Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2)

by Stephen Edger

  It brought him back to the argument he had made to Lauren the day before: the majority of sexual assaults are carried out by people known to the victim. Given the isolation of the property, it seemed less likely that Green could have just stumbled upon it. This property was not on the same bus route either.

  He now stared up at his office window. The blinds were pulled and the light was off, suggesting that Melissa had already headed off to her mother’s birthday party. He was tempted to knock off early himself when he remembered Frankie Benold was due at the office in an hour. Locking his car, he headed up the stairs to his office.

  The office was on the first floor of a large brown building on an industrial estate in Eastleigh. The owner of the building was a former client of his, and she had agreed that he could rent the premises for a rock-bottom fee. She had no desire to turn the building into a prominent business, and had only taken it as part of the divorce settlement so that her cheating husband couldn’t have it. It didn’t have the professional air that he would have liked, but it was so much cheaper than anything else in the city.

  He made it to the office door, which was wooden with a frosted glass frontage. His name was written on the front of the door, though some of the lettering was starting to peel. Replacing it was yet another of those jobs that needed doing but he just couldn’t be bothered. A shadow moving about behind the glass caught his eye. The shadow was dark and seemed to be milling about quickly. The build and size of the figure told him that it wasn’t Melissa.

  He slipped his key in the lock and opened the door in one swift motion. The shadowy figure immediately stopped rifling through the papers on Carmichael’s desk, and turned to smile at the owner of the office.

  ‘Mr Carmichael,’ the figure said, the squeakiness in his voice backing up his youthful complexion. ‘My name is Tim Williams. I’m a reporter for the Daily Mirror.’

  The man passed him a paper business card. Carmichael examined it carefully and it did look the genuine article, but then so did his own.

  ‘Can I help you with something before I call the police and report this break-in?’ Carmichael replied, reaching for the phone on the edge of his desk.

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty, Mr Carmichael,’ Williams replied, placing a finger on the disconnect button.

  Carmichael replaced the phone on the receiver and ushered Williams away from his desk. Sitting in his trusty seat, he held up five fingers adding, ‘You have five minutes. Go.’

  The reporter didn’t seem in any kind of hurry and sat down across from him, opening a pad of paper so he could read whatever he had prepared.

  ‘You are Johnson Carmichael, Private Investigator, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The same Johnson Carmichael who formerly served as a Detective Constable for the Metropolitan Police in London?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The same Johnson Carmichael who was part of the first Organised Crime task force, currently known as the Serious and Organised Crime Agency?’

  ‘Correct. You have four minutes left.’

  ‘I’m currently writing a story that involves you…or more accurately involves a case you were working on before your sudden resignation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe my resignation from the force as sudden. There was institutionalised racism in that unit that made it impossible for me to succeed. A tribunal found in my favour.’

  ‘Oh I know all about that Mr Carmichael, don’t worry. I was just looking to establish that I was talking to the right man, and that there wasn’t another Johnson Carmichael.’

  ‘Well I think you’ve established that. Why don’t you tell me why you broke into my office this afternoon?’

  ‘Does the name Arthur Baxter mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Okay, let’s try another name. How about Janus Stratovsky?’

  ‘I know of him, yes, but then you would know that already presumably. You have three minutes left.’

  ‘Arthur Baxter is the homeless man arrested and found guilty of the murder of Janus Stratovsky.’

  ‘Great, well this catch up and trip down memory lane has been fascinating. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to be getting on with.’

  ‘My five minutes aren’t up yet, Mr Carmichael. Were you aware that Mr Baxter’s conviction has just been overturned by the High Court? It turns out the piece of evidence incriminating him was invalid.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. What connected Mr Baxter to the crime was a stray hair mysteriously located in the victim’s mouth following the post mortem, after an anonymous tip-off was received. It turns out that the hair in question was in fact placed there post death and more importantly post fire.’

  ‘Post fire?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Carmichael. Forensic science truly is an amazing thing, don’t you find? The victim’s teeth, hands and eyes were removed before the body was set alight in an abandoned black taxi cab. At the time, the hair was the first break in the case the police had and they had purely tested the hair for DNA particles and that’s how it had been matched to Mr Baxter. The hair has been subsequently re-examined using modern techniques and does not contain any traces of the victim’s saliva or DNA, which would suggest it was placed there a significantly long time after the death and fire. Who knew, right?’

  Carmichael watched the man carefully, wary that he would need to choose his next words carefully.

  ‘What does all this have to do with me?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Mr Baxter’s arrest and conviction got you off the hook somewhat, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I was never a suspect in Stratovsky’s death.’

  ‘Not officially, no, but you were suspended while an investigation into your actions was undertaken. As soon as Baxter was charged, the investigation into you was closed. Now that Baxter has been proven not guilty, the spotlight swings back in your direction.’

  ‘You want to accuse me of something, go ahead,’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise, get the fuck out of my office and stop wasting my time.’

  Williams offered his hands up in defence.

  ‘I’m only telling you what the police will be thinking. It looks like the death of Janus Stratovsky is about to be re-opened by the Met’s cold case team. That means they will be re-interviewing all the old witnesses and key players in events. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they will come across your name and the investigation against you. I wondered whether you might want to talk to me first: be pro-active and tell your story before it’s asked for.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘Hear me out, Mr Carmichael. I can tell the story from your point of view: there you were an ambitious young detective in an elite new squad, shaking down criminals for titbits of information, helping you bring down one of London’s biggest crime families. Maybe you were told to be violent with your snitches. Maybe you were told to put pressure on more senior members of the family. Maybe someone set you up to take the fall for the murder of Janus Stratovsky. You did the only thing you knew would get you out of the frame: you framed somebody else. Your neighbours said you used to go running late at night in the area where Mr Baxter lived. Who would blame you for seizing your opportunity? After all, who would have believed your innocence when the rest of your white, working class team would stand against you?’

  Carmichael was feeling breathless but decided to call Williams’ bluff.

  ‘Your time is up, Mr Williams. Now, I have listened to these outrageous lies you have been spouting for the last five minutes but do not wish to comment on anything you have said to me, other than to tell you I will sue your newspaper for defamation of character if you dare print a single word about me in the context you’ve just shared. I know my rights. Now, get the fuck out of my office before I feel the need to throw you out!’

  Williams backed up as Carmichael moved closer.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Williams whispered as he grabbed his bag and mo
ved backwards to the office door. Carmichael marched him out of the office, down the stairs and out of the building. He watched as the reporter climbed onto a motorcycle and rode away.

  He then made his way back up to his office and poured himself a very large glass of whisky. He had only bought the bottle earlier that day, but he needed something to calm his nerves. If Williams was right, it wouldn’t be too long until the police came calling, and when they did, he had no idea how he would get himself out of this mess.

  He saw a light flashing on the telephone and pressed a button to listen to the answerphone message. It was Frankie Benold. She said that her previous appointment had overrun and she wouldn’t be able to make it to the office by four p.m. She said that he was welcome to pop around to her house and drop the paperwork off and collect his fee, or alternatively she would try and pop in the following morning.

  He looked around the messy office, where Williams had been less than careful as he had rifled through papers, and decided he needed a different view. He finished the remains of his whisky and headed down to his car.

  24

  Frankie Benold’s house was only ten minutes from the industrial estate where Carmichael worked. The Benolds owned a four bedroom detached house with half an acre of land to the rear in the semi-affluent Chandlers Ford area of the county. Whilst there was plenty of affordable housing in the area, this particular Close didn’t include any. He felt out of place as soon as he pulled his car into the driveway. The size of the property was hardly a surprise, given James Benold’s chosen profession. The driveway was gravelled and marked out by solar lights, which were glowing dimly.

  He didn’t arrive at the address until nearly five, by which point darkness had descended, which in itself had made the property difficult to locate. Traffic had been pretty heavy and what should have been a quick jaunt down the road had become a thirty minute slog with some heading to the local shopping centre to complete their Christmas shopping, while others headed in the opposite direction, eager to get home and out of the rain.

  It wasn’t usual for him to visit a client at their house. In fact, it was the first time he had not completed a final meeting in the comfort of his office. It wasn’t that he had a rule about it; it was just more professional if they were in his office when the money was exchanged. He liked having Melissa there to observe in case the client tried to pull a fast one. Not that they ever did.

  The report he had written up about Benold’s actions was as complete as it needed to be. He had managed to identify a total of six women that Benold had had illicit liaisons with, but he didn’t want to list them all in the report as it would make quite difficult reading for Mrs Benold. It was one thing to learn that the person you exchanged vows with had cheated on you once; it was quite another to learn that it had occurred on multiple occasions, let alone six times! In fairness Melissa’s interaction with Benold would have counted as number seven in the list. As a result, he had left out the details of the man’s affairs with three women. He had prepared written details of the other affairs that he would subtly share with Mr Benold’s solicitor should he try and be difficult during the divorce settlement: a little bit of security. But for now, Melissa’s liaison and those of the other three women would suffice for what Frankie Benold needed.

  It had been difficult to keep his mind from thinking about Lauren and Green on the way over. What was it about the case that troubled him so much? It was ridiculous to think that he had spent more time thinking about it this week than anything else, and he wasn’t even being paid! It bugged him that he couldn’t get the details out of his mind. Every time he tried to think about something else, his thoughts would return to ‘what if’ scenarios:

  What if Nathan Green had attacked Beth Roper?

  What if there were other women too afraid to come forward?

  What if he had known her beforehand?

  He chastised himself silently for allowing his thoughts to wander yet again. For the next thirty minutes he needed to think of only one person: James Benold.

  Frankie would expect him to give her a detailed account of everything that had happened without him needing to consult his notes. He had read and re-read the report whilst he had sat on her driveway and felt as ready as he could be to go and break the news. Whilst she was pretty sure her husband had been philandering, it would still be a shock to have it confirmed. In his experience, most of his clients still clung to the hope that their fears were just paranoia and that he would turn up and set their minds at ease.

  Carmichael rang the doorbell and waited for the shadow of Frankie Benold to appear behind the door. She opened the door a crack and asked him to confirm his name. When he did, she opened the door and invited him in. She was dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that ended a couple of inches above the knee. He noticed her legs shimmer in their dark nylon overcoats and forced himself to look away. She showed him through to a living room, which was twice the size of his office.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Carmichael?’ she asked heading towards the kitchen.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, expecting her to return with a pot of tea and two cups. When she handed him a chilled glass of wine he was quite taken aback, but thanked her regardless.

  He was on a four-seat leather upholstered sofa and she had taken a seat in a single armchair nearby. They chatted briefly, him asking her about the house: how long she had lived there, whether she had decorated it herself or had employed an interior designer, that kind of thing. It was needless chit-chat, with both reluctant to talk about the real reason he was there. She threw questions at him about the nature of his work: whether he enjoyed it, what had made him choose such a career and whether he was particularly busy at the moment. She had finished her glass of wine before he had even attempted to broach the subject.

  ‘Mrs Benold, we need to get down to business.’

  ‘Frankie, please,’ she said. ‘Let me top up my glass and then you can tell me what you need to.

  He took a big gulp of the wine as she left the room. She returned in a moment with a freshly opened bottle of white. It struck him as odd that she had already poured two glasses of wine yet the bottle was new. It made him wonder just how many glasses she had had before he had arrived. Noticing that he had now had some wine, she topped his glass up. He decided not to argue.

  ‘Frankie, there’s no easy way to say this,’ he began when she was settled again. ‘Your suspicions were correct. Your husband has been having extra-marital affairs behind your back.’

  He paused to allow the news to sink in. He expected her to maybe shed a tear or for her expression to show anger, but there was no movement.

  ‘I observed your husband for several weeks: to learn his routine, what he did, where he went, that kind of thing. I learned that he has instigated sexual relations with at least three women in the last two months. I don’t think he ever plans for these relationships to be long-term as they only tend to last for a couple of dates before he moves on. I think the good news is that I believe he doesn’t have any feelings of love for these women; it is just lust.’

  Her expression remained unchanged but she continued to sip at her wine.

  ‘I have compiled a report of all the affairs, including photographs of him eating with the three in question. Now, in order to get the kind of photographic evidence you require for a successful settlement, I set a honey-trap for James, using a trusted colleague. I wish to assure you that the meeting was stopped before sexual intercourse occurred. My colleague has great integrity and would not wish to be party to adultery. However, she was sufficiently engaged with him that I was able to capture photographs of him nude and in the throes of passion.’

  ‘Did you meet my husband, Mr Carmichael?’

  ‘Yes I did, why do you ask?’

  ‘Did he give any explanation as to why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yes, why he chooses to sleep with these…women?’

  Carmichael sighed. ‘To be honest, I was only with
him for a moment and the conversation did not get round to that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Continue with your report, Mr Carmichael.’

  ‘When we set up a honey-trap, all we do is give the target an opportunity to carry out their wishes. What I mean is: we don’t suggest anything illicit. For the trap to be worthwhile it has to be the target who proposes…well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Have you done this a lot then?’

  ‘Catching cheating scumbags? Yeah, too many times,’ he said smiling.

  ‘I sense you don’t tolerate James’ behaviour.’

  ‘That’s one way to say it,’ he said, taking a long drink from his glass. ‘I can’t stand any man who would dare to cheat on his spouse.’

  ‘It’s rare to meet a man of such conviction,’ she replied un-crossing her legs. He couldn’t help but notice.

  ‘Forgive me for saying, Mrs Benold, but I think your husband is…a fucking idiot to look elsewhere when he has someone like you at home waiting for him.’

  ‘I told you, call me Frankie,’ she said leaning forward in her chair.

  He moved over to the fire place, pretending to be interested in a photograph. He was beginning to feel hot under the collar and was worried about where the conversation was going. He didn’t know if it was the wine he was drinking, the warmth of the room or the beautiful company he was in.

  ‘I’ll leave the report with you,’ he said, his back still turned to her as he tried to blank out the image of her legs. ‘It’s all detailed in there. If you have any questions about it, you can give me a call.’

  A hand touched his shoulder and he was surprised to see her standing behind him; he hadn’t even heard her stand up.

  ‘Do I make you nervous, Mr Carmichael?’ she whispered into his ear.

  ‘Erm…no…erm…I…erm.’