hunter remarked with a low whistle as they pulled up outside. ‘Bet they’ve got a housekeeper and a gardener to do the work. I can’t imagine Justin or Dana being the sort to get their hands dirty.’
They walked towards the porch with the gravel crunching beneath them. Charlie rapped smartly on the front door. There was no reply so she knocked again. When there was still no answer forthcoming, she bent down and pushed the letterbox open. A waft of expensive furniture polish hit her nostrils as she peered through the small gap, trying to see into the house for any movement. Hunter leant forward and banged on the door once more and Charlie was surprised to see a shadow move across her vision.
She stood up quickly but the door remained shut. Bending down again, she called through the letterbox.
‘Who is it?’ a woman’s voice called back.
‘It’s DC Charlie Stafford and DI Hunter from Lambeth police. Is that you Dana?’
The door opened and Dana Latchmere stood before them. She was just as stunning as her husband, tall and sleek, with long dark hair curling abundantly around her shoulders. Mid-fifties, but well preserved, with subtle eye make-up which enhanced large brown eyes and skin that was smooth and wrinkle-free, save for a few laughter lines. She wore casual brown trousers, a cream cashmere jumper and a thin, loosely tied neck scarf which blended the two shades together perfectly. A single string of pearls and matching earrings completed the look of simple elegance.
‘You’d better come in.’
She pulled the door open allowing the two detectives to enter. As they stepped through into the oak panelled hallway, Charlie didn’t miss the troubled glance Dana threw behind them before closing the door quickly.
‘Sorry for the delay in answering. Justin’s out and I was busy upstairs. Is there something I can do for you?’
‘We just need a quick chat with you if that’s OK. It won’t take long.’
Charlie raised her eyebrows at Hunter as they were shown through to a large, expensively furnished lounge at the rear of the house which looked out on to the back garden, resplendent with a small open-air swimming pool and large patio, housing a covered hot tub. Around the room, gilt-framed photographs showed images of their two children: Gemma astride a horse, rosette in hand, and Aiden standing in the front of a red and white-shirted school rugby team.
‘Defence work pays well then?’ Hunter commented, with another low whistle. ‘It’s a shame the Crown Prosecution Service isn’t so lucrative. Maybe not so many guilty people would be walking free if we could offer the same rate of pay?’
‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Dana winked at them as she pulled out a chair and indicated for them to sit down.
Charlie and Hunter made themselves comfortable. They were seated around one end of a large mahogany table so dark and shiny she could almost see her face reflected in the varnished sheen. She tried to smooth her hair back down. It was doing its own thing again.
Dana leant back and placed her hands on the arms of her seat. Hers was at the head of the table, a position that Charlie noted with a wry smile. Dana was already at an advantage over them, at home, in her environment, while she and Hunter were uncomfortably out of place in this opulence. Charlie leant back in
her chair, mirroring Dana, who immediately moved forward.
‘So what is it that you need to talk to me about? Has Justin beaten you in court again?’
She smiled a little too sweetly towards them.
‘Not for a while, thank goodness!’ Charlie kept the mood light-hearted. ‘Annabel Leigh-Matthews did though recently. I think she’s got Justin as her role model. Mind you,’ she leant in conspiratorially, ‘it seems like Justin might be trying to poach her client off her now.’
Dana frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sorry.’
‘Ms Leigh-Matthews’s client had assaulted me.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you weren’t too badly injured.’
‘She was lucky. Five stitches and severe concussion. If she’d fractured her skull it could have been much worse,’ Hunter interrupted. ‘He walked away from court a free man due to a technicality.’
Dana said nothing. She wouldn’t look directly at Charlie. ‘I’m sorry to hear that too.’ She paused for what seemed like ages. ‘But what’s it got to do with Justin?’
‘The day I got assaulted I was talking to Ms Leigh-Matthews’ client about the fact that he had reported his wife and child missing.’
She paused and watched Dana. Her face was giving nothing away, which was unusual; Dana was normally expressive and animated, but this time her face was a mask, as if desperately trying to stifle her emotions.
‘The client was arrested in connection with their disappearance yesterday and it appears that he has been receiving silent calls from your home number. ’
Dana stood up slowly, her cheeks pale and walked towards the window.
‘But why would Justin be trying to poach another solicitor’s client?’
‘Maybe he is looking around to try and find a more prominent case that will give him more publicity or notoriety?’ Charlie tilted her head.
‘Now why would I need that?’
Justin Latchmere strode forward into the room, his voice hard and loud and his expression just as stern. ‘I have perfectly enough notoriety, as I’m sure both of you, and the vast majority of police and prosecutors, can verify. Now, perhaps you would tell me why you’re disturbing my wife and I on a Saturday morning?’
‘Good morning, Mr Latchmere. Well, maybe you can tell me why you have been phoning Keith Hubbard’s home address then?’ She wasn’t going to be stopped.
‘What?’
‘Calls have been made from this address to his number regularly since his wife went missing.’
‘I know nothing…’ Justin Latchmere stopped mid-sentence. ‘Are you interviewing me, officer?’
‘There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation why your number is on Mr Hubbard’s call list. We’re just giving you a chance to tell us the reason, at the moment. Then we’ll decide whether we need to formally interview you.’
‘Well I think you’re going to have to wait until then. I’m not going to be tricked into saying anything until I know a little more of what is going on. You say Keith Hubbard’s wife has been reported missing?’
‘Do you know her?’
He said nothing but Charlie got the distinct impression he did.
‘She’s been gone now for just over two weeks, with one of her sons. Nothing has been heard from them in that time.’
‘And you think I might know something about it?’
‘We were wondering what the link with your number was?’
‘And you want me to tell you without being cautioned or having any legal representative present?’
‘I presume you’ve got some information to tell us then?’ She smiled at his obvious concern. He clearly did know something.
‘You can presume nothing of the sort other than I want you to leave now. I will make arrangements to come to the police station with my own solicitor and speak with you.’
Hunter stood up and offered him his hand. ‘Well that sounds good to me, Mr Latchmere. We’ll be in touch to arrange a date that is suitable for us both.’
Dana moved towards Charlie, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Can I speak to you for a minute?’
‘I’m sure my wife has nothing further to say. Have you, my love?’ Justin shot an icy glare at Dana, before finishing off with the same smile that Charlie recognized from their courtroom encounters, the epitome of good-natured, ‘case concluded’ charm.
‘I’m sure she won’t be allowed to speak,’ Hunter shook his head at the retreating shape of Dana, her head bowed, ‘whether she wants to or not.’
Justin ignored the comment and held out his hand towards Charlie. He was smiling again, the same sickly sweet grin, and it made her feel nauseous. She fixed her face in as professional an expression as she could muster and shrugged towards him.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ she said shortly, ignoring his proffered hand and turning to leave. ‘Sooner rather than later.’
Chapter 13
It was nearly ready now. One pit. Two neat woodland coffins, seven feet square and three feet down with a smoothed layer of dirt and leaves across the bottom and a heavy trap-door split in two that opened outwards, allowing him a view into every part of it; perfect. A water tank fitted nicely into the top left-hand corner of the pit with a thin rubber hose at its base allowing the water to empty into the mouth of his captive as they sucked. This time he had fitted a valve at the end of the hose so that the water wouldn’t be lost needlessly if his captive chose to spit the tube out and leave the tank to drain. He liked to learn. He wanted the pit to evolve and progress with each pair, to maximize his pleasure. He wanted to see every part of the picture, every inch of their bodies, every minute detail of their agony. He wanted to smell their smell, the sickly odour of their sweat, piss, shit and death. He wanted to touch them now too, to feel the cold, dead lifelessness of the favoured one, how they would gradually stiffen, then relax, bloat and empty. He wanted to touch the bitch more this time, feel the difference between life and death; watch the way she would squirm away from his hands. He liked the thought. He liked the thought a lot. Pain for her, pleasure for him. Captivity for her, release for him, Pain and pleasure, pain and pleasure.
He was nearly there. He started to jog through the trail he knew so well, deeper into the woodland, past the huge oak with the hollow centre and the chestnut with the hole that housed the family of tawny owls. He was so close now. He couldn’t wait to see it again, to lie down inside it and smell the fresh, earthy smell of the soil and the leaves.
He passed the previous pit. Even in the last few days, since he’d covered the bodies with soil and sealed them in, the woodland had grown up around them. He missed them. There was no odour of death there anymore. It was sealed below, and as long as it wasn’t dug up by some woodland creature, the grave would remain anonymous. He laughed at the thought; their final resting place. What a joke. Resting! Well maybe Richard; he was dead by the time his body hit the soil, but Julie. That was the last thing she had done. She had squirmed, cried, pleaded for help, but there was no one to help her. No one to hear except him and he had not listened, just as his own mother had not listened to him. He had been nothing to her, nothing except the one to blame, the one to do the jobs, the one that was hated and used and abused.
He was there now. He felt the raw excitement building in him. His hands were shaking as he bent down and swept the shrubbery away. Open the lid! And there it was; his own private place, away from everything, away from everyone. His own private domain where he could do what he wanted, watch what he wanted, feel what he wanted.
‘Fuck you, bitch.’
His voice was low, guttural, filled with rage. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.’
Climbing in, he inhaled, letting the dampness of the soil fold itself around him. He pulled the door down over him and exhaled, closing his eyes against the darkness. The space was small but not so small that he couldn’t move. Light chinked through the gap between the two doors and he pushed himself away from it, against the side of the pit, as fa
r away from the light as he could get.
The voice was filling his head. He curled his legs up to his chest and clung on to them, pulling them tight into him. His breathing was shallow. He held his breath to stop any tiny noise from coming out, holding himself stiff and tight against the wall, trying not to be heard. And then she was there, laughing at him.
‘Come out you little bastard. You think you can hide from me do you? Well I’ll show you, you little shit. I’ll show you.’
And he was falling, falling out from the cupboard on to the hard floor, while she kicked out at him. Screaming, screaming, and the noise filled his head. He was only five. He remembered his nice teacher at school, how his mummy had spoken to her, told his teacher that he was a naughty boy who needed to be punished. But he wasn’t and he had said that he wasn’t. His mummy had not been pleased. So he had run away and hidden. But now she was there, dragging him across the floor, kicking him. She was turning him over, slapping him across the face.
‘Mummy, please don’t. Mummy.’
‘Think you can tell your teacher lies, do you?’
He was on his back and she was sitting on him, laughing at him, slapping him.
‘I’ll show you.’
‘Please Mummy. I’m sorry.’
But she wasn’t listening. She never listened. She was undoing his clothing, pulling his T-shirt up over his face, unbuttoning his shorts. She was going to hurt him again like she always did. She was going to smack him and smack him until he was bruised and sore, until his bottom hurt to sit on. And he squirmed to get free but he couldn’t because Mummy was pinning him down, but she wasn’t hurting him this time. She had her hand down his pants and he didn’t know what was happening but it didn’t feel right and it sort of felt nice but strange. She was laughing as she touched him.
‘You want to be a good boy then, do you? Well do you?’
He couldn’t see her for the T-shirt across his face but he nodded. He wanted to be a good boy, like Tommy, his brother. He wanted to be good, but he wasn’t a good boy. Mummy kept telling him he was naughty. Mummy told everyone he was naughty, but he really wasn’t.
