by Paul Gitsham
‘No, really, I’m fine. But I’ve had an idea.’
Karen nibbled a biscuit, as she filled Mags in on her date.
‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose,’ said Mags philosophically. ‘Better that he’s a bore, than a weirdo. And he hasn’t sent you a dick pic or anything.’
‘Mags!’
‘Well, you read about these perverts.’
‘Don’t worry, he hasn’t got my number, and I’ll block his email address from my dating account. Besides, he knows I’m a copper, he’d be bloody daft to try anything like that.’
‘True. Now tell me about this idea you had that caused you to run out on a hot date.’
Karen filled her in on the couple that left the restaurant without paying.
‘Rachel said that Anish liked eating out, and that he used his credit card when he paid,’ she continued.
‘Yeah, it was the only way he could afford that lifestyle.’
‘If Anish met his killer through that dating app, or something similar, and paid for the meal with his credit card, then maybe we can use his bank records to track them down.’
Mags gave a cautious nod of the head. ‘I suppose we could use the date of the credit card payment, and then track that back to the restaurant and see if they have any CCTV footage from that night,’ she frowned. ‘The only problem is that most of those meals were months ago. The chances are good that they’ve recorded over the footage.’
Karen’s shoulders sagged.
‘Hey, it’s a good idea,’ said Mags, ‘and I’m going to get someone on it first thing tomorrow.’
She stood up and gave Karen a hug.
‘Chin up, girl. There’s plenty more men out there; somewhere, Mr Perfect is waiting for you to swipe up or down, or whatever it is you do on those apps.’
Karen forced a smile.
The problem was, she’d already met her Mr Perfect, and she wasn’t sure if lightning would strike again.
Her phone gave out a strange beep that she was unfamiliar with; her phone was usually set on silent. A text message.
Her heart leapt. Oliver.
Looking at the caller ID, she felt herself relax, it wasn’t the babysitter.
It was Jenny, asking how the evening was going.
Suddenly, Karen felt weary. She didn’t have the energy to deal with that now.
For the first time in days, Warren returned home, if not with a spring in his step, at least feeling a little less worn out. Leon Grime had denied that the blood found in his car was Anish Patel’s, nevertheless the magistrate had authorised his continued detention.
At this stage in an investigation, Warren was essentially on call, so sharing a bottle of wine with Susan was out of the question, especially on a school night. Fortunately, after months of careful and diligent experimentation, Tony Sutton had finally identified the best alcohol-free lager on the market. Even better, the M&S Food attached to the local garage stocked it in their chiller cabinet.
For the past year or so, Warren and Susan had been doing their best to cut down on their takeaway habit and eat out a little less; but he was in a celebratory mood, and so had picked up a couple of chilli con carne ready meals and some garlic bread. Hardly a traditional pairing, but Warren didn’t care; judging by MasterChef ‘fusion’ was all the rage these days.
Waiting for the microwave to work its magic, Warren picked up the packet of chilli seeds that Susan had been given by a colleague in work and read the instructions for at least the fourth time. It seemed simple enough; they’d plant them in the New Year, and by the late spring or early summer they’d hopefully be making their own chilli sauce. In theory, you’d think that his biology teacher wife would have naturally green fingers, but they had established early on in their marriage that Susan was an even bigger disaster in the garden than Warren. He wondered if they would be able to arrange for Granddad Jack to come down and stay in the spring. Jack’s gardening days were past him now, but he knew the old man would get a kick out of advising Susan and Warren how to finally tackle their back yard. Susan’s parents had helped out in the past, but they were busier than ever now they were retired. He’d suggest it next time he phoned.
Warren’s mind drifted back to the case. Something about the seeds had triggered a thought. It remained tantalisingly out of reach as he opened a bottle of lemonade; Tony Sutton had found that even the worst of the alcohol-free beers could be improved immeasurably by mixing them with lemonade. Not for the first time, Warren cringed inwardly when he thought about what his younger, student self would have thought if he had known that twenty years later he would be drinking alcohol-free shandy …
The ding of the microwave brought him back to the present. It also banished whatever idea the seeds had sparked. Warren plated the food and joined Susan in the lounge. He knew that there was no point chasing down the idea. It would come to him eventually; far better to let his subconscious work away at it. Hopefully, it wouldn’t wake him in the middle of the night.
Susan moved the pile of tests that she’d been marking onto the floor, clearing a space on the settee.
‘Seriously,’ she griped, ‘my year seven pupils can successfully label the parts of a flower. Yet six years later, a class full of seventeen and eighteen-year-old A level biology students can’t tell the difference between the male parts and the female parts of a flowering plant.’
Warren gave her a look of commiseration but said nothing. It would have been hypocritical.
‘What?’ asked Susan.
Warren had paused, a spoonful of chilli and rice halfway to his mouth.
The flower diagrams and the chilli seeds had merged in his mind. Suddenly, the half-formed thought that had eluded him in the kitchen came rushing back. He placed the spoon back in the bowl, uneaten.
‘You haven’t even tried it,’ said Susan.
‘I need to make a call,’ said Warren, placing the bowl on the side and heading for the kitchen where he’d left his phone.
Susan sighed, but said nothing. It came with the territory.
‘Tony, you got a moment?’ asked Warren when Sutton answered.
‘Sure thing, Boss.’ In the background he could hear Marie, Sutton’s wife, asking if he wanted her to put the dinner back in the oven to keep warm. Not for the first time Warren reflected on what police officers’ partners had to put up with.
‘Leon Grime told us that he’d just taken a load of veg up to his mum’s care home and that was why he was late back when we called him in for interview.’
‘Yes, but it checked out. ANPR cameras on the motorway show that he was heading back from Newcastle.’
‘I know. He also said when we confronted him about the blood in his car, that it was his and he’d cut himself gardening.’
‘Yeah, well we won’t know if that’s true or it was secondary transfer from Anish until tomorrow, even with a rush on the DNA.’
‘So twice he’s told us that he’s a gardener.’
‘You’ll have to spell it out for me,’ said Sutton.
‘He lives in a second-floor flat, with no garden. So where the hell is he growing vegetables?’
Sutton paused for a moment. ‘Christ, the bugger has an allotment.’
‘And what’s the betting it has a shed?’ said Warren.
Thursday 8th December
Chapter 32
By the time Warren arrived in the office that morning, Karen Hardwick had tracked down the chair of the local allotment association. She gave him a thumbs-up when she saw him enter.
‘Yes, we do have a valid search warrant for Mr Grime’s allotment and any other outbuildings that he has access to, however we don’t know where his plot is. That’s why I am calling you,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically. Warren could hear a high-pitched squawking from the other end of the line.
‘No, it won’t be a breach of data protection for you to give us his plot number,’ she said politely.
After a few more seconds listening, she finally picked up her pe
n and scribbled in her notepad.
‘Thank you for your help. We’ll have an officer waiting for you at the main gates.’
Finally she hung up and let out a puff of air. ‘Done. Leon Grime leases a full-size plot just off the A506, roughly half-way between his house and the Easy Break Hotel.’
‘That’s convenient,’ said Warren.
‘The chair of the allotment association doesn’t know him personally, but according to her records he has rented the plot for the past fifteen years. He keeps it in good order, forks out the forty quid rent each year on time and has never had any complaints,’ she looked up and smiled. ‘And eight years ago, he applied for – and was granted – permission to erect a wooden shed.’
Traipsing around a muddy allotment in December was not Tony Sutton’s idea of fun. By contrast, Moray Ruskin was characteristically enthusiastic as they climbed out of the car and made their way through the sturdy double gates. A uniformed constable greeted them as they entered; white-suited technicians could be seen on the third plot from the end, providing entertainment for an older couple who’d given up any pretence of gardening.
‘Alex and I have been on the waiting list for a council allotment for the past two years,’ Ruskin said. ‘We’ll never afford a house with a garden, so it’s the only way we’ll ever be able to grow our own vegetables.’
‘You aren’t exactly their target demographic,’ said Sutton, motioning with his head towards the older couple.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Ruskin. ‘It’s not all old codgers in their eighties. My cousin has had one since his twenties. Mad not to really; for forty quid a year, we’ll save a fortune on food.’ He lowered his voice slightly. ‘Besides, it’ll be good exercise for Alex and a lot cheaper than the gym subscription he never uses.’
Sutton laughed. ‘You’re a bad ’un, Moray.’
The plot had been sealed off, police tape fluttering on metal poles set into the ground. A CSI with a pair of bolt cutters was snipping the padlock off a small shed.
The outhouse was nothing special. It looked a lot like the one that Sutton had in his own garden: a treated wooden frame with a single window and door. The roof was covered in grey, tarred felt and angled to stop water accumulating and Grime had added guttering to channel the rainwater into a large plastic water butt. There was no need on an allotment to store a lawn mower or patio furniture during the winter, so the small building would have ample room for whatever tools and equipment Grime wished to keep in it. And anything else besides.
Deputy Crime Scene Manager Meera Gupta had been assigned this job. Her breath billowed out of her mouth as she spoke.
‘As you can see, all of the other plots nearby have similar sheds. I suspect that means that Mr Grime is the only person with access to this one. The association don’t insist on having a spare key to the padlock.’
Ruskin made a note to follow up on that; he’d already spotted a couple of Grime’s fellow tenants.
‘We’ll do a quick search of the shed, then get in the dogs. If he’s been storing any drugs in here recently they may pick up on residual scent. And the cadaver dogs will find anything with traces of the victim or blood.’
Thanking her, Sutton walked up the pathway to phone Warren and the rest of the team. Ruskin headed toward Grime’s nearest neighbour.
The woman was wrapped up well, and Ruskin wouldn’t have dared try and narrow her age down to anything more precise than ‘over fifty’.
‘Oh yes, there’s something to do all year around if you plan it right,’ she responded to his opening query. ‘There are some folks who choose plants that only need working on in the warmer months, but I prefer to be out here all year round.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘It gets me up and doing something. It’s easy to lose track of the days when you’re suddenly on your own …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘And was Mr Grime here all year round?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Oh yes, I’d often see Leon, even at this time of year. He was here a couple of weeks ago harvesting some winter cabbage.’
‘Was that the last time you saw him?’
‘Yes, although I haven’t been here as much as I usually am. Just a couple of hours in the morning. Winter’s setting in, and even with the best will in the world things quieten down this time of the year.’ She pointed towards the other side of Grime’s plot. ‘You might be better off asking Bert, his other neighbour. He’s up here most days as well, but he tends to come a bit later. His arthritis isn’t so good first thing in the morning.’
Ruskin made a note of the name. ‘Do you know if Leon shared his shed with anyone, or used anyone else’s shed?’
‘Oh no, nobody does that. What is it they say? An Englishman’s shed is his castle? My Ron was always disappearing up here for a bit of peace and quiet. I’ve no idea how much gardening he actually did during the football season, you can get a good radio signal up here and that sun lounger looked pretty well used. When he … passed … I had a clear-out.’ She smiled sadly again. ‘Turns out he hadn’t given up smoking his pipe after all, the crafty bugger, the shed still smells of tobacco. It reminds me of him …’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Whatever it is you find in there, you can pretty much guarantee that it was Leon who put it there.’
‘So not his wife then?’
‘Goodness, no. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in the years since Ron passed away and I took over.’
Ruskin thanked her and headed back towards Sutton, who was still on his mobile phone. He looked dejected. Seeing Ruskin, he hung up. ‘That was the boss. Bad news: they did an overnight rush-job on the blood found in Leon Grime’s car. No match to Anish Patel; it’s Grime’s. It’s just like he said last night when we asked him; he must have cut himself gardening.’
‘Bugger,’ said Ruskin.
The blood stain in Grime’s car was their justification for extending his custody. Now, unless they found something else, it looked like Grime would be walking out of the station later that day.
‘Sirs, we’ve found something.’ Meera Gupta was waving an arm in their direction.
The two officers hastened towards her.
Beside the CSM, a technician with a litter picker was carefully lifting a grey backpack from behind the water butt.
‘Got him,’ said Ruskin.
Chapter 33
News of the find from the allotment had travelled fast and the team was in a jubilant mood during briefing. But with no motive established yet, or indication of who else had been involved, they continued to follow other leads. Mags Richardson currently had the floor.
‘I’ve had my team down in Welwyn look at the CCTV from the bus company that serves the sports centre where Jaidev Patel plays badminton. I’ve also had them going through the CCTV from the public car park adjacent to the sports centre. There is a camera capturing the licence plates of vehicles entering the car park, and another covering a drop-off area outside. Unfortunately, the angle is wrong on that one; we can’t see the licence plates. However, they’ve built up a pattern of his normal movements over the past six weeks. This is a summary; it’s an interesting read.’
She projected a colour-coded table onto the screen, divided into two columns.
‘As you can see, every other week he catches the bus to the sports centre, and on the alternate weeks drives himself there and parks in the car park.’
She pointed to the second column. ‘When he’s finished, he either drives himself home, or on the weeks he goes there by bus, he’s picked up by a black Range Rover from the drop-off area.’
‘He drives a black Range Rover, doesn’t he? Could it be his wife picking him up in his car?’ asked Hutchinson.
‘That’s what I thought at first, but I compared still images of the vehicle that we know he drives, and the one that picks him up.’
She switched to two images side by side. The first showed a black Range Rover exiting the car park, turning left onto the main road. ‘This is Jaidev’s,’ she said.
The second showed
what appeared to be the same Range Rover waiting in the drop-off area. The left-hand sides of both vehicles were clearly visible. Richardson manipulated the screen, zooming in on the rear side-window of the car waiting in the drop-off area.
‘It looks as though whoever drives this car is a Liverpool Football fan. That’s the club decal.’ She zoomed into the same area on the car leaving the car park. ‘I’ve no idea what team Jaidev supports, but he doesn’t feel the need to place a sticker in the rear window.’
‘Nicely spotted,’ said Warren approvingly. ‘It would seem that Jaidev is being picked up every other week by somebody. What’s the betting that on the weeks that he drives himself, he’s the one picking up that person?’
‘I wouldn’t bet against it,’ said Richardson.
‘So, who else do we know that drives a near-identical black Range Rover to Jaidev Patel?’ asked Warren.
‘Manoj,’ said Richardson, ‘and on the night of Anish Patel’s murder, Manoj’s wife, Lavanya, claimed that he was home with her. However, the neighbour across the road has CCTV.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Warren. ‘He wasn’t in when he said he was?’
‘No. We have footage of his Range Rover pulling into his drive at 17:49. It’s dark, and the camera is using infra-red, but the plate is readable. Three hours later, the car leaves. It doesn’t return until five past two the next morning.’
‘Are we sure he’s driving?’ asked Sutton.
She shook her head. ‘No. The windscreen is tinted, and the night vision on the camera isn’t good enough; his wife claimed that he was home with her all night. Their kids are too young to drive, so at least one of them left the house. Which means that they are both lying.’
‘Great work, Mags,’ said Warren. ‘So, where are these two going every Thursday night, when they claim to be at home with their wives, bathing their kids? And why do they feel the need to leave their mobile phones at home? And most importantly, where did they go on the night that their brother was murdered?’
‘Bring them all in,’ he ordered.
