by Ian Robinson
The figure reacted quickly and as the buggy was placed against the door to hold it open, the figure grabbed the opportunity and slipped inside. He took the stairs three steps at a time. This had to be him. Nash watched and waited. The figure emerged on the third floor. They remained at the door to the landing and produced a phone. Nash observed a rapid movement of thumbs then one final press. She couldn’t make out the detail on the screen in what she suspected was a message being sent.
This was confirmed as the door to 5C opened. A skinny female dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a thin white T-shirt leaned against the doorframe and lit up. Her frame was illuminated by a light in the flat’s hallway. Nash knew a decoy when she saw one. A test to see if police would rush the door. As swift as a hawk drops on prey, the figure emerged from the shadows of the stairwell. The hood was up and bandana still in place. The figure rushed past the female who took one last glance left and right before she threw the cigarette over the balcony and shut the door. The lights in the flat went out and it was cloaked in darkness again.
Nash took out her work phone and dialled a number. The wind was light. She heard the faint whistle across the speaker but not enough to deaden the sound. It was answered quickly.
‘Are we on?’
‘You’re on. Be advised there’s another occupant in the flat. Adult female. No other occupants seen. A person entered dressed all in black and very furtive. I’m certain it’s our man. You’re good to go,’ Nash said.
‘All received. Enjoy the show,’ the voice replied.
Nash looked at Moretti who’d been observing the flat.
‘Watch the door,’ was all she said, as Moretti scanned the balcony.
At the end farthest from the door he noticed a hatch being lowered from the roof. An emergency ladder that unfurled followed this to the floor. No sooner had it touched the ground than a set of black boots with dark clothing tucked into the top appeared from the hatch space. A figure cloaked in black flameproof overalls slid down the ladder and, once down, secured it with their feet. More of the same in identical dress descended from the roof and ducked below the lip of the balcony.
Various apparatus were handed down from above: a door enforcer and a metal pole that had a hook on one end and a handle at the other. Short shields were passed and gently placed on the concrete. Once the final officer had descended, the line formed up. It was a formidable makeup of a rapid entry team. The line of officers moved towards the door to 5C with the stealth of a pride of lions readying to attack.
On the count of three, the lead officer dipped his legs and swept up with the enforcer and crashed it into the door. At the same moment, the kitchen windows imploded as other officers smashed through with the metal glass clearers.
The window-smashers stepped aside as another officer went through the window frame into the kitchen screaming ‘Police’ as they did. The main door caved under the pressure of the enforcer. Both Nash and Moretti were now standing on the roof opposite as shouts and screams could be heard drifting over the night air.
Nash heard a voice shout, ‘Stop or I’ll release the dog’ and as she looked down to the grass, she saw the same dark-clothed figure that had entered the block earlier in a sprint across a green area at the rear. The figure was fast but not fast enough to outrun a German shepherd. The dog sprang from the ground and latched its teeth onto the sleeve of the runner as it brought them unceremoniously to earth. The dog ragged on his arm like a tug toy.
Three other officers in addition to the dog handler were now upon the floored figure whose arms were up his back and cuffed. The Landshark lay on its belly. His front legs splayed out as he panted and mouthed a tennis ball. His handler ruffled the dog’s head in deep admiration of his partner’s robust and swift execution of duty. Moretti turned to Nash as they made their way to their roof’s exit point.
‘You never fail to surprise me, you said to trust you, and I’m glad I did,’ he said, tapping her shoulder as they descended out of the roof by a fixed metal ladder and onto the balcony of their block.
They left their building and walked towards a small crowd that had now gathered, all keen to see what was going on.
‘Where we detect, these good people collect. Sometimes we’re better off getting the job done properly by those who know what to do,’ Nash said.
Moretti smiled and nodded as they walked across the green to where the figure lay in a recovery position to prevent positional asphyxia. The muddied, pissed-off look on the face that stared back at them was that of Neil Buchanan.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘You’ve no right to hold me, you know? I’ve done nothin’ wrong.’ Buchanan leaned back in his chair. His feet adorned with plimsolls, courtesy of the police, swung back and forth as though he were a child on a swing. The back of the seat bounced off the interview room wall as he rocked on the back legs. His white paper suit rustled with the movement. A suit that was torn during an altercation with the custody staff over a desire to keep his boots. Boots that were now part of Nash’s exhibits.
‘Move away from the black strip, would you? Otherwise, the same show will occur as you experienced earlier this evening,’ Nash said.
He paused, then returned the front feet of the plastic chair to the grey carpet-tiled floor. Nash detached a Styrofoam cup from a cardboard cup carrier and pushed it towards Buchanan.
‘Tea? Milk, two sugars? I heard you ask the gaoler earlier, but I understand it never arrived after your dance off with the custody officers,’ Nash said – his new friend and saviour from hours of further thirst.
‘Cheers,’ he replied.
The recording started and formalities were exchanged.
‘So, why’d you run from police today?’ Nash asked.
‘I never knew they were police. I thought we were getting burgled.’
‘So you ran leaving your girlfriend to confront the offender and take the pain? Very gallant of you,’ Nash added.
Buchanan ignored her and kept his concentration on Moretti, avoiding Nash’s gaze.
‘That’s not good enough. I would’ve thought the shouts of “police” were enough to tell you who was entering your girlfriend’s place,’ Nash said.
‘I don’t hear that good.’
‘You heard the knocks on your door the other day and that seemed to create the same flight response. It could’ve been the postman?’ Nash said.
‘You lot always knock the–’ Buchanan stopped and looked at the ceiling then at Nash.
‘Look, whatever or whoever it is you’re running from, it’s all come to a head now. Take this opportunity to talk to us. Who knows, I may be able to help you?’ Nash said, a smile across her face.
Buchanan observed Nash as he took a gulp of tea. He placed the drink down, keeping his hands cradled around the cup – the skin taut over his newly grazed knuckles – as though he wanted to throttle it.
‘I ran because I owe some people money, that’s all.’
‘Whom do you owe money to?’ Nash asked.
‘People. People of no concern of yours,’ Buchanan said as he looked at the recorder.
A knock on the door suspended the interview. The tape was left to run as DS Matthews entered. He identified himself for the purpose of the recording and handed Nash a printout from the Police National Computer. Nash scanned it, paused halfway, and looked up at Buchanan. Matthews gave Buchanan a wan smile and left. The door drifted to close.
‘Are you certain it’s all about money?’ Nash said as she handed the printout to Moretti.
‘Oh,’ came Moretti’s response, as Buchanan stayed passive.
Sweat had started to appear on Buchanan’s forehead despite his light apparel. They were both aware of what the printout contained and had been since his name had entered the enquiry. Sometimes theatre didn’t require the same script and cast to be of enjoyment. Audience participation was everything with this play, and Nash and Moretti milked every drop. Tactics they’d agreed prior to the interview.
‘You
see, Mr Buchanan, according to the printout we have here, a printout taken from the Police National Computer, you’re wanted. Wanted for charging in relation to an attempted murder and rape. This leads me nicely to ask you to account for your movements over the last week: places you’ve visited, people you’ve seen… I think you know the score…’ Nash said.
Buchanan remained silent. He downed the remainder of his tea and tilted his head to the side.
‘I want a brief,’ he said.
‘Really? We were doing so well,’ Nash said.
‘I’m not as stupid as you make me out to be. I know what you lot are like. You’ll try and get me to talk then fit me up just like the last time.’ Buchanan’s breathing was becoming laboured as he chewed on his bottom lip.
‘Are you happy to carry on or do you actually want a solicitor? Either way works for us,’ Nash explained, looking at Moretti then back at Buchanan.
Nash slid the CCTV image over to Buchanan while he considered his options. He glanced down at it then looked up at the ceiling as he pushed it away. The veins in his neck began to pulse.
‘Get me a brief and be quick about it,’ Buchanan said.
Nash scooped up the CCTV image and turned off the recorder. Moretti waited until they were away from the cellblock before he confronted Nash. They were outside the station canteen when he decided to speak.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he said as they stopped in the corridor to let others pass them. They stood on opposite sides of the hallway. Moretti stepped forward. ‘What went on in there, Pip? Why did you show him the CCTV image?’ he hissed.
They’d had a pre-interview meeting and planned how it would go and this hadn’t been part of it. Nash waited for a couple of PCSOs to walk past them. Once the swing doors to the canteen came to a rest, she replied.
‘Because I needed to see if we were heading in the right direction with the right man, that’s why. I’ve got the Command breathing down my neck for results, quoting stats at me as though I have a degree in maths and want to try for a PhD. The DCI’s claiming not enough is being done in relation to our investigation and is asking why we haven’t made an arrest or traced any witnesses, that’s why. Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Buchanan reacted strongly to the image. He knows it’s him. By the time his boot print has been matched with that from Melissa Phelps’s bathroom floor, we’ll be in a much stronger position to nail him than we would’ve been if the CCTV proved nothing,’ she replied. She was firm, but had managed to keep her voice down, conscious of others in the canteen that’d be watching through the squares of glass in the doors.
‘Why didn’t you suggest that tactic in the pre-interview meet we had?’ Moretti pressed.
‘Because sometimes, Nick, you just have to act on instinct and that’s what I did. If you’re not happy with that, there’s little I can do about it. Just call his brief and tell him to get here quick. I’ll see you back here after you’ve done it,’ Nash said as she pushed through the doors to the canteen leaving Moretti to find a phone to call the solicitor.
‘His solicitor’s a she, for your information,’ he mumbled as the swing doors closed and he walked away.
Moretti made the call and returned to find Nash deep in thought as she flicked through a phone he hadn’t seen her with before. He sat opposite her and she put the phone away in her bag.
‘Ms Norton, from Norton & Co, is on her way to see him. She’s already intimated on the phone that her client will not be talking again this evening and she’s suggested to the custody officer that Buchanan be afforded a rest period before the next interview,’ he informed Nash, as he sniffed his tea. Tea that was now tepid.
‘Let him fester. Hopefully we’ll have something from the lab to put to him in the morning. His solicitor knows why he’s been arrested and she can put up with that amount of disclosure, at this stage. Feel free to head back to the office and see what’s happening there. I need to see DS Harris before I return,’ she said as she got up and left.
Moretti sat back and shook his head. She could be moody when she wanted. Her timing for when she was never ceased to amaze him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nash sat in her office making some notes when Moretti appeared at her door. He gave the wood a light tap. After last night’s performance, he didn’t relish waking the sleeping lioness.
‘Permission to enter, ma’am?’ He strolled in before he’d given her a chance to refuse.
‘Did you get enough sleep last night? Your phone call with DS Harris seemed to bother you… your romance on the rocks?’ he quipped as he sat down in an easy chair.
Nash looked up and placed her hands behind her head. She swivelled her seat from side to side with her shoeless feet.
‘I’m sorry about the way I reacted last night. It was out of order and uncalled for. I’ve no excuse other than a self-imposed pressure to find the killer for these murders. That and another piece of work with Harris and MO3 that I could’ve done without, but agreed to nonetheless,’ she replied.
Nash brought out her daybook and turned to a page full of scrawl that only she could decipher. They got up and Moretti held the door open for her as they went through to the briefing room where the team was sitting waiting.
Nash nodded at everyone and kicked things off.
‘An update from last night: Buchanan was arrested coming out of the rear window to the flats we were at previously. There were no injuries to any officers involved in the arrest. I’m pleased to say that includes police dog, Thor, who valiantly took Buchanan out of the game as he fled.’ Nash looked up from her notes to a table of smiles and murmurs of appreciation.
They’d seen the dog handler’s body-worn camera footage that had been downloaded for them. The viewing of which had been a team event and could only be described as poetry in motion. It was a delight to behold and a morale booster to her weary team of investigators.
‘I do have some other good news… despite his reluctance to talk yesterday, Buchanan was shown the CCTV image from Phelps’s block of flats, which he blanked. But he displayed classic body language indicative of being caught on camera. He refused to answer further questions at this point and insisted on seeing a brief. There will be a further interview this morning at 10 a.m. DS Moretti and myself will conduct this.’ She paused.
There were no objections, not that she expected any.
‘We do have some forensic information that has just been sent through…’ she said.
The atmosphere in the room became tense as all of the investigative team waited to see how good this news was.
Nash didn’t keep them waiting long. ‘The lab has matched samples taken from Melissa Phelps’s bathroom floor. Microscopic traces of the bath bomb are on the outside leather of Buchanan’s boots. He can try and argue it wasn’t from inside her flat but the bath bomb was homemade. By whom, we don’t know. It may have been Melissa but from recollection there wasn’t anything in the flat to indicate this was a passion of hers. If it wasn’t her, then the person who made it will need to be traced and eliminated.’
A couple of the team shifted in their seats. A laborious task if ever there was one. Nash let their voices die down then continued.
‘Forensic will be put to Buchanan later.’
Moretti nodded. She hadn’t intended to ambush him yesterday. It was just how her mind worked.
‘Forensics are not for the press or for disclosure outside of this incident room until I say otherwise. He was arrested wearing the boots and the silver buckle is seen on the CCTV. It’s a good start for the Phelps murder, at least. Buchanan will have to account for the findings on his boots, and we’ll be certain to remind him of the inference a jury could deduce from failing to comment.’ Nash paused as notes were taken.
Jonesy was the first to speak up.
‘He’s gonna say nothing. They always do; but we can say he was in the flat, unless he tries to tell us he lent his boots to someone else! Wouldn’t put it past him.’
Nash acknowledged the
thought process Jonesy had voiced. She valued her detectives speaking their mind and it was something she actively encouraged.
‘The lab’s working on his clothing now,’ Nash continued. ‘The boots were priority. I would expect to find traces of the same on his clothing. If we don’t, then we have a problem. Melissa died with a struggle as we’ve seen from the coloured water pattern on the tiles and wall. We have to hope the clothing he was wearing when he was nicked was the same as in the CCTV picture. A search of the flat he decamped from didn’t turn up any other clothing of his, so we have to establish where else he lives and sleeps. The flat is in the name of his girlfriend as the named tenant. In interview, Buchanan claimed to owe money and intimated he didn’t know it was police knocking at the door.’ Nash stopped as laughter arose like a tsunami around the table. She joined them, as the absurdity of the statement was one she and many of them present had encountered before.
She waited for the voices to desist. She tapped her pen on the desk and they calmed down.
‘We’re some distance away from a charge. What we have is beneficial, don’t get me wrong, but I still want you all to remain open-minded as we pursue this lead. Don’t shut your minds down until we are certain we have all the evidence required to get him banged up for life and stay there.’
After the meeting was concluded, Moretti and Matthews remained in the room to discuss action allocations along with Sagona the office manager. Matthews updated the incident room board with the website image of Buchanan and inserted a sign above it that said “Suspect”. He sat back down and fired up his computer and logged onto CRIMINT where he typed in Buchanan’s full name.
‘Now where else have you been getting your head down, me old mucker,’ he muttered to himself as he leaned towards the screen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘This interview is being recorded and may be used in evidence if this case is brought to trial. I am DI Nash attached to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command and my colleague is?’
