Duplicity

by Sibel Hodge

  DS CARTER: You were angry and upset that Alissa had married Max?

  RUSSELL STILES: I was . . . upset. And worried about her.

  DS CARTER: Were you angry and upset enough to kill Max? Or to try to kill Alissa?

  RUSSELL STILES: Of course I bloody wasn’t! How can you even say something like that?

  DS CARTER: Will you consent to being fingerprinted and have a DNA swab taken?

  RUSSELL STILES: Well, yeah, if it will help clear me.

  DS CARTER: Good. We’ll sort that out after the interview. So, where were you late last night and early this morning?

  RUSSELL STILES: What?! You can’t seriously think I killed him.

  DS CARTER: Please answer the question.

  RUSSELL STILES: I . . . um . . . I was night fishing.

  DS CARTER: Night fishing?

  RUSSELL STILES: Yeah. I go every Sunday night because it’s quieter then. It gets annoying when there are too many other night anglers there. I like it peaceful.

  DS CARTER: Where?

  RUSSELL STILES: Twyford Lakes. I was there from about 10 p.m. ’til about 4 a.m.

  DS CARTER: Was anyone with you?

  RUSSELL STILES: No.

  DS CARTER: Did you see anyone else there?

  RUSSELL STILES: No. The place was empty. But I haven’t done anything! Can you just tell me how Alissa is?

  THE DETECTIVE

  Chapter 9

  The offices of Burbeck Developments were every bit as exclusive and flashy as you’d imagine. A glass-fronted building letting in lots of light. A glass lift in the centre. And a wide open, minimalist reception area.

  A polished, thirty-something receptionist was busy dealing with calls as I approached her. She gave me a practised smile and asked if she could help me.

  ‘I’d like to talk to Adam Gillmore, please.’ I flashed my warrant card at her.

  Two perfectly arched eyebrows inched up with surprise. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘There’s been a serious incident I need to speak with him about.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ She picked up the phone and murmured into it before replacing the receiver. ‘He won’t be long. Please have a seat.’ She swept her hand towards some velvet sofas.

  ‘Thanks.’ I ignored the sofas. If I sat down, I probably wouldn’t get up again. Instead, I walked towards some A4-sized photos along one wall that showed previous developments by the company. There were modern apartment buildings that I thought looked ugly, large executive houses, a shopping mall. I picked up a glossy brochure and flicked through it. Burbeck Developments’ mission statement was We build it better! That remained to be seen.

  ‘Hello? You wanted to see me?’ A suited man in his early fifties appeared behind me, square glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  ‘You’re Adam Gillmore?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He wore a pinched, confused frown.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Carter. Is there somewhere we could speak in private?’

  The frown shifted, and he began to look intrigued. ‘Yes, my office. Follow me.’

  We got into a lift and headed to the top floor. Adam Gillmore’s office was more like the size of a one-bedroom apartment, and the office desk was dwarfed by all of the space. He sat down and indicated me to follow suit in the chair opposite.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but last night, Max Burbeck was murdered in his home.’

  His mouth gaped open. ‘Max? What? Oh . . . how terrible. What happened? Is Alissa OK?’

  ‘It appears someone broke in and stabbed him to death. Alissa managed to escape from the house and is in a safe location.’

  ‘I thought it was very strange that he wasn’t answering my calls. I’ve been leaving messages for him. He was due in today for a meeting and it’s very unlike him not to keep in touch.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed his hands across his face, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, I just need a moment.’

  ‘Take your time.’ I glanced around the room while Adam composed himself, looking at several model-sized buildings on a table in the corner.

  ‘I don’t know how I can help you, Detective Sergeant. I last saw Max yesterday afternoon, about five-thirty, before he left for home.’

  ‘Do you always work on Sundays, then?’

  ‘No, not usually. But some things have cropped up that we needed to discuss.’

  ‘Was he here all day yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, from about ten in the morning.’

  ‘You’re the projects manager for Burbeck Developments, is that right?’

  ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘At the moment, we’re not sure if Max was attacked for a specific reason, but we think he was targeted by someone, rather than it being a random attack. Were there any disgruntled employees here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if he’d received any threats in conjunction with his work? I’ve heard there was some kind of problem with one of your developments, and we found this document in his office.’ I slid a copy of a letter across the desk. It was from a law firm called Browning & Co., confirming they were being retained to act on behalf of Burbeck Developments in any future litigation regarding a site called The Goldings.

  ‘Ah.’ He pushed his glasses further up his nose and pursed his lips, his frown lines furrowing deeper. ‘Yes, we’ve had a few . . . issues with an old site of ours. That’s what we were discussing yesterday, actually, but I can’t believe anyone would . . . would kill him because of it.’

  ‘What kind of issues?’

  ‘About twelve years ago, we built a development – twenty executive houses. Now, it would appear that the site was contaminated with asbestos from the previous industrial units there.’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  ‘Did you know the land was contaminated when the houses were being built?’

  ‘Well I certainly didn’t. I joined the company shortly after it was completed.’

  ‘But Max was working here at the time?’

  ‘Yes. His father started the company and Max began working here when he finished university. The Goldings development was Max’s first big project. I’ve tried to check the files to look at the environmental reports which should’ve been done, but they appeared to be . . . er . . . missing. In fact, I was due to have another meeting with Max about it today because he said he had the reports at home and would bring them in. He told me the reports cleared us of any knowledge, that they apparently said the land wasn’t contaminated.’

  ‘How serious is the contamination?’

  ‘The site has significant amounts of raw asbestos waste from an asbestos manufacturing plant that was there previously.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. The soil could cause cancer and other diseases?’ I shook my head, aghast.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked down at his desk, avoiding my gaze. ‘It’s very tragic.’

  ‘When did you find out about this?’

  ‘About four weeks ago, when Max was still in Australia. Apparently, some of the owners had arranged for soil samples to be taken after several of them became ill. Max and I had a difference of opinion about it all.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I felt that the properties should be razed to the ground to ensure the owners’ safety, and the land decontaminated at our expense. Legally, the first person to bear responsibility of cleaning up contaminated land is the person who caused it, so Max was passing the buck on to the company whose factory was on the site before we bought it. He said he wasn’t aware that the factory had ever produced asbestos. I was trying to trace them, but apparently they no longer exist, and the director is deceased.’

  ‘So whose responsibility is it to bear the cost in those circumstances?’

  ‘Well, if the person can’t be found or isn’t in a position to clean up, then the person who currently owns or occupies the land is responsible. I felt ethically that we should do it, though, but Max disagreed, citing that he was unaware of it at the time
of development, and his environmental reports put us in the clear. He’d instructed his lawyer to vigorously defend any actions brought against the company holding us responsible.’ He frowned. ‘But these people won’t be able to sell their properties, and to ensure their health, they should really move out. Some of these owners are elderly or have children. Not surprisingly, we have indeed received some very strong complaints from the homeowners.’

  ‘Weren’t the council aware of the previous factory before they granted planning?’

  He shuffled in his seat. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t here then, but it’s a point I raised with Max. I think it’s possible he may have . . .’ He glanced at his office desk for a moment before looking back to me. ‘It’s possible he may have reached an agreement with them about it.’

  ‘You mean he bribed someone in the planning department to turn a blind eye to it?’

  ‘It’s very likely. Although he denied it.’

  I shook my head with disbelief. ‘How did the complaints about the site come in? Via phone or letter or email?’

  ‘A few calls, but mostly emails.’

  ‘From all the homeowners?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are the properties worth?’

  ‘In today’s market, without any problems, they should be worth in the region of five hundred thousand. Now, obviously, they’re worth nothing.’

  I exhaled a breath, thinking about the chunk of money invested in those properties. Not just money – life savings.

  ‘Max was adamant Burbeck Developments wouldn’t pay for the demolition, decontamination, and reconstruction of the houses.’

  ‘So, basically, that would mean these people had lost everything? They wouldn’t be able to sell the properties, and presumably the cost of decontamination would be astronomical?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘It would cost several million to decontaminate, raze the buildings, and rebuild, and he wasn’t prepared to . . .’ He took a deep breath and glanced around, as if searching for the right words. ‘Max didn’t want to eat into the company profits.’

  ‘Was the company having financial problems?’

  ‘Well, things have been slower since the recession hit, obviously, but we had a pre-tax profit of 8.5 million last year.’

  ‘8.5 million? And Mr Burbeck wasn’t prepared to use any of that for compensation?’ I pictured myself in the same position as those homeowners and felt like killing Max myself.

  Adam swallowed again. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll need to see copies of these emails you received from the homeowners. And a list of all their names.’

  DI Wilmott rang as I pulled into a petrol station, summoning me back to the station for a quick progress report. I grabbed a random sandwich from the fridge, which was supposed to be cheese and ham, but on closer inspection could’ve been made from plastic for all I could tell. Still, needs must. My stomach was growling and it didn’t look like I’d be going home for a good few hours yet.

  When I got back into the office, DI Wilmott was already there, sipping from a Starbucks cup, looking like he’d just stepped out of a GQ magazine ad as he read through a document. I glanced around the room, looking for any other Starbucks cups he might have graced his team with, but the room was sadly Starbucks-less. We’d have to make do with crappy instant. I sat at my desk and opened my sandwich, peering at it with suspicion before taking a bite. Yeah, probably plastic.

  Ronnie bustled into the room, looking flustered.

  ‘We’ve got the preliminary post-mortem results back, although we’re still obviously waiting for any toxicology reports.’ Wilmott waved his piece of paper in the air. ‘Max Burbeck’s cause of death was transection of the spinal cord from a sharp force injury. The single stab wound to the back of the neck was between two of the cervical vertebrae, which severed the spinal cord. Apparently, when the spinal cord is damaged in this area, the victim immediately goes into spinal shock. His blood pressure would’ve dropped to zero and his heart stopped very quickly, which explains why there was very little blood from the wound. He would’ve lost consciousness in a few seconds and died in a minute or so. There were no defensive wounds, and we know that there doesn’t seem to have been any struggle, so it would appear he didn’t hear the killer approach from behind. The pathologist believes the murder weapon was something very sharp with a narrow blade. Estimated time of death is between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m.’ He glanced around the room. ‘SOCO may not be finished at the scene until tomorrow, but so far it seems there’s too much evidence and not enough.’

  Ronnie frowned. ‘What do you mean, guv?’

  ‘There was a wedding reception at the house a couple of weeks ago. Prints everywhere. According to what they’ve found so far, and from Alissa’s initial statement, the killer wore gloves and protective plastic shoe covers, so we don’t have anything useful as yet. And, of course, the weather didn’t help last night.’ He paused. ‘I walked Alissa through the property and she confirmed that nothing appears to have been taken from the house, so we’ll work on the assumption this isn’t a burglary, but was a specific attack where the killer brought the murder weapon with him. So, motives?’ He glanced around the room.

  I vigorously chewed my bite of sandwich and swilled it down with the dregs of cold coffee from earlier. ‘Several,’ I said. ‘The ex-boyfriend Russell Stiles does seem to have been obsessed with Alissa. He harassed her with texts, gatecrashed their wedding reception, and when he was asked to leave by Max, he basically threatened him, although he says he can’t remember much about the incident because he’d been drinking heavily. He does have a history of violence – was convicted of affray six years ago following a pub fight, where he was apparently defending Alissa’s honour.’

  I thought about how precise the knife wound was to slide in between two vertebrae like that. Either the killer knew what he was doing, or it was a lucky strike.

  ‘Russell is also experienced with using knives. He was done for poaching rabbits before, and he worked in his parents’ butcher shop.’ I handed out copies of the texts Stiles had sent Alissa, and Stiles’ antecedent history. ‘He has no alibi for last night. Said he was night fishing. He’s medium height, the same description as Alissa gave us.

  ‘Secondly, Max Burbeck had received some threats from homeowners of a development he built twelve years ago.’ I filled them in on the details. ‘It’s possible he bribed the council to overlook the previous asbestos factory on the site. Or maybe they turned a blind eye because they were under pressure from the government to provide more housing, or they were completely incompetent. But I don’t think the council’s actions have any relevance to Max’s murder. I’ve got a list of homeowners who need talking to, though. And one in particular . . .’ I glanced down at a copy of an email Adam Gillmore had provided. ‘A Mr Porter. He said in an email to Max, “You deserve to die for what you’ve done to us!”.’

  ‘Those poor people were about to lose everything?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Seems like it, so big motive there, too,’ I said. ‘Also, let’s not forget that Max was worth a lot of money. Alissa was his heir, so that’s another huge motive.’

  ‘I’m satisfied Alissa has nothing to do with this,’ DI Wilmott said. ‘She’s clearly traumatised by what happened and only just managed to escape the house without being killed, too. We don’t need to waste time on that angle. Are we clear on that, Detective Sergeant? I know you have a hard time following orders, and I don’t want a repeat of the Lord Mackenzie saga on my watch.’ He glared at me.

  Anger bubbled up inside me. We’d been at Lord Mackenzie’s vast estate following a call from him to report that his collection of classic cars had been stolen from an alarmed outbuilding. Thirty vehicles had been taken, worth in excess of twenty-five million quid, including Bentleys, Ferraris, Aston Martins, and Bugattis. The alarm system had been tampered with, and the offenders had got away with the lot while Mackenzie was conveniently at a charity dinner in London with politicians and royalty. From th
e start, I knew he was involved. He had increasing debts from bad investments and had been living way beyond his means for years. One of my informants had passed on information about a classic-car salesman who was rumoured to have met with Mackenzie in the weeks prior to the burglary in order to set up the fake theft. And if I’d been allowed to dig deeper, I would’ve proved my theory right. But as soon as Detective Superintendent Greene knew I was pursuing Mackenzie’s involvement, I was dragged off the case and threatened with suspension. The inquiry into Mackenzie had been quashed, Mackenzie had made blustering noises about suing the force for harassment, and I’d been made to sit on the naughty step ever since.

  What was the point of being a copper if you could only investigate certain crimes properly? When investigations into the rich and influential got swept under the carpet? It made a mockery of everything I’d joined the force for, and I was still reeling from it. It wasn’t even about the fact that I’d been threatened with suspension unless I backed off, and was still paying the price by bloody Wilmott being promoted and not me. It was the injustice of it all that pissed me off, the corrupt police politics that let outside influences dictate how and when investigations were made. Lord Mackenzie was guilty – simple as that. If I’d had more time, I could’ve proved it, too. If he’d been Mr Average from a council estate, would the powers that be have scrapped the investigation? No answer necessary, really.

  ‘Mackenzie was bloody guilty and you know it,’ I said.

  ‘Lord Mackenzie,’ Wilmott corrected me.

  ‘Exactly. Which is why he got away with it. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with that?’

  Ronnie avoided my gaze and started doodling on his pad. Becky gave me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘So what if he plays golf with the chief constable and has tea with members of the royal family! He’s a crook. And a liar. And he should be in jail.’

  ‘Sorry, team, but I think DS Carter and I should continue this conversation in private for a moment.’ Wilmott jerked his head impatiently towards his office door in the corner of the room.