by Nick Oldham
A big dog barked and Daniels could see through the patterned frosted glass in the door as the beast rushed down the hallway and went upright, two huge paws slammed themselves against the glass and the dog’s black snout came into contact with it, smearing a wet trail.
Daniels took an involuntary step back. Dogs were not her favourite animal. She was more a budgie girl.
A woman shouted a name and the dog dropped out of sight, then the door was opened by the female holding the dog’s collar tightly.
Daniels immediately held up her warrant card so no mistakes could be made, and introduced herself. ‘I’m DC Daniels from Lancashire Constabulary … are you Melissa Phillips?’
The woman was in her early thirties, Daniels estimated, nice looking, casual but smartly dressed.
‘I am. What can I do for you?’ Already Daniels picked up a slightly uneasy tone in the voice.
‘I believe you’re an accountant?’
‘Yes, why? Do you want your books doing?’
‘No.’ Inside, Daniels chuckled at the thought of the miniscule net profit she had after deductions and spends from her salary every month. ‘Do you work from home?’
‘Yes, mostly … Look, I’m online now and everything. Got a website you can look at.’ Still defensive, a bit aggressive. ‘So what can I do for you? I’m quite busy – the dog needs walking and I have tax returns to file.’
Daniels never allowed anyone to rush her. ‘I’m in Portsea reviewing an unsolved murder case.’ She kept her eyes firmly locked on Melissa’s. ‘The death of a man called Tom Salter. I believe you kept his books for him?’
There was a moment of hesitation, a weighing up of how to respond, then the decision was made. ‘You could say that, I suppose – in as much as I filed his returns for him.’
‘So you were his accountant?’
‘An accountant is someone who does much more than that,’ she said. ‘Look, I really need to walk the dog.’ She pulled him back, ready to close the door on Daniels.
‘No, no, no,’ Daniels said. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Her face and voice meant no backing off or dog walking. The sag of Melissa’s shoulders said she had got the message.
Henry could not deny a certain thrill when Runcie turned into a high-walled back alley and drew in behind two police personnel carriers, a dog van and a couple more less-identifiable cop cars. Henry spotted armed officers chatting in a small group, all dressed in protective overalls, ready for an assault. Henry had led and been part of many such operations, and they always got his adrenaline pumping.
So far, Runcie had not revealed anything to him, but then she turned to him.
‘Last night we received an anonymous call from Crimestoppers – from a female and that’s all we know – that a certain Jamie Milner, well known armed robber of this parish, is the man who shot and killed Tom Salter in his office in a robbery that went disastrously wrong.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘So we’re going for him today. Supposedly he has a gun hidden at his property.’
Henry was stunned. ‘Was this guy ever a suspect?’
‘Never on the radar,’ she admitted. ‘He’s a hold-’em-up, cash-in-transit kind of guy, but clearly not averse to diversifying his MO. Let’s go get him and see what transpires.’
She was out of the car before Henry could say anything more, going round to the back and lifting the hatchback. Henry joined her and she tossed a bulky ballistic vest to him.
‘Might want to sling this on,’ she said. ‘Milner’s a real handful.’
Henry slid his arms into the vest. It was one of the old style – heavy ones with plates of steel. The one Runcie put on was one of the new, sleeker ones, and lightweight.
‘Have this lot been briefed? Henry asked as he tied the Velcro fastenings.
‘Yep, first thing. They know what they’re doing. In, out, shake it all about.’
Although James Martin Milner was a professional career criminal, always ready for a knock on the door from the cops, in truth he wasn’t actually expecting them to pour into his house that morning. The last job he’d pulled months ago, all the way down in New Cross, London, had netted him enough cash to live comfortably for a year, and he was just starting to weigh up his options for the next job, which could simply be some smash-and-grab raids on money being delivered to hole-in-the-wall cash machines. A nice, fun way to top up reserves.
He was in bed with his girlfriend after a night on the ‘lash’. He hadn’t slept well under the influence of drink and, although he was in the twilight zone between sleep and waking, he knew he needed to pee but couldn’t be bothered to stagger to the toilet. It wasn’t unknown for him to piss the bed, something he thought entirely reasonable if needs must. He was just that kinda guy.
What prevented him from doing that was the presence of the woman in the bed next to him. She was having a good influence on him, making him a better person, within the boundaries of his profession, and when he had once wet the bed with her in it, her look of horror and disgust had been a quite effective deterrent since.
So, displaying a huge hard-on caused by the requirement to pee, Milner reluctantly flipped the sheet off and, naked and proud, made his way out of the bedroom to the toilet down the landing, holding his cock and knowing he would have to spread his legs wide and contort over the loo like a giraffe at a watering hole if there was any chance of hitting the porcelain as opposed to the ceiling.
He was half asleep as he spread his legs, holding himself upright with one hand on the wall behind the toilet, and began to urinate.
This was when the crash happened. His front and back doors were booted open and the shouting and screaming started. The pounding of boots up the stairs. Part way through the emptying of his bladder, Milner was smashed against the wall by a helmeted cop yelling in his ear, pulling his arms around his back and cuffing him.
After the dog had been locked in the kitchen, where it whimpered pathetically, Melissa showed Daniels into the lounge and gestured for her to take a seat. In spite of the whining of the dog, Daniels thought she heard someone else moving upstairs in the house. She smiled at the accountant.
‘I’m here reviewing the progress of the murder case on behalf of Central Yorkshire Police, and that process will obviously entail re-interviewing key witnesses and finding new ones if at all possible.’
Melissa shrugged that she understood.
‘Can I confirm you were Mr Salter’s accountant?’
‘In as much as I did his returns based on the figures he gave me year end. Other than that, not really.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
Melissa marshalled her thoughts. ‘Let’s say I’m aware he submitted the minimum required to keep the Inland Revenue off his back.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Mmm … don’t suppose it matters now … and I’d deny knowing this … but most of his business was cash in hand and he skimmed more than he banked.’
‘What exactly was his business?’
‘Haulage mainly. Shipping, that kind of thing.’
Daniels nodded. ‘Was he a wealthy man?’
‘Not according to his tax records.’
‘How long had you been doing his returns?’
‘Five years.’
‘So you must have known him reasonably well?’
‘Only as well as I needed to.’
‘But you are aware of the nature and circumstances of his death?’
‘It was all over the papers and local TV news.’
‘Have you any idea why he died in such a violent way? Did he have any enemies that you knew about?’ Daniels probed.
‘None that I know of … But, y’know, his line of work was pretty rough … it just is,’ Melissa said. ‘But no, I don’t know of any enemies.’
‘Could he have had any personal enemies, rather than those from his line of work, maybe as a result of his private life?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the thing is, Mrs Phillips … one o
f the things I’ve noticed in my review of this case is the big gap between Mr Salter leaving his wife at home and his actual murder, and I’m struggling to fill it with activity, if you will. It’s almost like he was covering his tracks.’ As Daniels spoke, she watched Melissa’s face working out what the agenda was behind the words.
‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
‘Where were you on that day, evening?’
Melissa’s face became hard. ‘What are you insinuating?’
‘OK, there’s some suggestion that Mr Salter was seeing another woman.’ Daniels left it dangling like that.
‘And you think it was me?’
‘I’m trying to discover Mr Salter’s movements in the time leading up to his death. I don’t really care one way or another about his personal life as such, unless it has a direct bearing on his murder. You know, jealous husband/wife, that sort of thing. I’m just trying to find the truth.’ She paused. The dog in the kitchen whined and scratched the door. ‘So, were you having an affair with him? If not, you still might want to think about what you were doing on that day because, one way or another, I will find out what he was up to.’
‘I wasn’t with him. I wasn’t having an affair, either.’
‘All right,’ Daniels said, not convinced. ‘Do you know if he was seeing someone, and if so, who?’
She shook her head too vehemently.
Daniels ploughed on. ‘Because I’m going to discover who he was with that day.’
‘Not me.’
‘Right, thanks for your time, Mrs Phillips.’ Daniels stood up and extracted a business card from her pocket. Her contact number was on it and she’d scribbled Henry’s on the back. She handed it to Melissa. ‘If you recall anything, or decide you want to tell me anything at all, ring me or my boss – his is the number on the back. There’s every chance we’ll be chatting again at some stage,’ she concluded with a veiled warning.
From behind her blinds, Melissa watched Daniels drive away.
The living-room door opened and a slightly younger woman entered and stood behind Melissa’s shoulder, just catching the back end of Daniels’ car as it turned out of the cul-de-sac.
‘Did you hear all that?’ Melissa turned to her younger sister. ‘Did you hear that, Miriam?’
Her sister’s face was pale and afraid. ‘Yes,’ she said meekly.
‘She’ll be back. She knows. I’m not a good liar.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
The living-room door opened again and a frightened-looking young girl entered, thin-faced, pretty.
Her eyes were dark and haunting.
FIFTEEN
‘I want my brief, I want my phone call, I want my rights and I want some fuckin’ clothes,’ Jamie Milner demanded, screaming the last two words into the face of the young female custody sergeant across the wide desk, who remained unmoved and unafraid of the prisoner’s outburst.
Flanked by two burly cops in overalls, Milner stood at the custody desk covered by a harsh woollen blanket and wearing nothing else, because when he’d been arrested he had become instantly and terribly violent. It had taken five cops to subdue him and he’d been dragged naked out of his house, a cop on each limb, one holding his head in a vice-like grip, and thrown like an old carpet into the back of the section van. He had been pinned down for the journey to the nick, biting and spitting like a deranged wild animal.
Once in the station, ten more minutes were spent calming him down while he was still pinned to the van floor, until he eventually capitulated and allowed the cops to walk him into the custody office and present him to the sergeant.
‘You’ll get all those things when I say,’ DCI Runcie said. She was leaning on the end of the desk, watching with a smirk. Milner scowled at her.
‘You won’t find fuck all,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve done nowt and I certainly ain’t involved in no fucking murder.’
‘We’ll see,’ Runcie said and looked at the sergeant. ‘This man has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Tom Salter, some six months ago.’
Milner’s head tipped back as he laughed at the allegation. ‘Fuck I did.’
The sergeant said, ‘But you understand why you’ve been arrested?’
‘I understand the words, lass, but they’re not true.’
‘Whatever.’ She began to tap in the details on the booking-in computer but, while she did this, she said to the officers with the prisoner, ‘Take him to interview-room two and get him a forensic suit, then we’ll look at sorting out some clothes for him from home. Bring him back when he’s decent.’
The cops pushed him away, leaving her and Runcie at the desk.
Henry Christie had observed these proceedings from the rear of the custody office and only moved forward when Milner had been taken away.
‘So what’s happening, boss?’ the custody sergeant asked Runcie.
‘He can have a solicitor but no phone calls just yet. I’ve got a search team at his house and at a garage he owns.’ Runcie produced a printed sheet of paper. ‘This is the search warrant for both premises. You can have copies for the custody record. I’ve already left copies at his home. I want to have an initial interview with him, then take it from there. No phone calls because I don’t want to give him the chance to alert any co-defendants he might have. The searches are crucial here.’
‘OK, boss.’
Runcie looked at Henry. ‘It’s not through want of trying we haven’t got anywhere with this, sir. Sometimes you have luck, sometimes you don’t. Today we just had a stroke of it … you know how it rolls.’
Henry nodded, but thought, What a coincidence! I know what I think about coincidences.
The custody suite at Portsea was extensive: a dozen female cells, forty male cells, interconnected to the adjoining magistrates’ court with a couple of holding cells underneath the court itself. It reminded Henry of some of the old-style custody suites in Lancashire he’d known as a young cop but which had all been gradually phased out and closed down as new police stations were built. In custody terms, Portsea was a dinosaur, badly in need of either shutting down or heavy investment for refurbishment.
Just through his innate curiosity, Henry wandered through the cell corridors, seeing old-style cell doors, sniffing up the atmosphere of a hundred years or more of prisoners. As he walked back to the desk, Milner was being taken to an interview room with Runcie and Saul and a duty solicitor who had already been onsite representing another prisoner.
The custody officer was in a small office behind the desk, putting on a kettle. Henry didn’t blame her.
He’d been a custody officer for a while, as all newly promoted sergeants were required to be back in those days. He often recalled coming on duty half an hour early just so he could make himself a cup of tea, because he knew he probably wouldn’t get one for another six hours. Often, though, all those hours later, he would find that same brew still standing there, untouched and cold. A custody officer had to take the breaks as and when they presented themselves.
Henry sidled up behind her.
She said, ‘Hi.’ Then peered at his ID badge and added, ‘Sir. I’m not sure who you are,’ so he introduced himself properly.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Just reviewing a murder case.’
‘Tom Salter’s, I presume?’
Henry nodded.
‘Today’s seen good progress, then?’
‘Hopefully.’
She poured boiling water into a mug containing a tea bag and offered one to Henry. He declined.
There was a buzzing noise. The sergeant looked at a TV monitor giving a view of the entrance to the custody office. On it, two cops were holding another prisoner. ‘Never stops,’ she said, leaned towards the counter and pressed the door release button.
Henry watched her deal with the processing of a man who had been arrested on suspicion of theft. On shelves under the custody desk was a row of ring binders containing hard copies of all completed custody records for the last wee
k or so. Henry helped himself to the binder covering the last three days and took it to the office behind the desk.
He quickly found and read through the one relating to Martin Sowerbutts, who had been arrested on suspicion of murder and kidnap and then, following a series of interviews in which he denied all the offences, been released without charge.
There was nothing untoward on the record or in any of the handwritten entries thereon.
At the desk, the latest prisoner was being taken to a cell. Henry looked at the custody sergeant. She was the same one who had authorized Sowerbutts’ detention and then release. Her head was down, concentrating on writing something on the new record she had just started, then entering details on the computer. She seemed young, but maybe that was because Henry was feeling old.
Lifting the ring binder across and planting it beside her, he said, ‘Got a quick minute?’
She pulled her face as if to say, Yeah, right.
Instead, she said, ‘Just a sec, boss.’ She completed her task and turned to him. ‘What is it?’
‘You were the custody officer the other day when this guy’ – Henry indicated the open file in the binder – ‘Martin Sowerbutts was brought in. You were also on duty when he left.’
Something tightened in her face. Just minutely. ‘That’s right.’
‘You know he committed suicide, don’t you?’
‘I’d heard. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,’ she said nastily. ‘Maybe his conscience got the better of him.’
‘How was his time in custody?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was he any bother?’
‘Don’t remember him being. It’d be in there if he was.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Such as?’
Henry was about to ask when the buzzer on the back door sounded again – another prisoner being brought in, and suddenly no one could interrupt a custody officer. Henry didn’t envy her, so he lifted the binder off the desk and retreated back to the office for a more detailed read. The problem he had with Sowerbutts was that – besides him and only a select few knowing the man was dead before he went over the cliff – the time gap between him being released from custody in one piece then being found at the foot of the cliffs was a blur. Henry didn’t like blurs any more than he liked coincidences.
