by Paul Gitsham
‘Well anyway, guess what? We did eventually find you on that CCTV footage. A hell of a lot later than you originally said; 2.56 a.m. in fact.’ Warren thrust the last CCTV image across the table.
‘What were you doing at the Easy Break Hotel between the end of your shift and five-to-three the night that Anish Patel was killed?’
Nicholas Kimpton looked as though he had been kicked. He covered his face, and his shoulders started to shake. Eventually, he composed himself enough to speak. When he did, his voice was thick.
‘OK, OK. I’ll tell you everything. But I didn’t kill him.’
‘Then who did?’ asked Warren, his voice now gentle.
Kimpton looked up and for the first time, Warren thought he glimpsed the truth in his eyes. And real fear.
‘I’ll give you his name. I’ll give you everything, but you have to promise me you’ll make sure my daughter is safe. He said he’d kill her if I said anything.’
Chapter 48
Warren entered the main CID office at a jog; already the office was on high alert.
‘I’m trying to get Abbey Fields Primary School, where his daughter’s dance class is held, on the phone, but it’s a Sunday,’ said Pymm. ‘We’ve got officers banging on his front door, but no reply. Neighbours haven’t seen him. We haven’t managed to get a real-time intercept on his mobile yet.’
‘Shit,’ said Warren. Kimpton had given them the name of the man they’d been trying to identify for the past several hours. The search had just become significantly more urgent. Kimpton’s neighbours had witnessed his arrest; if the news found its way to their suspect he might assume that Kimpton was talking and come good on his threat to harm the little girl.
‘What about the mum?’ he asked.
‘Also engaged, and she’s ignoring the call-waiting signal. I’ve contacted her mobile provider to see if they can break into the conversation and warn her, but it’ll be a couple of minutes until they can set that up.’
‘There are three units on their way,’ confirmed Hutchinson. ‘ETA two minutes.’
Warren looked at the clock. It was just after three; a dozen small children would be finishing their class, Kimpton’s five-year-old daughter amongst them.
Sutton sat down heavily, his face pale.
‘You OK, Tony?’ asked Warren.
‘Yeah, just a bit breathless. The adrenaline does that sometimes.’
‘I’ve got some camomile tea,’ said Pymm. ‘It’ll help relax you.’
Sutton shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, things aren’t that bad.’
Warren started to pace. The two minutes stretched endlessly. The primary school was on the other side of town, several miles away. Even with blues and twos, there was no way Warren or anyone from his team could be there in less than ten minutes; like it or not, they’d be sitting this one out, waiting for news to be relayed to them second-hand.
‘How would he even know about Kimpton’s daughter’s dance lessons?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Bloody Facebook,’ said Pymm. ‘Her mum posted a picture of her in her tutu and Kimpton shared it,’ she scowled. ‘It doesn’t take a great detective to track down the dance teacher’s website. Those pictures are a child-molester’s dream, especially when you don’t have any restrictions on who can view your feed.’
Unable to bear it any longer, Warren picked up a radio, selecting the correct frequency.
‘Arriving on scene,’ came a voice from the handset.
‘I see him,’ said a second voice a beat later.
Warren bit his tongue; they didn’t need him clogging up the airways and distracting them. He turned the volume on the radio up to maximum and set it on a desk near the centre of the room. By now nobody remained at their workstation; everyone was huddled around the piece of black plastic and electronics. Even Grayson had emerged from his office, his face pinched with worry.
For the next few seconds, the team listened intently, trying to decipher the overlapping voices from the open channel.
Suddenly the airwaves were full of screams – a mixture of adults and what could only be small children.
‘Put the knife down, and move away from her,’ came a raised voice, cutting through the babble. Warren’s breath caught in his throat. Beside him, Sutton leaned forward, breathing deeply as if he was about to faint.
‘Put the knife down, now!’ ordered another voice.
‘Oh, Christ,’ muttered Pymm.
A moment later there came the sound of rapid clicking, followed by loud breathing and the sound of pounding feet from whoever had the channel open.
‘One down, we need an ambulance,’ came the voice a few moments later, struggling to be heard over the sounds of panic.
Unable to help himself, Warren reached for the radio. ‘Do you have her? Is she safe?’
The shouting in the background continued for a few more agonising seconds before a voice finally broke through the noise. ‘All good, she’s fine. Suspect is detained. Ambulance is for suspect.’
A collective sigh of relief went around the office and Warren felt the tension drain out of him. He felt a thump on his shoulder: Grayson, the release of stress making him uncharacteristically effusive. ‘Got the bastard,’ he said, a huge smile across his face.
Warren grinned back, agreeing with the sentiment, if not its accuracy. As it stood, they were a long way from even charging the man currently recovering from a 50,000 volt Taser shock, but for the moment he’d take the victory.
After sharing a few more congratulatory handshakes, Warren made his way back to Sutton; already colour was returning to the man’s face. ‘Tony, why don’t you sit this one out?’ he asked quietly.
‘You must be kidding,’ said Sutton clambering to his feet. ‘Let’s nail this fucker to the wall.’
The response from Nicholas Kimpton was a mixture of relief that his daughter was unharmed, and weary recognition that it was time to come clean. He spoke for almost two hours before being led back to his cell.
Warren was tired, but he knew that the end was in sight.
‘He’s in a meeting with his solicitor,’ said the custody sergeant when asked about their recently apprehended suspect. ‘The doctor’s been and pronounced him fit enough to be interviewed; just a few cuts and bruises from when he face-planted after the Taser. He’s currently under arrest for attempted kidnap and possession of a bladed article in a public place.’
‘Good,’ said Warren. ‘That’ll keep him off-guard for the time being, I don’t want to give our game away too soon.’
He looked over at Sutton. ‘Fancy a bite to eat whilst we plot our interview strategy?’
‘Sounds like a plan. It’s been a while since we did the old good cop, bad cop routine.’
Warren smiled. He’d missed his old friend.
‘My client would like to stress that this has all been a big misunderstanding,’ started the solicitor.
‘I see,’ said Warren. ‘Then perhaps you can explain why you were standing near a primary school, waving a knife around when the kids were being let out?’
The man opposite them stared down at the table. His slumped shoulders suggested compliance, but there was a hardness behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to make their job easy.
‘I wouldn’t characterise it as “waving a knife around”,’ interjected the solicitor.
‘How would you characterise it, Mr Beechey?’ asked Sutton, looking directly at the blonde-haired man. The suspect was dressed in a paper forensic suit; the tracksuit and Chelsea football shirt that he’d been wearing at the time of his arrest had been taken for processing. The man who called himself Blondie92 on the Rainbow Hookups dating site shrugged but said nothing.
‘OK, Jake,’ said Warren. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Why were you hanging around Abbey Fields Primary School?’
‘I wasn’t hanging around, I just happened to be there.’ It was the first time that Beechey had spoken other than to confirm his name and address.
‘Really?’ said
Sutton.
‘Yeah, there’s a newsagent round the corner. I was going to buy some fags.’
‘Why there?’ asked Sutton. ‘You live miles away.’
Beechey shrugged again. ‘Was up that way, and I decided to stop off.’
‘Why were you up that way?’ asked Sutton.
‘Just was. Decided to get some fresh air.’
‘You drove there though, didn’t you?’ said Warren.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘Well, it’s just that you parked in the drop-off area where the parents wait,’ continued Warren. ‘Seems a bit weird, given that there is ample parking around the corner at the newsagent, and the road outside was full of parents waiting for the dance class to end.’
‘I saw a spot and took it,’ said Beechey.
‘You also arrived just before 3 p.m. Which again seems odd. Why did you sit in your car for ten minutes, and only get out when the kids were released?’ asked Warren.
‘I was listening to the radio.’
‘Why did you hide your face with a baseball cap and a hoodie?’ said Sutton. ‘You also kept yourself turned away from the school’s CCTV cameras.’
‘So, you, say,’ sneered Beechey. ‘It’s December, innit? I was trying to keep warm.’ He gave an open-handed shrug. ‘And I don’t know where the school’s security cameras are, do I?’
‘The woman you approached. Who is she?’ asked Warren.
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘In addition to the school’s security cameras that you happened to be looking away from, there is a traffic camera mounted on a pole across the road, and we have a very good shot of your face as you turn away from the school’s CCTV. You very clearly step out of your car and walk towards a woman waiting by the gate. She didn’t seem thrilled to see you.’
Beechey paused for a moment. ‘I recognised her. She’s my mate’s ex.’
‘Which mate? What’s his name?’ said Sutton.
‘Can’t remember. Just some bloke I used to know.’
Warren gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Look, Jake, it’s been a long day. None of us want to be here. We’ve got a statement from the woman you spoke to, Jasmine Whitey, and the other parents waiting to pick up their kids. You approached this woman and said, “Nick says hello”. Now we can clear all of this up, here and now, and then we can move on. But if you won’t even admit to basic details that we can easily verify, nobody is going home any time soon.’
Beechey reached for his cup of water and took a slow sip, before he spoke. His eyes were cold and calculating.
‘I used to know her ex years ago. I just thought I’d say hello. I was curious. He said he had a daughter; I thought it’d be interesting to meet her.’
‘Her ex being Nicholas Kimpton? The chef at the Easy Break Hotel?’ asked Warren.
‘I suppose. Like I said, I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘If you haven’t seen him for ages, why did you say, “Nick says hello”?’
‘Couldn’t think what else to say.’
‘So, then her daughter came out the school gate. What happened then?’
‘I said something like, “Oh, this must be Kayla.”’
‘And then?’
‘A police car pulled up and some bastard started shouting at me to get away from her.’
‘And was that when you pulled the knife out?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that.’
‘So, what was it like? Because I’ve seen the CCTV and read the witness statements, and that’s what it looks like to me, her mother, the other parents present and the police officers on the scene.’
‘I had my hands in my pockets. I started to take them out and I accidentally took out the knife I had in there.’
‘Why did you have a knife in your pocket?’ asked Sutton
Beechey swallowed. ‘I dunno, I just did. I must have put it in there by accident when I was pottering about the house.’
Warren had to give the man some credit; his story was just plausible enough that it might cast enough doubt on his intentions to result in an acquittal. The video footage clearly showed that he had kept his hands in his pockets when speaking to Whitey and he had only removed them when he was first instructed to get away from her and her daughter. The weather was certainly cold enough to justify keeping hands in pockets whilst standing around chatting.
‘So, it was all a big misunderstanding?’ said Warren.
‘Yeah.’
‘So why did you try to grab Kayla and run?’ asked Sutton.
‘I panicked, didn’t I? I thought that copper was going to shoot me, like I was a terrorist or something.’
‘So, you were going to use Kayla as a shield?’ Sutton stated.
‘No, of course not.’ Sweat was starting to bead along Beechey’s forehead. The air of confidence that he’d projected since he’d entered the interview suite was starting to crack. ‘Like I said, I panicked. I wasn’t thinking straight. Anyway, I let go of her immediately.’
That was a generous interpretation of events; Kayla had snatched her arm away.
‘There was no need for that fucker to tase me,’ continued Beechey. ‘I should sue.’
Beechey’s solicitor winced and leaned forward. ‘I think Mr Beechey is understandably distraught by what occurred. And I believe he wishes to apologise for all the confusion and upset that he has caused.’
Beechey scowled, before finally nodding. ‘Yeah. I shouldn’t have said anything to her. I’m sorry if I upset anyone.’
‘I’m sure that Ms Whitey will be delighted to hear your apology,’ said Sutton, ‘and little Kayla will sleep a lot easier tonight.’ He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm.
‘Is that it? Can I go now?’ asked Beechey.
‘Not just yet,’ said Warren. ‘Let’s just go back to your relationship with Mr Kimpton. How long have you known him?’
‘I don’t really see that this is relevant,’ said Beechey’s solicitor. ‘I think we’ve established that Mr Beechey made a mistake. It’s getting late, and while I appreciate that this incident needs proper investigation, no harm was done, and I don’t think it is in anyone’s interest to prolong matters unnecessarily.’
Warren gave a tight smile. He could tell from the solicitor’s demeanour that whilst he clearly didn’t know why Warren and Sutton were so interested in his client, he’d realised it would probably be in Beechey’s best interests to conclude matters as quickly as possible.
‘Indulge me. How long have you known Mr Kimpton?’
‘A few years.’
‘And how did you meet?’
‘Can’t remember.’
Warren opened the folder in front of him and removed a printout. ‘Let’s see if I can jog your memory. Did you know Mr Kimpton before the two of you shared a cell at The Mount Prison between April 2009 and January 2010?’
Beechey opened his mouth, before closing it.
‘And what about since? Have the two of you kept in touch? You know, reminisced about the good old days?’
‘No comment.’
It was Beechey’s first flat-out refusal to answer a question. It looked as if they were finally getting somewhere.
‘Mr Kimpton hadn’t met Ms Whitey at the time you were in prison and so obviously hadn’t fathered Kayla. So how did you know about her, if the two of you didn’t stay in touch?’ asked Sutton.
‘No comment.’
‘Where were you on the night of Thursday November 24th?’ asked Warren. It was time to get down to what they really wanted to talk about.
‘I was home in my flat all night.’
‘Was anyone with you?’ asked Warren.
‘Nah, I was on my own. Just playing on my phone, you know.’ There was a crafty look in Beechey’s eyes. Whether by accident, or design, he knew that the iPhone on which he conducted most of his daily business was sitting in his flat all night, and the phone’s location data would show that.
Warren opened the folder again, removing a photograph of Anish Pa
tel. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Beechey looked at the photograph carefully. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘According to your phone logs, you texted this man on Monday the 4th of January this year. The two of you exchanged eight texts that day, then two more texts and a phone call the following day and a final series of texts on the Wednesday.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Beechey, ‘I remember now. We met up for a drink.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘Nah, he wasn’t my type.’
‘What do you mean by “not your type”?’ asked Sutton.
Beechey shrugged. ‘A bit old for me.’
‘But he was honest about his age on Rainbow Hookups,’ said Sutton. ‘You knew what to expect.’
‘Some people look older than their years in real life,’ said Beechey. ‘You know how it is; appearances can be deceiving.’
‘They certainly can be,’ said Warren, pausing for a moment to let Beechey ponder the significance of his comment.
‘Have you spoken to him since the 6th of January? In person or by text or phone?’
Beechey shook his head. ‘Like I said, not my type. We had a drink, then that was it. I guess he felt the same way, he didn’t call me either. I didn’t see him again, until I saw his face in the paper.’
‘Do you recognise this number?’ asked Warren, pushing a piece of paper across the table.
‘No, never seen it before.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
He nodded.
‘Have you ever been to the Easy Break Hotel on the A506?’ asked Sutton.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Not even to visit your old mate, Nick? He works as a chef in the kitchen.’
Beechey’s eyes narrowed. ‘Like I said, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, the phone that this number is attached to certainly has. It’s been to the Easy Break Hotel nine times over the past year. Funnily enough, it only ever seems to go there when Anish Patel – that’s the name of the person you met on Rainbow Hookups by the way – checks in.’
‘Like I said, I don’t recognise the number.’
‘Interestingly, the SIM card was activated just under a year ago, the day after you last texted Mr Patel using the phone number you gave him on Rainbow Hookups. Since then it has only ever contacted Mr Patel, and two other numbers, and spends much of its time switched off. You’ve not communicated with Mr Patel again using the number you gave him when you first made contact on Rainbow Hookups.’
