by Iain Cameron
What he couldn’t understand was even in the dramatic scenes, they couldn’t capture with any accuracy how these incidents often played out. Murders in real life were more heart-wrenching, grief-stricken and life-changing than could ever be portrayed on the screen, and wounds like knife slashes, gun shots and punches, were more painful and debilitating. In addition, the fear felt by officers at the start of a raid or searching a seemingly empty house could be palpable.
At ten, the credits rolled. He had to admit the dialogue was good and he loved the music playing throughout, a synthesised melody over a rocking beat.
‘I enjoyed that,’ Rachel said.
‘The bad guys were caught but will they serve any time in jail?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘From what I saw, the slip-shod way the investigation team gathered evidence would be enough for the case to be thrown out by the CPS. The baddies will probably sue for wrongful arrest.’
It was his attempt at levity but it didn’t penetrate Rachel’s stony scowl.
‘You’re always demeaning the programmes I enjoy. I’m away to put the dishwasher on.’
‘Don’t you think we need to talk?’
‘No.’
She walked out of the room leaving him facing the BBC newsreader. He gave it another ten minutes, stories about European politics, a crisis in the Middle East and bad weather in the Far East, but when it turned to a missing Polar exploration in the Arctic, he switched channels.
Rachel returned to the lounge some time later and announced she was heading to bed.
‘It’s only what,’ he looked at the clock, ‘ten-twenty-five.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘Come in and talk to me.’
She pushed the door closed and sat down.
‘What do we have to talk about? You’re married to your job. There’s no room for me in your life.’
‘I admit the job does swallow me up at times, but not all the time, as you know. In between big investigations it goes back, maybe not to a nine-to-five, but certainly to more regular hours.’
‘Well maybe the slower bits between enquiries don’t compensate for all the missed meals, cancelled dinner dates and party invitations.’
Henderson sighed. This sounded like an old recording, one played many times at the house he once shared with Laura.
‘Are you still sore about me leaving Gary’s dinner party early?’
‘Of course I am. I was embarrassed to go back in there.’
‘Why? Because you had to sit there on your own? The bloke I was talking to, Steve, was also there on his own and so was Sue the marriage counsellor, a worse advert for marital union I couldn’t think of.’
‘Trust you to demean the conversation.’
‘Why were you embarrassed? They’re your people. You work beside most of them.’
‘I’ve only started working beside them, there’s a difference.’
‘You think me leaving spoiled what, the impression you were trying to create?’
‘Didn’t you notice? They’re all men. I’m trying to prove to them that I can hack it in the world of hard news.’
‘And me leaving–’
‘Stop trying to change the subject. It’s not my job that’s the problem here but you, and your damned job.’
‘The work I do isn’t going to change, it’s always going to include intensive highs and quiet lows. I don’t have any control over it.’
‘Maybe you should look for another job.’
‘Within the force you mean?’
‘Maybe.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not much different anywhere else. The detectives in John Street get called out at all hours to domestic disturbances and street fights, and the unit Gerry Hobbs has moved to are carrying out drug busts once or twice a week, usually in the middle of the night.’
‘I bet his wife isn’t best pleased.’
‘She isn’t.’
‘If not the police, you could do something else.’
‘Do you think I’d feel better doing a regular nine-to five in an insurance office? I don’t think so. In any case, who’d hire me?’
‘There’s bound to be something you could do. Your problem is you won’t look.’
‘Why should I? I’m not looking for anything else. I do this job because I think I can do some good and make a difference. Do you think I’d feel the same if I sold pensions or life insurance policies?’
‘If you did, you would be helping people by protecting them and their property, but I know you won’t even consider it. You’re too selfish.’
‘How the hell can say that? If I was making millions trading bonds or selling shares or something, I would accept what you’re saying, but risking my neck and those of my team to find murderers and kidnappers, it’s anything but.’
‘You’re not going to change, I can see you won’t. Well, maybe it’s time for me to think about my future. Goodnight.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘You want to see me, gov?’ DS Vicky Neal said, standing at the entrance of DI Henderson’s office.
‘I do Vicky, come in,’ he said.
She took a seat across the desk from the DI and watched as he tidied the pile of papers in front of him, pushing them to one side to clear a space. She didn’t know him well but she had enough female nous to realise he wasn’t as up-beat as she’d seen him over the last few weeks.
She’d asked her regular companion on the Mathieson stabbing, DC Sally Graham, if he was yet another dour Scot, as she’d met plenty of them in Manchester. Up there, they could blame it on the dismal Pennine weather, which at times made even the cheeriest soul feel miserable, but what would be the excuse here in the sunny South of England?
Graham said no, she didn’t regard Henderson as sour-faced or temperamental. He got angry when most people would, particularly when things weren’t going well, but for the majority of the time she had always found him even-tempered and approachable. In which case, it had to be trouble at home, but the self-assured DC assured her it couldn’t be. Neal was a nosey bugger and wouldn’t let it rest; she needed to dig deeper.
‘I mentioned at the meeting yesterday about a body discovered near Devil’s Dyke?’
‘Yes, male aged about twenty-seven with gunshot wounds to the chest and head. Discovered by a group of hikers.’
‘Yes, him. He’s been identified as Liam McKinney, a known drug dealer from Brighton. The way he was killed and his chosen profession makes me think, with a strong degree of certainty, his death is drug-related. Therefore, no connection to the Cindy Longhurst inquiry.’
‘A fair comment, I think.’
‘In which case, I could legitimately hand it over to the Drug Unit, as it’s within their jurisdiction.’
‘I understand your logic, although I think I can hear a ‘but’.’
‘The Cindy Longhurst enquiry started before you arrived and I know how hard it is joining a team in the middle of any investigation, especially with you not being familiar with all the players. I gave you the Ted Mathieson stabbing, but as there’s not much happening there at the moment, I want you to handle the Liam McKinney murder for me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’d be happy to.’
‘I know you’ll do a good job as you’ve seen plenty of similar action in Manchester.’
‘Some months we were dealing with one a week.’
‘McKinney’s murder will be investigated separately from Cindy Longhurst as there’s no connection that we know about, and to do so would only cause confusion. Agreed?’
‘Fine with me.’
‘I’ll exempt you from attendance at the Cindy Longhurst meetings. I think you’ll have enough on your plate with this. When you need them, you can use DC Deepak Sunderam and DC Seb Young.’
‘Right.’
‘Here’s the file,’ he said passing a manila folder over to her. ‘There’s a few things in there for you to get your teeth into: the SOCO crime scene report, the post-mortem and a profile
of McKinney, generously given to us by the Drugs Unit. Despite his chosen career path, I don’t want any short-cuts taken. Drug crime in Sussex isn’t like Manchester, we don’t find bodies of dealers every day of the week, or even every month. His death might be a sign of an impending gang war or a new outfit moving into the area, so it’s important for you to dig deep and find out who’s behind it.’
‘I’ll do my best, gov. Anything else?’
‘No, the lecture’s over,’ he said giving her what looked like a forced smile. ‘Enjoy your reading.’
She left his office carrying what felt to her like treasure. She’d worked on cases like this before, but after moving to Sussex she expected a slower pace of life and felt pleased to be blooded so soon. Despite DI Henderson being the Senior Investigating Officer on the McKinney murder and ultimately responsible for its progress, he was too preoccupied with the Cindy Longhurst case and she believed she could run this investigation how she wanted.
She sat at her desk and flicked through the contents. She started with the post-mortem report. The first thing she noted was the amount of alcohol and drugs in his system. The drugs sounded to her like a toke before heading out, while the booze indicated a decent drinking session in the pub just prior to his death. Perhaps attacked by enemies when they spotted him the worse for wear.
The gunshot wounds were interesting: one to the chest and one to the head. Chest wounds often occurred when a gun was in the possession of a poor shot or a novice, someone only capable of hitting a big target, or a rapidly taken round fired by a fleeing gunman. If trying to kill, it was a slow method, more likely to puncture the lungs and have them fill with blood, eventually drowning the victim. A bullet to the heart, the one-drop-shot, a favourite of thriller directors, would do the trick, but finding it was problematic. It wasn’t a large organ and most people didn’t know its exact location.
The second shot, to the head, near enough dead-centre in the temple, suggested a couple of scenarios. A hastily taken first shot to the chest to incapacitate the victim, followed by a ‘dispatch’ shot in the head to kill him. An alternative scenario sounded more chilling: a deliberate bullet in the chest to make the victim suffer or talk, followed by another to terminate the spectacle. Given the nature of McKinney’s profession, she would bet on the latter.
She picked up the Drugs Unit’s assessment of the dead man and here she could be reading about any number of characters she’d come across back in Manchester. McKinney kicked off selling marijuana to schoolmates. As soon as he realised he could make more money dealing than staying on at school and hoping for a good job at the end of it, he dropped out. Like all entrepreneurs with a good idea, he set about building the foundations of his future business with vigour and innovation.
He then disappeared off the police radar for a couple of years, no doubt still dealing, but employing kids and ‘clean skins’ to do the street work. If any of them were nabbed by the police, they would be found with only small quantities of drugs in their possession, and not having yet accumulated a long criminal record, they would most likely be let off with a caution.
McKinney reappeared on the radar some time later as number-two to Charlie McQueen, a big-time drug dealer, more remote from the street business than McKinney. In the smart part of Hove where McQueen lived, his neighbours would be under the impression the guy living in the large house with several expensive cars parked outside was a respectable businessman.
Vicky sat back. What if she could not only find McKinney’s killer, but could tie the killing back to Charlie McQueen? What a scalp he would be. Good enough to seal her promotion up to DI in the not too distant future. She could but dream, and as her old desk sergeant in Manchester used to say, ‘if you ain’t got ambition, darlin’, what the fuck are you doing here?’
TWENTY-FIVE
Henderson got up from behind his desk, walked out of the office and headed over to the staff restaurant. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, many of the things Rachel said ping-ponging around his head. He didn’t feel much like breakfast before leaving the house first thing this morning, but now at a few minutes past eleven, he felt ravenous.
The team at Longhurst Studio had been wound down and Castle Hill Girl’s DNA and fingerprints had been sent to European police forces through Europol. All he could do now was sit and wait. They’d been led down so many blind alleys with this case. Try as he may, he couldn’t recall another so frustrating.
It didn’t help that Cindy’s abduction took place at a rural location with only two partially-helpful witnesses, while the second victim didn’t possess any identification and her fingerprints and DNA didn’t appear on the national database. A comb of the Missing Persons Database came up with nothing, and despite a wide-ranging search which included a newspaper appeal, they still couldn’t identify her.
He stood at the back of a small queue of people waiting for hot food, a bottleneck that didn’t change much throughout the day, due to the Malling House building complex housing such a large number of officers and civilians, most working shifts and unsociable hours. His turn soon came and, armed with two slices of toast and a cup of coffee plus a chocolate bar which he put in his pocket, he made his way back to his office.
‘Hello Angus.’
He turned to see DI Gerry Hobbs walking towards him.
‘Hi Gerry, how are you doing? How’s the new job?’
‘Good to see you. It’s not bad, although I’ve never attended so many meetings. I’m off to one now. If we’re not meeting civic leaders concerned about the number of needles on the seafront, it’s members of a charity annoyed with the heavy-hand we’re showing to some of their customers.’
Henderson laughed. ‘Serious Crime doesn’t look so bad now, does it?’
‘I needed a move, a change is as good as a rest, so they say. What I wanted to tell you is, we’ve located Liam McKinney’s car. The call came in about twenty minutes ago. Uniform found it burned out in Shoreham.’
‘Right. I’ll tell Vicky Neal.’
‘You need to watch yourself there.’
‘What, with Vicky?’ Henderson asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I hear she’s a bit of a man-eater. Ambitious too.’
‘Gerry, I think I can look after myself. What do you make of McKinney’s murder? Did he have many enemies or is someone trying to muscle in on his business?’
‘I heard from one source,’ Hobbs said, ‘which I’ll take with a pinch of salt until I hear it from someone else, but he says McKinney and Charlie McQueen fell out.’
‘Charlie McQueen, the Brighton drug dealer?’
‘Oh, he’s a bit more than that, Angus. We reckon he’s one of the biggest players on the Brighton drug scene.’
‘That big? Why don’t you…ah, but you can’t touch him, can you?’
‘Nah, he’s never been one to get his hands dirty.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s been good seeing you again, Angus, but I need to go. Catch up with you sometime over a beer.’
‘I’ll call you and arrange something.’
‘Excellent. See you later.’
Henderson went one way and Hobbs the other. He didn’t know if it was due to the new job, the promotion, or a combination of both, but it had re-energised Hobbs. Henderson couldn’t criticise his performance when they worked together, but Serious Crime affected people in different ways and often by the end of a two or three-year stint, they needed a change. A move to another specialism such as drugs or fraud wouldn’t solve Henderson’s own dilemma, and put a stop to working fewer hours and not being called out to attend crime scenes during important dinner parties. Hobbs didn’t seem to work any less hours than he did before.
He arrived back at his office, the smell of decent coffee and buttered toast playing havoc with his grumbling stomach, such that if he’d spotted a place where he could sit on his journey back, he would have stopped and scoffed the lot.
He sat down, uncapped
the coffee and took a sip, but it was still too hot. Two bites into his first slice of toast, the phone rang.
‘Bloody hell!’
With some reluctance, he picked it up. ‘Good morning, is this Detective Inspector Henderson?’ a guttural, East European voice asked.
‘It is.’
‘Excellent. Good morning Inspector, I am Principal Agent Gabriel Albescu of the Poliția Română, the Romanian Police. How are you today?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, but thought, If you’d only let me eat my toast, I’d feel a lot better. ‘How are you?’
‘I am excellent, except when bureaucrats in Brussels give me all their money and expect me to fill in their stupid forms in return. Ha, ha.’
‘It’s different here, we fill in the forms, but they don’t give us any money.’
‘Ha, we could teach you some tricks.’
‘I bet you could. You speak very good English, Agent Albescu. Have you ever lived in the UK or America?’
‘Myself and another officer from Bucharest were seconded to the Boston Police Department for one year and, in return, they sent some American officers over to Interpol in Bucharest. I liked America, the wide, open spaces and the large parking bays, but I hated the food. Chips with everything and, in some places, the only alcohol on sale is beer.’
‘The US can be liberal about some things but straight-laced about others. After all, their porn industry is larger than their legitimate film business.’
‘I agree. I am calling you because we received here in Bucharest the fingerprints of a murder victim you have there in the UK.’
At the start of the call he thought he was talking to someone he’d met last year at the international police symposium in Amsterdam, but now he realised it wasn’t. He pushed the distractions of toast and coffee to one side and gave Principal Agent Gabriel Albescu his full attention.
