Evil Turn (Nathan Hawk Mystery)

by Watkinson, Douglas

  His female lieutenant was called Marion Bewley, late twenties and pretty in a pinched sort of way, with auburn hair that tried to meet under her chin and nearly made it. She had teeth on which a small fortune had been spent, but what I liked most about her was her keenness, her excitement at being here: she was nervous, yes, but looking forward to the task ahead with no hint of the jaded attitude she would almost certainly develop as the years went by. Against her was the fact that, in spite of his appearance, teeth, grease, flaking sores and all, she was clearly impressed by Kinsella, but then the legal profession doesn’t boast many comparisons for her to have based her judgement on.

  They sat on the leather sofa with a low table pulled towards them on which they spread their various notes and photos. Sillitoe asked if Kinsella would mind Miss Bewley recording the conversation, as much for her own career development as anything. And for him to cover his arse, I thought, but didn’t say so. Kinsella was more than happy to go on record.

  Fee brought in a tray of coffee and Kinsella rose to thank her, then asked our guests if they wanted biscuits with it. Neither of them did. He asked if they took sugar. Marion Bewley asked for a smidgeon, thus betraying her Northern origins.

  “White or brown?” he asked.

  “Brown, if you’ve got it.”

  “The healthy option.”

  I wanted to smack him right there and then but with lawyers in the room it would’ve been unwise. He passed her the pot containing the demerara.

  “Shall we get on?” Sillitoe asked.

  He took a deep breath and informed us that Sir James Garrod QC would be presenting the case against Flaxman, which augured well for the Crown’s prospects...

  “Why isn’t he here today?” I asked.

  Though I say it myself, I rarely enter a room where those already there don’t acknowledge my presence, so imagine my distress at this jumped-up solicitor’s apparent resentment at me being in my own house.

  “He’s in court,” said Sillitoe, glancing at his watch. “And this is very much a preliminary stroll through the evidence...”

  “The trial begins in three weeks,” I reminded him.

  “I’m well aware of that. Even if he’d been available, I doubt he would have joined us. Being of the old school, he’s sensitive about the practice of coaching, or anything which might be misconstrued as such...”

  “Does any of this make any difference?” Kinsella asked me. “I mean as long...”

  “Sit down, Kinsella, button your lip.”

  The room fell silent, except for the rattling of a teaspoon as Bewley stirred her smidgeon into her coffee. Even that ceased as she thrilled to the tension in the air. Sillitoe gave me that smile which solicitors of a certain age have perfected, thin, cruel and expensive.

  “Forgive me, I understand that you own this charming house, but unfortunately that doesn’t mean...”

  A voice on the edge of the room overtook his. It belonged to Fee and because I liked what she was saying I didn’t stop her saying it.

  “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with here, Mr Silly Toe. This man is my father; he is ex-Detective Chief Inspector Nathan Hawk, late of the Hamford Crime Squad where he solved thirty-five murders. Since leaving the force he’s found four more killers, just by way of a hobby, so imagine what he could do if he really put his mind to it.”

  It was the last sentence that wrong-footed everyone, especially me, but it did the trick. Sillitoe had actually heard of me on the legal grapevine.

  “You’re the man who found John Stillman’s daughter? Brought her killer to justice?” I nodded and he glanced wearily at his sidekick. “I wish I’d known that beforehand. To business...”

  He shuffled a few A4 documents and in a fresh voice said that he would take Kinsella through the case, examine the evidence as he believed Flaxman’s defence would see it. As he leaned forward to speak I held up a hand to stop him.

  “Before any of that, I’d like to see a copy of the Immunity from Prosecution agreement Mr Kinsella was given.”

  “Yes, indeed, I was hoping Mr Kinsella would sign it this morning...” He glanced at my outstretched hand. “May I ask why you’d like to see it?”

  “Because I don’t think you guys can be trusted, but maybe that’s the old copper bouncing up and down inside me.”

  He smiled again. Bewley passed me a copy of the letter. I took my time reading it, then looked at Kinsella. “Have you seen this?”

  “Well, yes...”

  “Is that your way of saying no? Tell me what it means.”

  He moved aside a bothersome hank of greasy hair, skim-read the letter and shrugged his understanding of its contents. “I give evidence against Flaxman, I don’t get charged in connection with the murders.”

  He handed the letter back to Bewley with a smile which she returned quickly.

  I jabbed Kinsella to regain his attention. “Like I’ve said before, you’ll be dead by Christmas. D’you know what a ‘scoping’ interview is?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Forgive me, I thought I was the one...” Sillitoe began.

  I raised a hand to stave off the interruption. “You’ve had a scoping interview with the Humberside Crime Squad and then received this, a proffer letter, outlining details of the witness protection programme you’d come under.”

  “New identity, yes...”

  “In your dreams. You’re not some double agent, the victim of a terror squad or the one who got away from a gangland boss. You’re a cheap jack smuggler. This letter offers you immunity from prosecution in the case against Flaxman. They can still do you for the contraband – the fags, the booze, the perfume, electronics, to say nothing of the heroin.”

  I turned my fatherly gaze on Bewley, who thought she’d better contribute and did so by promising to make a note of everything I’d said and ensure that Mr Kinsella was fully immune before the trial date. He smiled at her again, poor girl.

  In truth I should’ve counselled Kinsella to call a halt to proceedings, at least until he was safely behind the skirts of the witness protection scheme, total immunity, on paper, signed, sealed, delivered. More disturbingly, I wasn’t sure why I’d leapt to his defence. Was it because I saw ‘some poor kid caught up in the justice system’, as Fairchild had put it? Or had I relished the chance to pick a fight with the lawyers in the room?

  In yet another fresh voice, Sillitoe began again. “So, on the understanding that the conditions Mr Hawk has outlined will be met, I propose to take you through...”

  “I’ve got another question. Why’s the case being tried at the Old Bailey? Why not on home turf?”

  “Couple of reasons,” he said, wishing he’d handled the day differently. “Flaxman’s defence didn’t think he’d get a fair hearing there. The judge agreed. Flaxman’s a local ne’er-do-well with a reputation, known to police, social services, media. And then there’s the Heritage IRA connection, calling for maximum security.”

  I put on my sarcastic face. “1973, security was pretty tight, but it didn’t stop an IRA car bomb right outside the Bailey.”

  “Things have ... improved.”

  He waited, eyebrows raised, to see if I had further questions. I gestured for him to carry on with the morning’s business. He turned to Kinsella.

  “I propose to take you through the events leading up to the murders of the two trawlermen. Will you please answer my questions briefly, clearly and, of course, truthfully? On Saturday April 12th last year did Mr Aaron Flaxman call on you at the house you were renting in Montgomery Terrace, North Cotes, Grimsby?”

  “You know he did.”

  Sillitoe closed his eyes in an elongated display of patience. “Mr Kinsella, we will go through the evidence as if it were a play, for example, one which no else in the room has seen.”

  “Then yes, he dropped round for a chat.”

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “Aaron wanted me, him, Vic Wesley and Freddie Trent to meet that afternoon.�
��

  Sillitoe gestured round the room. “Before Victor Wesley and Frederick Trent were murdered, how were the four of you involved?”

  Kinsella turned to us, a right bloody performer, and explained they were the two trawlermen who’d imported contraband from Europe, instead of fish.

  “Did Mr Flaxman tell you what the meeting was to be about?”

  “Yes. Freddie and Vic said they hadn’t agreed to bring in heroin. Aaron wanted my help to change their minds.”

  “Where was the meeting to take place?”

  “At Speaker’s Farm, his dad’s place.”

  “What time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “So, you went to the meeting...?”

  “Right, only I was late. It was nearly five thirty when I reached the gate, the cattle grid...”

  “In your car? On foot?”

  “Car.” He smiled. “I see where you’re going. You want to know how I saw what I saw...”

  “Mr Kinsella, refrain from commenting on the questions put to you, especially when we’re in court. Did you drive up the main track, from the gate to the farm?”

  “No.”

  “Tell the court why not.”

  “It was a new car. The track was rutted with mud, a foot deep in some places, so I parked at the gate, put on the wellies and walked.”

  “Down the main track?”

  “No, across at an angle, through Speaker’s Wood.”

  Sillitoe dropped his courtroom pose and explained that at this point Sir James would show large-screen aerial photos of Speaker’s Wood, an area of 119 acres, mature beech and chestnut, crossed by two footpaths and a bridleway. Today we’d make do with a couple of A4 black-and-whites which Bewley handed round to us. Sillitoe drew an imaginary line on his own copy.

  “So ... you walked from here to here. Tell the court what you saw as you approached the farm building, top left-hand corner of the picture.”

  Kinsella became slow and measured as he recalled the actual crime. “When I reached this tree here, I heard voices, raised voices, shouting...”

  “Coming from where?”

  “The bridleway. I stopped, turned and was just about to call out when...”

  Sillitoe held up his hand. “You saw three people whom you recognised. Who were they?”

  “Freddie Trent, Vic Wesley and Aaron Flaxman.”

  “You’re absolutely sure it was them?”

  “Well, yes, I’ve known them long enough. Aaron head and shoulders above the other two, soppy haircut. Vic was looking pretty sprauncy, actually. Jacket, collar and tie. He’d been to lunch with his wife, I heard later...”

  “And Freddie?”

  “Freddie looked, well ... Freddie. Same old anorak, same old cords, hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.”

  “And the three of them were heading from the farmhouse, top right of the picture, towards the farm buildings, top left.”

  Kinsella nodded. “Where the chickens are. Vic on this side, Freddie the other, Aaron in the middle.”

  “I want you to mark exactly where you were on your copy of the photo.”

  He gestured for Bewley to hand Kinsella a marker pen and with no hesitation Kinsella put a cross about an inch from the edge of the bridleway, beneath the tree.

  “And where were Wesley, Trent and Flaxman?”

  Again with no second-guessing, Kinsella drew another cross about three inches from where he’d placed himself.

  “That puts you roughly twenty metres away from them. Do you agree?”

  Kinsella nodded.

  “You have to voice your answers at all times.”

  “Yes!”

  “You said you could hear their voices. What exactly did you hear?”

  “Well, it was only bits and pieces...”

  “Tell us the bits and pieces.”

  Out of coy respect for Marion Bewley, Fee and Fairchild, Kinsella whispered the expletives, twisting his lips to soften the impact. “ ‘Who gave you the fucking right?’ said Vic. Freddie kind of parroted him, as usual. ‘Yeah, who gave you...’ His voice tailed off there because Aaron came straight in. ‘You fucking dick, I’ve struck a deal already! Got us a buyer. Heritage IRA. They’ll give us 7 million!’ ‘Well, we’re not helping any IRA murderers,’ said Vic.”

  Kinsella paused while he contemplated the moment which had changed his life forever. He spoke quietly and again his words were slow and deliberate, as if he’d thought about it many times and was still puzzled by it.

  “Some kind of instinct must’ve taken over the moment I heard their voices. Fear, I guess, but I’ll never forget Aaron’s face, smiling, suddenly reasonable. Then he took a pistol from under his jacket, shot Vic in the head, turned to Freddie, who’d started to move away, shot him in the side. Neither of ’em saw it coming. It was all over...”

  He tapped the table twice. Sillitoe gave him a moment to compose himself.

  “How many shots?”

  “Two, for Christ’s sake!”

  “What did you do?”

  Kinsella smiled, glanced at me for a kind of matey understanding. “I don’t remember doing it, but I dropped to the ground, face down in the grass. Then I started praying...”

  “There was enough cover?”

  “A low bough from the tree I was under, and the grass was...” He held out his hand, eighteen inches above the carpet.

  Sillitoe nodded, made some notes and then suggested that we take a ten-minute break. Kinsella tried to take control again and asked if anyone wanted more coffee, whereupon Fee offered to make it.

  “Before we break, did you see what Flaxman did immediately after he fired the shots?” Sillitoe asked.

  “Well, I raised my head once or twice and there he was, dragging Freddie to the other side of the bridleway. That done, he shifted Vic to this side, into the grass.”

  “And then what?”

  Kinsella shrugged. “He walked off, back towards the farmhouse. Once he was clear I legged it to my car.”

  “Why did you go into hiding after that?”

  “I’d seen what Aaron was capable of. To be honest I wasn’t that keen on the heroin thing myself, or selling it to the IRA.”

  “But you raised no objection?”

  “It was too late. The deal had been done, this bloke had been over from Fermanagh and Aaron said he was a hard, nasty bugger. If he didn’t get what was agreed we’d all be in the shit.”

  Sillitoe gestured for Kinsella to answer his next question in the affirmative. “Are you saying that you feared for your life, at the hands of both Aaron and the Heritage IRA?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Then don’t forget to say it in court when you get the chance.” He paused. “Right. We’ll take that break.”

  It was quite a decent spring day for mid-August, at least warm enough for Fee to insist that we have coffee out on the lawn. It isn’t really a lawn, in spite of the gallons of reviver the bloke who does my garden has thrown at it. It’s an irregular patch of grass, green in some places, mangy in others and downright mossy throughout.

  I’d taken my coffee over to a clump of hollyhocks and begun picking off dead flowers. Pottering, I suppose you’d call it. More displacement activity than gardening. The ’hocks grew as weeds in most of Winchendon, but had refused to do so in my garden, so Laura had planted some out as seedlings the previous year. She had promised they’d give a show from April to November with their trumpet flowers and powerful colours. True, by the look of it. Not that I really cared if they lived or died, and God knows why they’ve crept into my account of that day, the ten-minute break. Odd how the unlikely pairing of objects and events works, one helping to recall the other.

  Sillitoe came over to me, holding his coffee mug by the rim again, slurping occasionally.

  “Hollyhocks,” he said. “Magnificent, aren’t they?”

  I followed his gaze across to where the others were gathered. Kinsella was entertaining the crowd and Fee and
Bewley were laughing out loud at something he’d said. Fairchild wanted to laugh but held back. Grogan sat at a distance on a stone bench beside a tub of surfinias, also planted by Laura. After a moment I realised that Sillitoe wasn’t taking in the view so much as checking that the others were out of earshot.

  “What do you make of it all?” he asked.

  “I don’t make, I provide. Evidence. You’re the guys who make, usually a pig’s ear.”

  He nodded, as if he agreed. His height and large frame suggested a fitness not often associated with lawyers. For the most part, by fifty, they’ve grown fat on the proceeds of ‘humbugging the public and pocketing the fee’. That’s the caption to an eighteenth-century cartoon about doctors but, given my relationship with Laura, I’ve applied it to lawyers. It describes them perfectly.

  He stretched and gave himself another two inches, head tilting backwards, looking up at the pillowy sky. “Give me your opinion on the evidence.”

  “Kinsella’s the only witness you’ve got, which means Flaxman is almost a free man.”

  He began to cite the other evidence, without conviction. There was the pistol, recently fired, found at the farmhouse, Flaxman’s fingerprints over it. I shrugged.

  “Where were the bodies found?” I asked.

  “Vic, just off a road which skirts the Flaxman farm...”

  “What does ‘just off the road’ mean?”

  “In a ditch. He was discovered after that heavy rain. Two feet of water flooded the dip, somebody went to check if anything was impeding the run-off, found a corpse blocking a culvert. Freddie was in a slurry pit on a neighbour’s farm, blew up and floated to the top. Went off bang when moved.”