Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘…this should be regarded as a final warning. Any further transgressions of the Professional Code of Practice will be met with serious disciplinary action.’

  ‘And fuck you too,’ he said out loud.

  ‘I hope you’re not talking to me.’

  He looked up and saw with relief it wasn’t the Chief Constable or a visiting dignitary but DS Gerry Hobbs.

  ‘Sorry Gerry, I didn’t mean you but the sender of a snotty email I’ve just received.’

  ‘It makes me feel better if I file those away so I don’t have to look at them or if it really pisses me off, I delete the bloody thing.’

  ‘Is this the reason why you never answer any of my emails?’

  ‘Ouch, I fell for that one.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll start doing that or frame the bloody thing. So what brings you into the bad mood corner?’

  He sat on the chair on the other side of the desk as he didn’t like sitting at the little conference table, as it reminded him too much of interviews and difficult discussions, he said. After today, he had to agree.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about our armed robbery in Hove.’

  ‘Did you see the story in The Argus?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Rob Tremain wrote something like, two women were injured when armed robbers attacked the Westchester Building Society in New Church Road and discharged their weapons. He made it sound like they were attacked and then shot by the robbers.’

  ‘Poetic license, I suspect as saying the villains fired two warning shots into the ceiling and the women were hit by flying debris from the ceiling tiles doesn’t sound half as exciting.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to one or two narks I know and they tell me Billy Francis was involved. I have to admit, it’s the sort of thing he would do, you know, rob a building society all tooled up, so a couple of hours ago I brought Francis in and I’ve been questioning him for most of the morning. He kept telling me it wasn’t him and couple of minutes ago we managed to check out his alibi and it does stack up.’

  ‘No easy solutions then?’

  ‘Nope, but he gave me some other names.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘A pair of South London villains; Sol Higson and Les Stephen. They moved to Brighton a few months back and started right where they left off in Croydon, robbing sub-post offices and building societies.’

  ‘Record?’

  ‘As long as your arm.’

  He passed some papers across to him, a printout of their criminal records. He looked through it with a jaundiced eye, career criminals who had never held down a ‘normal’ job in their lives. On an application form to join whatever club they fancied, they would be forced to put ‘armed robber’ in the ‘occupation’ field and their address as one of Her Majesty’s penal institutions, as they both had been inside Pentonville and Wandsworth so many times, these places would feel more like home than Croydon or Lambeth.

  ‘My first question is, why would Billy Francis give these two up? I know there’s no such thing as honour among thieves but isn’t he a bit scared one of them coming after him and sticking him with a blade? They’ve got form for doing violence as well as everything else.’

  ‘I know and I did ask him, but I get the impression it’s a risk he’s willing to take if there’s a chance we can take these boys off his patch.’

  ‘It sounds like he wants us to do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘In a way, you’re right but if it gives us the opportunity to nick a couple of nasty villains, what do we care?’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying but as long as this isn’t a wild goose chase or even worse, and I want you to be wary of this, some kind of trap.’

  Hobbs tried to say something but Henderson held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t laugh it off Gerry. Billy Francis is a mean son of a bitch who doesn’t have a good word to say about anybody and might be harbouring a grudge against you or me, or the police in general. I for one wouldn’t put it past him. All I’m saying is you need to be careful.’

  ‘Ok boss, point made.’

  ‘Good, I’m pleased to hear it. So what’s the plan?’

  ELEVEN

  The patrol car came to a halt at the junction of Tivoli Crescent and Dyke Road. There was a time, not so long ago, when motorists would give way to one of their Day-Glo painted patrol cars but unless the blue light was flashing and they were burning rubber, they had no chance, and he could be driving his wife’s Nissan Micra for all the notice anyone took.

  ‘What do you think, Tommo?’ PC Longman said as he prodded and picked at a red spot on the back of his wrist.

  ‘What do I think about what?’

  ‘D’ya think this missing guy, David Young’s done a bunk with all the money from the safe or somebody’s kidnapped him?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a senior executive in a company like Markham has scarpered without so much as a by-your-leave, but I wouldn’t shout too much about the second one in the canteen if I were you lad, unless you want to look a right prat. This is Hove, not Houston.’

  ‘Ah right boss, sorry.’

  ‘I’m no expert in this area,’ Rogerson said, ‘but if our Mr Young has been dipping his mitts into the Markham till, he’ll have scarpered off like a virgin on a stag night at the first whiff of an audit.’

  ‘I’ve been giving this a bit of thought myself, like,’ Longman said. He paused as if trying to compose what he was about to say. ‘See, maybe when he left Burgess Hill on his bike, he went back to Hove on one of the back roads and came a cropper on a pothole or he went into the bushes as he tried to avoid smacking into a deer or something. I mean, if there's an accident on the main drag, it holds up traffic for hours and everybody gets to hear about it, but it’s different on those quiet B-roads. I once heard a story about an injured biker who'd been lying in a field for days before a farmer nearly runs ‘im over in his tractor.’

  ‘Walk first, run later, as my old dad used to say. Let’s do the good old-fashioned donkey work first, check his house, talk to his friends, and phone the hospitals before we decide to go for a drive in the country.’

  A few minutes later, they stopped outside an attractive Spanish-looking villa called ‘Casa Solariega’. They were high on a hill overlooking Brighton and on a good day, they could most likely see the Channel, the Palace Pier and Shoreham Power Station but not today, as everything was shrouded in a damp sea mist.

  To compensate for the sloping ground or more likely, the result of laziness by busy owners who couldn’t be bothered cutting the lawn or weeding the borders, many houses along the road, including the one they were standing outside, had jettisoned grass and covered the space with slabs or stone chips. Some were a bit more creative and built a wider area for off-road parking, installed a Japanese rock garden, or tried to replicate a Mediterranean patio but the absence of vegetation gave this part of the road a harsh, bleak look reminding Rogerson of a new housing development before the landscapers had started work.

  He peered in the windows and rattled the front door but as expected, it was locked. A high fence and a bolted gate blocked access to rear of the house and for a fleeting, stupid moment, he was tempted to ask the ever-eager PC Longman to climb it.

  Knowing the gangly, uncoordinated youth as he did, it was more than likely he would get stuck and they would be forced to call the Fire Brigade or another squad car. However, the thought of the ribbing they would both receive back at the station changed his mind, as it would be unremitting for months and words like ‘monkey man,’ ‘cat boy’ or ‘fence’ would become the boy’s nickname for all time, long after its origins were long forgotten.

  Longman peered through the letterbox, moving his skinny arse from side to side, trying to get a better look inside but suggesting his tie was caught or he’d spotted someone walking around naked. If he kept it up, they would soon receive a call on the radio about a Peeping Tom in Shirley Drive, as despite the unmistakab
le uniform and the luminescent patrol car, some people, especially the stay at home ‘neighbourhood watch’ types, were trigger-happy and dialled 999 at the first sign of anything unusual.

  ‘Eric, do something useful. Go next door and find out if they’re holding a spare key.’

  ‘Right oh,’ he said and turned to go.

  ‘And son.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s an alarm. Make sure you get the code for it as well.’

  A few minutes later, Longman came striding towards him displaying a small bunch of keys and with a smile on his face as broad as a Cheshire cat but combined with his nonchalant gate, it made him look more like a 15-year-old schoolboy carrying his first jar of tadpoles or a bag of stolen apples, than a professional copper.

  ‘No wonder Young lives around here,’ he said, handing over the keys, ‘you should see the bird living next door; she’s an absolute belter. If I lived here, I’d be doing her garden for nothin’ and giving her a lift into town whenever she wanted.’

  ‘What, on the back of your muddy trail bike? You must be joking.’

  ‘Yeah...well, some birds like ‘em.’

  Rogerson turned the key and pushed the door open. He strode past a pile of letters scattered over the carpet and went off in search of the alarm control panel which he could hear beeping somewhere at the end the hall. The code worked first time and as he walked back to the front door to close it, he felt a tiny bit smug for not alerting the whole neighbourhood to their presence, providing of course Peeping Tom Longman had not already done so.

  He sent the young man upstairs while he looked downstairs to save any more wear on his dodgy knees. Mr Young’s mail was as unexciting as his own with three official-looking letters from banks and credit card companies, two invoices from companies he hadn’t heard of, and a couple of bits of junk mail, one for a charity and another for a pizza delivery service. The one thing he did notice were the postmarks, as they suggested his letters had been lying there since Friday. He placed them on the hall table and opened the door into the lounge.

  It felt a bright, airy room with fantastic views through the large front window over the rooftops of Hove, weather permitting of course. The room contained little furniture, only a settee, matching chair, coffee table, hi-fi and television. It was tidy, with only a few magazines scattered over the coffee table to detract from the utilitarian nature of the place.

  If he lived alone without his wife Julie’s stern, but guiding hand, he would live like a slob with pizza boxes, Chinese takeaway cartons, and empty cans of beer scattered all over the place, but then David Young was a well-paid business executive and not a piss-poor copper, and probably spent most of his time at the office than slumming around at home at the end of a shift.

  The kitchen was clean and tidy with no unwashed dishes, packets of cereal, or half-closed coffee jars lying around worktops. If the cooker, fridge freezer, and microwave were of more recent purchase, the house could be mistaken for a furnished rental or a house sale with vacant possession.

  With some trepidation, he opened the dishwasher. In some houses this would have been an act of supreme folly, akin to sticking your head in the bin or down the toilet, but he needn’t have worried as it contained only a plate, cup, and a few bits of cutlery and exuded a pleasant, lemony smell.

  In the study, he stopped and leaned against the desk, trying to build a mental picture of the missing man. The kitchen was filled with a range of modern appliances and appeared to be a bright and inviting place to eat, while the lounge with its LCD television and a sophisticated sound system, looked a comfortable place to relax, but neither of these rooms were lived-in and he would bet by the appearance of the well-worn chair, scratched desk, and enough paper to start a bonfire, Mr Young spent the majority of his time in the study.

  In the Rogerson household, two teenage daughters hogged the TV as if they owned it, while his wife often held book clubs and knitting circles in the kitchen, and so the study, a glorified cupboard under the stairs, was the only place in the house where he could read a newspaper in peace. Once, when the house was particularly noisy, he went outside and tried reading in the car. It scored high in terms of tranquillity and comfort, but low on improving his credibility with the neighbours as it drew a number of funny looks and left him feeling like a right dork.

  In addition to the desk, there was a matching bookcase and filing cabinet, certificates and photographs on the wall, papers and folders scattered everywhere, and a laptop, sound system and printer. It looked to be a well furnished and fully functioning home office but he wondered why Young bothered, as his workplace at Markham had to be equipped with way more sophisticated gear than this.

  A thumping noise above his head snapped him out of his reverie, as Longman came downstairs in the company of a couple of people he found up there, or at least that was how it sounded.

  ‘No sign of ‘im up there,’ Longman said, ‘no indications of foul play either.’

  ‘Such as what, Mr Investigator?’

  ‘Em, I didn’t see blood splattered on the walls, no drawers were pulled out with stuff lying all over the room, and there were no broken bottles in the bathroom, you know indicating a struggle.’

  ‘Very good, son. It’s not Traffic you should be setting your sights on, it's CID. What about the wardrobes, any sign of a hasty retreat? Does it look like any of his clothes are missing?’

  ‘Nope. There’s plenty of stuff in there like suits and shirts and all that and I spotted two empty suitcases.’

  ‘Good lad. What I want you to do now is go outside and take a good look around the back garden. Look for any freshly dug areas and have a peek in the shed and the garage, and make sure he’s not in there and swinging from the rafters or a hosepipe’s been attached to a car's exhaust.’

  ‘Blooming heck,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘You don’t think he might be in there? I’ve never done a suicide before.’

  ‘Are you up for it?’

  ‘You betcha.’

  Idiot. Longman wandered off to locate the back door and garage keys while Rogerson turned his attention back to the study. If David Young didn’t appear by the end of the weekend, this was the place he was convinced a search for him should start.

  He was no detective, although there was a time he hankered to move there, but if CID were to send someone down, he was sure they would find evidence on the laptop, from papers on the desk, or the rubbish in the bin, that would tell them exactly where their missing man had gone.

  If Young had been dipping his greedy paws into the Markham honey jar, he would bet he was now holed up in Morocco or Mexico or some other far flung place where it would be difficult to extradite him. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but he had a feeling in his bones that David Young was missing on purpose, as he was a man with something to hide.

  TWELVE

  For one morning at least, DS Carol Walters arrived at the office before everyone else. Since the start of Operation Poseidon, the investigation into high-value car thefts, she and the enquiry team had been waiting for a forensic breakthrough that would provide them with something to help catch the car thieves, but when it didn’t come, she began to feel despondent.

  To inject some life and direction into the inquiry, DI Henderson changed what she and some others were doing to concentrate more on the selling side of the equation. It was a move that she didn’t agree with at first, but she had to admit the change in work patterns filled her with a new sense of purpose.

  The first of two wake-up alarms went off at six-thirty and instead of ducking back under the duvet or picking up the little trilling box of electronics and hurling it against the nearest wall, as she had done with three of them in the past year, she got up and headed straight into the shower. It was a revelation to be up so early as now she had time for a decent breakfast instead of a slice of toast on the run, and she could put on her make-up in the comfort of her own flat, rather than in the car or the toilets at Sussex House.

>   In addition, her journey from Queens Park to Hollingbury took less time than normal as she avoided the slow-moving queues that often halted her progress on the Lewes Road. Even so, not everything in the garden was rosy. At this early hour of the morning, all the rooms on their floor of Sussex House were cold and dark and she spent the first ten minutes switching on lights, tidying up the small kitchen, cleaning out the coffee machine and giving the same answers to departing night shift detectives, bemused to see her in there at all.

  By eight fifteen, a familiar buzz returned to her part of the building and by nine, Henderson arrived. She gave him ten minutes or so to get settled, before walking into his office and sitting down at the small meeting table. ‘I made it in before you this morning,’ she said, a touch self-righteously. ‘There's a story for the Chief Constable’s newsletter.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for this bloody tooth,’ he said slurring his words and pointing at his jaw, ‘my long-standing record would still be intact.’

  ‘Got it fixed at last then?’

  He nodded. ‘I hate dentists. What a job they’ve got, staring into people’s mouths all day with their bad breath, furry teeth, decay, and patients looking at them with hate in their eyes at the first twinge of pain. It makes our job look a whole lot better.’

  She laughed. ‘I’ll have to remember that one if I ever have to interview new recruits. I brought you a coffee.’

  ‘Are you some kind of sadist? This shirt looks better without coffee stains.’

  He eased his body up from the chair and took a seat opposite her, his elbow leaning on the table and his hand nursing his abused jaw.

  He had shaved at least, but Walters doubted if a comb had been dragged through his untidy mop of light brown hair for several days. His girlfriend had been trying for months to improve his wardrobe but either due to a relapse on his part, or the task she had set herself was more insurmountable than she thought, because the shirt and jacket combination had been used a few times before and the trousers still bore a beer stain from a raucous night in the pub over three weeks ago.