One Last Lesson

by Iain Cameron

  He had read his file and also knew about the substantial compensation he received from the prison authorities for his injuries, money that more than likely paid for the smartly furnished house they were sitting in now. Originally from Poland, he arrived in the UK in his twenties and despite spending nearly forty years here, he still spoke with a strong Polish accent.

  ‘So what the hell do you want? Can’t you leave me in peace? I’ve done my time, forget about me.’

  ‘Our enquiry concerns the murder of two students at Lewes University last month, you might have heard about it.’

  ‘I saw it on TV,’ he said nodding towards the LCD. ‘So what’s that got to do with me? You think I did it?’ He said laughing.

  ‘I didn’t say that, this is merely a routine enquiry. Can you tell us where you were on two dates, 7th March and 25th March?’

  ‘Why do you coppers always ask that? How the hell would I know as I don’t keep a diary and you don’t see my personal assistant sitting over there in the corner, do you? Why would I need to keep one anyway, I never go out anywhere except to the supermarket?’

  Henderson said nothing, waiting for a more reasoned response.

  ‘Wait, which day of the week was that?’

  ‘The 7th was a Thursday and the 25th a Monday,’ Walters said.

  ‘Ok. On Thursday’s I always have my old Polish pals around for a poker night so any of them can vouch for me but on a Monday I’m usually here watching TV alone. No wait, the 25th of March you said? That wasn’t last Monday but two weeks before that? Yes?’

  ‘It was,’ Walters said.

  ‘I remember now. My neighbour, Billy Carter at number forty-five, invited me to a football match. We went to see Eastbourne Borough play Staines and I still have the programme and the ticket.’ He rose wearily from his seat and for the first time, Henderson noticed the limp.

  He handed the ticket to Henderson. It was a home match for Borough and played at their ground, Priory Lane in Eastbourne, on the other side of Sussex from Preston Park, where Louise was last seen. Was it possible to watch the game and then get over to Brighton to abduct and murder her? It was possible but only if he left before the end of the match.

  ‘How was the game? Who won?’

  ‘It was not as fast as the Premier League that I watch on television but it was still good. Eastbourne won two-one with a goal late on, so my neighbour was pleased.’

  ‘What did you do after the game? Did you come straight home?’

  ‘Billy invited me back to his house and we drank Schnapps until two in the morning. It was a very good night,’ he said, a genial smile creasing his face.

  Henderson and Walters returned to the car five minutes later.

  ‘I forgot to ask you before we went in, which one was he?’ she asked as they were driving away.

  ‘Which one was he, what?’

  ‘Is he from the ‘grudge against Dominic Green’ pile or the ‘porn site subscriber’ pile?’

  ‘Take a guess.’

  ‘I’d say porn site subscriber.’

  ‘You’re right. He doesn’t have the money to get tangled up with the likes of Green. In fact, I would imagine all the money he has is tied up in that house.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Slimy, greasy, scumbag, take your pick.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Why, because Ferris is already locked up?’

  ‘Because he has a limp and can barely walk.’

  ‘He could be faking it. He walked to a football match.’

  ‘He also has a bad back and that’s well documented, which doesn’t make it likely he carried or dragged a dead girl across a golf course.’

  ‘True but he could still be faking it. It’s one of the most frequently cited reasons for invalidity benefit fraud.’

  ‘Ok, but he does have a good alibi.’

  ‘Which you need to check.’

  ‘Fine. So what’s your opinion?’

  ‘We need to be cautious with him as he’s been devious in the past and I wouldn’t be surprised if all we saw back there, the limp, the strained back and so on was nothing but a sham.’

  ‘Getting cynical in your old age now, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He produced that match ticket a bit quick, as if expecting us to ask for it. It might not be the murders he’s trying to shield us from, as I think the logistics of getting over to Brighton after a match at Eastbourne makes it extremely unlikely that he abducted Louisa, and so his alibi will probably check out, but he might be up to some of his old tricks again. I think I’ll call Lewes nick and ask them to keep an eye on our Mr Lewinski. So, where to next?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  If Henderson thought Newhaven was suburban, the Sussex port couldn’t hold a mug of Horlicks to Saltdean. Row upon row of white, pink and grey retirement bungalows stretched from cliffs beside the English Channel to the foothills of the South Downs in the distance. The man they had come to see, David Samuels obviously didn’t like a sea view as his bungalow was tucked away within a maze of little streets that looked depressingly similar, and all he could gaze upon from his front window were the bungalows on the other side of the road.

  Unlike Lewinski, Samuels didn’t go in for thick oak doors and multiple locks but he did have a sophisticated alarm system linked to floodlights and after knocking on the door, they could hear the barking of what sounded like a large dog. The door opened slowly and a nervy David Samuels came out and looked closely at their ids with one hand, while holding the thick leather collar of a large, ferocious-looking Alsatian with the other.

  Dogs didn’t frighten him as he grew up in a rural community where the locals all owned dogs, although they were more often well-trained border collies used for herding sheep and cattle, and not an unpredictable mutt bred solely for aggression and strength. Its angry outburst didn’t bother him but Walters shrunk back behind him as the dog snarled and bared its sharp teeth.

  They waited in the hall for a few moments while Samuels walked to the back door and let the dog out before following his directions and heading into the kitchen. It was more modern than in his flat at Seven Dials with a central island topped with a slab of black granite, an elaborate two-oven system, large American fridge and snazzy flat-level hob that didn’t look to be powered by gas or electricity. The smell of coffee permeated the room and when he invited them to join him in a cup, it received an emphatic ‘yes’ from them both as it had been an early start and he didn’t get his usual burst of caffeine while Walters was nursing a hangover.

  Henderson effortlessly levered himself onto one of the high bar stools that stood alongside the central island but Walters, who was considerably smaller than he was, required the assistance of a metal rung, welded around the legs to give her a helping hand.

  Samuels placed two white mugs of coffee in front of them as Henderson began to explain the nature of their enquiry. When dates were mentioned, he walked over to a small lavender-coloured wall planner pinned to a felt-backed notice board and attached his reading glasses.

  He was released six months ago from a twelve-year sentence for the rape of two married women and the attempted murder of another who refused his brutal advances. Henderson had never met him before but from the description of his crimes, he expected a heavier set man and a more aggressive personality, but he knew well enough that many criminals were not only fine liars but very good actors as well and some could hide a violent temper or a deviant predilection with the skill of a seasoned performer.

  On the night Sarah was murdered, he started off in a pub in Brighton with two friends before watching a film at Brighton Marina cinema, and he was with a male acquaintance when Louisa was killed, neither of which would be difficult to verify. He claimed not to be in contact with anyone at the university and had never actually been there.

  Before raising the subject of his gripe with Green and his membership of the academic-babes web site, one of two individuals on the list that tic
ked both boxes, he decided to get to know him a little better as try and find out if he was up to his old tricks as well. He asked about some of the films he went to see at the cinema.

  ‘I usually like action films like The Terminator and the Bourne films but I’ve also got a soft spot for rom-coms and films with Meryl Streep and Lindsay Lohan. The Devil Wears Prada is one of my favourites. What about you?’

  In his youth, Henderson was a regular at the cinema in Cameron Square in Fort William and as a copper in Glasgow it was often a good place to kill an hour or two before going back on shift.

  ‘I like all sorts of stuff,’ Henderson said, ‘such as Hollywood blockbusters, spy thrillers, horror and funnily enough, cop and detective dramas.’

  He enquired about his film companions and then moved on to the subject of dogs.

  ‘Buster? He’s a sweetie really,’ Samuels said, ‘but a bloody good guard dog. I got him as a puppy and took him to one of these training schools where they teach you how to turn them into a guard dogs.’

  Perhaps squeamish when the conversation turned canine, Walters got up and said, ‘mind if I use the loo?’

  ‘Down the hall, first door on the right,’ Samuels said affably. ‘Remember, the first door not the second as that’s a messy room. Now, as I was saying.’

  It was like turning on a tap. He spoke unprompted for over five minutes before Henderson realised Sergeant Walters had still not returned and was probably stuck in the toilet with a dodgy lock or hiding from the dog. He was about to stop Samuels in mid-flow and go and look for her, when suddenly she burst through the door.

  ‘Sir, come here! You need to come and see this!’

  He rose from the stool and shot a quick glance at Samuels, whose genial demeanour had changed from dedicated dog-lover and congenial cinema buff, to the stony-faced criminal who stared out from police mug shots all those years ago. Without waiting to see what he would do or say, he walked down the hall and followed Walters into a bedroom, the one Samuels said was messy. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he immediately stopped in his tracks.

  The walls were lined with newspaper cuttings featuring pictures of people he instantly recognised: Sarah Robson, Louisa Gordon, Owen Robson, himself. There were clippings from the Argus, the Sun, Daily Mirror and some he didn’t recognise including a glossy full-colour job in German. If he wasn’t standing like a goldfish with his mouth hanging open, it certainly felt like it as he had never seen anything like it before and probably surpassed the quantity of information on the four white boards back at Sussex House.

  ‘That’s not all boss, look.’

  She opened the drawers of a tall dresser beside the window. Inside and neatly folded were bundles of clothes, women’s clothes. On closer inspection it was obvious the clothes hadn’t been washed or ironed before being put away as the dress he fingered was crumpled and ripped. On one side of the drawer and partially covered by clothes, lay pieces of jewellery.

  He picked up a necklace and knew instantly it belonged to Sarah Robson, as it was her favourite and one she wore constantly. When her body was identified, they decided not to mention it in press releases as it was distinctive and would be useful in filtering out the inevitable cranks who would call to claim responsibility.

  He turned and was about to tell Walters to call Lewes Control when a flash of movement caught his eye and ‘Buster’ the Alsatian charged into the room. Before he could react, it launched itself at him. His vision was a mass of fur, sharp teeth and a big Alsatian’s head, snarling and growling trying to get a grip, when it suddenly locking its jaw onto his left arm. Walters jumped back in terror as he felt an intense pain judder through his shoulder and just then he caught a glimpse of Samuels heading out through the front door.

  The dog rooted its hind legs on the floor and was trying to shake its head and tear a mouth-sized chunk from his flesh. There was no point in shaking it off as it was trained to come back time and again until exhausted, just like a police dog. He needed to either to get a hand inside its mouth and grab its tongue or fight it.

  He wasn’t putting a hand near that mouth and instead began punching the side of its head until he felt its grip lessen. It fell to the floor dazed but almost immediately, it recovered and launched itself at him again. He was better prepared and stepped back, keeping his arms down. It missed its mark and snapped and snarled as he backed away, before reaching up and gripping the fleshy part of his stomach, which was only covered by a thin shirt. As soon as its teeth sunk in, it hurt like hell.

  He winced in pain but it seemed to galvanise his thoughts and incapacitating the bloody thing was his only option otherwise he would be in serious trouble. He attacked it furiously this time, punching it repeatedly while kicking at its hind legs. It finally lost footing and the jaw pressure slackened but like a robot it came back again and fastened itself onto his leg.

  He bent down and wrapped his hands around its throat and squeezed hard. Immediately, the muscle in his left arm screamed in pain but he couldn’t stop. The dog realised it was in trouble and released its jaws from his leg and began snapping at his hands and face, trying to latch onto anything but he kept up the pressure, despite the weakening in his left arm and the sweat that was dripping remorselessly down his face, despite the coolness of the room.

  Slowly, slowly the dog’s frenetic activity eased and a few seconds later it stopped altogether when it blacked out. The room was suddenly as quiet as a mausoleum. Just then, the adrenalin that was sustaining him began to deplete and like a big bow wave rolling towards his yacht ‘Mingary,’ the pain suddenly hit him, causing him to double-up in agony.

  The dog wasn’t dead and wouldn’t be out for long, so he needed to act quickly. He staggered towards the door and out to the hall where Walters was immobile and visibly shaking, standing beside the closed front door.

  ‘Shut the bedroom door Carol.’ She didn’t move. ‘Shut the bloody door Carol, that’s an order!’ he shouted. She snapped out of her daydream and reached behind him and without looking inside, slammed the door closed.

  ‘Where is he? Where the hell is Samuels?’

  ‘Angus, your arm, it’s bleeding and the front of your shirt, it’s all blood. Oh my God, that dog was so big and so…so vicious.’

  ‘Where’s Samuels?’

  ‘Samuels? I heard a car. He’s gone.’

  He tried the door but it was locked and knew the back door led to an enclosed space, keeping the dog from eating next door’s children. He pulled out his phone and called Lewes Control.

  ‘Murder suspect travelling in a red Ford Focus, registration number BU54, I don’t know the rest, just fled Southview Road, Saltdean. Not sure which direction, assume west to Brighton. Dangerous and approach with caution.’

  His second call was to Pat Davidson the Crime Scene Manger.

  ‘Hello Pat. Boy, have I got a job for you. All our Christmases have come at once.’

  In a faltering voice he explained where he was and what he wanted the SOCO’s to do. Just before he ended the call, he said, ‘by the way, Pat are you any good with dogs?’

  THIRTY-TWO

  David Samuels was caught on the A27 on the outskirts of Worthing when ANPR, the Automatic Number Plate Registration System, justified their faith and the substantial investment once again. From the part-details that Henderson supplied to the Control Room, they obtained the full registration number from the DVLA and immediately put his red Ford Focus into the system and within a few seconds, every ANPR camera in the UK was primed to look out for it.

  A few miles past Durrington, near Worthing two local patrol cars picked him up on their mobile units and gave chase. A dizzying twenty-minute dodgem ride followed as he weaved his way towards Portsmouth, scraping and bumping cars as he went until he was boxed-in at a set of traffic lights, and nabbed when he tried to make a run for it.

  After the SOCO’s arrived at Southview Road, Henderson headed over to a place he hoped never to set foot in again, the Royal Sussex County Hospit
al. The dog that bit him wasn’t rabid, just mad, bad and vicious and so he avoided a long course of painful rabies injections but the Tetanus injection and the stitches he received on both sides of his arm and stomach were bad enough.

  Without the murder charge, there were a range of offenses levelled at Samuels, enough to give him a hefty prison sentence and including two under the Dangerous Dogs Act. This meant Henderson could keep him in custody for as long as he liked without doing much. Without the charges, the law only allowed him to question a suspect for twenty-four hours but he wasn’t in a fit state to interview anyone as he was popping painkillers and antibiotics like sweets and felt like a drunk after downing half a dozen cans of super lager.

  He finally left the hospital at seven and returned to the office to pick up some things, fully intending to be around for no more than a few minutes as he wanted to get back to his flat for a good kip, but to his amazement a party was in full swing.

  CI Steve Harris, the arch budget defender and mean purse strings holder had authorised the purchase of a couple of crates of wine, beer and champagne, and soon the sombre Murder Suite was reverberating to the sound of clinking glasses, back-slapping and some horrible rap music banging out from someone’s boom box.

  It went on until the early hours of the morning, an occasion that even brought the big wigs out to play with handshakes and congratulations from the ACC and the big chief himself, the Chief Constable. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world and even Rachel, who hadn’t seen a soul all day with the exception of a half-hour visit from a nurse, was happy for him to be there although that did require a certain element of underplaying his injuries.

  There followed a celebratory weekend and now the team were in Phase Two of the murder investigation, gathering all the evidence together to hand over to the CPS. To nobody’s surprise, the house in Saltdean was a goldmine of evidence as they found clothing, handbags and personal items belonging to both dead girls that only their killer could have obtained. It was harrowing work and Pat Davidson rose up a few notches in his estimation by sticking to the task doggedly and in his ability to make light of what was often grim work. Many of his team wanted to come to the celebration but were too upset by what they found at the house and to a man, they went straight home after the work was finished.