by Iain Cameron
Whenever Archie came home on leave, he usually headed straight up to Glasgow where his wife and two young kids lived, and only if his flight was delayed or he had an early departure from RAF Brize Norton the following day, did he make a pit stop in Sussex.
He didn’t mind his kid brother turning up unannounced on his doorstep, as they had spent a lot of time together as teenagers, particularly when Archie was lead guitarist for a band called Blackheart. They were a competent four-piece covering seventies rock classics by Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Marillion and toured dance halls and pubs all over the north of Scotland, while his tuneless older brother acted as sound man, bodyguard and as a poorly paid roadie.
‘She’s a nice bird, the one at the bar. You should get in there Angus, free booze and crisps, what more can a man want?’
‘I can think of a few things but Rachel will do for me.’
‘How is she?’
‘The same as when you met her last time, I suspect. Although, since then, she moved into her new flat in Hove. I think when you were last here she was still in the process of buying it.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a place like hers, high up above the street, looking down on everyone and with a pub on your doorstep, but I’d hate to be so close to a cricket ground as I think it’s such a stupid game. The English guys at Camp Bastion were trying to teach me but I can’t get my head around it.’
‘Rachel’s dad is a big fan and always comes to see his daughter whenever Sussex are playing at home.’
‘There’s a man who’s got his priorities sorted. She’s a journalist, right?’
‘Aye, she is.’
‘We had a crew from America shadowing us for a week and I can tell you, they drove us all right up the bloody wall with all their questions and stupid comments that sounded as if they came straight out of a training manual.’
Archie was not only the ‘baby’ of the family but at thirty-seven, he looked it with fresh, pale skin and freckles, in marked contrast to the haggard and lined face that often stared back at his elder brother first thing in the morning. Archie didn’t seem to be getting any older and even now, having completed his second tour of duty in Afghanistan with the dust, searing heat and freezing night-time temperatures, he still looked like an overgrown 14-year-old in an grown man’s clothes.
‘So what sort of operations have you been involved in or can’t you say?’
He tapped his nose and looked corporal-serious. ‘Top secret.’
‘Don’t give me all this rubbish, otherwise we’ll have to take everything we read in the papers as gospel.’
‘Yer right and it’s a running joke back at camp. See, the army’s always telling us we can’t be told this or that, as everything’s on a ‘need to know’ basis or it’s top secret and not to be revealed to anyone outside the room. When at one time, there were hundreds of thousands of men all around the countryside with guns and planes. There’s nothing much secretive about that, is there?’
‘Is this your last tour?’
‘Aye it is, I’m done with the desert. It’s back to camp in the UK now for God-knows what.’
‘I’ll drink to that, cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ Archie took a long drink. ‘My, the beer here’s champion. The stuff we’ve been drinking out there is shite, so it is. So, what’s new in the criminal catching business?’
‘I’m working on a car thieving and murder case. Sir Mathew Markham. Does it ring any bells?’
‘Markham, Markham it does but I can’t place it.’
‘Perhaps an old sergeant major that used to beat the crap out of you or the electronics millionaire and owner one of the most profitable companies in Britain who was killed lately?’
‘Nope, neither of them.’
‘I forgot, you’re one of those heathens who only looks at the pictures in a newspaper.’
‘Cheeky bugger. I went to the same school as you.’
‘Well, if it’s not him, then it must be the sight of his daughter, Suki Markham, baring her all on page three in one of the tabloids, then.’
‘What? Yer kidding. Are they the same people? Right on, Sexy Suki, the forces sweetheart.’
‘Forces sweetheart? Tell me another.’
‘No, straight up Angus. Her picture’s up everywhere in the camp and any time a new one comes out, everybody wants to see it.’
‘What would it do to your credibility if you were to tell your mates your brother has interviewed her and sat as close to her as you and me are sitting now?’
‘You have not? Ya jammy bastard.’
He nodded. ‘She was staying with her father the night he was murdered. In fact, she’s the only witness we’ve got.’
‘Did she look as gorgeous as she does in the papers? I’ll have to tell the lads.’
‘Oh aye, she wore this low cut top revealing a fair amount of flesh and the shortest skirt you can imagine, more like a serviette. How she could walk about on these four inch heels, I’ll never know.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m in the wrong job. Got any pictures?’
‘Sorry, but my mind was playing tricks. She looked pale, stunk of booze and a few minutes later, she threw up.’
‘Sounds more like it, you’ve never had much luck with women.’
‘What’s this? Beat up a Brother night?’
‘You deserve it. I better not pass it on though, it’ll burst a few bubbles if they know the girl canny hold her drink.’
Archie started to tell him a story about one of his officers when he said, ‘hey wait a minute Mr Detective. I’ve seen Morse, I’ve got the box set back in Glasgow, as a matter of fact.’
Henderson groaned. He knew what was coming, as hadn’t one of his own DCs said the same thing?
‘Morse says the last person to see the victim alive is always the murderer. If she was the only other person in the house when her father was killed, it means Sexy Suki is in the frame. Now there’s a story I can take back to the lads.’
Henderson took great pains to explain to his brother that they had investigated the Suki theory but found it wanting on several counts, and as far as he was concerned, she wasn’t under investigation.
‘Shoot my idea down in flames, why don’t you? I was about to tell you about this Captain Gainsborough.’
‘Before you do, let’s drink up. I need something to eat, as I’m famished. We can get more beer at the restaurant.’
‘Aye we’ll go and do that in a minute as I’m starving too, but there’s something I need to ask you first.’
‘Ask away.’
‘I think Mandy’s been messing about while I’ve been overseas.’
‘Get away, it can’t be, not Mandy.’ Loyal Mandy. The woman who cared for him and helped him walk again after he was injured in the thigh and nearly deafened when a bomb exploded close to his armoured vehicle. Mandy loved army life and was never more proud of him than when he was promoted to Corporal.
‘Aye it is. She’s been seen in clubs and pubs with another bloke.’
‘Who by?’
‘A squaddie in my platoon, Andy Garston. He told me when he came back from leave about three weeks ago. He lives close to us in Glasgow.’
‘Are you sure it’s not something innocent or has Private Garston been drinking too many pints of Eighty Shilling Ale and it’s distorting his eyesight? We have trouble with witness statements all the time.’
Archie looked at him like he was an alien from another planet. ‘Come off it, Angus. She’s got two kids at home, why is she even going out on her own in the first place?’
He was about to say something but stopped. His brother might be younger, but some of his views belonged to a different generation. In any case, what the hell did he know about relationships as he had been divorced and his little brother hadn’t? ‘I can’t help you there mate, it’s not an area I can claim any level of expertise.’
‘It wasn’t your fault you and Laura split up, it’s the job.’
‘You’re one to talk, at leas
t I come home at night. You’re away for months at a time.’
‘Aye, true enough.’ He paused, fiddling with his near-empty glass. ‘I was thinking, can you come up to Scotland with me and have a wee chat her? She likes you, she’ll listen to you.’
‘I can’t Archie, I’m the middle of a murder investigation and in any case, what good would it do? She would think we were ganging up on her and before you know it, she’ll be selling the furniture and moving to Manchester.’
‘Yeah I know, but I think I might need some kind of moral support.’
For a moment the veil of the confident corporal fell away and the face of his little brother on his first day at secondary school stared back at him. He was about to make another lame excuse as to why he couldn’t go with him, when his phone rang.
He looked at screen. ‘I need to take this Archie, it’s work.’
‘Aye, go ahead.’
‘Hello.’
‘Is this Detective Inspector Henderson?’
‘Aye it is.’
‘It sounds like you’re in a pub. It’s the place I should be right now if didn’t pull another late shift.’
‘How you doing Alex?’
The desk sergeant at John Street police station in Brighton, Alex Patterson was a solidly build, former rugby prop. He could break up a fight with the force of his personality and if that didn’t work, by using his fists, which were the size of truck pistons but he moaned about the rigours of the job like an old woman.
‘Mustn’t complain but all this standing up is murder for my arthritis. You see…’
Henderson held the phone away from his ear as he drained his beer glass.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Alex?’ he said a minute or two later.
‘Ah, right you are. Earlier this evening we pulled in a violent miscreant from Whitehawk for affray.’
‘It’s only seven o’clock in the evening. It’s a bit early for fighting.’
‘Didn’t I say all-day drinking would lead to this? He’s in for knocking a taxi driver unconscious when he refused to take him back to the Wild East End, and as he’s out on bail for another assault, his next appearance in front of the beak is likely to be custodial.’
‘Best place for him, if you ask me.’
‘The reason I called is because he says he’s got some information he would like to trade in return for a lesser charge or as he puts it, if you can excuse my French, no fucking charge at all.’
‘Don’t they all, but what’s it got to do with me?’
‘He says he knows one of the guys who’s been stealing all those expensive cars.’
TWENTY-SIX
In an elegant Victorian building overlooking the well-manicured gardens of Montpelier Crescent in the Seven Dials district of Brighton, DI Henderson lived in a two-bedroomed flat on the top floor. Archie didn’t mind the climb as he was as fit as a flea, but it exhausted his elder brother who arrived a few seconds later and out of breath.
‘You need to get fitter, man,’ Archie said. ‘Join a gym or go out running or something.’
‘I go out running,’ he said as he put the key in the lock and opened the door, ‘but when I’m working on a big case like this one, I end up spending all my time at work.’
‘If you can’t get out as much, why don’t you set up a home gym?’
‘Now there’s a good idea, but where would you and my other visitors sleep?’
‘I take it from that remark, I’m in the spare room again?’
‘Just because you’re risking life and limb over there in a far-flung section of the globe, doesn’t entitle you to the best bed. Call it big brother privilege.’
‘Spare bed it is. I’ve slept in worse, a lot worse if I’m honest.’
He left Archie watching television with a four-pack of beer and a chicken curry they’d bought earlier and drove to John Street. It could be a peculiar place to walk into at any time of the day, as it was the main police station for Brighton and Hove, a city of more than two hundred and fifty thousand souls, a number that could double during summer months and bank holidays.
Often in the afternoon, there would be a steady stream of visitors coming through the door with all manner of queries and complaints and by midnight, and fortified with alcohol, it could be bedlam with much shouting, arm waving, and the occasional punch-up.
Tonight, a large group of elderly tourists were surrounding the desk and blocking the way forward, the contents of a tour bus, which had been in collision with a lorry. He stood taller than many of the old biddies and the desk sergeant Alex Patterson soon spotted him and waved him over.
‘Bloody mayhem in here,’ he said, raising his voice above the noise. ‘I was hoping for a quiet night so I could watch the Albion’s match on the portable that we’ve got in the back. It’s the first time they’ve been on the box this year and the way they’re bloody playing, it might be their last.’
‘You’d be putting yourself through purgatory if the match I saw a couple of weeks back was anything to go by. Can I see the prisoner?’
‘I’ll call PC Carter, he brought him in.’
The desk sergeant was talking to Henderson over the ranting of an elderly lady with a fine mop of curly grey hair, who was demanding better treatment for her and her husband, as they were law-abiding citizens and had contributed to taxes and National Insurance all their lives.
‘Madam,’ Patterson said, trying to control his temper as he picked up the phone. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute. I know you’ve been hanging around here for ages, but I said I’ll deal with it. Now please let me make this phone call.’
Henderson stepped back and let them get on with it. He found it hard to ignore the animated conversations and the variety of expressions on display, ranging from frantic anxiety, worried they would be forced to sleep on the floor of the police station and miss their favourite soaps on television, to the laid-back cool, whose only concern was what time the bar in the hotel closed and whether they would be offered room service.
‘Hello there, DI Henderson?’
He turned in the direction of the voice. He saw a young face with a mop of dark brown hair and two rows of gleaming choppers that had never enjoyed the delights of filling-inducing Brighton Rock, or had been on the receiving end of a kick or a punch from an aggressive drunk.
He said something that Henderson couldn’t hear and when he started walking towards a set of double doors, the DI followed.
‘That's better,’ Carter said when the doors were closed and the noise level diminished below ear-splitting. ‘What a commotion out there, I couldn’t hear myself think.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘PC Bob Carter.’
‘DI Angus Henderson. Good to meet you, PC Carter.’
They walked towards the interview rooms.
‘What can you tell me about this guy you picked up?’
‘His name is Thomas Harding. Have you heard the name before?’
‘No, should I have?’
‘The Harding family are notorious around Brighton for drinking and fighting, and the younger ones like Tom here, are into drugs. They’re a right bad lot and he’s as bad as the rest of them with an arrest sheet as long as a snake, and he’s still only twenty-six. Shall we go in?’
Sitting on the other side of the scratched table inside Interview Room Three was a heavy-set bloke with a round face and scruffy black hair, a vain attempt to hide sticking-out ears. He wore a practiced scowl, the like of which Willem Dafoe or Mark Wahlberg would do well to emulate if they wanted to receive another Oscar nomination; but to his surprise, no brief.
This could only mean one of two things, either Harding wasn't a bright lad and didn’t realise the mess he was in, or he was confident of getting out and didn’t need one. Based on what PC Carter had told him, it was possible he was a bit light in the brain cells department but his body language exuded the confidence and cockiness of man who knew exactly what he was doing.
‘Tom,’ Carter said, ‘this is Detective Inspector Hen
derson, the Senior Investigating Officer on the car-thieving case we were talking about earlier.’
‘Hello Tom,’ Henderson said, ‘how are you?’
‘I’m pleased to see you mate, providing you can get me out of this fucking place. These bastards are saying they’re gonna send me down for a five stretch.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what you know about the car thieving gang,’ Henderson said, ‘and we’ll see what we can do about the charges?’
He laughed, although it sounded more like a sneer. ‘Pull the other one mate. I’ve been here before and I know how this works. We’ll play it my way. You give me what I want and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
‘What are the charges against Mr Harding, PC Carter?’
‘Assault and battery, possession of a knife, breaking bail conditions.’
‘You knocked a taxi driver unconscious Tom,’ Henderson said, ‘because he wouldn’t take you home and you did it while you were out on bail for another serious assault. Possession of a knife is an automatic five-stretch in the eyes of many judges.’
He folded his arms and grunted. It irritated even the most hardened criminals when the crimes they were responsible for were laid out in front of them. Not that they saw them as crimes, more like mistakes which could cost them jail-time or involve big fines that might eat into their illegal gains.
‘No court is going to look at this lot favourably,’ Henderson continued, ‘they’ll take one look at you and see a violent thug who needs to be locked up.’
‘Not gonna happen,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Let’s assess the value of your information. First of all, let’s see if we’re talking about the same car-thieving gang.’
‘Course it’s the same fucking gang. It’s the fuckers who are stealing all the expensive motors like Ferraris and Porsches, the ones smashing the doors with sledgehammers, and beating up the people inside. Ring any bells?’
