by Iain Cameron
Jasper Costain, an up-and-coming documentary producer, made a brilliant programme about criminals making money from refugee camps in Syria. They took an option but all the big broadcasters turned it down, judging it too harrowing, and four weeks ago Langton told him he could no longer help and advised him to tout it around more sympathetic markets in France or Spain. His disappointment was palpable and after much shouting and hand-wringing, he went ballistic and had to be thrown out the office. On the way, he threatened to shoot Langton and set fire to the building.
Baz Kinghorn was a successful freelance photographer who sold pictures of film and pop stars to publications around the world, but three months ago he’d taken a picture of Langton in the arms of a young starlet, wearing nothing more than a sheer, short dress and a smile at a TV awards dinner. It caused an almighty rumpus at home and Kelly had never let him forget it.
Langton had confronted him in a quiet side street and given him a sound beating. He hadn’t heard anything from him since, but he knew the Essex snapper was friends with some unsavoury characters and he wouldn’t put it past the vindictive little sod to be behind Kelly’s disappearance.
There it was. Three enemies and a missing wife. Was there a connection? And if so, what was he going to do about it?
SEVEN
The television in the corner was tuned to Sky News. The dignitaries waited a few minutes until the British Prime Minister arrived at the Brussels summit, and on each occasion on the looped newscast his beaming smile never faded and the greeting he received from the diminutive French prime minister, who didn’t quite reach to the knot in his tie, was still as cold as a filleted halibut.
DS Carol Walters’ companion for the day was once again DC Khalid Agha. He was born in Pakistan and brought up in Stockwell, aged twenty-three, bright with a degree in criminal psychology but with all the policing know-how and nous of a blind traffic warden. It was either a sick joke by DI Henderson because she forgot to bring him his coffee one morning, or a genuine attempt to give the boy some experience, but whatever the reason, why her? DS Wallop was capable of talking the hind legs off a donkey and would tell him everything he needed to know, including a lot of the things he didn’t, while DS Hobbs was more circumspect and everybody’s idea of a decent copper, and working with him, Agha would learn a wealth of good habits. So why her?
‘Detective Sergeant Walters?’
She looked up. An eager young woman with short, elegantly styled hair, expensive make-up and a purple dress that must have been sprayed on and probably cost twice her weekly wage, stared back. ‘Miss Egger will see you now. I’m Mandy.’
They walked to a glass-walled lift, which whisked them up at breath-taking speed to the seventh floor in a blur of glass and retracting London street scene. Passing a large open area filled with predominately young people tapping something into computers, they walked into a massive office, the size of which didn’t exist in Sussex House, the building where she worked, or Malling House, the Grade I, 18th Century mansion in Lewes, the headquarters of Sussex Police.
The room was divided into three areas: an informal seating area with two large black leather settees and a coffee table, its only embellishment a bowl of fruit; a chrome and glass desk from behind which Liz Egger came striding over to greet them; and a long conference table beside the window, looking out over the street below.
‘Hello. I’m Liz Egger, so pleased to meet you Detective Sergeant Walters,’ she said, shaking her hand, ‘and you must be Detective Constable Agha. Please, come and sit down.’
Normally in police interviews, the fretful interviewee would now retreat behind the desk and put a big lump of wood and metal, or in Egger’s case, glass and chrome between them and the forces of law and order, as if somehow this scant barrier would save them from uncomfortable questions or charges of corporate misfeasance and money laundering.
It therefore came as some surprise when Liz led them to the informal seating area and she instructed Mandy to fly off and make some coffee. Just as well, as Mandy’s skimpy dress and VPL were starting to make Agha a little too hot under the collar.
‘You found us ok?’ Egger asked.
‘It took a couple of attempts,’ Walters said, giving a withering glance in the direction of her companion. He was about as much help at navigation as a three-legged guide dog and too easily distracted by the sight of pretty girls or the rumbling of Maserati and Ferrari engines, the owners cruising the streets near Portman Square, looking for a parking space.
‘I still don’t find it easy,’ Egger said, ‘as most of the buildings around here look the same and more often than not, don’t display the company or building name.’
‘So what happens here?’ Walters asked. ‘What is steel trading?’
‘Stibert and Henkel are one of the oldest steel stock traders in the world, but the business has changed a lot over the years. Way back, we used to own steel mills, forests, and warehouses in Bavaria and Norway, but nowadays all the work is done by computer, by all the people here,’ she said, indicating the tappers they saw on the way in.
‘We buy steel on the spot market,’ she continued, ‘which may be on a ship heading out to Yokohama or lying at the dockside in Antwerp, and we in turn sell it to stockholders, who perhaps require the entire consignment for one of their customers, or directly to end users such as oil, gas, and car manufacturers.’
‘I see,’ Walters said, and meaning it as Egger made it sound so simple.
‘Now I know what you’re thinking, we’re just a bunch of gamblers, buying and selling shiploads of steel we never take delivery of, but no. Our job is to match producers to buyers, as steel producers want long production runs and standard sizes while end users require smaller quantities in a variety of steels. The clever trick is balancing these two very different needs. Ah, here’s the coffee.’
‘Shall I pour?’ Mandy said.
‘No, leave it Mandy and I’ll do it. Close the door on your way out, please.’
Walters let out an inaudible sigh. She was in the wrong job. For the money Mandy earned, she could greet people with a smile at the door, make them a cup of coffee, carry it into the office and close the door. Mind you, without losing a stone or two, she wouldn’t look as pretty in such a tight dress.
‘Enough of the corporate speak,’ Egger said handing her a cup, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’ If the coffee tasted as good as the aroma wafting towards her, she was in for a treat; it was such a shame boy wonder didn’t partake.
‘As I said on the phone,’ Walters said, ‘we are investigating the disappearance of Kelly Langton, now missing for almost a week and interviewing people like yourself who knew her and trying to build up a picture of what Kelly is like.’
Her affable face took on a serious note. ‘It’s a terrible situation, it really is. I feel for those lovely boys and Brian. I can’t imagine what they must be going through.’
‘How well did you know Kelly?’
‘Better than anybody, I should think. We were at primary school together and in the same class at Williamson College until she dropped out to become a model. I stayed on for my ‘A’ levels and went to university like most of the girls from my year, but I used to wonder who made the right choices. I get this,’ she said, waving an arm around her office, ‘which pays the bills and all the rest but she’s travelled the world, hobnobbed with lots of famous people, made a pile of money modelling and doing a job she loved.’ She shrugged and sipped her coffee.
Walters didn’t wonder. She didn’t have the legs or the face for modelling but she would take this office in a flash. Liz was being a little disingenuous about her lot, as she worked in a nice office, she wore smart clothes and expensive jewellery, and a fat salary came thumping into her bank account each month to cushion any pain. Throw in London with its Michelin-starred restaurants, West-end shows and all the places she ever wanted to visit, she would sign up in a trice with no misty eyes for a facile modelling career.
‘Even
though we went our separate ways and our paths didn’t often cross, we’ve always kept in touch and only last month I went down to their place in Hurspierpoint.’
‘Do you live in London?’
‘Yes, in Notting Hill.’
‘Does Kelly ever come and stay with you?’
‘No, she hasn’t done that since the boys were small. Nowadays, if they’re not at school, they need ferrying back and forth to football and tennis camps or training, and so it’s easier for me to go there.’
‘Has she been in contact with you since she disappeared?’
‘No, and I check all my phones and my home and office computers every day but I’ve received nothing. It makes me sad and I have to say, a little suspicious because if she was in trouble or running away from something, she knows she can call me and there’s a place for her to sleep and I would give her money or anything else she needed to tide her over.’
The Condor team were now considering the possibility that Kelly’s disappearance was not a consequence of her infidelity, as they suspected right from the start, but her husband’s. With Liz a regular visitor to Manor House Farm, it created the opportunity for her and Brian to spend time together but so far, his name was barely mentioned. It could be the sign of something going on between them, or quite the opposite. She needed to probe deeper.
‘What do you do when you stay there?’
‘I usually drive down on Saturday morning and join Kelly, ferrying the boys to football and afterwards, into Brighton or Haywards Heath for lunch. In the evenings, Brian would come back from watching the Albion or work or whatever he’d been doing all day and we’d all sit down for a family dinner. After dinner, and when the boys were both in bed, we would watch a DVD and chat until late.’
‘Does Brian join you?’ Walter asked.
‘Not usually. Sometimes he has work to do or more often than not, he’s in the kitchen or study watching Match of the Day.’
‘And on Sunday?’
‘You don’t get a long-lie with two young boys around, so after breakfast, we take them and the dogs and go for a long walk down to the river or over to the old mill and try and tire them out. I head back to London after lunch and depending on how far we’ve walked, it will be me who’s worn out and if not for the radio, I would probably fall asleep. Although it’s not something I should be admitting in front of a police officer.’
‘Count yourself lucky I’m not in Traffic. Where is Brian during all this activity? He sounds a bit peripheral, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘No, it’s true, he often is. He says it’s so Kelly and I can spend some time together, but I think he’s avoiding me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not the sort of person to keep my mouth shut, and not when my best friend is involved, and as Brian knows my views, he keeps out of my way in case I air them.’
‘Your views about what?’
‘Oh, about the way he treats Kelly. I hate the way he talks to her and his philandering.’
‘How does he talk to her?’
‘You’re too young to remember him as a television presenter but he got results by bullying people. It’s in his nature to be a bully and he does the same with Kelly, you know the sort of thing, ‘when’s dinner I’m starving?’ ‘This place is a tip, why don’t you clean it?’ As if he is the only one working. I don’t know how she puts up with it. I know I wouldn’t.’
‘Is he having an affair?’
‘I heard rumours when I went to football with the boys and Kelly was away doing something else. Other mums would come up and talk about a picture they saw in a magazine or how a friend saw him with a woman in a pub or restaurant. After a time, you start to think, it can’t all be about business, but I never saw anything. Have you heard about his secretary?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘It’s the same again, I’m afraid. I heard rumours about an affair with his secretary, Melanie Knight, but I dismissed it as tittle-tattle. You know how some women like to gossip and snipe.’
Walters nodded in agreement, as she had been on the blunt end of malicious gossip herself.
‘Gemma Ferguson, the Financial Director of Brian’s television production company, called me up and told me it was the talk of the office and asked me to speak to him as it was affecting business and the atmosphere at work. Believe me I tried, several times, but it always ends the same way, in yet another argument and I didn’t want to press it and get Gemma into trouble. Maybe I should have and things would have turned out better.’
It was an interesting revelation and if she was not mistaken, the first real glimpse of a motive to appear in this case.
‘The thing with Melanie Knight is different you see,’ Egger said, ‘as I understand it all the others were brief flings and were over before the rumour became established, but I think this one has been going on for a while. Kelly knew about it, as some people were only too happy to tell her, the ones jealous of their marriage and success, if you ask me. She once told me if she ever found firm evidence, she wouldn’t hesitate to leave him.’
EIGHT
He parked the car at Brighton Racecourse and walked towards a line of buses. It was a still, clear night with temperatures a little higher than of late, making it feel to Ricky Wood more like the end of summer than the start of winter, but an ideal night for football.
During a lull in drunken banter at the Langton’s dinner party a week or so back, Brian mentioned he was a season ticket holder at Brighton and Hove Albion. There followed a lively conversation about the Albion’s mixed fortunes this season, footballers’ wages, transfer fees, and the impact of foreign players on the national game, to add to a long list of topics which would wake the children if they weren’t already staying with their in-laws, or out-laws as Brian liked to call them.
To Wood’s surprise, the big man had called him a couple of days ago and told him he didn’t get to many games at the moment, as he was too busy working and looking after the boys, would he like to borrow his season ticket for the Tuesday evening match against league leaders, Sheffield United? Would he? Was the Pope a Catholic? He gladly took it, although if he was being picky, he would have preferred the Emirates as he had been a ‘Gooner’ since childhood, but hey, a live match was a live match.
Brighton Racecourse was set high up on the South Downs and on a fine day, visitors were treated to a clear view of the South Coast from Newhaven to Worthing and across the English Channel where the outline of France was sometimes visible, but now it was dusk and all he could see was a murky haze. The area was well known to thousands of race-goers who flocked there for race meetings from April to October and on Bank Holidays, when it was packed to the rafters.
To those of a literary bent, Graham Greene’s dark novel, Brighton Rock, featured a memorable scene here, when Colleoni’s men, armed with razors, attacked twisted killer Pinkie and his friend Spicer. No such gangs plagued Brighton now, thank God, but the place never ceased to evoke memories of that great story whenever he came here.
The huge car park lay unused between race meetings and became an ideal Park-and-Ride facility for Albion supporters on match nights. Moving closer, buses looked jam-packed with upbeat fans, all wearing team-coloured scarves, hats and replica shirts and despite looking like an interloper or a spy, as he didn’t possess any such insignia, he managed to squeeze aboard one.
The bus pulled into the car-park at the Amex Community Stadium twenty minutes before kick-off, leaving him enough time to find the area of the ground containing his seat, buy a meat pie and a pint, before settling down to watch the pre-match build-up. Brian said the seat beside him belonged to Jack Monaghan, the Irish guy he met at the dinner party, and when someone else sat down, he felt confused and a little annoyed. He’d looked forward to meeting Jack again and getting his take on Kelly’s disappearance, and finding out if their kitchen sink dalliance was the sign of an on-going relationship or a consequence of too much wine.
The game kicked-off and eve
n though he was reluctant to get involved in a bun-fight with a fellow supporter and a couple of stewards all because one stupid prat couldn’t be bothered looking at the seat number on his ticket, he leaned over and said to the interloper in his best non-threatening voice, ‘Jack couldn’t make it tonight?’
He turned to face him. ‘Oh, hi there, mate. Sorry, you must be Ricky Wood,’ he said, sticking out a hand for him to shake. ‘I should have said something earlier as Jack told me you’d be here. I’m Brendan Osborne.’
He knew Jack and Brian were good mates who socialised with one another regularly, but didn’t realise they were so close Brian would tell Jack he couldn’t come tonight and he was taking his place.
‘How do you know Jack, Brendan?’
‘I work for him. I’m a programmer.’
He nodded, as if he knew what it meant, but he suspected the sum of his knowledge could be written on the back of a season ticket.
The standard of football was good, the occasional slips and mistakes, inevitable with players who weren’t as skilful as many of the international class players at clubs like Arsenal, but they didn’t cost their club the best part of thirty-million pounds either.
At half-time, the Albion led 2-0 and he joined a happy, buoyant throng heading for the exits, many of whom seemed to be in desperate need of a drink, as they immediately started to queue at the nearest bar, while others like him headed for the toilets. When he came out, and risking the ire of his bladder in the second half, he purchased another pint and caught up with Brendan, as he watched highlights of other matches being played this evening on one of the big screens strung from the ceiling.
‘How long have you worked for Jack?’
