by Iain Cameron
McQueen was also under pressure from Russian gangs, keen to grab a share of the lucrative UK drugs market. Over the weekend, The Argus reported the fire at a rural barn near Brook Street. A propane heater was most likely the cause, according to the farmer who owned it. Mathieson asked around and knew the Russians had hit McQueen. Assuming he’d lost a fair amount of product and perhaps some vital laboratory facilities, would the result be higher prices for street buyers or would he try and squeeze his suppliers?
He liked McQueen but didn’t trust him. Glaswegian sounding and street-wise by nature, meaning he would use anything to hand, be it a gun, knife, bottle, beer glass, or his fists to clear any obstacle blocking his path.
In a way, he was an entrepreneur like Mathieson with the same issues about people, product supply and cash flow, but this was where the comparisons ended. If the authorities suspected Mathieson of any wrongdoing, his business could be raided by the forces of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs armed with calculators and laptops. If McQueen was fingered, he would have his doors kicked in by big lads wearing Kevlar vests, armed with Heckler and Koch machine guns and with the menacing clatter of a helicopter overhead.
He turned up the road towards Devil’s Dyke, a high point on the South Downs and one used frequently by hang glider pilots. There wouldn’t be any hang gliders around at this time of the morning, it still being dark and cold, and he didn’t often see anyone else up here except the occasional dog walker. He stopped the car in the car park close to the café and waited, leaving the engine idling to keep warm. When meeting Charlie McQueen he liked to arrive ahead of time. They had a good thing going and it wouldn’t be his lack of commitment that would spoil it.
He enjoyed listening to the radio at this time of the morning. He reckoned the stations put on their less experienced disc jockeys and due to them having little repartee to draw upon, and with no army of fans to canvas their opinions on last night’s television or the football, they played lots of music.
The soft rolling hills of the Downs were coated in a fine covering of white frost, glowing red with the first rays of winter sunshine. The view would make a spectacular picture if he could paint or take photographs, but he could do neither. Thinking of photographs reminded him of Cindy. He thought about her often, almost as much now as he did when she was alive. He loved her like no woman before or since and would continue doing so, he suspected, until the day he died. His one abiding regret was she didn’t love him in return.
They’d met when Cindy’s former husband, Greg, started work at Mathieson Transport. At the time, they were a small outfit with only three lorries, all working regionally. Greg’s skills as a bookkeeper were fine up to this point, but as the business grew and they got into bed with national supermarkets, he didn’t grow at the same pace. When two scroats were found stealing, it gave Mathieson a good excuse to get shot of him.
It didn’t stop him seeing Cindy as her daughter was in the same year as his little one at Hurstpierpoint College, and he made a point of talking to Cindy any time he took Jasmine to school or to a hockey match. They became lovers for a spell, but while his heart was sucked in like water spinning down a drain, her heart was like a dam, effectively blocking the stream of his allure.
His small bout of introspection came to a halt when he spotted a car coming up the hill. He grinned when he saw it; a black Chevrolet Camaro with a red lightning stripe along the side and a roaring exhaust. A better advert for a drug dealer he couldn’t imagine. He was surprised McQueen would be so stupid to jettison his normal mode of transport, an innocuous Toyota Camry.
The Brighton drug dealer was currently banned from driving for a drink-driving offence and if he wanted to get stopped, even at this early hour of the morning, that car was perfect. He decided he would rib him about it. However, when the car drew alongside his and came to an abrupt halt, he realised neither Charlie McQueen nor his right-hand man, Rick, were inside.
The guy who exited the vehicle was no Glaswegian or brawny yank with a McDonald’s-sized gut asking for directions to the American Car Show, but a badly dressed scrawny bloke with a mop of untidy black hair. In common with his German supplier, Mathieson had done his research on McQueen’s business and knew it wasn’t a cop or someone working at the Devil’s Dyke pub. This was one of McQueen’s people, Liam McKinney.
‘Charlie couldn’t make it,’ he said by way of greeting, ‘and sent me instead.’
‘No problem.’
‘You got the gear?’
Mathieson opened the boot of the VW and unzipped the holdall. ‘Take a look.’
So far so normal. With McQueen, they didn’t take the dope or the money out of the cars until the sale was agreed and both bags were zipped up. You never knew who was lurking nearby or focussing a zoom lens.
McKinney looked in the sports bag and fingered the drugs with the skill of an experienced dealer.
‘Four kilos?’
‘Yep.’
Mathieson was good with Irish accents as he followed rugby and often went over to Dublin to watch Saracens on tour or England in the Home Internationals. McKinney was a Belfast lad and if someone twisted his arm, he’d say a catholic from the Ardoyne.
‘Good. Zip her up.’
Mathieson zipped the bag, carried it over to the Camaro and slung it into the boot beside another similar-looking holdall. He unzipped the other holdall and counted the cash. He didn’t count it note-for-note, he wasn’t a bean counter and it didn’t pay to hang around with so much dope and a bag full of cash. Instead, he counted the bricks; the thousand-pound piles, and flicked through each pile to ensure it contained currency and not Monopoly money or photocopier paper.
Despite being in business with these guys for over a year, a time scale that ordinarily would build confidence and empathy with suppliers in the transport industry, he still didn’t trust them. Not only did they possess the brashness and over-confidence of youth, but they were more used to playing dangerous games than him, selling to users and the enormous risks they took on the street every day.
‘Hey,’ Mathieson said, ‘what’s going on? You’re eighty grand light.’
‘It’s supply and demand, mate. You brought the stuff to us when we’ve got plenty.’
He could see it now. McQueen, the fucking coward, sent his underling to try and undercut him, but he wasn’t having it.
‘That’s not what I heard. These raids by the law and the Russians those last couple of months are hitting your business hard. Reports say you’re hurting.’
McKinney shrugged. ‘Fuck do I know, I just work there. This is the price, mate, take it or leave it.’
Mathieson grabbed him by the lapels of his bomber jacket. ‘You fucking liar. You’re trying to squeeze me. Who do you think I am? Some sort of street punk you can short change?’
‘Take your dirty paws off me you shithead.’
‘Who are you calling a shithead?’ he said raising his fist.
McKinney punched him in the gut. He’d been punched in the gut before but never like this. It made his legs and arms go weak and he was forced to release his grip.
Mathieson fell to the ground clutching his gut and only then did he realise he’d been stabbed.
FIFTEEN
C’mon people,’ Henderson said. ‘Let’s have a bit of order here, we’ve got a lot to get through today.’
DI Henderson and the murder team were gathered in the corner of the large Detectives’ Room. After the kidnapping of Cindy Longhurst had developed into a murder inquiry, the group had expanded and he now counted eighteen officers either sitting on chairs or perched on the edge of desks.
‘I suspect many of you haven’t heard the news,’ Henderson said, ‘but early this morning Ted Mathieson was found stabbed. He’s in hospital but the wound does not appear to be life-threatening.’
‘Quiet now, quiet now,’ Henderson said as everyone tried to talk at once. ‘He was discovered at Devil’s Dyke at six-thirty this morning. We’ve no idea how or why h
e was stabbed but somehow, he managed to crawl the short distance to his car and press the horn. The noise alerted an early morning jogger who called an ambulance. He’s currently undergoing surgery at the Royal Sussex. If the operation is successful, he is expected to make a full recovery.’
He left them a moment or two to talk about the news while he reached for his coffee.
‘Right,’ he said putting the cup down. ‘This unit wouldn’t normally involve itself in a stabbing, these sorts of cases are more the preserve of detectives at John Street, but as Mathieson’s name has cropped up in an active murder investigation, we will make an exception. DS Neal will be in charge of this one. DC Graham will assist DS Neal and make sure she doesn’t get lost.’
Vicky Neal smiled, clearly happy to be leading her own inquiry so soon.
‘For now,’ he said tapping the whiteboard behind him, ‘let’s concentrate on the murder. We know forensics didn’t come up with much, so I need an update on how we’re getting on checking her customers and examining the photographs in her studio. You first Harry.’
DS Harry Wallop puffed out his chest and opened the papers in front of him. ‘As you can all imagine, the list of customers at the studio ran into thousands. By the end of last night, every last name has been run through the PNC. Twenty people were found to have criminal records.’
‘Good work, Harry. You’re excluding businesses at this stage?’
He nodded. ‘Yep, but that work is more Phil’s baby. There’s a lot less of them, maybe about forty, but we need to bring some measure of savvy into that inquiry. We first need to identify which staff members were involved and then isolate those who might have come into contact with Cindy.’
‘I understand. Forget about them for the moment.’
‘Right. The twenty individuals with records have been sorted into two groups: ‘minor’ and ‘other crimes.’ Officers are working their way through the interviews, principally those who fall into the ‘other crimes’ category.’
‘I take it the reason you’re not highlighting anyone today is because no one as yet has sprung to your attention?’
‘Correct.’
‘Keep it going, Harry and let me know the minute you get a bite.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘DS Walters, how’s the review of Cindy’s photograph collection progressing?’
‘Slowly. She does everything digitally which means we need to wait for each SD card to load before we can view the pictures. Give me photo prints any day of the week.’
‘If she used a film camera, chances are she wouldn’t keep a printed copy of every photograph she took. Those she didn’t print would most likely be on contact sheets, requiring magnification to see properly. So, don’t knock digital so readily.’
‘Just me having a little gripe.’
‘How many computers do you have over there?’
‘Three.’
‘Rustle up a few more and the officers to man them. I’ll sign it off.’
‘Will do.’
‘Does her cataloguing system help?’
‘It does, but when we come across a pile of SD cards with the labels, ‘weddings’ or ‘family portraits’, we need to sample a few to make sure they contain what we think they do.’
‘Fair enough. Have you found anything yet?’
She shook her head. ‘No such luck, but with a few thousand to go, hopefully we’ll find something before we finish.’
He nodded, confident they would. ‘Right, to other lines of enquiry. We’ve spoken to Cindy’s former husband, Greg, as you all know, and while I mark him down as bitter for missing out on a share of Cindy’s grandmother’s inheritance, I don’t think he’s twisted enough to kidnap or kill her. What’s your take, DS Walters?’
‘When officers went to his house to tell him about Cindy’s death, he was more concerned about how he was going to pay for his daughter’s school fees than the passing of his ex-wife. On balance, I’m of the same opinion. I don’t think he’s behind it.’
‘We’ve also spoken to the ex-boyfriend who Annie Heath claimed had been hassling Cindy, Mike Harrison. He vehemently denies any involvement in her abduction and murder and you Carol, were checking his alibi.’
‘His alibi checks out, sir with his mates from the pub and I also took a look in his shed. Full of painting and building stuff like he said.’
‘Have we established if there is a more recent partner on the scene?’
‘Cindy didn’t have a current boyfriend,’ Sally Graham said.
‘DS Neal, call the Royal Sussex and find out when Ted Mathieson has returned to the land of the living. We need to speak to him, see if he’s somehow connected with this. That’s all for now. Update at six-thirty.’
**
‘Ted Mathieson got knifed?’ CI Edwards spluttered, almost spilling the cup of coffee in her hand. ‘What the hell for?’
‘Wish I knew,’ Henderson said.
He liked Edwards’s office. It was bright and airy and almost gave out an optimistic air, something in short supply in modern-day police work.
‘You don’t think it’s connected with the Longhurst murder?’
‘I don’t see how, but I remain open to a different interpretation. I think transport businesses sail on the edge, some as clean as other companies, others as dirty as old snow. It’s the perfect cover for bringing into the country prostitutes, drugs, guns, contraband cigarettes and anything else worth selling.’
‘It is too. You think his stabbing is connected to his business?’
‘I think it’s more likely than anything although his name did crop up in an earlier case.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Operation Skylark, it was called, a big drugs operation by the Met. Mathieson’s business card was found at premises owned by Charlie McQueen.’
‘There’s tenuous and there’s tenuous, Angus. A business card found in someone’s person or premises is right on the edge.’
‘I agree.’
‘In which case, we should hand the stabbing over to John Street. We’ve got enough to contend with.’
‘I want to keep it and give it to DS Neal. See how she handles it.’
‘Canny as ever, Angus. Good idea, let her cut her teeth on something meaty. I wanted to ask you, how’s she settling in?’
‘Fine. No concerns to speak of.’
‘Doesn’t her, how should I say, forthright manner rub some people up the wrong way?’
Henderson smiled. ‘She’s got a few back’s up, but I don’t think it will cause too many problems.’
‘Good. I found out what happened in Manchester. No wonder we got our hands on a good officer at such short notice. I know you don’t go in much for office gossip but would you like to hear it?’
He nodded.
‘She worked at the station in Stretford and unbeknown to other officers there, she was seeing the Superintendent, a forty-two-year-old married man with four children.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, it elicits that sort of reaction, doesn’t it? A few weeks after it started, his wife came to the station with two of their kids in tow and, in Reception, engaged her husband in a stand-up row, leaving no one in ear-shot in any doubt what he and DS Neal had been up to. A couple of days later, the two of them had an altercation in the locker room, leaving him with two broken teeth and a bruised face when he fell against a wooden bench.’
‘An ignominious end to a tawdry affair. Boy, has she left some debris behind.’
‘She’s done that, for sure. Not long after, the Super picked up a censure for his troubles and, unable to stand being the butt of a thousand jokes, transferred to my old nick in Bradford.’
‘An interesting story.’
‘It’s more than just a story, Angus, it’s a warning across the bows. Take heed. How are you getting on finding Cindy Longhurst’s killer?’
‘Slow and steady, I’m afraid. Nothing came out of forensics.’
‘I can’t believe no one saw a car dum
ping a body in Saltdean at two or three o’clock in the morning. I thought elderly people needed less sleep and were usually up in the night having a pee.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘We’ve talked to residents about a hundred yards either side of the dump site and nobody heard or saw a thing.’
‘How can this be?’
‘I think it’s because the lounges of most of the houses along the seafront face the sea to maximise the view, and the bedrooms are at the back of the house, overlooking the garden.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose, especially if you add in a bit of deafness and poor eyesight. Nothing from the body?’
‘Nope. All we know is Cindy was kept in captivity, she was underfed and beaten before being shot. No prints, no DNA.’
‘Who the hell would do this to a photographer? I can understand people not liking tabloid photographers who wait outside nightclubs and try to catch celebrities in short dresses climbing in and out of cars, but someone taking pictures of families and middle-aged women trying to re-launch their careers? It defies logic.’
‘It doesn’t make much sense to me either. We’re now reviewing her customers and looking through her vast collection of photographs, looking for an anomaly.’
‘Talk to me about the photographs.’
‘We believe Cindy’s kidnappers came to the studio to recover a series of photographs. They wanted the pictures as we believe they show something they didn’t want publicised. They wanted her, because she witnessed it.’
‘Which assumes it was always their intention to kill her.’
‘Yep, it seems that way. However, once they looked at the SD cards they took away from her studio and found they weren’t the ones they wanted, I think they beat her to find out where she’d hidden them.’
