by Sarah Flint
‘How many more times am I going to be asked the same questions?’ she said finally, exasperated.
‘I know and I’m sorry, but last time it wasn’t written down.’ Hayley Boyle looked embarrassed, her face reddening slightly. ‘I believe it was off the record?’
Charlie shook her head. ‘You can ask me as many times as you want. I said exactly the same last time. DI Hunter did a great job. In the circumstances there was nothing else we could have done. He made the right decisions.’ She crossed her arms in front of her and leant back. ‘I’ve said everything I’m going to say on the case, but I need to speak to you about another matter.’
Hayley Boyle cocked her head, questioningly before closing the file.
‘Go on,’ she instructed.
Charlie leant forwards. ‘Shirley Sangster. She made the complaint against DS Leonard Cookson for perjury. I’m assisting with the investigation into his murder. I believe you know her?’
Hayley Boyle looked away, frowning. ‘Yes, I do. She’s an extremely strong woman.’
‘Do you believe her claim that Cookson planted the firearm that was found in Troy’s bedroom?’
‘Troy was heavily connected to the local gangs and there was regular intelligence coming in from informants stating that he had a gun. Would a police officer with less than five years to go before retirement really put his pension on the line to get one kid sent down? And where would he have got the gun from to plant? The whole thing would have been far too risky… and for what? You tell me; Cookson had never had any dealings with the family before. Much more likely that it was Troy’s or he knew all about it but just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit it to his mum. She’d probably kill him.’
Charlie looked directly at Hayley Boyle. ‘But could she kill anyone else? She swore she would never give up until she got justice for Troy, and now Leonard Cookson is dead, with his tongue cut out, his trousers set on fire and a page of the Bible containing the words “Thou shalt not bare false witness” left alongside his body. Do you think she could have had something to do with Cookson’s murder?’
The DS reached for her crucifix and spun it round in her fingers. ‘I don’t know. She did despise Leonard Cookson. I tried for several years to get her to accept the evidence and the court decision, but if anything, she got worse, she hated him with a vengeance. She does have contacts with all the right people in all the right places.’
‘But do you think she could also have contacts with all the “wrong” people, if you know what I mean; people like Samson Powell and his partner, Lisa Forrester. People who could do her dirty work for her?’
DS Boyle chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes darting about anxiously.
‘Shirley Sangster virtually runs her estate. She knows everybody and everything that moves on it, and the whole of Brixton for that matter. She’s a very powerful woman these days. I’ve got no doubt there are enough people around that she could use; people that love her and hate the police as much as she does.’
Charlie stared at the DS in front of her, her face now creased in anguish as she continued.
‘If somebody had a grudge against a copper for whatever reason and wanted her help, then Shirley Sangster would certainly be capable of mobilising the right… or the wrong people. But whether or not we could ever prove it…’
Chapter 26
Two hours later Charlie watched as a large A4 envelope was dropped on to her desk. She ripped open the envelope before pulling out the contents. There were several original statements from officers in the underwater search teams who had scoured the bottom of the well shaft, and an exhibits record. One exhibit immediately grabbed her attention from the list of junk and rubbish dredged from the silt. It was simply labelled ‘One (1) Nokia mobile phone’, but a comment from the exhibiting officer stated that due to its relatively clean appearance he believed it to have only recently been discarded. There were no other items recovered that weren’t rusted, broken or obviously ancient.
As she read the statement, Charlie knew, without doubt, that it must have belonged to Samson Powell. His personal phone, containing his list of contacts, photos and messages had been found at his home address, striking Charlie as strange, until it transpired that it had been left at his address each time he went out to kill. But why would he have another phone? Especially one of this nature; small, cheap and unregistered – a ‘burner phone’ that couldn’t be traced, was difficult to be linked to anybody and was easily disposable. Charlie’s curiosity was in overdrive after her conversation with Hayley Boyle. There had to be more of a reason for Powell’s actions. Maybe this would hold the key.
The question was, after lying in water, would the phone technicians be able to extract anything useful from it… but they had to try.
She knocked on Hunter’s door and entered with the envelope, to find him seated with his head in his hands, squinting at the computer screen, having only recently returned to his office. He looked tired, grey rings circling his eyes, casting dark shadows across his cheeks.
‘How did your interview with Hayley Boyle go?’ she asked.
‘It didn’t. I’m far too busy to waste my time on that again, and anyway, I’ve said as much as I’m going to say. Is that your interim report?’ he barely looked up.
‘No, not yet. I just need your authorisation to get a phone interrogated.’ She placed the statement on the desk in front of him excitedly. It was a great lead. ‘It’s a new disposable Nokia found in the well shaft. The police diver who found it believes that it had only recently been thrown in. It must be Samson Powell’s. After Lisa explained how Powell knew Shirley Sangster, I did some more digging and DS Boyle is investigating her complaint. She knows Sangster well. According to her, Sangster has a lot of contacts in the community, both good and bad. I think Powell could have killed Cookson for her.’
‘And just how are you going to prove this?’ Hunter’s head shot up angrily. ‘Suspicion is not enough. You need good hard evidence, like Sabira, Naz and Nick have against Powell for the murders. Drop it, Charlie. We need to move on. We’ve got the right man, bang to rights. It doesn’t matter why he’s done it. The fact is that he has, and then he’s topped himself when he knew we were on to him.’
‘But, boss, there’s nothing to suggest he even knew Brian Ashton or Philippa McGovern. It doesn’t make sense.’
Hunter sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with his fist. ‘It doesn’t have to. I need your report on Powell’s suicide. The others have completed their interim reports and I intend sending them off shortly. I need yours ASAP, but I need facts, not speculation.’
Charlie stared at Hunter. He wasn’t normally like this. He was usually interested in any new theories, especially if it involved other possible arrests and convictions. Maybe he’d been under more pressure with the speed of the three murders than any of them had realised? Maybe he wasn’t bothered now Powell was dead? Or maybe the stress of the ongoing investigation against him was weighing more heavily than she’d thought? Still, she needed the phone examined.
‘OK, guv, I understand,’ she conceded, her mind whirring. ‘But I still think we should have the phone looked at. Powell may have sent a suicide message on it, or contacted someone that could assist with his frame of mind at the time of his death. I’m sure the Coroner would want that covered.’
Hunter closed his eyes briefly, before smiling weakly at her. ‘OK, you win. You have my authority… but I want you to concentrate on the evidence we have, not wild, improbable theories. I want this case done and dusted as soon as we can. It hasn’t exactly cloaked us in glory.’
Charlie nodded, feeling her earlier excitement draining away. ‘Cheers, guv,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ll get the paperwork emailed to you immediately, for your authority. Oh, and boss, for your information, I told the DPS sergeant that I totally trusted your judgement in everything you did.’
Hunter shook his head and smiled again, but this time his smile was tinged with an edge of despondency. ‘Thanks, Charlie. Aft
er missing my interview, I’ll be top of the DCI’s hit list, but I appreciate your support. I just wish I could say that everybody thought the same.’
*
‘What’s the matter with the boss?’ Charlie sidled up to Bet and Paul who were having a break from their computers to watch the agitated ramblings of an ageing down-and-out on the pavement below. ‘He’s just given me a right dressing-down for mentioning my thoughts on Shirley Sangster.’
Bet shrugged and passed her a packet of Minstrels. They had all heard her theory when she’d returned from the interview with DS Boyle. ‘I think he’s still smarting because he got it in the neck for missing Powell. He disappeared after the DCI came in to speak to him while you were being interviewed. Before he left he was mumbling something about the powers-that-be criticising him for not having had anyone watching Powell’s address before we all hit it with the warrant.’
‘We didn’t exactly have time.’ Charlie poured half a dozen Minstrels into her hand. ‘It was all hands on deck when we got the DNA hit. Anyway, even if someone had gone straight to his flat we’d probably have been none the wiser. Powell could have been sleeping inside, or he could have been out. He could even have been getting ready for his next murder or disposing of evidence from the last. We couldn’t afford to sit back and wait and let him do another. We were just unlucky.’
‘Like with Carl Hookham,’ Nick chipped in sarcastically.
Charlie swung round, angrily. ‘Yes. Like with Carl Hookham. Why? Have you got a point to make?’
‘Just saying.’ Nick snorted and stretched back in his chair. He had returned to his scruffy dress code; the effort of dressing smartly having been expended several days before. Hunter had either ignored his appearance or had been too preoccupied to care.
‘Well, you can piss off, if that’s what you think.’ Charlie was suddenly outraged. ‘I didn’t see you helping us for the whole weekend when everything was going off. We all came in but you obviously couldn’t give a toss.’
‘I do my hours.’ Nick grinned lazily.
‘You do nothing more than you have to. So don’t think you can lecture us on what we should, or shouldn’t have done, when we’re all prepared to put in the extra time for our colleagues.’
‘At least I’ve done what was requested. I didn’t see you taking your completed interim report into the boss.’
Charlie frowned defensively. ‘That’s because I’ve had far more to do than you. I had to look at Powell’s full history as well as trying to establish his state of mind. The Coroner will need to be satisfied that he intended to kill himself.’
Nick laughed out loud. ‘Oh yes, rather than by chance coming across a bloody deep hole in the ground and just randomly happening to have a length of cable on him, which he then decided on the spur of the moment to tie around his neck, before accidently slipping and falling over the side?’
‘You’re a total knob, Nick Arrowsmith.’ She took a deep breath, feeling the angry heat rushing to her face.
Bet aimed the bag of chocolates towards her again. ‘Ignore him, he’s just a twat,’ she said loudly, while Paul clapped a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.
‘Yes, Nick. I think you’ve said enough,’ Naz agreed, while Sabira completed the team solidarity, standing up and firing an icy glare towards him.
Nick got to his feet, tucking his T-shirt back into the waistband of his jeans and shrugged. ‘OK have it your way, Charlie. You keep on chasing imaginary suspects. We’ve all had to listen to your trumped-up theories. Samson Powell was just a fucking psycho. He didn’t need anyone telling him what to do. He did it all by himself. For once, and possibly the only time so far, I agree with the boss.’ He moved towards the door, before turning around towards Charlie and the team and grinned. ‘And don’t worry, you lot. She loves me really.’
*
Charlie was still seething when she arrived at Ben’s flat. Nick was a useless, lazy waster, who thought he was God’s gift. He might look hot, but he acted like an arrogant prick.
There was no answer, so she let herself in to find Ben lying asleep across the sofa, the TV, as always, blaring in the background. Charlie shook him gently, but when at last he came to properly, he was almost as despondent as Hunter.
Nothing seemed to be working for him. He still wasn’t sleeping well and the tablets he’d been prescribed to calm him at night were worse than useless. She sat down next to him, hoping that the heat from her body might stir him into positivity, but nothing she said or did changed his mood. He didn’t want to run. He didn’t want to do anything. He was due to see Anna Christophe the day after next and she was supposed to be going with him. Hopefully, both of them would be in a better frame of mind by then, but perhaps they wouldn’t. Maybe they were destined to remain like this for a lifetime; locked into a needy friendship, neither of them willing or able to commit fully, or sever the ties.
In the end she could hide her anger no longer. She had to go. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday, if you can be bothered.’
She slammed the door as she left, regretting her words instantly but not able to stop her rage at his lethargy increasing with every footstep. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she dialled her mother, cancelling her usual Tuesday evening outing to her family. There was no way she would be able to control her emotions there tonight.
She needed to be on her own, but at the same time she didn’t want to be on her own.
There was only one place that had always offered solace and companionship but she hadn’t stayed there alone for a long while. It was time to fight her own fears. The evening was warm and dry and the night was predicted to stay the same. Tonight she would sleep under the light of the moon and allow the negativity to drain away. Tonight she would rest close to her brother. Tomorrow would be a new day.
Chapter 27
Wednesday 5th July 2017
It was a movement in the alleyway that led out from a notorious crack house on the Stockwell Park Gardens Estate that first caught Charlie’s eye, as she drove towards the office the next morning. Emerging from the shadows were two people she recognised in an instant. Lisa Forrester, her hair even more matted than the previous day, stumbled across the pavement and slumped hard against a lamp post, a bottle clasped firmly in one hand. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open wide as she laughed raucously at her male companion.
The man followed on, a smirk plastered across his face as he grasped Lisa’s sleeve and hauled her upright. There was no mistaking the bushy black and grey-tinged hair and beard of Dennis Walters. His pockmarked face was screwed up in an expression of delight, the antics of Forrester clearly causing him amusement.
Charlie felt her heartbeat quicken. Why hadn’t she thought of this yesterday when Lisa was at the station? Why hadn’t she had the sense to show the woman a photo of their two suspects as well as their victims? Samson Powell was dead; there could be no mishandling of identification procedures for a court case. Both people now in her view had lived and breathed in the same few square miles as each other. Both had drug habits and criminal records that meant they shared the same circle of acquaintances, and if Lisa knew Walters, Samson Powell would almost certainly have done too. They could well have served time together in prison.
She pulled over at the next set of lights and turned into the side road, looking for a place to park where she could see, without being seen. Walters and Forrester were walking in her direction. Sliding down in the driver’s seat, she watched as they lurched across the road in front of her, Dennis Walters still with his hand under Lisa’s arm. There was no way it was a chance meeting, a quick purchase of drugs from one hand to another. They were together; friends, or friends with benefits. In the world they inhabited, there was no time to waste. With Samson dead, Lisa needed to find a new provider, a symbiotic host whose presence could benefit them both. She had dropped out of the detox programme and had nowhere to go. She needed to trace old friends, call in a favour or two… and Dennis Walters was evidently a name from the past,
or present.
They were heading in the direction of Walters’ flat. It wouldn’t take too long for them to reach it. Charlie knew the way, the shortcuts they might take on foot, but it was now imperative she got them both housed, preferably at his address. Slowly she edged towards the junction, turning in the same direction as they were travelling, leapfrogging the pair until they entered the stairwell and eventually emerged on the balcony outside his flat. They still had the drugs warrant for Walters’ address and it was still within its expiry date. Maybe she could persuade Hunter to think about its execution now she had seen the pair together.
The reason for Powell’s murderous spree was taking root now. Shirley Sangster hated Leonard Cookson. Dennis Walters hated Brian Ashton and Philippa McGovern. Lisa Forrester was linked to Dennis Walters, Shirley Sangster and Samson Powell and it appeared that, by association, Samson Powell would also be linked to them all. They all lived and swirled together in the same smouldering cauldron of hate and criminality.
Samson Powell was the killer, now the question she needed answered was whether he had acted on his own? As she made her way into the office, Charlie knew, with or without Hunter’s approval, she wouldn’t rest until she had that answer.
*
A jam doughnut sat on a plate in pride of place on Charlie’s desk when she got in. Next to it, scrawled flamboyantly on a piece of paper, was the word ‘Sorry’, accompanied by a note to ‘PTO’. She turned the paper over and saw the word ‘Dinner?’
Glancing around the office, her sight came to rest on Nick, sitting at his desk peering sheepishly across at her over the computer monitor. He mouthed his apology again and she felt her cheeks colouring immediately. He was still a knob, but he was a charming knob and one that she couldn’t, yet, fully make up her mind about. For now, she’d accept his apology, but as for dinner… that could wait until he demonstrated he meant it, but she had to admit to a sense of pleasure at the thought. It had been a long time since she’d been wined and dined. Ben was certainly not making the effort, although, judging by the cards laid out within his sight the other night, she was clearly still in his thoughts.
