‘Go ahead.’
‘I’ve told you about the passport I gave Ashley – that’s an offence, right? What I did there, lettin’ him mess with it, that’s fraud or somethin’, right?’
‘It’s fraud.’
‘But what I said about Andy Ellison doin’ Raurie Crewe’s books and stuff. You didn’t know about that. I’m not a copper, but I bet if you turn over Andy’s gaff, you’ll find somethin’ that jams Raurie up. So, the way I figure it, one cancels out the other. Right?’
She nods to the still-rolling tape machine and I wonder if I should have waited until she’d turned it off before trying to cut this deal. ‘Mr Smith, I need to remind you that you’re under caution. Any decision to bring charges against you will be down to the SIO of this investigation, DI Parker, and the Crown Prosecution Service. Although you’ve given this statement voluntarily, I would like you to remain here for the present, until I can get guidance on what actions, if any, will be taken against you. Are you agreeable to doing so?’
I shrug. ‘I’ve nothin’ better to do, and I guess it keeps me out of the pub.’
‘Then I am terminating this interview at ten fifty-eight a.m.’
115
Annie
I’m in Ray Goodwin’s office, waiting for him to finish a call to Sirisopa’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Trimek. My DCI has spent most of the ten-minute conversation with an elbow on the desk and a hand clutching his troubled head.
‘Thank you,’ he finally says in a sombre tone and places the handset back in its holder. He turns to me and looks ashen-faced. ‘Sirisopa is dead. He died before they could get him to hospital.’
‘I thought he was wearing body armour?’
‘Head shot,’ says Goodwin. ‘He’d led his unit into the bedroom of Chaiprasit’s bodyguard and he’d been awake and waiting for them. He shot the major directly in the face.’
‘Poor bugger.’ I can’t help but relive Richardson shooting me in The Brown Bear. If he’d gone for my head, I wouldn’t be here now. ‘Sirisopa seemed a good copper, boss. I imagine they are hard to come by out there.’
‘Most corrupt force in the world,’ says Goodwin. He takes a second, then adds, ‘I’ve never seen anyone die before. One of the deficiencies of being fast-tracked as a graduate, I suppose.’
‘It’s not a deficiency, sir. Missing out on road crashes and such like is a good thing.’
‘I’m sorry. Just watching that, live on camera, it’s thrown me a bit.’
‘It will do. And you’ll probably never forget it. That’s only natural, boss.’
‘Thanks.’ He forces a smile.
I take it as the cue to get him back on track. ‘What did Trimek say about Crewe? Did they manage to arrest him?’
‘Yes, yes, they did.’ He gets his focus back. ‘He and his partner, Janjira, made a run for it in a BMW, the SUV we saw on screen, but they stopped it about five miles away and they’re both in custody.’
‘And the man is definitely Crewe?’ I ask eagerly.
‘Trimek said the male occupant had no identification on him, and was refusing to talk until his solicitor arrived. But they have a mugshot and he’s sending us a copy.’
‘Did he describe him?’ I ask, clutching at straws.
‘Tall, early mid-forties, dark hair, with an English accent.’
‘His hair had an English accent?’ I joke.
‘Here we go.’ He leans towards his computer screen and clicks his mouse. ‘Here’s our mugshot.’
I hang over his shoulder as the file slowly renders on the monitor.
First the hair. Short. One notch off being a buzz cut. Dark and receding a little at the sides of the forehead.
Next the eyebrows. Dark. Thin. Arched.
The eyes. Light brown. Staring meanly into the camera. A hint of Kieran Crewe about them.
Now the nose. Long. Equine. My heart thumps. This is Kieran’s nose. Raurie’s nose. This is the nose of the dinner-suited man at the ball with the glamorous companion. This is the nose of the teenager in his football kit.
‘This is Ashley Crewe,’ I say confidently. ‘This is the face of our rapist. Our murder victim who never was.’
‘The face of our Mr Big,’ adds Goodwin.
Ashley Crewe’s face now fills the computer monitor. There’s defiance in his eyes. A dark, brooding hatred for the person taking his photograph.
‘I’ll ask for DNA sampling,’ adds the DCI. ‘We’ll have to prove beyond doubt that it’s him in order for them to execute an extradition.’
Nisha appears in the open door and knocks on the wood to get our attention. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Go ahead,’ says Goodwin.
‘I’ve got Megan Billen on the phone again. She’s called a couple of times and wants to update you on Daniel Smith.’
‘I’m coming.’ I sympathetically squeeze Goodwin’s shoulder on the way past. ‘I’m happy to talk later, boss, if you want to.’
‘Thanks,’ he says.
I follow Nisha down the corridor. ‘What’s that about?’ she asks.
‘Sirisopa’s dead. Goodwin’s cut up about it.’
‘Oh. Right. That’s a shame,’ says Nisha, not as insensitively as it sounds. She’s seen more than her share of deaths and knows not to dwell.
We walk into a small room used mainly for conference calls with the CPS and video links with other forces and law enforcement agencies.
‘Hello, Megan,’ I say brightly as Nisha and I settle at the table, with a large spider-like conference call phone plonked in the middle of it.
‘Hello, ma’am,’ she replies, sitting up smartly on hearing my voice.
‘DS Patel tells me you have some news on Danny Smith.’
‘Yes, ma’am. He’s been very forthright in interviews with us. I’ll mail a report to you as soon as I get back to my desk.’
‘The gist of it?’
‘He admits supplying the Crewes with his own passport and believes it was used by Ashley to create a new identity for himself and to settle somewhere.’
‘Where?’ My mind is of course on Thailand.
‘He says he doesn’t know, ma’am. And given his other admissions, I’m inclined to believe him.’
I speak to Nisha. ‘Run ex-pat checks on a Daniel Smith, British citizen, applying for any legal documentation in Thailand – driving licence, medical cover, insurances, anything.’
She makes a note.
‘Megan,’ I continue, ‘what were the other admissions you alluded to?’
She nods as she remembers the phrase. ‘I don’t know if you’re already aware of this, ma’am. Smith was an acquaintance of Andrew Ellison.’
I look to Nisha and she shakes her head. ‘No,’ I confirm. ‘We didn’t know that.’
‘Well, he was’ she continues. ‘According to Smith, Ellison used to keep the Crewes’ books.’
‘Books as in illegal accounts?’ queries Nisha, looking animated at the thought of it.
‘Exactly. He says he was a qualified accountant by day and practising junkie by night. Raurie Crewe gave him drugs in return for professional services. Apparently, this included collecting cash up and down the country and dropping off supplies, which I took to mean drugs.’
‘The story makes sense,’ I tell her. ‘Ellison was promising to disclose vital information to us about a gang boss, someone we now suspect to be either Raurie or Ashley Crewe.’
‘Smith is looking for some kind of deal, ma’am,’ says Billen. ‘He’s offering to testify against the Crewes, in return for leniency on the passport offence. I said it wasn’t my call. What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Can’t say I’m keen to do any deal that helps Danny Smith,’ I reply, while trying to think of a way where we are not dependent upon his testimony. ‘I’ll have our CPS office contact you with a view to you charging him and bailing him in connection with the passport fraud. Tell Smith we’ll be reviewing our options in relation to his admissions on being concerned in t
he supply of drugs, and will come back to him after advice from the CPS.’
‘Understood, ma’am. Is there anything else?’
‘No, not for the moment, except to say well done, Megan. Your information tying Ellison and Smith is new to us and could prove significant, so thank you for all your efforts.’
‘Just glad to be of assistance, ma’am.’
Nisha kills the call.
‘Billen’s done well,’ I say, as much to myself as my colleague. ‘Can you put a team together to scrutinise the remains of Ellison’s sad and sorry life? Search his accommodation, personal belongings, online files, safe-deposit boxes, turn over his garden if necessary. If he was the Crewes’ bookkeeper, he kept those books, knowing they would keep him alive. We need to find them.’
‘Will do.’
Nisha starts to leave the room, but I stay seated. I need to sort a few things out in my head before going back in to Goodwin.
‘Anything else?’ she asks.
‘There’s something I can’t work out. Why do you think Charlie York called us in? Given what we know now, wasn’t it in his interest to turn Andy Ellison free, or at least shut him up, so he could ensure that we stayed away from Raurie and Ashley Crewe?’
‘It was,’ she answers, ‘and I suspect that’s what he wanted to do, and would have done, if he’d had the chance.’
‘How do you mean? Charlie was the SIO. He had all the chances he needed.’
‘I don’t think he did,’ says Nisha. ‘Jo Matthews told me he had volunteered for the Richardson-Waters case the very minute the NCA knew they’d escaped from Full Sutton.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘She said he wanted to handle it on his own, but their chief super insisted she ride shotgun. Jo didn’t want to, and York certainly didn’t want her to. At the time, she thought his reluctance was because their affair had only recently finished, but now we know differently.’
‘Affair?’ I query, remembering Charlie’s denial and assertion that she was a lesbian.
‘Oh come on,’ says Nisha, almost mockingly, ‘Surely, you could tell?’
‘Apparently not,’ I say, not wanting to get into a personal discussion about me and Charlie. ‘Back to the case; I guess, when Ellison turned up as a hostage in the Range Rover, Matthews knew about it at the same time he did?’
‘That’s what she said,’ answers Nisha. ‘And there was nothing York could do but report it to his boss and he called our boss, and, well, the rest is history.’
116
Danny
Once DC Eager Beaver bails me, I call a taxi and go back to the pub where I got nicked. Not to get pissed (though the idea goes through my head), but to pick up my neighbour’s bike and cycling gear. Fortunately, it’s all still knocking around beside the bins at the back of the kitchen yard, where I left it. Maybe the chefs kept an eye on it after all.
I’m feeling knackered but nevertheless I cycle back to his house and find the place unoccupied. Maybe they’ve gone away for the weekend. I roll the cycle back into the garage and hang up his helmet and wind jacket.
As I walk back to my house I notice the bathroom window is still open. I let myself in through the front door and the place feels disturbingly empty. Oddly enough, I’m not craving alcohol. Most likely, it’s because of the suppressants the doctor gave me, but I like to think it’s my new-found resolve to stay sober.
I put the kettle on and make instant black coffee. We have a posh bean-to-cup machine, but right now I can’t be arsed. I just want hot black caffeine.
I make it dark enough to strip the enamel off my teeth and while I sip my way through it, I think of Paula. Think of her like I used to think of drink. In other words, even when I try not to think about her, I am thinking about her.
I miss her. It’s that simple. I miss her so much it hurts.
I dial Paula’s mobile number, not expecting her to pick up.
She doesn’t.
The call trips her voicemail message: ‘Sorry, I’m away at the moment. Please leave a message and number and I’ll get back to you.’
I hesitate in replying. The message is new. It no longer says, ‘Hi, I’m Paula.’ It’s anonymous. I guess she’s trying to find herself as much as I am.
‘Hi, this is Danny. Don’t worry, I’m not ringing to bug you, I just wanted to tell you something. A few things, actually. I – I er, just poured all the booze I could find down the drain. I did it because I think I finally found out what made me an alcoholic. It was keeping all those secrets from you. Fearing you’d find out. Worrying that you’d leave me. Well, you’ve left. And I’ve been with the police today and I’ve told them everything, absolutely everything, so there are no more secrets to keep. I guess when you have nothing more to lose, you have nothing more to fear. So, I’m cool. I don’t feel worried. I just feel sorry. Paula—’
A beep sounds and I’m cut off.
I allow myself a wry smile. Even the voicemail doesn’t want to listen to me droning on. I pour myself a glass of water and add ice cubes. Then I call Stevie again. ‘Hiya, mate, how you doin'?’
‘I’m okay. What about you? How’s your day going?’
‘Good. Well, kinda good. Listen, d’you fancy a curry? My treat. Could do with a chat, if you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, a chat with an aloo chaat puri. I could totally do that.’
‘Pick you up in about half an hour.’
117
Paula
Ashley Crewe is alive.
Sickeningly alive and living a stomach-turning high life in Thailand.
I’m having extreme difficulty getting my head around this.
Awful flashbacks of what he did to me and how I felt are haunting me as I head north to be interviewed by the police. On top of that, years of living with the guilt of Ashley’s murder are now being supplanted with a fierce anger that the man who raped me is smiling every day and enjoying living happily in the sunshine.
Once a rapist, always a rapist – I wonder if that’s true.
Did he attack other women after me?
Was I the first of many? Were there other silent victims, women who also quietly celebrated when they heard about his death?
Or has he turned over a new leaf? Atoned. Become a new man. Hates himself for what he did.
I doubt it.
I meet Terry in police reception and we’re shown to a waiting room where we both decline tea, remembering how bad it was on previous occasions.
‘They intend to take your statement first,’ he tells me. ‘Then they’ll formally charge you with the bigamy offence.’
‘I know.’
‘We could attempt to broker a deal,’ he suggests enthusiastically. ‘No charge in return for your testimony against Crewe.’
I shake my head. ‘I want him punished. Even more than the police do. I want to give this statement and see this animal behind bars and I don’t want to jeopardise that in any way.’
‘I understand.’
‘With regards to the bigamy charge – I willingly and very knowingly broke the law when I tricked Martin into marrying me. I’d feel wrong trading away the justice he deserves.’
Terry hunches forward in his seat. ‘Given your pregnancy, I think a custodial unlikely. But it is still a possibility.’
‘I realise that. Up to seven years.’
‘Well, that would be astonishingly unlikely. But a year, or even two, is not out of the question – if you get a very moral judge.’
‘We’d appeal?’
‘Of course.’ He gives me an optimistic smile. ‘We should remain positive.’
There’s a knock on the door. It opens and a young PC tells us, ‘DS Patel asks if you can come through to the interview room, please?’
Terry looks at me for confirmation that we’re done and I nod my assent.
‘We’re coming,’ he says as he begins to gather his papers.
I get up from my seat. ‘By the way, I promised Danny that if he dropped the charges
against Martin, and if the baby turns out to be his, then I’ll stay with him.’
‘Paula, that’s insane.’
We walk into the corridor and follow the PC through some swing doors. ‘I had no choice, Terry. Martin can’t have his life ruined with a conviction for shooting someone. That’s not fair. And the only leverage I had left with Danny is me promising to stay with him.’
He stops and turns to face me. ‘And the child – you’re willing to barter your baby’s future in this negotiation?’
‘Don’t make it sound so distasteful.’
‘But it is.’
Terry’s words hurt. Maybe I hadn’t seen it as coldly as he has. ‘Danny would make a good father.’ I try to convince myself as Terry carries on walking and I fall in at his shoulder. ‘I have no doubts about that. If I did, then I wouldn’t entertain the idea.’
The PC stops and opens the interview-room door for us.
It’s empty.
We pass him as we enter and Terry carries on berating me. ‘As your lawyer, I have to advise you not to do this. You’re offering to serve a life sentence with Danny, while the worst Martin could have faced is a suspended sentence.’
‘Then I just have to hope the baby isn’t Danny’s, don’t I?’
Detective Sergeant Nisha Patel enters the room and flashes a customary smile. ‘Thank you for coming in. Please take a seat.’ She gestures to the two chairs opposite the voice-recording machine and overhead camera. ‘Before we begin,’ she continues, ‘has your client brought her passports as requested?’
‘She has,’ answers Terry.
‘Both of them?’ questions Patel. ‘In the names of Smith and Johnson?’
I open my bag. ‘I have them here.’ I get them out and feel a deep sense of loss as I hand them over. These small books represent my two lives. All my foreign journeys with my two husbands. Everything from business trips to honeymoons and anniversaries. Evidence not only of my bigamy, but also back catalogues of some memories and testimonies to my desperation and determination to seek out happiness.
Dead and Gone: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist (DI Annie Parker) Page 35
