by Iain Cameron
She looked at Young. ‘Let’s ask, shall we?’
They left the office and were rewarded with a blast of cooler but fresher-smelling air as they stepped into the studio. They found Annie, leaning against a wall, her face contorted in pain.
‘Are you all right?’ Walters asked.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I think the little buggers are having their gym lessons at this time of the morning.’
A minute or so later, Annie’s face returned to normal and her breathing to a regular rate. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Did Cindy keep copies of her work off-site?’
She sighed. ‘She made me promise not to tell anyone, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. On a Friday, she would transfer everything she did in the past week from SD to a portable hard drive and stored them away from the studio.’
‘Where did she keep them?’
‘In the house.’
‘If you can tell us where they are, we’ll go over there and get them.’
‘I’m not a cripple, sergeant. C’mon,’ she said levering herself away from the support of the wall, ‘and I’ll show you.’
They followed the waddling Annie over to the house. She unlocked the front door, pushed it open and headed into the hall to silence the alarm.
‘No one’s been in here since Cindy was kidnapped, except your forensics people and Greg to pick up some of Molly’s things,’ Annie said after the buzzing stopped. ‘It’s a shame, this is such a lovely house and Cindy was always entertaining.’
Young and Walters walked into the house and Annie directed them to a small library.
The shelves were not made of dark walnut so beloved of film makers when they wanted to show a quintessential English setting, but a light wood which she thought was ash, lightly coated with a non-translucent varnish. The shelves were also not filled with reams of dusty old books that no one would ever read, but a huge selection of crime, romance, thriller and literary novels as good as could be seen in a small bookshop.
‘Cindy loved her books,’ Annie said. ‘She’d rather immerse herself in a good story than sit mindlessly watching telly, she often told me. Personally, I would miss all the soaps and crime dramas that I like to follow, but when there’s nothing on the box except rubbish or football, I do like to read a good book. Cindy let me borrow any book I wanted from here. I don’t suppose I’ll get much chance to pick up a book or anything else when those two come along,’ she said patting her stomach.
‘Your own private library,’ Young said.
‘It is really.’
‘The back-up disks?’ Walters said.
‘See if you can spot them. The forensics guys didn’t until I showed them, but then they didn’t spend much time in the house.’
‘Where are they, on the shelves?’
‘Yeah.’
Walters scanned the lines of neatly ordered novels, hardback books about photography, art and travel but she couldn’t see anything that didn’t look like a book.
‘Do you give up?’
The detectives both nodded.
Annie pointed to a shelf. ‘Do you see them now? You’ll need to do the fetching as I can’t stretch.’
Walters could see them, slim, grey, about the size of a novel, anonymous in a sea of similar-sized items and well hidden from prying eyes. She reached up and removed five portable hard disks drives.
‘They’re a couple of terabytes each. Cindy buys new ones every year as she says storage prices are falling and a new one holds more and is faster than the one before. It must be true as she was doing more work than ever before and yet three years ago it would take seven drives to do her weekly back-up.’
‘It’s good having those,’ Walters said, ‘it should speed things up. Shall we go back?’. She didn’t want Sally and the rest of the little crew in the office looking through more SD cards any longer than necessary, as plugging in one hard disk drive would be quicker and easier than loading and unloading a pile of SD cards. In addition, she believed Cindy might have copied any incriminating files straight to one of those, so if her kidnappers ransacked the studio or set the place on fire, the secret pictures would still be safe.
They were walking towards the front door of the house when Annie stopped and let out a loud groan. She leaned against the wall for support. When she didn’t return to her usual self a few moments later, Walters asked, ‘Annie, are you all right?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said breathing hard. ‘I think my waters are breaking. Can you call me an ambulance?’
Walters helped Annie into a chair in the living room while Young called for an ambulance.
‘Are the police trained to deliver babies?’ Annie asked.
‘No, it’s more to carry out first-aid and treat trauma wounds, but many of us have been in this situation before.’
‘With twins?’
‘There’s always a first.’
Annie groaned, the spasms coming at regular intervals. Walters soon found the kitchen and returned to the lounge with a bowl and a cloth and started to dab Annie’s brow as her temperature was rising. She took her hand and instructed her to take deep breaths.
Young was standing at the living room door, motionless.
‘Are you all right, Seb?’ Walters asked. ‘You’re looking a bit pale.’
‘No, I don’t have a clue what to do with something like this,’ Young said.
Me neither, she was about say, not with twins anyway. ‘Don’t look so startled, it’s only babies. I tell you what you can do, walk out to the end of the driveway and direct the ambulance. This place isn’t so easy to find.’
Young, grateful for the chance to escape, disappeared out the door without saying another word.
Ten minutes later the ambulance appeared. Annie’s contractions hadn’t restarted and, in some respects, she looked and sounded the same as when they’d met her earlier. The paramedics told her that labour hadn’t started yet, but as her waters had broken, they would take her into hospital.
‘It puts you off having kids,’ Walters said as they watched Annie being helped into the ambulance.
‘What, all the pain and the lack of mobility?’ Young said.
‘No, doing a job like this. I don’t see how anybody can be pregnant in the middle of a murder investigation.’
EIGHTEEN
‘Where are we going?’ Henderson asked the pool car’s driver, DS Neal. ‘I thought you said Ted Mathieson was still in hospital?’
‘He is.’
‘The Royal Sussex is the other way.’
‘He’s been transferred to the Belvedere, a private hospital in Hove.’
‘Ah, right. The NHS not good enough for him?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘I hope the satnav is programmed. I don’t want us getting lost.’
‘Don’t worry, it is. I’m usually good with directions, but not having lived in Sussex too long, I’m not yet confident of knowing my way about.’
‘There aren’t many tall buildings or landmarks around here to help get your bearings, but if you can see the sea, at least you’ll know which way is south.’
‘Makes a change from Manchester. People give you directions based on football stadiums and pubs.’
‘Sounds a bit like Glasgow.’
They turned into the Belvedere Hospital in Hove and, first impressions, the building didn’t have the look or feel of a place like the Royal Sussex. The detectives didn’t need to drive around a massive car park looking for a parking space and there weren’t any ticket machines to rob them of all their change. Inside, it looked and smelled like a hotel, the illusion extending to the Reception area where they were met, not by a nurse or a charity volunteer, but by a smartly-dressed receptionist.
Henderson leaned over the desk and showed her his ID. ‘DI Henderson and DS Neal to see Ted Mathieson.’
‘Ah, good morning detectives, Mr Mathieson is expecting you. You’ll find him in Room 34.’
They walked down a corrido
r past private rooms for the privileged few to recover in peace, cossetted with the accoutrements he could see through an open door: HD television, remote-adjustable bed and a mini hi-fi system.
Henderson knocked on the door of Room 34. He gave the occupant and his guest, if one was inside, a second or two to shout out if they were indecent or otherwise indisposed. He opened the door.
Ted Mathieson was alone and lying in bed, one end slightly raised where the addition of two fat pillows supported the patient’s head. He was watching television while picking at a punnet of grapes. He could keep the television as Henderson failed to see the attraction of daytime viewing: game shows, films and the re-running of old soaps, but he wouldn’t mind a few grapes.
‘Good morning Mr Mathieson.’
‘Ah, it’s you lot. I was wondering when you would show up.’
‘I can see your brush with death hasn’t softened your attitude to the police.’
Henderson took a seat to the patient’s left while Neal stood at the base of the bed, beneath the television.
‘Do you mind if I help myself to a few grapes?’
‘Fill your boots.’
‘So, how are you?’
‘I tell you, whoever did this to me must be having sleepless nights. If they don’t know what I’m capable of, they’re in for a mighty surprise.’
‘You can forget any thoughts of retribution, leave this investigation to the police. Turn the television off. I’d like to talk to you about what happened.’
Mathieson reluctantly picked up the remote control lying on the bed and switched it off. He was wearing pyjamas, partially open at the front where Henderson could see a broad bandage around his torso. His pallor didn’t look so bad for man who had been stabbed.
He’d seen other victims in the past, spread out on the pathologist’s table, ready to be dissected, or those barely living and looking like Banquo’s ghost having just come out of surgery where a spleen or a kidney had been removed. The difference between a successful and unsuccessful outcome depended on three factors: the size and cleanliness of the assailant’s blade, the location the knife entered the body and how quickly the patient could be seen by medical professionals.
‘Mr Mathieson, first of all, can you explain your presence at Devil’s Dyke at six o’clock on a Tuesday morning?’
‘I can go where the hell I like. It’s a free country the last time I looked.’
‘Mr Mathieson, let me start at the beginning for your benefit. When anyone is assaulted like you have been, it is the job of the police to talk to the victim and witnesses, investigate the incident and bring the perpetrator to justice. This is what we’d like to do now without hearing any frosty comments from you. So, I’ll ask you again. What were you doing at Devil’s Dyke at this early hour of the morning?’
Mathieson’s face looked grumpy and his body language would have mirrored his mood except that when he tried to move, he winced in pain. ‘I’m not a good sleeper and often I wake at five or six in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. When I do, sometimes I go out for a walk.’
‘Do me a favour, in the dark?’
‘Yes, in the dark. I like to be outside when the sun comes up.’
‘Very lyrical, I’m sure. What happened next?’
‘I got there and went for a walk around Devil’s Dyke. When I came back to my car someone appeared behind it and pointed a knife at me. He told me if I didn’t give him my money and my phone he’d stick a knife in me.’
‘What did this person look like?’
‘He had wavy black hair, green eyes and wore a black Adidas tracksuit.’
‘Any distinguishing marks?’
‘A scar above his right eye.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-four, twenty-five.’
‘It’s a good description. It will give us something to go on. What happened then?’
‘I told him I didn’t have my wallet on me, only my phone. It was the truth, I only intended going out for a walk. Nothing is open at that time of the morning, so there’s no reason to bring any money. He got agitated at hearing this, probably a druggie itching for a fix, and made a grab for my wrist to see if I was wearing a watch. I took a chance and went for him and we tussled. It was then I got stabbed.’
‘What did your assailant do?’
‘He ran off.’
‘Did you notice if he came by car or was he on foot?’
‘I don’t know, I was too busy trying to stay alive to see if the bastard made it home safely.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I crawled to my car, opened the door and pressed the horn. A passing jogger heard the noise and called an ambulance.’
‘You’re lucky anyone was about. I think the cleaners at the restaurant at the top of the hill don’t start work until eight. You’d have been in a sorry state by then.’
‘I might have died,’ he said with dramatic effect, ‘according to the paramedic.’
‘Do you think you were targeted or are we looking here at a random robbery?
‘How do you mean targeted?’
‘If you’re in the habit of walking around Devil’s Dyke in the early hours of the morning, perhaps someone noticed your presence and was waiting for you.’
‘I see what you’re getting at. Nah, I don’t go there regularly, random I would say.’
‘You are aware we are in the middle of an investigation into Cindy Longhurst’s murder.’
‘How could I forget? You already know that Cindy was a good friend of mine.’
‘Do you think,’ Henderson said, posing the main question he wanted to ask today, ‘your assault is in any way connected?’
‘You’re having a laugh, Inspector. Cindy was kidnapped and killed by a serious team of villains. I was attacked and stabbed by a pathetic junkie desperate for cash to secure his next fix. If you can get a connection out of that you’re a better man than me.’
Henderson had met many junkies in his time and none were early risers. Most were lucky to be out of bed by the early afternoon. In addition, Devil’s Dyke was several miles outside Brighton, requiring the use of a bike or a car. If a habitual drug user owned anything valuable, they usually sold it in the early stages of their career.
‘I’m being serious,’ the DI said. ‘We find Cindy Longhurst with a bullet in her head and a few days later her principal business partner is found stabbed. Can you not see why we might think the two events could be related?’
‘Well, I think they’re not.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Mathieson opened his mouth to speak and closed it. Perhaps the temptation to utter the real reason for his early morning jaunt to Devil’s Dyke being overruled by an innate desire to keep his nose out of trouble.
‘I’m an investor in Cindy’s business, but I don’t know what she gets up to on a day-to-day basis or even month-to-month. I don’t work with her and she doesn’t work with me. We’re not connected at the hip.’
‘You said when we first came in about taking your revenge on the person responsible for your injuries. In order to do so, it assumes you know the name of the individual who stabbed you. Would you like to tell me who you think it might be?’
‘You’re twisting my words, Inspector. I didn’t say I know them, but if I were to find out the name of the guy who did it. In any case, it was anger talking. I don’t know the name of this junkie bloke any more than you do.’
A few minutes later, the detectives walked back to their car, once more out in the cold after the warm, fragrant air of the Belvedere.
‘It’s your first time meeting him, Vicky. What did you think?’
‘He’s aggressive and spikey, but that may be due to the injury or the drugs. However, his story didn’t ring true.’
Henderson laughed. ‘Why not?’
‘I can’t see a druggie or even a serious mugger being around Devil’s Dyke so early in the morning. I also think he goes there more often than he suggests, maybe to meet
a woman or to sell contraband. The story about a mugger is no more than that, a story.’
‘If you’re in any doubt, pick up yesterday’s Argus, a copy of which I noticed on Mathieson’s bed. Inside on page three or five, I think it is, you’ll see an article about a bloke who robbed a bookmaker in Hollingbury. The description of the culprit caught on CCTV matches Mathieson’s assailant, down to the make of tracksuit and the scar above his eye.’
‘The crafty sod.’
‘When we get back to the office, find DC Graham and the two of you get over to Mathieson Transport and talk to the people there. With Ted Mathieson out of the frame for a few days you might, if you’re lucky, get the chance to take a look around. See if you can find out what he’s been up to.’
‘Shouldn’t we apply for a search warrant and turn the place over?’
‘On what grounds?’
She shrugged. ‘Suspicions of criminal activity?’
‘We’ve no evidence to back it up. For the moment, Ted Mathieson is a victim and our job is to find out what took place at Devil’s Dyke. You said yourself, he might be going there to meet a woman. What if her husband showed up with a knife? However, if you do find anything incriminating when you go to Mathieson Transport, I’ll happily apply for a search warrant.’
On the way back to the office, he instructed Neal to take a detour. A few minutes later they turned into the car park at the Regency Wine Warehouse in Portslade.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Henderson said as he got out of the car. ‘I just need to pick up something.’
He entered the vast building, stacked high with wine from every corner of the globe, some from places that he didn’t know made wine. The owner came from Eastern Europe and this explained the large selection of bottles from Serbia, Croatia and Bulgaria, not often seen in other wine shops.
This morning he didn’t have time to dawdle, not that looking at wine labels held much interest anyway, but despite being predominately a wine warehouse, they stocked a fabulous collection of Scotch whisky. The other booze establishments in the chain were similarly equipped, creating an inviting haven for people like Henderson, and all because the boss liked to drink the stuff himself.
