by Jake Cross
Both detectives hung up their phones at the same time.
‘People work here,’ Mac said. ‘Make sure nobody’s coming.’
It took Cooper just three seconds to walk over to the shutter and check the road. He didn’t see Mac pluck something off the floor and slot it into his pocket.
* * *
The murder squad and the forensics gang were there twenty minutes later, their vehicles clogging the street. While the search team snooped and the pathologist tried to find a place to park, the detectives huddled to solve the riddle. But not Mac. He was outside, listening to music and letting the atmosphere sink into his bones. It was sometimes how he did things.
‘Robbery gone wrong,’ someone ventured. A known burglar, Król, walks into the shop with a plan to exit with stock he hasn’t paid for. The guy manning the counter doesn’t like that idea. Król whips out his weapon, a lawnmower blade with a serrated edge and a sharpened point. Counter Guy challenges him. They fight. Król drops dead, and Counter Guy drops everything and runs. The detectives discussed the merits of this theory, and then shut it down when a pair of lady’s shoes was found in the attic.
‘Extra-marital play,’ someone piped up. Counter Guy sneaks a woman into the shop for a little fun. Król, her jilted or tricked other half, turns up to spoil the fun, believing in the old promise of till death do us part. Counter Guy and the woman flee hand-in-hand. The detectives pick at this theory, and then dump it when a mobile phone is found in a dusty gap under the counter.
‘Blackmail,’ someone announced. No signal, busted in some kind of strike or fall, but it opened up at a swipe, no password needed, onto the last app used, which was a beauty, a real rare-find gem for the detectives. CCTV footage of the dead man and a pal trying to break into a house. High-quality night vision. The video had been paused with the face of the dead man in glorious close-up. So: Król gets wind that a guy has a video of him busting into someone’s house, and comes here for a chat. Maybe he appears out of the blue, or maybe Counter Guy has called him in to see if they can do a nice deal to make sure the video doesn’t go on YouTube. Either way, it all goes wrong.
By this time, they had a pair of names: Joseph Lewis and Karl Seabury, joint owners of Sunrise Electronics – two guys who needed a visit to help determine which theory was correct.
And then Mac got a call. Seabury’s wife had called the police, worried that her husband might be in trouble. Two men had tried to break into the Seabury house last night. Seabury had told his wife a wild tale about why: he rescued a woman last night, hid her at this shop, and was on his way here this morning to talk to her. He believed he might be in danger. Wife tried calling him dozens of times, with no answer. She figured he might be hurt. Called in the cops.
He told the uniforms to leave it to the big boys. He sent two guys to nearby Cubitt Town, where Joseph Lewis lived, and told Cooper to drive him to Seabury’s home.
* * *
They were pulling up some doors away when Mac’s mobile rang again.
The name on the screen was 10%. Being a DCI meant that Mac was the guy in charge for most of his working days. But only ninety per cent of the time. This was a call he’d been expecting – and dreading.
Superintendent Archer would know about the Król murder by now, so the conversation would go one of two ways. Archer would start by reiterating the importance of maximum effort in the first few hours of an investigation. He’d remind Mac that one of the dead in the Grafton murder had been a schoolteacher, so the public had to see the police devoting one hundred per cent. And then he’d blab on about stretched resources. All in prelude to: You can’t have the Król case. Or worse: he’d start by moaning about the arrest of Ramirez when there was scant evidence. He’d voice his disdain that Mac hadn’t attended the Grafton post-mortem, or followed up on this or that lead yet. And then he’d express his understanding of the important bond of trust and loyalty between a detective and his informants. All preamble to: I’m reassigning the Grafton case to another homicide team.
But until Archer said those things, they weren’t official. So, Mac declined the call. Nothing was going to stop him now.
‘Everything all right?’ Cooper said, seeing the intense scrutiny Mac gave his phone.
‘Fine. Come on, let’s knock the door.’
* * *
The woman who answered the door after shutting off the burglar alarm was tall, athletic and in her mid-thirties. She wore a flowing long skirt, a loose blouse and a red puffiness to her eyes. She looked them up and down, pausing at the bandage on Mac’s ear, before fixing her eyes on their warrant cards. Mac noticed a bloating to her midsection and realised she was pregnant.
‘Metropolitan Police,’ Cooper said. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector McDevitt, and I am Detective Constable Cooper. Would you be—?’
‘Where’s Karl?’ she asked.
Katie had expected the police to return from his shop with him. But she couldn’t see a police car on the street. Or Karl.
‘Can we do this inside?’
Was he at the station, giving a statement? ‘I thought he’d be with you—’
‘If we could, inside, please?’
Puzzled, she turned and led them into the house. She grabbed her coat from the hallway hook as she went.
In the living room, there were two armchairs and a two-seater sofa. For a reason she couldn’t define, Katie didn’t want the men to sit together, so she took the sofa. In the middle so nobody could sit next to her. She clutched her coat on her lap.
‘So where is he? Did you talk to him? Is he at the police station or something?’
From TV, she knew that detective chief inspectors were the people who ran crime investigations: older, rugged men, like this one; the stars of the TV shows who did the clever thinking and unmasking of villains. A higher rank than detective constables, who were younger and fitter to provide eye candy for the viewers, and more suited to searching rooms and chasing suspects. So, she expected the DCI to sit before her, to show her that he was the guy in charge, and the young DC would stand by him, like a servant, watching an instructor at work. But to her surprise the DC took an armchair, and the DCI remained standing. After that, she didn’t know what to expect from this conversation.
The DCI’s gaze roamed the room and landed on the largest picture on the wall. She and Karl on their wedding day, standing next to the fancy 1963 Volkswagen Beetle that her father had hired and had painted like Herbie, The Love Bug, because of her childhood love of the movie; a picture she enjoyed pointing out to all visitors, except, for some reason she didn’t like the policeman staring at it. She already knew she didn’t like this man, although she wasn’t sure why yet.
The DC said: ‘Is your husband Karl Seabury? Does he live here?’
That only increased her puzzlement. Karl was in the picture, and she had already mentioned his name, and the detectives were here because of her phone call. What were they playing at? ‘Haven’t you been to his shop? Have you not spoken to him?’
With his back to her, his eyes all over the picture, the DCI said: ‘What makes you think we would have?’
‘He’s at his shop. I told the police that. Have you not been there?’
The DC said: ‘You called the police because your husband thinks he might be in danger. Tell us about that, please.’
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Why are you here? I sent the police to his shop. Did you not get the right message? Where is my husband?’
‘Oh, we’ve been to his shop,’ the DCI said, turning to face her finally. The way he said it gave her a sinking feeling. Something wasn’t right.
‘Is he not there? I don’t – don’t understand.’
But her sinking feeling said she certainly did. They had been to the shop, and Karl hadn’t been there. But where was he? Where had he gone?
‘Is he hurt? Tell me. He wasn’t at the shop, was he? And he’s not answering his phone. What’s going on?’
‘We hoped you could tell us that,’
the creepy DCI said. ‘You’re right, he’s not at his shop. We were hoping you’d know where he is.’
That sinking feeling intensified, joined by a throbbing in her temple. Something had happened, she realised. Something that explained why Karl hadn’t answered his phone. Something that necessitated the presence of detectives here instead of uniformed police. ‘What’s happened? Is my husband hurt?’
The DCI ignored the question and asked: ‘Why is your burglar alarm turned on while you’re at home?’
‘What? That’s not important. Why are you here? I know it’s not about my call to the police. It’s about something that’s happened at Karl’s shop. Now you two are scaring me, so you’d better tell me what’s going on.’
The DCI dropped a hand onto the younger man’s shoulder, and they swapped places without a word. He crossed his legs and leaned back, as if this was his own house, the chair his own favourite. She wanted to scream for answers, but something about this man’s demeanour made her stay silent. He oozed a bloated confidence that was not just down to his high police rank.
‘This woman you say your husband told you he picked up last night. Where was this?’
So, they knew everything. But that only made her understand things less. ‘Near Wilmington. Look, what’s going on?’
The young DC looked like he’d just been smacked. She didn’t like it. Something about Wilmington had clearly made a connection in his brain that shocked him. But what? And why? He looked at his boss, but the DCI didn’t take his eyes off her.
Until the DC chipped in and asked: ‘Was the woman called Elizabeth Grafton?’ That got him a stern glance from his boss.
‘I don’t know. Liz. He called her Liz.’
‘Was the husband Ronald Grafton?’
‘I don’t know. Look, please, tell me what you think is going on.’
The DCI held up a hand to prevent his subordinate from speaking again, and said: ‘We found a dead man in your husband’s shop.’
Her heart seemed to judder.
‘It’s not your husband, don’t worry.’
Raw shock subsided as quickly as it had bubbled up, but it was replaced by molten anger. The bastard had paused, deliberately, to frighten her.
‘Your husband should be at his shop, but he isn’t. Instead, a man is lying dead there. Can we search your house?’
She didn’t know what to say, what to think. Karl was missing and there was a dead man at the shop? Who? Why? ‘Search for what?’ she snapped. ‘My husband might be hurt, and you—’
‘We don’t know until we find it. Can my man here search your shed? We need a warrant if we don’t get permission.’
She rubbed her face as it sank in. She could barely think straight. A man dead in the shop. Karl missing.
‘We need to do that search. It would be easier if we didn’t have to get a warrant.’
Suddenly her brain started to make sense of everything. Karl had been right all along. His worries had been justified. Someone had come for him at the shop this morning. There had been an attack, but Karl had killed the man in self-defence and fled the scene. Police responding to her worried call had arrived at the shop to find a shock. God, why had she doubted him? Why hadn’t she read his genuine worry?
‘Mrs Seabury?’ the DC said. She jerked back to the present and saw the DCI raise a hand to interrupt the younger detective.
‘This must be all wrong,’ she said. She could feel tears welling up, and she rubbed her eyes before they could escape. She felt so guilty. Karl had been right all along, and she hadn’t believed him. Now he was in trouble, and she could have prevented it… somehow. ‘I – I can’t… do you think my husband killed a man?’
‘We know he owns a van and has a Samsung mobile phone. We found both. But does he have access to another vehicle, and does he have another phone?’
She stood up. ‘Why? You think he’s on the run as a murderer. Now you listen to me. There’s no way that—’
‘Sit down, please,’ the DCI said firmly and with a hard stare. She sat. The DCI rose and sat beside her, and she let him. He surprised her by taking her hand. It was as warm as the tone of his next words.
‘Mrs Seabury, your husband is not where you expected him to be. He’s missing and he didn’t take his vehicle or his phone. We found a weapon that I think came from something we’ll find in your shed. On his phone was a picture of the man we found dead in his shop. Now, I understand you believe your husband’s story about last night and this morning, but nobody can know anything for sure until we speak to him. It’s very important that I speak to Karl to hear his version of events. If he had to run somewhere, to hide, where would he go?’
Somewhat soothed by his kind words, Katie replied: ‘Nowhere. I don’t know. I would assume he’d come here. Or at least call. Look, he’s not a murd—’
‘And has he called?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Seabury, this is a mess, and you need to trust the good men here. I am the man to help your husband, and you need to understand that. I want killers in prison, not innocent men—’
‘I don’t know where he is. I know he’s not a killer.’
‘Don’t worry. I believe it’s not in his heart. If your husband is innocent, I will do what I can for him. But the evidence is telling us a story, and to get the truth we need to talk to him. He needs to come in. Running doesn’t help his case. It’s better he finds us before we find him. If he contacts you, you must convince him that he must hand himself in to me.’ He handed her his card. ‘Do you understand?’
She said nothing, but nodded, looking down at the card in his hand.
‘Do you mind if we do that search? We’ll be careful.’
She nodded again. He stood, but she grabbed his arm. ‘Do you think my Karl did this?’
The eyes staring down at her held a warmth that made her regret her earlier suspicions about this man. ‘I’ll say again that I believe it’s not in his heart. If he’s innocent, the truth will come out. Will you tell him to call me, if he contacts you?’
Katie nodded her agreement.
The DCI sent his assistant to search the shed, while he went upstairs. Alone in the silent living room, she sat clutching her coat again, staring at the wedding photo, unable to fully process what was going on. She looked at the phone and willed it to ring. Wherever Karl was, surely he would call her the first chance he got?
The DCI was back a few minutes later to search the kitchen and living room. So, she went upstairs, out of the way.
* * *
She went into little Jane’s room because it was a place that always calmed her. Except that now it didn’t, because she couldn’t evade wondering what kind of life little Jane – or little Michael – would have without a father. She couldn’t stop imagining their unborn child visiting their father in prison, with bars between them.
She slumped into the seat before Karl’s computer desk. There, on the screen, inches from her face, was a CCTV video paused on the image of a man. Night vision, from the garden cameras. The video that the detectives had been talking about.
The timestamp on the video said early morning. Karl must have accessed the video footage from his mobile after she told him about the break-in at the shed. Was this the man they thought Karl had killed? The man who had tried to break into the house last night and who had gone to the shop in search of Karl.
The man Karl had killed in self-defence.
There was a strange mix of emotions making her head feel light. Anger at Karl for bringing all this mess onto their doorstep. Fear of losing him to prison. But relief was there, too, because he was alive, even if he had had to kill a man to guarantee that. Baby Jane or baby Michael would have a father, at least. There would be someone to visit and talk to, which was better than a one-sided conversation with a headstone.
She heard the back door. The DC returning from the shed. Now the two men would talk about what they had found. Katie put her hands on the laptop. She wanted to know what they were go
ing to say, but knew they wouldn’t speak their minds in front of her. And she didn’t want to go back downstairs anyway. She needed some space.
The screen displayed a feed from a camera in the living room. The tiny device was hidden in a strange painting of a pair of dragons playing chess. Karl had chosen the hiding place because he thought the painting would draw stares and give him a good face shot of anyone who robbed the house. And a lovely cleavage view of your friends, he’d joked. Always the joker. She hoped she’d get to hear him laugh again.
There was a powerful microphone hidden in the ceiling lampshade, and she turned it on, listening to the policemen.
The younger man stood in the centre of the room, talking to his boss’s back because the DCI was once again inches from the wedding picture, boring his eyes into it.
‘Lawnmower with a missing blade,’ the DC said. ‘The video showed your Król and his accomplice at the shed, so it looks like they took it. Looking very much like your informant went there in search of Seabury when he couldn’t get into the house. And Seabury got the better of him.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. Finding Seabury is our priority. And Grafton’s wife, if indeed it is her.’
‘You think the wife’s hiding anything? Seabury’s wife, I mean. She didn’t seem right.’
‘Just shock. I don’t think Seabury’s called her. Come on, let’s search some more before she comes down. You do the kitchen.’
There was a camera in the kitchen, but Katie didn’t care to watch the younger man. She heard a racket as he searched a drawer full of pans, but her attention was on the DCI. His search of the living room was cursory, as if he sought a large item or was already convinced he wouldn’t find what he needed. Her unease at having someone root through her belongings was heightened when he found a photo album and leaned against a wall to flick through it. Nothing of importance to their case could be in there, surely, yet he took his sweet time flicking through, and there was a grin on his face throughout.
