by Deborah Lucy
‘I need to know everything, Marcus. I need to know everything you know about Greta and everything about your relationship. How did you come by these photographs?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I come home from work one day and there they are, on my doormat. No address, no stamp, just pushed through the door.’
‘So you didn’t commission them?’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t get someone to take them for you, of you and Greta together?’
‘No, man, what do you think I am? The envelope was on my doormat. I picked it up and looked inside …’
‘Did you show them to Greta?’ asked Temple.
‘Yeah, of course, man.’
‘What did she think?’
‘She was shocked, man, and worried that Maxwell might see them. I said to her, “You’re worried!” I was worried her husband was going to turn up at the garage and cause a scene. Nothing happened that day, the next day I gets a text message. Said £500 in cash or husband gets the photos. Then she got one too, same message, different amount. She got stung for two grand,’ said Hussain.
‘Greta also got a text asking for money?’ Temple asked.
‘Yeah, man.’
‘Any photos?’
‘No photos, just the text message,’ replied Hussain.
‘What did you do?’
‘Text back, telling them to fuck off.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, then I gets another text back telling me to leave both amounts in a Tesco’s carrier bag, at a picnic spot in Savernake or my boss will get the photos as well as the husband. Says drop the bag and drive off.’
‘And did you?’ asked Temple.
‘Yeah, man, I did. I mean, I couldn’t risk it. I wasn’t fucking happy, though,’ said Hussain.
‘And when was this? Have you still got the text message on your phone?’
‘This all happened about two, three months ago. I changed the phone not long after that for a new iPhone, so no, I haven’t. I chucked it.’
‘Why did you keep the photos?’
‘I fucking paid for them, man, didn’t I?’ said Hussain, indignantly.
‘Were you keeping them to blackmail Greta as well, Marcus? To get your money back?’ asked Temple.
‘What? No, man. We were both in it together. She didn’t tell me to get rid of them so I didn’t. She didn’t ask for them back. She was sorry for the trouble caused. She gave me a couple of hundred quid back.’
‘I’ve only got your word for that because she’s dead. So, what were your feelings for her exactly, Marcus?’
‘Look, man, her husband was away. A lot. She was like one of those bored housewives. Loads of money and loads of time on her hands and fucking gorgeous into the bargain. I mean, she was a real head turner. I first met her when she came into the showroom with Maxwell and bought her Porsche. Then she would turn up at the garage with real or imaginary problems with her car and it was obvious it was a come-on, so I obliged. Last Saturday she came in saying the brakes felt spongy. I told her we’d have to look at it and I took her back to her house,’ explained Hussain.
‘What time was this?’
‘She came in about 5.30, just before maybe, we close at 6 p.m. in the showroom but the garage room guys go home at 4 o’clock on a Saturday. She had to leave the car with us for them to look at today, I mean yesterday now,’ remarked Hussain as he looked at the clock showing 1.30 a.m. ‘I drove her home and drove the Porsche back here ready for Monday, as we’d arranged.’
‘And what time do you say you left her?’ asked Temple.
‘I reckon 6.45, 7.’
‘And how did you leave her?’
‘I admit, I almost expected her to ask me in but she said she was busy and that we’d catch up on Monday night, as Maxwell would still be away,’ said Hussain.
‘What sort of busy, Marcus?’
‘She didn’t say … oh yes she did, she said she was “entertaining”.’
‘So you turn up at 9.45 p.m. expecting to see her yesterday?’
‘Yeah, only it was about 9 p.m., man. The plan was to stay a few hours, you know, then get off home.’
‘Did she know you’d have her car all day?’
‘I rang her mobile and left a message. Told her we’d done some work on the brakes. I had to deliver another car as well yesterday so I told her I’d be late and to ring me back if it was a problem, which she didn’t …’
‘So, you expect me to believe that you left her, alive and well, driving off in her car. How do I know that you didn’t go in on Saturday night and things got out of hand and you killed her?’ asked Temple.
‘No way, man. I’m not a murderer.’
Temple observed a bead of sweat slowly travelling down the side of Hussain’s face. Hussain was obviously starting to feel the heat of the four bodies in the small room. He kept up the pressure on him.
‘Am I going to find your DNA in the house, Marcus?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose so, I mean, I have been inside.’ Hussain shifted in his seat.
‘Am I going to find it in the bedroom, Marcus?’
‘Don’t know what you mean, man.’
‘I think you do – have you been in Greta’s bedroom? Am I going to find your fingerprints, Marcus, traces of you?’ asked Temple.
A previous visit to Greta flashed into Hussain’s mind; in her bedroom, in her bed, his hands gripping the wooden headboard as she writhed beneath him.
‘You don’t have to answer these questions,’ the solicitor put in.
‘Oh, you’ve taken your time,’ quipped Hussain. ‘Yeah, of course I’ve been in the bedroom.’ Hussain hung his head in realization of his situation.
‘This isn’t looking good for you, Marcus. You say you last saw her at 6.45 p.m. or thereabouts and you’ve been in her bedroom—’
‘Look, man, I ain’t got no reason to kill anyone, let alone Greta, no way.’
‘What kind of sex did you have, Marcus? We know you take it outside the bedroom, what other activities did you indulge in?’ Temple kept up the questioning, sensing Hussain’s guard had dropped.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Did you play games, did things get out of hand?’ asked Temple.
‘Fuck off, man.’
‘Well, having sex in the open is different, isn’t it – what else did you do that was different?’
‘Nothing man, just the normal.’
‘Your normal and mine are likely to be totally different. Did you ever play games? Did you hurt each other, did you ever, let’s say, tie her hands?’
‘I never tied her up, man, no way, I’ve never done that.’
‘Never tied her hands?’ Temple persisted.
‘No, never.’ Hussain looked from Temple back to his solicitor.
Temple and Sloper briefly exchanged glances and Sloper took over the questioning.
‘I’m going to want to know exactly where you went, Marcus, from the time you left Greta at 6.45 p.m. until the time you turned up there yesterday. So, let’s go through it again.’
Hussain retraced his steps and then Sloper asked him to go over things yet again, going through all his movements for the whole evening. When Hussain started to yawn, his solicitor insisted his client be given a break until morning.
Temple took Simon and Kelly into an office.
‘What do you think?’ Sloper asked Temple.
‘I don’t know,’ said Temple.
‘I do. He’s got to be favourite. We just need his old phone number to try and trace the text message for the £500,’ said Sloper.
‘It would be easier and quicker to get the details of his bank account to trace the withdrawal of the £500. Also check with Greta’s account for £2,000. Send the photos and envelope to forensics for fingerprinting. We’ll need to seize some CCTV and ANPR of the routes he says he drove on Saturday night to corroborate his story. He says he left Greta at about 6.45 or 7 p.m. and went back to the garage where he lef
t her car. He drove his own car home and went out in Swindon, clubbing at The Palace until 2.30 a.m. before going home. The CCTV at the club will confirm his movements. Si, can you pick it up in the morning and brief someone from Neighbourhood Policing to look through it?’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘It’s him all right,’ added Sloper, convinced of Hussain’s guilt. ‘His recall of where he was at any particular time is too neat, it’s too good. Almost as if he’s rehearsed it and let’s face it, he’s had enough time for that. He won’t have accounted for CCTV – I bet it’s not as tight as he says.’
‘We’ll have to see what the DNA results are, and they won’t be for another twenty-four hours so there’s lots of ground we can gain until then. I want the information around the flights from Singapore back to Gatwick. I’ll leave you with Hussain in the morning while I go to see Brett Forrester to get his account of the last time he saw Greta on Saturday. We need to find out who was taking the pictures of Hussain and Greta in Savernake Forest. Who’s the peeper, the blackmailer? I want to know who that was,’ said Temple.
CHAPTER 8
TEMPLE STOOD THE team down at 3 a.m. and made his way home. Once off the main A roads, the journey was largely along unlit winding country roads. At that time in the morning with no moon, it was pitch black. Adrenalin from the day’s events had kept tiredness at bay. His mind continued to run through tasks that would need attention later that day, as he drove down the decline from Stanton St Bernard towards All Cannings. Turning left into the village, in the distance he could see blue flashing lights signalling out in the landscape. As he approached The Green, he was waved down by a uniformed officer in a reflective jacket.
‘You can’t go any further, sir, there’s been a fire. Where do you want to go?’
‘I live just past the next house, number fourteen …’ Temple wanted to get to the house.
‘That’s where the fire is, are you the only inhabitant, sir?’
‘What … yes, what’s happened?’ Temple asked.
‘Neighbours put in a 999 call when they saw flames at the door of the property. They also reported a light on in the front bedroom. We’re glad you’ve turned up as the neighbours said there was usually one occupant.’
‘I rent it. How bad is it?’ All he wanted was to get through the cordon. His eyes darted around, seeing who was standing about.
‘It looks like some kind of accelerant was put through the letter box and ignited, probably petrol from the smell of it. Luckily, one of the neighbours was late home and saw the flames before the fire took a real hold.’
Temple half listened to him; his preoccupation was trying to see if he recognized anyone hanging around in the darkness. As he went to question the officer further, they were both interrupted by the shouts of a blonde woman in a black leather biker’s jacket and blue jeans, striding towards them in high heeled boots.
‘Christ, thank God you’re all right,’ she said, on seeing Temple.
‘I’ve been working late. Jane, what are you doing here?’
‘The neighbours called me, the fire brigade wanted the homeowner. Thank God it hadn’t got a chance to really take hold. Derek saw it on his way home and called 999. The fire officer says it’s too bad to go into now though, you won’t be able to move back in until I’ve had the work done. Why would anyone want to do anything like that?’
‘I don’t know, we’ll have to see what they come up with. Look, Jane …’ Temple needed time to think. He’d been expecting a visit.
‘Have you got anywhere you can stay tonight?’ she asked.
‘No, if I can’t go in, I’ll just sleep in the car. I only need a couple of hours …’ Temple knew he had to get back in the house and he couldn’t leave the scene until he had. He’d sit there all night if he had to.
‘Then come back to mine, follow me back. I’ve got a spare room, I’ll get us a brandy. Come on.’
Jane’s instant reaction to the situation was to provide shelter for her tenant and try to work out who would want to burn down her house. With these thoughts occupying her, she didn’t register Temple’s reluctance. Temple didn’t want her to think he wasn’t appreciative of her offer but knew he had to get inside.
‘Just give me a few minutes. I’ll see you there.’
With the brigade getting ready to drive off, he seized his opportunity. He parked a little way from the house, away from the small collection of neighbours who had gathered on The Green. He slipped down a sideway to the rear of the house. The back door was open; a pane of glass near the handle had been broken. He went inside. The floor of the small kitchen was wet from the water hoses. He saw the empty wine bottle and the broken glass that he’d left on the draining board. Stepping through the kitchen, he looked down the hallway. Even in the darkness, he could see the charred black area by the front door where the fire had taken hold and had begun to eat into the ceiling.
Temple walked down the hallway, his shoes squelching in the soaked carpet. The smell of smoke was strong and clung to the air he breathed, making him cough to rid it from his throat. With the stairway untouched by the fire, Temple leapt up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, up to the bedroom. The room was as he had left it, with no apparent fire damage. He’d come for one thing only – the gun.
He opened the bedside drawer and put his hand inside. It was gone. The solicitor’s letter was also missing.
He looked across the room to a corner where there was a box of papers, files and a laptop – all as he’d left it. He thrust his hand inside the drawer all the way to the back; only the packet of sleeping pills was there. He put them in his jacket pocket. In his desperation to find the gun, he looked under the cabinet and the bed. Logic told him it couldn’t just disappear, but it wasn’t there.
He suppressed a rising sense of panic. He looked around the room; he considered the firemen having searched the room and taken it but since when did they start going through drawers after a fire?
He looked around. Someone had found and taken a loaded gun. As he walked around the room, desperately hoping against hope that the gun would miraculously appear, he berated himself. ‘Fuck, you silly fuck.’ In his desperation to find it, he pulled all the bedclothes from the bed, but still there was no trace of it. He looked again in the drawer and in frustration and anger at his own stupidity for leaving it, threw it across the room. He continued to search, looking under the bed, despite knowing exactly where he’d left it. Eventually, he scooped up the box of papers and made his way out of the house. The fire. The gun. It had to be King. Paul fucking King.
As he approached his car, the police officer stopped him.
‘I thought I recognized you, you’re job, aren’t you? Do you know why someone would have done this or who they are?’
Temple fingered a growing pain of tension in his neck.
‘I’ve no idea, mate,’ he lied. ‘It’s late and I’m tired. Perhaps when it’s light, I’ll be able to think clearer and help you.’ He could think of nothing but the gun. His heart had begun a sickening dull thud against his chest.
Temple found himself back at Jane’s, on her leather button backed sofa, a half filled brandy glass in his hand. He took a deep gulp from the glass. The alcohol hit his head and hollow stomach at the same time. He sank back into the sofa. He needed to think.
Jane sat forward in an adjacent armchair, elbows resting on her knees, cradling a brandy glass in both hands. Her expensively dyed blonde hair fell to her shoulders and her long shellac nails tapped the glass she was holding. In her mid forties, her divorce from her estate agent husband had given her six rental properties in various villages which gave her a good income. She vetted her tenants personally, liked to install professionals and banned pets. Temple was on a twelve month let; Jane thought he was a safe bet, being one of her better employed and paid tenants. He’d told her he had just separated from his wife and the little-boy-lost look about him at the time appealed to her, so much so, that she waived the deposit in the hope that the gesture
might help develop a relationship between them. Looking across at him now, she considered that perhaps there was a silver lining to every setback in life; she now had Temple staying with her.
‘God, I’m shaking! I’m just trying to think if I’ve upset anyone,’ she said, holding her hand out in front of her.
Temple felt as guilty as if he’d started the fire himself.
‘Don’t think about it now.’ He wasn’t really interested in the conversation. ‘You are insured?’
‘Yes, of course I am, but what will you do?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said, wishing he could be alone to think.
‘How bad was the damage?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think it had taken hold too much, the ceilings were scorched but intact and there will be a lot of smoke damage.’
‘Your clothes will be ruined,’ she replied.
His clothes were the last thing on his mind. All he wanted was to be able to think, think of King, where he’d go, what he’d do next. Temple knew he was in the shit and there were limits to what he could do now before he would have to report what happened.
‘Did you take out contents insurance like I told you?’ Jane asked.
‘No, I didn’t anticipate this.’ Temple downed the rest of the brandy.
‘Do you want another?’
‘No. I really must get some shut eye,’ Temple rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment. Got a lot on.’ He stood up.
‘The room’s at the top of the stairs, help yourself to everything in the bathroom. Look, you can stay here if you like, until I get things sorted,’ Jane offered, hopefully.
‘I might take you up on that, thanks, Jane.’
Temple found the room. Without undressing, he lay on top of the bed and stared at the ceiling. Had it been a random attack? Had Jane upset someone? Or had what he’d been waiting for come to pass?
Paul King had threatened revenge from the dock at Bristol Crown Court four years ago when he was convicted for seven years’ imprisonment for aggravated burglary. ‘I’ll kill you, Temple, and your fucking family. I’ll burn your fucking house down,’ King proclaimed calmly, as he was led away to the cells. Although threats like that were commonplace from criminals, Temple’s instinct told him he meant it. King was evil.
