by Adam Croft
* * *
Once both detectives were suitably dosed up on more black coffee, they re-entered the interview room and started the recording equipment running again. They said nothing other than to confirm the recommencement of the interview, then sat and looked at John Lucas.
‘Sorry, did you have a question for my client?’ Matthew Chamberlain asked, his tone of voice beginning to rile Culverhouse.
‘He still hasn’t answered my last one yet,’ the DCI chipped in, seemingly forgetting their agreement to allow Wendy to do the talking. ‘What was a pair of size nine Timberland boots doing in your garage, with mud and grass from Freddie Galloway’s front lawn all over them?’
Lucas looked at his solicitor before speaking. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Not really an answer, is it?’ Culverhouse asked, before Wendy nudged him under the table and began talking.
‘Mr Lucas, we do conduct forensic tests on these sorts of items. We’ll be able to tell conclusively whether you wore those boots.’ Wendy watched as Lucas digested this information, although she didn’t let on that the tests had already come back negative. If he was the arsonist, he’d still be panicking, not knowing how the test results would come back. If he was clean, he’d be delighted to hear about the tests, knowing they could prove his innocence.
‘Like I said. I don’t remember half of what I had before I went inside. It was a long time ago.’
‘These boots are new. They were only released four years ago.’
‘Well there you go, then,’ Lucas said. ‘Can’t have been mine, can they? I was inside.’
‘All that means is you didn’t pop down to the shop and buy them yourself. Did your mum buy them? A friend? Acquaintance, perhaps? They look pretty new. Maybe someone was getting you set up with some new stuff before you were released.’
‘Like who? I haven’t got anyone. If you’ve found a pair of new boots in my garage, they’re not mine.’
Wendy leaned forward as she spoke. ‘See, that’s not all we found in your garage. We also found a jerry can with traces of petrol in the bottom of it. The fire officers believe petrol was used to start the fire at Freddie Galloway’s house. They’re working on tests as we speak to see if they’re from the same batch. We also found a key to Freddie Galloway’s house. To the front door, which we know the arsonist had access to, to douse the soft furnishings with petrol — petrol found in the bottom of a jerry can in your garage. The shoes, jerry can and key had traces of latex dust on them — dust which matches a box of latex gloves found in your garage. Do you have any comment on that?’
John Lucas buried his head in his forearms on the desk, but said nothing.
‘Detective Sergeant, let me ask you a question,’ Matthew Chamberlain said. ‘If you suppose that my client went to all that effort to remain forensically clean by wearing latex gloves, not handling the jerry can or boots without them on, buying a new pair of boots so none of his were traced to the scene, why on earth would he store all those incriminating items in his own garage? He would have known he’d be the first person you’d call on, especially considering his past and the fact that he’d only got out of prison hours earlier. Do you really think he’d make such a huge number of schoolboy errors?’
‘I have no idea what was going through your client’s mind at the time, Mr Chamberlain, nor how good he is at hiding evidence. All I know is that we found those items in his garage and that the finger of suspicion points firmly at him. I’m simply asking for his comment on that.’
‘I have nothing to say,’ John Lucas said, eventually.
There was silence for a few moments before Culverhouse spoke. ‘Who are you covering up for, John?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector, make your mind up. Are you accusing my client of arson or covering up for–’
‘I’m trying to get to the bottom of who set fire to Freddie Galloway’s house, who caused him to have to jump from a second-floor window to save his own life, a jump which failed spectacularly. Those items were found in your client’s garage. Like it or not, he was involved somehow. He either did it, covered up for someone who did it, or is being set up by the person who did it. Either way, we’re going to get to the truth and it’ll be a lot better for your client if he cooperates.’
‘With respect, Detective Chief Inspector, if he’s being set up by someone else I think you’ll agree my client then becomes the victim. So why is he sitting in an interview room in the custody suite, being grilled by you two? If you can’t come up with some conclusive evidence that my client has even set foot in that garage since being released from prison, you might as well save your time and ours by releasing him right now.’
Culverhouse looked at Chamberlain for a few moments before smiling. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said, before ending the recording and gesturing for Wendy to follow him out of the room.
‘Are you going to release him, then?’ Wendy asked.
‘No, I’m going to bail him. How long’s left on the custody clock?’
‘Erm. His twenty-four hours runs out in an hour and a quarter.’
‘Right. Get him bailed right on the fucking dot. Not a second earlier. And next time that bastard Chamberlain asks for a coffee, give him eight fucking sugars.’
26
Tyrone took off his t-shirt and replaced it with a vest. The problem with this flat — as well as all the other downsides to it — was that it was freezing cold for half the year and roasting hot for the rest of it. He couldn’t even open the windows as far as he’d like, thanks to the council installing some sort of device that meant people couldn’t fall or jump out of them. He stood by the window and sipped at the air it allowed in through the small gap.
He didn’t have to take a training session until four in the afternoon, which’d give him plenty of time to chill, even though that was the wrong word to use in this heat. It was no wonder so many kids spent their days wandering around the estate, hanging around on street corners. Even in the height of summer and the blazing sun, it was still cooler out there than it was in the damn flats.
Tyrone wouldn’t have minded living there on his own. It had started to get a bit cramped the more Shanice’s boyfriend, Elijah, had come to stay. That happened more and more often as their relationship grew, but once Shanice fell pregnant they’d tried their best to move out and get their own place. That hadn’t been as easy as they’d hoped, though, with the council telling them they already had a perfectly good home. They’d been on the waiting list for a new place ever since, but didn’t hold out much hope of ever getting to the top. Those places would always go to people who were homeless or facing eviction. As much as Tyrone loved his nephew Caleb, living in the same small flat as a screaming baby and his sister’s boyfriend wasn’t his idea of fun.
Caleb was nearly two, now, and — fair play to them — Shanice and Elijah were still going strong. Tyrone’d had his doubts about the guy at first, but he couldn’t deny that he gave Shanice the stability and purpose she needed. Other girls in her position could’ve easily gone off the rails at any point. He’d seen it happen too many times on the estate already.
He’d often wondered whether Shanice’s occasional remarks about him getting a girlfriend of his own had been laced with some sort of knowingness. They say women have some sort of in-built radar, don’t they? Almost like an early warning system. Whoa! No, not that one. Don’t waste your time! Were his sister’s comments her way of trying to encourage him to confirm what she’d always believed, always known? Or maybe she was genuinely interested, wondering when her younger brother was going to settle down with a girlfriend of his own.
Either way, she’d be disappointed. He wasn’t going to settle down with a girl. Sure, he could find a woman and go through the usual rituals but what would be the point? He’d be lying to her and to himself. Who would benefit, other than the perverse estate logic that being gay was somehow a sign of weakness, a thing to be ashamed of? He didn’t want any part of that. But at the same time, there was no wa
y he was ever going to live anywhere else. He didn’t have the means to do so, nor the inclination to feel he should have to run away from who he was.
Fortunately for him, though, it had remained his secret. As long as it continued like that, he was comfortable enough.
The biggest problem in his life right now was going to be the man who’d certainly lived up to his name over the past couple of days: Headache.
He had no idea how this was going to play out, and he didn’t want to try to guess either. All he knew was the general consensus had been that the group would all go their separate ways, never speak to anyone about the bungled robbery and ensure that the police had nothing else to work with. Sure, people had been caught and others had got away. But that was life, right? They all collectively had too much to lose if someone decided to act up, blab their mouth or try and get some sort of revenge.
But then they weren’t just dealing with your general, run-of-the-mill people here. These were criminals who’d happily double-cross a friend for a wad of cash, not think twice about setting each other up if it meant there was a chance they’d be able to get one step ahead of someone else. Is that the sort of thing Peter would do? Wait all those years for Headache to be released, only to tuck him up by making it look like he’d burnt down Freddie Galloway’s house? He doubted it, but then again you couldn’t put anything past people like that.
Tyrone buttered a slice of toast and tried to forget all about Freddie Galloway, life on the estate and everything else for a few moments. Life tended to throw him these curveballs from time to time, but he was an expert hitter. He’d find a way of smashing this one out of the park, too.
As he crunched down on the slice of toast and wiped the smeared butter from his top lip, he heard the sound of paper sliding under the front door to the flat. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. Although the mailboxes were all downstairs near the front entrance to the block, it wasn’t uncommon for people to gain access to the corridors and put leaflets and mailers under the doors. It was usually something to do with a neighbourhood watch meeting or some sort of council application for redeveloping land. The sort of stuff that went straight in the recycling bin.
But Tyrone could see straight away, even from this distance, that this sheet of paper was very different. He walked over to the front door, bent down and picked up the folded A4 sheet, trying not to get butter on it as he unfolded it.
There was a message written on it, in landscape, spelt out with letters cut out from old newspapers and magazines, much like the stereotypical ransom note in a bad film. But this was no ransom note. This was a threat.
Tyrone swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he read the message again.
I FUCKIN KILL U QUEER POOF
This was more than just a threat. This was someone trying to tell him they knew his secret.
Before he could think about what he was doing, he unlocked the door, flung it back against the wall and went running down the corridor, before leaning over the stairs and looking down into the stairwell. He could see nothing. He took the stairs three or four at a time, bouncing down them at rapid speed, before getting to the bottom floor. The front door was closed. He opened it and stepped outside, looking left and right and across the street, but he could see nothing. Nothing but the same old tired estate he’d always known.
27
‘Here’s a question,’ Wendy said, as she watched the traffic lights turn from amber to red. ‘Why not apply for an extension on John Lucas? We could’ve kept him in for longer that way.’
‘And what’s the point?’ Culverhouse said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’s all circumstantial. We can’t prove he put any of that stuff there — the house didn’t have anyone living in it after his mum died. Anyone could’ve gained access and put those things in his garage. Something doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘I can. It’s all too convenient. Like his brief said, why would he do something like that hours after getting out of prison, then leave a load of clues pointing to him? He’s had years to think about this and plan it.’
Culverhouse stayed silent for a few moments. ‘What I don’t get is his attitude in that interview room. He wasn’t exactly playing the innocent, was he? He was almost acting as if it was some sort of game, as if he was playing us.’
‘To be fair, he’s spent the last decade inside. I don’t imagine he’s got the highest opinion of police officers, nor did he expect to be in an interview room again the day after coming out of prison.’
‘Well, if he didn’t expect it, that tells me he didn’t do it,’ Culverhouse replied.
Wendy had to agree her hunch was similar, although that didn’t help them come any closer to identifying who did set fire to Freddie Galloway’s house.
Interviewing victims of historic crimes was never pleasant at the best of times. It invariably either resulted in not very much information being uncovered at all due to the passage of time, or it opened up old wounds for the victim, leaving the questioning officers feeling guilty for having to drag up old dirt again.
This time, though, they knew it was going to be even more difficult. Owen McCready had been one of them, a police officer who’d made the honest mistake of responding to an emergency call all those years ago. He’d been the closest officer to the scene at the time, so had been the first man there. His real downfall, though, had been his photographic memory and eye for detail. Remembering and identifying John Lucas at the scene of the robbery had resulted in him being repaid with a bullet in the skull.
Neither of them said a word as they pulled up outside Owen McCready’s house. It was a sorry state of affairs — a decent house which had no doubt been covered by the financial payout he and his family would’ve received on discovering he couldn’t work again, adorned with a bright white plastic handrail on the outside wall and a ramp up to the front door. It was the unfortunate sign of an honourable man who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Owen’s wife, Cassandra, took Wendy and Jack through to the living room, where Owen was already seated in an armchair.
‘I can walk with help most of the time,’ he said, as if feeling he had to excuse being immobile. ‘Sometimes even on my own, but it’s not as smooth as it used to be. On bad days, I get excruciating headaches and need a chair to get around. Something to do with swelling on the brain. It comes and goes.’
The two officers looked at each other, the unspoken words being that this could easily have been either of them, or any other officer they knew. Someone who’d been gunned down doing his job, and had his life ruined as a result.
‘I hope you don’t mind us asking you to go over old ground,’ Wendy said, knowing damn well that Owen McCready must think about those events every single day of his life.
‘No, it’s fine. I had a call to say John Lucas was being released the other day. I presume it didn’t take him long to go back to his old ways.’
‘We don’t know,’ Wendy said, with a large exhalation of breath. ‘There’s been a crime committed which involves somebody linked with the Trenton-Lowe incident. There’s a possibility it could involve one or more of the people involved.’
‘And is Lucas your suspect or victim?’
Wendy looked at Jack, unsure how much information she should divulge. ‘Suspect,’ she said, eventually.
‘Never mind.’
She guessed she couldn’t blame him for feeling like that. ‘Now, I know from your statements at the time that you said the only person you recognised was John Lucas. Has anything else come to mind since you made those statements?’
Owen shook his head slowly. ‘No, nothing. I mean, I know one of the other guys was called Benjamin Newell. But that’s only because the silly twat got himself arrested shortly after. I’d never heard the name before then, and I didn’t recognise him. They reckon there was four, don’t they?’
‘According to the security guard inside the building, yes,’ Wendy said. ‘
But I’m afraid we can’t go to him. He took his own life a few weeks after the court case.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know that. No-one told me. Sounds a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?’
‘Possibly so. But the coroner ruled it was suicide.’
‘Convenient,’ Owen said, looking at the wall.
Wendy had the impression that Owen was a man who had become quite bitter about what had happened to him. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. It couldn’t be easy having your whole life turned upside down by one idiot with a gun. Owen was a victim of circumstance. A man who’d always tried his best, but one time tried too hard.
‘And you’ve not had any strange goings on? No messages, weird noises outside, nothing like that?’ Wendy asked.
‘No. Nothing. But then again I don’t see why I would. The only one I identified was Lucas, and he never had any venom towards me. He held his hatred for Freddie Galloway. He was furious that even though he’d initially blabbed Galloway’s name, they’d never been able to prove he was involved. He felt the police had done him over. Galloway knew he’d been identified by Lucas, and Lucas got nothing out of it other than a lengthy jail sentence. He put his faith in the police that they’d find enough to charge Galloway too and reduce Lucas’s sentence for cooperation. Don’t get me wrong, I hope they reserve a special place in hell for the guy, but I can see why he’d be pissed off.’
Wendy and Jack exchanged another look. Whichever way they turned, it seemed, the web of intrigue and vortex of vengeance seemed to get only fiercer and more confusing.
Once they realised they’d got all there was to get out of Owen McCready, they said their goodbyes and left. Just as Culverhouse was about to start the car up, his mobile phone started ringing. Frank Vine’s number was on the screen.
‘Frank,’ Culverhouse barked.
