Greed: A DI Scott Baker Novel

by Jay Nadal

  Today wasn’t any different. There was sharpness in the air, and winter still had its claws firmly dug in. The chill in the air, together with a low setting sun meant that mornings and evenings were crisp and occasionally frosty; however daytime temperatures often crept into low double digits. To others around the country, it would be enough to dampen spirits; Brightonians on the other hand seemed to be immune to the extremes and embraced it like a welcomed tonic.

  It wasn’t long before he saw the blue flashing lights of stationary cars and the familiar blue and white police cordon tape. The traffic was at a snail’s pace as drivers slowed down to rubber neck and satisfy their perverse curiosity, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone’s misfortune. Upon arriving at the cordon, he parked up behind a patrol car and stepped out to be greeted by a crowd of nosey spectators with nothing better to do that watch the spectacle unfolding.

  Chapter 2

  Preston Street was an unusual street. It was narrow and hemmed in by four story regency style buildings, many in desperate need of renovation, which only led to the feeling of it being a dark claustrophobic environment. Paint was curling at the edges and flaking off the walls. Windows were grubby and gritty. It was fair to say that the street was a far cry from its neighbour, Regency Square that boasted magnificent grade two listed buildings. Impressive well maintained cream exteriors housed exquisite generous sized apartments and boutique hotels.

  It was a street once described as a car crash of small multi-cultural restaurants and convenience stores, a few bars, casinos, and the odd nightclub. There certainly wasn’t a theme running to the street, with very little effort made to make establishments inviting.

  Out towards the seafront and beyond, lay the ruins of the once magnificent West Pier, now nothing more than a few iron support structures eerily jutting out from the sea bed, resembling a decapitated, battered and twisted metal skeleton. Scott reflected on the damage caused to the pier during the great storm of 1987 that wreaked havoc across the city, levelling thousands of trees and bringing down power lines.

  It was a ferocious storm misjudged by the weathermen. Scott recalled watching a particular forecaster dispel rumours that a storm was on its way with hurricane-force winds in excess of 100 mph. Oh how wrong they were, he thought with a disbelieving shake of his head.

  Even to this day he could recall word for word what he witnessed on TV as the forecaster commented, “Earlier on today, apparently, a woman rang the BBC and said she heard there was a hurricane on the way; well, if you’re watching, don’t worry, there isn’t”.

  What a fuck up, he mused.

  The overnight storm cut off all road and rail transport for much of the south coast and beyond. A subsequent storm and fire fifteen years later had given the pier its death sentence, causing it to collapse and finally go to its watery grave.

  The area had been cordoned off with police tape. It was essential to protect any crime scene, so a scene guard was always assigned to monitor the cordon. Their key tasks were to protect the scene from contamination by onlookers, preserve the integrity of exhibits, and account for the presence and movement of all personnel within the designated area.

  The scene guard on this occasion was PC Willits, who lifted the blue tape to allow Scott to enter the edge of the crime scene with a courteous “morning, sir.”

  Scott nodded an acknowledgment as he signed into her scene log, and replied “Is it, Constable?”

  Willits instantly looked uncomfortable and looked down to avoid his cold stare. As he walked off; he berated himself for being so abrupt. He wasn’t ready to be courteous this morning; his body was still numb and fatigued. He craved his morning coffee; a fix which normally would jolt him awake and into something more closely resembling a human being.

  He took a protective suit pack from a brown box beside the PC, and started to get kitted up.

  SOCO were already there, kitted up in the same white, paper protective suits, masks and shower caps with blue shoe coverings that seemed to rob them of any identity; from a distance it was hard to tell who was male or female.

  DC Mike Wilson was dressed in the same attire and stood close to the second of two white tents that had been erected about twenty feet apart to protect and preserve the crime scene.

  Even though you couldn’t tell from looking at him, underneath the protective suit, Mike was an imposing figure. He was a stocky five feet eleven inches, with an expanding waistline that would indicate he was fast becoming best friends with Ginsters Cornish Pasties. He still bore the hallmarks of his ex-Army days with a flat top crew-cut, a multitude of tattoos that catalogued his time in the forces, and his no bullshit, often crude, northern accent, which meant that he was the most unlikely police officer you’d ever meet.

  The Army took pride in instilling loyalty and fortitude in its soldiers, which Mike carried in abundance. He was methodical, precise and more importantly, if the shit hit the fan, he was by your side. Mike was a valuable asset to the team, whom Scott had relied on many times. He didn’t always play by the rules, sometimes resorting to unorthodox tactics and “gentle persuasion” as he put it.

  Despite Scott being his superior, on the odd occasion Scott had turned a blind eye to Mike’s approach if he felt that the end justified the means, but he certainly didn’t openly advocate such behaviour.

  Scott peered into the smaller of the two tents, before walking to the detective constable. Wilson looked up from his notes, “Morning, Guv, he’s inside this tent,” he said pointing with his head. “It’s not pretty.”

  “A dead corpse never is— unless you’re into that type of stuff,” he sighed.

  “Of course, Guv, can’t get enough of them myself,” DC Wilson fired back, a reference to his days as an army sniper.

  Scott took a long deep breath and peered in through the unzipped entrance. He was keen not to step in for many reasons; the first being he didn’t want to disturb the crime scene until SOCO were finished and secondly, the thought of getting up close and personal with a stiff at this moment wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

  There were three crime scene officers inside the tent. One was taking photos of the body from various angles, another was inspecting the waste bin whilst standing on a small two- step ladder, and the third was doing a systematic sweep on a section of pavement. Scott was instantly greeted by the smell of death. It was a smell that got into your nostrils and lingered.

  The body was laid on the floor. His white shirt was now a dark red bordering on black as the blood had dried. From the position of the body, evident to all, was the severe trauma to the neck region. It was hard to determine if the head had been partially severed from the angle it was resting. The mouth hung wide open, expressing the shock of the victim’s final moments.

  What caught Scott’s attention was what appeared to be a paper-like substance stuffed into the victim’s mouth. He’d seen enough and would leave it to the forensics bods to catalogue the crime scene.

  “The pathologist has just arrived, Guv. DS Trent and DC Singh are en route to help out and should be here in the next few minutes.”

  “Good stuff, so what have we so far, Mike?”

  “He was found in the silver industrial bin this morning Guv by some workmen who are renovating the West Beach Hotel on the corner. Scared them shitless, from what I can gather. After the preliminaries, SOCO removed his body so they could get a better analysis of the bin and the victim. Uniform are with the workmen inside the hotel now.

  We found a wallet in his suit jacket; usual stuff in there like money, cards, pictures of the deceased with a female, and driver’s license all with the same name. The victim appears to be an Edward Stone. SOCO will do a prints match later to confirm against any prints on file.”

  Scott nodded once while looking around the street.

  “What do we know about him, any next of kin?”

  “Well, I checked on the PNC and if it’s the same guy, he’s the owner of the Phoenix nightclub, just over there sir, a
nd his address is a flat in Fourth Avenue, Hove. He lives there with his girlfriend, Vicky Bright. He’s known to the police, Guv; he’s got previous convictions for assault and fraud.”

  The last piece of information led Scott to raise a brow in reflection.

  As Scott was being updated on the situation, the crime scene manager and senior SOCO Matt Allan, walked over to interrupt Mike and Scott. Matt was in charge of the scientific services team and on complex and more serious cases, one SOCO was never enough, so Matt would be present to oversee the whole crime scene and the allocation of his team’s tasks.

  Scott had worked with Matt on many occasions and they’d enjoyed a good working relationship. Matt was always impeccably dressed. There was never a shirt tail hanging out the back of his trousers, or a loose tie with top button undone or even the slightest trace of a stain on his shirts. That attention to detail seemed to distil down to his work ethic and professional demeanour. He was very precise and to the point in his conversations, his crime scene reports and approach to life.

  “Morning, Scott,” Matt butted in with a smile, looking back and forth a few times between the two officers. Whatever he was expecting from them wasn’t forthcoming as he soon realised, and proceeded to clear his throat.

  “Why is everyone so chirpy and upbeat this morning?” Scott replied. He wasn’t normally so grumpy. Scott was known for his warm social skills and his natural ability to get along with anyone.

  He wasn’t your typical senior officer, he had very few hang ups; didn’t smoke or drink, apart from the odd social drink, but that slipped on a few occasions. He kept fit and enjoyed watching weird programs like “Great Continental Railway Journeys”, or David Attenborough’s latest soothing commentary about the marvels of some exotic wildlife creature. Scott went to great lengths to keep quiet about his TV preferences; he could imagine the stick he’d get from the lads at work.

  He was different to many officers of his rank; he was more than happy mixing and getting along with those in uniform as much as his CID colleagues. Today was different though. The day before had been March 18th, a calendar date he dreaded. This time of year brought him sorrow and anger, and he was always temperamental and edgy around this time.

  “Oh, a little touchy this morning are we, one too many lemonades last night?” Matt replied with an exaggerated wink.

  “I’ve had better mate, just shattered and a lot on my mind, and everyone’s far too bloody cheery for my liking.”

  Matt smiled, “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that my team has nearly finished, we’ve got some partial footprints in the dried blood inside both tents. The victim had a silver curb necklace with a silver ring hanging off it; inside the ring was the engraving Eddy and Vicky, 4th Sept. We’re waiting on a low loader to take away the bin for further analysis, and we’ll be getting our report over to you in the next forty eight hours.”

  “Forty eight hours,” recoiled Scott with a feigned look, “You’re taking the piss, make it twenty four hours. We’ll have the press crawling all over this one and I need to start working on this ASAP. All it takes is a glimpse at that to know it’s going to be a hot one.”

  He nodded in the direction of the police cordon, where the crowds had swelled substantially in just the last few moments. Many were using their phones to video the events unfolding. No doubt they’d end up on YouTube later that day. If they were expecting a glamorous scene out of a TV crime scene show, then they were going to be sorely disappointed.

  “It looks like the victim was stabbed in the neck region, and no doubt the path will confirm that. It was probably a pretty large knife to inflict a wound that size. We’ve yet to find anything that may have caused the injury, but we’ll take a thorough look inside the bin once we get it back in case something has been thrown in there,” Matt said, nodding slowly to himself as he gazed at no one in particular.

  “It looks like he was attacked over there,” he carried on, pointing to the first smaller tent. “And then the trail of blood suggests he was dragged to the second location and tossed into the bin.”

  “What’s interesting is this,” Matt reached into a box by his feet and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag with three blood stained twenty pound notes. “We found them stuffed inside the victim’s mouth, that’s a first for me.” He said lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Guess he was stuffed after a night out,” Mike quipped.

  “Enough, give it a break will you?” Scott scowled. Now was neither the time nor place for his one- liners.

  Mike and Scott leaned forward a few inches to inspect the bag closely.

  “We’ll have a closer look and see if there are any surviving prints on them back at the lab.”

  Mike and Scott exchanged a look of curiosity. “Ok Matt, do your best and I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Will do,” Matt replied, heading back to his van.

  “Mike, brief Abby and Raj when they arrive, I’m going to see what the path has to say.” Mike nodded as Scott walked over to the larger tent. As he was approaching the tent the pathologist, Cara Hall, stepped out.

  Cara wasn’t what you’d expect a stereotypical pathologist to look like if you asked anyone. For her line of work, you’d imagine a pathologist to dress in sombre, professional attire. Perhaps even have a look of seriousness on her face indicative of a clinical, meticulous and obsessive nature.

  But Cara was so far removed from that. She was thirty eight years old, one year senior to Baker, tall at five feet seven inches tall, with dark, brown hair that was always tied up high in a ponytail. She wore outfits that suited her hour glass figure, wore very little make up and had a natural english rose look about her. She had a cheeky sense of humour which helped balance the seriousness of her work.

  Cara removed her face mask just in time to see Scott walking over to her.

  A broad smile greeted him. “Detective Inspector Baker, we have the pleasure of your company on this crisp morning.”

  Great another cheerful soul, he thought.

  “Good to see you too, Dr Hall, what’s your thoughts? “

  “Well, upon initial inspection, he’s definitely dead.” She said with a slight smile.

  Scott rolled his eyes and shook his head in fake despair.

  “Now that you’re sure of that, any idea when he met his demise?” Scott asked.

  “Hard to say for sure, but I’d estimate between four to six hours ago. We still have some primary flaccidity as we can still move the body. Rigor mortis hasn’t spread yet, but that may also be due to ambient temperature slowing its onset. I’d imagine it was only five or six degrees in the early hours of the morning,” she said with a shrug.

  Scott nodded in agreement with her conclusion.

  “The mortuary boys are here and ready to take him away, and I’ll arrange for a special post- mortem for later this afternoon if that suits you? Can you stay awake long enough for that?” she said wickedly.

  “I’ll be there,” Scott replied. “Cause of death?”

  “Well, from what I can see, it’s just one open wound to the neck with a sharp instrument, I’ll be able to confirm that when I’ve checked the rest of him this afternoon. Is that all for the moment? I need to head off to a suspected suicide in Peacehaven as soon as possible.” She glanced at her watch, her face serious for a moment.

  “Yes of course, thanks for coming out so quickly, Dr Hall, I’ll see you later this afternoon, let me know what time.”

  “Yes of course, I’ll get one of the technicians to let you know,” Cara replied as she walked off briskly to her car parked just beyond the taped cordon.

  Scott walked back to the edge of the cordon where Mike was standing talking to PC Willets.

  “Mike, change of plan, I’m going to grab a coffee from around the corner, and then head over to the address we’ve got and see if I can find out more. If it is him, I’d like to get him formally ID’d this morning before the PM. Get on the blower to Abby and tell her to meet me outside t
he apartment and see if we can get a family liaison officer to meet us there, too, just in case we need them.

  When Raj gets here, I want you both to go over and get full statements from the workmen. Then get a few uniforms to do door to door to see if anyone saw or heard anything from about two to four am this morning. I’ll meet you back at the station later.”

  “Will do, Guv.”

  Scott removed his protective clothing before leaving the scene to head back to his car. No sooner had he started to walk off, he stopped, paused for a moment looking down at the floor, before turning back to where PC Willits was standing on cordon duty.

  “Constable, I’m sorry for being so sharp with you earlier, bad morning,” he said apologetically, with a slight tight- lipped smile.

  Taken aback by the apology, the constable was slow to reply, but finally blurted, “No need to apologise, Sir, but thanks anyway.”

  With that Baker nodded, turned and left.

  Chapter 3

  Fourth Avenue in Hove was a clean, wide tree-lined street that had properties with impeccably well maintained frontages. Many had small walled front gardens with an array of low maintenance shrubs, flower pots, and fashionable slate features. Balconies finished off their look to take advantage of the sea views and suburban surroundings.

  Most of the three-story buildings housed luxury mansion flats. There was resident’s parking on either side of the road plus an additional double row of parking down the middle of the road.

  Scott parked up close to the address given for Edward Stone. DS Abby Trent was already waiting close at the entrance to the apartment.

  DS Trent had been with Brighton CID for two years. Scott had thought of her as a real grafter. She was a reliable and conscientious member of Scott’s team, with a methodical approach to her work. He valued her as a friend and colleague.