by Iain Cameron
On opening the car door, a furry microphone, looking not unlike a long sleek animal or the sleeve of someone’s fur coat, appeared in front of his face but he wasn’t in the mood for talking or feeding furry animals.
‘Can you confirm, detective, is Brian Langton about to be arrested for his wife’s murder?’ The voice was bossy and arrogant and emanated from a long-nosed, pasty-faced bloke with greasy hair, wielding the hairy microphone as a medieval lord would his sword.
‘I can confirm if you don’t get your bloody pet animal out of my face and let me get on with my work, I will ram it right up your arse and throw you and all your equipment into the boot of the nearest police car.’
Henderson stepped out, causing the journalist to step back but the guy didn’t move far enough and a little push from Henderson sent him sprawling against the fence. The others beside him tried to get out of the way of this irascible detective but not so fast for some of them to receive a shove as well. He collected Walters and the two of them walked in tandem towards the Langton driveway.
Moving closer, he saw two patrol cars, the ones he requested and hopefully in the back of one was a Family Liaison Officer, ready to care for the children and their dogs. He now wondered if two cars would be enough, as the size of the media gathering was larger than he anticipated and even though four officers were doing their best, they were strained and looked as though they were undertaking the hardest work they’d done all week. If they thought they were coming here to control a small collection of placid protestors, they were mistaken as this lot were pushing, jostling for position and trying to edge in front and when they couldn’t get there, reaching over the heads of anyone blocking their way and thrusting cameras, microphones and data recorders forward.
They reached the door after a scramble and picked up the FLO on the way. He knocked but before the door opened, a familiar face appeared at his shoulder.
‘Hello, Detective Inspector Henderson,’ Rob Tremain of The Brighton Argus, said, ‘good to see you.’
‘Hi Rob, it’s good to see you too but this is not a good time or didn’t you notice?’
‘Fair enough, but is it true Mr Langton took out a million pound insurance policy on his wife’s life, only a few months before she went missing?’
Henderson stared back at him in shock, as this information wasn’t yet released to the media. He was about to demand where he got his information from when the door flew open. Flashing warrant cards, the officers were ushered inside by Brian Langton who, using his considerable bulk to keep the crowd back, succeeded in closing the door behind him.
‘Bloody hell, it’s worse than Victoria Tube Station in rush hour.’ Langton said, wiping his brow.
They stood in the hall for a moment catching their breath, while listening to the shouting and banging going on outside. What Brian Langton made of it, he couldn’t predict, as his face was impassive but maybe it was a common occurrence in this part of Hurstpierpoint at this time on a Friday night, or perhaps he was just getting used to all the media attention.
‘You can probably guess why we’re here Mr Langton,’ Henderson said, ‘especially with the amount of media interest going on out there.’
‘No, not a bloody clue. What the hell’s going on? Did you find her?’
‘Brian Langton, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife Kelly. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘Fucking hell,’ he spluttered. ‘I thought you were here to give me some good news or something, but I didn’t expect this. You can’t be serious. I didn’t kill her, I swear.’
‘Mr Langton.’ Henderson said, his voice sounding cold and steely, conscious he needed to take control of the situation as even though Langton was smaller in height, he was heavier in build and appeared solid.
‘We either do this the hard way, or my way. There are dozens of reporters and photographers out there who would love to get a picture of you in handcuffs and looking as guilty as hell, and believe me the picture will appear on the front pages of every morning newspaper and damage your defence no end. Alternatively, you can cooperate with me, put your coat on and we’ll walk outside.’
For several seconds, even though it felt like minutes, Langton stood there deliberating, and for a moment Henderson knew what it felt like to be a member of the Scotland rugby squad, about to face his opposite number, a giant Samoan in the All Blacks pack.
Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he picked up the leather jacket lying across a chair in the hall and walked to the door. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
NINETEEN
‘He’s innocent, I tell you, you’ve arrested the wrong man,’ Rachel Jones said as she stood on the steps leading up from the galley. With only her head visible, she looked like one of those animated talking head figures at Disneyland.
Henderson tried to ignore her and nudged the rudder to port and brought ‘Mingary’ into the wind. A few minutes later with the boat almost at a standstill, he got up, slackened the mainsail and made his way to the bow and dropped the anchor. By the time he returned to his seat by the wheel, Rachel disappeared had below.
It was a fine October Sunday morning with a constant breeze, gusting occasionally. The variable conditions suited him but seemed to deter many other sailors from venturing out of Brighton Marina, either that or their boats were already shored-up for the winter. For many years, he’d sailed Loch Linnhe in Argyll, a long sea water loch with Fort William at one end and the Island of Mull at the other, and at times the weather could resemble the North Atlantic during a violent storm, while at other times it was calm and settled, suitable for a children’s sailing school, but it got him used to whatever Mother Nature could throw at him.
He bought ‘Mingary,’ a thirty-one foot Moody yacht not long after moving to Sussex. It was a ten-year-old boat in need of a bit of TLC and after spending every free weekend re-varnishing all the wood, renewing old ropes and stripping and lubricating many of the winches and pumps, she was now in reasonable shape. While the old girl would never win any prizes for its pace, she was seaworthy and more than capable of undertaking trips to France and along the coast to Dorset and Cornwall, voyages he often made in the summer months.
Rachel climbed the steps up from the galley, taking great care not to spill either of the two mugs of steaming coffee she carried, as she once tipped a plate of chilli over herself when the boat was rocked by a passing speedboat. After placing the mugs down, she dropped down beside him, her waterproof jacket making a familiar crinkling sound.
‘You’re getting good at this,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Rustling up drinks and food on a moving boat.’
She shrugged. ‘I told you before, I did some dinghy sailing as a teenager and liked it. I only stopped when I went to university as it wasn’t near a river or the sea.’
‘Well, take it for the compliment it’s meant to be, as a lot of people can’t cook or sleep on a small boat because they find it too claustrophobic.’
‘Oh I don’t know, I like the cosiness of it all,’ she said, rubbing his knee. ‘When are you going to take me out for a long sail, when we can sleep on the boat overnight?’
‘Are you up for it?’
‘You bet. A chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc on the deck on a balmy summer’s evening, I can’t wait.’
‘If, and I mean if, there’s nothing big going down in Serious Crimes and you’re still in the same job and haven’t moved to better things as a result of your big scoop, we could go over to France in May.’
‘Great, I’ll hold you to it. I’ll stick it in my diary.’
He took a drink from the mug. It was piping hot when Rachel put it down but in the chilly, damp air it cooled quickly.
‘Did you hear what I said a few minutes ago, Angus? I think Brian Langton is innocent.’
‘I
heard what you said, but I’m trying my best to ignore it. It’s what I do and think about all day and I don’t want to do it on my Sunday off.’
There was nowhere to go and no rope-tying or sail maintenance tasks to perform, she gave him no choice and he turned to face her. She had been bombarding him with information about the Langton case for the last few weeks and now she was incensed about Brian Langton’s arrest. Despite telling her time and again about all the evidence against him, he was having to justify his actions all over again.
‘But it’s important.’
‘I know it’s important.’ He paused, trying to keep cool. ‘Right. What makes you think he’s innocent? Your newspaper, along with all the others out there, has been baying for his blood right from the start.’
‘I know we did but we’re simply reflecting the views of our readership. Andy and I believe he’s innocent.’
‘Who’s Andy?’
‘The Features sub-editor, the guy I work with when I’m involved in doing all this profile stuff, like the interview I did with Brian Langton.’
‘I hold the Langton interview personally responsible for interfering with my Sunday sail.’
‘What? Are you suggesting I can’t be objective because I’ve met the guy?’
‘Something along those lines.’
He liked to sail with an empty head and all thoughts of the office with its endless piles of paperwork and the repulsive criminals who inhabited many of the pages, forgotten for a few hours. This became the time he allowed his body to absorb an overdose of fresh air instead of the sweaty fug of an interview room, and for his hands and arms to be doing something physical, a welcome change from having his arse glued to a chair and his fingers cemented to a computer keyboard.
They had sailed east along the coast from Brighton and stopped in a quiet bay, overshadowed by the magnificent Seven Sisters, the tall chalk cliffs near Eastbourne, a comforting sight for many a homesick sailor returning home. Rachel was promised more high profile interviews, as the Langton interview had been received so favourably, a sub-text for her newspaper selling loads of re-publication rights to other newspapers, and they wanted more. He could now see his Sundays changing to this, the peace shattered as they argued about the ins and outs of a case they both were involved in.
‘The evidence you’ve got against him is circumstantial at best. I mean having a digger in the driveway doesn’t imply he killed his wife and buried her in the back garden, does it? Maybe he used it to build a rockery. Did you and your colleagues even think of that?’
‘Don’t criticise my colleagues. In fact, our job would be much easier if your colleagues didn’t hang on to our coattails and dissect everything we do and say in the pages of every newspaper in the land.’
‘Don’t try to side-step the issue.’
‘I’m not trying to side-step anything. We have evidence. We found out Brian–’
‘Evidence my eye,’ she shouted. ‘It’s weak and incidental. It’s got miscarriage of justice written all over it.’
‘Hold on Rachel, you’re out of order.’
‘Am I hell. Look at the facts.’
‘Look at the facts? Look at your face.’ It was as stormy as anything he’d ever experienced in the Channel. ‘I think you’re getting a bit too close to this story. It’s hard to maintain perspective when you know one of the main characters so well.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Angus Henderson. Are you telling me I can’t come to my own conclusions because I’m too weak and emotionally involved? Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m naive and innocent, and I can’t see all the evil and nastiness in the world like you men. You’re talking bullshit and you know it.’
‘I didn’t say anything about you being weak but I do think you’re too emotionally involved.’ It was his turn to raise his voice. ‘You’re a journalist for God’s sake, not a cop.’
A small boat in the middle of a calm sea was no place to have an argument as there was nowhere to go, its lightweight doors refused to slam, and with crockery that didn’t break on a stormy night, never mind being thrown against a wooden galley floor. In addition, with nothing to impede its flight and no howling wind to reduce its venom, the shouting and screeching emanating from ‘Mingary’ travelled effortlessly across the water, much to the delight of a couple of boats nearby who were no doubt listening to every word and taking bets who would end up in the water first.
Point made, Rachel disappeared below and bashed and banged while he weighed anchor and headed for home. The wind had changed to a soft breeze so it didn’t require the captain to trouble himself too much about the boat’s trim or to hold on to the wheel with a steely grip, and at times like this, he would think about the week ahead. It usually sorted out in his mind the priorities his team needed to focus on and the various places along the way where his input would be most effective, but try as he might, their argument got in the way.
What he couldn’t say to her was that another piece of evidence had surfaced. It didn’t arise as a result of searching Langton’s house and garden, which didn’t tell them anything new, but from the trip Walters and Agha made to Williamson College. One of the women they talked to on the day called back and told them that on the night before Kelly disappeared, she and her husband had a ding-dong argument.
The argument was about his alleged affair with Melanie Knight, and Cathy Holden, the good friend of Kelly’s who called in, told them Kelly said to her on the morning of her disappearance as she dropped her kids off at school, she was making plans to leave him.
It crossed his mind, as much as it crossed Rachel’s that much of the evidence against Brian Langton could be considered supposition, and if one piece was taken out and analysed on its own, as Rachel did with the digger, it could appear innocent but when everything was added together, it was incriminating. Many criminals were convicted on much less.
It also crossed his mind that his boss, DI Lisa Edwards, was new to the job and eager to lay down an early marker, hence her enthusiasm for Langton’s arrest. In fact, the case was tailor-made for someone with her media background, as she couldn’t make a presentation at a meeting of the Women’s Guild or conduct a road safety seminar for pensioners without thinking through how it would be treated in the media.
With Langton in custody, his car could now be forensically analysed, the forest near his house examined for recent excavations and they were also taking a closer look at his business financials.
Even without a body, there was enough evidence on the charge sheet to convict him, but he needed to be one hundred per cent sure in his own mind if he was to follow it through. Despite his stonewall defence of the work done by his colleagues with Rachel, he didn’t think he was there yet.
TWENTY
Whenever Amy Sandford drove, she thought about her ‘To Do’ list. Today looked like being a busy day with two viewings, a meeting with a difficult client, a mortgage discussion with–
‘Bloody hell!’ She pulled out to overtake a slow-moving car but failed to see the low slung sports car behind, which decided to do the same thing to her. If she hadn’t heard the rasping horn of the Mercedes SLK or whatever it was, accompanied by an angry middle-fingered gesture from the driver, who knows how it might have ended?
‘God, did you see what happened there, Jen,’ Phillip said from the back, ‘we nearly crashed.’
‘Yeah, truly amazing. We could have been killed.’
‘Yeah, and Mum would spend the rest of her life in jail on bread and water.’
‘Great, loads of TV and no more homework.’
‘How could you watch TV if you were dead, you dopey munchkin?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Shut up you two. We all make mistakes now and again, even Dad.’
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t drive as fast as you do,’
‘You’re too impatient Mum, you need to calm down. Take a chill pill.’ This from Jennifer, the seasoned and worldly-wise eight-year-old she could see in the rear view
mirror, smiling stupidly from the comfort of her booster seat. She had preferred it when they were both in car seats and couldn’t string whole sentences together.
The last few miles were driven by an exemplary driver who stuck to the speed limits and kept to her side of the road and as the car glided through the open wrought iron gates of Leapark School in Cuckfield; she vowed to slow down whenever the children were in the car and save all the fast stuff for the times when she was alone.
She liked driving fast and many of the rural roads around this part of West Sussex were ideal for showing off the car’s capabilities, as it was lightning quick for short straits and with excellent brakes for the sharp, steep corners where she would bring it round hard, her right foot dabbing the brake but ready to roar off again at any moment.
To Phillip and Jennifer, she was nothing but a taxi driver, as they didn’t talk much to her in the car, except to criticise her driving. She walked with them to their classrooms before they both ran off to start another rich and fulfilling day and she wouldn’t see them again until pick-up time.
She walked back to the car park in thoughtful mood, the ‘To Do’ list coming to the fore once again. She was surprised to see so few cars around, but the reason she drove so fast this morning was due to being late.
She approached her car when her phone beeped. She pulled it out and read the message, her shoulders slumping as she did so.
‘Ru coming in today, as if.
Ha Ha, only kidding. Hope Jen and Phil r ok
Rem i’m in meeting from 11
Love you C xxx’
It was a poor attempt by her husband, Chris, at making amends for last night when he told her he would take the children to school but when he woke up, he realised he’d arranged to meet a client first thing and couldn’t afford to miss it. She was annoyed, as this was the third or fourth time in recent weeks he’d cried off, and the mother of the Cotter twins was pestering her to borrow one of her cocktail dresses after she saw a picture of it on Facebook. The woman was notorious for borrowing and not returning and with a dress costing over six hundred pounds, no way would she take the risk. This morning she was late and missed her but it didn’t excuse Chris for letting her down.
