Dead in the Water

by Wilfred Jules

  His phone rang. He recognized the number and picked up immediately.

  “You asked to call you urgently,” the voice at the other side said. It was Ricky Rowlands.

  “Two things,” Vik responded. “My boss wants you to come to Malling House Monday at ten am to discuss your statement. I made a mistake allowing you to make it at your own house. That was very irregular.”

  “Annoying, but possible if necessary,” Ricky answered. “I want to bring my solicitor though.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “Your alibi. Doesn’t totally hold. You said you were at the Metropole Bar until three am. I just found out they close at two am.”

  “Right. But why is that an issue? I need time to go home after all.”

  “But you didn’t mention that. It doesn’t make a good impression to leave a hole in your statement about an alibi. I suggest you discuss with your solicitor the proper response before you come in on Monday. I’m checking it tonight with the staff of the Metropole. They will remember you, yes?”

  “I hope they will …. Look, Vik, am I a suspect here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you do something about it?”

  “We don’t have anything tangible yet, but I can’t make it go away either. My boss is breathing down my neck. And I mean that literally. Just caught her checking on me at The Metropole. Perhaps she is suspecting something. Perhaps not. As I said, the way we made that statement was a mistake and she realized that immediately. She is not stupid, and she is getting a lot of attention from the brass. She doesn’t have any other leads to tell them about so she may start to focus on you.”

  “That isn’t good, Vik. I don’t want anyone to focus on my business. You understand?”

  “I know. I see what I can get from the staff at The Metropole tonight. Look, we didn’t put the names of your game buddies in the statement either. Please bring these with you as well Monday.”

  “Will do, Vik.”

  Then, after a pause.

  “I need this to go away, Vik. One way or another.”

  *

  At one pm sharp DC John Ryan parked his Harley in the parking lot of the MacDonalds in Brighton Marina. He had gone home quickly after the meeting to check on his mum who had been poorly that morning. He had made her a new pot of Earl Grey and dashed around the corner to the shop for milk. He had called Geoff Simmons, the SOCO team leader right after the meeting, but he did not have anyone available to come with him to the Marina today. As the boat had been thoroughly searched by SOCO before however he had given John the go-ahead to retrieve the plotter with the help of a technician from the Marina. The actual work of retrieving the data would need to be done by the IT people of Sussex Police anyway, not SOCO. Happy to have been handed an easy excuse John had called Moira Kelly, the harbour master, to see if she could get a technician to come with him to Polaris and retrieve the plotter. She had told him she would do that and meet him at the boat at one thirty with someone to assist them. He had not had any lunch yet, so he decided to drop into the MacDonalds for a fast food lunch. Inside, he heard his name called when he was walking to the counter. He turned around and found Moira sitting by herself at a table near the window. He walked over to her, all smiles.

  “You caught me at my guilty pleasure,” she welcomed him.

  “I thought you were here for the excellent wine they are well known for,” he replied. They laughed.

  “Let me go grab my lunch quickly. You need anything else?”

  She shook her head. He went to order a Big Mac Menu and a coffee and took it back with him.

  “Brought you coffee anyway. If you don’t want it, leave it and I’ll drink it,” he told her.

  “Perfect gentleman,” she replied, taking the coffee gratefully, “and no one takes a cup of coffee away from this girl!”

  While he was eating his lunch, they started where they had left off last night. Talking to Moira was so easy, John thought. There was never an awkward break in the conversation.

  Afterwards they walked together to the East Jetty where Polaris was still berthed. The police lines were still there, making her off limits to everyone, but no officer had been posted there anymore. John could not see anyone waiting for them either. He frowned.

  “Your guy seems not to have arrived yet,” he said.

  “My guy?” Moira asked.

  “Were you not going to get a technician to help us retrieve the plotter?”

  “Oh all right. In that case, I am that guy.”

  “You?” John said, unable to keep surprise out of his voice.

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “John, remember I am the harbour master here. You can’t be that without knowing a lot about boats. These days that means knowing a lot about the electronics, too.”

  Apologetically, he handed her a pair of gloves and donned them himself, too. They climbed on board and went to the cockpit, where he noticed a toolbox she must have deposited earlier.

  “I don’t know if you just want the data, or you want the entire console, John,” she said, looking at him questioningly.

  “Better to take everything, I guess,” he replied. “Can you tap the data separately though?”

  “You can with this one. It’s a Raymarine Axiom XL Multifunction Display, which is the latest and greatest from that popular brand. You can back up and restore your waypoints, routes and tracks very simply on a CompactFlash memory card. I trust you brought a clean one with you?”

  “Oops I have not,” he admitted sheepishly. “Shall I go get one quickly?”

  “No need. Brought one with me,” she replied with a huge grin, pulling it out of her jacket. “Mind you I will invoice that to Sussex Police!”

  She turned to the plotter and concentrated. She entered the memory card in a hidden slot, tapped a number of keys on the screen and after five minutes she handed him the card, which he carefully put in an evidence bag. She then started to remove the connectors from the console. She suddenly stopped, frowned and looked up at the mast.

  “Now that’s special,” she said. “Bert had a Raymarine FLIR M200 installed it appears. First time I see one. Expensive kit, that is.”

  “What does it do?” John asked.

  “It’s a thermal camera,” she said. “You can see it up there, just in front of the mast, right under the radar dome.”

  “Looks like an ordinary camera to me.”

  “It does. But it’s the infrared version, meaning you can use it to see even if it is pitch dark. Great help, in particular at sea in winter and early spring.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Contrary to common belief, the sea is at its coldest in early spring, March or so. People tend to think it’s colder in January, but that is not the case. The reason is that big bodies of water cool down very slowly. Since this thing is based on heat signatures, the more contrast between the heat of the object you want to see and the water, the better. Pricey kit though. About three thousand quid I would think.”

  “Does it record images, too?” John asked, suddenly interested.

  “It does, but only if you press the record button. If there are any recordings, you should find them inside the console.”

  She quickly removed a few screws and it took her less than five minutes to lift the console away and hand it to him. They walked back to her office so that he could give her a receipt for the data card and one for the console. After, on the way out, he hesitated, then turned around and asked her if she would care to have dinner with him tonight. She smiled back at him.

  “Would love to, John, but unfortunately I already have plans for tonight.”

  His disappointment obviously showed. She added quickly.

  “However, I’m off tomorrow and have no plans yet. Would you care to go for a walk with me?”

  He did care. A lot.

  *

  At a few minutes to six pm DI Vik Gorti parked his lime coloured Toyota again in the
Churchill Square Car Park and grumpily walked the short distance back to The Metropole. The staff had indeed changed at the bar. He showed his warrant card to the bartender and asked him to have a quick word. The young man, who identified himself as Roman Sharp, hesitated, saying he would probably need to inform the general manager first. Vik responded that the GM was well aware they would be having this conversation and it was just to check something. Should not take a minute. Satisfied, Roman called over Freddie Hunt who had just entered as well. Vik showed them a photo from Ricky Rowlands he had on his phone and asked them if they knew him. They looked at each other briefly, then Roman answered: “I can’s say I ‘know’ him, but I have seen him before if that is what you need to know.”

  Freddie nodded his ascent.

  “Can you tell me if you have seen him here last Monday night?”

  “I can’t be one hundred percent sure it was Monday, but it was one of the nights this week all right.”

  Freddie added: “I do believe it was Monday all right. You remember, Roman, it was the night you had a flat tyre.”

  “You’re right, Freddie. Must have been Monday night indeed. I arrived late because I had a flat on the way and had to take a cab here. And then we practically had to chase them out because I really needed to go back to my car because I had arranged with my brother to come pick me up at three am sharp. You see, we close at two am but it’s a lot of work cleaning up and making sure everything is set for the morning shift.”

  “You are certain then you locked up at two am. Your customers didn’t ask to stay longer.”

  “Sometimes we allow them to stay on a little while we lock up and start cleaning, but Monday that would have been difficult. This gentleman you showed us was part of a small group playing cards and we had to ask them to leave. In fact, I remember telling them at one forty-five we were going to lock up at two.”

  “Did they give you a hard time leaving?”

  “Not that I remember, no.”

  “And they were here all night?”

  “I think they must have arrived around ten pm.”

  “Did any of them leave early? Or was gone for a while?”

  Roman hesitated.

  “I really can’t say. They’ve come here a few times. Typically, they pause for half an hour or so, halfway through the game. But I can’t remember if one of them left during the break.”

  Freddie agreed. Vik terminated the conversation and left. The good news was that they had corroborated Ricky’s alibi until two am. The bad news was that Ricky could have left during the break they took. Halfway through meant it must have been around midnight. It also meant he did not have an alibi between two and three am. The pathologist had put the time of death between midnight and one, but time of death was not an exact science. It was more an educated guess. Any good prosecutor would point that out. Ricky had to make sure the other people in his party would corroborate his alibi.

  Vik took his phone and called Ricky again to let him know his alibi had only been partially corroborated and to ask him for the names and details of the other people that took part in the card game. Ricky was not too pleased with that. In his business he would rather have no one else was aware he might have issues with the police. He told Vik gruffly he would text him the names later in the evening and hang up. Vik thought by himself he was probably going to brief them first, to make sure they had an identical story. He hoped Ricky would not be dumb enough to just give him the names of people who had not actually been there but would still support his alibi.

  He saw it was close to seven thirty when he finally parked his car in front of his house.

  *

  DS Ben Armstrong was a bundle of nerves. It was seven twenty-three already. Very soon he would have to leave to meet Nathan Greystone as agreed at eight pm at The Cricketers, and he was not even sure yet what to wear. His charcoal Hugo Boss suit? Something less formal? Something very informal perhaps? Eventually, he settled for a combination of his Hugo Boss suit with a turtleneck obsidian coloured sweater. He knew his skin tone was set off nicely against the suit. The turtleneck sweater made the combination less formal and more debonair than he actually felt.

  He had hoped to walk there so that he would not need the car, but it was too late for that now. It would be a forty-five-minute walk and he did not want to arrive all sweaty. He could have ordered a cab, too, but for some reason he had forgotten to order one. And no chance in the world he was going to get one in time now on a Saturday evening in Brighton. He looked at himself in the mirror and instructed himself to calm down. He was just going for drinks with a friend in a pub. Nothing special about it.

  Ben parked his car in the NCP Car Park on Russel Road and walked the seven minutes to The Cricketers in Black Lion Lane. The Cricketers prided itself to be the oldest pub in Brighton, dating back to 1570, and certainly one of the most popular. He checked his watch just before he went in. It was two minutes to eight.

  Inside, he immediately spotted Nathan Greystone at a corner table next to the window. He had obviously been on the lookout for Ben as he was standing up and waving at him. Ben walked over and felt he had a huge smile on his face. He could not help himself. Nathan had that effect on him. They hugged, quite naturally.

  “You look dashing,” Nathan said appreciatively.

  “You don’t look bad yourself,” Ben replied. Indeed, Nathan was wearing one of his outrageous outfits again. This time an extremely loud Hawaiian shirt on white linen trousers.

  They ordered drinks. Nathan had a Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, New Zealand and Ben opted for something stronger, a double dram of Jura Seven Wood, to help him relax. That actually proved not to be necessary. They got on like fire and talked about all sorts of subjects without any awkward silences between them. They hardly discussed their jobs though. Ben did wonder why someone would want to become a Mortician as a chosen profession. Nathan responded that he considered it particularly important as a last service to a fellow human being to make death presentable. Those that arrived on his table often had passed away in unnatural, suspicious or simply gruesome deaths. It was his and his team’s job he found not only to treat the deceased’s corpse with the respect it deserved but also to create an atmosphere that might help the family or people close to the departed accept death and speed on the process of mourning. Although he had to admit that sometimes it was rather in vain as no family or next of kin deigned to show up or they exhibited only bitterness and contempt if they did. But that was just part of it, he said. Ben was suitably impressed by that description.

  “And how is Operation Blackbird going,” Nathan asked.

  Ben explained as much as he could without divulging any details.

  “I was having dinner with Alistair Holloway the other night,” Nathan commented. “We are both part of the same rotary club, you see. He told me you guys thought his client Brandon Nicholson was guilty, but he was adamant you were wrong about that.”

  “It’s a weird thing,” Ben replied. “Ianthe doesn’t think he’s guilty. In fact, I doubt she has ever seriously considered him. But he refuses to say where he was at the time of the murder. He claimed he was at home, but when we confronted him with his phone location data that put him slap bang in the middle of Brighton, he refused to tell us where he was or why. Very odd. He must have been doing something that he doesn’t want anyone to know. Perhaps he was banging one of his underage girlfriends.”

  Nathan looked at him curiously.

  “Why would you say that, Ben?”

  “Well, this is between you and me, all right, but we have some indications that he might have an unhealthy interest in very young girls.”

  Nathan shook his head. Then startled Ben:

  “No way, Ben. I can’t believe that of Brandon.”

  “Do you know him then?” Ben asked surprised, adding: “Why can’t you believe that?”

  “Because I know for a fact that Brandon is gay, Ben. As gay as can be.”

  *

  At two mi
nutes past six DCI Ianthe Seymour parked her Audi on Temple Gardens, behind the Brighton Dance Academy, and walked home to Belvedere with her purchases. She felt good about her shopping. After the unexpected meeting with Vik Gorti she had drank her coffee and gone shopping in the Churchill Square shopping centre. She had finally purchased a new pair of white Nike sneakers, nothing near as fancy as the shoes Ajanta was wearing, but at least new and comfortable. She left her old black ones in the shop, having asked to throw them away. She had continued to window shop, tempted to invest in a new blue jeans, too, but she decided one new thing was good enough. On the spur of the moment however she had had her hair done for the first time since last year Christmas and she allowed herself to be convinced to listen to a makeup specialist who gave her face some accents in all the right places. She very much liked what she saw in the mirror and ended up buying the lip gloss, eyeliner and some basic powder. She had decided that tonight she would make a special effort for Tony. She would make a nice dinner and then they would sit down together and have a serious conversation about their relationship and how to breathe new life into it and take that forward. She would explain how she felt about their life together and that she wanted to invest in it. She felt certain Tony would also be eager to move forward. Just before she went home, she spotted a nice little azure dress on sale that should go very well with her eyes. It was her size, fortunately, so she bought that, too.

  Then she went to Waitrose to buy all the ingredients required to make a fresh lasagne from scratch and splashed out on a bottle of Marchesi di Barolo, which was Tony’s favourite red wine. He had texted her earlier that he would be back by eight. She had texted back that in that case she would prepare dinner for him. He had responded with several smileys. That was a good sign, she thought.