Girls on Film: (DI Angus Henderson 7)

by Iain Cameron

  He put down his cup and pulled a newspaper out of his pocket. The first few pages were politics which he ignored, unless it was something about the pernicious influence the EU were having on this country, and turned to the news section. He almost set the paper on fire after dropping his cigarette into the middle when the main story on page five hit him like a hammer. Cindy Longhurst had been found dead.

  He couldn’t believe it and read the short article again and again. He knew how reporters worked. Stories like this were penned from the scant information they could glean while standing behind police tape and thrusting their recorders into the faces of stoic policemen. The story would fill out in a day or two as by then they’d have attended a press conference and received a press release. Then, if he bought several newspapers, they would all be carrying the same story, often with the same bits of the press release quoted word for word.

  He sat back, the newspaper on his lap, the cigarette burning un-smoked between his fingers. He knew Cindy well. They’d met here, at Hillcrest House, he repairing some glass in a conservatory window, broken by a pissed Julia or high winds, and Cindy taking photographs of the family and the house.

  She had been cool towards him at the start, in his experience women often were, but when she got to know him and saw his true self, a relationship developed. They’d been happy for about three months but it ended on a sour note, even by his standards. He was bereft and it devastated him to lose the best, most intelligent, most driven woman he had ever known.

  His subsequent errant behaviour when he bombarded her with texts and calls was due to grief at losing this fabulous woman, but also the anger he felt at being used. He couldn’t put a finger on the reason why, but looking back, it felt like she’d flicked a switch when they’d first met. After three months, when she’d had her fill of his bad jokes, his poor hygiene and lamentable parsimony, she turned the switch off and walked away.

  In truth, the relationship didn’t always run smoothly. Whenever she stayed over at his place, she complained about how he lived, the food he ate and, first thing in the morning, commandeered the bathroom. All his shaving gear was shoved to one side and more than once, he had to rescue his caffeine-infused shampoo, designed to thicken his rapidly thinning hair, from the bin.

  The noise of dogs barking reminded him of something else. In the woods, he’d been told, were a long line of kennels where the owner bred dogs, pit bulls she said. Cindy had asked him about them a number of times and teased him when she found out he hated dogs. He wouldn’t dare go near them.

  She’d only spent a couple of days at Hillcrest House, but whenever Harrison returned from working there she would often ask how often the owner visited the kennels, did other people go there, had he looked inside the kennels? Cindy was an avid political campaigner and her concern for dumb animals was touching, but he’d tell her, no, no, no. He’d never been there and would never go near so many dogs even with someone pointing a gun at his head.

  He looked at his watch and realised he’d been sitting outside longer than intended, not that it bothered him. He was paid for work completed, not for how long it took. It only mattered now as he felt cold. He walked inside, his body shivering.

  ‘How are you getting on upstairs?’

  Julia stood there, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen, her slim figure encased in a tight dress, emphasising every curve. She must have gone easy on the sauce last night as her face looked normal, beautiful even, with none of the puffiness in her cheeks and bags under her eyes that he’d often see.

  ‘The first coat is done,’ he said. ‘I’ll do some of the woodwork now and in the afternoon, I’ll give the walls another coat.’

  ‘Will it be finished by the end of next week? My sister’s coming for a few days and I want to put her in there.’

  ‘Oh, no problem.’

  ‘Will the room smell of smoke?’

  ‘What? Why would it?’

  ‘Because you stink of it,’ she said, before turning and walking back into the kitchen.

  ‘Bitch,’ Harrison muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs.

  He reached the top floor, his anger seething as he walked past her room thinking he should go in there and steal something that would break her heart to lose. He stopped and turned, determined to do that very thing, when his phone rang.

  It was a number he didn’t recognise, not unusual in his game but for once he wished it was from someone he knew.

  ‘Mike Harrison.’

  ‘Mr Harrison, good morning. This is Detective Constable Sally Graham, Surrey and Sussex police. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.’

  He’d felt better, but he would take his revenge on the acerbic Julia Webster later. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about the kidnap and murder of Cindy Longhurst. When are you free?’

  TEN

  ‘How are you getting on with that problem you had with your landlord?’ DC Phil Bentley asked his car companion, DC Lisa Newman.

  ‘Which one? There’s been so many.’

  ‘The leaking shower from upstairs.’

  ‘Oh that, we’ve been nagging him for so long about it, I’ve almost given up.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a big hole in your ceiling?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she sighed, ‘it’s now a talking point when anyone comes round. He says he’s got so many other properties to deal with, he’ll get to me eventually.’

  Lisa Newman was the newest and youngest member of the team, taking the age accolade away from Sally Graham, who at twenty-three now spoke like an old-hand. Newman was fast-track, a university graduate with a post-graduate diploma in criminal law. Bentley had done it the hard way, worked his way up from uniform, and tended to resent the fast-track kids who knew the theory but with bugger-all life experience to back it up. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t feel the same way about Lisa. She was smart and savvy and good-looking to boot.

  ‘Where did you go to uni?’ he asked.

  ‘Imperial College.’

  ‘Did you live in halls?’

  ‘God no, I couldn’t afford to.’

  ‘Didn’t your parents…’

  ‘Nope. My dad’s a taxi driver and my mother can’t work because of her arthritis. I’m one of the many unwashed with a bloody great student loan to pay off.’

  ‘You don’t need to pay it back if you work abroad, do you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘After a couple of years in Sussex, you could get a transfer to Europol or Interpol.’

  ‘Trying to get rid of me already?’

  ‘No, no I’m just…I don’t know, just talking.’

  ‘I could do, but it would only be for a few years. When I came back, they would start charging me all over again.’

  ‘Another good Bentley idea down the toilet.’

  He guided the car through a left turn before the satnav piped up and told him he had reached his destination.

  ‘Not bad looking houses around here,’ Newman said. ‘I thought the areas around Portslade and Southwick were full of first-time buyer houses but some of these are huge.’

  They drove slowly along The Green in Southwick looking for the house belonging to the Mitchell family. Mum and Dad would be at home as Bentley had called ahead and made an appointment.

  ‘There it is,’ Newman said. ‘It stands to reason a bloody builder would own the biggest house in the area.’

  ‘It’s not a bad place to live,’ Bentley said as he parked the car. ‘Detached houses away from neighbours and a fine view of The Green.’

  ‘It depends on where you live and what happens out there at night,’ Newman said as she got out of the car. ‘The place where I used to live in East London, on a summer’s evening on a patch of grass as big as this, people would be shooting-up, dealers would be everywhere, kids would be tearing up the turf doing wheelie turns on their bikes and dogs with no obvious owner would be taking a dump.’

  ‘I don
’t think they see much of that around here,’ Bentley said as they approached the house.

  ‘It’s Friday night. We’ll see when we get back to the car if it’s still there and in one piece.’

  Tony Mitchell greeted them at the door and without offering much in the way of a greeting or a handshake, invited them in. He was a big guy, about six-two and well-built, but what might have been muscles in his twenties and thirties had turned to fat now. All the same, Bentley wouldn’t fancy being on the receiving end of one of his fists. They looked like the business end of a couple of sledgehammers.

  A traditional style of house on the outside gave way to a modern looking place on the inside, with wooden floors, a large, flat-screen television hung on the wall and pieces of art, watercolour views of landmarks along the Sussex Coast, dotted around.

  Tony Mitchell slumped into a chair, not tiredness Bentley suspected but a big frame to manoeuvre, and slapped his big fists on the arms. He faced them, not with downright hostility, but something not far from it.

  ‘I said on the phone,’ Bentley said, ‘we wanted to talk to you about the disappearance of photographer Cindy Longhurst–’

  ‘Good fucking riddance I say, that bitch didn’t win any medals for good behaviour. I tell you–’

  ‘Tony, what the hell are you playing at?’

  In walked, Bentley presumed, Mrs Mitchell, a diminutive lady about the size of an average thirteen year-old and weighing less than the slim DC beside him.

  ‘How do you mean, love?’

  ‘I mean being rude to those two detectives. They’re only doing their jobs and you didn’t even offer them a drink.’

  She walked over and shook their hands. ‘I’m Polly Mitchell, Tony’s better half.’ She spoke with a Sussex accent, a hint of Irish in there somewhere.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘before we talk any more, what can I get you? Tea, coffee or something stronger?’

  ‘No, nothing for me,’ Bentley said.

  ‘Don’t be daft, I’m making a coffee for myself anyway. You want one?’

  ‘Go on then,’ Bentley said. ‘I’ll take a white coffee, no sugar.’

  ‘Same for me,’ Newman said.

  ‘Coming up.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Tony said levering himself out of the chair.

  ‘Good job she came in,’ Newman said after the Mitchells retreated into the kitchen. ‘The way he was sounding off, we would have been out on our ears in the next thirty seconds.’

  ‘Yeah, and he’d probably give us a cuff around the head for good measure.’

  Tony and Polly returned a few minutes later, coffees for Bentley and the two women and a beer for the big man. In Bentley’s experience, alcohol didn’t calm people like him, it only made them more belligerent.

  ‘You were saying?’ Polly said, looking at Bentley.

  He put down his cup. ‘When I called, I said we’re part of a team investigating the disappearance of photographer Cindy Longhurst, kidnapped from her studio two weeks ago today.’

  ‘We saw the story in the paper,’ Polly said, ‘didn’t we Tony?’

  He grunted something which sounded like agreement before taking another swig from the beer bottle.

  ‘We’ve upgraded it from a kidnapping to a murder. Her body was discovered yesterday.’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at this morning’s paper,’ Polly said, ‘but it’s terrible news, so it is.’

  ‘We are in the process of interviewing everyone who knew her, trying to put together a picture of her life.’

  ‘So, you thought you’d come here,’ Tony said, ‘because she crippled my son and, using copper’s logic, you assumed we might be behind it.’

  ‘You did make threats against her after the police decided not to press charges.’

  ‘Of course I did, I was fucking angry. Who wouldn’t be after what she did?’

  ‘Tony,’ Polly said, the expression on her face one of outrage, ‘do not use that sort of language in this house. They are only doing their jobs. Any more of your outbursts and they’ll think you did it.’

  ‘Aye, well maybe I was tempted.’

  ‘Where were you on Wednesday night?’

  ‘Why the fu…? Why should I tell you?’

  ‘To eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to be eliminated from your enquiries. It might be a good idea for me to be arrested and get my picture on the front of every bloody newspaper. People would then ask why, and I could tell them about how she crippled my son.’

  ‘Tony, don’t be a fool,’ Polly said. ‘All the publicity in the world won’t bring Alex’s legs back, will it?’

  ‘No, but it would make me feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘What, losing three day’s work until you can prove your innocence and having to eat all that sloppy jail food?’

  ‘When you put it like that,’ he said smiling for the first time, ‘I would miss your cooking. On Wednesday,’ he said, turning to eyeball Bentley, ‘I came home about six, went down to the pub overlooking The Green, The Cricketers, for a couple of pints and came back here for my dinner.’

  ‘He did go out for a bit, and after we cleared up, we watched a film,’ Polly said.

  ‘You didn’t go out later that night?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a noise, a soft clunk against the door before it opened. Expecting a child to enter, Bentley was surprised when Alex wheeled in.

  ‘I thought I heard voices.’

  ‘It’s two policemen, love, talking about the woman who died.’

  ‘The one who knocked me down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I read about her, tragic, it is.’

  Alex was young, early twenties with short black hair, a trim beard and a smiling, open face. He was clearly well used to the wheelchair as he manoeuvred it expertly around the coffee table and chairs.

  ‘These people are here,’ Tony said, ‘to find out if we killed her.’

  ‘Why would we?’ Alex said. ‘I don’t bear any animosity towards her.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should,’ Tony said, his voice raised, sounding as if he was going over a point aired many times before. ‘How many times did we ask her to at least apologise for what happened? She didn’t have the bloody manners to say it.’

  Alex waved a hand dismissively. ‘Give it a rest, Pop. I told you I don’t want her apology. It’s all water under the bridge now.’

  Tony leapt out of his chair with surprising alacrity. He pointed a finger at his son. ‘This is not done, not by a long chalk.’

  He turned to face the detectives. ‘Are we finished?’

  ‘I think so,’ Bentley replied, ‘for the minute.’

  Without a word Tony strode off. Seconds later, the detectives heard the sound of the back door opening and closing.

  ‘I better go and see if he’s okay,’ Polly said.

  She stood. ‘It was good meeting you both. Alex will see you out.’

  Bentley and Newman stood. ‘It’s fine, Alex, don’t bother. We can see ourselves out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

  The hallway was wide and it was easy for Alex to turn the wheelchair and reach for the door handle.

  ‘Please excuse Pops, he gets like this whenever my accident is mentioned. All he ever wanted was for Longhurst to apologise, but what was she going to apologise for? It was my own fault. Accidents do happen.’

  ‘Maybe he’s disappointed you couldn’t follow him into the family business,’ Newman said.

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, trust a woman to spot it. I’ve got two brothers who work there, but they’re not as smart as me and could never end up running the show. I mean, I work in the office but I get respect as the boss’s son, not because I used to do the job and know what it’s like.’

  ‘How is it around here for wheelchair access?’ Newman asked.

  ‘Woeful. High pavements, bumpy surfaces, pubs with hard-to-open doors. I could go
on.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a decent-looking pub close by,’ Bentley said.

  ‘What, The Cricketers?’

  ‘Yeah, I imagine it would only take you three or four minutes to wheel along there.’

  ‘It’s not a bad place, but I don’t go there. I go to another pub about ten minutes away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We all got barred from there. Pops had a big argument with the owner and swore he would never darken their door ever again.’

  ELEVEN

  Charlie McQueen paced up and down the floor in his study. His wife called it a study, but he hadn’t studied anything since leaving school at sixteen. Even then, one of the reasons he left school earlier than some of his contemporaries was because he didn’t do much studying while he was there.

  Despite being born in a poor part of Glasgow, his alma mater wasn’t some skanky inner-city institution whose catchment area was a sink estate full of single parents on benefits, staffed by idealist young teachers with Marxist leanings. His adopted parents had sent him to a smart fee-paying place out in the country.

  The phone call he received not more than five minutes ago had upset him. He wanted to take a look at one of his storage facilities, but as he was in the middle of serving a one-year ban for drink-driving, he needed someone to take him there. Rick said he would

  do it, but he’d called a few minutes ago to say a consignment scheduled to arrive in two days’ time was coming in tonight and McQueen agreed Rick should go and deal with it.

  In his place, Rick was sending Liam McKinney. McQueen and McKinney had been best mates at one time and, over the years, the Irishman with contacts all over Brighton had pulled in a lot of business. Lately though, his attitude, methods and foul mouth had gradually got on McQueen’s nerves and a few months back he started to put a bit of distance between them. It sounded like the parting of two lovers, but it wasn’t. In the drugs world, there are only friends and enemies with nothing in between. At the moment, he wasn’t sure into which category he would place McKinney. The old adage of keeping enemies closer didn’t apply in this dirty business. Friends you rewarded, enemies ran away or they were killed.